#Camp Blood 3: First Slaughter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itsascreambaby96 · 1 year ago

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Summer Camp

Warnings: SMUT! 18+ mdni!!! Mentions of blood, death and stabbing, double penetration. Name calling. A little bit of somnophilia. Oral (m on f) . Pet names. Choking. Slapping. If I missed anything please let me know.

Pairings: Stu Macher x fem!reader x Billy Loomis

Word count: 5k

A/N: This technically wasn't a request. It can be read as a second part of this fic. But mainly it is its own fic no need to read the other one to understand this one. I also have no idea if the camp really exists, I made the name up. Please enjoy and leave feedback.

"You've never been to summer camp when you were a wee kid?!"

Stu couldn't believe it, neither could Billy but he didn't make a big deal out of it, other than Stu.

You just shrugged. "I didn't. Why is that such a problem?"

"It's not." Billy said, giving Stu a look.

"Well it kinda is! I mean every child went to summer camp so their parents could have some time off of them right?"

That did leave a little peng in your heart. Poor Stu, he always had a rather complicated relationship with his parents.

"You really should see a therapist because of that." Billy spoke again. Stu gave him a look.

"Yeah well if I should then you should too, because of your unresolved mommy problems!" Stu was not amused and now he was dragging Billy down too.

You had to do something quick, or your boys would definitely kill each other.

"So what did I miss while not going to a summer camp?" That got Stu's attention back to you. He went into great detail on all the things he had to do, shooting arrows, canoeing, even making friendship bracelets, the horror stories they told in their little cabin. How he was the master of horror stories, which earned him a snort from Billy.

"You went there together?"

"Jup, I always snuck into Billy's cabin cause it was more fun there." Stu gave you a wink. "Especially when we were older."

"And I clearly remember I got the badge for best Horror Story teller." Billy grinned.

"Pf in your dreams!"

"No no I clearly remember! How you almost pooped your pants when I told the story of the guy who slaughtered every kid in summer camp."

"First, that was just your wishful thinking. Second, it is the plot of Friday the 13th."

"So? Not my fault those kids didn't watch the movie."

"Yeah cause we were kids!"

"I watched it."

"Because you are not normal."

You laughed softly at their banter. You were so used to it by now.

"What else did you guys do?" And so they went on with their stories.

You thought with that the topic would end. And you were right. But a few weeks before you guys left for college, your boys came up with a camping trip. You weren't a big fan of camping but they were persistent. You couldn't really say no to their ideas. So you agreed. Maybe it could be fun. If only you knew how much fun it would be.

You drove 3 hours to a big forest. Billy assigned you to make a mixtape for the journey and also let you drive shotgun.

Stu was pouty for an hour, before his good mood returned. You might have given him one too many sweets. When you arrived you parked the car at the destined spot and got out. Both Billy and Stu had packed a big backpack making sure you didn't have to carry too much. Aren't they the sweetest? Then you three were off into the woods. It was very hot and you were glad for the shorts you were wearing, though you were sure your legs would be littered with insect bites. Oh well, the fun of going camping. What you failed to notice was that neither Stu nor Billy had packed a tent. They had a much different plan. It also seemed like they knew exactly where they were going, well at least Billy because Stu was next to you talking. It wasn't as bad as you expected it to go actually.

After 3 hours though you were getting slower, your energy was dwindling.

"Are we almost there?" You were whining at this point.

"Yeah, there should only be another hour." Billy was still as motivated as when you started. How, you didn't know.

You were groaning at his reply, displeasure setting in. For the next hour you were grumbling about how "this better be worth it" and how "you were going to plan the next vacation". The whole time Stu only chuckled next to you at your attitude.

"Don't worry it will all be worth it."

"You better be right."

After another half hour, thanks to you demanding a break, you saw a big clearing, cabins littered everywhere, and a big sign welcoming you to "Camp Silver Lake." The whole place seemed to be abandoned though.

"You are kidding." You looked at Billy who, like Stu, was grinning.

"Nope. We thought it would be fun to show you what you missed." Stu was so excited about the whole thing. It makes you question how he didn't spoil the surprise at all beforehand.

"So is this the one where you two went?" You were not going to ruin the fun. You actually believed this could be a great few days.

"Pf no. We were at a more … luxurious camp. Though they are all the same anyway." Billy was making his way to a cabin, assuming you two would follow him.

"The place hasn't been closed for long. Only one or two years. So everything should still be in a rather good condition." Opening the door and going in you could see he was right. But you still didn't think it would be a good idea to sleep in those beds. Sure they were infested with bugs.

"We will put the mattresses down and sleep in sleeping bags on them." Billy saw your sceptical look. You gave him a grateful smile.

"Enough talking. Last one in the lake is a stink bug!" Stu had already taken off his shirt running outside. Billy and you gave each other a look before darting out of the cabin. Laughing you took off your shirt while running, and somehow your shorts too. You almost fell over trying to undo your boots, giving a triumphant grunt as they slipped off. Billy wasn't far behind and Stu was a few feet in front of you struggling with his second boot. You were squealing, running past him.

"Who is going to be the stink bug now Macher?!" Laughing you didn't notice him being done with his shoe and running after you. He's almost got you but you somehow slipped from his grasp. He was laughing too and you two almost stumbled over each other. Billy used that to his advantage and ran past the two of you onto the dock and jumped into the lake. You and Stu weren't far behind jumping in.

Emerging from the depths of the lake you saw that Stu was dunking Billy, laughing.

You enjoyed the mild temperatures of the water on your skin, floating on your back a little. You didn't see Stu staring at your glistening skin that was revealed from the water. He was subtly liking his lips. You were effortlessly beautiful. Suddenly two arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you under. You were trashing and swam up again looking at a grinning Billy. You pushed at his chest, huffing but not being mad. When he only laughed you splashed water at him and into his open mouth. He was gagging and coughing.

"Serves you right." It was your turn to grin.

"Oh you will be sorry for that!"

Squealing and laughing, you swam away from him as fast as possible.

"Stu save me!" You were climbing onto his back.

"Oh of course princess." He swam away with you on his back, Billy hot on his tail.

The three of you spend the rest of the day like this, mostly in the water, laughing and just having a good time.

As the sun was slowly beginning to vanish behind the trees, Billy and Stu took care of gathering wood for a campfire, while you arranged the sleeping arrangement. You made sure you were going to sleep in between them. After getting dressed, you grabbed the food and went outside, seeing Stu and Billy fighting each other with sticks. You watched them with an amused look.

"You can't win, old man!" It was Billy talking to Stu, trying to hit him.

Stu blocked the attack, grinning.

"If you strike me down I will become more powerful than you could possibly imagine!"

"You should not have come back!"

They continued fighting. After a little more of this you stepped into their view, distracting Stu. This was Billy's chance to strike and he did. Stu let out a painful hiss and went down. You knew your part and screamed a dramatic "No!"

That made Stu laugh full heartedly. Billy was chuckling. "Oscar worthy performance sweetheart." You bowed, laughing sweetly.

"Thank you. Thank you. You can get autographs later." As Stu got up and dusted off, Billy gave you a loving kiss, making you hum.

"Now can we please eat? I am starving."

"Of course."

They were going back to their task, you sitting down on a log watching them. The soft pushes and the banter they shared made you smile. The good mood stayed for the rest of the evening. After eating you guys talked and talked for hours. You were leaning with your back against Stu, the night colder than you thought it would be, but Stu kept you plenty warm. Especially after Billy denied you his sweater that he was wearing. Stu was more than glad to jump in and be your hero, making Billy roll his eyes playfully. Your eyes were closed and you were already half asleep. You couldn't really make out the words they were speaking, and you didn't really care. You knew you were safe with them.

"Do you wanna do it tonight?"

"No, she's exhausted, let's give her some rest. Tomorrow will be better."

You would have wondered what they were actually talking about but sleep pulled you in.

When you woke up you were in your sleeping bag, Billy and Stu snoring away on either side of you. Giving them both a soft kiss you carefully stood up, getting ready for the day. While you prepared breakfast a sleepy Billy emerged. His hair stood in all directions and his eyes were barely open. You offered him a cup of coffee which he took gratefully. You turned back to your task, Billy sipping his coffee and watching you like a hawk. His eyes moving over your every curve. The swell of your ass, resisting the urge to slap it like he so often does, playful or not. Your thighs which he loves to grab and squeeze and have his head between. He was getting worked up watching you be a cute little housewife in the middle of the woods. Wanting nothing more to bend you over and fuck you silly. He put his cup down and snug up behind you. Wrapping an arm around your middle and pulling you in, a soft gasp leaving your lips. Billy nuzzled at your neck inhaling your smell. A low hum left him as the beguiling smell of you hit his nostrils. You closed your eyes, enjoying the soft moment between the two of you. He was softly squeezing your hip as he gently placed kisses over your neck. Your head lulled to the side as he bit your neck like he so often does.

"Billy…" his name was nothing more than a whisper on your lips. He only grunted in acknowledgement not parting from your neck though.

The moment was ruined when Stu emerged from the cabin with a more than shrill "Good morning!"

With a sigh Billy dropped his head onto your shoulder, you softly patted his cheek.

"Morning Stu." He gave you a big sloppy kiss, making you laugh as he slapped Billy's bubble butt. "Oi! Watch it!" Stu just grinned at him.

The three of you ate your breakfast, Stu filling the silence with unimportant chatter.

The rest of the day was spent exploring. You saw many squirrels and got excited every single time. How could you not with their cute little faces and their fluffy tail.

It was almost dark when you got back to the camp. You were exhausted and hungry. Stu took care of preparing something, meaning hot dogs. After scarfing down your meal you enjoyed a bit of quiet. Billy started to tell some horror stories, to give you more of the summer camp feeling. You appreciated it but some of the stories were really terrifying and you wondered where he got them from. The one about a haunted doll freaked you out the most. You were never a fan of dolls. Stu chimed in here and there because he could see how stiff you were and wanted to lighten your mood a little, but it didn't help much. That's why you stayed even closer to them while sleeping tonight. You didn't mind horror stories usually but something about being in the middle of the woods alone, only with your boyfriends made you more jumpy than usual.

It was no surprise that you woke up when you heard something outside, noticing that Stu was not next to you, Billy snoring on your other side. Stu was probably using the bathroom. But then you heard something again right outside the cabin. You jumped and woke Billy, who gave a grunt.

"Billy, wake up! I think something's outside!"

"That's probably just the wind. Go back to sleep." He kept mumbling, not even opening his eyes.

"It is not. It sounded like footsteps and groaning."

"That's probably just Stu trying to scare you."

"What if not? What if someone has already killed him and now he is coming for us?!"

"I am never telling you horror stories again before sleeping." You could hear the annoyance in his voice.

"Can we please just go check?"

"Can we please go check? Are you serious? Have you never watched a horror movie in your life? That's basically a death wish."

"I know! But I don't want our boyfriend to die!" You stood up and looked around for some kind of weapon. You found an old crowbar in the room and looked at Billy expectantly. He let out another groan and got up.

"If I die I will haunt your ass."

"I can live with that. Now let's go."

"Give me the crowbar first."

"No. Get your own weapon. This is mine." You held the crowbar close to your chest.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

Billy rolled his eyes and went outside without anything to protect himself. You were following close behind.

The both of you looked around carefully.

"Stu!" Calling for him as loud as you could.

"Shut up! Are you insane? This will lead the killer right to us!"

"I thought there wasn't one!" You whisper yelled.

"There probably isn't but you don't have to shout either!" Billy hissed.

The two of you kept sneaking around looking for Stu. That was until you bumped into something, assuming it was Billy you went to apologise but when you looked behind you, you saw a white mask with big black eyes and a wide open black mouth. You let out a loud scream as the person lunged at you with a knife missing you only by a few inches as you ran away.

"Billy!" You were running for your life, looking behind you to see if the killer was chasing you, but he was gone. Frantically you were looking for Billy. Turning around the corner you bumped into him, clinging to him.

"There's a killer! There's a killer here! We need to find Stu and leave!"

Billy looked at you with big eyes and nodded, taking the crowbar, that you've completely forgotten about, from your hand. His eyes widened when he saw the masked killer show up behind you. As quickly as he could he pushed you behind him and went to hit the killer with his weapon. But the guy wasn't stupid and saw Billy's attack coming, taking a hold of the crowbar. Billy tried to get him to loosen his grip but there was no chance. The killer pulled Billy closer and stabbed him into his stomach. You led out a scream as you heard Billy groan. The killer then went on to stab Billy multiple times. Over and over again. You started to cry. Billy's legs gave out and he fell to the ground. Your hand flew to cover your mouth, tears streaming down your face.

You looked back at the killer who was looking at you, wiping his knife off of Billy's blood with one hand. Then he came stalking over to you. Your legs felt like jelly as you stumbled back, your back hitting the cabin. The killer was right in front of you, lifting his knife to strike you down too, just like he did with Billy. You closed your eyes and looked to the side. But after waiting several moments nothing happened. So you opened your eyes only for them to widen. The mask was lifted and sat atop of Stu's head.

"Stu?" Your voice was shaking.

"Surprise princess." He was grinning.

Coming back to your senses you started pushing him. "What the fuck is wrong with you Stu?! Are you insane?! You killed Billy!"

Just as you said that Billy jumped out from behind Stu, scaring you half to death. You didn't understand a single thing. His shirt was stained with his blood but he looked as alive as ever wearing the same grin that Stu wore.

"How are you alive?" You felt stupid asking him that.

Billy licked some 'blood' off of his fingers.

"Corn Syrup. Same stuff they used as pig's blood in Carrie."

You were in utter disbelief.

"Are you two fucking kidding me?! I thought you were dead! I was scared for my life! I thought I was going to die!"

"Awww babes we are sorry. But a prank is always played during summer camp." Stu got a sheepish look.

"That was some fucking prank Stu!" You were getting more angry by the second.

They gave each other a look. Pushing past the two you stormed back to your cabin. The two boys are hot on your heels.

"Sweetheart, come on, it was just a prank." But you didn't respond to Billy, way too furious.

"Don't be mad at us. We love you."

"If you'd love me you wouldn't have done this fucked up shit."

"Ok ok we are sorry ok?" Billy got a hold of your wrist making you stop. He turned you around putting his hands on your cheeks, making you look at him. "We really are sorry."

"I don't know if I believe you. I was so scared. I thought I lost you." Tears were welling up in your eyes at the image of Billy laying in his own blood. Dead. Stu's head popped up over Billy's shoulder. Giving you his best puppy dog eyes.

"Please forgive us. We swear we will never do that again."

"You better not."

"So are we forgiven?" They looked at you hopeful.

"Ask me again tomorrow…" With that you went into the cabin and back into your sleeping bag. You laid there for a while, eyes closed. Stu and Billy took a little while to come inside. You could hear them talking outside. You pretended to sleep when they came in, laying down beside you. They didn't know if you wanted to be close to them so they refrained from their usual cuddly positions. You didn't fall asleep until dawn, when exhaustion finally took you over.

You don't know how long you've been sleeping for but a very pleasurable feeling between your legs was waking you from your slumber. A soft moan left your lips and you fluttered your eyes open. Between your legs you could make out a tuft of blonde curls. Stu was eating you out lazily and softly. So different from his usual pace. Your hand crept into his hair pulling softly but it only made him release your clit from between his lips.

"Good morning princess." He gave you a soft kiss.

"Morning Stu. What are you doing?"

"What does it look like? I am apologising." He grinned at you and went back to work, making you arch your back softly.

"If this is the apology for last night you will have to do much better."

"Oh princess, this is only the start. We plan to properly apologise, don't you worry. If you let us of course." Billy spoke up beside you. You looked at him, nodding.

"Of course." Realising that they took off your clothes completely. Billy was playing with your boobs.

Stu continued to play your pussy like he so often did before. Two of his fingers already buried deep inside you, fucking you open for them both. His lips were wrapped around your clit, the tip of his tongue flipping your little bud of nerves in his mouth. He loved being messy even when things were going slower than normal.

Billy's lips wrapped around one of your nipples, his teeth gazing softly. Your other hand that wasn't in Stu's hair went into Billy's, pulling them both closer to you. It was so easy to forgive them like this but you wouldn't tell them that. Stu slowly added a third finger, scissoring them to fuck you more, curling them to find your gspot. He was so attune with your body, that it didn't take him long to find the spot that made your toes curl and an almost pornographic moan to leave your lips. Billy pulled at your nipple with his lips, making you clench around Stu's fingers. When you looked down you saw Stu was humping the ground while eating you out. This puts a lazy grin on your face.

"Stu… Billy please." You wanted them both desperately.

"What do you want, pretty girl?" Billy looked at you with his intense eyes. Stu's mouth never leaving your wet cunt as he looked up at the both of you.

"Need you. Need you both. Please." You were begging a little. But you truly needed to be filled by them.

"Where do you need us?" Stu pulled at your clit letting it pop out of his mouth.

"Inside me. Need you both inside of me. Please." You were looking at them pleadingly.

"Think you can handle us both?" Stu asked teasingly. You nodded quickly. Stu gave your dripping pussy another kiss before standing up and undressing. Billy doing the same. You kept staring at them both. The both of them started to make out, Billy pulling Stu closer, biting his lip harshly. They got lost in their little make out session. You cleared your throat.

"I thought this was my apology here."

They parted and looked at you, both grinning.

"Of course."

"Sorry sweetheart we got a little lost." Billy came over to you first, laying down beside you and pulling you on top of him, your boobs pressed against his chest. He started to kiss you passionately as he entered you. You moaned against his lips. Taking the opportunity Billy slipped his tongue into your mouth playing with your own. He started to thrust into you. Slow but hard. Deliberately. Making you feel every inch of him. Your gummy walls stretch around him. Billy continued his thrusting for a moment before he stopped.

Stu got into position behind you. Getting ready to push into your tight cunt too. Slowly and carefully he pushed in. Your eyes squeezed shut, the stretch almost unbearable. Both Billy and Stu groaned at the feeling, both being in your tight cunt while having their dicks rub together at the same time. They gave you time to adjust to being filled to the brim. You were panting. Billy gave you a soft kiss.

"Are you ok?"

You nodded. "Yeah I'm good."

They both started to move slowly. Working in tandem. You couldn't keep your moans in. It felt so good. How they knew how to play your body. Stu was gripping your hips so hard, definitely leaving bruises. Your eyebrows were knit together. Billy was groaning underneath you, Stu moaning behind you.

The slick sound of your juices mixing with your guys' moans. It was so lewd but it turned you on all the more. Billy kissed you again, sloppily. He kept sucking on your tongue. When he let go of your tongue you felt Stu leaning over your back, down, his head next to yours. He gave you a particular hard thrust making you scream in pleasure. Stu and Billy kissed again, just as sloppily as you two did. You were moving against Billy with every hard thrust.

Somehow they managed to roll around, a squeal leaving your lips. Stu now under you. Your back on his chest, Billy on top of you. Billy gave your tits a hard squeez, now more in control of his thrusts. You felt like a rag doll how they handled you, and you loved every second of it.

Billy laid a few quick slaps to your tits making you moan loudly. Your head fell onto Stu's shoulder. One of his hands wrapped around your throat.

"You looked so cute being all scared last night. Really wanted to fuck you there." Stu's voice was deep, laced with lust. You whimpered at his words, his hand squeezing around your throat, cutting off the bloodstream, slowly becoming lightheaded. It only added to your pleasure.

Billy's thumb gazed over the little scars you had on your hips, where you let them carve in their initials, while angling his hips a little differently. His thrusts only became harder.

"You know we would never let anything happen to you princess." Billy's voice was equally as deep as Stu's. The same ounce of lust in them.

"You are ours. And we protect what's ours."

You looked at him with glossy eyes, the pleasure almost too much. They fluttered close when Stu's other hand went between your body's and he started to rub your clit deliberately. You didn't keep your eyes closed for long, because Billy took hold of your face, squeezing your cheeks together.

"Do you understand sweetheart?"

You nodded dumbly, way too fucked out.

"Say it."

Stu's hand left your throat making you take in a deep breath, your head clearing up a little. Stu's thrusts got faster, your eyes rolling back. Billy gripped your cheeks harder, matching his thrusts into your soaking pussy.

"Say. It." His words were harsh, his thrusts emphasised his words, but you knew it was because he wanted his anwer.

"I'm yours. I'm all your Billy, Stu. Only yours." Your words were slurred. Partially from pleasure and partially from still having your cheeks pressed together.

"And?"

"You protect what's yours. You protect me." You were so close. But you knew better than to come without permission even if this was meant as your apology.

"And we take such good care of you don't we?"

You nodded, tears now streaming down your face all from the pleasure of their cocks inside of you and Stu's relentless pace on your clit.

"You take such good care of me."

"Good girl. Isn't she Stu?" Billy looked a little behind you, directly at Stu who, in return, gave him a shit eating grin.

"Oh she is the best girl. Aren't you, pretty thing?" He gave your cheek, that Billy finally released from his grip, an exaggerated kiss.

Billy's hand wrapped around your throat now making you gasp. Both their pace is becoming faster. Sloppier. Stu gave your nipples a hard pinch making you sob in pleasure. You were clenching around them so hard trying not to come without their permission.

"Aw I think she is close Stu."

"Mh you think we should let her come?"

"I don't know. What do you think sweetheart? Do you think you should come?" Both their voices were teasing, condescending even. Billy gave your throat a squeez after you didn't answer immediately.

"Please."

"Please what?" Billy's tone got harsher.

"Lemme come…" Your voice was hoarse from the moaning and screaming.

Billy looked at Stu again.

"You think we should let her?"

