#Does this count as some sort of body horror? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

changbunnies · 23 days ago

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Angel of Music (18+)

♡ Pairing: Phantom!Minho x Opera Singer Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: phantom of the opera inspired au, horror themes, dark romance, age gap, smut, dead dove? read the warnings carefully and come to ur own conclusion on what you're willing to read before engaging pls :'), the ending is also a lil dark, sorry!

♡ Word Count: 5.8k

♡ Summary: A phantom exists in the opera house– he controls every production from the shadows, lurks around every dark corner, always watching. In your dreams exists an angel– a guardian that sings to you, guides you, and comforts you. When The Phantom appears before you in your dressing room mirror, you begin to realize that he and your angel may be one in the same.

♡ General Warnings: slightly less extreme age gap than the source material that inspires this fic but it's still fairly large (reader is ~mid 20s and minho is ~40), briefly described attempted murder of minor characters, implications of stalking, hypnotism, hallucinations + doubts of reality, so much usage of the words "phantom" and "angel" it's not even funny, this fic is not an accurate representation of how hypnotism works irl but it's fiction so i'm taking liberties!

♡ Smut Warnings: dubcon (due to reader being hypnotized), additionally to not being in their proper state of mind, there are also moments in which reader does not feel to be in full control of their body, light dom/sub dynamics, soft pleasure dom!minho because i want more of him !!, mask kink (does it still count if the mask doesn't cover his whole face?? idk i hope so!), some biting, oral (f rec), overstim, multiple orgasms

♡ Notes: i've known for ages that i wanted to write a phantom!minho fic, and my kinktober series gave me the perfect reason to finally write it! also the fact that both my uploaded minho fics are age gap romances?? that was not intentional i swear lmao

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

All inhabitants of the opera house have been on edge these days– consequence of the new owners of the Opera Populaire, who decided to disregard all of The Phantom's demands.

The Phantom, as the name suggests, is a ghost story of sorts. According to your castmates, he has been here since long before you joined the Opera Populaire's trainees last year, but his activity has begun to increase since your arrival.

He controls all in the opera house, and his demands of the previous owner were always quite simple; perform what shows he instructs you to, follow his casting down to the letter, and keep the seats in Box Five free at all times. Evidentially, Box Five is his favorite place to watch the shows from– and sometimes, his dark silhouette can be spotted in the shadows of the booth, indiscernible but unmistakably there.

No one has ever truly seen The Phantom beyond a shadow, nor have they heard him speak. He communicates with notes, always left within feet of the recipient without anyone having seen him come or go. His notes will even appear in broad daylight, with not a single person having caught a glimpse of him despite all the eyes in the room.

Well, more accurately, no one has seen him apart from the Madame– an older woman who used to be a performer for the Opera Populaire herself, but has taken the role of choreographer since her retirement from the stage. In the 15 years it's been since The Phantom made his presence known to the opera house, she's the only one who's ever seen him, or heard his voice.

A brief encounter, she explained when asked about it– had barely seen him for more than a few passing moments. He spoke little, but the beauty of his voice was striking, completely unlike any other she’d ever heard. And all he asked of her, in that fleeting moment, was to remember that the Opera Populaire is his home– and as long as the inhabitants respect him, he'll respect them in turn.

The previous director, the Madame, and The Phantom all had a mutual understanding of what was to be done. As long as they listened to him, shows would go off without a hitch; but refuse, and there'd be dire consequences. As such, the Madame has been doing her best to express the importance of listening to The Phantom to the new owners.

The Monsieurs view it as no more than silly superstition– every opera house has their own beliefs and customs, things they consider good and bad luck before a show, things they view as omens of a show's future success. The Phantom is simply one of those things– and with a guiding hand, they can dispel such superstitions, show the cast and crew that there is no shadowy phantom to fear.

The first note left for the Monsieurs went disregarded– a barking laugh leaving the elder of the two before he tossed it in the bin. The instructions on the note were clear enough– you were to take the role of Eurydice in the opera house's production of Orpheus and Eurydice, and not Carlotta, as they originally casted.

