#A pile of ash will do if you can find it
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wise people once said "books are ladders to human progress... Especially those burned" and so I have decided I will read the Necronomicon. Now if anyone out there has a copy they can lend me-
#reading#light reading#A pile of ash will do if you can find it#No#I didn't lose the copy I got from Lobon#...
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The data does not support the assumption that all burned out people can “recover.” And when we fully appreciate what burnout signals in the body, and where it comes from on a social, economic, and psychological level, it should become clear to us that there’s nothing beneficial in returning to an unsustainable status quo.
The term “burned out” is sometimes used to simply mean “stressed” or “tired,” and many organizations benefit from framing the condition in such light terms. Short-term, casual burnout (like you might get after one particularly stressful work deadline, or following final exams) has a positive prognosis: within three months of enjoying a reduced workload and increased time for rest and leisure, 80% of mildly burned-out workers are able to make a full return to their jobs.
But there’s a lot of unanswered questions lurking behind this happy statistic. For instance, how many workers in this economy actually have the ability to take three months off work to focus on burnout recovery? What happens if a mildly burnt-out person does not get that rest, and has to keep toiling away as more deadlines pile up? And what is the point of returning to work if the job is going to remain as grueling and uncontrollable as it was when it first burned the worker out?
Burnout that is not treated swiftly can become far more severe. Clinical psychologist and burnout expert Arno van Dam writes that when left unattended (or forcibly pushed through), mild burnout can metastasize into clinical burnout, which the International Classification of Diseases defines as feelings of energy depletion, increased mental distance, and a reduced sense of personal agency. Clinically burned-out people are not only tired, they also feel detached from other people and no longer in control of their lives, in other words.
Unfortunately, clinical burnout has quite a dismal trajectory. Multiple studies by van Dam and others have found that clinical burnout sufferers may require a year or more of rest following treatment before they can feel better, and that some of burnout’s lingering effects don’t go away easily, if at all.
In one study conducted by Anita Eskildsen, for example, burnout sufferers continued to show memory and processing speed declines one year after burnout. Their cognitive processing skills improved slightly since seeking treatment, but the experience of having been burnt out had still left them operating significantly below their non-burned-out peers or their prior self, with no signs of bouncing back.
It took two years for subjects in one of van Dam’s studies to return to “normal” levels of involvement and competence at work. following an incident of clinical burnout. However, even after a multi-year recovery period they still performed worse than the non-burned-out control group on a cognitive task designed to test their planning and preparation abilities. Though they no longer qualified as clinically burned out, former burnout sufferers still reported greater exhaustion, fatigue, depression, and distress than controls.
In his review of the scientific literature, van Dam reports that anywhere from 25% to 50% of clinical burnout sufferers do not make a full recovery even four years after their illness. Studies generally find that burnout sufferers make most of their mental and physical health gains in the first year after treatment, but continue to underperform on neuropsychological tests for many years afterward, compared to control subjects who were never burned out.
People who have experienced burnout report worse memories, slower reaction times, less attentiveness, lower motivation, greater exhaustion, reduced work capability, and more negative health symptoms, long after their period of overwork has stopped. It’s as if burnout sufferers have fallen off their previous life trajectory, and cannot ever climb fully back up.
And that’s just among the people who receive some kind of treatment for their burnout and have the opportunity to rest. I found one study that followed burned-out teachers for seven years and reported over 14% of them remained highly burnt-out the entire time. These teachers continued feeling depersonalized, emotionally drained, ineffective, dizzy, sick to their stomachs, and desperate to leave their jobs for the better part of a decade. But they kept working in spite of it (or more likely, from a lack of other options), lowering their odds of ever healing all the while.
Van Dam observes that clinical burnout patients tend to suffer from an excess of perseverance, rather than the opposite: “Patients with clinical burnout…report that they ignored stress symptoms for several years,” he writes. “Living a stressful life was a normal condition for them. Some were not even aware of the stressfulness of their lives, until they collapsed.”
Instead of seeking help for workplace problems or reducing their workload, as most people do, clinical burnout sufferers typically push themselves through unpleasant circumstances and avoid asking for help. They’re also less likely to give up when placed under frustrating circumstances, instead throttling the gas in hopes that their problems can be fixed with extra effort. They become hyperactive, unable to rest or enjoy holidays, their bodies wired to treat work as the solution to every problem. It is only after living at this unrelenting pace for years that they tumble into severe burnout.
Among both masked Autistics and overworked employees, the people most likely to reach catastrophic, body-breaking levels of burnout are the people most primed to ignore their own physical boundaries for as long as possible. Clinical burnout sufferers work far past the point that virtually anyone else would ask for help, take a break, or stop caring about their work.
And when viewed from this perspective, we can see burnout as the saving grace of the compulsive workaholic — and the path to liberation for the masked disabled person who has nearly killed themselves trying to pass as a diligent worker bee.
I wrote about the latest data on burnout "recovery," and the similarities and differences between Autistic burnout and conventional clinical burnout. The full piece is free to read or have narrated to you in the Substack app at drdevonprice.substack.com
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What will your future spouse love about you?
pile 1-3
PILE ONE
🎶 blood orange - saint🎶
“ i like to see you live for more, you said it before, you wish id seen the saint you were before “
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what they like about you mentally?
they like that you’re curious, energetic and a bit careless when you talk. they admire that you allow yourself to be who you are unapologetically. your future spouse has a more rigid, contained approach to life. they view you as someone who doesn’t hold themselves back, who speaks and acts freely without restraint. something about this pile screams freedom, that is what they like about you personality wise. when you stand on what is right, and don’t hesitate to call out what is wrong. even if it causes strife or problems, they admire your ability to speak the truth and be yourself despite the pressure of society. they might like to bicker or tease you just so you guys can have banter together, they think it’s hot to see you be fierce for what you believe in. they like to debate with you.
what do they like about you physically?
something about your appearance or demeanor is otherworldly. you have a dreamy aspect to the way you look, sometimes when they look at you it feels surreal to them. you have an aesthetically pleasing ethereal vibe to the way you dress, or even look naturally. this pile might have sleepy eyes, or dark under eyes, or even dark eyes in general and they think that it’s hot. i see here theyre very attracted to you when you’re relaxed or in a state of calmness. im seeing someone sitting, with bed hair and sleep in their eyes, and your future spouse absolutely simping over it. another thing they will like is if this pile may have gone through some sort of transformation or change. they admire that about you as well. if you haven’t had any big transformation, they like when you take on different aesthetics and constantly switch up the way you dress or the makeup styles you do. you’ll go through multiple phases style-wise while you guys date and they’ll love it.
overall energy: pile one, I kept channeling so many different personality traits, so many different physical attributes. it was so hard to hone in one certain aspect they enjoy, because the next card would be describing a completely different energy. you have many different qualities your future spouse appreciates all the same. at first I was channeling them being attracted to you in a youthful energetic energy, then i started channeling them liking you when you’re in a darker energy. your future spouse just likes you overall lmao.
side note: you’re multidimensional and your future spouse is highly aware of this, and they admire you for it so don’t be afraid to show off all the sides of yourself. I love the polarity between what they prefer mentally versus physically. mentally they admire your more intellectually charged energy, while physically they like your dreamy relaxed energy. you can shapeshift around them! they like that lol
pile two
🎶ILLIT - Magnetic 🎶
🎶“This time i want You you you you, like it’s magnetic“
“ baby, you’re my crush, you’re my crush “ 🎶
what do they like about you mentally?
they love your optimism. either you or your future spouse has dealt with or currently deals with anxiety, depression or grief. they admire your ability to overcome dark things and continue to be hopeful and forgiving. you have a sense of mental peace in the midst of the all the anguish in the world, or even in the anguish in your life that they can’t help but find attractive. your ability to remain harmonious, kind and loving despite hardships around you is something they love. you have a sense of renewal, uplifting and raising things that were once low. it’s giving phoenix rising from the ashes. your ability to sacrifice darkness in order to create light is something they admire.
what they like about you physically?
pile two, your future spouse thinks your eye candy😭. I literally channeled the word “ trophy prize”. they think dating you is a once in a lifetime opportunity because youre so attractive. they loveeee your hair. some specific confirmation for this pile are curly hair, blonde hair, facial hair; if none of those resonate don’t mind that because hair in general is something they absolutely adore about you. they love your style, something about it gives effortless and confident to them. I just heard your future spouse feels proud walking next to you. another thing i channeled was age difference, so if you’re younger than them they like that about you, and if you’re older than them they like that too, any age gap in general just switch to what applies. another thing i heard is the way you walk, as if you’re walking on air. they like your legs. okay pile two whatever makes you feel more confident around them, whether it be a certain makeup look, a certain dress or outfit, the way you style your hair is KEY to their attraction. something you do that makes you feel confident, whatever that may be, is what will make them simp over you. i just keep hearing your confidence is so sexy to them. your future spouse definitely puts you on a pedestal.
overall energy: they love your LIGHT. this pile was very easy and breezy, and i feel like it’s reflecting you. when you’re in a happy, positive energy they feel like it radiates out of you. when you’re playful and lighthearted around your future spouse this what they love about you. this was such a cute read oh my gosh
side note: whoever your future spouse is, please reaffirm and validate to them you are NOT out of their league. like i previously mentioned they definitely put you on a pedestal, i would just hate the idea of them feeling unworthy or insecure because of how highly they view you. so give them some extra validation and compliments when you come across them.
pile three
🎶 get on your knees - Nicki Minaj ft Ariana Grande🎶
🎶“ baby just get on your knees “
“ say pretty please, say pretty please “🎶
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what do they like about you mentally?
I’m not gonna lie, pile three your future spouse is a little dark! & i think they’re attracted to the darkness within you. they don’t like things pure and clean, unlike like pile two they prefer things to be a bit heavier. they like when you’re obsessive or possessive over them. I think your spouse has very similar thought patterns as you, so it’s a balance and flow between the two of you. reciprocating what the other is giving out. the energy feels heavily attached to one another. they love your darker energy. they want to explore all of your kinks, and fantasies. this is kinda fucked up but 😭 they like it when you get jealous over them. like i said this energy feels heavily reciprocated so you guys could be the couple who enjoys teasing and making each other jealous. I don’t think it’s solely your future spouse who likes this dark energy, i think it’s you both sharing in it. that aside, they like how you’re relationship material, the way you view loyalty and commitment is attractive to them. they like to comfort you, and reassure you. they like when you think of them as your protector, your guardian.
what do they like about you physically?
height difference. you could be shorter than them, or taller than them but either way they love that about you. if you have round features, like a round face, or big round eyes they love that. im getting that your future spouse is incredibly attracted to your body. if you’re a woman, they really love your boobs. if you’re a man, they love your hands. I’m just getting something about your body shape. curvy or petite, they’re very attracted to your body shape. if you workout they love that about you. that aside, your future spouse thinks its incredibly cute to watch you think hard about something. I’m channeling someone staring off into the distance with a focused, scrunched up face as they ponder something, and your future spouse thinking “ they’re so adorable“ lmao. they think you’re cute when you get angry or irritated.
overall energy: this gives me such youthful,immature puppy love energy lmao! but it’s cute! your future spouse likes your clingy, possessive, and fiery traits. they like to see you get passionate about something, when you have a spark in your eyes.
side note: be careful of codependency in this relationship !! 🗿
#crush pac#crush pick a card#crush tarot#fs pac#future spouse reading#pick a card#pac fs#pac#pac reading#pick a pile#pike a pile fs#future spouse tarot#tarot love reading#love tarot reading#tarot love#tarotblr#tarot pick a card#tarot pick a pile#pick a card future spouse#pick a picture#pile one#pile two#pile three#black tarot readers
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The Hero has destroyed the world for you.
The world is in disarray, with only you and the “Hero” remaining. He was never one for many words, so your mind is still reeling from what little he’s told you. The world ended because he is unwilling to let you become a sacrifice. But…
You can hardly agree with his choice, not when so many people have died – when all you can see is ash and ruin.
Perhaps you should’ve expected it – seen the signs of his spiraling mental state. You think back to the first time he had scared you.
With a final swing of his sword, blood spilled out onto the withering grass, painting the ground with a crimson hue. It was a complete bloodbath and you could only tremble as he stood among piles and piles of bodies – bandits that had tried to kill you.
Silently, he looked at you, eyes empty.
It scared you.
Yet, slowly, the vitality in his eyes returned as he approached you.
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” he murmured, gently cupping your cheek. “I’ll protect you.”
At the time, you thought that his response was… understandable. The bandits were aiming for your life, after all. An eye for an eye and all that.
Oh, but how wrong you were.
There were many, many other signs of his declining mental state – all of which you had failed to notice. Or maybe you chose not to notice. So, now, all you can do is stare at him, unsure of what exactly you should be feeling. Just how long has he been this way?
“I’m not sure,” he responds, placing a warm bowl of soup in front of you. Despite the destruction of the world, you find yourself tucked away in a cozy cottage in a pretty forest. You’re not sure how this place escaped ruin, but your mind doesn’t want to think about it. “Maybe I’ve always been this way. Maybe I wasn’t.”
You look at him silently as reaches over to grab your hand, his eyes empty with anything but love.
“But it doesn’t really matter now, does it?” he squeezes your hand, “I have you now, after all.”
#yandere oc#male yandere#yandere x reader#tsuuper ocs#yandere x you#tw yandere#male yandere oc x reader#male yandere oc#Elias Lightrend Tsuu OC#yandere oc x you#yandere oc x reader#yandere oc x y/n#male yandere x you#Elias is such a fun character and i just wanna study him under a microscope teehee#2024 yan/monstertober tsuutarr
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Yandere! Yakuza x Reader (V)
In a rather unlucky turn of events, you find yourself kidnapped for being in the wrong place during a gang war. Worry not, your yakuza boyfriend is at your service. Yet another bloody reason not to mess with him.
Content: female reader, organized crime, violence, gore, obsessive behavior
[Part 4] | [Yakuza Masterlist]
"Damn it!"
The scarred man throws another tile into the pile, clicking his tongue.
"I gotta say, you're pretty good for a foreigner." A second man with an eyepatch remarks, carefully inspecting his set before retrieving a tile of his own. "Pung."
You take another greedy sip of the cheap sake and slam the little cup back on the table.
"Kind of inevitable to learn mahjong when your only friends in this country are yakuza." You look up towards your captor with a frown. "You guys ever heard of board games or something?"
"Try to explain new rules to this dumbass!" A third man angrily pours himself another glass, pointing towards the first. "Fuck, I could iron clothes on that smooth brain of yours!"
"Fuck off, you're not any better." The scarred man continues his turn with furrowed brows.
"If I were you I'd keep quiet about being pals with the yakuza. They'll question you, too, after the office guy. Don't make it worse." The man wearing an eyepatch mentions in a lowered voice. The table suddenly goes quiet.
"When is he coming out?" You ask hesitantly, bile pooling in your mouth. You already suspect the answer.
"He's not. Bodies are discarded through the back entrance." He pats the ash off and takes another drag off his cigarette.
You swallow.
Being involved with the Triad was not part of your new year resolutions, yet here you are about to be interrogated by the local Chinese syndicate. At least the lackeys have taken pity on you, a poor civilian caught in the middle of their rivalry. Hence the fake sense of normalcy as you chitchat at the mahjong table with a cup of sake to ease your wrecked nerves.
"I'm guessing they won't be as friendly back there." You nod towards the door, where they took your work superior several hours ago.
"No."
That's all you get and you can only smile bitterly. Huh. You wonder if this is how Daitou's victims feel, helplessly waiting for whatever is brought upon them. Having to watch him unwrap his tool belt, stuffed with rusty old tools littered in blotches of dried up blood. Pondering his questions while he eyes the row delectably, hovering his hand over the potential ways to loosen up the tongue.
Would they torture you, too? Hopefully not. It should be rather obvious you're just a mere civilian. Then again, if your work superior mentioned anything about you being Daitou's girlfriend...He's never told you anything downright incriminating, but it'll be hard to convince these fellows that you truly are clueless.
Maybe they'll let you go if you offer your finger as a token of peace. Your forehead wrinkles at the thought. Isn't it more of a Japanese custom anyways? And if they say yes, then what? Do they provide you with the required utensils or are you expected to improvise on the spot?
You remember one of Daitou's seniors describing the process in great detail during the Christmas party. You had asked him about it, purely out of curiosity, and he certainly delivered almost more than your stomach was able to handle (Daitou scolded him later for telling you too much). You take the tatami mat and preferably wrap it in cloth, to soak up the blood. Any sharp blade will do, but traditionally you'd be offered a proper tantō that can easily slice through the bone. Obviously you want to cut as little as possible, so you still have some functionality remaining. Right above the joint. You must put all of your body weight into the thrust, otherwise the cut won't be clean and it turns into a mess.
Hell. You wipe the cold beads of sweat that have formed on your face. You can barely chop an onion. Maybe one of the gangsters has enough experience and goodwill to offer to do it for you. Then you only have to clench your teeth and prepare for the blow. It can't be that bad. Surely the shock will be too great, and your brain won't even register it. Before you know it, they'll dip your hand in ice and rush you to someone fit to perform the aftercare. Yeah. That should to the trick.
"Hey, foreigner. It's your turn."
"Leave her be, can't you see she's pale?"
You glance up and notice the men looking at you expectantly. They've already showed you plenty of kindness from the moment they shoved you in that black van with the rest of the office workers. Perhaps you can rely on them one final time. You suddenly bow, head pressing against the table. They're somewhat startled by your gesture.
"I'm deeply sorry to ask, but might any of you be knowledgeable in blades?"
"H-huh? What for?"
You ceremoniously slam your hand onto the table, rattling the mahjong tiles. You struggle to let the words out, but try to maintain a straight face, picturing Shozo Hirono's cool attitude when he performed the deed himself in Battles without Honor and Humanity.
"Would your Boss be satisfied with a yubitsume? I cannot offer anything else of use."
You feel a harsh hand smack against the back of your neck and you cough, taken out of your focus.
"Dumbass! What the hell are you talking about? Why would our Boss need the finger of a civilian, and a woman on top of that? 笨人!" The man with an eyepatch is red and flustered as he scolds you. The other two are holding back their snickers, amused by the scene.
"Let her! I have a knife on me right now." The scarred man comments with a grin. "Whaddaya say, kid? Or have you changed your mind already?"
"A man never goes back on his word." You bark and straighten your back, crossing your arms imposingly.
The eyepatch man smacks you again and the other two begin clapping, terribly entertained by your tomfoolery.
The spectacle doesn't last long. Within seconds, you jump out of your seat at the sound of rapid gunshots and scattered, erratic shouts.
Daitou bows before his Seniors and mumbles a polite, monotonous greeting. It's highly unusual to have the Lieutenants gathered at the office like this. Kazuya is fidgeting in his seat, Boss is away on a trip. What else could require everyone's immediate attendance? He makes his way to the blonde man and drops himself on the sofa, awaiting the details.
"Wakasugi has been taken."
A chaotic murmur ensues.
"He's been making offers for a building in a neutral area. That's where the Chinese sell their drugs and they claim it to be their turf. I hear some of our newbies got caught dealing that shit as well. Boss has been on their throats for some time now and this is their way to say fuck you."
Ah. More gang rivalry drama. Daitou presses his lips together, trying his best to hold back a yawn threatening to escape his mouth. Hopefully they'll leave him out of it, he has a date planned with you and he'd rather not show up reeking of rotten flesh.
If you get kidnapped, think of yourself as already dead. The Yakuza doesn't negotiate. They just get their revenge tenfold. Unless it's someone important, like the Boss himself, the honorable way is to die without betraying your Family.
"Just put a few bullets in them. Should teach them a lesson." He says while stretching.
"Yeah, we're sending Oota and his men to deal with it. Just be on the lookout." One of the Seniors responds.
"Still, the fucking guts on them. To show up at the office, right before our eyes-" Another man cries out, frustration in his voice.
"What did you say?"
Kazuya flinches. He knows where this is going and he glares at the outraged yakuza, trying to silence him. Sadly he doesn't take the hint.
"Right? They just waltzed in, shot some of our guys and took Wakasugi and whoever was nearby. Heh, what are they gonna do with a bunch of office assistants? Extra weight to carry to the dump."
"Enough!" Kazuya's exasperated yell causes everyone to quiet down.
There are several confused looks being exchanged before everyone's eyes eventually rest on Daitou, now staring ahead motionless. Didn't his girlfriend work at that office? The Senior giving out the initial order has realized the mistake. He quickly clears his throat and is about to speak, but Daitou abruptly stands up and heads for the door.