"I don't know man. Seems like she doesn't really want to."

"Yeah I was thinking the same thing. But it is our apology after all."

"You are right. I think we should give her that."

They talked about you like you weren't even there. It should be embarrassing but it only got you more wet.

"Go ahead doll. Come for us."

"Yeah, soak us in your juices."

It only took a few short moments of their hard, precise thrusts, Stu's thumb rubbing your clit the right way and Billy squeezing your throats not too tight, for you to finally come. It was earth shattering. Your legs started to shake uncontrollably and your eyes rolled back so far into your skull, your ears started ringing. You were clenching so hard around Billy and Stu that it didn't take them long to come right after you. Both groaning in unison, shooting their seed right into you without a care. They rode out their orgasms before Billy collapsed on top of you. You weren't completely back to your senses yet.

You didn't really notice how they carefully slipped out of you, some of their joined load dripping out of you. Your thighs slick with your own arousal.

Billy took a good look at your dripping pussy.

"Damn. Still the most pretty pussy even all fucked out."

You only came back to reality when the both of them started to clean you up, already dressed again after cleaning up themselves.

"You back with us sweetheart?" Billy's voice had nothing of the harshness from earlier.

"Yeah. That was mind-blowing. We should do this more often." Your voice was still hoarse but you kept smiling at them, utterly satisfied.

"Sure thing, pretty girl."

"So does this mean we are forgiven?" Stu plopped down next to you, offering you something to drink. You thankfully took it and gulped it down.

"Mh I will consider forgiving you after some more mind-blowing orgasms."

You gave them a cheeky smile.

They grinned at you in return.

"That can be arranged."

They were on you again in seconds. You didn't leave the cabin the whole day. They really made you forgive them wholeheartedly. To be fair though you think there wasn't much of your brain left after they fucked you stupif all day

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daydreaming-nerd · 10 months ago

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The Bonds That Break Us (Rhysand x Female! Reader) Part 6

Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Final Part

Request: "Would you do a Rhysand x fem!reader series? Maybe fem!reader is Rhysand's mate and Tamlin's sister? So secret love?"

AN: Took a wild leap with this one...

Summary: It was almost as if the cauldron liked to play games, as if it had sensed years of boredom and predictability and begged to be entertained. Its method of absolving its melancholy? Mate the High Lord of the Night Court to the younger sister of the High Lord of Spring.

Warnings (so far): mentions of physical abuse, mentions of SA, major sexisim, SMUT, dirty talk, angst.

Word count: 3557

(all photos are from pinterest)

“And if they win? If my brother and Beron get their way?” I ask Rhysand who is clearly lost in thought, but it’s Mor who answers.

“Then you would be forced to marry Eris. As fucked up and sexist as it is, they’re going to call into question who had claim of you first Eris or Rhys.” Mor answered clearly, hating the words coming out of her own mouth.

“Oh,” I murmured, it was all I could say, the thought that all of this could have been for nothing. Those days spent in a cell, weeks keeping Rhysand and I a secret it didn’t change the outcome of my life.

“I won’t let it come to that,” Rhys said, walling over to me and pressing his forehead to mine. “I won’t let them take you from me.”

“You’re right I’m sure we can figure this out,” I reply, not trusting my own words.

“Let’s go shopping girl, it will give brooding old Rhys here time to think of a plan.�� Mor said, trying to lighten the mood. “You can borrow something of mine while we shop.”

“Mor’s right we should get me some clothes,” I giggle looking down at the too big shirt of Rhysand’s that I was wearing. I press a chaste kiss to his lips trying to bring a smile to his face but it doesn’t work. I move towards Mor but I feel Rhy’s hand pull me back.

“Not without one of these,” he says, pressing his lips to mine passionately. I nearly moan at the way he is always able to kiss me into submission. I swear I’d do anything he asked me if he just kissed me like this.

“I love you,” I smile, pulling away from the kiss.

“I love you too,” he smiles, running his thumb over my lips. “Take care of her Mor.”

“Like she was my own mate,” Mor smiled before leading me to her bedroom.

“This wasn’t just a shopping trip you know?” Mor says, holding up her glass of wine to her lip. “I wanted to thank you.”

She had insisted that we go out for a drink and for dinner before turning in for the night and given the long day we had I was more than willing to do just that.

“Thank me for what? I hardly think I’ve done anything but cause problems for your cousin and your court,” I sigh popping another grape into my mouth.

“Yet I’ve never seen him so happy,” she sent me a knowing smile. “I’ve known Rhys my whole life, never have I seen him so at peace, so willing to live. When his parents and his sister died he was given the title of High Lord, one he never felt like he was ready for. It made him unhappy, but all that has changed because of you.”

“How did Rhys’ family die?” I ask sipping my own glass of wine. All of the color drained from Mor’s face.

“You don’t know?” she asks bewildered.

“No he never told me,” I answered, afraid of whatever answer she might tell me.

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” she said, trying to resume sipping her wine.

“Mor please, tell me.” I beg her.

“Okay but don’t let Rhys kill me,” she starts. “200 years ago Rhys and your brother were friends, but your father figured out that Rhysand would be the most powerful High Lord and sought to bring him down a peg. So one night he and Tamlin as well as your brothers went to the Illyrian Camps and slaughtered his mother and sister in cold blood. When Rhysand’s father found out both went to the Spring Court only leaving you and Tamlin alive.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing Tamlin had always told me that the agents of the night court had killed our family for stealing their wings, that they were to be an enemy of our court. If I ever asked him to tell me more he would refuse. “But why would Rhys and his father leave us alive?”

Mor let out another sigh, “Rhys was supposed to kill you. That night he stood over your bed with a dagger, the mating bond snapped into place. He told me that he fell to his knees before you. It was too late for him to rectify what he had done to your family, but when he found his father holding a dagger to Tamlin’s throat Rhys begged for him to live and he did. But Tamlin took Rhysand’s fathers own dagger and drove it through his heart anyways.”

I nearly felt my knees give out, he had known for 200 years and said nothing. I couldn’t stop myself from reeling. My heart rate began to pick up and suddenly this dress was too tight, this room was too hot and the walls were closing in.

“I need…I need some air,” I gasped. It was all I could say before taking off.

I heard Mor calling for me inside the tavern but I couldn’t stop, not for anything. The chill of the night air did little to calm my heart rate down. I wove through a sea of people, all of them balking at the unfamiliar face. I even heard murmurs of ‘that’s Tamlin’s sister’ and my gut churned. All that was going through my head was he knew, he knew, he knew.

So I ran, and I ran, and I tried to outrun the feeling but it didn’t matter how far I went, I couldn’t escape the shocking truth I had just heard.

I found myself sitting by the edge of the river about a mile outside of town. Something about the sound of the water flowing by and the crickets chirping gave me time to think. It wasn’t agents of the night court that killed my family, it was the High Lord, and Rhys. I supposed I should be mad, but given the events of the last few days, what Tamlin did to me, what he’s still trying to do? I’m almost glad Rhys nearly put an end to it all. But it doesn’t change one thing. He knew we were mates for almost 200 years and didn’t tell me. I had heard him calling down the bond for an hour now, but I shut him out. I needed time to process this.

Behind me I heard the flap of massive wings and then a thud, I turned to find Azriel standing behind me. His face was kind. Not angry or upset like I thought it would be. He looked friendly.

“It’s a bit cold out tonight, mind if I join you?” he asked, gesturing to the spot beside me.

“I’m afraid I’m not the best company, but be my guest.” I reply, patting the spot next to me. His massive frame came to sit beside me and as the breeze floated in from my right he curled a wing around me shielding me from it.

“So you found out how to shut Rhys out of the bond?” he smirked.

“I guess so,” I shrugged, not taking my eyes off the river before me.

“Nice,” he smiled like he was proud of me for doing so.

“Is he mad?” I ask, cringing slightly.

“No, but he is worried. The second Mor came back and told him what happened and he sent all of us out to find you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has the whole of Velaris doing search and rescue by now.” Azriel explained casually.

“I’m sorry. I just needed time.” I said picking at the rocks on the ground.

“Don’t be. It was a big blow,” he started. “Are you mad at Rhys?”

“I know I should be, but I’m not. I just wish he had told me.” I sigh.

“You know I was there that night. I was at the townhouse when he returned from the spring court. He was a wreck, an honest to gods wreck. He was so stricken with grief over what he had done that he disappeared to the Illyrian mountains for a week.” he explained.

“But why didn’t he tell me?” I plead.

“I don’t know. I think he wanted to, but the timing was never right. He spent nearly 200 years loving you from afar and then you finally felt the bond snap. I think he was so happy that he was scared he would lose you. That you would reject the bond.” he said.

“I suppose I don’t know what I’d do in that situation either,” I sigh.

“One thing you can be sure of is that he does love you. I’ve never seen a person love another person more. Hell he’s trying to claw into my mind as we speak but I’m not letting him,” Azriel chuckles.

“I suppose I should go back then,” I laugh beginning to stand up.

“I’ll take you. Do you want me to winnow you there or do you want to go the fun way?” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

“What’s the fun way?” I ask nervously, dusting the dirt off my dress.

He snapped his wings out in answer.

“Oh definitely the fun way,” I smile. “I’ve never flown before.”

“Rhys will be pissed that I’m taking your flying virginity but he’ll get over it eventually.” Azriel smiles before scooping me up. “You ready?”

“Yes!” I squeal in anticipation and excitement.

“Hold on tight princess,” Azriel laughs, launching off the ground into the sky.

My stomach bottoms out and my grip on his neck tightens as the river below us gets smaller and smaller. All the air leaves my lungs as we continue to ascend and then we’re soaring through the sky.

“Oh my gods this is amazing!” I shout with joy into the night and I feel Azriel’s chuckle reverberate through my body.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” I smile, still unable to hide the joy I feel.

“Let go of my neck, I'm going to let you free fall,” he instructs me.

“But you’re going to catch me right?” I ask just to be sure.

“You’re going to be my High Lady one day, I will always catch you,” he says nonchalantly.

“Okay let’s do it,” I say, removing my hands from his neck.

“See you in a second!” he laughs before letting go.

I feel myself falling through the sky and it’s the most freeing feeling ever. I can’t help but let an excited whoop out as the wind whips my hair about. I have never felt more powerful, more invincible than in this moment. Every worry about my brother, about Beron and the council are gone, for once my mind is clear.

I see Azriel tucking his wings in above me diving down to meet me and in mere seconds I feel him scooping me up again.

“That was so fun!” I shout.

“Don’t ever tell Rhys we did that he will have my head,” Azriel laughed and I could see the townhouse below us.

We land on the terrace and the sound of our laughter brings Rhys out to meet us.

“Thank gods I was scared something had happened to you,” he said, rushing over to press a kiss to my forehead.

“I’m fine you overbearing mother hen,” I laugh putting my hands on his forearms.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Azriel said backing away.

“Wait!” I shout before running over to throw my arms around him giving the biggest hug I possibly could. For a second he doesn’t hug me back, in shock from my sudden action but then I feel two arms wrap around me. “Thank you for everything, for the talk, for the ride. All of it.”

“Of course y/n any time.” he smiled. I backed away and took Rhys’ hand as he began to lead me inside.

“Oh and Azriel!” Rhys called making Azriel turn around. “I saw that,” he smirked and I know he meant the free fall.

“Damn,” Azriel cursed before taking off into the night.

Rhys turned to me, mood more somber now. “I think we need to talk,” he said quietly, like the words would hurt him if he spoke them too loud.

“I think we do too,” I replied.

We walked upstairs to the bedroom, everything was just as we left it this morning. Bed unmade, sheets thrown everywhere. The only noticeable difference was my new trove of dresses hanging in Rhys’ closet. My heart warmed at the sight of it. Something so small yet so meaningful at the same time, so domestic. Something I had unknowingly wanted for a long time.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask turning around to meet his violet eyes.

“Please believe me when I say I wanted to tell you. I never planned on keeping you in the dark about it. That night I went to kill you I had such hatred in my heart, I had lost my mother and my sister and I wanted revenge. I was young and stupid and following my father blindly. But when I saw you the bond clicked and I had never known such love. I remember it all. I fell to my knees before you and I realized what I had done. I had killed my mate's family. When I saw my father and Tamlin fighting I begged them to stop, begged my father to let him live. I couldn’t tell them why for fear that Tamlin would kill you just to hurt me. But eventually my father gave in, but Tamlin still stuck a dagger in his heart. When I got back to Velaris I had become High Lord and I couldn’t cope.” he explained, stepping closer to me to cup my cheek. “I have spent the last 200 years in agony knowing what I did to you.”

He paused taking in my face like he might never see me again, like I might reject the mating bond, and his eyes started to glass over.

“The day the bond snapped for you was one of the happiest days of my life. But you were already so hesitant to let me in, you wouldn’t even let my name pass your lips. I knew I couldn’t tell you then for fear of losing you forever. I had to make you see that I wasn’t the monster Prythian paints me to be. Even though I acted like one that night. I was selfish in not telling you. You deserved to know the truth. But please forgive me, and I will spend the rest of my life making up for it in every way I know how. They might seem like empty words, but I love you so much, I don’t think I can live without you.” he finished and I saw a tear slip from his eye.

“Rhys, I’ve already forgiven you.” I say wiping the tear from his face. “And maybe that makes me a terrible person, forgiving and loving the man who killed my family. But look at what they would’ve done, what they stood for. Tamlin locked me in a cell and was ready to sell me off to be Eris’ breeding vessel. The way my brothers and father always treated me they would’ve done the same, maybe worse. Who knows what miserable fate you might’ve saved me from. Your true character is reflected in people like Azriel and Cassian, in this beautiful city you’ve kept secret and protected for years. I see all of you Rhysand and there is not a part of you that I don’t love with all that I am.”

Rhys lets out a sigh of relief before smashing our lips together. I can taste the salt of his tears and the salt of my own. I throw my arms around his neck pulling him impossibly close

“I love you so much,” he cries between kisses.

“I love you too,” I say back smiling. I sit down on the bed and pull him down with me.

“Wait we can’t your still hurt,” he protests.

“Rhysand, if you don’t get on this bed and fuck me right now I swear on my life I will get myself off.” I gripe at him.

“While I would love nothing more than to watch you play with your pretty pussy. I think I’d rather do it myself tonight. But you need to tell me if you’re hurting at all okay?” he fusses.

“I will, I promise! Now please touch me!” I whine taking his hand and placing it on my breast.

“With pleasure mate,” he says, squeezing my breast. He snaps his fingers and our clothes are gone.

“That’s a fun little trick,” I laugh pulling him down, needing to feel his skin on mine.

“Only used for times where I desperately need to be inside you,” he purrs and chills coat my body.

I kiss him hard letting my hands caress his shoulders and arms, all of him pure muscle, lethal and totally at my mercy. He pulls my hair back to give himself access to my neck and I feel a wave of arousal flow through me as he finds that sweet spot that drives me wild.

My hand drifts down his front grazing every muscle on it’s way until I find his cock already hard and dripping with precum. I wrap my fingers around it and begin stroking it. My hand feeling incredibly small compared to the size of him. His hips buck fucking himself into my hand at the contact.

“Fuck mate,” he lets out a low groan in my ear. “How is it that even your hands feel perfect around my cock?”

“It’s because I was made for you,” I muse nibbling his ear.

“Hmm,” he hums in delight. “You know what was really made for me?”

“What?” I ask as he pulls his cock from my hand.

“This,” he smirks before plunging himself inside of me. I arch my back off the mattress in pleasure as he lets out a guttural moan. “Gods your so fucking tight!”

“Oh fuck Rhys!” I moan, scratching my nails down his back.

He starts fucking me hard, the mating bond glowing brightly between us. If this is how badly we need one another before the mating ceremony I shudder to think what will happen after. If he thinks a few weeks will be enough he’s dead wrong, I could do this for the rest of my life.

He snaps his hips at an angle that hits a particularly sensitive spot and I can’t help but moan even louder.

“Gods I love the sounds you make when I fuck you,” he says with a feral grin before sinking his teeth into my neck.

“Oh gods Rhys I’m close!” I groan, running my hands through his hair.

“I’m right behind you mate, make a mess on my cock,” he grunts and it’s enough to send me over the edge with his name on my lips.

“Fuck y/n!” he screams, spilling his seed inside me.

As I feel his warm cum coat my walls he collapses on top of me and though he’s crushing me it’s an welcome weight. His skin on mine is the best feeling I’ve ever known. His shallow breaths coat my neck as I rub soothing circles on his back. We spend a few minutes catching our breath as I continue to hold him close to me.

“Did you talk to Cassian and Az about Beron?” I ask.

“I did and I think we have a solution.” he answers without moving his head from my chest.

“What is it?” I inquire further, dying to know.

“We toyed with the idea of having the mating ceremony early but with the meeting so soon it wouldn’t be safe. If we were to walk in there as a newly mated pair I would have Beron’s head ripped off within moments of him talking about you like you’re an object. It’s too dangerous,” Rhys said.

“Agreed,” I chuckle nervously. “But if we can’t mate officially then what do we do?”

Rhys rolls over from his spot on top of me so that he can see my face, no doubt wanting to gage my reaction to his proposed solution.

“I make you my High Lady,” he says with pride in his voice.

I knew that Azriel had said it earlier but at the time I didn’t believe him. It didn’t seem possible. I bore no real powers besides winnowing, I had no political knowledge. How could I possibly be High Lady.

“But do you really want that?” I ask. “I mean you’re not just doing it to make sure Beron and Tamlin don’t win right?”

“I’ve always known you were going to be my High Lady y/n. But I knew that the title came with responsibilities. I didn’t want to pressure you into it.” he explains. “But to answer your question more directly, yes, I want it. I want you to be my equal in every way possible. Why do you think I brought up Kallias and Viviane when we were on the Summer Court terrace?”

I smile remembering the interaction.

“Then I guess I’m High Lady of the Night Court now.” I smile triumphantly.

(I was debating wether or not to put this sort of plot twist in here so please leave some feedback because it helps me to know what you guys like and how I can write better for all you beautiful stars!)

Taglist: @crystalferret202 , @heyyitsnat21 , @cheshire-salvatore-mikaelson , @randomperson1234sblog , @local-fangirl09 , @bleh-81, @annaaaaa88 , @tenaciousperfectionunknown , @judig92, @aunicornmademedoit, @sharknutz ,

@slytherintaco , @isa1b2h3 , @nickishadow139 , @sarawritestories , @coisas-da-dani , @lovemesomevesey , @graceshifts ,

#rhys acotar #rhysand #rhysand x reader #rhysand angst #rhysand fluff #rhysand smut #rhysand acotar #rhysand x reader smut

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loveandmurders · 2 years ago

Note

Hi! I saw your requests were open and was wondering if you could do one with the slashers;

Their s/o is typically sweet and quiet but is very protective and hot headed when it comes to them. Like if someone insults the slasher they literally have to hold their s/o back from attacking the person.

(With Tommy Hewitt, Jason, the Sinclair Brothers and whoever else you want to add)

Pretty please and thank you. And happy Halloween 🦇

Hello darling, I guess it's time to be spooky in June! (Ok, I'm sorry it took me so long to reply to your request, Happy Halloween to you too).

I really hope you will enjoy this <3

DON'T TOUCH MY BOY

Gender neutral reader with no physical description.

Warnings: no proof reading, mention of killing, violence and blood, mention of sexual desire for Vincent, one or two strong language.

Thomas Hewitt

Detailed headcanons already written for him here

Jason Voorhees

From the start, you had been very protective of Jason, mostly because of his past and everything that happened to him (even if he was more than capable of taking care of himself).

When you arrived at Crystal Lake for the first time, it was because you heard kids were camping there and it was driving you crazy.

You didn’t know Jason at that time, but you wanted people to leave this place alone.

Jason watched you from far away, his head tilted to the side as you were yelling at all those people, looking crazy to them, but so attractive to him.

You were ready to start a physical fight with them, but they were a lot more than you. So after the first slap you threw at one of them, three boys were ready to “teach you a lesson”.

You knew you were in a bad posture but you were eager to kick some ass to protect yourself and to protect this place. You were too angry to be afraid of them. Some girls tried to stop the fight, but the boys didn’t want to let this go.

Jason wanted to see how things were going to go. But he saw in how much danger you were, so he decided it was the best time to intervene.

He did save you.

And he killed all the kids who were camping at Crystal Lake. And you just watched, completely taken aback by what just happened.

You thought you really needed to go too.

But he didn’t kill you then. And he didn’t let you go either.

He liked you here.

You reminded him of his mother too.

She was just like you, smart and ready to hurt whoever upset Jason. You were very protective of him, even if you knew nothing could happen to him.

He knew that his mother, wherever she was, was liking you too and she would approve of your relationship very much.

Bo Sinclair

You had always known Bo, since kindergarten actually.

And you had always loved each other with everything you had. There was a natural bond between the two of you, and no one could stop you from being glued to his side.

You both were always screaming and crying when you were forced apart.

And as you grew up, you both started to be very protective of one another.

And because you were two hot heated kids, you were always fighting and coming back home covered in bruises.

But it was worth it. You loved each other with fierce passion.

As you grew up, your relationship changed to be more of a romantic and sexual one, but it didn’t change about one thing: you were both ready to yell and to kill whoever said something bad about the other one.

And it was still the case with the tourists.

When you were around Bo, the man was always a little bit more tense but only because he was ready to protect you and to react if someone said something or made a move towards you. He often had his arm wrapped around you, as you cutely snuggled against him.

But at the second someone started being rude to him because he didn’t have the right mechanic pieces for their vehicles, oh boy, even Bo couldn’t stop you from slaughtering them.