You were just as baffled as everyone else to learn that The Phantom wanted you to take such an important role– you'd only been here a year, were still so new to your opera training. It's true enough that you have a good voice, and your dancing has improved with all your diligent practice, but you're still young, and the tragic role of Eurydice is not so easily performed.

Natural talent for bringing emotion to performance aside, you lack stage experience– experience that you can easily gain from background roles. To make you such a crucial stand-out role after only a year of training was simply unheard of– no opera house would do it!

This is to be your first production, your first time on stage in front of an audience; and so regardless of what The Phantom wants, Monsieur Reyer opted to keep you strictly in the supporting chorus roles, where you would go from shepherdess, to nymph, to spirit as the acts progressed. Not a glamorous, shining position in the cast by any means, but more than enough to help familiarize you with the reality of performing with hundreds of eyes watching.

It wouldn't take long for The Phantom to make his displeasure with the decision known. And what started off as just small accidents and stage mishaps quickly turned violent and dangerous as each week passed with you still not given the role that The Phantom felt you deserved to have.

The first violent turn came during rehearsals for Act 3, right in the middle of Eurydice's climactic aria, when the chandelier above the stage came crashing down. Carlotta was standing directly beneath it just before it fell, and it narrowly missed her– purely because she happened to take a few steps forward whilst singing.

“An unfortunate accident,” the Monsieurs said, “it had nothing to do with The Phantom!” But the veterans of the opera house knew better– and the conductor swore he saw a dark shadow on the scaffolds just before the chandelier fell; a shadow that could belong to none other than The Phantom.

Carlotta screamed as it crashed just mere inches away from her, right where she's just been standing, and cried as everyone rushed to her side to ensure that she was unharmed. Again, the Madame tried to persuade them to heed The Phantom before another such “accident” occurred.

"Good God in Heaven, you're all obsessed! These things just happen sometimes– there is no phantom!" Reyer cried in exasperation over everyone's insistence, still unwilling to give in to the idea that the opera house's ghost was real.

And tonight, just after rehearsals came to a close, another terrible stage accident occurred– this time happening to Monsieur Reyer himself. He was up on the scaffolding when it happened, making sure all the stagehands properly rigged the lights in preparation for tomorrow night's premiere of Orpheus and Eurydice.

He was bent down, inspecting the bulbs and wires, when a dark figure appeared behind him. The shadow wrapped a noose around his neck faster than anyone could even react, pushed him off the scaffolding before swiftly retreating back to the shadows.

Reyer almost didn't survive– he was lucky that the nearby stagehands were quick on their feet and in their wits, managing to grab his arms and pull him up while another cut the rope that served to hang the poor man. And as if the message from the accidents alone weren't clear enough, another note was left behind right in the middle of the stage.

It was astounding, really, that not a single person saw The Phantom leave the note behind– and while some could argue that it was because all eyes were on Reyer, or because the stage became chaos as they worked to save him, the Monsieurs realized that maybe they should start to believe that there really is a ghost inhabiting the Opera Populaire.

The moment the note was noticed, the Madame picked it up, and read it aloud for all to hear. "Again, I remind you that Y/N will play the role of Eurydice. As I instruct, Box Five shall remain open for my use. These seats will not be used by another. This is my final warning– disregard at your own risk."

Realizing they had no choice, lest they wish to continue putting themselves and other cast and crew in danger, the Monsieurs begrudgingly declared you the new Eurydice, right then and there.

Given that you're at every rehearsal, you know Eurydice's lines by heart, and are confident that you can sing them well– but still, you're nervous. It's your first production, the premiere is sold out, is set for tomorrow night, and suddenly you're in one of the most pivotal roles in the entire opera.

You don't even understand why The Phantom is so adamant about giving the role to you; what is it about you that he likes, what is it that he sees in you? You wish you could ask the Madame, but she met him so fleetingly, and so many years ago– she has no way of knowing The Phantom's heart beyond an educated guess.