"Oi! I said we're leaving it to Oota. This isn't your job."
He tries to repeat his words with confidence, but his voice falters towards the end when faced with Daitou's massive frame. Particularly the barrel that's now pressing into his forehead.
"Mind your fucking business or I'll kill you right here." Daitou threatens.
"D-don't think Boss will help you out of this one, brat. If you go, you're disobeying your Senior."
The tall yakuza smirks mockingly.
"See if you can run for Boss with your skull split open, bitch."
Kazuya slaps the gun aside and steps between the men.
"Just let him go. I'll take responsibility." He pleads, his friend already slamming the door behind him.
Once the aggressor has left, everyone exhales discreetly in relief.
"He'll get us in trouble with the cops." The Senior retorts to the blonde in a berating tone.
"What else do you suggest? You know there's no way around it if he's pissed."
No one replies to what seems to be an universally agreed upon truth.
He blows out the smoke and crushes the cigarette under his foot. Fuck. He needs to calm down. They most likely haven't killed you, but if they laid a single hand on you...He's blacking out again. Whatever blinding rage possessed him back in his youth, when his Boss got wounded, would now pale in comparison. His ears are ringing and his vision is foggy. He can't even recall how he made it to their building. Or how he got past the guards. Although that one's easy to figure out, judging from their twisted throats.
He checks his rounds one final time and kicks the heavy metal door open. Only about a dozen of them, but no sign of you yet. Should take a minute. It is time for him to pay his respects.
"What the fuck was that?" the scarred man swiftly takes out his weapon and knocks the stool over with his foot.
If it is who you think it is...Your face twists in fear.
"Listen, you've been nice to me so I don't want to see you dead. Could you...could you leave, please? It might be someone I know and I promise you there's no point in fighting back."
The noticeable quiver in your speech might lead one to believe you're awaiting your executioner, not your savior and boyfriend. But you've seen Daitou angry and the ordeal flooded the very marrow of your bones with terror. Naturally he could never be upset at his darling for any reason, ever. Whoever poses a threat to you, however, can't say the same thing. You remember trying to pull him back from a random drunk that had groped you during an outing, and he tightly gripped your jaw with a bloodied hand and nearly ordered you in a ragged growl: "Hey. I said I'll be done in a moment. Be a good girl and close your eyes."
Thus, from experience, you know he'd never listen to your pleas. Maybe if he was lucid enough, but not in this manic state. The man wearing an eyepatch scans your expression attentively. Your worry is genuine and the other room is gradually becoming quieter, but not in a way that'd inspire him confidence. He certainly doesn't feel like dying today and there's nothing honorable about throwing yourself into a senseless battle. He nods at the other two men and he asks you one last time if you'll be fine by yourself, to which you shake your head vehemently. Please go away already.
The final obstacle crumbles under Daitou's weight and you fiddle with your glass, alone, at the mahjong table. He seems to be taken aback, and once he confirms you're not in any pain or discomfort, his demeanor switches within an instant.
"Where's everyone?"
"They ran away."
"Just like that? And left you here?" He stares at you, baffled.
"Maybe there's some still in the back. These ones left because I asked them to."
He approaches you, still bewildered and confused. He looks like a lost dog.
"What? They were nice to me and I didn't want you to kill them. You never listen when I tell you to stop." You huff, pouting and folding your arms.
"Sorry. I got a little bit anxious." He kneels before you and extends a hand apologetically. "Friends again?"
"Wash your hands at least, I don't want to know what organ remains you have stuck through your fingers."
He chuckles and wipes the palm against his shirt. You follow his movements and notice the bullet wounds near the ribcage. This madman. You speedily bend to his level and remove his jacket to inspect the injuries.
"Christ. Take off your shirt and let's at least stop the bleeding before we leave. How the hell can you still stand with all these holes in you?"
Daitou unbuttons his shirt obediently and you try to wrap it around his abdomen. You notice the thick, wide scar crossing his stomach, presently smeared with blood. Either his or someone else's.
"Now that I think about it, how did you get this scar? From a gang fight as well?"
"Oh no, I got this in prison. I was supposed to serve many more years, but one of the Seniors rang and said Boss needs me for something. They were in talks with the police chief to maybe bribe my way out.
But I felt terrible knowing that Boss would be wasting money on my mistakes. At the time the place was overcrowded, so I figured they'd let me out for medical emergencies. So I cut my stomach open and they counted it as a suicide attempt." He responds with a proud grin.
You grimace a little at the mental image.
The cloth has been tightly, albeit clumsily secured around his gashes and you both get up. It occurs to you that throughout this mess you haven't feared for your life once. It feels like Daitou is always there to get you out of trouble. Despite his unorthodox methods.
You gaze up at him and notice the prosthetic eye has rolled inwards, so you adjust it slightly with your finger. He follows your romantic gesture with a quick peck on the lips.
"You'll get yourself killed one day." You whine, tired.
"And leave you alone? Never. You're stuck with me for life."
He flashes you a wide smile and pats your head.
"Can we still go on that date?" The yakuza suddenly remembers, guiding you as you zigzag your way among fresh corpses.
So he hasn't forgotten. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.
"Sure, but I'd like to have a bath first."
"Then let's have one together." He suggests cheerfully, completely unbothered by whatever just happened.
Tags: @yandere-city2 @lokiofasgard12 @zeniiis @lucienbarkbark @channelinglament @your-next-daydream @bath1lda @murder-hobo @zanzie
#female reader#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x darling#yandere x you#male yandere x reader#yandere yakuza#yakuza x reader#yandere fic#yandere imagines#yandere imagine#yandere scenarios#yandere oc#yandere oc x reader#yandere mafia#mafia x reader#original work#original character#yandere boyfriend
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As We Plunge into the Ocean
summary: snapshots of your pregnancy journey with leah by your side
warnings: pregnancy and its potential symptoms, duh !
a/n: thank you for the request !
word count: 1.8k
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You have to hand it to Leah, she's really leaned into this whole pregnancy thing. Not that you’re surprised. She’s always been a bit of a control freak. Actually, no, she’s a lot of a control freak. But now, it’s like she’s running drills for motherhood, and you’re the center of her training program.
Month 2: The Overprotective Phase Begins
“You’re glowing,” she tells you one morning. It’s sweet until you deduce she’s actually staring at the sweat on your upper lip. You’re clammy, nauseous, and you smell like day-old toast, but sure, you’re glowing.
Leah’s taken to hovering. She’s always been protective, but now, it’s like you’re made of glass, or maybe like you’re the last good avocado in Waitrose—precious and prone to bruising. She watches you closely, eyes narrowed, as if you might spontaneously combust into a pile of hormones and ash at any moment.
“You’re going to be late for training,” you remind her, trying to shoo her out the door with your tea bag as if you’re some sort of British Gandalf.
She glances at her watch, sighs, and then gives you that look. The one that says, I’m going to worry about you while I’m gone, so don’t do anything stupid like trip over air or suddenly decide to juggle knives.
“Don’t lift anything heavy,” she warns, pulling on her jacket, but making no move toward the door. “Or stand on anything taller than a pancake”
Close enough.
“Okay, Mum,” you say, deadpan. You’re both amused and slightly exasperated because Leah’s version of protective involves a lot of hovering and unnecessary life advice.
She kisses you on the forehead before leaving, like she’s blessing you for the day ahead. Or maybe she thinks you’ll forget how to breathe without her around. Either way, it’s oddly comforting.
When she finally leaves, you flop on the sofa, determined to enjoy the fleeting freedom before she comes home and starts fluffing your pillows like you’re an elderly Victorian woman with consumption.
-
Month 4: The Hormone-Palooza
Leah walks in from training one afternoon to find you sitting on the kitchen floor, crying over an empty jar of pickled onions. To be fair, they were really good onions. You’d eaten the last one two hours ago, and now the world feels like a cruel, onion-less void.
“What happened?” Leah asks, dropping her kit bag and rushing over like there’s been a national emergency.
“The pickled onions,” you sob, pointing dramatically at the empty jar as if it’s committed some unspeakable crime.
She stares at the jar, then at you, and you can see the mental maths she’s doing to figure out if this is worth her calling 999. But then she just nods, like she’s made peace with your hormonal breakdowns.
“I’ll get more tomorrow,” she says, like she’s promising to fetch water from a well three villages over.
You look up at her, eyes wide and wet. “Really?”
She nods. “Really. And I’ll get the sliced red ones this time”
You sniff, feeling vaguely stupid but mostly just grateful. “You’re the best”
“I know,” she says, deadpan, and helps you off the floor like you’re a drunk at a party who just tried to wrestle your reflection in the mirror.
But Leah doesn’t make fun of you for your hormone-fueled tears. She’s too busy making sure you’re okay, which is annoying and endearing in equal measure.
-
Month 6: The Nesting Madness
You wake up one morning to the sound of power tools. In your half-asleep state, you briefly consider the possibility that Leah’s decided to open a B&Q in your living room.
When you manage to roll out of bed, because rolling is now the only way you can get up, you find Leah assembling a cot in the nursery. She’s wearing a headlamp like she’s about to go spelunking. Her tongue is sticking out in concentration, and there’s a distinct air of “I watched this on YouTube once, so I’m basically an expert” about her.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” you ask, leaning against the doorway, trying not to laugh.
She pauses, mid-screw, and gives you a look. “I’m following the instructions,” she says defensively, even though the manual is open to a page that looks more like IKEA hieroglyphics than anything else.
You decide not to mention that the cot is currently upside down. Instead, you settle in to watch Leah’s one-woman DIY show. It’s honestly better than whatever’s on terrestrial right now.
After a good twenty minutes, she steps back, admiring her work. You both stare at the crib, which is somehow missing two legs but is otherwise a valiant effort.
“It’s... something,” you say diplomatically.
Leah sighs, rubbing her temples. “I’ll call my dad”
You nod. “Good idea. He’s got that handyman vibe”
She gives you a mock glare. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you didn’t help”
“I’m in charge of moral support,” you reply, patting your stomach. “And the baby’s supervising”
“Lazy,” she mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.
-
Month 8: The Belly and the Beast
By this point, your belly is so big that it has its own gravitational pull. Leah has taken to treating it like it’s a small planet she needs to orbit. You’re the sun, and she’s some overzealous moon that won’t give you any space.
“Do you need anything?” she asks for the fiftieth time that day, hovering like a helicopter parent who’s misplaced their child in a crowd.
“No,” you reply, staring at the TV, which you can barely see over your stomach.
“How about water? I could get you water. Or juice. Or something with electrolytes. Do you want electrolytes?” Leah’s pacing now, clearly itching to do something.
You eye her, bemused. “I’m fine, Leah”
“Are you sure? I could fluff your pillow, or I could—”
“Leah,” you interrupt, trying to keep a straight face, “the baby and I are okay. You don’t need to, like, feng shui the living room or whatever”
She stops pacing, looking slightly sheepish. “I’m just... I don’t know what to do with myself”
You reach out and grab her hand, pulling her to sit next to you. “You’re doing great,” you tell her, squeezing her hand. “Now, just relax. Let’s watch something. Maybe something without pregnant women, though. I can’t deal with seeing anyone else going through this”
Leah laughs, finally settling in next to you. “Deal”
Five minutes into the show, she’s already got a hand on your belly, her protective instincts kicking in even during a Netflix binge. You roll your eyes fondly but let her be. At least she’s not trying to rearrange the furniture again.
-
Month 9: The Home Stretch (Or, The Last Nerve)
Leah is a bundle of nerves, more wound up than a cat near a cucumber. It’s almost cute, except when she insists on triple-checking the hospital bag, which she’s already checked twice in the last hour.
“Leah, seriously, if you add one more onesie to that bag, it’s going to explode”
“I just want to make sure we have everything,” she mutters, rummaging through the bag as if it’s one of those cursed Hermione purses from Harry Potter.
“We have everything. And then some,” you assure her, eyeing the ludicrous pile of baby supplies that could probably last through an apocalypse.
She finally zips up the bag and sits down next to you. For a moment, there’s silence, and you think maybe, just maybe, she’s finally going to relax. But no. She starts tapping her foot, glancing at you every few seconds.
“Do you think—”
“No,” you cut her off, knowing exactly where this is going.
“But—”
“Leah,” you say firmly, “I love you, but if you ask me if I think the baby’s coming today one more time, I might actually lose it”
She opens her mouth, then closes it, looking like she’s physically restraining herself from speaking.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says, sighing. “I’m just... I’m excited and nervous and I feel like I’m waiting for a bomb to go off, but the bomb is cute and we’re going to love it and—”
“Leah,” you interrupt again, “you’re doing amazing. But you need to chill, or the baby’s going to think it’s coming out to meet a drill sergeant”
She cracks a smile at that. “Okay, okay, I’ll try to relax”
She doesn’t. But she does stop asking you if you’re in labor every fifteen minutes, so you’ll take that as a win.
-
The Grand Finale: The Delivery Room Circus
The day finally arrives. Naturally, it’s at three in the morning because why would your body ever do anything convenient? You wake Leah up by shaking her arm like you’re waking a teenager for school.
“Leah,” you say, trying to stay calm even though your insides feel like they’re being twisted into balloon animals. “It’s time”
She’s up in an instant, wide awake like she’s just heard the starting whistle at the World Cup final. She starts pacing, half-dressed, muttering about the hospital bag.
“We need to go, we need to—oh my god, where are the keys? Do we have the car seat? Should we call an ambulance? No, wait, we’re not calling an ambulance, that’s for emergencies, this is an emergency, but not that kind of emergency—”
You grab her shoulders, trying to steady her. “Leah, breathe. We’ve got time. But we do need to go”
She takes a deep breath, nodding like she’s trying to calm down a very excitable puppy. Then she’s off, running around the house like it’s an obstacle course, grabbing everything and nothing at once. You watch her in bemusement, one hand on your belly, wondering if you should tell her that she’s just thrown her shoe into the fridge.
When she finally gets it together, the drive to the hospital is an adventure in itself. Leah’s driving like she’s on her way to rob a bank, weaving through traffic and swearing under her breath at every red light.
“Leah, the baby’s not going to fall out if we don’t get there in ten minutes,” you say, trying to keep a straight face as she mutters something about the stupidly long red lights.
Finally, you make it to the hospital, where Leah practically drags you to the entrance like a deflated balloon on a string. Once inside, she’s all business, directing the nurses like she’s running a tactical operation.
The actual labour is a blur—hours of pain, and sweat, and Leah alternating between holding your hand and looking like she might faint. But she doesn’t faint. She stays with you the whole time, even when you scream at her that she’s never allowed to touch you again.
When the baby finally arrives, Leah’s expression is one of awe, relief, and sheer, overwhelming love. You’re both exhausted, but when you see her holding your baby, all of her earlier madness makes sense.
She was never just overprotective or anxious. She was just ready—ready to love, ready to care, and maybe, just maybe, ready to stop checking that bloody hospital bag.
Maybe.
Probably not.
But you love her anyway.
#leah williamson#leah williamson x reader#awfc#awfc x reader#engwnt#engwnt x reader#woso#woso x reader#woso imagine#woso community
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18+ content; mdni!
Thinking about husband!Coriolanus barely being able to contain the anger and jealousy coursing through him when he sees you flirting with another man during an evening gala in the Capitol.
You’re laughing, your whole face lighting up, your hand touching the other man’s shoulder and Coriolanus is surprised that he hasn’t broken the champagne flute in his hand, seeing how his grip on the fragile glass is so tight.
Oh, the things he’ll do later, to punish you. You on your knees in front of him, his hands fisted in your hair, your eyes filled with tears and him fucking your mouth relentlessly-
Suddenly, he sees the other man lean in closer towards you, placing one hand on your arm.
Coriolanus has had enough. He carelessly places the champagne flute on a table, before walking over to you, settling his hands on your waist, his grip on you so tight that he knows it’ll leave brusises.
Good, he thinks, smirking to himself. It will leave a reminder for you - a reminder of who you truly belong to.
“There you are, darling”, he says, forcing a smile onto his face, before placing a deliberate kiss on your neck - a place he’d normally suck and bruise, just to drive you crazy, leaving pretty purple marks.
He smiles when he can feel you shivering, pressing himself even closer to you.
“I’ve been looking all over for you, darling”, he says, completely ignoring the other man staring at you both with a confused expression.
You gasp when Coriolanus suddenly leans forward, his lips brushing over your skin, before whispering in your ear: “I told you what would happen if I’d see you flirting with another man. Now behave and be a good girl.”
You turn your head so that you’re looking right at the fire in his blue eyes, your lips so close to his that they nearly touch.
“Or what … are you going to punish me, President Snow?”, you whisper, placing a delicate, chaste kiss on his lips.
You feel his grip on your waist tightening even more, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. You see him biting down hard on his lips, probably trying to hold back a groan.
You smile, satisfied, when his eyes find yours again. Two can play this game, you think, reaching up to push a stray blond curl from his forehead.
But then you shiver when you see Coriolanus smile back at you - a promise. A threat.
“I’m sorry”, he tells the handsome man - his name already forgotten to you, you think it’s somewhere along the lines of Alexander or Adrian - you’re pretty sure it started with an A; though you’re not entirely sure, but you also don’t really care -. „But my wife and I need a moment.”
Then, he walks away, guiding you along with him.
The next thing you know, you’re being pushed into an empty bathroom, your back hitting the door, Coriolanus’s mouth already on yours, his hand already finding its way under the skirt of your dress before the door has even closed properly behind you.
He groans, breaking the kiss and burying his head in the crook of your neck when his fingers brush over the thin fabric of your panties, already soaked through with your arousal. You can’t help but shiver when his hand cups your cunt, his other hand settling on your waist with a bruising, harsh grip.
„Look at you“, he says, his voice rough and coarse, barely more than a strained whisper, „already dripping down my fingers, even though I barely touched you - or is that all for him?“
His left hand moves up from your waist to your face then, forcefully cupping your cheek and forcing you to look at him. „Tell me“, he demands, his blues finding yours - a fire in them that will burn you down until you’re nothing more than a withering pile of ashes.
But then, you’ve always liked playing with fire, living for the thrill of it.
Still, you quickly shake your head, trying to reach for Coriolanus with one hand, but Coriolanus moves faster than you, his hand leaving your cheek, seizing your hands in his and pinning them in place above your head.
„No - Coryo - I“, you try to say, but then he’s roughly yanking down your panties - you think you hear the thin material tear - forcefully pushing two fingers inside you.
You gasp, clenching around him, and Coriolanus groans.
„Fuck, Coryo - I - I don’t even know him - I - fuck“, you stumble, trying to form a coherent sentence while Coriolanus pumps his fingers in and out of at an unrelenting pace, his blue eyes never leaving yours. „I - he just came up to me and started talking to me and I-“, the rest of your words gets swallowed by the loud, whiny moan that leaves you when Coriolanus adds a third finger, pushing his hips against yours.
Your back aches from how hard and uncomfortably its pressed against the door, but you don’t care - the only thing you care about is Coriolanus, his hungry, desperate eyes on you, his fingers inside you, you clenching desperately around them.
„What’s his name?“, Coriolanus suddenly asks, before lowering his mouth to your neck, his lips immediately finding that spot that drives you crazy when he starts sucking on the soft, sensitive skin with his lips.
„I - I don’t remember - fuck“, you cry, when Coriolanus curls his fingers inside you, hitting that spot inside you that has you seeing stars perfectly.
Coriolanus leaves another bruising kiss on your skin, before coming up again - his smirk telling you that he’s going to wreck you. „Good - because I’m going to fuck every memory of him out of you“, he promises.
Suddenly, his fingers leave you and you whine at the sudden feeling of emptiness inside you, your walls clenching down around nothing, but then both his hands settle on your waist, turning you around until your front hits the bathroom door. His hands leave you for a moment and you can hear the rustling of fabric.
Then, suddenly, the skirt of your dress is pushed to the side and Coriolanus lines himself up behind you, his erection straining against your back.
„I’m going to fuck you - and after I’m finished with you, the only name you’ll remember is mine; the only name you’ll be screaming is mine - everyone in here, including that nobody will know that you belong to me“, he promises, before entering you in a rough, powerful thrust.
„Fuck“, you breathe, throwing your head back.
His cock is so big, the stretch almost painful, but unlike normally, he doesn’t give you any time to adjust to the stretch - pulling completely out of you, before slamming back into you with a harsh, almost painful thrust, his hands gripping your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh.
His pace is unrelenting, his thrusts into you rough, and fast, and bruising.