Don’t get him wrong, he really enjoyed the sight of you covered in blood, but it always worried him a little that something could happen to you.

“How somethin’ so cute like ya, can be so angry” he liked to tease and you always giggled at that.

“That’s because I love ya, silly. Could burn the whole world for ya to keep ya safe and happy” you replied, and the feeling was more than mutual.

Vincent Sinclair

You used to be a tourist coming by Ambrose, but you were so gentle, soft and quiet that the twins weren’t too keen on killing you.

Sometimes, they spared some people, especially when it didn’t seem like they had a very nice car or a lot of money, and when they had been nice to Lester.

Lester hadn’t shut up about how sweet you had been to him. It made his day, because it wasn’t that often.

But it was nothing compared to when you met Vincent.

You fell in love with him right away and you were very impressed by his sculptures, complimenting him nonstop when you discovered he was the artist.

No need to say that the big man was very flustered by such positive attention.

That was how you got adopted by the Sinclairs and that you stayed by their side. You learnt to know them and to love them, and vice versa.

They definitely learnt a new side of your personality the day you were in the House of Wax when some tourists came visiting it as well. You were observing them from far away, until you heard them saying awful things about Vincent’s arts.

You walked to them, and started to violently argue about that. You couldn’t stand anyone speaking that way about Vincent or his art or his talent.

Vincent was watching you from far away too. His plan was to grab you and show you the way to his basement for you to go there, but now he was just staring at you, getting all hot and bothered by such a display of pure rage.

It was the first time he was seeing you that angry.

You often argued with Bo when he was making a rude comment about his twin, but it wasn’t like that.

You were clearly ready to hurt those people. Maybe even to kill them.

Which you did, and without Vincent’s help. He was so proud of you.

Lester Sinclair

You met Lester on the roads.

You liked to travel around and to drive where no one seemed to live anymore. You were both very surprised to see one another on the road, so you started to chat and you got along very well.

At first you were just meeting up with him, but after a little while you agreed to follow him in his truck. You were looking for roadkills with him.

You noticed that Lester was talking a lot to strangers, especially to guide them toward Ambrose and then he was always sending a little message to his brothers when that was happening.

You were fully aware that you never saw the lost tourists after they went to Ambrose, but you didn’t think much of it. You probably missed them when they were leaving.

You didn’t really care, even though you were sometimes a little bit curious about it.

But when you were asking questions, it was clearly putting Lester uneasy, so you stopped doing so.

What was driving you crazy though, was when Lester was helping someone and that they were rude to him in thanks.

More than once, the lost tourists talked very nastily to Lester and were judging him.

The more time you spent with Lester and the more protective you felt towards him.

It was more often than you would like it that you were asking the tourists to be nicer or to shut the fuck up.

And you weren’t doing that in a polite way, almost yelling at them, a little bit threatening too.

The first time Bo saw you, you were showing a guy out of Lester’s truck and clearly ready to kick his ass for having rudely commented on Lester.

Bo instantly liked you and Lester didn’t even have to convince his big brother to not kill you.

#thomas hewitt x you #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x s/o #jason voorhees x you #jason voorhees x reader #jason voorhees x s/o #vincent sinclair x you #vincent sinclair x s/o #vincent sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x s/o #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x s/o #lester sinclair x you #lester sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #slasher x s/o #slasher x you #slasher headcanons

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wttcsms · 1 year ago

Text

daylight ; colt grice.

pairing colt grice x f!reader word count 14.3k synopsis colt grice's life has never been easy, and it's about to get a hell of a lot worse. content contains sw!reader, canon discrimination against eldians, depictions of violence, blood, taking care of him when he's injured, slowburn author's note this is part one of four!! / repost bc the first time around, it didn't show up in tags </3

part one: no sharing names

“Are you scared?”

The teenage girl sitting in front of the cracked vanity mirror is shaking. She’s been jittery all day, and as the sun started its descent, she’s only been growing increasingly more and more anxious. You wish you could tell her that it’s nothing to be scared of, but that would be a lie.

Your whole line of work is built on lies; the last thing you need to do is let Work You bleed through into Real You.

“It’s okay if you are.” That’s what you settle for, slowly running a brush through the thick, dark layers of her hair.

“Were you scared?” She’s a tiny thing; it’s no surprise that her voice would sound so small, too. It makes your heart break just a little more.

“I was.” Seeing that your admission doesn’t make her feel any better, you add on, “Sometimes, I still get scared.”

“Oh.” And then, “How do you still do it?”

“I don’t have a choice.” You pretend that most of your focus is on the knot in her hair and not the glimpse of the horrified expression on her face. She’s actually a very pretty girl.

Being pretty is a double-edged sword. The benefit of this is that she’ll never run out of customers; the downside of this is that she’ll never run out of customers. You drag the brush through the knot of hair more aggressively than you intend to.

She doesn’t say anything, so you elaborate. “It’s just me and Ramzi, you know.” The girl nods in acknowledgement. At the refugee camp, everybody seems to know each other; a side effect of living in cramped spaces and having more communal areas rather than private ones. A tight-knit community, but hardly by choice. When the whole world seems to harbor an unshakable hatred towards you, you learn to cling to the people who don’t.

“And Ramzi… He can’t make money, and we can’t keep living off the kindness of others. So, if this is how Ramzi gets food in his belly, and clothes that fit, how could I possibly stop doing this?” It’s not as if Marley is a land of opportunity; oppression fits it much better. You set the brush down and start to braid her hair. “This isn’t… This isn’t a job you can retire from very quickly.”

It’s not a job you can necessarily leave, either. Not just because the money is more than what you could make doing laundry and picking up after people’s dogs, but your work history will always follow behind you, a permanent stain on your record. It’s best that she comes to terms with this sooner rather than later.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” She sounds broken, defeated. The sentence comes out as a sob, and you’re distinctly aware of how her cries only continue to chip away at your resolve. You wanted to remain cool and impersonal. You wanted to act as if taking the care to do her hair for her wasn’t an attempt to give the poor girl some sense of normalcy — of comfort — before she gets sent to the slaughter. You want — the most dangerous thing a girl like you could possibly ever do.

You’re hugging the girl before you can tell yourself that this is a bad idea. The goal was to wean her off comfort, not coddle her, smother her with affection and comfort and warm words. How will she possibly survive if she’s continuously clinging onto the warmth nobody she services will provide? You certainly weren’t given anything to prepare for your first night; no warnings, no reassurances, no comfort. It was a hard lesson to learn, that no one visiting this establishment would ever care about you. That no one here would ever see you as anything more than something they’ve paid for.

Three more seconds. That’s how much longer you’ll give her to bury her face in your neck, wetting your exposed skin and probably getting snot in your hair. Three more seconds, and then you will (gently) pull her away from you. Three more seconds, and you will begin to properly prepare her for her condemnation.

One—

Ramzi is probably getting ready for bed right about now.

Two—

You reminded him that he needs to take care of himself and to remember to layer the thin blankets so he can try to get as much warmth out of those hand-me-downs.

Three—

It’s going to be a cold night.

You remove yourself from the embrace, taking in the girl. Her big, brown eyes are still shiny from her tears, lashes slick from them. She’s sniffling, lips quivering, and she looks a mess.

(You try to ignore that by the end of tonight, she will look even worse.)

You want to hug her again, but already, you feel like you’ve done both too much and not enough. Yes, it’s nice to know that someone cares, but that won’t do much to help her survive this. You place your hands on her shoulders.

“Look at me.”

She forces herself to look you in the eyes. The shift in your demeanor makes her cease her sniffling, and she’s finally still.

“You asked me how I’m still doing this. I’ll let you in on a little secret, alright? Can you keep a secret for me, honey?”

She nods, too afraid to speak.

“It’s just all a big game. And every game has rules, right?”

She nods again.

“I’ll tell you the rules to mine. The first one is that they can’t know my name.”

“Won’t they ask?”

“They don’t pay me to tell ‘em the truth.”

That gets a semblance of a smile on her face.

Before you can tell her any more, there’s a loud bang on the door.

“Girls, we’re about to open up shop!” Willa, the Eldian woman running this whole establishment, gives you two this warning. You can hear her loud voice traveling through all the thin walls in this place. She’s making her rounds, visiting the other girls’ rooms to let them know, too.

“Guess our time is up.”

“Wait, but you didn’t tell me any of your other rules! How will I know what to do?” She’s panicking, scrambling for any reason to stay here with you instead of facing whatever nightmare awaits her out there. She’s clinging onto your arms, acting like you’re her lifeline, and how sad it must be, you think, for you to be the person someone looks up to.

“It’s your game, honey. You can make up your own rules, change them as you go, make special exceptions. Whatever you want to do.” You brush back a few strands of her hair that clings to her still-wet cheeks. “Just focus on figuring out all the rules, especially when you’re searching for something to think about.”

The best rules usually come during the times where you want to focus on anything other than what’s presently happening to you. On your second night, there was a man who produced so much saliva, that when his mouth was drunkenly exploring every inch of your skin, you stared up at the peeling paint on the ceiling and decided right then and there that no man was allowed to kiss you on your lips.

“Why can’t they know your real name?” She asks. “Everyone back home knows your name.”

“Everyone back home knows me.” The men that come here are mostly men who want to break you. To take something from you, everything from you, to leave you with nothing. It makes them feel powerful, knowing that they paid a cheap price for free-rein to destruction.

That’s how you win the game: by not letting them break you.

These men, they never stood a chance against the personas you fabricate for them. Different names, different personalities — it’s all make-believe. Those girls, the girls you pretend to be, are the ones that get destroyed every night.

“Promise me that you will never give them a chance to know you, Nadia.”

She nods, but unlike every other time, this one is fueled with conviction.

Colt Grice is acutely aware that he has absolutely no business being here.

The bright yellow armband sticks out like a sore thumb, acting as a flashing arrow that separates him from the other soldiers flanked by his side. Some days, it feels too tight, too restrictive, too heavy of a burden. Tonight, it feels like a blemish.

Even drunk, Colt knows these thoughts are dangerous. Any Eldian would kill to be a Warrior candidate, and he’s all too aware of the privileges he and his family have been granted because this yellow strip of fabric says he should be granted some respect.

Not too much, though. Show a devil a little reverence, and he’ll probably take you straight down to hell with him — he’s certain that’s how most people here see him.

Soldiers coming to the red light district of Marley is nothing new. When training gets tough or there’s time to kill, drinking ensues. Where alcohol goes, bad decisions have a tendency to follow.

Colt likes to think of himself as responsible. Sensible. Even if the Marleyans would deny it, he would even go so far as to think that he is a fairly good person.

Stumbling down these dark streets, passing by brothels and love hotels, he thinks a good person probably wouldn’t be here right now.

“It’s fucking freezing out here,” Michael purposely bumps his shoulder against Colt’s. “Are you freezing too, or do devils just not get cold?”

From anyone else, it would be an insult. From Michael, it’s a joke. Like most of Michael’s jokes, they don’t necessarily land the way he intends them to, but Colt doesn’t bother telling him to work on his comedic timing or delivery; as nice of a guy as Michael is, he could still easily get Colt punished for treason with just one conversation with any of their superiors.

“Do you ever get tired of slumming it with us devils?” The slur glides off his tongue too easily. Michael makes a face before slinging his arm over Colt’s shoulders as a show of good-natured camaraderie. With the flickering streetlights and the few other souls walking past, there’s really no one to bear witness to it.

“Nah.” Michael clears his throat and sounds like he almost wants to say something else but decides against it at the last minute. A second later, and he’s belting out an old battlefield victory song taught during their childhood training. With everyone else in the group inebriated, it doesn’t take much to get them to drunkenly sing along. Colt smiles at their antics, but doesn’t join in. He wants to try to shift his armband around, but Michael’s arm is still thrown around him, and Colt decides he could really use another drink right about now.

Instead of stopping at a bar like he hopes for, the rowdy group makes their way into the infamous “Gentleman’s Club.” The paint is peeling, there’s shattered glass right beneath the boarded up window, and the words on the sign are so faded, the G entle part of it is nearly imperceptible.

Colt does not think he is getting another drink tonight.

He’s not sure what to expect from a brothel. He’s heard some stories in the barracks, but he usually makes an effort to tune out those type of crude tales. How would his mother feel about him indulging in any of the activities being described by his fellow soldiers? What type of example would he be setting for Falco?

Eldian soldiers looking for a quick and easy release usually frequent the cheaper brothels. From an outside perspective, it’s hard for Colt to believe that any of these places could possibly be in worse shape than this building. The fact that this one is the nicest is enough to make Colt regret following the crowd tonight.

The entrance of the Club is sparsely furnished, with a singular light bulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering and casting weird shadows everywhere. There are some pictures in frames hanging on the wall, but the inconsistent lighting makes it hard for Colt to properly make out any specific features of the girls photographed.

A redheaded woman appears, taking in the group of half a dozen soldiers taking up all the limited space in her entrance.

“First time?” She asks them. She sounds perfectly calm, but Colt doesn’t miss the way her sharp, green eyes seem to linger on Michael.

If he runs out of this place right now, would any of these guys remember or are they too drunk to trust their memories? Before he can further debate the merits of hightailing it out of here, Michael pushes Colt forward.

“It’s my friend’s first time here. Mind showin’ him what a good time a couple of coins can get him?” He winks at Colt, obnoxiously mouthing out words that look an awful lot like you owe me one .

Colt can feel his ears turning pink from embarrassment.

“Of course.” The woman’s tight-lipped smile indicates that she would much rather be doing anything else. “If you would follow me, sir.”

He could still make a run for it. Sure, he might have to endure endless teasing and maybe word of this little escapade would reach the ears of the others in the Warrior Unit, to Falco, but the alcohol churning in his system is doing a magic act — look, kids, with just a couple of drinks, watch as I make all my critical thinking skills disappear! — and Colt is very much aware that he is making a supremely bad decision, but—

—he follows the woman up the stairs, anyway.

“You’ve never been to a brothel before?” The woman asks as she leads him down a dark hallway. There are doors lining the wall, each of them closed. Sometimes, Colt can occasionally hear faint grunts and the sound of skin slapping against skin; the further he follows this woman, the louder the noises get. Or maybe it’s just all in his head. Maybe he’s making up the noises. Maybe they’re sharper, louder, only because he’s accidentally seeking them out.

He hears a scream.

The woman doesn’t even slow her pace.

“No.” He answers.

“Well, you chose the right one, at least.” She doesn’t sound like a proud business owner, and considering the circumstances, Colt can’t necessarily fault her for her lack of enthusiasm. “What kind of girls do you like?”

“Huh?” The question catches him off guard.

“What kind of girls do you like? So that way we can pick the right one for you.”

Colt doesn’t like the sound of this. He feels dirty, all of a sudden. Like he’s drenched in something filthy, and he needs to go home and shower. The fucking trenches are preferable over this.

She turns around, squinting at him. He can’t tell if it’s because it’s so dark that she can’t see him, or if it’s because she’s scrutinizing him.

“Nothing coming to mind?” Colt is aware of the clientele that frequents places like these; her clear impatience and almost snappish tone catches him off guard once more.

“Um, no. I’m not very particular.” An understatement, really. His kind aren’t allowed to be picky.

She stares at him for a second longer before telling him, “I know a girl for you.”

She leads him to the last door, knocking three times against it. Nobody answers, but this doesn’t seem to bother her. “Alright, Mr. Not Very Particular. Enter whenever you want, leave whenever you want. Normally, you pay something upfront, and then you stop by the front desk, and depending on how long you stayed, I’ll calculate the rest that you owe, but your friend is covering the cost for you. If I were you, I’d run up his tab.” He thinks she smiles when she says this.

He wants to ask her if Michael gave any particular reason for why he’s paying for a service Colt certainly never asked for, and more importantly, he wants to know why the hell Michael has an open tab at a brothel (freetime off base is usually few and far between, after all). He can’t ask her anything, though, because she’s walking away, probably to go stare into the other soldiers’ souls and ask them what type of women they’re into.

This just leaves Colt, a dark hallway, and the door in front of him.

Not knowing what waits for him on the other side has never bothered him before. Colt is used to worst-case scenarios — a trait inherited by all Eldians. Optimism is a luxury people like him can’t afford.

He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He’s a Warrior Candidate — the one set to inherit the Beast Titan after Zeke’s time is up — and he’s being bested by what? A door?

Before he can think too much about it, he straightens his posture, grips the doorknob, and opens the damn door.

It’s Michael’s money, anyway.

When Colt was a young boy — so young that Falco couldn’t speak or do much besides staying swaddled in a blanket and pushed around in a stroller — his mother often made him go out for walks.

Keeping all that energy bottled up is no good is what she would tell him, before forcing him to lace up his shoes and walk up and down the cracked sidewalk of their neighborhood for thirty minutes. (It’s not until he’s older that he realizes she really just wanted him out of the house for her own peace and quiet.)

The internment zone of Liberio could be worse. Even as a child, Colt learns that this is simply the unofficial Eldian motto, the doctrine of their way of life, if you will: it could be worse.

In school, Colt learns that there are much worse places to be designated, and he should be grateful for the mercy of the Marleyans. The Grice family is at least better off than most; they have their own house, and the Public Security Authorities don’t patrol this area nearly as much as they do other areas in the internment zone.

Another important lesson he learns young: just because you don’t see that you’re being watched doesn’t mean you aren’t being watched.

Usually, his mom sends him off on errands, especially when he starts to complain that it’s boring just pacing up and down the length of the neighborhood. Today is no different.

“Go to the market, and get me some tomatoes. I forgot to buy some when we went last week.” Mrs. Grice narrows her eyes at her oldest son. “And no going off course, Colt. Absolutely no detours — to the market and right back home, do you understand?”

His mom, just like every other Eldian mother, constantly battles with the understanding that their children need to learn how to survive outside the safety of their house and the overwhelming urge to try to shield them from said outside world. There’s always horror stories about what happens to little Eldian boys and girls who stray too far from the safety of their internment zone.

With one hand shoved in his pocket, fist curled tightly around the money his mother pressed into his palm before sending him off, Colt heads towards the main square where there will be different vendors and stalls selling a variety of goods. Sweets, hardware, clothes, fresh fruit and vegetables; it’s easy to get distracted. The main square is probably the liveliest place in the internment zone, the only other place besides home that Colt assumes nothing bad can happen in.

The first sign that something is off is when the usual pathway to the main square is eerily quiet. It’s a perfectly beautiful day, with the sun shining and no holiday that would cause the market to be closed down. The further he ventures, the more oddities he takes notice of.

The blinds are drawn. Laundry that has long dried is still hanging outside, blowing in the wind. There are no children outside playing, and there’s a tiny voice in his head telling him that he should turn around right now.

The second sign that something is off is when the flutter of curtains pulling back catches his eye. He turns his head and catches sight of an older woman peering at him through the little gap of fabric. She shakes her head slowly — a warning? He tightens his grip on the money in his pocket.

Normally, there are PSA officers patrolling the main square. With so many Eldians gathered in one spot, the officers are taught to think and anticipate the worst. A ruckus, a riot, the seeds of rebellion being planted — anything could happen. Who knows what these monsters are capable of? They couldn’t possibly just be innocently shopping for groceries and treats because there’s nothing innocent about them, period. A tamed dog is still a dog. Dogs bite.

The third sign that something is off is the deserted square. Stalls must have been hastily packed up considering the few remaining items left behind. There are no officers in the square, and Colt knows that something bad has happened. He doesn’t want to believe it at first, but the proof is hanging right in the middle of the square for any passerby to see.

There is a man hanging from the clock tower located in the middle of the square. His head is hanging limp, and Colt almost thinks that he’s dead, that there is a dead body put on display in the town square, but he sees the slight, unmistakable movements of his chest.

It’s even worse — the man is still alive.

He’s horrified. Colt is frozen in fear; somewhere during his assessment of the man, he must’ve gripped the coins in his pocket too hard because when he returns home, there will be an imprint of the currency etched onto the palm of his hand. He inhales, exhales, and is frightened to realize that his breaths are in tandem with the hanging man’s. Will he stop breathing when this man does, too?

The man’s clothes are dirty, stained with dried blood and tears through the cotton. He’s been beaten before this has happened, no doubt. There’s no other explanation since he’s hanging too high up for anyone to touch him. He’s being held up only by the rope tied against his wrists, wrists with skin that is rubbed raw and red from the roughness of it all.

There’s writing on the usually pristine brick of the clock tower. Dripping red, too bright to be blood but clearly a derivation of it:

TO LOVE A DEVIL IS TO BE ONE

He examines the man’s entire body, committing it to memory, especially his clothing. Dirty, torn, and tattered. Chunks of fabric ripped and ruined. Trousers, a work shirt, holey socks. The man’s left arm is still covered by the longsleeve of his shirt, but his eyes travel upwards. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and looks again, searching for the gray armband, searching for even a pin in the shape of the nine-pointed star.

There isn’t any.

Even in death, an Eldian still must wear their armband. With no trace of racial identification, that can only mean one thing:

This man is a Marleyan.

Colt does what he should have done at the first sign of trouble: he runs. He sprints down the empty blocks and refuses to slow down, even as he goes through the neighborhoods closer to his own. There are people outside here, people who don’t know what has happened, and Colt ignores their concerned shouts and sighs of chastisement for running so recklessly down the street. He’s struggling to breathe and his legs burn by the time he barrels through the door of his home, the only safe place for him left, and he heads straight to the bathroom, ignoring his mother’s call of Colt, is that you?

He throws up in the toilet, and when there is nothing left from breakfast for him to cough up, he starts to dry heave, images of that man, that Marleyan man, constantly flashing through his mind, permanently embedded in his memories.