Sitting before your dressing room mirror, you sigh, utterly exhausted– now that you're Eurydice, it was vital that you do a last minute costume fitting and makeup test. As such, you've been in the opera house hours past the time you'd normally be here. The moon hangs high in the sky now, you're sure; you wonder if you should just spend the night here, sleep in the dressing room instead of making a late trek home.

Regardless, you hope your angel comes to you tonight. You know no one would believe you if you told them, but you really do have a guardian angel; and in your dreams, he comes to you– always when you are most lost and in need of guidance. He's a gentle, calming presence; always comforts you, talks to you sweetly when you're filled with self doubt, sings to you in the most beautiful of voices.

You've never actually seen your angel clearly– only heard his voice calling your name and whispering, singing, in a way that could only be described as angelic in its serenity. In your dreams, he's nothing but a vague, blurry image– even at his most clear, you can't define any of his features.

Still, you think of him fondly– and you suspect that as an angel, you aren't meant to be able to fully perceive him. And your angel always, always, knows when you need him– you suspect that even now, he's waiting; waiting for the moment you fall asleep, so that he can come to your side.

You look at yourself, still dressed as Eurydice. A beautiful, off shoulder bateau gown in the prettiest, purest ivory. There's lace appliques throughout the gown, has a beautiful cinched bodice before the tulle skirt fluffs out. It's elegant, makes you feel like a bride waiting to walk down the aisle.

Your makeup shimmers– extra glitter applied on your eyelids to make sure the stage lights catch it. Your jewelry too, is extravagant– made to sparkle and shine every time a light shines on you, to twinkle with each subtle move you make. It's a shame you have to take it all off just to put it all back on tomorrow– but the effort to make sure everything fits you was necessary.

You reach your hands up to one of your ears, prepare to remove one of your dangling earrings when you hear a voice you know all too well call your name– your angel's voice.

You look around the room, bewildered, but see nothing and no one. And surely you were mistaken– you're still awake! Your angel only comes to you in dreams, and you haven't fallen asleep... right? You are still awake, aren't you?

Again, you hear his voice, another whisper of your name. You rise from your chair, look around the room once more– no one. You turn back to the dressing room mirror, and jump in surprise, realizing that the view reflected in it has changed. You no longer see yourself, or the reflection of the dressing room around you– instead, you see a man.

He looks just as the Madame described her memory of The Phantom– dark hair, and even darker eyes, with a white mask that covers the right half of his face. Not completely– just from his hairline, down to his pretty, plump lips. Every inch of his skin is covered, head to toe, all of his clothes pure black apart from the ornate red vest.

Sleek boots and dark trousers, a tall collar that obscures most of his neck, long sleeves that cover his arms, even gloves covering his hands. He wears a cape, long and as dark as the rest of his clothes, and it blows behind him as if there’s a breeze rolling through.

You’re confused, a little frightened, but you can’t tear your eyes away or will yourself to flee– and as the figure speaks your name, you gasp; he truly has the voice of your angel. But he’s The Phantom, isn’t he?

The blurry, vague scenery behind him begins to sharpen, coming more distinctly visible to your uncertain eyes. A dark corridor full of candelabra, glowing in dull yellows and shades of orange, held by incorporeal hands with no discernable origin.

What little of your dressing room you see in your peripheral shifts and warps as you stare at him, blur together into dark shadows as the table holding your hairbrush and makeup begin to fade and disappear, leaving the view through the mirror as the only thing you can see.

The figure– your angel, The Phantom?– holds his hand out to you through the mirror, as if the glass that should separate you no longer exists; perhaps it doesn't. Smoke– or maybe fog, mist? you can't be certain– pours into the room as you approach the mirror.

As if under a spell, you reach out to take his hand, thinking not of logic as you follow the beckoning call of your name. Your angel; you trust your angel. He smiles as you place your hand in his, and carefully, you step through the mirror, into the corridor.

Entranced, you stare at him; even with half a mask covering his face, he's utterly beautiful. He appears to be older than you, hints of fine lines beholden around his mouth and eyes, and even that adds to his mysterious charm. He holds your gaze as he takes a step back, a candelabra in his hand now, beckoning you to follow him down the corridor.