You whimper, your hands pressed against the door. „I - fuck, Coryo - ’s too much, fuck!“
Another painful, unrelenting thrust, but one of his hands suddenly leave your waist, moving to your clit, his fingers drawing teasing circles over the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves.
„That’s it, good girl“, Coriolanus praises, when he can feel you start clenching around him again.
You’re a quivering, panting mess, the lines between pain and pleasure so blurred you don’t know where one starts and the other ends.
Coriolanus’s harsh thrusts don’t let up. The only sounds filling the bathroom are his loud groans, your whiny whimpers and the sound of skin slapping against skin.
„What’s his name?“, Coriolanus suddenly asks you again, at the same moment his cock hits that sweet spot inside you again, his fingers still circling your clit.
„I don’t - fuck, Coryo!“, you pant, the pressure inside you building and building and building with every one of Coriolanus’s powerful thrusts.
„What’s his name?“, Coriolanus repeats, his hand on your waist suddenly moving up to your neck and squeezing - applying just the right amount of pressure to make you feel perfectly dizzy.
„I don’t - I don’t remember - yes, Coryo, right there!“, you pant, when his cock starts hitting that spot inside you again and again, his fingers still stimulating your clit.
„That’s right“, Coriolanus says, his voice rough and coarse, „you belong to me.“
„Yes“, you pant, trying desperately to move your hips to meet his movements - you’re so close and you just want to feel that sweet, dizzying release.
„Yes, Coryo, I - you - I’m your’s.“
„Again“, he demands, his thrusts becoming even more rapid, his fingers still circling your clit. You know immediately what he means, what he wants from you.
„Coryo - I - I’m yours“, you pant, clenching around him.
His lips find the soft, sensitive skin of your neck then, leaving a bruising kiss. „Good girl.“
It’s all too much for you, then - Coriolanus inside you, repeatedly hitting your sweet spot, his fingers circling your clit, his hand on your throat, his lips on your neck, his words that make your head spin.
Your back arches, and you come with Coriolanus’s name on your lips, your cry so loud that you’re pretty sure that everyone that’s still gathered in the hall outside is able to hear it.
But you don’t care, because all you can think about is Coriolanus.
„Fuck“, he groans when he feels your walls squeezing him.
His grip on you tightens, and suddenly, he bites down on the soft skin of your neck. He thrusts into you again, and once more, making you whimper, and then he’s coming as well, his hot cum shooting into you.
„Fuck, Coryo“, you whimper, the added sensation too much for you.
For a moment, Coriolanus’s heavy breathing is your only answer. You stay like that for a moment - pressed against the door, him still inside you.
Then, Coriolanus presses a soft kiss to your throat. „Good girl“, he praises again, pulling out of you, his hand leaving your neck. „But I think you still need a reminder of who you belong to“, he adds, before suddenly his fingers are pushing back inside you, smearing his cum around your walls and your clit.
Suddenly, he bends down to retrieve your panties from where they hang around your ankles. You were right before, you think dizzyly, when you watch him tugging your panties up towards your waist again, the material did tear.
Coriolanus, however doesn’t care, stopping only once he’s pushed your panties up your waist again - smearing his cum across the thin material, before pressing your panties back against your swollen, cum-covered, oversensitive clit.
You whimper - you know what he’s going to do. He’s going to force you to walk around in your panties, soaked through with his still hot cum for the rest of the evening - a reminder that you belong to him. He’s the only one who gets to fuck you.
„There“, he says pressing a chaste, tender kiss to your shoulder - the gentle sensation in stark contrast to his harsh grip on your cunt.
„This should serve as a sufficient reminder, don’t you think, darling?“
tagging: @namelesslosers
someone please get me some holy water so I can cleanse my mind from these very unsophisticated thoughts
for more Coryo imagines, take a look at my Coryo masterlist :)
#coriolanus snow#coriolanus x reader#coriolanus smut#coriolanus imagine#coriolanus snow smut#coriolanus x you#coriolanus x y/n#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus snow x you#thg#tbosas#x reader#x reader smut#coriolanus snow imagine#the ballad of songbirds and snakes#tom blyth#tom blyth x reader#maysileeewrites
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Hi hi! I have a request
Could I ask for romantic headcanons of dorm leaders(expect melleus) with a so whos melleus's younger sibling and when their on a date all they see is the disamona gang is spying on their date
AHHH help this is such a fun request!! diasomnia stakeout that lasts 5 minutes because sebek starts yelling the second he sees you holding hands with someone
summary: malleus' younger sibling type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, kalim, vil, idia additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not yuu
𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬
so we all agree that Riddle is probably the best choice? right?
as in, the least likely to get in trouble with the Diasomnia fam
Riddle, as a partner, is a perfect gentleman. won't even hold hands with you until a certain point in the relationship
(I mean, we're talking about Victorian England-level courting here)
out of everyone, he's the least likely to raise concern
...and yet.
it's probably Lilia that gets everyone worried
Riddle is a little... uptight for his tastes, after all, and Lils doesn't want you squandering your youth on rules and expectations
and so, he leads the great date stake-out
...for a completely inconspicuous mid-afternoon walk through the Heartslabyul rose gardens
you, of course, find all of them peeking at you from over a hedge almost right away
and just barely manage to shoo them off before Riddle sees and dies of embarrassment
𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐫
GOOD LUCK
it's honestly a miracle that there even is a Leona Kingcholar left to date, rather than a pile of ashes on the ground
(Malleus is a terribly overprotective older brother)
...and he's quite convinced that Leona is dragging you around just to annoy him, specifically
so, what's he gonna do? not spy on you with the whole entourage?
he just needs to make sure you're okay, that's all
you, of course, knew that he didn't like the arrangement from the start, so you've already got an eye out on your dates
by the second or third, both you and Leona can tell you're being followed
...much to his annoyance
it takes a lot of "family meetings" with Lilia mediating before Malleus makes his peace with it
for now, anyway
so help him, if that oversized house cat hurts you...
𝐀𝐳𝐮𝐥 𝐀𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨
everyone is... a little concerned that this is some kind of power play on Azul's behalf
Silver is probably the most worried, being in the same grade as him and knowing how tricky he can be
the original plan was to sit you down and express his concerns to you, and somehow that got turned into Lilia convincing everyone to wear fake mustaches and fedoras and spy on one of your dates in the lounge
(Malleus agrees because he thinks it's funny. Sebek agrees because Malleus does. poor Silver is powerless to stop it)
of course, you notice them right away
that's like... a given
besides the terrible disguises, Lilia and Malleus keep laughing and Sebek is white-knuckling the menu while trying to stay quiet
after that, you have a nice sit-down with everyone to discuss your personal boundaries
Silver gets his talk, after all :)
𝐊𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐥-𝐀𝐬𝐢𝐦
Lilia's failed attempts at convincing everyone that Kalim is a totally great boyfriend (wingman of the year, everyone) obviously don't work well
listen, Kalim is great. it could be a lot worse!
but also, uh...
his life tends to be a little hectic
the last thing the Diasomnia fam needs is for you to get poisoned
...or assassinated in some other grotesque fashion
so, of course, they tag along to a few parties, some dinners here and there...
they get caught pretty quickly, but lucky for them, Kalim is a great host, and so he invites them to just. join the dates
(much to your horror)
Sebek and Silver argue about who's going to taste your food for poison first
which Lilia ends up doing, anyway
(even if it is poisoned, it won't have any effect on him. he might even like it more)
𝐕𝐢𝐥 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐭
Vil is probably the second safest option on this list
...and, of course, he gets scoped out for the same reason number one does
Lilia considers him just... too strict. I mean, he's young! you're young! you shouldn't be acting like grown-ups, you should be frolicking
or whatever it is kids these days are doing
when the four follow you on one of your way-too-nice dates, Vil is the first to notice
he's definitely annoyed at first, but comes to find the situation really funny
it's like paparazzi, but if the paparazzi were your extremely strange found-family, who are also wearing fake mustaches and pretending to be tourists at the table behind you
he'll let it slide, just this once
...but maybe you'll have more indoors dates for a while
𝐈𝐝𝐢𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝
Idia has already taken the necessary preventative measures
i.e., never actually going out for dates
if you want to eat something together, you can just come to his room for ramen and anime. what's so great about cafes and restaurants, anyway?
if you need some new scenery, he'll design a VR room for the two of you
it's pretty hard to spy on Idia- he's got a hell of a custom-coded security system on all of his devices
and besides that, Lilia was the one who set you two up in the first place. why would he be worried?
...okay, maybe the rest of the Diasomnia fam is a little concerned that you're dating someone who hasn't seen the sun in years
but you can handle yourself!
(he may still be receiving hundreds of very strongly worded and untitled emails from Sebek, though)
#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#queued#riddle rosehearts x reader#leona kingscholar x reader#azul ashengrotto x reader#kalim al asim x reader#vil schoenheit x reader#idia shroud x reader
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How Natasha would fuck you in different seasons
Warnings: Unprotected sex, a little degradation, intersex Natasha, mentions of hair pulling, cunnilingus, oral (both receive)
Pairings: Intersex Natasha (she has a cock) x reader
Wc: 801
During the spring season, Natasha would show a notably gentle disposition towards you. The atmosphere would be tranquil and unhurried, with raindrops cascading down the windows of your modern apartment. She wouldn't have any place to be. It wouldn't be rushed at all. Waking up to her slowly fucking you from the side. She would always find the time to bend you over the marble countertops and fuck you, making you almost burn the food left on the stovetop.
The amount of praise she would tell you is insane, too. "Such a good girl for me, y/n."
Maybe it's the pollen, but she's so gentle with you for these few months.
In contrast to her softness during the spring season, Natasha's character would show huge differences during the summer months. Natasha would have your face down, ass up on her bed fucking you roughly, her cock hitting that particular spot repeatedly. Her hand would make a makeshift ponytail and lift your head from the pillow so that you could hear the most degrading things that left her mouth known to man.
"You're such a dirty slut, y/n, letting me fuck you whenever I feel like it? Do your friends know how much of a whore you are, huh?"
A window would always be open because of how hot and humid the room got in such a short amount of time. Your moans are almost as loud as all of the cars from down below. You could already see a noise complaint heading your way from your neighbors, but you couldn't care less.
During fall, Natasha would always want to be eating you out. She's so desperate to taste your pussy. She's so pussy whipped it's crazy. She would eat you out during the most random times of the day.
You and Natasha would be carving pumpkins to put out on your balcony, and out of nowhere, she would be on the ground, pushing her face into your knee and begging you to let her taste your pussy.
"Please, y/n, just five minutes; I'll make you cum so fast, y/n. I just need to taste you."
During these months, she tends to become very submissive. The fall season is typically characterized by overwhelming paperwork that piles up, leading to exhaustion. Additionally, she has the responsibility of assisting the agents with their training, which can be pretty demanding.
You would have her whimpering and shaking as you sucked her off late at night, telling her "I can help relieve some of that stress, Nat."
I could also see you riding her often because the poor girl is exhausted. She would feel all up on your body as you moved your hips back and forth; she loves how warm and tight your cunt is and will always comment on it.
On Halloween, you two would have to go inside early and leave the candy basket outside with a sign that says, 'Only take one or else...' (thanks to Natasha) because of how horny Natasha was getting. It was hard to not see the bulge in her sweatpants. (her costume would be a pirate, but no one would know because she just draws two big circles around her eyes and a mustache.)
Natasha would be the softest during winter. She would be so slow and gentle with you, just like spring. She would be on top of you on the couch, thrusting into you passionately.
The newly purchased logs would crack in the fireplace, the warmth spreading throughout the room and the flames slowly turning the wood into ash. Slow jazz music would be playing in the back as you had a Christmas movie with zero volume, so you could hear each other's moans.
She wouldn't be 'fucking' you or having 'sex' with you, she would be making love to you. Her head would be buried into your neck, sucking on the skin and leaving marks, as your hand touched her head and scratched it lightly. Small moans came out of your mouth every few seconds as Natasha moved her hips in and out of you.
The room was cast in a dim and hazy glow, with only the distant twinkling of the city's lights providing any illumination. She would constantly tell you how gorgeous you are and that you are the only girl she would want in the entire world.
She would also be really needy to be inside you, whether that's her tongue, fingers, or cock. It would be the best part of her day. Whenever she's at her office, you'll always drive there to give her a hot soup, tea, and an allergy relief pill because she can't stop sneezing and coughing. After eating, she would repay you by letting you cockwarm her while she finished some mission reports Furry assigned her.
#natasha romanoff#natasha romanoff smut#natasha romanoff x female#natasha x y/n#natasha romanov#marvel#natasha x reader#marvel smut
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⏤ another man, series masterlist.
pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader
series synopsis. a wolf and a dragon. a queen and a prince. lady stark and aemond targaryen. a marriage should keep them apart. lust draws them together. when one agrees to tutor the other in the many ways of pleasure, a countdown towards their mutual downfall begins. ( each chapter features individual synopses. )
series warnings. canon divergence (the greens win the war), brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader (though there is no mention of her skin tone, hair colour, etc...) no use of y/n, slow burn, mutual pining, forbidden love, infidelity, sexually inexperienced reader, emotionally stunted aemond, themes of infertility/pregnancy, aegon is a shit husband, angst, fluff, & lots of smut. ( each chapter features individual warnings. )
series wordcount. 65.6k (so far )
a word from hyde. this series features my own reimagining of events pre, during, and post the dance of the dragons, along with my own interpretations of the characters. if you yourself do not like the featured canon divergence or find my portrayal of aemond (or any other canon character) to be ooc, please kindly skip over this series. this series does not have a taglist.
read on ao3. listen to the playlist.
i. another man’s feast. ( 3.5k )
chapter synopsis. aemond has only ever wanted to take care of you. too bad you’re married to his neglectful brother.
ii. another man’s comfort. ( 16.1k )
chapter synopsis. a wedding calls you north, your duty calls you to your husband, your heart calls you to aemond.
iii. another man’s pleasure. ( 13.6k )
chapter synopsis. a pregnancy, a nameday and a drunken evening make for a dangerous concoction between the one-eyed dragon and the royal wolf.
iv. another man’s pain. ( 19.4k )
chapter synopsis. a visit to dorne goes awry as an unexpected visitor arrives, tensions between in-laws come to ahead at last.
v. another man's legacy. ( 13k )
chapter synopsis. prince aemond calls all with fire in their blood forth to dragonstone with promise of a grand announcement, unawares of the king's own announcement.
vi. another man’s jealousy. ( coming october )
chapter synopsis. a vicious rumour spreads through the court, forcing the prince to prove just how green he can be.
vii. another man's promise. ( coming november )
chapter synopsis. in the warmth of summer, hope blooms. but how long until it wilts?
viii. another man’s wrath. ( coming december )
chapter synopsis. a bloodied gown, a funeral pyre, a pile of ashes. in his wrath, her mercy prevails.
ix. another man’s view. ( coming january )
chapter synopsis. aegon confronts the sin of his kin.
x. another man’s love. ( coming february)
chapter synopsis. lady stark learns that, sometimes, to love is to lose.
xi. another man’s exile. ( coming march )
chapter synopsis. the time has come where even a dragon must flee.
xii. another man’s wife. ( coming april )
chapter synopsis. the song of wolf and dragon comes to an end.
#aemond targaryen series#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen x reader#house of the dragon smut#aemond targaryen fic#aemond targaryen imagine#house of the dragon fanfiction
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using my own prompt-💥😅👍- for uh. I think it would be funny for DPxDC, Jack Fenton and Bruce Wayne. Yeah
“Hey! It’s Batman! Hi Batty!”
Bruce has seen a lot of strange things in life. He’s been to a lot of weird places. He’s friends with the Justice League. He’s adopted multiple kids who made it their life mission to give him gray hair early.
Bruce has seen a lot of strange things in life. But this? This is going in the top 10.
There’s a stranger in a bright orange jumpsuit in the middle of the Batcave. There’s no indication on how he got down here, but he’s got a futuristic gun on his back and metal gloves on.
Bruce settles into a defensive crouch, scanning the rest of the cave. Why did none of the alarms go off? Where’s the rest of the team?
“Batman! Hey! Hey Batty! Batty-man!”
“What do you want,” he growls.
“I’m looking for a ghost! Chased the spook down here but he vanished. Wait, are you a ghost?”
Oh no. Bruce does not like the maniacal gleam in his eye.
“Prepare to be wasted by the best ghost hunter, Jack Fenton!” The gun is level in his direction.
Before Bruce has a chance to jump out of the way it fires. Something glowing and green shoots toward him. He has a split second of guilt that his family will find his corpse like this before the blast hits.
Green explodes around him. With it comes radio static that whites out everything else. Below it is the wail of departed souls, just barely on the edge of hearing. The explosion is all cold fire; no heat.
It also doesn’t hurt.
The green fades away and Bruce stands in the same spot, not reduced to a smoking pile of ash. What. Just. Happened.
Jack leans the gun on his shoulder and rubs his head sheepishly. “Huh, I guess you aren’t a ghost. My bad, Batty-man!”
Bruce is still stuck in limbo, adrenaline past its limit and onto the next. “You just shot me.”
“Yeah, but you aren’t a ghost. It’s fine!”
“You hit Batman.”
“It’s cool!” Jack gives him a thumbs up and a big grin.
Bruce growls, storming forward. Jack stays where he is; smile barely fading as his gun is yanked away. “You. Start talking.”
Rather than be cowed, Jack’s eyes nearly sparkle. “Oh man, just think if Batman uses Fenton tech! Think of what we could do with more funding! And look at the cool stuff in this cave! I bet I could rig that dinosaur into a robot to fight ghosts! And that penny could smash ghosts! And that–”
Bruce tunes him out before he strangles the man with his bare hands. Batman doesn’t kill people. But man, this guy sure is tempting.
The elevator door pings as it reaches the Batcave and Alfred steps out.
“Ghost!” Jack whips out another gun–where was he storing that?!--and shoots at Alfred.
The butler freezes as the blast hits and harmlessly dissipates.
Bruce turns to Jack. “Stop shooting people!”
Maybe he can knock the idiot out. Before someone gets hurt.
As a treat.
Prompt list
#it goes as well as you'd expect#which is bad#batman#dcu#jack fenton#danny phantom#writing prompt#follower milestone#my writing#dc batman#dp x dc#dc x dp#dc x dp crossover#dpxdc#dcxdp
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Alastor's Shadow (18+) Chapter Two
Alastor x F!Reader, Alias: Thestral
Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months sooner than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. Afterall, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plans brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down, but also challenge your grab for power…
Tags: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut
Link to Masterlist: Masterlist
Chapter Two - Breakfast
Content Warning: None (Let me know if I missed any!)
“Coffee anyone?” You call out to the foyer as your feet hit the carpet.
It was early and you had a lot to do today, but there was always time for coffee. Besides, you spent half the night tossing and turning before finally winding down into a few hours of sleep. You were exhausted - not just from the night’s meeting, but the silence of the Hotel was deafening. You usually slept to music, but the record player in your old room didn’t belong to you and so you couldn’t take it when you left.
Angel sat before the old television, Husk standing at his side, his arms crossed before him. Angel lay sprawling across the sofa, dark circles under his eyes. With the type of jobs these two had, you were surprised to see them up so early.
“… isn’t that right Tom?” You recognized Katie Killjoy’s voice echo from the television.
666 News this early in the morning? You joined the cat and spider in the alcove.
“That’s right Katie! Another pile of ashes was discovered in the alley of the Pride Ring this morning as the Shadow has claimed yet another victim! The remains have been identified as Chazwick Thurman, a known member of the Crimson Mafia...”
“Too bad they weren’t your ashes, aye Tom…”
You drowned out the voices of the broadcasters as images of an alleyway in the Entertainment district flash across the screen. The only thing left behind was a bone-shaped belt buckle and a pile of grey.
“Crimson was invited to comment.”
You stiffen.
The screen cut to a cameraman chasing Crimson into a car. “Get that fucking camera out of my fucking face!” He slams the car door and the screen cuts back to the reporters.
Goddamn that almost gave you a heart attack…
“How do yous think they identify ‘em?” Angel motioned to the screen, now turned back to Chaz’s ash’s blowing away in the breeze. “All I see is a bunch o’ dirt.”
“Something Gluttony whipped up I heard,” Husk grumbles. He looks just as exhausted as Angel.
“What would Beelzebub want to do with a bunch o’ murders?” Angel argued.
“Don’t look at me, those are just the rumors!”