He hears the banging on the door, his mother’s worried questions of what’s wrong?, sweetie, are you okay? filtering through the wood of the bathroom door.

There are fundamental lessons to be learned here. There is no place in Marley that is truly safe. There is nothing anyone living here can do, even if they want to do something.

There is nothing good that comes from loving an Eldian, from loving someone like him.

��Hi,” there’s a girl in here, wearing a straight white dress — more like a sleeping gown, something long and flowy and a bit transparent — her hair tucked behind her ears and brushed behind her shoulders. She’s looking at him, studying him in a way that makes him subconsciously stand up straighter, like he needs to impress her, and there are a couple thoughts running through his mind right now.

You are a very, very pretty girl. Beautiful, even. He has never seen someone like you before, and he doesn’t think he ever will and,

He is simultaneously too drunk and yet not drunk enough for this encounter.

Another shot and he would have enough drunken confidence to approach you. Right now, he’s had just enough to make his mind go all foggy. What do you say when a beautiful girl tells you hi ? The correct reply is floating somewhere in his head, he knows it, but the answer eludes him at the moment, and all he can really focus on right now is that he is very, very upset with Michael.

You tilt your head, standing near the bed but not approaching him yet.

“You alright, honey?”

Colt doesn’t normally have trouble speaking to girls. In fact, he’s quite popular back home. His girl cousins always groan during family gatherings, complaining to Colt that it’s so annoying how all their friends want to use them as a means to get closer to him. The attention is flattering, and he’s even flirted with the idea of a romantic relationship once or twice, but he always seems to have something else that he needs to focus on more.

Focus, Colt. He tries to force himself to come up with something witty and flirtatious. What comes out is a strangled hi.

He clears his throat, spits out a more coherent hello, and turns redder in the process.

Smooth. He thinks. Real smooth.

If you think there’s something seriously wrong with him, you don’t act like it. Instead, you smile at him, something so soft and sweet, and Colt knows for a fact that he’s a dead man. An absolute goner.

“First time?” You ask, taking in his impossibly straight posture that doesn’t match with his curled hands and flushed cheeks. The uniform gives him away: he’s a soldier. You’re used to soldiers, some of them young and nervous, just wanting to get their first time over with. Those tend to be nice boys. Sometimes, you can even enjoy yourself — not because of their technique (or lack, thereof) — but because kindness is a resource so rarely shared with you, you can’t help but indulge in it when you get it.

Most of the soldiers that frequent this place are Marleyan. They come here drunk from liquor and look forward to getting intoxicated with power. They’re rougher, meaner, less forgiving.

You’ve never seen a soldier with a yellow armband before, though. A Warrior Candidate, that’s what he is. You wonder if he’ll be nice. He certainly seems nice.

“I don’t normally do this stuff.” He blurts out. “Not sex, I’ve had sex.” And then, just for good measure, in case you don’t believe him (you do, of course, believe him; a soldier that looks like him certainly doesn’t have to try hard to find someone to warm his bed), he tells you, “I’m not a virgin, I swear.”

You sure act like one. You find yourself thinking, amused, but not necessarily annoyed. There’s something so earnest about him that you can’t find it in yourself to say something mean. Besides, men who come here aren’t looking for mean women. They’re looking for someone to exert their power over, and they’re looking for a fantasy. You’ve been doing this long enough to know how to fill the role of the woman of their desires. Some men are searching for someone sweet and docile, some are looking for a woman who’s reluctant, someone that they can chase and get to submit. No matter what, though, all of them are looking for prey.

Somehow, the soldier standing in front of you, with his blond hair and perfectly ironed uniform, yellow armband seemingly brightening up this whole room, he doesn’t look like he’s searching for prey. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he’s searching for an exit.

“I’m not a virgin, either, so I guess that makes two of us.” You take a seat on the bed, patting down the empty space next to you, offering him a seat. He doesn’t take it. You think he’ll come around eventually.

“I don’t… I don’t go to brothels.” He explains to you, and you nod in understanding. The stressed out soldiers of Marley saying they don’t go to brothels is like listening to an alcoholic tell you that they don’t go to the liquor store. You could try to call him out, but there’s always that little saying: the customer is always right.

“Well, honey, I think someone must’ve given you the wrong directions because you’re in one right now.”

“Colt.” He tells you. “My name is Colt.”

“That’s a nice name.”

He looks like he’s about to ask for yours, but before he can, you continue talking. “What do you want to do tonight, honey?”

Honey. He told you his name so you wouldn’t have to call him something so sweet. He’s certain that you already saw his armband, saw him for what he is. The lack of disgust on your end is disarming him.

“Whatever you want.”

Idiot. He chastises himself. He’s said so many stupid things, at this point, he can’t even blame it on the alcohol in his system. He’s discovering that he just might actually be stupid.

You give a little laugh. “You really haven’t been to a brothel before.” You adjust your position on the bed, getting comfortable, angling your body more towards him. “Normally, it’s the other way around. We do whatever you want to do.”

You don’t sound the least bit upset about it, about the fact that you have to spend every night going through with whatever someone pays for you to do. What must it be like, he wonders.

“I just want to talk.”

You smile at him, and he takes a mental image of it, locks it away in his memories.

“Sure thing, honey. We can talk, but the price remains the same.”

“My friend has a tab here. He’s, uh, covering it.”

Great. He inwardly groans. Now she thinks I can’t even afford to be here.

“Must be a nice friend.”

“He’s not really a friend.” Colt explains. “Coworker is more accurate.”

“So he’s a soldier, too. That makes sense. Not sure where else you could find brothel buddies to go out with.” You don’t normally tease your customers too much. Most of the time, they aren’t here for conversation, and none of them are safe enough to say anything less than forced out praises of yes, you feel so good! to.

“We’re in different units.”

“So how’d you two meet then?”

“He’s—” Annoying. Irritating. A pain in the ass. A good guy, when he chooses to be. The nicest Marleyan Colt’s ever met. “—a free spirit. He just roams around, no matter how many times his commanding officer threatens punishment.”

“He sounds fun.”

“He has his moments.”

“And what about you? What are some of your shining moments?”

You can tell a lot about a person by how they present themselves in their stories. If you’re going to ask an arrogant asshole soldier about his shining moments, he’s probably going to spout some nonsense about his (fictional) heroics on the battlefield (he hasn’t even fired a bullet at an enemy soldier before; hasn’t even seen war). Someone insecure struggles to even come up with a story to tell you. The best kind of people, though, tell you—

“On the day my little brother, Falco, got accepted into the Warrior Unit, I cried.” He gives you a sheepish smile and rubs the back of his neck nervously, like he’s embarrassed to admit this. “I was just really proud of him, and I knew how badly he wanted to be there. We had this whole celebration; my mom baked a cake, and my dad splurged on alcohol, and all our neighbors came over, too. It was this whole thing. And, uh, one of our neighbors asked Falco how he feels about being in the Warrior Unit. He announced to the whole party that he felt great about it because all he ever wanted to do was follow in my footsteps. I felt like I was someone for once.”

—something just like that.

He seems more relaxed after sharing this with you, and you can see it in the way his brown eyes seem to shine when he mentions his brother, the way he can’t quite seem to contain his pleased smile while reliving the memory, that this soldier isn’t lying to you.

“What about you?” He suddenly asks. “What’s your shining moment?”

“You think someone like me is capable of having a shining moment?” You play at being coy, but it’s just a means of distracting him. No matter how sweet or nice this golden soldier seems, the last thing you want to do is share your own life with him. There aren’t many things you hold close to your heart, so revealing them makes all the emptiness in you suddenly seem that much more infinite. You don’t want to lie to him, though.

There is enough weakness (kindness) in you to spare to not disrespect his honesty by giving him a false memory.

“Not only that. I think you star in people’s shining moments, too.”

Honest. He’s being honest.

Nobody has ever knocked you off balance like this before. You didn’t even think anyone would ever be capable of doing such a thing. And, the worst part of it all, is the fact that this soldier just throws this out so casually! What kind of person goes to a brothel and starts throwing out genuine compliments to the prostitutes? Someone not right in the head, clearly.

But the smile on your face is unfairly sincere, and this, you realize with a sense of dread, is going to be one of your shining moments.

“Whoa, what’s the rush, Beast Jr.?” Porco Galliard is sitting on a crate outside the barracks, looking like he has absolutely nowhere to be. Commander Magath always reminds them that there is always something for them to be doing, and if he catches any of them slacking off, he is always willing to give them something to do. Porco received the same warning, same as the rest of the Warrior Unit, but he also thrives on pushing buttons. Colt knows he’s not stupid enough to challenge Commander Magath directly, but he also knows that Porco is arrogant enough to play the dangerous game of trying to see how far he can piss off Magath without getting written up.

Ever since Colt was given the news of his inheritance of the Beast Titan, he spends more and more time with the current Warriors than the other soldiers, leaving him in a constant struggle to find his footing. The other soldiers already know he’s set up to reach the highest honor an Eldian can ever aspire to achieve, and what’s the point of getting too close to someone who’s only working with a limited lifespan? When he’s with the Warriors, Colt feels even less sure of himself. Zeke occasionally invites him to their meetings, lets him play at having some sort of significance, but Colt isn’t in as deep as the others are. Not yet.

“What? I’m not rushing,” Colt says, sounding guilty, and exactly like someone who is in a rush. Porco is more observant than people give him credit for, and stubborn (although, people give him credit for being that all the time).

“No way, you’re definitely in a rush. Where are you running off to?”

“Don’t you have anything to do? I thought Warriors were supposed to keep busy schedules.” Colt attempts an evasion tactic, dodging Porco’s question and instead, putting the focus on him. Porco doesn’t give in.

Then again, Colt can’t remember a time where anyone was able to evade the Jaw Titan.

“Now I know for sure that you’re up to something. What could Golden Boy Grice possibly be hiding?” Porco Galliard is dangerous on a good day; a bored Porco Galliard, with nothing but free time on his hands, is downright detrimental. “You startin’ a rebellion?”

Colt’s eyes widen before he twists his neck, trying to make sure no one is in their vicinity. Even as a passing joke, all it takes is one person to mention this lighthearted jibe, and Colt’s life is over. Not only will he most likely be imprisoned and then publicly executed, but his family will suffer right with him.

Porco throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Relax. No one’s here. They’re off actually doing their chores.” He seems to consider the situation. “Did you get a girlfriend or something?”

Does Porco really have nothing better to do? Judging by the wide grin on his face, the answer is a definitive yes.

“Oh, shit! You do have a girlfriend.” He laughs, and Colt isn’t sure if he should be offended. “Look at you go, Grice.”

Porco is still laughing like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all day, but at least he allows Colt to go pass without any more trouble. The only reason he doesn’t bother correcting him, Colt reasons, is because he doesn’t want to explain himself.

That’s all.

The red light district looks weird in the glow of the afternoon sun. The same dilapidated buildings, with their peeling paint and cracked windows, grimy signs and rusted, metal roofs, don’t look nearly as intimidating as they do in the nighttime. Instead, they just look a bit… sad.

There are some people outside. Two old men smoking cigarettes outside what Colt assumes is a bar. A drunk man walking in the opposite direction, mumbling something incoherent under his breath, a half empty bottle of clear liquid hanging from his hand. A woman using a broom that’s clearly seen better days to sweep the outside of her own shop.

The whole area feels like a graveyard for the living.

He feels aware of how he stands out. He stares straight ahead, following the cracked pavement, making his way to the Gentleman’s Club. With his stiff, ironed military uniform, neatly parted hair that’s hidden under his helmet, and hands too clean to have touched anything in this part of town, Colt can’t tell whether he looks like an adversary or a target. His only saving grace, the only thing keeping the half-dead inhabitants of this place away, is the yellow armband twisted tightly around his left bicep. He quickens his pace anyway.

Already out in the lobby, standing behind a desk, is the same redheaded woman from last night. If she’s surprised to see him here again, she doesn’t show it.

“Back so soon?” She says, forgoing a polite greeting altogether.

Considering where she is, Colt can’t necessarily fault her for it. Minding his manners (Mrs. Grice did not raise her children in a barn, going against what the Marleyans assume) and military training, Colt removes his helmet. He’s thankful that he has something for his hands to grasp, keeping them occupied.

“Is—” For as much as he revealed to you, Colt realizes that you didn’t really offer much on yourself . Not even your name. “—the girl I saw last night here?”

“She doesn’t work in the daytime, no.” The woman pulls out a large book, flips through its pages, not bothering to look up at him again until a few more seconds pass. Acting as if she’s shocked to find that he’s still standing there, even though Colt knows she knows that he hasn’t left, she says, “I really don’t think you would be interested in any of our daytime workers, either. Even if you aren’t very particular.”

“Oh. I see.” Colt, as a matter of fact, does not see. He’s just saying something to fill the awkward silence.

“As a Warrior Candidate, I assume you have other places to be, Mr. Not Very Particular?”

Clearly, business is doing well (even though the empty lobby suggests otherwise) since Colt hasn’t met a shop owner who seems quite content with shooing customers out the door.

“Colt.” He tells her.

“Colt.” She repeats, slowly. “Well, Mr. Colt, my establishment prides itself on its discretion. I’d use an alias next time, if I were you.”

He doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t plan on there being a “next time.” That would be rude.

“The girl from last night, I wanted to give her this. Would you be willing to hand her these when she comes in?” Digging into his pocket, Colt pulls out a pair of white cotton socks. They’re military issued, and stolen from the inventory warehouse. Colt was put on inventory duty, tasked with handling the shipment of new uniforms and training clothes. For all the heavy lifting he’s had to do, one pair of girl’s socks is a small price to pay.

The pair you had on last night had been threadbare, at best. Even in the unlikely possibility that Colt gets caught and receives a punishment, knowing you had these for the upcoming winter would have made it well worth the trouble.

“You could always make an appointment and give it to her yourself.” For once, the woman seems like she’s trying to give him a genuine suggestion.

The thought of doing that sounds nice, and then the feeling of his yellow armband being too tight brings him back down to reality. You didn’t wear an armband. There’s no indication of where you’re from, but you certainly aren’t Eldian. As nice as talking to you was, he’s aware of the fact that you didn’t seem too bothered that he didn’t take a seat next to you. Your reluctance to share anything about yourself speaks volumes. At the end of the day, you’re being paid. You probably only stomached his presence because you needed the money.

Ignoring the twisted, upset feeling in his stomach at these thoughts, Colt tells her,

“I don’t think she would want to see me again.”

Her eyes linger on his armband, the same piece of fabric tied around herself, too, just a different color. She seems to know what he’s thinking.

“My girls let me know when they don’t want to see someone again. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if she had an issue with you.”

“Still, I probably—”

“There’s an opening for tonight at nine. Should I mark you down for that slot, or is there a better time that works for you?” The woman leaves no room for Colt to not make an appointment, and instead, he just lets the woman write down his name in her book. He walks outside with his pockets considerably lighter; the stolen socks are still shoved deep in there, but a majority of his cash now rests in her possession.

(He had paid her the total amount upfront, as a way to force himself into showing up for the appointment. She had been very adamant that no deposits get returned, and she doesn’t do refunds. Ever.)

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” Ramzi says, frowning at you as you hold up a handheld mirror, trying to examine your collarbone. There’s a nasty bruise marring your skin, slowly turning into an ugly bluish-purple splotch on your body. There’s no point in trying to apply makeup to conceal it; not only is makeup already too tough to come by, but it would be all for naught. It’ll get rubbed off before the end of your shift, and it’s not like your customers even care.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave, either,” you admit to your little brother, turning to face him.

“Why do you still have to go when you’re hurt?”

“It looks worse than it actually is.” You’re not lying. You really only notice the pain when you press down on it.

He’s pouting. A couple of years ago, when you first started, Ramzi used to cry every time you tried to leave. He couldn’t understand why you were gone at night, the only hours where a little brother could really use a sister, someone to protect him from all the scary, imaginary monsters that lurk in the dark.

He finds out about what you do to ensure he’s taken care of. The first time you get recognized while shopping for food in a public market, Ramzi was clinging to your side, careful not to lose you in the crowd.

“Who’s letting the whores walk out in public?” Someone had shouted. A man.

You were with that same man two nights ago.

Someone else in the crowd says, quite loudly, “How shameless! Doesn’t she know there are families trying to enjoy themselves?”

“Look, the whore has a child herself!”

Your cheeks had become heated from embarrassment. You couldn’t even look the fruit seller in the eye as you handed him the money to pay. You’re using the money received from the services you gave that man, the one who called you out.

Only when you two had made it back to the safety of the refugee camp did Ramzi slowly detach himself from your side. He was still just a young child, completely pure, full of innocence, staring at you with his dark eyes wide with wonder.

“Sissy, what’s a whore?”

You want to wash his mouth out with soap. You want to tell him to never say that word ever again. It’s bad enough having to harden your heart and take no offense when men call you it repeatedly, night after night, but you never realized how much it would hurt to have to hear it come out of your little brother’s mouth.

Instead, you swallow hard, hold back your tears, and pat his head affectionately. “You’ll find out when you’re older, Ramzi. Don’t you waste a single second worrying about that.”

Ramzi naturally finds out what that word — and all the other degrading insults hurled your way — means. Now that he’s older, he knows better than to repeat any of those words, especially when the two of you are in the safety of your home.

“If I didn’t exist, would you have to do all this?”

Childhood is nothing more than a pipedream for kids like Ramzi. In a world where only the fittest survive, growing up is imperative. Not only is he old enough to understand, he’s old enough to do his own critical thinking, come to his own conclusions.

If Ramzi didn’t exist, you would not be doing this. You would be like some of the older women in this camp, the ones who scrape by by doing odd jobs for pitying Eldians and living off the scraps the other refugees provide. You never tell Ramzi this because there’s no point in telling him that. He’s your only real family left. The only person in the world you think you’re capable of loving, completely, honestly, with your entire being. If the universe served you an ultimatum, telling you to be with Ramzi but die a prostitute, or live without him and live a different life altogether, you know you would choose Ramzi, every single time.

“If you didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be here at all.” You tell him. “I wouldn’t have bothered leaving our first home when Marley attacked us. I would have just decided to let the rubble and fire crush me, kill me. And even if I did manage to make it out, I would have died in this refugee camp from loneliness. Don’t ask me something like that again.” You find yourself holding back tears. “You are the reason why I’m alive, Ramzi. Don’t ever assume I regret anything I do in this lifetime, especially if it’s for you.”

“I’ll pay you back.” He declares, standing up from the pile of blankets he was burrowing himself under. He runs straight to your side, hugging you, burying his face in your shirt. “I’ll find a way to keep us going, and then you won’t have to leave or go back to that place ever again.”

You hold him tightly, stroking his hair. What a dream that would be.

Withdrawing from him, taking the walk with the other girls to the brothel, preparing yourself for the night awaiting you — all of it is done with a sad smile on your face as your little brother’s promise plays over and over in your mind the whole time.

That’s all it is: a dream.

You think you discover a different plane of existence when you find yourself detaching from the present and use your mind to float yourself to a different time, a different place.

The man’s pace is quick and rushed. He’s just focused on getting off. On the bright side, he’s just here for the sex and not the show. No need to try to get into character, to figure out what personality he wants from you.

A sex doll would be a good gift for him, you find yourself thinking. A hefty investment, for sure, but think about all the money he’s spending at the brothel. If he calculates his annual payment, the sex doll looks like a steal in comparison.

You ignore his grunts, reducing it to nothing more than white noise. You stare up at the ceiling, wishing you could see the night sky. Stargazing — that’s what you would like to do. If you close your eyes, you can picture the starry night from back home; not Marley, not the refugee camp, but your real home. The one where you grew up. The one destroyed by this man’s people.

You work at night, yes, but you spend all your time stuck in this room, reduced to an object of pleasure. By the time you get off from work and take the long, tiring walk back to the camp, it’s already dawn and the only star in the sky is the rising sun. You miss the little luxuries in life. You miss being able to look up at the night sky freely, counting all those twinkling, shimmery flecks above. You envision a shooting star, and make a childish wish, and somehow, with nothing but stars and silly wishes on your mind, your brain conjures an image of the blond soldier from last night.

You don’t realize how stiff your body is until you actually find yourself able to relax, to sink into the hard mattress beneath you. With his erratic thrusts, you’re certain that your client is nearly finished. At least he doesn’t have the stamina nor the recovery rate to go for a quick round two. You don’t want to think about the client though, so you take yourself to where you can actually stomach being. To places where you want to go. To see people who you want to see.

The soldier. Why does he keep appearing? It’d be bothersome if you were busy trying to do anything else, but seeing as he’s the only reprieve your mind can come up with, you go with it.

Besides, there are far worse things and people to think about. At least this one is kind.

Kind, and genuine. And surprisingly soft-spoken. Not in a shy manner of speaking; no, the smooth, deep tone of his voice sounds nice. You can see why he’s in the Warrior Unit. If he really put his mind to it, he could get anyone to do anything with a voice like that alone. A voice of a commander, surely.

Unlike the other soldiers you’ve dealt with, he speaks to you softly. Gently. Like you’re someone to handle softly, gently.

This is precisely why you try not to coddle the new girls. See what happens when you’re given a little kindness, a little warmth? You start clinging on to it, desperately, hungrily. You crave it, seek it out, search for it everywhere you can, and when you can’t find it anywhere else, you start jumping through hoops, trying to convince yourself that there’s something sweet hiding underneath the cruelty everyone else gives you.