You squeeze his hand as you follow, and finally he turns around, walks with purpose as he guides you, glancing behind every so often to look at you in what you think to be adoration. You too, glance behind– and where the mirror once stood is now a desolate, barren wall.

You do not see any hint of your dressing room, or of the mirror you stepped through. And as you continue further down the corridor, the candelabra that were once behind you slowly begin to blink out and vanish from sight, leaving only pitch black darkness behind. A spiral staircase made of stone manifests, and you descend it, hand in hand with your angel.

You're so enchanted and bewildered, you can't seem to find your voice– all you can do is follow, let him guide you along to where it is he wants you to be. Even the staircase dissipates when you've finished descending, and for just a moment, you wonder– is any of this truly real?

Finally, you stand in the middle of a beautiful room, lit candles both resting in more candelabra and strewn about the floor, with dark, intricately woven tapestries hanging from the stone walls. There’s a grand piano, sleek black with gold accents, with even more candles resting atop it, as well as a sheet of music sitting pristine on the music desk, black ink seemingly freshly dried, just waiting to be played.

There are several mirrors, though only one remains uncovered– the rest are obscured by cloth, for reasons you do not know. There is a bed, in what you suppose would be called a “corner” in this otherwise circular space, inviting and plush in its appearance, with blankets colored a rich red. Naturally, candles surround the bed as well, covering it in a beautifully soft, yellow-orange glow.

“Where are we?” you finally find your voice to ask, and the man smiles as he beckons you to follow him towards his bed. “We are home,” he replies, and though it’s a strange answer, you feel you understand– yes, you are home. This is home.

You gaze at him curiously after you sit on the bed, just as comfortable as you expected it to be, and he mimics the way you’ve tilted your head at him. “You’re.. My angel, aren’t you? Or are you The Phantom?” you ask, and the man laughs ever so softly, melodious and beautiful.

“I am Minho,” he responds, as if that alone is a sufficient enough answer– in a way, you suppose it is. What else is there to know? He is Minho. That is enough.

“I have longed to touch you, to bring you here,” Minho whispers as he reaches one of his gloved hands to your face, strokes your cheek slowly, gently. The sensation, though simple, feels so tender– it sparks something inside you, fills you with a warmth you’ve never felt before. You close your eyes, bask in the comfort his touch provides you.

You feel his hand move, travel down until his fingers are under your chin. He tilts your head up, and you open your eyes to see him gazing down at you warmly. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, speaking to you as gently as he always does. He’s said it before, in your dreams– that you are beautiful, talented, deserving of all you wish to have.

He never lets you linger on self-doubt, never allows you to think you are lesser than someone else, or undeserving of the opportunities you’ve been granted. Your angel knows you– you think he’s appearing to you now, like this, because he knows you are uncertain of playing Eurydice; he must think that he needs to remind you of just how special you are.

All of your doubts about tomorrow’s premiere– he will dispel them from your mind, as he always does. He kneels before you, gazing at you carefully as he inches closer to you, his hands softly rubbing over your shoulders and down your arms. His attentive stare as he caresses you makes you breathing quicken, your heart starting to pick up speed.

“Do you trust me?” Minho asks suddenly, and with not an ounce of hesitation, you nod. You’ve no reason not to trust him– in the year it's been since your angel first appeared to you, you’ve always trusted him. There is no one else that makes you feel so secure, so at peace, so.. Loved, cared for. Yes, your angel, Minho, loves you, cares for you like no other. You trust him.

“I wish to clear your mind of worry and doubt– to make you think only of me, and the music we can make together. I wish to touch you, to kiss you, to hold you," he says, and oh, he knows he shouldn’t be pouring his heart out like this, for it’s too soon, much too soon. But he’s been enamored with you since the first moment you stepped into the Opera Populaire, has been infatuated with you since first hearing the passion in your voice.