“I heard it was a new Voxtek technology,” you chime in. “They have some sort of electronic scanner that can detect soul signatures.”
You were right, of course, but they didn’t know that.
“But he was a Hellborn Native? Do they even have souls? And what was he doing in the Pride Ring anyway?” Angel argued.
You shrugged, “Like Husk said… Only rumors.”
“Seems a little shady if you ask me.” Husk rubs the scruff forming on his chin. “That’s the first Hell Native to have been slain by the Shadow. So far he’s only gone after Sinners. Why change now?”
You weren’t interested in playing conspiracy theorist today. Too much to do. Instead you decided to shift the conversation, “Coffee?”
Angel and Husk look to you.
“It’s the only reason we got up,” Angel answered. “Heard ya’ had a busy morning and didn’t wanna miss ya’.”
The sentiment made your face turn pink. Day two and already you felt some sort of connection forming with the two of them.
You followed them into the kitchen, but froze on the threshold as the sound of soft jazz hit your ears and a jolt of static ran down your spine. There, standing in a frilly apron tied at the waist, serving spoon in hand, was the red demon Alastor. He didn’t look up as he scooped the remaining eggs into the white dish set on the table.
“Good morning fellow Sinners!” The demon sung. Husk and Angel grumbled in response. Not morning people. So, the maniacal demon has a domestic side? What a weird change of pace after literally beating the shit out of someone yesterday and then turning around and pissing off an Overlord.
“Morning, Mr. Alastor,” you mumbled, trying to match his cheerfulness but frankly, you hadn’t had coffee yet and didn’t enjoy talking to anyone before your first steaming cup.
Finally his eyes landed on you, the soft jazz music coming to a small and almost imperceptible skip you would have missed had you not been listening for it. This man gives away so much in his audio alone.
Half-lidded, his eyes dragged over you, from the Mary Jane heels - short as can be, you couldn’t handle anything over an inch - to the red puffy dress that hugged your sides and expanded into layers of black landing just above your knees. The dress was long sleeved, with black lace running across your back, hiding your tattoo perfectly. It came with a matching metal red clip for your hair.
Normally you hated wearing dresses, hated looking girly, but etiquette called for it this morning. You’d be far more comfortable in a pair of trousers and button up collared shirt.
You waited as the invisible radio clicked through a few stations before returning to a soft jazz. “Well, well, look what the spider and cat dragged in. And where is our fine hotel guest off to today?” He returned the pan to the stove before untying the apron at his waist.
Okay, he was acting cordial. So maybe that meant whatever happened yesterday on the cobblestone streets wasn’t him? Or maybe he hadn’t realized it was you who did it? Either way, there was a question mark next to whatever power slapped the shit out of you yesterday - “proceed with caution,” the sticky note next to it read.
“I have a breakfast date…” You start but Angel’s whistling interrupts you.
“Ow! Oooow!” He called, “And who is the lucky Sinner bestowed with the honor of taking your fine ass out today?”
Your cheeks couldn’t get any redder. “My old land lady?” You curled into yourself, feeling eyes on your skin, resisting the urge to rub the back of your neck.
“Oh, you like ‘em mature, don’t ya’?” Angel purred. It made you laugh, breaking some of the tension.
“Now, now Angel Dust, one musn’t speak such profanities to a young lady before she’s had her breakfast.” Alastor settled into his chair. Snapping his fingers for a newspaper, he disappeared behind the black and white text. The air around you grew a little colder with his closeness, like the heat was being absorbed by the red demon himself.
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Angel shrugged, spooning piles of egg onto his plate. “Hair clip knows I’m good for it.”
“Same thing as yesterday, Husk?” You ask sheepishly, making your way to the Breville in the corner. The coldness wrapped around your legs, as if it was following you across the kitchen.
“That would be great, kiddo,” he rubbed his temples, his chin resting on the table top. Hangover?
You felt the bubbles in your chest die down as you got to work, filling the portafilter with beans and finding a white espresso cup in the cupboard.
“Angel?” You called over your shoulder. You feigned a small kick at the air around your ankles, wishing for whatever invisible coldness to leave you alone. It didn’t.
“A vanilla soy latte if ya’ could be so kind, sweet cheeks,” he asked, mouthful of food. You heard the door swing open as Charlie, Vaggie, and Nifty’s voices filled the air.
I thought the tiny maid normally cooked the meals?
Rummaging through the cupboards you couldn’t find any syrups for his request - only a chai tea blend. You apologized but made a mental note to pick up some supplies today.
Passing him his soy latte - complete with a spider on top - you got to work on everyone else’s orders before finally turning to Alastor.
Your palms instantly started to sweat. What was it about this demon that made you so nervous?
“Can I get you anything Mr. Alastor?” Was your voice shaky? Did you seem nervous?
The top part of the newspaper folded down to reveal his face. His smile was strained despite the sweet jazz playing over his radio. His radio? Was that correct?
“Alastor’, darling, and a hot cup of joe would be wonderful,” his eyes lingered on you a little too long before you finally nodded.
Swallowing, you turned back to the Breville and began grinding the beans. You debated making a second cup for yourself, you did still have thirty minutes before you needed to go, but didn’t necessarily wanna smudge your red lipstick before you left. It’ll give you something for your hands to do, to calm the nerves that is, and to warm your bones - the coldness eliciting goosebumps across your legs.
Making two cups of coffee, one in Alastor’s “Oh, Deer!” mug - which made you chuckle - you paused, an idea forming in your mind. You didn’t have many ingredients to work with, but you did have one thing. Opening the chai you took a sniff - fresh. You had a feeling, and it was a risk, but you decided to jump off that cliff anyway. Using a strainer you let a few leaves steep in his cup, before swirling it around and straining it out.
Dropping the mug before him, you finally noticed the extra chair that had been added to the table - right next to him. When did that get there? Nifty sat to your right with Angel right across from you. You tried to catch Angel’s attention, to thank him for adding the extra seat, but he didn’t notice you as he was too busy licking the foam from his lips while sending Husk a sexual retort. Meanwhile, Nifty was stabbing away at her plate, too busy to notice your sudden hesitation.
Was it because of Alastor?
Your mind flits back to the radio broadcast last night and Alastor’s grand display?-battle?-sing a-long?-with the media demon Vox. Seems he had a chance to go big at one point but never really made it. You wondered what happened?
“I don’t bite, darling,” Alastor snapped and his newspaper disappeared. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his knees before taking a sip of his mug. His eyes lit up, his smile curling at the edge. You held your breath as you waited for his reaction.
“Please, take a seat,” the chair before you slid back without a touch, a puddle of shadow beneath it shifting ever so slightly.
He took another sip, his shoulders dropping an inch. You took that as a sign that he enjoyed your coffee concoction and wasn’t going to rip your head off for changing his request.
Rejoining the table, you swore the air around your legs warmed slightly.
“Hey, Hair clip, I gotta know something,” Angel chimed across the table, his belly finally full. “What’s a sweet lil’ thing like you gotta do to get yourself down ‘ere?”
“Angel!” Charlie protested.
“Wha’? Come on we was all thinkin’ it.” He crossed his many arms.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Charlie’s eyes twinkled.
“Uhm, no it’s okay,” your hands clench and unclench around the mug, letting the heat soothe your fingers, resisting the urge to rub your neck. “I had the unfortunate circumstances of finding myself at the center of a web of…” you searched for the right word, “disappearances.” Your lips curled into a smile you couldn’t help but form. You tried to hide it by siping your cup.
Lying was all too easy these days.
“Oh, shit.” Angel jumped in his seat.
“Wait, are you telling us you killed people?” Husk breathes.
“Stab, stab, stab,” Nifty drove her knife into her toast over and over. Vaggie reached over and carefully pulled the needle from her fingers.
How much do you reveal about this backstory now? If you reveal too much it’ll appear as if you have nothing to hide, but chatty Sinners were suspicious Sinners. Give them just a nugget to chew on for now.
“Technically, the cases were never solved. While I was alive anyway…” You mumbled into your cup, conscious of your lipstick on the rim.
Not denial but not confirmation, either.
“So, you didn’t kill people?” Husk clarifies.
“I didn’t say that…” You mumble into the steam.
The beans aren’t bad, but the undercut of chocolate wasn’t your favorite. Add that to the shopping list for today.
So much to do before tomorrow…
“So, then you did?” Angel asks.
You didn’t answer. This conversation was going in circles.
“Might we have heard of you and your endeavors topside, Ms. Thestral?” Alastor’s forearms were suddenly on the table, his presence leaning into you.
You felt something slip past your ankles, like a small breeze. You crossed your legs instinctively.
There’s power in a name down here in Hell. Knowing who people were before gives others leverage, gives them blackmail to use against another. They could threaten your family still alive up top. They could use it to find others who have died but knew you from before for information. The possibilities are endless.
Alastor knows this. It’s an unspoken rule. It’s why Angel goes by Angel or Husk goes by Husk. He knows you’d never give any exact details leading to who you were and what you did, so he’s decided to toy with you. Much like Sir Pentious from yesterday.
Let him eat his own medicine then.
“Might we have heard of you and yours, Mr. Alastor?” You leaned into him, your gaze never wavering from his face. A fleeting flash of amusement so swift had you blinked you would have missed it.
The air was sucked out of the room in one collective gasp as the Hotel Natives waited for his response.
Geez, were they all afraid of this guy or…? You’d hate to see what they’d do in the presence of an Overlord.
He tipped his head back and laughed. “I believe you and I are going to get along quite well, darling.” With a snap of his fingers the newspaper reappears, his face disappearing before you got a chance to study it.
The tension in the room drops as everyone lets out their breath.
You were really going to have to figure out what you were going to do with this Alastor fellow. Perhaps your little outing today would shed light on the subject.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Vaggie is up and out of her seat before you have a chance to register what’s going on. More bangs - coming from the front door. Someone was knocking? Next thing you know, everyone is up and out of their seats and in the foyer - except for Alastor, who decides to take his time.
Throwing open the door, Vaggie comes face to face with Sir Pentious. “Hello, my dear… Ah!”
Vaggie plants a facer right into his nose before pulling her spear from the Void. The snake demon collapses at her feet, begging for mercy.
“Oh, hello again!” Charlie has inserted herself into the situation. This ought to be interesting. You had to admit, you’ve taken some pretty boring jobs before, but the people here were so fun to watch, it made the slow progress worth it.
Sir Pentious mentions something about redemption, which is exactly the thing to say to the Princess Morningstar. The next thing you know she’s practically dragging him inside.
Angel jumps in to point out the obvious but Vaggie eventually crumbles under Charlie’s begging.
The gears in your mind turn as they talk, the Princess showing him the foyer, noting how convenient this turn of events just so happened to be.
Sir Pentious did not just come here on accident - especially after yesterday. Maybe another plan of attack on Alastor? He did catch the red demon off guard, perhaps he was trying again with the same “element of surprise” tactic.
Regardless, Charlie was dotting on the poor demon like he was a small child in need of shepherding. Was she clueless to the situation or just a bleeding heart hopeful?
Either way, the mosquito has returned.
From the corner of your eye, you catch Angel’s mood change. From general intrigue to irritation and… was that guilt you were smelling as Charlie showed the snake about? No - self-loathing. They always smelled so similar, it was easy to get the two confused.
Great now Nifty is fawning over the serpent. The tiny demon is a fucked up enigma that you had no intention of figuring out.
“This is Thestral. Our most recent guest!” Charlie escorts him before you. You shake the snake demon’s hand - gross, he’s slimy.
Static fills your ears, making your hair stand on end as you shake the demon’s hand.
“And over here is… Oh! Uh, Alastor!” Charlie squeaks. “Our gracious facility manager! You’ve met our newest guest, Sir Pentious… Hehe…”
You feel Alastor’s eyes on the back of your head before he turns to the snake demon. The serpent cowered before the well-dressed Joe, the room filling with the scent of oranges and mint: fear.
“Ah, yes! You’re the one who ruined my coat!” The demon’s eyes begin to glow, their eerie red light impregnating the room with their aura. “I definitely remember you now.”
Was that irritation you sensed? You watched his shoulders as the snake demon attempted to apologize, noting their stiffness despite his relaxed demeanor in the kitchen.
This guy had a lot of pent up aggression. He carried himself like a clogged overflowing sink someone left the plug in too long. The interaction yesterday with the Vees did nothing to quell his attitude despite the flux he sent the media demon into. The entire grid shut down after you joined Husk at the bar - cellphones, televisions, electricity. It was a blackout for a few hours before his system finally reset. Guess Vox has more of a hold on Pentagram City than you knew.
Sir Pentious hands Alastor the small piece of fabric he ripped from him yesterday.
“Ah-Ho!” The Radio Demon sings. “Not many people have been able to take even this much off me, it must have meant quite a lot to you.”
You snort into your hand, catching a side glance from the Radio Demon.
The fabric spontaneously combusts into green flame.
What!? He has access to Hellfire? You try to not let the shock show on your face but he catches it regardless.
The clock chimes 8 on the wall.
Shit, you were going to be late!
Shoving your hands into the pockets sewn into the dress, you double check that you did indeed grab your wallet before heading for the door. “I’m sorry Charlie, but I have to go now!”
“Oh, yes! Don’t forget, one o’clock!” She waves after you.
The cold sensation slips from your ankles, making you shutter as you head for the front, but before you have a chance to pull the door open, Husk steps into your path. “Hey, kid,” he whispers, looking over your shoulder at something. “Stop by the bar later, wouldya?”
His tone was far more serious than one would expect for a casual hangout invitation.
“Sure, Husk,” you nod, worried that something was wrong.
“Stay safe out there,” he pats your shoulder before heading back to the bar, his eyes downcast as he passes the red demon and Princess now entranced in their own conversation.
You swear you see Alastor’s shadow move, like it was waving goodbye…
Anyway… That was… weird, but good! Making progress with Husk and an opportunity to hear some gossip from the grumpy bartender.
You headed out into the cobblestone streets with a new pep in your step and a smile on your face.
____________________________________
“Thanks, Susan,” you smiled at the potted daisy in your hand. It was half dead but so was she.
“Of course, sweetheart,” she pinched your cheeks as she screamed. She was deaf, everything she said was in a scream.
“I’ll see you next week!” You smiled, slowly inching away. “With the lemon finger sandwiches this time!”
She laughs as you parted ways, flipping her boa over her shoulder as she shuffled.
You loved the lady, she gave you a room when you had nowhere else to go. After you moved out you thought it would be the end of breakfasts with the old crazy lady, but she begged for tea and snacks once a week in the park. She was lonely - even though she was to blame for her loneliness. She did eat her third husband and all… So, you bought her breakfast and tea once a week. It was the least you could do after everything she has done for you.
You rounded the Plaza and headed for the doors of Rosie’s Emporium but your stride came to a crashing halt as static filled your ears.
“Don’t be a stranger, Alastor!” Rosie’s voice carried to the front of the store.
Fuck!
Flattening against the other half of the double doors, and hiding your face against the wall, you prayed he would walk right past you and not notice your anxiety-riddled form in the doorway. But, alas, you were never that lucky.
“I wouldn’t dream of it… Oh!” The Radio Demon stopped half stride out the door, his eyes immediately finding yours. The edges of his lips curled far past what you thought possible for his face. His radio faltered just a moment before he addressed you. “Why, hello there.”
Red bloomed across your cheeks as you came face to face with him. He tipped an eyebrow up, unleashing a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.
You searched for something to say but words seemed just out of reach.
What was wrong with you! Why did this demon have so much sway over your emotions! Get yourself together. Why…
Rosie cleared her throat, causing you to jump. She was quiet when she was being sneaky. “And what do we have here?” Her charming New York accent was doing nothing to qualm the nerves in your belly.
“Thestral, this is Rosie. The most darling, delightful, and dangerous Overlord this side of the Pentagram!” Trumpets echoed through his radio.
You tried hard not to roll your eyes.
“Oh! Always a charmer,” Rosie smiled wide, her razor sharp teeth on display.
“And Rosie,” his arm wraps around your lower back, pushing you closer to the man-eating Overlord. That cold sensation wraps around your legs again, making you shiver. “It’s my pleasure to introduce you to…”
“Actually,” you interrupt, trying to keep the bite from your voice. Stepping out of Alastor’s grip, the cold follows you. What made him think he could just touch you like that!? “We’ve met.”
A flash of irritation crosses Alastor’s eyes before being replaced with his mask.
“Oh! What a regal surprise!” Rosie drags you inside, taking the dead potted plant from you. “You’re early!” She goes for a tray of fingers. “Can I offer you something to eat?”
“I just ate actually,” an uncomfortable laugh escapes your lips.
You didn’t detest cannibalism - I mean, who doesn’t enjoy a good shoulder steak? - it was the way Alastor was looking at you that was setting those butterflies in a flurry. It was a look of… suspicion? You sniffed, but smelled nothing. Hmm, interesting.
“You two know each other?” Alastor twirled his cane, clutching it behind his back. His smile was strained.
Shit.
“Oh, Thestral and I go way back!” She spun, placing the finger food aside before clamping both her hands atop your shoulders. You were trapped. “Practically fell on top of me when she died!”
Alastor’s eyes light up with the addition of the new information. “Did she now?”
You stop him from asking anymore questions with an awkward laugh. “Rosie, don’t you have to take my measurements?”
“Oh, my stars! You’re here for a dress!” Her eyes sparkle. Cupping your cheeks, she pulls your face to hers. “Finally! This one was getting a little old,” she thumbs a hole in your sleeve you were desperately trying to hide. You frown.
You didn’t have money to burn often, but when you did you let Rosie dress you up as she pleased. She never wanted money from you, in fact she hated that you offered, but it didn’t feel right to just take her creations without giving her something in return.
“Oh, don’t fret, doll! You’re still a tomato! Don’t you think so, Alastor?” She pinched your cheeks, turning your face to the red demon in his newly fashioned pin-striped suit.
You met his eyes, he was clearly loving the embarrassment Rosie was showering you with.
“As cute as a bug’s ear,” he smiled, his eyebrows relaxing in amusement.
God, did this man do anything other than fucking smile?
Your face reddened under his direct gaze, its burn bleeding into the cold of Rosie’s fingers. You didn’t like being dotted on and you sure as Hell didn’t like being showed off like this.
Wait… what did he say? Did he call you cute? The Radio Demon called you cute.
“Oh!” Rosie finally releases you. You rub your cheeks to lessen the sting from her pinches. “Ya-know, Alastor. I got a premo-connect on a guy with about eight blocks of territory and not enough goons to run it. Prime pickin’s for a deal to be made, my friend!”
A deal? Rosie didn’t just throw people a bone out of pity. She didn’t freely offer up anything to anyone unless she respected them. Rosie - the Rosie - respected… him? The Radio Demon was turning out to be a bigger fish than expected. Still, he remained a mystery. God it was irritating.
“I appreciate the offer, but I must be off. So much to do at the Hotel!” He sung, his radio clicking on a smooth jazz. He picked at invisible lint on his shoulder before his half-lidded eyes met yours. “I‘ll see you this afternoon, darling.” His voice purred, sending butterflies in a flurry within you. With a small bow he slipped out the front door and into Cannibal Plaza taking your breath with him.
You spun as the door shut, swearing you saw a… shadow follow him?
Fuck, you needed to figure this guy out fast, but that was why you were here wasn’t it? Rosie knew all the best gossip in Pentagram City, she was the ideal source to go to for information on Alastor without raising suspicion at the Hotel. Couldn’t let any of the Natives think you too interested in the Radio Demon.
“You’re late.”
You spun to face Rosie, a hand on her hip, one eyebrow sky high in suspicion.
Shaking off the conflicting emotions stirring within you, you met her energy, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “It appears you were entertained in my absence.”
“Don’t start with the attitude, young lady.” She waved a finger at you as she led you into the parlor.
A set of tea was waiting, half drunk and already cold - tea which was supposed to be for you had you been on time.
“Susan was extra talkative this morning,” you huffed, taking the chair across from her usual spot. “Seems she missed me.”
The Overlord began tidying up the tray, but as you watched her collect the cups, you couldn’t help but wonder something. “Was that planned?” You huffed.
She gave you a look as if you had asked a stupid question.
“Why?” You grommeled, shrinking into the chair.
“Posture!” She waved her finger at you. You rolled your eyes but obeyed. “It appears Alastor is back from his sabbatical - which I was only made aware of yesterday when he came in here with a torn suit. I asked you here to create a pho-run-in with the Overlord so that you might be aware of his presence, considering the events of tomorrow.” She placed the tray on the side counter.