If one person is capable of being kind, that means everybody in the world is capable of it. And if everyone else chooses to treat you like the scum of the earth, then it’s clear the one person who was nice to you was just an outlier. Or, just a liar. And then you spiral, start to think something is wrong with you, like maybe you’re at fault. Maybe you just didn’t deserve to be treated nicely. Maybe the problem isn’t with other people; the problem is you.

Before you can drown in your self-loathing any more, the golden memory of the soldier breaks through your thoughts.

Nothing so bright has ever entered this place until he stepped in your room and stood by the door, a blushing, stammering mess that contradicted his position in this society.

He just wanted to talk.

Men never want to “just talk.” It always ends up becoming something much more. You think about Malik, who occasionally stops by your tent at the camp to bring you and Ramzi any of the leftovers his family has. Malik, who struggles to be soft because of all his rough edges, a side effect from growing up a child in the middle of a war. Malik, who had tried to kiss you the last time he wanted to talk. He had apologized, even though you found yourself telling him there was nothing to be forgiven for. The kiss could have landed, and you still wouldn’t be able to be upset with him.

Would that soldier try to kiss you? You think of how he stood by the door the whole night, never leaving his station. He must be a good soldier, you rationalize. He’s probably respected by his peers. Someone his family is proud of. In this line of work, you don’t have to work particularly hard to seduce the men; they all come here out of their own lustful volition. It would honestly be tiring having to lay your charm on the whole time you’re here.

Did the soldier find you charming? Out of all the personalities you try to emulate for these men, the closest one to your true self had been with him. There wasn’t a need to force out replies you didn’t want to say, no gut feeling arising in your belly, warning you to keep your wits about you because saying the wrong thing in a conversation with a man could be a matter of life and death. No.

He just wanted to talk.

What if you tried to be more charming next time? Maybe you could let your dress ride up more, reveal to him more slivers of skin. He had been respectful the whole entire night; you don’t think he noticed you noticing him. His eyes never left your face, except to occasionally look down at his hands when he thought he said something stupid.

(For the record, you didn’t think he said a single stupid thing once.)

You come back down to reality as the man is pulling out of you. He tosses the used contraceptive in the trash bin and is zipping up his pants. He doesn’t look you in the eye as he slaps down a few crumpled bills on the nightstand. Willa may take a portion of the total payment, but all tips go directly to you.

You don’t thank him as he’s on the way out. Does garbage ever show gratitude when you toss it to the side?

Willa makes a point of trying to schedule appointments in a way that ensures each girl gets at least ten minutes to herself between clients. A brief reprieve, a chance to recollect, to build yourself back up again right before someone else walks in to destroy you.

In the silence and darkness of the room, you toss aside any what-if scenarios between you and the soldier. He’s likely never going to return. There’s no point in fantasizing about a “next time,” because it’s never going to happen.

You feel empty, devoid of emotion, cold, when the door opens again. You look up at your newest customer, ready to work out what show to put on for him when you feel life flooding back into your body, shocking your system.

Closing the door gently (as opposed to the carless slams most customers do) is the soldier. The same soldier from last night. His golden hair and his sunny smile and the bright armband flaunting his status.

“Hi,” he says, standing by the closed door, the same exact spot he was in last time.

It really is him.

“Hi,” you say back, too stunned to come up with anything clever or fascinating or charming.

He came back!

“Conversation must be pretty poor in the military if you’re coming back to little old me for a chat.” You recover quickly, smoothing down your dress, wondering if your hair is a mess.

He cracks a smile at that. “Well, you’re certainly more fun to talk to than half my bunkmates, I’ll give you that. But no, I actually came here to bring you something.”

“You brought me a gift?” Sometimes, clients bring their favorite girls gifts. You’ve received things like lacy undergarments, tiny bottles of perfume, things that would make their visit more pleasurable. You don’t see any shopping bags or wrapped boxes in his hand, and you wonder if he’s pulling some cruel joke on you. Like, surprise! You really thought I would get someone like you a present?

“Wait! Don’t get too excited. It’s not really much, but…” He digs into his pocket before pulling out a pair of bright white socks. He hesitates for a second, as if he’s thinking about what to do, and then he’s making his way to you, standing in front of you. He still has to stretch his arm out to hand you the socks, making sure to leave what he must consider to be a respectful amount of space between you two.

“Wow.” You breathe out, examining the gift. The cotton is soft, thick. It’s so bright and fresh and clean, you almost cringe at the thought of stepping on these floors with them on. They would be covered in a layer of dirt and grime within seconds. It feels expensive. It feels a lot nicer than any other article of clothes you’ve received since seeking refuge in Marley. It feels too good to be true.

No one gives you something for free. When you remember this lesson, you look up, only to realize that he’s returned back to his spot by the door.

“Like I said, it’s not—”

“Thank you.” You suddenly feel shy, holding on tightly to the bundle of cotton. “Thank you, truly. I really don’t know how to repay you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” In the dim light of the room, you can see his face and ears turning a faint shade of pink. There’s a pleased smile on his face, and it makes your face feel warm.

“So, you spend money just to stand by the door all night and make conversation with me, and then you bring me very nice gifts, too. Honey, I don’t think you understand how brothels work.”

“Colt.” He says, in that soft, patient manner of his. There’s a hidden request there; not a demand, but a plea. If he asked you for anything else, you would eagerly give it to him. If he took you right then and there, you would be a very willing participant indeed.

But he’s not asking for sex, he’s asking for something more intimate.

He wants you to call him by his name.

You can’t do that. It’s too personal, it’ll blur even more boundaries.

“Don’t tell me you really think I’d forget.” You say this instead, trying to subtly avoid the situation at hand. “I couldn’t forget even if all the other customers paid me to.”

“What do you call them? Your other customers.” There’s no malice in his question, no envy; just pure curiosity. Hearing someone want to know more about you is a foreign interaction. You don’t think you’ve ever been asked a genuine, normal question in years.

Honey. It’s simple. It’s basic. It’s impersonal. Sweetheart, depending on what character you’re trying to perform as. Baby, on occasion.

“Silly things.” You tell him. It’s the truth.

“But the same things?” He asks, and you nod.

“I don’t want to call you the same things, though.” The socks feel warm in your hands, and there’s a tiny voice in your head screaming at you for being so damn truthful, for not keeping your mouth shut. Why is it that the things you want to say and the things you should tell him are the exact same thing? It’s oddly nice, being able to speak your mind and have someone actually want to hear what you have to say; even better to have it be the right thing to say. “What do you think, soldier? No more calling you ‘honey.’”

He opens his mouth, closes it, tries to say something, then thinks better of it. Finally, he lands on, “Whatever you want to do.”

Whatever you want to do. Last night, he told you whatever you want.

For the hour he’s here, you can try on a new role. A girl who wants. A girl who is allowed to want. This girl — you — decides that he doesn’t even need to fulfill any wishes. Wanting is enough; for you, it’s enough.

You get comfortable on the bed, casually pulling back your hair and letting it lay behind your shoulders, against your back. With no hair to block it and the low neckline of your dress, your collarbone is on display. You momentarily forget about the ugly bruise, and you don’t notice the way his eyes flicker downwards, seeing it. Instead, you’re happy to start interrogating him.

“What’s it like, being a soldier? I heard the yellow means you’re a special one, right? A Warrior.”

“Being a soldier is an opportunity I’m happy to have.” He answers carefully, trying not to sound ungrateful. There’s no way his family would have been able to afford the tuition for medical school so he could be a doctor. He didn’t want to be a shop owner, either. Career options for young Eldian men are limited. Enlist, or starve. “The yellow band means I’m in the Warrior Unit, but I’m not a Warrior yet.”

“You’re still in training?”

“Something like that, yes. But I have to wait until the other Warrior’s term is over before I can take his spot.”

“You’ll be able to shift into a special Titan then?”

Colt searches for the malice, the fear, the disgust. He only hears your curiosity.

“I’m set to inherit the Beast Titan.”

He finds himself standing up straighter, almost puffing out his chest in pride at the way your eyes go wide with awe.

“That must be the best one.”

“What makes you say that? The name?” Having the moniker of Beast just makes him feel even more inhumane, but titans aren’t necessarily humans, right? No point in trying to disguise the truth as anything but.

“No. You just seem like you’re the best soldier, so I assumed they would reserve the best Titan for you.”

Devil, monster, savage — whatever he is, he finds himself not caring. The warm feeling taking root in his chest, spreading throughout his body as a result of your words, makes him feel incredibly human.

“Yo, Grice! Isn’t this insane?” Michael slaps Colt on the back, ignoring the way Porco raises an eyebrow at the interaction.

“Shouldn’t you be with your unit?” Colt asks him.

“Nah. They don’t really care—”

“Lieutenant Sells, why the hell are you over there conversing with the Warrior Unit when I know damn well you popped out your mother a full-blooded Marleyan boy!”

The commanding officer for Michael’s all-Marleyan unit is red in the face with an angry vein protruding from his forehead. Michael seems entirely unfazed by the whole thing.

“I think your CO is calling for you,” Porco says.

“Huh. Was that him calling, or just the sound of flies buzzing?” Before Michael can look too pleased at his comment, his CO is screaming for him once more.

“Lieutenant Sells, every second it takes you to come back here and get in formation, is one lap you’re doing around the whole damn camp! I am not in the mood for your little games right now, Lieutenant!”

With his smile wiped off his face, Michael shoots them a look that says something along the lines of save me, before jogging back to his actual unit. The whole entire time, he’s being berated by his commanding officer.

“You keep interesting company.” Porco comments. “Hope your girlfriend is at least more sane.”

That’ll be tough, Colt thinks, considering his “girlfriend” doesn’t exist.

When war isn’t active, the Marleyan military grows restless. When Marleyans are bored, things are bound to go from bad to worse for any Eldians in their vicinity. Today’s scheme that they cooked up involves an all-unit showdown. Physical sparring, no weapons, between soldiers from all the different units.

No weapons, no maiming, no killing. Those are the rules.

The unspoken rule, of course, is that any serious punch dealt by an Eldian that lands on a Marleyan is sure to result in some awful punishment, ranging from toilet-cleaning duty to having a finger chopped off. Pity. Colt foolishly woke up this morning thinking he was going to have a good day.

He ends up getting paired with a burly Marleyan boy. He’s around the same height as Colt, but where Colt is lean, this boy is bulky. His muscles practically cause his uniform to burst at the seams.

The officers are making a whole day out of this, too. Too much free-time. Why let their soldiers rest or train in peace when they can gather them all up and publicly humiliate the Eldians? Yeah, because that schtick never seems to get old.

Commander Magath looks at Colt before sending him off to get his ass beat. It’s the same look Colt imagines a butcher gives a cow before killing it. For an animal, you weren’t too bad. Sorry things had to be like this. Not really, though.

“Whatever you do, don’t take that shit lying down.” Porco had muttered into his ear.

Colt isn’t like Porco, though. Things will only be worse for him if he does put up a good fight, and, unlike Porco, Colt is capable of possessing rational thought and the ability to put his ego to the side. He only hopes that Falco and Gabi will close their eyes.

“Shake hands,” the Marleyan commanding officer commands them. It’s a show of camaraderie. That this is just all in good fun. A way for all the units to bond! Colt’s not sure who’s falling for that lip service.

Like the good sport, the good soldier, he is, Colt extends his hand. The only show of defiance he will allow himself, he decides, is to not wince in pain as the Marleyan soldier crushes his hand. Colt smiles, which seems to only piss the guy off even more.

Thanks a lot, Porco. I tried not to take this shit lying down, and now you’re going to have to lay me in a grave. Tell Falco I love him. Colt thinks miserably.

“Remember, boys: no weapons, no maiming, and no killing. Try your hardest to follow these rules. First one down for ten seconds, loses. On the sound of the pistol.”

Once the pistol fires, Colt narrowly dodges the boy’s attack. With his build, it’s easier for Colt to move quickly, more fluidly. If he can just continuously keep dodging the boy’s hulking arms and certain death grip, Colt figures he’ll be safe. If it comes down to a battle of stamina, he knows he’ll win.

“Come on, Colt! You can do this!” Colt makes the mistake of trying to search for Falco, trying to pinpoint his voice through the crowd. This is the last thing he wanted! Why is Falco watching this? Why did Porco not grant him a small mercy and force his brother to close his eyes.

One second, he’s looking for Falco. The next, he’s getting punched right on his left cheek.

Fuck.

He staggers, loses his footing. He reflexively touches his face, already feeling the sting of the punch. He tries to avoid the boy’s next attack but moves too slow.

Fuck.

There goes his right cheek. At least he didn’t lose any teeth.

Colt says a quick prayer to any benevolent god listening.

Please don’t let him land a punch on my mouth. Please let me keep all my teeth.

He can feel his training kicking in. He digs his feet into the ground, subconsciously getting back into a proper fighting stance. He feels how naturally his hands ball into a fist. Even with his head ringing, his vision a bit dizzy from getting knocked around, Colt can still calculate the perfect time to go on the offense and throw his own punch.

Don’t take that shit lying down.

And right before the perfect opportunity to strike comes, Colt thinks of you.

You just seem like you’re the best soldier, so I assumed they would reserve the best Titan for you.

There’s more at risk here than just a banged up face and ruined dignity. He has a good thing going. He’ll be the Beast Titan and pay his reparations for being born by fighting for people who don’t even care about him. No time for a traditional midlife crisis, at least, seeing as how he’s most likely not going to live to see his thirties.

The fist he makes uncurls. The moment of opportunity passes. The last thing Colt thinks about is the bruise on your skin. He hopes that you make it to your thirties. He hopes you live a nice, long life. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.

When he gets knocked down, he doesn’t bother trying to get up. The ringing in his ears intensifies, and cutting through the noise are Falco’s and Gabi’s screams. Has it been ten seconds yet? Colt looks up at the sky. It’s a cloudless day. Nothing but sunshine and blue skies.

Yeah. Usually the most beautiful days are the worst for him.

Blocking his view of the sky is the Marleyan boy, his face contorted with contempt. Colt tries to think of the boy’s name, searches through his mind and looks for a time where they interacted. He comes up blank, and he doesn’t think it’s because of the mild concussion forming, either. They don’t even know each other.

Just knock me out, already. Colt wants to groan out. Hell, take a tooth if it’ll end this thing.

He catches a glimpse of something shiny, reflective. The sun? No. This is silver.

A blade.

Didn’t they say no weapons? Why isn’t the match over yet? It’s definitely been ten seconds.

He fills the coldness, the sharpness, of a knife’s tip pressed against the flesh of his face.

He should fight back. He should get up, take the knife for himself, and show this boy what a real fight looks like.

No. He wouldn’t take the knife. The rules clearly stated “no weapons.” That wouldn’t be fair, it wouldn’t be right.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” A voice shouts, and maybe he’s hallucinating because in what world is Commander Magath the one who looks out for him? Then again, it’s probably going to be tough replacing the future Beast Titan. Zeke likes him, too, which has to mean something.

There’s a lot of murmurs from the crowd, and Colt strains to listen to what they’re saying. He thinks he hears fabric tearing as a blurry Marleyan soldier is being pulled off of him.

Then, the world goes black.

“Ugh, you.”

When Colt regains consciousness, he realizes he’s been transferred to the infirmary. The cot he’s laying on is cold, and he looks down. He’s shirtless. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so shy when he turns his head and sees that the nurse is female.

Most of the nurses assigned to the Warrior Unit are women. This fact has never bothered him before, has never even properly registered in his mind before, but the stark white of their uniforms reminds him too much of the soft white of your dress.

The only nurse present isn’t speaking to him. She has her back turned, hands on her hips, talking to whoever pulled back the curtain.

“You’re so mean. Geez, I thought nurses were supposed to have empathy.”

Michael.

Colt can never seem to catch a break.

“If you want empathy, go get treatment from your own unit’s nurses. People who want proper treatment go to me.”

“Okay, we all know why you took this job in the first place. Don’t start with me, Claire—”

“I know you aren’t taking that tone with me right now. Who do you want me to get: your CO or your mom? Hurry up, and pick before I call them both.”

“C’mon, Claire!” Michael whines. “Let me in! He’s my friend.”

Claire turns around, squinting at Colt, who decides to feign sleep at the last minute.

“I know you’re awake.” She says. He opens his eyes.

At least she’s nicer to him than she is to Michael. “Do you know this boy?” She points to Michael, who looks too cheerful considering his conversation with Claire.

“‘Course he knows me! That’s my brother! It should be obvious. We look just alike, don’t we?” He knows it’s just a joke, but all things considered, the resemblance is somewhat striking. The same shade of blond, same build; the only difference is the eyes. Michael’s are a dark blue. “I clearly got the good genes, though. Ma says he looks more like the milkman than pa, but don’t tell him I said that.” Michael winks at Colt.

Nobody laughs.

“Michael, you really shouldn’t be here. This is a Warrior Unit designated area of the base. I’m being serious.”

“But he’s my friend.” Michael tells her this, but she shoots him a look that says yeah, right. Colt wants to tell Michael to be careful, to not just go around spouting nonsense like that, but the nurse seems used to the meaningless drivel that comes out of Michael’s mouth.

“Is that thing really your friend?” Colt’s shocked when he realizes she’s speaking to him, pointing at Michael, indicating that it’s Michael that’s “that thing.”

“Yes.” Colt says, realizing with a sinking feeling that it’s the truth. The feeling only gets worse when he sees Michael doing a fist pump.

“Oh my gosh. Your concussion must be even worse than I thought.” Claire gasps. “It’s okay. Whatever’s wrong with you that is making you keep him for company, I’ll fix it. Don’t you worry.”

“Are you even certified?” Michael snaps.

The scathing look she gives Michael would be enough to knock out Colt. Michael’s tougher than he looks.

“I need to go to the supply closet and get some more things since someone decided to get cut and made me use all our bandages trying to patch him up.” Claire announces. “You two — behave.”

Colt presses his fingers to his face and feels only one big bandage stuck on his forehead.

“Finally the Wicked Witch is gone.” Michael mutters, before turning his head sharply, almost as if afraid she’s secretly eavesdropping. He relaxes when she doesn’t jump up behind the curtain to put him in a chokehold. “Anyway, how ya feeling?”

“Like I just got publicly beaten. Oh, wait.”

Michael laughs. “Yeah? Don’t worry, he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

Colt doesn’t necessarily like the sound of that, but who is he to get onto Michael?

Michael tosses two strips of yellow fabric onto Colt’s chest. So, he wasn’t imagining the sound of fabric tearing, then. His armband is ruined. He’ll have to get a new one once he’s released.

“His knife accidentally nicked your sleeve when we were trying to yank him away from you. Figured you would miss it, so I snatched it up.”

“Thanks.”

“No need for all that. You’re gonna make it seem like I’m a good guy, or something. We’re friends, anyway. If you ever need anything, just ask.”

“Bruise ointment.” Recovering from a mild concussion must have caused more brain damage than he thought possible because Colt knows it’s poor manners to start making requests. Especially to someone who doesn’t have to worry about getting his armband ripped off.

“If you’re worried about your busted up face, don’t. I heard girls go for guys with rugged good looks. The black and blue really brings out the color of your eyes.”

Before Colt can apologize for his abruptness, though, Michael strolls to the cabinets and starts opening up drawers at random. “But since we’re best friends—” He waits for Colt’s correction that never comes. “—I guess I’ll do you a solid.”

Colt gets permission to leave the infirmary before dinner is served in the mess hall. He only stops by the Magath’s office to receive a new armband before heading to the front gates to sign out.

He’s got one hour’s worth of your time in money in his left pocket, and a bottle of bruise ointment in his right. He hopes you’re free.

Three soft taps against the door have you looking up. You don’t dare to hope that the soldier is visiting you, for the third time this week — in a row, no less! — but the more time he spends with you, the stronger the urge to dream gets.

You smile when you see that it’s him, and it immediately fades when you take a closer look. This time, you’re the one standing up, quick to approach him.

“Oh my— What happened?” Your arm comes up, ready to reach for his face, to examine his bruised face even closer, but you quickly snap it back to your side. He hasn’t tried to touch you in the two times you’ve met. Maybe he has an aversion to being touched. You reluctantly take a step back.

(Colt flinches. You chalk it up to pain; he thinks he must look pretty disgusting right now, horrific even, to have you scared to be near him.)

“Don’t worry. It looks worse than it actually is.”

You frown. It causes the most adorable crease between your brows. Yet another image to store away in his memories.

“Actually, I just wanted to come by to bring you something.”

“No. You don’t have to buy me gifts. Please—”

“I don’t mind. I enjoy giving them to you.” Not to mention that they’re technically stolen , not bought, but the Marleyan government can afford it. If his face is going to get banged up, one tube of ointment should be fair compensation. He places it in your waiting hands, the tips of his fingers brushing against the palms of your hands.

Electrifying.

“This is…” You read the label.

“Helps with bruises. Fades them, strengthens the skin, helps with a quicker recovery. I figured it would be something you would like.” The more he rambles, the more he thinks that maybe this was a mistake. It’s his face, isn’t it? He should have waited for the swelling to go down, for the bruises to heal up on their own, before showing up here. He probably looks more beast than human right now.

“Come lay down on the bed.” You say, and then, minding your manners, “Please.”

His brain short circuits. The concussion surely doesn’t help. You look up at him, doe-eyed and too pretty to be real, too pretty for his imagination to come up with, and you ask him again. “Please?”

Whatever you want — that’s what he told you.

Like a good soldier, he obeys the order given. He’s too tall — perhaps the bed too small — so he has to awkwardly maneuver his body on the stiff mattress. His feet are dangling on the edge, and there’s barely any room for you to sit on the mattress. Your body is pressed against his own, the two of you swapping warmth with each other.