He can’t help it, it seems– now that he has you here, in his lair, his defenses falter, all of his desires pouring out of him. To have you here, and to touch you like this, even so simply– it’s everything he’s wanted. And instantly, unconsciously, you reach out to him. Your angel sees you, knows you– you wish to know him too, to understand him the way he does you.

Your mind is somehow as clear as it is hazy– clear, because you know what it is that you want. Regardless of who he is, what he is, you want Minho to have you. Anything he wants, you feel compelled to give, as if it’s all you know; and in this moment, perhaps it is. In the very back reaches of your addled mind, a reminder blares– The Phantom always gets what he wants.

And what he wants now, most of all, is you; and despite what logic may tell you to feel, you trust him to have you. He sees all that you feel in your expression alone, knows all that you think as if he’s seen into the depths of your mind. Even now, perhaps more than ever before, he sees you.

Sees all that you are, and all that you want– and a charming smile plays on his lips as you gaze at him with wanton desire to let him take you. To let him have, to give yourself over– you wish to offer yourself wholly to your angel’s desires.

Your eyes flutter closed as he kisses you, a soft press that you could almost call chaste, his hands slowly moving over your body, each soft touch lingering. You don’t feel his gloves anymore, you realize– did he take them off without you noticing? You suppose it doesn’t matter– his hands are warm, a bit rough and calloused against the soft skin of your arms, and you like it.

Even as his kisses become less chaste, deepen as his hands travel to your hips, they remain slow and purposeful. His hands eventually find the bottom of your dress, begin to lift it ever so slowly up your thighs– not to expose you, but so that he can slot himself between your legs. Somehow, innately, you understand this– and easily, you spread your legs for him, allowing him to find his place between them.

His arms wrap around you after, pulling you closer, pressing your body to his. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly by the time he pulls away, breathless as you look to him with eager, impassioned eyes– a gaze that heats his otherwise cold heart. You reach up, bring your hands to his face; he nearly flinches when you touch his mask, though he knows you mean no harm.

Minho feels himself ugly under his mask– too scarred and disfigured to be appealing to you in any regard; at least like this, with only the good parts of his face on display, you may find him handsome. Your touch is as soft as your gaze, and though perhaps you should, you make no move to remove his mask; you simply rub your thumb over the cold porcelain.

It’s a vulnerable thing, really– how softly you touch his ugliest spots. It doesn’t matter that you can’t see them from beneath his mask– the tender regard you seem to feel for him, even without having seen the scars that mar him, is more than enough. It’s ironic, in a way, that you seem to think he’s an angel; in reality, the only angel in this room is you.

“I want to please you, if you'll let me,” he breathes as his fingertips ghost over your thighs. It makes your breath hitch, blinking at him slowly as you process his intent. There is much your angel wants– but chasing the pleasure of his own flesh isn’t one of those things. He doesn’t need it to feel satisfied; your pleasure will more than suffice him.

His dark eyes bore into yours as he awaits your answer, can tell from his wanting gaze how serious he is about pleasing you, and it makes your cheeks slowly bloom with heat. And it’s not just what he wants– it’s what he needs, really; when you surrender yourself to him, he wants it to be for your pleasure, not his own.

“Oh, please– touch me,” you answer, plead– because something from deep inside you screams for it, wanting it beyond all comprehension. Your darkest, most innate desires manifest for him; desires that you didn’t even fully realize you had. They possess you, drive you to kiss him again, urgent and passionate.

Minho returns your kiss with equal fervor, lets his tongue slip past his lips to meet yours. They share a dance, swirl around each other until you’re breathless again; and then he’s guiding you back, urging you to lay down as he hovers over you. He pulls the skirt of your dress further up your body, until your thighs are entirely exposed and he can see your dampening panties.

He lowers himself to you, but doesn’t go immediately where you expect him too– he takes his time trailing wet, lingering kisses over your thighs instead. Your inner thighs are sensitive, ticklish, and you can’t help but squirm from each kiss he grants you.

You also can’t help but jolt each time the cool porcelain of his mask presses against the hot skin of your thigh, and again when he carefully sinks his teeth into your pliant flesh. He doesn't do it hard enough to hurt, or even fully leave indents of his teeth behind– just enough to leave you panting and squirmy; and he lets out a soft, airy laugh every time he succeeds in the endeavor.