“Wait…” Your ears perked up. Did you hear her correctly? You swallowed hard.
“I didn’t get a chance to learn of his endeavors with the Hotel until this morning. He made quite a stir yesterday, and when Alastor is in a bad mood you tend to keep conversation short.” She snapped her fingers and a new tray appeared - tea steaming and ready to be served.
Every nerve in your body was screaming at you. “Rosie, did you…”
“Now, come to find my surprise when I learned that he had not just already met you, but already had suspicions of your power. He asked questions, Thestral, questions about you, and I…”
“Oh my God, Rosie!” You jumped to your feet, arms clenched at your sides.
“What has gotten into you?” She stopped mid pour, a hand feigning surprise on her chest.
“Did you just say that Alastor is an Overlord?” Your heart was beating at a million miles an hour now.
Taking a breath, the woman who had become like a mother to you finished pouring your cup before she set the tea kettle back onto the tray. She took her cup and plate in hand before finally answering your question. “Yes.”
You stopped breathing completely. “Fuck,” you mumbled before slowly melting back into the chair.
Oh my God, how could you be so stupid! Of course the Radio Demon was more powerful than you could ever have imagined. Of course the Radio Demon was an Overlord. Of course an OVERLORD had to be the Hotel manager. Of course an OVERLORD had to sleep across the hall from you! All the planning you put together, all the research, all the preparation and now you had to deal with this!
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Rosie sipped her tea - jasmine, your favorite.
Alastor had beef with the Vees. He pissed off Vox to the point that it overloaded his circuits and shut the entire grid down. No wonder you didn’t see him in the commercial. What Overlord would want one of his biggest enemies being able to capture him using his greatest asset of surveillance - a camera.
Sir Pentious came to challenge Alastor your very first day at the Hotel because he had heard that Alastor was back! Which meant the Hotel was now a target! Which made you a target! Alastor’s mere presence was attracting attention - attention you didn’t want and would inevitably get in the way of your plans!
You had always been a behind the scenes type of person. Operating behind a mask was your specialty. Merely shedding the cloak was filling you to the brim with anxiety and now you had to deal with this!
No! No! No! No!
“Thestral you’re burning my couch,” Rosie scolded.
Looking down, blue flames licked the seat’s plush arm rest. Silently cursing, you pulled the power back in and suffocated it, leaving behind a bit of blackened fabric.
“This is going to be a problem,” you spat through gritted teeth.
Now you knew why everyone was so afraid of him.
“Why are you so surprised? I thought you knew by the way you were acting when you ran into him in my parlour. Actually, now that I think about it, you looked more smitten than… Huh!” Rosie gasped, her teeth growing into a smile. “Are you sweet on him?”
Your jaw dropped. “What? No!”
That was completely illogical! You, sweet on an Overlord!? Preposterous!
“My dear, you’re blushing!” She practically sang.
Your hands flew to your cheeks so fast you almost slapped yourself. “Just… What… I… Are you going to take my measurements or not?”
Rosie laughed before pulling out a measuring tape. “Oh, I am going to dress you to the nines, tomato!” She gave you a knowing smile as she shepherded you to the block before a set of mirrors.
“Rosie, I do not like the Radio Demon. If anything he poses a problem. A really big problem.” You stepped onto the block as she circled you like a vulture.
“I am pulling out all the stops for you! Two new dresses, maybe a couple pair of those trousers you adore so much, and definitely a few ideas for a night out on the town. Just in case.” She winks at you in the mirror. “And new shoes too! Those little heels are done for.”
“Rosie… Just..” You sank your face in your hands.
She stopped immediately. “What’s wrong, darling? Talk to Auntie Rosie.”
Running your hands through your hair, you took a deep breath, releasing as much anxiety as you could with it.
Things were a lot easier when you operated in the shadows.
You faked a small smile before pulling the money clip from your pocket, trying to turn the conversation to something you could handle. “At least let me pay you this time.”
Rosie’s face turned into one of determination and pride. “You got it back from Crim, didn’t ya’?”
You pulled your other hand from your pocket to reveal the black calling card. “Indeed I did.”
_______________________________________
You took your time heading to the Entertainment District, letting Rosie’s words simmer within your brain.
The Radio Demon was an Overlord and a mysterious one at that. He disappeared seven years ago, only to magically reappear recently under the guise of Charlie’s Hotel Manager.
Funny how Lilith also disappeared seven years ago. Funny how this Extermination just so happens to be a special one.
But before Alastor took his paid time off, it seems he was quite the shit around here. That at least explains the radio broadcasts: the incessant screaming of souls Alastor plays at whim. You had to admire that part. The man had class, he had art, he had theatrics. You just killed and walked away, not wanting the media spotlight, but Alastor? He thrived off of it. He was a walking entertainment broadcast dependent upon the attention of others.
God, and his ego? You didn’t even want to start down that road. No wonder he got so pissy when you didn’t cower before him like thousands of others do. Fuck, the only one not afraid of him is Princess Morningstar - not because she considers herself more powerful than him but because she is naive. Alastor would kill her in a heartbeat if it meant accomplishing his goals.
Speaking of, what were his goals? Surely he didn’t wish to climb the ladder of hotel management. Alastor wasn’t an assistant type of guy. He had to be the boss. So whatever plan he has, playing make believe with the Princess has put him in a superior position despite what it appears.
Was that it then? Was taking down Charlie his endgame? But why? Charlie doesn’t rule, she doesn’t utilize her power, she doesn’t do anything. She just kind of hangs out with Vaggie and cleans up chemical spills and hugs trees and shit. She wasn’t someone all powerful to target and take down - not like Lilith.
Wait. Fuck. Lilith.
That’s what this is about. He disappeared seven years ago with Lilith and he’s back now because of Lilith.
So get to Charlie to get to Lilith, but what does Alastor want with Lilith?
So entranced in thought you finally realized you were heading in the complete wrong direction and had stumbled into a part of town you had never been.
A window of television screens suddenly shifts to a bright yellow light. “Voxtech Angelic Security coming soon!” The ad chimes along with the new Voxtech logo sprouting a pair of wings.
That was going to prove a problem for your late night activities. Not that anyone has ever really been able to capture you on camera before. You're a mass of black smoke when you fly and a dark hooded figure with glowing yellow eyes when you weren’t. Hell, the entirety of Pentagram City thought you were a dude. A little sexist but whatever…
“Fuck,” you mumbled under your breath before turning down an alley you were hoping was a short cut.
“That fucking, fuck!” Vox comes flying out of a side door, trying desperately to tie his bow tie which has now become a knot around his neck.
You would have hid, you would have turned around and ran the moment you saw him, had he not run right into you.
Vox’s back slams into your shoulder, knocking you to the ground. The media demon turns on you, his one eye glowing red, a look of pure wrath flashing across his screen.
“Watch it!” He bites.
You give him an exasperated look before climbing to your feet. Great, now this dress is truly ruined! Your right hip is covered in black dirt, and there’s a tear along the hem. Rosie is going to kill you.
“You ran into me,” you brush your skirt. You didn’t snap at him, you simply stated the truth.
The demon is taken aback. How dare you speak to him like that! Did you not know who he is?
“You want to repeat that again you, little…” He stops mid sentence, his attention drawn to the hand you were extending him. “What are you doing?”
You gesture to the bow tie, nonchalantly, “I had a lot of brothers growing up. I got good at tying ties and bow ties and you look like you could use some help.” You nod to his left thumb, thoroughly stuck in the knot.
He raises an eyebrow in confusion, staring at you as if you had just sprouted a second head. When he doesn’t respond, you roll your eyes and begin unraveling the silk around his neck. The demon stiffens beneath your touch, freezing in place. You could feel his eyes boring into the top of your head as you worked.
It was a simple red bow tie, the slipperiness of the fabric made it difficult to get the ends even, but a few twists and you had it back to normal. You even closed the distance, folding the band around his neck beneath the collar of his shirt.
He doesn’t have that aura of static like Alastor does nor that sense of coldness which hangs about his shadow. Really you expected more similarities between the two, given that they were practically each other’s counterparts. But here, now, you didn’t get the same feelings being around Vox like you did the Radio Demon. Actually it was lack thereof.
It was probably just Vox’s lack of power. Really and truthfully you meant it when you said Vox is only ⅓ of an Overlord. Without the other Vees, he isn’t a threat. Alastor? That man was full power in only one suit.
Wait… why were you so focused on comparing him to Alastor right now?
“There,” you slapped your hands against your thighs. “Ta-da!” You gave him a show of jazz hands before continuing down the alleyway. A shiver runs down your spine as you could feel his gaze still on your form. God, he’s such a creep.
“Hey! Wait!” The media demon calls after you.
You roll your eyes before spinning, cursing under your breath.
The look on Vox’s face made you pause. Was that…? You sniffed. Curiosity? No, that wasn’t quite right. You sniffed again, not able to place the emotion. You’ve never really smelled anything like it before.
The demon clears his throat, suddenly self conscious. “Can I at least offer you a ride to wherever you’re going… as a thank you?” He crosses his arms in front of him, taking a few slow steps in your direction.
Fuck that. The last thing you wanted was Vox to know anything about you. Anything at all.
“No, thanks,” you spin again and…
“Can I at least know your name?” He tries again.
Ugh!
“Why?” You bite, your hands finding your hips.
The demon looks confused before his screen flashes back to a neutral face. He smiles and it’s far softer than you expected, “I just want to know the name of my savior.” He chuckles. “I got a little mixed up back there and am grateful for your services in fixing the situation.”
Okay… You’ve never actually seen Vox be nice before. This was weird.
Your eyes trail his form from his shoes to the broken antenna atop his head. You’ve never actually seen the media demon in person, but he cleans up well. The suit was nice but the hat was a little corny. No one wears top hats anymore. Also, his head is a flat television screen, how does that thing even stay up there?
“Uh, no.”
He blinks. “No?”
“Yeah, no.” You repeat. Was he dumb?
He scoffs, “do you know who I am?”
You spin, not daring to stop this time, “yup!” You waved to him over your shoulder, not looking back. “Bye!”
______________________________________
Vox sprints through the door, the wood vibrating off its hinges.
“What the fuck has gotten into you?” Velvette snaps from her place on the couch.
“I don’t know…” The media demon slams his hands against his desk, a look of madness on his face as his one eye blinks red. “I didn’t get her name…” He whispers to himself.
“Who?” Velvette smacks her lips against a lollipop, a loud ‘pop!’ with each suck.
“The most beautiful creature in Hell…”
Link to Chapter Three!
Masterlist Link: Masterlist
#alastor smut#hazbin alastor#hazbin hotel alastor#radio demon#hazbin#alastor#alastor the radio demon#alastor x reader smut#smut#alastor x you#alastor x reader#hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin hotel#x reader#reader insert#alastor shadow
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Warnings — Angst & Fluff, Professor x Student relationship, reader feels inferior, implied smut, descriptions of sex, inappropriate touching (brief), degrading (brief), reader's jealous, Anakin has anger issues, word 'homicidal' mentioned, neglection, Anakin is slightly aggressive.
Word count — 2.3k
Notes — Another lovely request, loved it! I'm not too good at angst because anything that doesn't involve Anakin being head over heels for the reader makes my heart ache, whoops. Also, REAL sorry if somebody's name's Janette, I love the name but reader calls her a slut.
"Dismissed." Professor Skywalker tosses his glasses aside and leans back in his chair. A delicate frown is present between his eyebrows.
He hadn't looked at you once.
An hour-and-a-half-long lecture and not one stare at you. Not a glance at the outfit you so carefully picked for him; the absence of his touch was already unbearable, but the way he avoided your darting eyes broke your heart. You wanted him to look at you. To look at you the way he does at night.
You look at his hands, slender fingers gripping the chalk; they're supposed to be on you. Gripping your hips to push himself deeper into you, holding your wrists, caressing your waist, and kneading the delicate flesh of your thighs when he pushes them back over his broad shoulders... Why isn't he looking at you?
You stuff your books into your tote, zipping it up with a forceful pull, purposely creating an irritating sound in your last attempts to get his attention. You feel a disappointed twitch in your eyebrow when he remains seated, toying with his pen while staring down at somebody else's essay.
One of the students makes her way towards his desk, slipping him another report while batting her lashes in an attempt to ease his feelings about turning in late. She leans forward, pointing at something while trying to explain herself, a cover up to push her clevage to his eye level. He takes her paper and piles it up with all the other works, nodding at the little tease and sending her off with a comment about how he won't tolerate it ever again. You wonder if his pants get a little bit tighter at the sight of her too.
You leave last. You always do. Despite his obvious uninterest in entertaining your need for his attention, you give him one last chance.
"I'll pick you up at six." He mutters, still not looking at you.
Your silence obviously disturbs him; you don't greet his preposition with a smile and an eager puppy-like nod like you usually do.
"That's alright with you, darlin'?" He adds with a raspy voice, glancing in your direction.
Your heart sinks and insides flutter when the vibration of his tone reaches your ears. How can he do this to you? How can he pretend like you don't exist and then dare to offer his nighttime company? And yet, you want nothing else but to feel his lips all over your body again, even at the price of your dignity. You find enough self-respect to slam the door in his face.
With 6 p.m. approaching, you find yourself sitting at your vanity mirror and trying to decide if your body's mere worth is some cheap lip gloss and a skimpy dress for your professor to tear off as soon as he parks his black Chevy somewhere secluded enough.
Before you know it, he's outside your house. You watch him get out of his car, flicking the ashes of his cigarette onto the concrete and tossing the butt somewhere in the grass. He adjusts the collar of his shirt and knocks on your door.
You wait. Ten seconds, twenty, half a minute. Your heartbeat increases with each passing blink of time, and you're pretty sure he knows you're doing it on purpose. Eventually, you decide that you won't offer for him to come in. Grabbing your jacket and purse, you make your way out.
"Hi, love." He greets you with a smile, which is entirely different from how he's behaving during lectures. He's welcoming, almost sweet; maybe it's just a silly trick to make you crave his attention, thus allowing him to strip you off your panties quicker.
Anakin leans in to peck your cheek, which you dodge by turning around to lock your doors. He waits for the lock to click in place before wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing himself against your back.
"You're mad. Why?" His lips brush over your clothed shoulder.
He can feel how your body quivers when you swallow a lump that's been in your throat since 8 a.m. You hate how loving he can be; you hate how he manipulates you with his touch, making you feel like you're more than just a naive student for him. You hate it, and you crave it. His hands are warm on your waist, and you can feel your cheeks getting hotter from the forming tears.
"Darlin'?" He kisses your pulse point gently, waiting for you to speak.
"Let's go." You blink the wetness off your eyelids and head towards his car. Your sides instantly shiver when they aren't shielded by his grip.
Anakin starts the car in silence, giving you an uncomfortable look at how you didn't even allow him to open the door for you. The engine roars to life, and he's about to drive off when he leans across your body.
"Seatbelt, darlin'." He doesn't wait for you to reach for it — he's already buckling you in.
"Why don't you look at me?" You begin speaking when he's out on the road.
"What do you mean, bunny? I am. You look gorgeous. Like every night." His hand leaves the gearstick and finds place on your knee, gently caressing the inside of your thigh.
"During lectures. You'd rather look at some slut like Janette instead of me." You cut him off, complaining about the unfairness of his actions.
"And you?" He laughs. Mockingly. "You are not a slut? Spreading your legs whenever I call you." His hand on your thigh glides up to brush against your panties. "But you like it when I call you that, don't you?"
He doesn't take you seriously at all. He is oblivious to the fact that his words claw a gaping hole in your chest, leaving your heart sore and lungs collapsing at the attempts to hold your pains. You push his hand off your core in a disgusted manner and shut your legs close.
"You're seriously mad at me?" He shifts gears, and you feel how the vehicle starts speeding, your body tensing in alertness.
You know he's not going to hurt you, not physically, and yet you can't stop shuddering. Your cheeks heat up once more, and this time there is no strength in you to stop the inevitable.
"I treat you well, don't I? Do you know how you'd be treated if I were somebody else?!" The highway is ending as he's taking a turn towards your usual spot of desire. His tone is increasing with every word.
"Drive me home!" You slap the panel, hysteria in your voice is present as thick tears drop onto your lap.
"You're not going anywhere!" He stops the car on the sidewalk, not making his full way into the forest. That's when he can finally see your mascara-stained cheeks.
Anakin groans at the sight; his fingers curl into fists as he pounds onto the steering wheel. "You're so fucking-" He groans again, trying to stop himself from saying something he'll regret later, and leans to rest his head, sighing deeply.
The car fills with your sobs and sniffles. You sit there, buckled up like a child who's been denied candy, and weep. Anakin lets out a sigh and frees himself from the seatbelt, clicking yours off too.
"Come here."
"No! I'm done doing this; I'm done letting you use me like I'm worthless!"
He sighs again, rubbing his face aggressively, trying his best to contain his anger and focus on how your whines are hurting his ears and heart.
"It's okay, come here, bunny." He places his hand on the back of your head and pulls you to lean on his shoulder. Pathetically, you wrap your arms around his neck and continue sobbing into his button-up. "There she is; come here." He grabs you by the waist and pulls, guiding you to climb out of your seat and onto his lap.
Unfortunately, his gesture only forces more tears. You rest your head on his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. He cradles your quivering body to his chest, one arm wrapped around your legs and the other keeping you in place by your back.
"Silly girl, you've ruined your make up." He wipes your cheeks with his sleeve, black ink staining the cotton. "I'd never force you, you know that? If you don't want to, you don't need to go with me, yeah?" His anger seems to be ceasing, and you wish your despair was too. His attempts to comfort you are bittersweet.
"You said I was the prettiest girl... You always say that; you touch me, you- you... How can you do this? Why don't I matter to you?" Words spill from your mouth; endless thoughts are rushing through your mind, and your tongue is unable to catch up with all of them. And his hands. His hands, his hands, his hands. His hands are holding you, caressing you, wiping away your tears, and it hurts, hurts, hurts so bad you want to tear his perfect face off his skull and drive his stupid Camaro into a lake.
"You are, you are the prettiest girl; you're the perfect girl, bunny, my perfect girl, okay? Of course you matter." He seems to be pretty unaware of your homicidal ideas because he keeps stroking your hair, trying to console you. "Of course you matter; look at me." He cups your cheek and forces you to face him.
"Why won't you look at me?" You manage to form a full sentence, uninterrupted by little sniffles.
"Well because..." He sighs. "You know it's not right. We can't have people know about us." His finger gently brushes a strand of your hair off your cheek. "You're my student. A good one at that; I wouldn't want anybody to think your A's are earned with your pretty little pussy." He chuckles at his crappy attempt to make you laugh.
"So you'd rather hurt me?" Your eyebrows furrow, and anger slowly replaces sadness at how naive he thinks you are. "What could a little glance give away? A little praise? A text message about my pretty clothes when nobody's looking?!" Anakin is getting a taste of his own medicine, feeling the exact same emotions you feel when he shouts at you for being sensitive.
"Well, that's the thing, darlin', somebody is always looking. I don't want to risk it; you have to understand..." He coos at you gently, his lips pressing against your cheeks. "You're such a sweet girl; I can't put you at risk, why don't you get it?"
You knew that it wasn't just you. He had to protect himself too; he was a well-respected professor, his career was great, he was loved, but... But still. Your little heart couldn't comprehend the fact that your love wasn't enough for him. That he didn't love you a bit more to show some affection that wouldn't involve an orgasm eventually.
"I just... I just want to feel like I matter..." You sniffle the last tears away; there is disappointment in your voice. You are aware that this relationship is not meant to go anywhere, and you wish he'd deny that. Even if deep down, you both would know it's a lie.
"You do, bunny, of course you do. Do you have any idea how it's hurting me too? To have you crying in my arms..." Anakin cradles you closer to himself. "I just wish you could be happy, sweet girl. I'm sorry I've done this to your heart, I'm sorry for ever laying my hands on you..." He kisses your cheek, trailing up to your temple, and sighs. "I'm so sorry, darlin'..."
You sit there in silence, the headlights of cars passing in the distance casting short flashes of light over you both. The car's getting colder, and Anakin tries his best to embrace you and keep your body warm.
"Let's get you home, bunny." He caresses the back of your head, touching it so delicately that you'd think you were made of porcelain. "You should get some rest."
Home? No. No, no no no. You don't want to go home. You want to stay. You want to be held, and you need his arms to caress you. You can't go home and rot in self-pity the whole night. You need him.