You untwist the cap of the tube, applying a small amount of ointment on the tip of your finger before pressing the same finger to the bruised part of his face.

“Is this okay?” You whisper to him.

Your touch is gentle, soft, comforting. Far nicer than he deserves. The nicest he’s even been treated, he thinks. This is better than okay, better than great.

He feels his eyelids drooping before he gives in and shuts his eyes altogether. “Yes.” He breathes out.

You apply the ointment everywhere, slowly, carefully, trying not to apply too much pressure out of fear of sending a shock of pain to him. His breathing gradually evens out.

“All done.” You say it so quietly, it’s almost undetectable. He doesn’t do anything in response, and you realize that he must have fallen asleep.

You take the time to admire his face. He’s got a bandage on his forehead, a tiny, red line peeking out that indicates this cut was much longer than what one bandage could cover up. There are two different bruises forming on each of his cheeks, making your own look like a poor imitation of what a bruise should look like. You don’t know what possesses you to take your hand and run your fingers through his hair. It’s coarser than it looks, remnants of hair gel still stuck on some strands. Your soldier looks worse for wear, and obviously he’s exhausted.

So why did he go out of his way to bring you this ointment? You touch your own bruise, tracing the shape of it. He must’ve seen it. He didn’t ask questions, and that’s fine, because you probably wouldn’t have given him an answer, anyway. He must have known you wouldn’t say anything.

You know he walked here, too. It’s not a short trip from the military base to this side of town, nor is it an easy journey, either.

You continue to play with his hair, feeling your eyes get wet the longer you stare at him. What is the matter with him? Why does he do this? Why do you have to beg him to come to bed? Why does he take the trip to see you, spends money, brings you little things that no one else would think to get you, just to get nothing in return? It would be easier to know what to do with him if he were like any other man. Why won’t he ask you for something, anything?

“Oh, Colt.” You whisper. Your thumb brushes against the bandage on his forehead. When he wakes up, you wonder if you’ll muster up the courage to ask him what happened.

His eyes flutter open, looking dazed at first until his vision becomes clear. There’s a small smile on his face.

“Is this a dream?” He asks, voice sounding scratchy, like the words are scraping against his throat.

“No, not a dream, soldier. Go back to sleep.”

“Huh. But I thought I heard my name.” He mutters. He blinks. His body is telling him to go back into his peaceful slumber, but maybe the time he spends with Porco is making his traits rub off onto him. Colt finds enough stubbornness to fight his own body to stay awake. “Prove to me this isn’t a dream.”

How can someone look so confident, so strong, when they’re lying on a cheap bed, bruised and tired? How can someone look so handsome, despite it all?

You think you’re going to do something dangerous. You just have to summon the courage to do so. One look at the hopeful expression on your soldier’s bruised face, and you know that if he can brave whatever happened to him, you can finally just give in.

“It’s not a dream, Colt.”

He has to be dreaming, he decides. His name has never sounded sweeter.

You lean down, your face just centimeters from his own. Your lips, so close to his ear. He’s dreaming, he’s dreaming, he’s dreaming — he doesn’t ever want to wake up. To whichever higher power is listening, please don’t let him wake up.

“If this was a dream, I wouldn’t be able to tell you this.”

You whisper your name into his ear, and he is aware that this is not a dream. This is real life. This is you, so close to him, telling him your name. He greedily snatches it up, repeats your name over and over in his mind. Then, with his eyes closing, quickly giving in to his exhaustion, he says your name.

He’s out cold.

a/n: if you made it this far, thank you!!! a like and even just a simple comment would really make my day, but i know colt grice only has 2 fans (me being one of them), so i'm not expecting much. if you read precipice, you will look back on this fic and go "oh my gosh, it's a cameo from one of my favorite characters!!!" bc nothing screams self-indulgent fan fiction more than creating ur own lil universe within canon, with ur equally delusional friend <3

#colt grice x reader #colt grice x you #aot x reader #one shot #drabble #aot fanfiction #snk x reader #smut

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greenqueenhightower · 1 year ago

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Welcome to yet another episode of DISTURBING Things I Notice in HOTD:

Today’s installment is on bloodlust and dermatillomania (tw!) as expressed by our two key figures of the Dance, Rhaenyra and Alicent, and their similarities between Daemon and Criston respectively (pls bear with me on this).

First up, even though we have seen many scenes of bloodshed in the show, I want to mainly talk about the two scenes of bloodlust we have seen with Rhaenyra in episode 3 where she kills a boar, and with Alicent when she cuts Rhaenyra's arm at Driftmark.

Why, though, do I say bloodlust? Because it describes a desire for bloodshed and carnage, often aroused in the heat of battle or the moment, leading to uncontrolled slaughter and torture. The perfect example of this description is Criston's killing of Joffrey at Leanor's & Rhaenyra's wedding because it was moved by a desire for bloodshed further motivated by Criston's emotional turmoil, it was aroused in the heat of the moment because Joffrey provoked him, and, most importantly, he had lost control. This means that Criston is not generally like that; had he not lost control, he would not have performed the act.

The exact OPPOSITE is Daemon's cold-hearted killing of Vaemond: there was no underlying desire, the moment was not heated, nor was he personally attacked, and he did not display any loss of control. This means that he did not need any provocation to perform the act. In other words, bloodlust and bloodshed are in general part of Daemon's character.

I think that the analysis of these two extremes helps in understanding where Alicent and Rhaenyra lay in the spectrum of bloodlust.

Starting off with the scene at the hunt where she slays the boar, Rhaenyra ticks all the boxes for bloodlust: a desire for bloodshed because of the hunt, arousal in the heat of the moment because she was attacked by the beast, which then results in uncontrolled slaughter. Yet, that doesn’t seem to have any effect on Rhaenyra, as we see her walking back to the camp, completely drenched in blood. Her sight stuns and terrifies spectators, Alicent included, but Rhaenyra's detached attitude toward carnage resembles that of Daemon's. I am not saying that bloodshed and carnage are part of her character to the extent that they are a part of Daemon’s, but she and he both display a higher tolerance to the sight, thought and feel of the act.

Let's get now to the scene at Driftmark and the confrontation between Alicent and Rhaenyra. Alicent, too, ticks all three of the boxes for bloodlust at that moment: a desire for bloodshed because of the maiming of her son, arousal in the heat of the moment because her concerns are not taken seriously, and loss of control that results in obtaining the Valyrian steel dagger and cutting Rhaenyra's arm. However, Alicent shows how horrified she is that the situation has gotten out of control, and she drops the dagger. Later on, we see her remorse which mirrors Criston's, who wanted to commit suicide. They both understood the lengths of their actions and were devastated.

And what about Rhaenyra when she gets cut in that scene? She is once again oblivious to the pain, staring Alicent dead in the eyes which terrifies Alicent even more. I have a few reasons as to why.

First of all, Alicent suffered from dermatillomania growing up, which is a mental health condition where a person compulsively picks or scratches their skin, causing injuries or scarring. Also known as excoriation disorder or skin-picking disorder, this condition falls under the category of obsessive-compulsive disorders (OCDs) and can be triggered by anxiety. There are several scenes where we see that same anxiety permeate Alicent and her resort to dermatillomania, as early as episode 1 (this is where her brother Gwayne is fighting with Daemon):

What science says is that such behavior is anxiety-induced, a clinical condition, and even though she could stop it if she chose to, it is not that easy or simple. Alicent was addicted to the numbing pain as a relief from her anxiety but she loathed herself for its destructive nature. She was often made fun of it by her father who told her that she was "destroying herself." We see that as her confidence grew in the later episodes, and when she was released from the strenuous puppeteering of Otto, she was able to overcome the habit.

To my eyes, this is why it is shocking for Alicent to a) cause pain to Rhaenyra and b) to see Rhaenyra oblivious to such pain. The fact that Rhaenyra doesn’t even flinch, when Alicent hated herself for causing harm to her own body for years and when she already hates herself for losing her temper, confirms to her Rhaenyra’s absolute callousness. Yes, she, who lusts after what she wants and knows no limits, and whose ambition runs thicker than blood, does feel entitled to Aemond’s eye.

In fact, Alicent barely recognizes Rhaenyra at this moment. Alicent has just become afraid of herself, and of the newly discovered bloodlust she didn’t know she had, and seeing Rhaenyra show no reaction to the pain, Alicent becomes doubly afraid of Rhaenyra. The one who stares deeply into her eyes and shows her that she cannot hurt her. Who tells her that she can take in much more. Who is not like Alicent, to become consumed by pain. Rhaenyra is a warrior, and she is capable of showing her heartlessness when necessary. And that’s when Alicent understands that she doesn’t know Rhaenyra anymore. Alicent becomes even more afraid of her, and the person she has become. The person she could potentially turn into when provoked.

This is what absolutely terrifies yet humanizes Alicent, who already hated herself for causing injury to herself, and who hates herself now for causing injury to Rhaenyra. Yet Rhaenyra won't let her hurt or pain show like Alicent does, and she is used to causing injury without feeling anything; just like Daemon.

*added the coloring to keep track of the many lines of thought happening here

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lil-spider · 1 year ago

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So Damn Pretty

Chapter 2

Part 1 : Part 3 :

Pairing: Johnny Slaughter X Female Reader

Summary: Johnny is sex starved and you’re very attractive, so attractive that he doesn’t want to kill you. Instead he finds ways to keep you around longer.

Note: Okey I’ve changed some stuff so here’s some context. I like the idea of Johnny being a bit of an sex addict and he’s really good at sex (he can find the clit type of good) cause he’s made himself a hobby fucking the pretty female victims and going out to the local bar when he actually gets free time. He’s a basically massive man whore, but he can’t help it that women find him sexy (super cocky). But Drayton later finds out he’s been fucking the food (lmao) and has temporarily banned him from going out by himself and keeping the female victims away from him. So a sex starved Johnny who’s heavily attracted to the reader sees an opportunity to use her like a maid so he can constantly keep fucking her. I’m still gonna keep the baby momma thing but that will come later in the story. Oh and I’m turning 21 on the 17th! So happy birthday to my fellow September babies!

Warning: This is 18+ and please do not read if your sensitive to heavy descriptions of non/con and violence. Including bondage, blood, gore, assault, objectification and unsafe sex. For those who don’t mind, I hope you enjoy.

Catchy music was blearing out of the front speakers of the minivan; my friends Jessica and Nate were singing along to the tunes. I was sitting in the back, relaxing into my seat, enjoying the fact that college was finished and summer holidays were just beginning. We decided this summer we were going to experience camping for the first time. We had all grown up in the city and never got the chance to enjoy the country side of Texas. I’m excited to finally cross camping off my bucket list, and make this summer memorable.

My bubbly blonde friend Jessica turned around in her seat. “Two hours left, and we should be at the campsite before night.” She said this, grinning at me and turning back to kiss her boyfriend, Nate, on the cheek. Nate, being the protective type, only tagged along with us as he didn’t like the idea of two ‘pretty girls’ camping by themselves in the middle of nowhere. They have only been dating for a few months; he’s the classic teen heartthrob with dazzling eyes and short, dark blonde hair, and Jessica is the overly cute blonde. They were perfect for each other. I smile at the both of them, they were great friends.

“Oh fuck!” Nate is panicking as black smoke starts coming out of the hood. He pulls over to the side of the road, and all of us get out to see what’s wrong. “Can’t it be fixed?” I ask, looking at Nate, worried. His face contorts in disappointment. “I've got no idea, Y/N; cars aren’t my speciality.”

We all look at each other, uncertain of what to do; we’re in the remote countryside without any sort of help. “We might have to walk back if no one drives by.” Nate tells us regretfully: But as soon as he said that, we saw an old blue Ford truck honking and driving up to us.

“You need a hand?” The unknown driver asked Nate. “Yes please! Our van just broke down with smoke coming out.” Nate explained to the man. He nods his head and parks his truck in front of us. The trucks door opens, and out climbs one of the best-looking guys I have ever seen. He wears a black sleeveless top that shows off his muscular arms and a pair of blue denim jeans paired with dirty yellow gloves. He has dark brown hair slicked back with a few strands falling over a scar; my cunt embarrassingly throbbed at the sight of him; I must have gone red in the face as he smirked looking at me. I quickly turned my head to look at Jessica, who was also a little red in the face. It’s not every day you see a hot country boy.

The handsome stranger introduces himself as Johnny Slaughter. “Good to meet you, Johnny. I’m Nate, over there is my girlfriend Jessica and my friend Y/N.” I did a little wave at my name, hoping I wasn’t still blushing. He shakes Nates hand and nods his head to us. “Ladies. Damn, he has a deep voice; it’s making me all hot and bothered. “Alrighty then Nate, pop the hood and let's take a look.”

Johnny stared at the engine, arms pressed against the van, leaning over while shaking his head. “I’m going to have to get my tools for this.” He said, looking over at us. ‘’Ah, shit! That bad?" Nate asked. “Yep, but don’t y’all worry, I’ll get this baby fixed in the morning. For now I can take you guys back to my family’s home, get some food, and sleep?’’ Johnny offered. “Wow, that’s so nice of you, Johnny.’’ Jessica replied, smiling at him, being a little too flirty.

I feel a little uncertain about trusting Johnny, we have only just met him; but he is helping us and I would rather not sleep on the side of the road. Jessica and I nod to Nate in agreement with Johnny’s offer. “Okay, yeah, we’ll go with you.’’ Nate tells him. He smiles, slamming the hood of the van back down, and turns, leading us back to his truck. He opens the back door, and we three slide in. As Johnny hops into the driver's seat, we are greeted by a woman sitting in the passenger seat. Was she here the whole time? “Hi y'all, I’m Sissy.’’ She introduces herself with a wink, but before we could reply, she blows this white powder in our faces. My vision starts to blur as I hear strangled coughing from my friends, and everything quickly goes black.

The next thing I know, I’m waking up tied to a meat hook, covered in dry blood, and desperate for freedom. At that time I had no idea where Jessica and Nate could be, but now as I stare at their lifeless, brutalised corpses, I regret not trying to find them. Jessica's blonde hair is tangled, and her body is covered in slices, with a massive cut on her stomach. Nate's handsome face was shredded up by a chainsaw. They are getting wrapped in a blue tarp, by a larger man with a very human like mask on his face. Johnny takes a drag of his cigarette while holding me, and he shoots me a grin, seeing my legs wobble from the hard fucking I endured. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you? So slutty having an orgasm while your friends get murdered.’’ He taunts quietly in my ear, guilt-tripping me.

“Johnny, why is she still alive?” Asked the small woman who blew white powder in my face. It’s Sissy, I think, trying to remember her name. “This pretty little thing is going to help us cook, clean, and do all the daily chores around the house. We’ve been needing extra hands around the farm since Ma is gone and Drayton busy with the chilli carnivals.’’ He explains to Sissy. She looks at me up and down, smirking. “Oh, I’ve been wantin’ some female company for ages now, and you're so beautiful too! I have these pretty ol’ dresses that would look lovely-,” she didn’t finish her sentence as she’s cut off by Johnny. “That’s enough, Sissy; you can talk to her later; we've got sh*t to do.’’ She rolls her eyes at him but goes to help the larger man.

Johnny pats the larger man on the back, “You did a good job, Bubba.’’ So Bubba is his name. He just lets out these happy groans. So he’s nonverbal?Johnny turns back to me. “Were you listening before? Tomorrow, Sissy will show you how things get done.” With a cig in his mouth, he grabs me again, pulling me out of the slaughterhouse and bringing me to his parked truck. “I’ll cut off the zip-tie when we get back home.’’ He opens the passenger-side door, waiting for me to hop in. He shuts the door after me and flicks away his burned-out cigarette, reaching in his back pocket for another one. Johnny walks away as Sissy plops into the back seat. “Hi again sugar.” She says gleefully behind me.

Johnny and Bubba walk back, carrying each body on their shoulders, I swallow a lump as they chuck the bodies carelessly in the tray. Johnny, with another cigarette in his mouth, gets into the driver's seat, Bubba sits next to Sissy. Johnny chucks his packet of smokes and bloodied gloves from his back pocket onto the dash. He starts up the engine and changes gears, leaving the slaughterhouse behind. The drive is silent except for Sissy’s humming; Bubba stares out of his window while Johnny drives one handed flicking his finished cigarette out the window. I look back to the front, watching the high beam lights brighten up the dark landscape.

We turn onto a long dirt road leading up to a white, two-story house. Johnny parks the truck at the front and helps Bubba unload the bodies. Sissy goes to unlock the front door, leaving me alone. I thought of running when they took the bodies into the house. But I’m still zip-tied, so my chances of escaping now are extremely slim.

Johnny comes back to open my door and yank me out. He roughly drags me inside. I look around and notice a lot of bone decor, similar to the hanging bones in the slaughterhouse. I really hope it’s not human. I’m brought downstairs to a basement, Johnny opens this metal door, it makes a loud awful sound. He takes me to a small prison; Johnny stops to cut off the zip-tie, and I rub my sore wrists, trying to bring the blood to flow back. Johnny pushes me into the room, locking the door. It’s smells disgusting and damp.

“I'll be back to bring ya’ dinner.’’ He leaves upstairs, slamming that awful metal door. I sit down on the dirt floor and bring my knees to my chest. Dried-up cum is all over my thighs, making me feel gross. I started to cry. The last few hours have been horrid. I wish it was just a nightmare. The basement door slides open again. Snivelling, I stand to see who's down here. It’s that large man with the mask, Bubba; he walks over to the end of the basement, where I see Jessica and Nate’s hanging bodies, stomachs sliced open with their organs dropped into a metal tub. My hands shake as I cover my mouth in shock. Oh God! Bubba unhooks Nate and carries him over to a workbench littered with dirty tools. He grabs a hacksaw and begins to dismember Nate. I walk backwards into a corner, sliding down the wall. I started to breakdown. Is he harvesting them? Are these murderers cannibals? God, why did this happen? From sheer exhaustion, I lean my head back and pass out.

“Hey! Wake up!’’ My eyes shot open, searching for the yelling voice. It’s Johnny; he’s holding a white bowl with a spoon. He crouch’s down to my level and hands out the bowl for me to take. I hesitate because I am sceptical of the ingredients. “It’s pot roast; Sissy made it.’’ It does smell delicious, but I don’t wanna eat it. “I’m not hungry,” I told him in defiance. His eye twitches in annoyance, not liking my response. He grabs my hair roughly, craning my neck to stare at him. “Listen, I’m being really fucking nice here, so I ain’t gonna take any disrespect! You may be pretty, but I can easily get another woman who is just a tad more obedient to replace you.’’ His threat worked. I snatched the bowl and dug in, It was tasty. “Good girl.’’ He smiled, patting my head as I ate. He waits until I’m finished and leaves. Did I eat someone? Will I have to eat my friends? I have so many questions but right now the only thing that matters is staying alive. I don’t want to end up like Jessica and Nate.

Sometime later, Johnny comes back to let me out. “Follow me," I obeyed him, leaving the basement and following upstairs. He brings me to a bathroom. It has white broken tiles, a large bathtub with a shower head. He locks the door after I enter and turns the water on, letting it heat up. He throws off his top, giving a new view of his muscular body. I couldn’t help but stare. He has old scars lingering over his body more noticeably on his large pecs, he’s has light definition on his abdomen, and a defined v-cut. His body represents the result of hard work. He smirks at my staring, continuing he unbuckles his jeans, pulling them down. I quickly glance wanting to get a good look at his cock. It’s only semi-hard yet it’s still intimidating, how did it managed to fit inside me?

Johnny doesn’t move as he waits for me to undress. Not wanting to anger him again, I take off my dress, dropping the tattered material. I shiver in my naked form. He gently takes my hand and helps me into the shower. I hiss as the hot water makes my cuts sting. He grabs a plain bar of soap and starts lathering it up and down my body. Enjoying my little gasps as he squeezes my tits and glides his hands everywhere. He swaps us around so he goes under the water, his muscles flex as he relaxes, his head falling back, closing his eyes, while his hands run through his dark hair.

I won’t lie; just the sight of him is turning me on. Shit, why does he have to be so sexy? A murderer shouldn’t be sexy. Startling me out of my thoughts, he grabs my hand that’s holding the soap and moves it to his body, wanting me to wash him. Nervous, I don’t refuse, but I start out slowly around his stomach, leading up to his chest. This small action makes him rock hard. I see it pulse against his lower stomach just above his belly button, I bite my tongue scrubbing his body with both hands, massaging his chest and arms, feeling his muscles. The hot look he gives me sends a throb straight to my core. Water gently running down his handsome face. He brings my right soapy hand down to his cock, tugging it. “Come on baby, jerk my fucking cock.’’ I hesitate for a second, he squeezes my hand hard as a slight warning not to disobey. Wincing, I start to tug at his cock up and down, jerking him off. Groaning, he rocks his hips, shifting them into my hand, following my rhythm. “Good girl, play with my cock, just like that’’ He’s a head taller then me so when he grabs my chin to look at him I have to bend my neck back. “I bet your pussy’s dripping.’’

He swats my hand away and grabs my hips, bringing me in closer under the water so the soap starts rinsing off. He places his fingers below and, feels up my pussy, “I fucking knew it; you're such a needy whore, getting wet from jerking my cock off.’’ I grow shy at his words, wanting to hide my face from embarrassment. Johnny places his hands on the sides of my head and shoves his tongue down my throat. Heavily aroused, I kissed back, holding on to his shoulders. We start making out, our hot tongues wrestling with each other. His strong arms pick me up and shove me against the shower wall. I wrap my legs around his waist for balance while he lines his cock up thrusting it in my cunt without warning. I groan at the sudden intrusion: “Shhh, it’ll only take a second.’’ He says impatiently pounding into me. His hard cock reaches new places, making me moan desperately. The running water muffles the sounds of flesh clapping together. He grips my hips hard as he thrusts upward at a brutal pace. This time only focusing on his own release.