Your bunched up skirt is so full that you can hardly even watch him work you up; but there are times, while kissing and biting over your trembling thighs, that he lifts his head just enough to let you catch his gaze. It makes your heart skip a beat, butterflies dancing in your stomach every time he locks eyes with you while kissing around where you need him most.

You reach a point where you’re no longer squirming because his attention tickles, but because you’re becoming desperate, impatient; and the way he stares at you as he does it all doesn't help in the slightest. “Minho, please,” you whine, shameless; and you can feel him smile against your skin before he lifts himself up from his place between your legs.

“Needy are we, angel?” he asks, grinning as you pout and nod. “Need you,” you mumble, but he hears you loud and clear; he’s attuned to you, your angel is. He lowers himself between your thighs once more, kisses your pussy over your panties– and it’s not quite what you need, but it’s enough to have you gasping and quivering.

Again, he takes his time, as if not a single ounce of urgency resides within him. And make no mistake, it does– but Minho knows how to restrain himself. He’s a stubborn man, that is certainly true, but he’s also perfectly in control of himself; for now, anyways.

And he likes the way you whine for him when you feel his tongue lick you up over the fabric of your panties. It’s not a full enough feeling for you, or a full enough taste of your pussy for him, but the desperate, whiny sounds it draws out of you are delicious enough to satisfy him.

Still, while he’s enjoying the way his soft kisses and kitten licks over your panties is making you writhe and cry for him, he also can’t deny how badly he wants to finally taste you directly on his tongue. He’s been patient enough, he thinks, and so have you– why not indulge just a little sooner than planned?

In contrast to how sweetly he’s treated you up to this point, he’s quick to tear your panties away from your body. The sound of the fabric ripping makes you gasp, and maybe later he’ll apologize– but for now, lapping his tongue between your folds is of more importance. You moan when his tongue finally meets your bare pussy, as does Minho– and despite the hunger that he feels, he continues to lick you over slowly.

The languid pace makes you crazy– you want more, so much more, but your angel has been waiting for this; he needs to take his time with you, needs to embed the taste of your dripping sex on his tongue, needs to make sure it’s something he’ll never be able to forget. And he isn’t trying to tease you by keeping the slow pace– well, maybe he is a little; he does enjoy it, after all– but he’s sincerely craved this for too long to let the moment quickly pass him by.

He brings his hands to your thighs, squeezing them in his hands and preventing you from closing them around his head. You’re sure it’s partly so he can keep you spread out for him, to keep enjoying the easy access to your pussy, but it’s also so that your trembling thighs don’t cause his mask to shift, and fall from his face.

You gasp when the cool, smooth and rigid porcelain covering the right side of his nose bumps your clit as he shoves his tongue into your hole. And while he isn’t purposely trying to get you to cum just yet, his slow but diligent ministrations are getting you there regardless– with his tongue dipping in and out of your heat, always pushing in as deep as he can make it go, and his mask-covered nose nudging your clit.

You let your head fall back against the bed, your every high pitched whimper and moan echoing off the stone walls surrounding you. You try to tell him you’re going to cum, but you fail miserably– all that leaves you is a quick succession of whines before your eyes are rolling, back bowing off the bed as release on his tongue. Minho moans with you, hums happily as he licks the mess from your pussy like the cat that got the cream.

He laves over your clit when he’s done licking up your cum– and it's sensitive, swollen from your orgasm; but that doesn’t stop him from swirling his tongue around it, and positively knocking the air from your lungs. The sensation is overwhelming, he knows it is even without you telling him, but it’s still so good that you don’t want to squirm away, or ask him to stop– or perhaps you can’t.

You get the distinct feeling that even if you tried, your limbs would resist, would fight to keep you in place– despite your best efforts, you would remain just as you are now. Spread open and trembling, exactly how Minho wants you. “You make the prettiest music, angel,” he separates from you long enough to speak, “want you to keep singing for me.”