But you can't say that; the words are stuck in your throat, and you're pretty sure he wouldn't be able to understand the depth of your feelings. So you cling onto him, your arms squeeze his body impossibly close, as if doing that could close a wound that's open inside of you.
Anakin chuckles softly. "You don't want to go, do you?" He nuzzles his nose into your cheek and kisses it. "That's okay. I don't want to let go of you either. I just love holding you, precious."
"Can I stay with you?" You hesitantly whisper in the crook of his neck; his skin shivers under your lips.
"For the night?" He pulls away slightly to gaze into your eyes. Tomorrow's Saturday, and you can seriously see him considering bringing you home.
"I don't want to be alone."
He smiles warmly, his hand cups your cheek once again, and gently kisses your lips, lingering for a moment. "I was about to ask you." He smiles and pecks your forehead. You know he's lying, but he couldn't tell you no when your doe eyes stare at him pleadingly and the thought of you crying yourself to sleep stabs his heart.
"Let's go, bunny. Get you a milkshake, mmm? Then I'll cuddle my princess to sleep. I can't bear seeing your little heart ache." He urges you to move off his lap and back into your seat.
You can swear his hands were trembling ever so slightly when he put the key back into ignition and started the car. Maybe this time he'll love you in a way so the pleasure fills your heart instead.
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⋆。‧₊°♱༺ IRON MOON ༻♱༉‧₊˚.
aemond targaryen x reader
summary: bitter arguments lead to bitter ends.
warning(s): 18+ smut, lannister!reader, established relationship (although there is quite a bit of tension), angst, fingering (just a smidge), breast play (if you squint), sexual intercourse ?? ( unclothed grinding)
a/n: it's been several months since i've written so enjoy this piece cause I don't know if i can deliver this hard again, i fear. thank you @targaryen-dynasty for beta-reading this for me.
There’s a sharp sting in the socket where Aemond Targaryen’s left eye should be. A pain so brutal, that in his haste to sit upright, his spine cracks in response to the movement — head heavy and pounding with lingering exhaustion.
Tossing his amber furs aside, Aemond blinks rapidly, the dull throb in his lobe pulsing in discomfort, as he adjusts his vision, despite still being disoriented by slumber so deep, he had found himself almost fully rested. Almost.
From what he could see in the sliver of starlight illuminating his bed-chamber, he quickly glanced around the vast space. His usual chair — once tucked under a large, stone table where his books sat piled atop one another — had been moved directly in front of the fireplace, where burning embers lifted in thick, dark ropes of smoke, evidence of his betrayal and the constant reminder of his wrongdoings wafted in the air, blackening his lungs, forever tainting his soot-covered soul. He could see it in the ash threatening to snuff out the flames warming his snowy skin; could feel the bones in his spider-like fingers grow numb with anticipation.
Or was it fear? He could differentiate the two no longer.
Gooseflesh raises upon his arms, although a chill in the air is nowhere to be found. His ears are the first to register — a sigh from his right, muffled as if he were underwater. His head stings once more, and he hisses through his teeth. The torment behind the gaping wound is needle-sharp, like the blade he was maimed with. It was the very reason for his misery, a pang of unease constantly gnawing in the depths of his belly, raising bile in his throat.
His desperation to please had gotten him nowhere but backward, his fingertips lightly ghost over the gaping wound in his skull is a significant reminder of that much.
“Did you find rest?”
Aemond’s hand drops to his exposed side, legs swinging over the bed to hover over the cool stone flooring, head hung low, heart racing erratically at your seemingly missed presence.
“What are you doing here?” Jaw taunt, his fingers slowly crawl over crumpled bedding before grasping it tightly, a harsh swallow following not a second after. A twitch made its way up his spine, starting at his lower back before crawling, grasping at his bones for leverage, lungs releasing an unintended sigh to linger in the air.
Marriage was neither kind to you nor Aemond – unwanted, heavily weighing on shoulders that could only lift so much. He sought to be rid of you — to have you running for the hills of your home of Casterly Rock with your skirts lifted in haste, head hung down in shame, intimidated by his coldness and calculated gaze, one iris burning with the flames of Old Valyria.
He had never wished to take a wife, even less a Lannister whose false promises meant naught to him on the rare occasions he’d find comfort in your arms when desperation clawed at him. Vulnerability didn’t suit him. The One-Eyed Prince came to that conclusion the first night he lay in his separate chambers after clambering out of yours, face beet-red in humiliation that burned brighter than dragonfire.
Touch is what he craved. It gnaws at his insides, filling his veins with longing he could no longer deprive himself of, the urge to let his tongue twist and flick against his teeth and let words sail in the wetness of his mouth.
Seeking out whores for comfort what was he turned to; peeling off his clothing and leaving every inch of his skin as bare as the day he was born, curling into himself as if he were still a babe attached to the teat. Pleasure was never in the foreground of his mind, even when Sylvi’s shaky fingers threaded through his silver tresses, whispering words of reassurance in his ears.
In a way, it was freeing – having someone touch him that way, dote on him as if he were fragile, thin lips parting to vent to her in a jumble of words. The simple utterance of his platitudes would never reach beyond the cracking stone of the brothel he frequented, and would not spread like the rot eating away at him.
He made sure of it. When leaving Sylvi he always did.
Aemond had been ridiculed, whispered about amongst the Keep in conversation between ladies of the court, fathers making an example out of him to set their rebellious sons straight. An observer he was, extending his ears to anything that might be of importance to weeding out traitors of the crown, of his brother who was less than deserving to sit the Iron Throne, a seat that he would’ve been granted had he been the first son.
The Gods continue to strike their fury down on him.
“I’ve come to reassure my mind that you’re still in good health, my prince. Since you like to linger in the shadows.”
Your presence looms over his head like a cloud, carrying the finest rainfalls to drop onto him the second your footsteps echo in his ears, the blood in his veins hum, fingers tingling with a certain numbness that fills his beating heart with a sense of dread.
“Welcoming yourself into my chambers gives you enough answers?”
Even with the expanse of his back on display for your eyes, he did not have to crane his neck to know that you bore a smirk as you spoke once more.
“You may not realize, but when you’re in a state of unconsciousness you tell all.” With a clammy palm, you grasp the iron handle of a flagon, full to the brim with untouched wine that had been placed there earlier in the day by a maid, no doubt. “I seem to find you more pleasant that way.”
Nostrils flaring, Aemond inhaled the scent of parchment paper and ink that he had left out to dry as he took in your words. Although there was no ill intention behind the desperate urge to fill the short silence, he considered it so. “You’ve come to ridicule me?”
“Is that what you think?” Your tone is accusatory, and rightfully so. You’ve been naught but kind to him, even with the tension between the both of you thickening every day the sun sank below the horizon.
Lifting a cup, you pour enough wine to teeter over the edge, wasting no time before closing your pillowy lips around the rim. “‘Tis merely an observation,” you add.
“Mhm.”
“You think poorly of me.”
“No.”
“Then why do you speak to me as if I were poison in the flesh? We are married.”
Your fingers tighten around the neck of your chalice, shaking with such vigor the liquid sloshes, falling next to your bare feet before splattering on your toes.
Aemond turns his neck slowly, lips pressed together, torso adjusting to his newfound angle so he can look at you in the flicker of surrounding paraffin wax candles, violet eye narrowing. “You seem to be adjusting fine despite our… challenges with one another.”
Licking the flesh of your bottom lip, spit-soaked and tasting of Dornish wine, a laugh escapes your throat, dry and devoid of humor. “And whose fault might that be, hm?”
Aemond lightly gasps as you ease your body in between his nude thighs, free hand taking hold of his jaw. The pads of your fingers sink into the skin of his cheeks as you raise his head so he can look you in the eyes, which gleamed with mischief.
“I give you the privacy you so desperately seek. Now, I must ask something.”
Fire burns in his belly, tightening the knot that wishes to unravel itself as you gaze at him over the shining steel of your cup, sipping its contents eagerly. You were by no means subtle with your emotions.
Aemond quickly learned that the minute he laid his head on your lap, skin-to-skin on his furs after consummating your marriage without prying eyes. You had treated him with such care then, caressing his skin, weaving his hair through your fingers. It felt as if care had sprouted in his lungs, constricting his throat, and leaving him speechless.
Contentment had presented itself as a lion, a woman who was the first to make his heart soar and his head swim.
He was less than deserving. It was decided.
By title and law, you were his wife, a lifelong partner with whom he was to share all his worries and complications — no matter how severe. Yet, he could not find it within himself to tell you what he speaks to the woman he seeks out.
He swallows thickly.
Biting the inside of your cheek offers some sort of solace as you kneel in front of him, knees stinging, aching, and wine spilling once more. The sleeve of your sun-yellow nightgown is wet, permeating the air with a stench so sweet and bitter that it causes your nose hairs to burn as your lungs expand for air when you set it down.
His cheeks turn cold with the removal of your hand, yet he can not find the strength to unclench his jaw, chest heaving in expectance.
“I have done naught but be good to you as best I could. Must you make this difficult?”
Your hands search for his, bringing them to your mouth before laying a kiss upon them – a gesture that causes his cock to twitch briefly, the brush of your lips awakening the beast of desire within him.
“My duty to you is not forgotten, wife.”
Aemond states this as if it were practiced, monotonous and cold despite his hands still cradled in yours. You squeeze, averting your gaze from the sharpness of his features to his silky hair, a long stream of silver glistering in the night.
“Do not speak of duty to me, husband.” You spit, teeth clenching. “You are bound to me, promised.”
There it is again. That dull throb behind the sapphire in his socket causes him such nausea that he closes his sole eye. “I know of my vows to you.”
He says your name with a sigh, almost like it pains him even to utter it.
Your stomach clenches, although your face remains stoic. You had tried with him.
Had kissed his wet lips and shared his breaths, had held him in a tender embrace on the night of your wedding, supple fingers ghosting over collarbones, bellies full of wine.
You should have known.
It was too good to be true. He could not overlook his internal turmoil, nor quench his thirst for misery. His self-pitying is too strong, you think.
In truth, you had foolishly thought you both had come to an understanding – some sort of reassurance to one another in terms of trying.
He had given you his word.
“I do not think you do. I have stood in your corner far longer than I should have, only for you to toss it back in my face. Is this what you make of our union? A jest, an act of sheer folly?” You release your grip, clapping your hands together as his eye burns through the thin material covering your figure.
Is that what you think?
He would have been a fool to let the thought cross his mind. Your time apart has proven that to him; admitting his love for you to be solid, unwavering even amid a war he had senselessly acted in – no – continues to.
Aemond’s lip twitches, a sneer forming moments later as he stands abruptly. You jump back in sudden surprise, bottom landing on the floor, hands splayed out to cushion yourself, yet it makes your shoulders ache with pain.
“You do not know me.”
His hushed spoken words are true, almost like he had to fight something in his scrambled mind to get them out. Blinking rapidly, you crane your neck upward to look at his tall frame, towering, yet broken, spine bending slightly. “I have tried to be near you– “
“Then allow yourself to be! The Gods only know how many nights I grow restless.” You seethe, rising, hands pressing down the front of your gown to dust off dirty palms. Your nose hairs burn.
Fire. Warmth. It fills your senses as quickly as his disrespect.
Exhaling loudly, you await with gooseflesh littering the expanse of your arms, reaching underneath the hem of your dress, pebbling sensitive nipples.
Through the darkness, the small gleam of unshed tears presses behind your eyes, threatening to leak on warm cheeks and crumble the exterior you had worked so hard as a Lannister to create.
Have you disgusted him so much?
“I- I cannot be as close as I desire. No matter how hard you want me to. I yearn to touch you,” He moves forward, the muscles in his arms flexing as he takes your head in his hands, lips but a hair's breadth away from yours.
It is cool, seeping through your pores, lulling you into a state of ease you cannot recall feeling elsewhere. This is the first time he’s laid his hands upon the smoothness of your skin in weeks, lacking in the roughness he had shown you previously.
There’s a need that coils itself in the swell of your belly, spreading to the rest of your body as your blood rushes to your ears, heart pounding erratically. Leaning into his touch, you swallow harshly, jaw clenching.
There was a war. Both in your body and out there beyond the walls of the Keep, yet you could only focus on one.
“Then why do you not?”
“I am not someone you wish to have.” His thumbs circle under your cheekbones, featherlight. “A weakness in me stalls my efforts at happiness with you.” Nor did he want to disappoint.
That aspect would always etch itself in the crevices of his soul. The desire to please, to be acknowledged as the man he’s tried tirelessly to mold himself into had become him. What he once was does not matter.
It can’t.
“You cannot decide that for me, Aemond. I refuse to live out the rest of my days with you dragging bitterness and longing by its tongue. Do you not see how devoted I am to you despite the blood that has coated your hands.” You angle your face to press a kiss to what skin on his right hand your lips can reach. “I want only what you can offer me, no matter how horrible.”
Aemond’s self-restraint snaps as easily as his temper when he finds himself devouring your mouth, a man starved. Need courses through him, sends a shiver up his spine so violently that you can’t help but gasp in the heat of his mouth, as he drags you toward the bed.
When you pull away, your nose skims against his scar, and his hands slide down your arms, finding purchase on the dips of your waist, gripping the fabric stuck to your skin. “Let me have you.”
It’s a demand that sends his tongue delving into the dip below your jaw, above the pulse point in your neck as he suckles, nipping an array of red blooms down to your chest.
The One-Eyed Prince had never been presented with such an easy task as this, and never was he so eager to fulfill one’s desire whilst he licked stripes between what expanse of the valley of your breasts he could reach, a sense of pride surging through him as you moan lightly, threading your hands through his hair, gripping it at the root.
“Never have I laid my lips upon flesh so soft,” he murmurs, as you sit above him.
You could believe his words tonight, under the light of a flame — something he seems to be made of as he peels your nightgown off swiftly, letting it sit at your waist. Your bare cunt throbs as his cock lightly brushes over your folds, slick with arousal and the urge to be filled with him completely. When you lift yourself from his face, you drag a finger down his jaw, watching the way his chest rises in anticipation before your hand curls around his throat, squeezing his windpipe.
His staggered groan is hearty, straight from his throat as he throws his head back, eye screwed shut, and legs stiff beneath you with the added gyration of your hips. Being at your mercy excites him; stimulates him beyond belief when you start panting and Gods, he will never tire of hearing it.
“Such a good boy”
The sight of him is one you’d ingrained in the foreground of your mind until the second your lungs could no longer take in breath. You truly had never seen anyone more hauntingly beautiful than Aemond.
The tip of his cock leaks at your praise, lubricating the rest of him, mixing with your fluids, slick with need, ready for you all the same.
You’re trying to find relief as his whimpers send jolts of shivers running up your spine, raising the hairs on the back of your neck, hooded eyes admiring him pinned beneath you with interest. The muscle of his tongue glides over teeth, shiny and saturated, calloused fingers indenting your skin from his grasp. Pain has never been so pleasant to you as it is in this moment, sweet friction creating a sensation so invigorating that you clench around nothing, gasping, begging.
“Please…” Is all you manage to pant before you climax, a pathetic mewl sounding from your throat as you get off by slicking yourself over his hardness.
He hasn’t even sheathed himself within you, yet you’ve come undone – an action that elicits a rumbling groan, physically flipping you over, head gently hitting one of the expansive pillows. Rough fabric irritates the pads of fingers, running over embroidery before they’re firmly clutched, scrunching under your hold.
Your god hovers between your legs, forcing them apart, his nails now digging into the fat of your thighs, gathering your shared exhilaration before two digits curl into you, immediately trapped between your walls when you clench at the intrusion.
“My wife.” He whispers, cool breath fanning your face.
And it isn’t until he lays his violet eye upon you – although your lips satiate his hunger – the flames of your touch singing his flesh, you realize that he did not love you.
#aemond targaryen smut#house of the dragon aemond#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond one eye#aemond targaryen#hotd aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen x female reader#aemond targaryen x you#house of the dragon#hotd x reader#hotd fanfic#hotd aemond
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Chills Right to the Marrow Part 20
part 1, prev part
Wayne’s not so sure how he can do this anymore. The bills are piling on themselves and it’s getting to the point where it’s challenging Everest. It was stupid to check the cost of his stay at the motel. It was stupid of him to be driving his car this much when he can just walk to the hospital each day. It’s only a little way down the road. It could have kept him from filling up his gas tank for another week.
It was stupid for him to do a lot of things, but here he is. Sitting in front of his notebook and splitting his paychecks up into pieces. Taking more out than he should to pay off the motel a little so the bill goes down. Knowing that he can always have a payment plan with the hospital. Take a loan out or something.
All because a house he’d always dreamed of moving into opened up. All because he, stupidly, wondered if he could make just enough to afford the down payment. The mortgage. And he probably could of, if he had somewhere to couch hop instead of paying for this room. If he asked for just a little bit of help. He could have stretched it just thin enough.
There were grants he could have applied to. People willing to donate money to those in need after the earthquake. Anything to give himself a raft to float on. But Wayne’s always been stubborn enough to try and build one on his own. Know he’s drowning because of it.
He does the thing he always did when needing to forget about the world. Burn through a few cigarettes and wish they were cans of beer. Maybe something a little stronger. Question the viability of his vices and his reliance on them to forget. All while trying to remember the point of all of this to begin with.
When the last one in the pack hits the stub, he crushes it into the ash tray. Trying to hold back the damn from breaking. To keep his tears where they need to stay. Inside with his fears. Even if he’s alone, in a room he’s struggling to afford. Even if he could really, truly break in the comfort of solitude.
And if he did, no one needed to know.
All he wanted was a home for Eddie to walk into after the hospital. A room that looked like his back in the trailer with band posters and books pooling of the shelves. Random little figurines and Knick knacks that were so priceless with meaning, but worthless other wise. The acoustic that Wayne saved up to buy, and the electric that Eddie took up dealing just to be able to think about affording.
All he wanted was to be a good father to his kid. To provide the most basic necessity. A safe home with food on the table. A space where Eddie could escape his problems and just be himself. Wayne couldn’t even provide that right now.
His boy was struggling to find himself again, while Wayne’s struggling to stand on two solid feet. He needed the home just as much as he wanted to provide it.
The next day, Wayne pulls himself to the hospital even though he just wants to sleep. Wants to listen to the pull in his back to just give himself the rest he needs. Knowing that he’s going to haul himself off to work and try to get in some overtime.
But here he is, sitting in the hospital room watching Eddie sleep. Just like he has been. The same damned cycle that doesn’t seem to end. Only improving slightly to provide a false sense of security.
It’s starting to get really predictable.
The seat next to him fills, Steve sitting next to him. “Hey. How’re you doing?”
Wayne doesn’t have the energy to lie or tell the truth. So he just shrugs. Steve huffs in agreement.
“Yeah, that tracks.”
They in silence until Wayne asks a question burning on his tongue. “How does it feel to look at a bill and know you can just pay it? Without having to take away from something else?”
“It doesn’t feel like anything,” Steve responds after pausing to think.
“That must be nice.”
“It was.”
Was. Wayne takes surprise to that. “I wouldn’t expect you to have to worry about stuff like that.”
A pained smile finds its way to Steve’s face. “There’s a lot of things you wouldn’t expect about me.”
Wayne doesn’t say anything, trying to give Steve the space should he decide to share more. A few weeks ago, Wayne would have probably lashed out at him. Thought that he was just looking for pity from someone who had nothing left to give. But he’s been more willing to listen. To see beyond his assumptions.
To let someone, he wouldn’t initially think of, let him know that this isn’t a problem only he deals with.
But instead, Steve goes back to silence. When he does speak again, it’s to pull the conversation back to Wayne. “Is something bothering you? Is that why you asked?”
Wayne grunts. Not believing he’s about to share money problems with the son of one of the richest men in Hawkins. Someone who grew up with every luxury there was. Not thinking about the other side for a second. But here he goes, sharing one of his deepest insecurities to open, listening ears.
“I’m just worrying about the bills starting to pile up, that’s all.”
“I’m sure that really stressful. At least Eddie’s hospital bills should be taken care of, that should give you some relief.”
The rest of the room becomes a stark silence. A rush of confusion coming to Wayne’s head. “What?”
“Has his bill not been taken care of?” Steve looks shocked, and angry.
“Not the last I checked.” Wayne starting to wonder if he’s even checked at all, or just went straight to assuming. With all the chaos, it was hard to keep track of the days. What he did in each of them.
Steve stands, rather abruptly. Swearing under his breath. “I’m going to go make a phone call. I’ll see you later.”