He leans back to watch my chest bounce. “Fuck, I love your tits.’’ He says with admiration as he slows down to suckle on each nipple. His obsession with my breasts is going to be the end of me. I start getting closer again until he stops, suddenly cumming inside me. “Ah,’’ he lets out a little moan as he fills my throbbing cunt. I look at him in disappointment, I was so close to cumming. He grins playful at me. He places me down as we go back to washing, I silently fume as my pussy and clit pulse from neglect.

We dry ourselves, and he puts on new, clean clothes similar to his older ones, but the shirt is blue. He hands me a white summer dress. “One of Sissy’s.’’ He tells me, “any underwear?’’ I question. He just sends an amusing smile and shakes his head. “That's a privilege, sweetheart.’’ Great; it wouldn’t have been bad if the dress wasn’t so short. If I bend over too far, I’ll flash my goods.

Johnny leads away to what seems to be his room. Everything is old and wooden; including a worn-out bed barely big enough for two people. He lays down on it and pats his side, signalling me to sit. I lay down on his bed as he sits up going in between my legs, pushing up my new dress. “I like the easy access.’’ He tells me right before sucking on my swollen clit. “Nnnnh.’’ I moan breathlessly finally having some relief. His two middle fingers slide in and set a steady pace. I spread my legs wider for him, still turned on from the shower fuck. He shoves his tongue flat against my nub, licking it up and down. I push his head further into me, thrusting against his face; this spurs him on as his fingers speed up. I cum on his face, my head thrown back, as my hands grip the sheets tight. I rut into him as he licks up all my juices.

Just when I thought we were done he thrusts his fingers back into me. I try to close my legs and wiggle away from the overstimulation but Johnny forces them open. He lets out a deep chuckle at the tears rolling out my eyes, I clench on his thick fingers as he puts his thumb on my sensitive clit, rubbing it in slow circles. I still hold onto the sheets while lifting up my hips, trying to chase my second release. He hears my needy whines and speeds up, swapping to his other thumb to rub my clit faster while his opposite hand continues finger fucking me. “Fuck, Johnny please don’t stop.’’ I beg him as I cum around his fingers. I gasp at the abruptness of my second orgasm. My legs shake from the intensity. Johnny pulls his hands away from me as I turn to the side, squeezing my legs trying to relieve the sensations.

He casually stands up walking to the desk across the room grabbing a cig, lighting it. Cig in mouth he undresses, getting ready bed. I watch him smoke, flicking the ashes in a tray on the desk. When I finally calm down he’s finished the cigarette, he turns of a lamp comes to lay down behind me, getting comfortable. He wraps one arm around my waist and helps me take of my dress letting it drop to the floor, So both of us now naked. “I'll set up a room for you soon; for now, you’ll stay with me.’’ He speaks softly. I try to get comfortable on the small bed wiggling slightly. “You keep moving like that and I’m going to fuck you again.” He threatens squeezing me tight. I freeze, too sensitive to test his patience.

“Hey Johnny?” I gently whisper his name. The only response I get is snoring, now left with no distractions I go back to my thoughts. I feel guilty knowing I’ve been enjoying Johnny’s company too much, I shouldn’t feel this comfortable with him but the more he cuddles into me the more my eyes feel heavy, I start to fall sound asleep in the arms of a killer.

#johnny slaughter #johnny slaughter x reader #smut #texas chainsaw game #texas chainsaw massacre #fanfiction #tcm fanfic #johnny slaughter fanfic #Texas Chainsaw massacre fanfiction #fanfic

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adaptacy · 1 year ago

Note

If you are taking requests, I have a pairing that I do not ever see enough of: Gale x Durge. Specifically resisting the urge type Durge. Starved for content as I am, I’d be happy with whatever is written about the two. But I’d love something involving Durge nearly killing their lover or the reveal of Durge being one of the orchestrators of the Absolute plot. In game, those scenes feel far too underdeveloped.

Durge playthrough spoilers blow the cut (Shadow-cursed lands, Last Light Inn stuff. No act 3 spoilers)

so, I haven't gotten to that far into my durge playthru but I did get to the part where you try and kill your lover and to nobody's surprise that happened to be Gale!! i was actually kinda terrified that he was going to die bcs, in my defense, I did try to kill Isobel but Marcus or whatever-his-name-was got the last blow on her first and I was devastated that Gale was gonna have to pay the price for my low damage roll. in the end ofc it was worth it cause he tied my durge up and, I mean, who's gonna complain abt that??

ANYWAYS point is, yes, I agree, I wish that scene was more fleshed out too and I am more than happy to oblige and build on the scene that we were given! Also fun fact, I hadn't actually confirmed the relationship with Gale when this scene happened but the night directly after I tried to kill him he showed me his... 'tower'. And given how horny he gets watching tav/durge beat ppl up in the shadow cursed lands, i do not think that was a coincidence LMAO

No Sceleritas here cause I'm just gonna get to the good part :D — also durge here is gonna be sorta resisting the urge, but has more or less been allowing it to fester, just not embracing it.

Gorgeous was an understatement.

Busy days — waking hours occupied by wars, sight filled only with the flashes of spells and showers of blood — were all you knew. Nights were barely any break. Smiles were more common at camp, but given the near complete lack of smiles outside of camp, it wasn't saying much. There wasn't much time to be at camp, as the original mission to rid yourselves of the tadpoles grew messier and messier with every passing battle, and each matter was more pressing than the last.

You didn't mind, really. While you were just as eager to get the incubating creature out of your head as the rest of your group, each new quest and mission brought along with it the promise of bloodshed. Adrenaline. Victory. A momentary but exorbitantly satisfying quenching of your thirst for violence. A thirst you first found unsettling and terrifyingly unfamiliar.

When you first found yourself gazing down at the bloodied body of a stranger, dreaming of the torturous pain they must have felt when they met their fate, you were disgusted. Couldn't believe where your thoughts had wandered.

You'd fought it. Refrained from telling the others for fear of being ridiculed, or losing their trust, or scaring them. For a while, you'd fought it. But scarlet liquids, screams of terror, and slaughter had become your routine.

And gorgeous was an understatement.

Peace. Security. Naivete.

One knee bent, the other lazily stretched out, the bedroll barely containing the length of his body. One hand under his head, the other by his side. His eyes were closed, the soft hazel only ever plagued by a buried longing was hidden from you now. His hair spread over one arm and on the thin straw pillow beneath his head, more messy than he'd ever let it be seen while he was awake.

His right cheekbone had a bruise on it from where he'd hit himself with the butt of his staff while swinging it, and you recalled finding time to chuckle at his mistake in the middle of the battle. Being a few feet away, he'd heard it, and couldn't help but look over at you, his cheeks red from more than the blunt force, his mouth pulled back in an embarrassed smile. The moment of shame had earned him a punch to the side from his opponent moments before Astarion managed to stick them with his own blade, saving Gale from a worse fate.

Even down here, far from the surface, it was warm enough — perhaps from the fire that burned a mere two, maybe three, feet away — for Gale to concede and discard his shirt, resting more comfortably in a pair of indigo pants.

He had been honest about his appetites. His cravings. He was hardly hesitant about revealing that part of himself to you — fortunately, he was plenty aware of the consequences that would be wrought upon you, and the rest of the group, should he risk being unable to consume artifacts if he kept his secret.

Even Astarion, who's affliction was much closer to your own, was honest about his needs. It took a lot longer, and you're not sure how things would have gone over had you not woken up the night he planned to feast on you, but his admission did occur.

You were aware of the risks of your secret. You always yearned for more, even when you were positively drenched in crimson, when you'd been messy enough in your strikes that bathing in the river the following evening caused the water around you to be tainted a diluted red. Everything was temporary. Even the satisfaction derived from fights that left your weapon with such thick clumps of gore that Gale had to hold the shaft while you scrubbed away, as if the fight itself hadn't been taxing enough on your exhausted body.

Yet they all remained unaware. Some picked up on it better than others; Lae'zel's compliments, however shallow they often were, had picked up in frequency as you allowed your hunger to get the best of you, undoubtedly giving you some heartless upper hand against the foes forced to face off against your party. Karlach found you delightful, affectionately doting over you as you imitated her own battle-induced rages, though she didn't quite pick up on your lingering stares or mild smirks when your appetite had been satisfied.

Gale was the closest to discovering the truth. Unsurprising, given your mutual favoritism for one another. When you'd butchered Alfira, you'd been quick to blame wolves. Shadowheart, immediately discomforted at the mention, believed you without a second thought. Lae'zel had jumped to blame the Tiefling's lack of defense. Astarion seemed unbothered at best. The others were too busy mourning the bard's early demise to ask questions.

But he'd found you later, kneeling by the river, just before bed. 'A devastating misfortune she suffered. A sweet, innocent soul. Misfortune is perhaps the only apt term for the loss. Terribly curious, it is — To be so savagely slaughtered by beasts that aren't even native to these woods.'

You remembered freezing, fear flashing in a quick rush across your vision, knowing his eyes were on you, studying your reaction. He was so close. You'd agreed — 'an unfortunate fate indeed' — and he'd said goodnight.

Never again was it brought up. Never again was it questioned.

And gorgeous was an understatement.

That was, perhaps, the worst misfortune of all. He had such undying curiosity about the world, and yet that curiosity never reached you, or your intentions, or your past. Too trusting.

The camp was quiet. Crackling flames, distant whispers from the shadows hanging just beyond the light's reach, and his soft, patterned, blissful breathing. His chest rose and fell, so helplessly gentle.

His staff leaned up against a rock several feet away, alongside with everyone's weapons, save for Astarion, who preferred to keep his daggers close. Today had been no different from the rest; the battles had been taxing, only seeming to increase in difficulty the further you wandered into the shadows. He'd given it his all today, and it had been worth it, as you'd managed yet another day without losing any member of your party. As he'd explained it, the more of the weave he manipulated, the weaker his spells got — at least until he was able to rest.

He lay before you, undoubtedly sapped by the day's events. Defenseless.

And gorgeous was an understatement.

Three bruises. One on his cheekbone, one persistent discoloration that sat in the middle of the dark mark of the orb, and one on his side where he'd been assaulted by the undead in his moment of distraction. In a blink, your fingers grace the bruise on his side, and they tingle. Being fresh, the blemishes swirl a deep purple into his light skin, nearly matching the tint of his pants.

Purple was his best color, wasn't it?

The twitch of your fingertips sends a pulse through your body, and you taste an itch in the back of your throat. The tadpole squirms, you can feel its short wriggle behind your eye, but its control falters. Some other sensation warms your body, easing you into a malleable, thinning consciousness, and your gaze trails slowly, drunkenly, over his torso.

Three bruises. Clear, stuck to his skin like the stars he so fondly recalls. So far from the view of the sky, and yet you find a constellation still. Another blink, and your right leg has crossed over his waist. However forgotten your past is, it grants you a waking dream, as vivid as reality; Gale Dekarios, laying under you much like he was now, his pretty face littered with prettier bruises that dot all the way down to his shoulders, his neck red and swollen, branded by the picturesque imprint of hands.

Your hands.

And gorgeous is an understatement.

It's distinct. The pulse of his arteries, teasing the gift of blood beneath his skin, purring under your fingers as they push, your thumbs hitched underneath his jaw, pressuring the veins. Your own heart is thumping, encouraging your desires, urging you to indulge.

You've tasted vindication like this before. When you awoke to the spectacle of Alfira's maimed corpse, there was serenity like nothing you knew possible. It came underlined by pride, your work preciously appalling, and you relished the piece, the art macabre and perfect.

The sweeter the canvas, the finer the design.

Gale was nothing if not sweet.

"My — Hardly the sight I was expecting to wake to."

Another blink, and his bruises are gone, save for the contusion on his cheek. Absent are the inscriptions of your hands on his neck, and his hazel eyes are revealed to you once more. Though you don't remember moving it, your hand presses against the black circle on his chest, palm pining for his throat.

You're unable to move. Unable to control yourself. Unable to win back your own consciousness. Gale props himself up on his elbows. His heart rate has picked up, and yet you don't sense fear. The curiosity in his eyes is familiar. The quirk in his left eyebrow and the smirk playing on the corner of his mouth is not.

"I do assume you meant to wake me, eventually. No harm," he says, gaze narrowing, and your lack of a response makes him huff out a chuckle, or at least part of one, as it only lasts a beat. Your eyes are pinned to his throat, reaching to find the comfort of your imagination's lens again, but your dream has been interrupted. At last, your eyes meet his, and it's the hazel that causes the tadpole to squirm again, awakening your senses once more. Gale moves one of his hands to rest on your waist, and his head recoils ever so slightly. "You look uncomfortable. What's wrong?" He asks, and you're able to sense a less pleasant curiosity, but it's still free of fearful influence.

"I'm going to kill you. You have to stop me."

His eyes widen, and still, there is no fear. He doesn't believe you. "A rather twisted joke... Not one I find particularly humorous. Albeit, humor is subjective, although–"

"I killed Alfira. You're next. No time – you have to stop me," you huff, and your confession brings on a raging headache, unlike any pain you've ever felt before. You lean forward, teeth grit as you groan, and Gale squeezes your hip for a moment. Though the reverberations in your head are overwhelming at the least, you finally catch a hint of fear from the wizard, and you're thankful for it. At least a part of you is, though the beast that brings on your headache is only bubbling to a rage, furious that you would dare turn against your thoughts. You've not committed a betrayal against your own conscience, but instead, betrayed your destiny, refusing some urge that is larger than yourself.

With what little remaining control you have, you push yourself off of him, and he's quick to rise to his feet. Your eyes squeeze closed, fighting the unwelcome entity with the rest of your energy, though given your excursions earlier in the day, that energy is quickly dwindling. Your knees press to the dirt, the heels of your palms pressing to your temples as you keel over, an aggressive, roaring nausea plaguing your senses, soon joined by an even more violent malignity that rips into your control as though it means to test you.

You want him dead.

A wonderful bath his blood would provide — A marvelous crack his bones would sing — A remarkable terror he could feel. He will suffer.

There's a firm squeeze on your arms as they're yanked behind your back, and you writhe, fighting your cravings as they fight your containment. The hold is followed by a burning scrape on your wrists as they are hastily, and uncomfortably tightly, bound by rope. Your head swings, but Gale manages to pull back in time, his reflex causing his grip to falter, and you fall to your side, rolling towards his bedroll.

He frowns, eyebrows pinched inward and he kneels in place, a few paces away, reading the situation and assessing just how much of a threat you pose. Gale glances at where Shadowheart and Karlach lie, still miraculously sleeping soundly despite the struggle occurring no more than two yards from where they reside. His attention returns to you. "Easy. Should you retain any control, I merely request that you refrain from indulging in... whatever your intentions may have been. Greedy as it may be, an explanation certainly wouldn't hurt."

There's a command, conjuring as a sensation rather than a verbal declaration, and it rings through your entire body. You're unable to decipher the apparition's ambition, but your muscles act nonetheless. It fights — you fight — against the rope, and there's a flare of savage discontent when you're unable to free yourself. "You're better off as my prey! You will suffer a purgatory worse than any of the hells could manage," you bark, and your words are not your own. The control he speaks of is entirely silenced, leaving you an unwilling vessel, forced to submit to the will of your past.

"Not the answer I would have preferred, but an answer nonetheless. Yelling will only stir the others from their slumber, and I predict they won't be as understanding as yours truly. You should consider taking up a quieter tone," he advises, and you growl, forcing rashes into your wrists as you wage a war on your binds.

"I will spill your blood before this night is through!" You yell again, and Karlach shifts where she sleeps, stirring a flash of worry in his expression. "Wake them! I'll slaughter them all the same!"

Gale cringes, conflicted for only a moment before he overcomes his internal argument, and he quickly rushes to your side. You bite at him with a rabid ferocity, and he sits behind you, pulling your body closer to his own, even as you squirm and fight him. Shadowheart mumbles, bordering on the edge of lucidity, and Gale curses out a whispered "Godsdamn it." He huffs, irritated just as much as he is scared, and his palm presses to your mouth, his thumb keeping your jaw shut — or at least trying to keep it shut — as your head is pulled against his shoulder.

You mumble, fervently antagonizing him, your muffled words being split up only by the subtle flinching of your jaw as you attempt to bite at his hand, all to no avail. His grasp is tight, nearly rough, keeping you as restrained as possible, and he watches Karlach and Shadowheart with apprehensive dread, his focus painfully split between concern for you and fear of you.

Gale looks down at you, his expression firm and yet, against all odds and expectations, somehow understanding, even if it is incredibly mild. "I've seen you tear apart the most ferocious of beasts. Foes that would make Bhaal himself tremble. You always prevail. You must defeat this — whatever it is." He nods, but his encouragement is not what you want to hear; you thirst for his terror, you thirst for his pleading, you want to see him tremble. His tone softens, and he squeezes your jaw, almost tenderly. "I'm right here. No blood will be shed tonight. Fight to your heart's content; I will not give in. You cannot give in, either."

Your heart is all that remains of your better judgement, and it aches at his promise, though the guilt and appreciation is quickly whisked away by your burning rage, your need for violence. You persist, as does he, correcting your every shift, no matter how exhausted he grows. Certainly the most stern you've ever seen him — more disciplined than you knew he could be, but you have little room in your mind to process that. You despise the way that he cares, the fact that he is just gentle enough not to injure you as he restricts you, the understanding in his expression, the near nurturing tone he takes on.

Yet it's the affection that eventually subsides your bloodlust, willing it to retire, however angry it remains. Angry at the loss, angry at the incompetence, angry at the devotion. Devotion to the wrong subject. Gale wins, ultimately — and by some affiliation, so too do you. A temporary victory, you're well-aware, but even if it isn't permanent, your body becomes your own, your thoughts and feelings along with it.

Exhaustion is the first burden you bear upon your return, and Gale is hesitant to ease his grasp on you, but he takes the risk, and you can't muster the energy to move away from him. Your head pangs with a narrow pain, manifesting as a faint ringing in your ears, and your wrists sear with sharp bites from the fraying rope. His hand releases your mouth, shifting quickly to your shoulder as your torso threatens to fall over, your buried rancor having completely wasted away the last of your energy.

Gale sighs, his own muscles easing up as he inches backwards, allowing you to lean more comfortably, and with a bit more stability, against his chest. One of his arms stays displayed over your abdomen, quite possibly still a little worried you might lash out again, and you didn't blame him for exercising caution. You lean into him, mostly because you lack the energy to do much else, but also because you want him to understand that you are beyond appreciative. "I'm sorry," you mumble, your voice hoarse and barely above a whisper — barely audible at all, really.

"I know. You're okay. Rest now, you'll certainly require some form of rejuvenation if we intend on defeating Ketheric and... Well, repressing whatever it is that you find yourself cursed with. And I assure you, I do so unquestionably intend on assisting you with your affliction. After all, I'm quite fond of my vitals, and I've no interest in seeing them spilled." Gale's tone is almost lighthearted, but genuine still.

His arm releases you, and he guides you to rest your head in his lap, allowing you to experience a little more comfort. Your eyes close, and you fear sleep — you know the possible horrors you could cause when you're left defenseless against your bloodlust — but you feel it taking you nonetheless. Gale doesn't untie you, not yet anyways, and it provides the slightest of reassurances. Worst case scenario, you know that, should the urge take advantage of your rest, Gale will expect it this time.

"Perhaps a poor time for confessions," he begins, his hand brushing stray hairs from your face, "But I must admit, the notion of you becoming lost to that rage is not a concept I'm anywhere near comfortable with. Keeping my heart beating is one motivation, and a strong one at that — but I hope you understand that keeping you safe is also immensely important to me. In all honesty, I'm... not sure what I'd do without you. I worry enough witnessing your engagement in the violent affairs we do so often find ourselves tangling with." Gale pauses, and clears his throat, shifting nervously. "Apologies, pay me no mind — A little shaken up, I fear my feelings may be getting the best of me. Rest. We'll reconvene come morning."

#baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #gale baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #baldur's gate 3 #gale dekarios #gale dekarios bg3 #gale dekarios x reader #gale dekarios x durge #durge bg3 #bg3 durge #durge #gale bg3 x durge #durge x gale #bg3 #gale of waterdeep

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astarionmademewriteit · 1 year ago

Text

Death Would be Too Easy

Astarion (Unascended) x (unnamed Durge) female reader/tav

Rating: Explicit

MDNI. 18+ ONLY. Blank bios will be blocked.

Wordcount: 5k

Tags: Smut; Act 3 Durge spoilers; Blood, gore and violence; Suicide attempt (tav); Drowning; Fingering; Piv sex; Slight Sub/Dom dynamic; Tiny fluff ending.

Summary: Dark urge tav has had enough of killing and the subsequent loneliness in her life and decides to try and end it. Astarion comes to her rescue, commiserates with her suffering and tries to make her (and himself) feel better.

Author note: This is my first fic so be kind 🥲

I glance around the forest, shrouded in darkness–not a sound save the lively insects and the occasional hoot of an owl. I drag the body of my victim to the edge of an unsuspecting ditch and let them fall to the ground. I huff out of exhaustion, considering I haven’t slept in what felt like ages. I wipe the sweat from my brow and place a foot on the back of my victim, ready to dispose of them for good.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

I glance down at the blood on my hands–recognizing the ways in which my thrill for killing has slowly lost its edge. I send a quick prayer to father, but it is empty–hollow and missing its usual vigor. I sigh deeply, transfixed on washing away the evidence from my brutal killing. The blood seeps into every pore of my skin, almost as if my body invites its welcome essence.