And sing for him you do when he dives back in, flicks your clit with his tongue a few times before wrapping his lips around it, sucking it like a piece of hard candy. Your moans, the smacking sounds of his lips, the way he hums when he returns to your hole to collect the cream– it’s an orchestra, just for the two of you.

You cum again in record time, of course you do. Minho finds it cute, the way you incoherently babble away as you let go for him again. And he isn’t done just because you came again– no, he’s far from finished with your pussy. He doesn’t tire in the slightest, ceaseless in the way he lavishes with you his tongue and suckles with his pretty, perfect lips.

When you cum for the third time, you don’t even know if you truly ever stop cumming at all– the pleasure just keeps coming in waves, never fully receding before it builds again, washing over you like a tsunami before it all repeats. You writhe and twist, back repeatedly bowing off his bed before falling back, but your thighs stay spread for him, even when his hands stop holding them down.

His hands have found their way beneath you, cupping and squeezing your ass as he eats away. Your hips wriggle, and he helps grind you up against his face, moaning and humming all the while. It’s too much and not enough all at once; your body screams that it can’t take it, and yet your mind screams that it needs more, and God, you can’t think straight– but is there any point in this night that you were?

You’re hot and heaving, sweat dripping from your brow as you tremble and bend. Minho is hot too, of course– his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, his face red from his cheeks to his ears, and even down his neck. And were you not so far gone, you’d have noticed that his mask has shifted and fallen from his face.

It was because of you, too– when another high took you and tugged on his hair hard, crying as your hips jolted and bucked against his face. He should’ve swiftly put it back on, lest you see his scars, but he didn’t– he just shoved it aside, against his better judgment, so he could keep licking you up without interruption.

You feel positively delirious by the time he’s finished, eyes heavy and bleary, body utterly limp and boneless. He crawls his way up to you, and your gaze is unfocused, blurry; you can hardly distinguish his features anymore– similar to the way he always appeared in your dreams before now.

Regardless, you smile at him before you close your eyes; a weak, but content one that Minho finds oh so endearing. You’re beyond fatigued, but also feel an unmatched sense of elation as your angel strokes your head and whispers sweet nothings for you to fall asleep to. “You belong to me now,” you hear him say, just before you drift off– and you know it’s true.

You think, perhaps, you’ve always belonged to him. From the very first moment Minho saw you, he knew he was never going to let you go. And just as Orpheus had done for Eurydice, he’d gladly walk into the depths of Hades itself if that’s what it took to keep you by his side.

He gently caresses your cheek as you fall into a deeper sleep, presses a soft kiss to your lips and whispers a final soft utterance of love before he covers you with a blanket, and your mind goes completely dark for the night.

You wake the next day with a struggle– at least, you think it’s the next day; it’s too dark in the room you’re in to tell for certain. You reach out for Minho, but don’t feel him anywhere– and as you sit up, and your eyes adjust to the darkness, you realize that you are alone. Your brows furrow as you look around; you’re still in his room, but it doesn’t look quite the same.

There are no candles, not on the floor or in the candelabra that now lie empty. The tapestries adorning the walls are torn and dulled in color, the piano dusty and the gold decorating it chipped. The sheet of music that sits on the piano’s music desk, that last night looked so fresh and pristine, now appears weathered and yellowed.

As you grab the blanket to pull it off you, you realize it isn't a blanket at all that is covering you, but a cape– Minho’s cape. And on the bed, just an arm’s reach away from you lies a note– the same kind that The Phantom always leaves behind inside the Opera Populaire.

Your hand trembles as you pick it up, eyes straining to read it in the darkness. The message he leaves behind, when your eyes focus on the words well enough to read them, is quite simple. “To my beloved and beautiful Eurydice; welcome home.”