Wayne nods goodbye as Steve leaves the room. Glad he shared what he did, even if he was hesitant to. Now he might have a fighting chance to pay his debts. Now he might have a chance to get a house for his boy to go home to.
For himself to go home to. It’s enough hope to make him want to cry again.
Time passes at some undetermined speed. The minutes on the clock slowly ticking by. Creeping toward the time where Wayne has to leave to be able to get to work on time. Wondering if it’s worth it to head back and try to get some rest before he goes.
But he waits. Patiently waits for something to happen. For Eddie to open his eyes and remember him. Say something in his direction other than swears. Say something that he actually means.
It’s later in the afternoon when Eddie starts to stir. His eyes blink open and stare blankly at the ceiling. Realizing all at once that he’s stuck in this fate. Look so defeated while he tries to do something as simple as raise his head.
It’s like he’s back to being newly born and learning how to do things on his own. Anger and sadness being the most reliable emotions. Rampant frustration knowing that he’s capable of more, but just can’t.
Wayne steps in when Eddie grips the handrails and tries to pull himself into a sitting position. Places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder to stop him while he readjusts the bed. Making sure Eddie’s pillows are still comfortable.
Eddie leans deeply into the bed with a silent thank you in his eyes. Hands falling in his lap, gently twitching and starting to fidget. If Eddie was wearing his rings, he’d be spinning them around his fingers.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have a book or anything to read to you,” Wayne says to fill the silence. Not quite knowing what to say. “It’s just me today.”
Eddie stares at Wayne like he’s searching for something. Mixed with a knowing sadness behind it all. He knows what he did, Dustin said as much the other day. He’s starting to remember more and more. New and old pain coming back to him all at once.
It must be exhausting.
“That’s ok,” Eddie breathes. Barely a whisper. It’s the first thing he’s said to Wayne that he actually means.
“You just missed Steve,” Wayne says cautiously. “Still don’t fully understand how the two of you ended up hanging out over the break. Or became what I’m assuming is some level of friends. If what he says is true. But I guess people change right, otherwise he wouldn’t be givin’ you the time of day let alone visiting you this often. Turned out to be a nice kid.”
Wayne’s just talking to get some kind of reaction. Filling the space with nonsense just to be good company. So Eddie doesn’t feel so alone anymore.
“I’m doing ok,” he continues. Making sure that Eddie knows not to worry about him. “You know me, just working at the plant. Tryin’ to get some overtime. Like normal. I’ve been stayin’ at this motel down the road so I can be here if anything happens. Don’t have to drive across town.”
Eddie takes a deep breath. Mouth opening as words start to form. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, you did nothing wrong.”
Tears gloss over Eddie’s eyes. The pain releasing itself in the only way it knows how. “I ran. I’m sorry.”
Wayne sits on the edge of his seat, getting as close to the bed as possible. “Listen to me, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. You were scared, you ran, we all do. I don’t care what happened in that week. I don’t care what happened yesterday, or the day before. What matters now is that you’re here, and you’re getting better. That’s all that matters to me.”
“But,” Eddie chokes. Breathing in deep. “I yelled at you. I’m sorry.”
“You were scared. You’re in pain. I know you didn’t mean it. It’s ok. I didn’t go through all of your teenage years without getting screamed at, I know how to take it.”
“I want to go home,” Eddie says, voice breaking.
Wayne wants so much to be able to give him that. Wants to lie and tell him it’s waiting for him. But Eddie’s going through enough already, he doesn’t need the lies. The truth might not be the nicest to hear, but it’s better than the feeling of a revealed lie. Wayne didn’t need to add anything to Eddie’s pain.
“Yeah, I do too.”
They sit in silence until Wayne has to go to work. Stands from the chair and wishes his back would just act like twenty years ago again. Says his goodbye to Eddie and makes his way out the door.
“Love you, Wayne,” Eddie says to him before stepping outside of the room.
Wayne turns back to look at Eddie practically falling asleep again. “Love you, too, Eddie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
note: a little earlier this week cause I'm going on vacation. chapter now posted on my ao3 as well.
next part
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#chills right to the marrow fic#stranger things#stranger things fanfic#everyone lives/nobody dies#wayne munson#wayne pov#steve harrington#eddie munson#AWAKE AND SPEAKING YALL#presteddie#hospitals
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Forgive Me, Father - Idle Threats [viii]
Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.
Chapter Summary — Joel hears your confession and breaks all ten commandments in the house of the holy.
Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader
Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, reader has added backstory to progress the plot, mention of sexual assault, murder, canon typical violence, renouncing of god, desecration of a church, blood, brief daddy kink
SERIES MASTERLIST
[cross posted to AO3]
The following days are easier than any other you’ve had since leaving Jackson. It takes two days, but Joel hears your laugh again and feels himself release a heavy weight at the sound. Once, when the two of you are switching watch shifts, you sleepily mutter his name. And he goes to you like he always will—and you whisper an almost incoherent confession of your affection. “I love you, too,” you say, and he tries not to think about the way it makes him feel like a boy your age, hearing those words for the first time.
You move slower, and it’s not because of the extra weight strapped to your horses. Joel doesn’t say it, but he knows it’s because you’re afraid of returning to Jackson. Afraid of things going back to the way they were before this run.
In truth, Joel worries about it too. Worries about finding a new routine, worries about Maria and Tommy and Ellie, worries about what they’ll say. It won’t make him change his mind, he knows. Nothing would ever make him regret this selfish decision to keep you. But sometimes, in a too-long moment of silence, anxiety builds in his chest when he thinks of it.
But you still have several days before you return, and Joel intends to soak up this sweet, delicate time with you while he still can.
A little over halfway back to Jackson, you stop before the sun sets and make camp in an old, abandoned church. The very same one advertised on the billboard Joel had seen on the way to Casper.
Some of the pews are turned over while others have been broken apart and likely set ablaze in the pile of ashes in the center of the floor. There are no infected, but there’s a stone statue of Mary that looms ominously in the corner, covered in dust and cracked along its painted surface.
Joel feels uncomfortable here. Feels watched, judged. His skin crawls and he thinks about pushing on until you find some other place to rest.
The altar table has been left untouched, decorated with a yellowed, satin ribbon draped along its center. The bible lying on top is flipped open to a passage Joel knows well.
Corinthians 10:13
No temptation has seized you except what is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that which you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.
It’s bookmarked not with a scrap of paper but with a silver necklace tucked in its spine. A dainty thing with a cross dangling from the end of it. Joel picks it up, watches it sway between his calloused fingers.
And when he turns to face you, you’re standing in the middle of the center aisle and the setting sunlight casts a shadow across your face, making you look like some angelic being sent to him by God himself. “Did you ever come to one of these before the world ended?”
Joel nods, takes the necklace in his hands and finds his way back to you. “Quite a bit when I was a kid,” he answers. “My mom was pretty religious. We went to every Sunday service and sometimes the ones on Wednesdays, too. Even sent Tommy and I to the church's after-school program for young kids.”
He holds the necklace out to show you, and a shiver runs down his spine when you trace the cross in his palm, your touch electrifying. It’s just the smallest brush of your index finger, but it makes the air get caught in his lungs. “Pretty,” you say wistfully. “Do you believe in God?”
Joel jerks his chin in a silent demand and you obey wordlessly, turning away from him. He unclasps the necklace as you hold your hair out of the way. “I did,” he answers slowly, wrapping the silver chain carefully around your throat. “And then I didn’t.”
“And now?”
He secures it and runs his knuckles down the nape of your neck. No would be the closest thing to the truth, but it’s not quite it. Joel thinks about lying to save himself the shame but rejects the thought as soon as it comes. “I believe in you,” he says quietly.
Somehow this confession feels heavier than his declaration of love. Perhaps it’s because this is the thing he’s struggled with, this strange worship of Judas. You’ve come to him in pieces, a shell of a girl, a betrayer—and yet it’s your altar he crawls to. It’s you who holds the keys to heaven, who controls both his grace and his damnation.
Joel leans forward and presses his lips to your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He can feel your breath falter, and so he does it again. This time a kiss to your shoulder, right above the collar of your sweater.
His hands have a mind of their own as they find your waist. Joel knows this is wrong, knows how sinful it is, and yet he knows the only way to endure the taste of the forbidden fruit is to bite into it, to devour it, to consume it for as long as he’s able. He has spent so much of his life fighting, resisting, repenting—but maybe it’s time God asks for his forgiveness.
Your skin is smooth beneath his calloused palms. He slides them beneath your shirt, over your hips, up your torso. He pulls at the soft garment, and you lift your arms for him to make it easier as he pulls it off and discards it in the nearest pew.
And then his hands are on you again—this time tracing the edge of your jeans, pinky finger dipping slowly beneath the band around your waist, teasing. You’re panting now, chest rising and falling in quick succession. You say his name a little like a prayer and it brings a smile to his face.
“Shh,” he says. “Patience is a virtue, little girl.” But he wants you, perhaps even more than you want to be touched, so his left hand finds the button of your jeans and undoes it.
He moves slowly, and you stand completely still as Joel peels the too-tight jeans down your legs. You kick your boots off, and soon you’re standing in the middle of this crumbling church in nothing but a pair of baby pink panties and a white lace bralette, looking every bit the divine goddess he doesn’t deserve.
When you turn to face him, there’s a playful glint in your eye. “Let me try it,” you say. “One question, though. Is it forgive me, father? Or is it forgive me, Daddy?”
Two things happen inside him at once.
First, the crudeness of your words baffles him so completely that he laughs. Full-on laughs for the first time in twenty years. The vulgarity of it in a place of worship is somehow both amusing and horrifying.
Second, all the blood in his head rushes south. Because the word daddy in your mouth is the most erotic thing he’s ever heard, the dirtiest thing he’s ever heard, and Joel knows right away that he will never have the strength to process why such a thing makes him so goddamn hard. Doesn’t even attempt it.
He simply enjoys it instead. Allows it to drown him, consume him wholly. Accepts what is and what isn’t. Accepts that he is the most deplorable man that’s ever existed and it’s why he’ll never deserve you but it’s also why it’ll never matter. Because now…you belong to the most deplorable man.
The devil and his pretty, perfect Judas.
And then you lower yourself to your knees in front of him and Joel struggles to keep his weary heart from bursting from his chest.
His attempts at composure are blown to pieces when you press your hands together and look up at him through your lashes. With all humor bled from the moment, overtaken by a sudden hunger, you say, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” and something evil stirs inside him.
Something more than sinful. Something ungodly. Something blasphemous.
That cross is draped beautifully between your breasts, cleavage elevated by the angle of your arms.
Joel reaches out with both hands and runs them through your hair affectionately. “You look so pretty on your knees,” he says. “You got somethin’ to confess?”
You nod and a smirk graces your face. “I’ve been having wicked thoughts,” you say, voice taking on an innocent and girlish tone. “And…I’ve been giving into temptation, Father.”
“S’that right?” Joel licks his lips. His cock throbs in his jeans, desperate for your touch in a way it’s never been before.
He watches, transfixed, as you take your bottom lip between your teeth, taking your hands from the position of prayer and instead running them up his strong thighs. You slide them beneath his flannel, soft hands cool against his heated skin. “I’ve been letting a man touch me.” You’re whispering, but he feels each syllable down to his bones. “An older man,” you continue, pulling at his belt.
Joel finds you mesmerizing. Thinks you’ve ruined him. Completely, utterly decimated the man he used to be. “Touch you how?”
You don’t take your eyes off his as his belt clinks against the button of his jeans. “I’ve let him inside me, Father,” you say, pulling down his zipper at a torturous pace. “I’ve let him in my mouth, in my heart, in between my thighs.”
He never thought it possible, but his need for you grows teeth, morphs into some vicious, ravenous thing. Joel brushes his fingers through your hair, pulling lightly at the roots. “And what do you think you should do as repentance, sweetheart?”
Joel’s reminded of a siren’s song when you answer, “I think I should show a little extra devotion. Don’t you?” You pull his cock from his jeans, and the simple touch of your hand has him nearly shaking in anticipation. You break character for only long enough to giggle softly, wipe the back of your hand over your glossy lips, and say, “My mouth is watering.”
He smooths your hair back away from your face, admiring the way you look on your knees for him, just as desperate as he is. “Go’head, baby,” he says.
You don’t waste any time. You’re slow in your pursuit; tongue tracing the vein on the underside of his cock. Savoring, worshiping, devoting yourself to him and him only. You swirl your tongue around the head, licking up drops of precum.
When you finally take him into your mouth, you don’t stop until you’ve swallowed him whole, choking on it, nose pressed to the tuft of hair below his navel. It’s the most glorious thing Joel’s ever seen in all his life. And then you moan, and he can feel the vibrations of it down to his toes.
You pull your head back far enough, and your mouth leaves him completely, connected by nothing but strands of saliva. Your lips are already bruised and swollen, but they pull into the prettiest, proudest smile he’s ever seen, and Joel’s weak in the knees.
“Filthy little girl,” he says affectionately, hands still running through the silky strands of your hair. “Y’like that? Hm? You like that mouth filled up, don’t you?”
“Mmhm.” There’s so much love, so much worship in your eyes that he feels his chest pull tight. You take his cock in your mouth again, tongue sliding along the underside of it, cheeks hollowed out to take him in deeper.
Joel feels your devotion with each soft lick, each swallow at the back of your throat, each ragged, choked breath. He knows he won’t last long. Your mouth is too hot, too wet, too sweet. And when you pick up the pace, bobbing your head, fingernails leaving indentations in the exposed skin of his thighs, pressure builds at the base of his spine like a fucking noose. “There you go,” he encourages. “Doin’ so fuckin’ good, baby. Shit —just like that.”
Your cheeks are flushed, and Joel’s once gentle hands pull tight in your hair, guiding your mouth down onto him. It only makes those delicious moans around his cock that much sweeter. Your thighs are clamped tightly together, and he barrels towards euphoria as he thinks about just how wet he knows you are, his dirty little girl.
“Fuck, baby—fuck. Hold on, hold on.” He pulls your head back, cock slick and glossy, covered in your spit. He’s going to finish just like this if he’s not careful. “Gonna be over too soon if you keep that up.”
“Please, Joel,” you say. “I want to taste it. It’s all I want. Let me make you feel good.”
Joel thinks Michaelangelo never would’ve sculpted David, had his existence overlapped with yours. Because in all the time of the universe, a sight has never lived as beautiful as the one of you begging on your knees before him.
What kind of man would he be if he refused? Joel wants to give you everything you could ever ask for. Wants to give you the world at whatever cost to his soul.
So, he doesn’t stop you when you wrap your bruised lips around his cock again. You feel like heaven, or as close to it as he’ll ever be allowed.
He comes at the back of your throat with a groan and trembling hands in your hair. Hands that are all too aware that they hold something holy, something divine. “ Goddamn —fuck. Mm, yeah. There you go, baby. There you go.”
His cock throbs in your mouth, and you don’t stop sucking until he’s completely spent. And when you do finally lean back and stick out your tongue, he’s nearly hard again at the obscene way his come drips down your lips, down your chin.
Then you swallow, and Joel grins and rests his palm gently on your cheek. He uses the rough pad of his thumb to push the last few drops back into your mouth, and you suck it down greedily. “Gotta take it all, little girl. Make me proud, hm?”
And as soon as you’re satisfied, Joel’s pulling you back to your feet and pressing his mouth to yours in a ravenous kiss. He can taste remnants of himself on you, and it’s the most comforting sensation he’s ever experienced. It’s proof of your union, evidence of your devotion. A physical, tangible way to convince him he’s not alone in his sacrilege.
Joel lifts you off your feet, and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. He carries you to the altar table, lays you down, and pushes your knees apart. Normally, he likes to take his time with you. Likes to savor the way you taste, the way you feel. But he’s so hungry for you and you only that he cannot— cannot wait another fucking second.
But then you say his name and his every intention freezes. “You don’t have to,” you say, and it confuses him. You attempt an explanation. “I don’t want you to feel like you always have to make me finish, too. I just…I didn’t do it expecting anything in return. I want you to know that.”
You sound so sincere, so… benevolent. A far cry from the bratty little girl he first met. He presses a kiss to your temple and says quietly, “I’d never let my little girl go without. Not the kinda man I am, baby.”
He might be too old to go rounds with you, but he knows how to make you feel good. He’s real good at it, in fact.
Joel leans over and presses a chaste kiss to your clit, right over your panties. He delights in the way it makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the sounds you make when he pulls the fabric to the side and slides his tongue through your wet warmth.
He presses your legs back, opens you further, and laps at your pussy like a man starved for you because he is. You taste like redemption, like home.
Your hands weave into his hair, tugging lightly, and Joel moans when you press his face against your pussy like he just can’t get close enough. He takes your clit in his mouth and sucks hard, tongue rolling over it softly.
“Fuck, that feels so good, Joel— God —”
A groan escapes him, lips vibrating with the sound of it. His cock begins to harden again, hanging heavy between his legs. He’s insatiable for you; returned to the needy, desperate stage of his masculinity he once thought he’d grown out of.
Joel quickens the movement of his tongue and slips a finger inside of you. Your back arches off the altar table and your hips grind against his face, smearing your slick down his chin, over his lips.
He hooks his finger inside of you and strokes the spot that makes you writhe. You look so beautiful he thinks you must be some divine being. It’s the only thing that makes sense in his head.
Your legs begin to tremble around his shoulders and that’s when he decides to pull away. Because he wants you to cum for him, wants to be the reason you shiver and shake—but he wants to feel it.
In one smooth movement, he pulls you to the edge of the altar table and sinks his cock into you deep.
“Oh my God,” you whimper. “Fuck, fuck, Joel, I’m gonna—!”
“Wait,” he says, stilling the instinctual rocking of his hips. You’re so tight, so smooth and wet as your pussy flutters around his cock. He pushes into you to the hilt but doesn’t move, doesn’t give you the satisfaction. He moves his hands to your lower belly, applying just a little bit of pressure. He can feel himself inside you, can feel just how full of him you are. “Want you to cum with me, little girl,” he says. “Can you do that for me? Hm?”
Slowly, experimentally, he shifts his hips the smallest bit, thrusting into you and laughing maliciously at the way you squeeze your eyes shut and whine for more. “I can—can try,” you stammer. “But it feels so —”
“Shh, I know baby,” he says, thrusting into you again, a little harder this time. It feels euphoric, indulging himself in you in a place of worship. He can feel faith in the air like magic, faith in you, in himself, in the love you share.
He moves again, fucking you slow and deep. If it weren’t for the way you make him feel, he thinks he might last a little longer. But the taste of ambrosia lingers on his tongue and he can see the pulsing of your clit and feel the tension in your muscles created from holding yourself back from the edge of pleasure.
Pride swells in his chest. His perfect girl, doing everything he asks, doing anything to please him. It makes him feel holy, like maybe the only godly presence in the room is him.
This is what you’ve done to him. You’ve taken this shell of a man and turned him seraphic, turned him sacred through your worship. Emotion builds in his throat when he thinks of it, when he realizes just how lucky he is to exist in this same universe as you, in the same lifetime.
He kisses you deep and fucks you even deeper.
“Joel,” you pant, fingernails digging into the side of the altar table. The aged satin cloth has been wrinkled beneath your weight, hanging slightly askew off the edge. “Please, please, I can’t—!”
Warmth pools low in his belly. You sound so pretty when you beg. He presses one hand harder against your abdomen and uses the other to circle your clit. He can feel his cock move beneath his palm with each thrust and the sensation is the filthiest thing he’s ever experienced.
The pressure builds and builds and builds, and then finally —
“Go ‘head, baby. Cum for me,” he says, thrusting a little faster, rhythm faltering as rapture fills him like sunlight. Your legs tremble around his hips and your moans echo in the church as you find faith, too.
“I love you,” you say, and it feels like redemption. Like the opening of heaven’s gates.
Like forgiveness.
You come down slowly, and Joel’s completely spent with almost no energy left. Yet still he helps you dress, pulls your sweater back on, and buttons up those too-tight jeans.
You eat together, rationing what little food you have left to try and stretch these precious days out a little longer. You admit around a bite of hard bread that you’re exhausted from the day’s ride and he is, too. And so you work together to stack the pews in front of the church’s double doors, sealing yourself inside but more importantly keeping anything outside from getting in.
There’s a window at the back of the church in a room Joel knows was once used for confessional. He leaves it cracked just enough to hear the horses outside if a commotion is caused. And then he holds you in his arms and sleeps.
It’s the best sleep Joel’s gotten in twenty-five years, the sound of your voice echoing even in his dreams.