I glance down at my victim, their eyes gouged out of their skull, blood leaking from every stab wound inflicted to their chest and abdomen. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. A wave of guilt washes over me. It has been decades since I felt any remorse for my actions. However, having been displaced from my home and severed from all my familial and cult ties, a little bit of humanity seeps into my very soul. I kick their body down into the ditch, the lifeless husk crashing into roots and stone until it comes to rest on the banks of a ravine.

I turn back to the forest, peering into the dark. I feel something’s eyes on me, traipsing through the dark with a curious gaze. I brush it off–not the slightest concern tugs at my mind. I am the most dangerous thing lurking in these woods. I start back towards camp, looking forward to a quick dip in the lake.

I pass by my companions, sleeping soundlessly around the fire–the others tucked away in their tents awaiting dawn’s kiss. I note Astarion is not in his bedroll, no doubt suckling from some unappetizing beast. It’s almost comforting to know that I am not the only nighttime killer, even if no one else is aware that I too lurk in the shadows, killing innocent lives in the name of a God who has not seen it necessary to save me from this predicament I have found myself in. I cannot help but wonder why I continue to ritually murder fellow vagabonds, especially when I receive no reward–not even the pleasure that used to accompany slaughter.

I shake my thoughts away and walk to the shore, watching as the moonlight bounces off the gentle waves that lap against my feet. I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it overhead, discarding it further up the beach. I move to my pants, unlacing them slowly, savoring the way the cool night air kisses my bloodstained skin. Once my clothes have been discarded, I test the water, it was cool but not unbearable. I let my hair down and wade into the refreshing water.

The blood slides from my skin and tendrils of red swirl along the surface of the water as I venture deeper into the pond. I dive the rest of the way in, ready to rid myself of the violence I committed earlier. I sink to the bottom, and for a moment, I will myself to stay. Perhaps I should die here. End my suffering. Bhaal knows that if I left this world, then it would be saved from any more of the suffering I would be forced to unleash.

My vision goes blurry. If I weren’t under water, tears would surely slip from my eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut. They would be false tears. A cold-blooded murderer does not weep for its victims. That’s all I am after all–heartless, unfeeling, an empty shell for my father to puppet.

Darkness begins to take over my vision, my lungs yearn for breath and my body is in agony. I would be better off dead. I will never love. I will never know a gentle touch. I am doomed to a future filled with blood and gore. At least this way I can save what little soul I have left.

My head grows foggy and I can feel my heart slowing. My body is ready to gasp for air that will not come. Instead my lungs will fill with water and I will sink away, forgotten by the world. I have made my peace with that.

Before I can drift away, a loud splash interrupts my thoughts. I dare not open my eyes or break my concentration. My body will want to reach the surface, and I am unwilling to allow my antagonisms to ruin this world. A pair of strong arms wrap around me roughly and pull me to the surface. I try to fight against my so-called rescuer–beating at their chest and fighting against their grip… to no avail. My head breaches the surface and my body instinctively pulls air into my lungs. I gasp loudly, welcoming the air as it enters my agonizingly painful lungs.

I cough uncontrollably, my head swimming with pressure. Once I catch my breath I open my eyes, only to be met with those dangerous vermillion eyes that I have come to know over the last few weeks.

Astarion looks at me annoyingly, clearly not impressed by my suicide attempt. I glare at him while my breathing calms. I slam my fists into his chest as my anger resurfaces.

“Why?! Why did you save me,” my voice breaks, betraying my hopelessness, “I-I wanted to die you prick.” A tear falls from my eye and my body shakes with unfiltered rage and torment as I continue to scream obscenities in his direction and beat my fists on his bare chest.

Astarion does not let go of his grip around my waist, his arms snake around my waist and interlock into an inescapable prison. His face is set in stone and none of the hurtful things I hurl in his direction seem to phase him. Instead he sits there quietly until I grow tired of badgering him.

My exhausted body cannot take anymore and I burst into tears, the repressed emotions spilling out of me like a dam breaking. I cry, my screams of agony and sorrow flow unfiltered.

Astarions arms tighten around me, “Just let it out,” he whispers gently. His firm grip on me refuses to allow me to fall below the water’s surface once again, so I do as he says. I let my sorrow unfold in the ugliest of ways, letting it crash down in devastating pain.

I nuzzle my head into his chest and unleash all of my sorrow. I cry for the love I will never feel. I cry for the pain I have inflicted on countless people. I cry for the loneliness that has plagued my blackened heart for so long–the feeling of isolation and duty weigh so heavily on my soul that I can feel its crushing burden. I allow myself to unburden my sorrows, not even caring how utterly foolish I must look to the vampire.

Astrion slips an arm under my legs and starts towards the shore. I wrap my arms around his neck, accepting that he will not allow me to drown tonight. We emerge from the water and he sets me on a log and quietly walks to his tent to retrieve a blanket to cover my naked body.

Once his blanket is draped over my shoulder he begins building a fire on the shore and allowing me time to collect myself. His scent completely engulfs me, his embroidered blanket smells strong of his scent–bergamot, brandy, and a hint of musk. I drink it in, letting it soothe the heaviness of my emotions. I watch as Astarion breathes life into the fire–the flames licking up the sides of the logs and illuminating his ruby-red eyes.

His gaze meets mine before he moves to sit next to me on the log. I look at him, half-expecting him to lecture me on my stupidity. Instead, the look he gives me is one of understanding.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks after a moment. His eyes search mine. I break our gaze and turn to the fire, contemplating on how much I should tell him. If I tell him about my need for slaughter, my uncontrollable state of bloodlust, will he still understand? Or will he wish that he had never pulled me from the water?

“I… There’s something wrong with me,” I stammer, unable to meet his gaze out of shame. I can barely bring the words to my lips, “I think it would be easier to show you,” I mumble. I turn to look at him. His eyes search mine once again, a look of worry paints his face. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to intrude on my privacy.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, wrapping the blanket tighter around my shoulders, “I want you to see,” I make up my mind. I open my mind up, allowing the tadpole to reach out to him, waiting for him to latch on to my memories… to my past and my fears.

He nods his head and pushes his mind into my thoughts. I allow him to peer into my past, the thousands of ritual slaughters I have committed in my father’s name. I show him my childhood–bloodspawn teaching me the location of the main arteries, the most precise cuts to inflict, and the reverent slaughter I was to commit in Bhaal’s name. I show him the countless faces of my victims after death, their lifeless gaze, their blood draining into pools in Bhaal’s temple below the city. I show him the aching loneliness I feel, the isolation I subject myself to. The emotional ties I have cut with others, to save myself the sorrow for when I inevitably end their lives. I allow him to feel what I feel, the hate, the sorrow, the anger, the aching loneliness and the hopelessness of my future. I show him that I am a slave to murder, that I am not worthy of his or the other’s recognition. I wish only for death, because it is far better than the alternative.

Astarion unlatches from my memories and I inevitably wait for the verbal lashing. I wait for his rejection. I wait for his blade to kiss my throat once again, all his restraint gone as it slices through my neck as he leaves me to die. I can barely look at him, I feel so ashamed. I am a false hero. Nothing I have tried to correct will ever make up for the lives I have ended.

While I continue to wallow in my self-loathing, Astarion places a gentle hand on my shoulder and forces me to turn towards him. My vision is blurry as tears threaten to spill from my eyes once again. I am not sure I am ready for this.

“You could have told me, you know,” he whispers gently. I look into his eyes and see none of the hatred or anger I expected, “We….We have walked very similar paths, you and I.” He searches for his words carefully, “I do not judge you, if that is what you are fearful of. Actually, I am somewhat relieved to know the truth, especially after coming upon you in the woods earlier,” he confesses, a small nervous laugh escapes his lips. “Regardless, if you are unhappy with your situation… I am sure we can rectify that once we enter the city. Gods know we all have our demons to overcome.” He looks off into the distance, clearly reminiscing over his own troubled past.

I look at him, taken aback by his kindness and understanding. "W-wait. Y-you aren't going to kill me?" His profile is sharp, but his features soften as a smile plays on his lips.

He throws his head back and laughs loudly, "Ha! Kill you? Why ever would you think that, my dear?"

I blush at his little nickname. We have certainly spoken to one another, flirted even. But that was the extent of our interactions. Friendly, if not a little stand-offish, and full of playful banter. Of course, I could never get too close to him, otherwise images danced in my mind of his pretty corpse. I shake the silly thoughts from my mind. I'm sure it was harmless.

"W-well… I'm a monster," I croak.

Astarion chuckles darkly, "A monster? Far from it. Dangerous? Potentially. Scandalous? Absolutely. But a monster?" He strokes his chin in thought, "We are similar, you and I. Never hoping to have full control over our bodies. Committing unspeakable acts of violence in someone else's name. It does not mean we are past the point of redemption."

I watch him contemplate silently, tracing the sharp features of his profile with my eyes. Taking in his beauty and the unguarded expression gracing his face. I’ve never fully had the opportunity to admire him in this way. Furthermore, his usual hardened facade has slipped from his demeanor and I feel like I am seeing his true self. I get the feeling most people do not see this side of him.

He blinks away whatever thoughts were swimming around in his mind and he turns to me, the glow from the fire outlining his face in a beautiful aura–he looks diabolically angelic in this moment.

I blush at my own thoughts. He has no idea how beautiful he is, but his perfection catches in my throat, rendering me speechless. I turn away, unsure of what to say.

“Thank you,” I finally breathe, “Most people look at me with disdain in their eyes. I think… I think I’ve come to expect it.”

He laughs breathily and scoots closer to me–his body mere inches from mine and making me flustered. He throws an arm around my shoulder and pulls me the rest of the way in. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “When I look at you… I do see the bloodlust,” I stiffen, dread filling my body once again–worried that I was doomed to be seen as a monster first and foremost by the ones I care about, “But,” he continues, “more than anything, I see someone who wants to do good… someone who wants to be redeemed. I see your heart, and it is a beautiful thing. I see the true you.” He grabs my chin lightly and forces me to look into his eyes. My breath hitches in my throat. “I see someone who wants–no, needs–to be known. He leans in and places a gentle kiss on the corner of my mouth before pulling away. “You deserve to feel loved. You deserve to be seen for who you truly are. I want to give you that. If… you’ll allow me.”

I look up at him with rounded eyes, completely taken off guard, “I-I didn’t think you liked me… like that.” I fidget with my fingers, suddenly feeling vulnerable and slightly embarrassed. I always had a crush on Astarion, but I pushed those feelings aside to protect him. He couldn’t be on the receiving end of my ritual dagger. I wouldn’t allow it.

“Y-you saw my memories. I’m destined to kill anyone I get close to. How… how could you be okay with that?” I shake my head and bury my face in my hands. “I’m cursed to be alone forever.”

He chuckles softly and his eyes soften, “I have the utmost confidence that it will never get to that point,” He cocks an eyebrow at me playfully, “But if it were to come to that, I’m sure some restraints could go a long way.”

The way he is looking at me now, his vermillion eyes bore into me reflecting a hint of danger–a hint of unrestrained lust. How could I say no to this beautiful man? “I crave more than anything to be touched…” I admit, finding it difficult to meet his gaze.

“Mmm,” his voice is gravelly and heavy with ecstasy, “Where, my love?”

I exhale in amazement, I clearly did not expect my night to end in such a manner. I blush uncontrollably, “Everywhere.”

A devilish grin forms across his face flashing his fangs, sharp as a knife, “Your wish is my command,” he whispers before pulling me on top of him. The blanket slips from my shoulders, and falls unused to the ground. I wrap my legs around his waist and snake my arms around his neck, playfully running my fingers through his perfect ivory curls.

He looks at me adoringly before leaning in and pressing his perfect lips to mine. I haven’t been kissed in what feels like years and I hungrily kiss back pressing my entire body into him. He greedily accepts my desperate tongue, and we explore each other’s mouth with all the passion that can be mustered. His fangs rake against my bottom lip and I moan into his mouth. I press my lips to him harder before he is pulling away and flashing me his gorgeous fangs. Astarion drags a thumb lightly across my bottom lip, eliciting a feral moan to escape my mouth.

His other hand traces down my spine, sending heat directly to my core. His tender traces along my body brings my senses to life–no, he sets them on fire–for I have never felt this good from just a few sensual touches. His hand comes to rest on my ass which he squeezes playfully. I yelp in response which only motivates him to continue.

Astarion begins to guide my hips, rocking them back and forth against his lap. I can feel his growing arousal beneath his pants which sends me into a lustful frenzy. I begin to rock my hips to the pace he has set for me, and I throw my head back when I feel my core grinding against his still growing arousal.

He leans in close and drags his nose up my throat, drinking in the scent of my blood, “That’s it, darling,” he whispers gruffly. I suddenly crave for him to bite me, to drink from me. I want to feel the pain, my essence slipping away as I continue to stimulate myself.

I can barely speak from the pleasure I am feeling, but I manage to whimper, “Take from me, Astarion.” I lean my head back further, offering him my throat for his pleasure. He chuckles darkly, his hot breath pounding against my skin, further lighting my senses on fire. I rock my hips harder, “Please.”

He doesn’t hesitate a moment longer. He sinks his fangs into my soft flesh, the pain like ice in my veins before my warm blood falls from the newly made twin puncture wounds. He sucks greedily, savoring the taste of my blood. I moan against him, taking pleasure in the way my body reacts against him. His hand slides from my throat down my sternum and comes to rest just above my throbbing sex.

I whimper uncontrollably, craving for him to go lower, “P-please,” I beg.

Astarion smiles against my throat and pulls away temporarily, “Your begging sounds so sweet,” he coos. He only makes me want to beg harder.

“I need you,” I cry.

A growl escapes his throat and he latches himself back to my throat and pulls more blood into his mouth, coating his tongue and throat. He has gone completely feral. He drags his fingers to my cunt and begins slowly circling my swollen clit.

I gasp loudly, unconcerned with waking up the others in camp. I haven’t been truly touched in so long that I forgot just how wonderful it feels. His fingers expertly circle my clit, igniting something deep in my core. Pleasure begins to build and I can feel myself ready to fall over the edge. I grind against his fingers, feeling needy begging to be filled.

He laughs against my neck and slides his fingers into my aching cunt. I cry out in pleasure, coming completely undone by his long slender fingers. I can barely handle how much he is already stretching me out and I buzz with excitement and anticipation when I think about what else he has in store for me.

His fingers penetrate me deeply, and his lips on my neck have me spiraling. He slides his fingers in and out of me quickly, using his thumb to stimulate my clit. He pulls away from my throat and looks at up at me through his pale lashes, “Does that feel good, darling?”

I nod my head rapidly, unable to form words as his fingers work their magic. My vision begins to blur and I pant uncontrollably. I can feel myself nearing the edge of no return and it is a delicious feeling.

Astarion smiles dangerously, licking the blood from his fangs, “Come for me, pet,” he pleads darkly.

His voice sends me over the edge, I come undone around him, my cunt tightening around his fingers and my hips bucking of their own volition. My orgasm rocks through me, my body spasms with pleasure and my toes curl to an ungodly degree. I let his name slip from my lips as I cry out in pleasure.

“There you go, darling,” he coos, talking me through my orgasm, “Just. Like. That.”

His thumb doesn’t let up from his ministrations until my orgasm has slowly faded and I come back down from my high. Not wasting any time I press my lips back to his, kissing him deeply and hungrily. I need to feel him inside me and I cannot wait much longer. I move to untie the laces of his pants and he stands, hoisting me into the air as I continue to straddle his waist.

Once I’ve successfully unlaced his pants, his throbbing member springs free. I grab the base of his shaft and begin pumping his large cock. He throws his head back and moans loudly. He places me on the soft sand and hovers over me as I continue to service him.

“I need to be inside you,” he breathes raggedly.

He lines himself at my entrance and rubs his throbbing head against my clit. I’m dripping with anticipation. He enters me slowly at first, and he grunts loudly.

“Fuck,” he whispers in my ear. He pushes himself all the way in, fighting against my tight dripping cunt.

He spreads me out wider than I have ever been before and I cry out with pleasure.

“Your pussy is so perfect,” he growls. He pushes further in until there is nothing left and I wrap my legs around him, not wanting him to pull back out.

He begins slowly pumping in and out of my aching pussy, and my arousal rings out like a symphony.

“Oh god, Astarion,” I whine. The way he fills me so completely as if my pussy was molded perfectly around his cock sends me into a feral frenzy.

“That’s right, darling,” he hisses, “Say my name like a fucking prayer.” He picks up the pace, punishing my pussy with his forceful thrusts.

“Astarion,” I cry again, letting his name fall from my lips in absolute reverence.

He snakes an arm around my back and lifts my hips up slightly which only serves to penetrate me deeper than I ever thought possible. He picks up his pace further, letting his cock slip in and out of me with ease.

I can feel myself on the verge of toppling over the edge once again, “I-I’m gonna… Oh Astarion,” I whimper, unable to fully form a sentence.

“Come for me, love,” he growls in my ear, “I want to feel you come for me.”

His words send me over the edge and I’m falling into another orgasm. I cry out loud, a mix of screams and moans fall from my lips as my orgasm rips through my body. My walls tighten around him and he hisses in response. I keep falling, holding on to my orgasm for as long as I can. My toes curl and I pull back on his ivory curls, eliciting a growl from the depths of his core.

“Gods below,” he growls as I tighten around his thick cock. His thrusts slow as my orgasm subsides. Before I can catch my breath he flips me over onto my hands and knees

I breathe heavily, panting uncontrollably, my body spasming in the aftermath of my release. Before I have time to think, he enters me once again, the new position filling me with unadulterated pleasure.

Astarion grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls me to his chest, arching my back to an ungodly degree. He clasps to my neck and pierces my throat once again with his sharp fangs. The pain lances through me and the pleasure I receive from the pain is worth it. He starts to drink my sweet blood once again while thrusting in and out of my pussy. I meet his thrusts with my hips, and the force ripples through my body–my ass bouncing gracefully against his hips.

I ride his cock until I can no longer see. My life’s essence slips from my body and the accompanying delirium empties my mind from all the worries from earlier. I cry against his punishing pace. He pulls away from my throat once again and growls in my ear, “You are invigorating, you know that?”

I nod helplessly, unable to focus on anything but the way he stretches me out and hits my sweet spot. I cry out, his sweet words egging me on.

“I think you deserve to come one more time,” he snarls in my ear, pulling on my hair just a bit harder until my back can arch no further. He continues to fuck up and into me, his thrusts becoming faster than anything I’ve ever experienced. I nod my head pathetically.

“Please,” I beg.

His powerful hips rail into me over and over again and I fall deeper and deeper into his rough embrace. His tongue drags up the back of my neck sending shivers down my spine. He sucks and kisses the back of my neck adding another layer of pleausre.

“Fall apart,” he growls deeply in my ear. It is the only thing I care to hear. I come undone around him all over again. His thrusts become sloppier, and he pounds into me quicker and quicker until he is falling with me.

“Yes,” I cry, “Come for me Astarion,” I whimper. He unloads himself inside me, his panting is the only thing I hear as I fall apart with him. Pleasure ripples through our bodies–our collective ecstasy is the only thing that matters at this moment.

He continues to pump into me until he has spilled all of his spent. My orgasm subsides and he falls on top of me, pinning me to the ground.

We breathe harder, waiting to come back down to Faerun. His body moves in time with mine and I savor the aftermath of my orgasm. I shall never come down from the heavens after that.

Once we have collected our strength, he pulls himself out of me and rolls over onto his back near the fire. I roll over onto my side and memorize his features as he looks up at the sky, a look of satisfaction paints his features.

He turns to me and smiles, his guard completely down and I have never seen anything quite so beautiful, “That was… amazing,” he breathes, licking some of the blood from the corner of his mouth with his tongue.

“I–” I can’t seem to gather the words I want to say, “Thank you,” I finally amend.

He rolls to his side and faces me, tracing small circles into my skin with his cool fingertips, “Thank you,” he whispers. And for a fleeting moment, I wonder what he is thanking me for. I smile in response, not wanting to ruin the moment with my questions.

He reaches forward and tucks some hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheekbone in the process.

“I–I want you to know,” he says softly, his hand never leaving the side of my face, “I’m glad you’re here. With me. I don’t think I want to be in a world without you,” he smiles softly, “Whatever that may look like.”

I smile shyly, “I’m glad I’m here too. Thank you… for everything.”

He wraps an arm around my midsection and pulls me to him until both his arms are wrapped around me securely. He places a gentle kiss on my temple. I turn my head and plant a soft kiss on his lips.

“Don’t let go until the morning,” I whisper. My smile is gone, but admiration still takes over my features. My savior. My hero. He saved my life in more ways than one. I’m excited to see where things take us. While the future is not set in stone, I have a feeling I’ll be able to get through anything with him by my side.

“I won’t,” he whispers before kissing me softly. “Promise me,” he begins, “Promise me that you will find me the next time you feel like death is your only option.”

“I swear,” I whisper. “Promise me you will open up to me as well… Whenever you’re ready.” I can tell that something weighs heavy on his soul, and I never want him to feel the depth of loneliness I felt.

He chuckles, “I save you…and you save me.” The statement is a promise. I smile knowing that this is the start of a beautiful relationship. I let him squeeze me in his strong embrace until we both drift off to sleep, relieved to have distracted ourselves from the painful reality that awaits us on the morrow.

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