But halfway through the night, the sound of whinnying and rambunctious laughter can be heard, jarring you both awake.
You’re out of his arms and at the back of the church before Joel’s finished blinking his eyes open.
He stands to his feet, heart racing behind his ribcage.
Men’s voices, but far away. Several of them.
He watches you move quickly through the church to the window at the front, watches you carefully peak through the dirty glass pane.
Joel saddles up behind you and has never been more thankful that you skipped the warmth of a fire. Because fifteen yards away, there’s a group of men passing through. Some on horses, others walking casually beside them. They’re not subtle about their presence.
Maybe they don’t think anyone’s around. And on any normal day, they would be right. Except this day, Joel’s here. You’re here.
He picks up his rifle from the makeshift bed the two of you created hours ago.
You don’t move. You stay focused, transfixed as if you’re trying to see the minute details of their faces from this far away. You wipe the glass with the ivory sleeve of your sweater and it comes away grimy, covered in dust.
Joel knows there’s something you’re not telling him. Can feel the tension, electric and tight in the air, skin crawling with it. Your eyes are narrowed, focused on the sound of rambunctious laughter coming from the small group of men.
And then your spine straightens and all concern bleeds from your face, replaced in an instant with rage. Red, murderous rage. Joel thinks he’s only seen that sort of frenzy in his own reflection. Now it stares back at him, mirrored and bloodthirsty. “What is it?”
You don’t answer. The scrape of your knife against its sheath at your thigh strikes a terror in him he hasn’t felt in years. His stomach turns uncomfortably because Joel knows, he knows something isn’t right. Something is going to go wrong. He can feel it in his marrow.
“Stop,” he says. “Talk to me.”
It’s like his words don’t even register. You say nothing as you pull at the pews stacked in front of the doors. They scrape noisily against the hardwood floor, and Joel tries to find something to stop you, to get through to you—but that knife is still clutched in your blanched fist and he knows in your rage you’ll swing at him all the same.
“There are eight of them and two of us,” he tries to reason. “We have no ammunition, no bullets, no arrows. We have to let them—”
“Go?” You turn your frenzied eyes on him. “What’s now eight used to be twenty,” you say. “I won’t let them get away this time.”
“Then we plan for it,” he says, holding out a hand and taking a tentative step toward you. It doesn’t matter to him what your reasoning may be. Joel knows that sort of wrath, knows he’ll never change your mind. And he knows following you down this path of slaughter is bound to bloody his hands further, to taint his soul this time beyond repair.
But he made a promise to you. Nothing in this world will you ever face alone.
The problem is that Joel knows neither of you will make it out alive. Not in this. You got lucky back in Casper, and he’s got the knowledge and experience with age to know you won’t get lucky twice.
He can’t let you do this.
“They won’t get far, okay? Not in an area like this. We go home— tomorrow. We ride to Jackson and we’ll get there in a day if we don't stop. And then we’ll come back for them, alright? We’ll stock up and track them down. I swear to you—”
“You don’t know,” you say, voice shaking. “You don’t know what they did—!”
“So tell me. Tell me everything. Give me the knife.” He reaches for it slowly, carefully. You eye him like he might grow claws and an extra head if you look away for an instant.
You don’t trust him, Joel realizes. Not at this moment, not with this. “Joel,” you say in warning. “Don’t.”
He wonders what’s led you here. Wonders about who’s distrusting hands you once placed your justice in.
The answer comes to him the moment the question crosses his mind.
“I’m not like her,” he says. “Look at me, baby girl. Look at me .”
You do. And though that frenzied look lingers in your eyes, something in you softens and he’s grateful for it.
“I’m not Maria. You understand me? When I make you a promise, I mean it. I will kill them. All of them. But we have to be smart about this. We have to do it right. Yeah?” He reaches out again. “Give me the knife.”
You angle it higher, just out of his reach. For a second Joel thinks all progress has been lost because he moved too quickly, too carelessly. But then you say, “Swear it to me. Swear on her life that you won't make me let them go.”
On her life.
Not her death, but her life. A promise of certainty. An unbreakable oath. Because if he fails, if he shatters this trust, Sarah’s life means nothing.
Joel’s lungs ache. Everything hurts and his skin feels like it’s on fire because no one has ever seen him like this. No one has known exactly what to say, exactly which bruises to press.
He nods slowly. “Okay,” he relents. “I swear on her life that we will find them.”
Carefully, you hand him the blade, and as if giving it away had flipped a switch, you deflate.
Joel slides your knife into the side of his boot when you turn away from him and go back to the window.
He stands beside you, a looming presence at your back. Even though he wants answers, he doesn’t want to pry them out of you. And your silence allows him the space for his mind to wander into unspeakable places. Joel has seen firsthand the depraved, vile things that mankind spirals into beneath the weight of survival.
For a time, even he had sunk so incredibly low.
And because he’s seen so much, his brain is filled with gut-wrenching images, theoretical scenes of torture, corruption, and perversion. Each one is more brutal than the last. And in them all, you’re the center of it.
You watch the group of men through the window until the blue illumination of their flashlights disappears from view. And the moment they do, you’re slipping through the window in the back of the church.
Joel follows you, a million questions on the tip of his tongue. But he stays silent and does nothing but help you gather debris fallen from the trees in the wooded area behind the church.
Once, he picks up a curved stick, and as if you’d seen it from the back of your head, you say, “No. Not that one. If they’re too curved, the arrows won’t shoot straight.”
The two of you gather timber for over an hour. And when his hands are just as full as yours, you return to the church. Joel returns your knife and you attempt to teach him how to shave the stick correctly and to whittle the point of it into a weapon.
He’s not even half as fast as you are. For every arrow he creates, you produce three. It’s a slow, tedious process, but eventually, you begin to speak.
“It happened on the last run I did for Maria,” you say, eyes focused on the knife and wood in your hands. “I fell asleep one night. It’d been days since I’d given myself a chance to rest and it had finally caught up to me. I’d barricaded myself in a house and might as well have been dead to the world. Two of them found me. Didn’t wake me, didn’t try to kill me or anything. They just took my bow and my pack. My pack that was mostly empty, had nothing in it but a twelve gauge with two bullets, some cans of food, water, and those stale fucking barbecue chips.”
You shake your head dismally.
“Should’ve fuckin left it. But I…I was afraid. If I came back to Jackson without the one thing she asked for, what use was I? What kept me there?”
It pains him to hear you say it. He wants to tell you you’re wrong, that despite what Maria has made you believe, your worth is not tied to what you can do for her. But he doesn’t. Joel just lets you talk.
“I tracked them to a warehouse a few miles outside of Boise. Watched them for a while, memorized all the entrances, the windows. Even memorized their faces. They had two people on watch in rotating shifts. I didn’t want to kill them, considering they didn’t try to kill me. But I wanted my pack, and so I waited until four of them were talking during a shift change and slipped inside through the back.”
Your eyes darken, and Joel fears what you may say next.
“Didn’t go as planned. One of them saw me. Outed me immediately, of course. And I thought they’d kill me. Shoot me or something. But that didn’t go as planned, either. The leader was called Gabriel.”
Your hands around the arrow still and your eyes grow misty. You’re reliving it, as clearly as if it were happening now.
“He, uhm…held me down. Suggested the rest of them take turns with me.”
Joel feels something inside him shift. Feels a decision being made, feels murder begin to drip down his fingertips like water.
“They’d already had my shotgun and took the pistol I had tucked in the back of my jeans the second they ripped them off. I thought…I thought it was the end for me. Because even if I survived it, even if I made it through all twenty of them…I might as well have been dead anyway.”
He understands now, Joel realizes. Understands why you were so infuriated about a run for a pregnancy craving when the price was this. His mouth runs dry.
Your words echo in the dark church. “Had my knife tucked up the sleeve of my jacket, though.” A small smile graces your face as you turn the blade over in your fingers admiringly. “Was able to stop Gabriel before he got any further. They were…stupid. Arrogant. Came at me one by one because why would you need more than that to fight a little girl with nothing but a knife ?”
Now there are only eight of them. The main perpetrator perished, his blood stained so deeply into your jacket that when you’d returned to Jackson they’d had to burn it. No salvaging anything from your destruction.
Nothing but this vengeance, this promise to yourself to right those who wronged you. He forced you to break it for your own safety. And though a surge of regret and sorrow trickles into his psyche, he knows there’s still an unbroken vow remaining.
The promise Joel made to you.
“Some of them ran. I tried to track them but after a few days, I just…I needed sleep. I wanted to go home.” You go black to fletching your arrow, whittling the end into a sharp point. “I’ll find them one day. Then it’ll be me taking turns with them .”
You don’t say much else for the next two hours. And he doesn’t, either. He helps you sharpen the timber into arrows and when you yawn three times in less than five minutes, he gives you his flannel and lets you lay your head in his lap.
Joel smooths the tangles in your hair as you sleep. And when you begin to softly snore, he carefully shifts your head onto your sleeping bag and tucks the strap of his rifle beneath your arm.
When he slips out of the window in the back of the church, he latches it shut. He decides against taking a horse, worried it’d create too much commotion.
But he does take your serrated sawback knife, telling himself it’s poetic justice.
They’re only two miles away, stashed in a rundown grocery store that’s been picked over one too many times. Two men sit outside the door. Old habits die hard, Joel thinks.
One has his head tilted back against the stone wall, sleeping with an ease he doesn’t deserve.
Joel takes out the other one first. And he does it quicker than he’d like. He creeps up behind him silently, wraps one hand around his throat, and uses the other to cover his mouth. The snap of his spine reverberates through Joel’s hands, tingling from his palms down to his elbows.
The other wakes with the commotion but doesn’t even have the chance to scream before your knife is lodged in his neck so deep the sharp point sticks out of the other end.
Inside, the other six all rest as well. Joel wonders how they can do so peacefully, knowing they’ve given an innocent little girl fuel for her nightmares. A girl who’s lost enough, who’s sacrificed enough, more than anyone should—only to lose a piece of herself at their greedy hands.
He makes quick work of them. Even delights in the way life leaves their eyes. One by one, Joel uses your knife to slit each and every one of their throats.
By the time he’s finished, his hands are caked in blood, splatters staining the sleeves of his heavy, canvas coat, and all that’s left of the men who hurt you are eight corpses.
You’re still sleeping when he slips back through the window of the church. It’s a little ironic, he thinks, to return here to this holy place with an angel inside, all while covered in the stink of death.
Joel sits beside you, back pressed against a pew. His hands rest on his knees, blood still drying beneath his fingernails. He watches you sleep and thinks his damnation is worth it if this brings you a sense of safety.
Though he tries not to, Joel thinks an awful lot about Sarah. Thinks about how he failed her, how just a little more brutality could have saved her.
He’s spent years regretting that night, regretting holding on to the shred of humanity he had left when he should have been holding onto her. He makes a promise not to repeat the same bad habits. Makes a promise he’ll never let his naive desire for respite get in the way of his need to protect you, to keep you safe. He’s breaking the habit, the same as he did with Ellie, because Joel doesn’t think he'll ever survive a loss of such magnitude again.
It doesn’t matter what he has to become to keep you safe. Doesn’t matter the cost to his soul.
Your face looks peaceful but your fists are coiled tight beneath your head. As if even in your sleep you’re fighting something, always on the defense. He wonders if it’s a trait you inherited before or after those men, before or after your sister's death, before or after the accusatory way the inhabitants of Jackson look at you.
Joel feels something heavy rise up in him. Something akin to sorrow or grief. This deep, pensive heartache because it’s just not fair. You’re so young, so innocent, dealing with the same demons he still fights and sometimes loses to at age fifty-two.
He doesn’t want this for you. Doesn’t want you to become volatile, murderous, monstrous in the ways he has. Joel spent so much time pushing you away and he thinks maybe it’s because there’s so much of his anger mirrored in you. That staring it in the face felt too harrowing, too raw.
The longer he thinks about it the more pieces slot together in his brain. Your cruel words hurled at anyone who sets you on edge. Your inability to follow any direction that isn’t forced. The self-isolation, the distrust in even those you love most. That animalistic fight in you, flight and freeze be damned. The need to protect others before yourself—Joel, Ellie, Miley, even Maria.
You don’t deserve to live like this. Don't deserve eternal damnation or to experience the wrath of God for the monstrous things you result to when you feel all else is lost. Violence is the only thing that has never turned its back on you.
Joel’s melancholy manifests, a single tear sliding down his cheek. You’re just a little girl and it's not fucking fair.
He doesn’t want this for you. He wants you to live a full, happy, peaceful life. Not one spent out here chasing ghosts, trying to find your worth in providing for others. He wants you to be protected, to know you’re loved even when you lash out, wants you to know that he understands. Joel wants to be that for you. Wants to be the unwavering support you deserve, wants to be the thing that pulls you back from that ledge you’re dancing upon. Joel wants to be for you what he needed in the darkest part of his rage.
But to do that, you’re going to have to relinquish a little more of that control you hold so tightly.
When you wake, it’s gradual. You don’t startle or flinch at the blood on his hands. But your eyes linger there on the red stain for some time before you ask, “All of them?”
Joel nods once. “All of them.”
And then you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him, pressing your mouth to his, thanking him in the only way you know how. Your tongue tastes like sleep and ambrosia and sunlight, but when Joel cradles your face in his hands he leaves blood in the wake of his fingertips. The bright red is a stark contrast against the smoothness of your skin, the violence an antithesis to your innocence.
He slides his bloody hands into your hair when your hips begin to move. His cock hardens quickly as his body catches up with your intent, always needy and eager, always just waiting to join you in more than just soul.
While he unbuttons his jeans and slides his zipper down to pull his erection out, your mouth never leaves his. Even when you shove those too-tight jeans down your thighs just enough to make room for him. When you lift up on your knees and sink down onto his cock in one familiarized movement he can feel the vibration of your moan against his tongue, can feel the breath of air from your gasp as he settles in deep.
The stretch is blissfully painful, stinging in all the right ways. You rock your hips slowly at first, adjusting to the sheer size of him, adjusting to his all-encompassing warmth. Your fingers dig into his thick shoulders, desperate to keep your balance.
And then you lift just enough to come slamming back down, the friction setting his skin ablaze. Again, again, again —it’s hurried and needy and depraved. Your hips move fervently over his, seeking out what you know only he can provide.
Your eyes are squeezed shut when you pull your sweet mouth away from his. Joel watches you lean back and place your hands on his thighs for support, back arching, and somehow he finds himself even deeper inside you. You’re moaning and his breath is coming fast and he thinks you look more than just angelic from this angle. He watches you ride his cock and wonders if you were fucking made to do this.
Cheeks flushed, lips parted, his name on your lips. Is this what Eve saw in the waxy reflection of the forbidden fruit? Is this what she saw when she knowingly abandoned paradise?
Joel thinks it can’t get much better than this. Thinks the only thing that’s ever come close is the feeling of blood on his hands in the name of those he loves, in the name of you.
He wraps his hand around your throat, staining you even further red, and says, “I’d do anything for you. Anything .”
He thinks about the Ten Commandments, about how he can cross off every single one of them with just this act alone.
You shall have no other Gods before me.
No divine being has made him feel like this. No divinity has ever reached up through his ribs and squeezed a fist around his heart. Not like you have.
You shall make no idols.
He thinks about the way you look in his canvas coat. Joel has found his own form of peace through you, has found forgiveness beneath your tongue.
You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.
Your pace quickens. The obscene, wet sounds coming from the place you’re joined echo in the walls of the church. “Oh my God, Joel, I’m—I’m close.”
He knows you are. Can feel it in the way your pussy squeezes him like a vise, in the way your rhythm becomes sloppy and desperate.
Keep the Sabbath day holy.
Joel doesn’t know what day it is. But he knows he wishes he could stay here in this home you’ve made together within the bones of an old religion, wishes he could stay inside you. He doesn’t know if there’s anything more unholy than this insatiable desire.
Honor your father and mother.
He thinks about that day in the dining hall when embarrassment climbed Maria’s cheeks as you screamed in her face. Joel thinks she deserved it more than he realized that day. He thinks about the way you spoke to him in that watchtower, thinks about the way he’d had to drag you there by your hair, all while listening to every disrespectful thing that came out of your mouth and how a few short weeks later you got down on your knees and called him daddy.
You shall not murder.
He takes the hand wrapped around your throat and flattens it against your sternum. The blood is drying but still marks your skin in the shape of his fingerprints.
You shall not commit adultery.
Joel knows he’s supposed to be with a lovely, soft-spoken, age-appropriate woman but knows, too, that death would be kinder than the loss of you.
You shall not steal.
He was angry at first, about the strawberry scone. Mike’s wife is a kind woman who spends her time baking for the community. But Ellie likely never would’ve had the opportunity to try it had you not nicked the pastry. If it was always going to lead the two of you here, together, Joel would have stolen every last scone on God’s green earth.
You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
Lying seems a small price to pay for you, for your safety. He remembers telling Greg and Bonnie that you were running late the night you left him in the watchtower alone. He wanted to keep you safe then even without noticing that’s what he was doing. Safe from ridicule, from judgment.
You shall not covet.
He recalls seeing Abel’s hands on you, seeing his lips against your hair in a chaste kiss. Joel had wanted to kill him then, for touching what was his. He knows by taking you for his own, he’s taking you away from someone like Abel. Someone with a little more moral in their heart, a little less blood on their hands. But he doesn’t care because you’re his now and always.
Joel lifts his hips in tandem with yours, meeting each stroke, thrusting his cock even deeper inside you. Your legs begin to shake around his and Joel thinks damnation isn’t so bad. “Anything,” he repeats. “Lie, cheat, steal.” His hand on your chest slides up again, wrapping tight around your throat. “I’d kill for you, little girl.”
Your pussy flutters around him and your spine bends in the most beautiful arch he’s ever seen. It solidifies his belief in one very important thing, the last nail in the coffin that cements the two of you together eternally.
This filthy, sinful devotion is cosmic. Celestial. Unearthly. So much more than a bible and cross.
It’s worth it. It’s worth everything.
“You like that? Hm?” Your rhythm falters but his remains steady. “Like that I’d spill blood for you, s’that it? That’s what got you all wet, sweetheart?” Your moans turn saccharine— sacrilegious. “Pretty pussy’s so fuckin’ tight, baby. Such a messy thing. I’d kill anyone for my little girl. Anyone .”
“Joel, I—!”
He knows, he knows. Because he is, too. “Yeah, thaaaat’s it,” he says, drawing out each syllable. Your hands squeeze hard around his thighs and your muscles draw tight. “There you go, baby. Cum for me. That’s it. Sweet fuckin’ girl. Gonna fill you up. That what you want?”
You rasp out his name and the words yes, please, please, and it sounds like a fucking prayer. It’s a hypnotic litany. It makes him feel cherished, adored. And the sound of it spoken in worship in the house of God sends him over the edge.
Even though your legs tremble around his, you ride his cock relentlessly. Joel’s vision goes white and his hand on your hip squeezes tight enough to bruise. You feel so good, so warm and wet. You lift your hips and slam them back down until the oversensitivity becomes more than he can bear. His hand abandons the home it’s made around your throat and finds the small of your back instead, stilling you completely.
You lean forward, collapsing with your hands pressed against his chest. Joel wraps his arms around your middle and cradles you in his lap, all too aware of the divinity he holds in his hands. He presses a kiss to your temple and listens to your heavy breaths.
Some time passes. He’s not sure how long the two of you sit there with Joel still wedged deep inside you, basking in the afterglow. The sun rises outside and the songbirds of the morning begin to sing.
Eventually, you lift your head and whisper, “Thank you.”
“For what?” Joel doesn’t understand. He’s stolen something he was undeserving of, only to be loved back. If anyone should be thankful, it should be him.
It feels like a punch to the gut when you say, “For seeing me.”
Because he now knows no one else ever has. No one has ever seen your defiance as anything but a nuisance, has never seen you as more than a troublemaker, as a bad omen.
But Joel does see you. He sees right through all that savage fight to the little girl beneath, that soft, childish innocence you keep under heavy guard. He thinks he’s been able to see through it since the first moment he laid eyes on you.
It’s her he wants to protect.
Joel takes your chin in his hand and makes you a commandment of his own. “I will always see you.”
[part seven] [part nine]
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#joel miller#ao3 fanfic#joel miller smut#joel miller fic#joel the last of us#joel tlou#joel miller x you#joel miller x reader#x reader#smut#joel miller self insert#idle threats#pearlessance#tlou
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