#skz x reader #lee know x reader #skz smut #lee know smut #skz fanfic #lee know fanfic #skz imagines #skz scenarios #mdni + divider graphic credit: @cafekitsune #don't ask me how many times i listened to the poto soundtrack while writing and editing this #the answer is obscene (several hours)

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spiicii · 12 days ago

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jimmy uso / exhibitionist

x fem!reader word count → 1.5k summary → jimmy’s got you bent over the couch of his shared hotel room with jey. what happens when jey walks in on the two of you? tags → daddy kink, dirty talk, hair-pulling, light choking, unprotected sex, crying, some spanking, slight orgasm denial, not beta read, Jimmy is mean (but you love it), does it count as exhibition if it’s just your twin brother?

There would be bruises on your hips, you knew. Finger-shaped bruises from Jimmy’s unforgiving grip as he pounded into you from behind, your muscles aching from the position he’d kept you in for what felt like hours now.

Your mouth parted and another moan spilled out, your eyes rolling back as his cock dragged across your g-spot.

“Daddy, please,” you begged, your voice hoarse, as if you’d been screaming. Maybe you had. Ever since he’d bent you over the side of the couch, you’d made all sorts of noises that you would have been embarrassed about had he not been fucking you so good. “Please, I can’t…”

“Shut up,” he snarled, landing a particularly vicious smack against your ass. “You gon’ take this dick and you gon’ thank me for it.”

He aimed another thrust at that little bundle of nerves inside of you and you let out another moan, stars exploding across your vision. “Thank you,” you breathed, your knees shaking from exhaustion as he kept you bent over the couch. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Jimmy grunted in response, his pace steady as he pumped into you. “So spoiled, aren’t you, girl?” He growled, his blunt nails digging into your hips. “But I always give you what you want, don’t I?”

He didn’t seem particularly interested in your answer, but it’s not like you had one to give him anyways. Not when his dick was splitting you open like this, sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine at his filthy words.

“Fucking cock-drunk, slut,” Jimmy spat, smacking your ass again just to hear more moans spill from your pretty mouth. “You just take whatever I have to give you, huh? Nothin’ but a whore.”

Your pussy spasmed at his words, constricting Jimmy’s cock as it was buried deep inside you, and he groaned in appreciation.

“Good girl,” he panted, picking up the pace, his grip on your hips punishing. “Good fucking girl.”

Pleasure was licking across your body like wildfire, Jimmy’s cock ramming into your g-spot with each powerful thrust of his hips. You were so lost in the feeling that you didn’t hear the creak of the door opening, your eyes glazed over as Jimmy drilled into you over and over again.

“Hey, man, I- Jesus, what the fuck, uce?” Jey’s voice was like an icy shock to your system, your eyes flying open with panic at getting caught in the act. Jimmy’s thrusts faltered, but only for a second, his tight grip on your hips keeping you still.

“What? Ain’t nobody sleeping on the couch.” Jimmy’s voice sounded steady, even as he was balls-deep inside you, his thrusts slowing, but not stopping.

“Come on, man.” Jey scowled. “You got your own bed. Why can’t you use that?”

You shifted, as if to move, but Jimmy’s grip on you tightened and you realized with horror that he wasn’t stopping, his cock still rock hard inside you.

“You don’t move unless I say so, slut,” he snarled down at you and your cheeks flushed red at his words, beyond embarrassed at how aroused you still were, even as his twin brother looked on. “You got a safeword. That’s the only thing I wanna hear if you want this to stop.”

He dragged his cock across your g-spot again, his pace now torturously slow, and another embarrassing moan fell from your lips, your entire body flushed red beneath your audience. You still hadn’t met Jey in the eye and weren’t sure if you could. Not like this. Despite how embarrassed you felt, your safeword was the last thing on your mind.

“Dude, are you serious right now?” Jey sounded annoyed. “We got a million things to do and this is what you doin’?”

Jimmy let out a huff of laughter. “Can you blame me? Look at her. Don’t she look pretty like this?”

Before you realized what was happening, Jimmy had fisted his hand in your hair, yanking your head up from where you’d been hiding. He pulled you back against his chest, your back still arched as he kept you speared on his cock. Your eyes met Jey’s, and you felt your face heat up in embarrassment, Jimmy still holding you tightly as he kept you on display for his twin brother.

“Come on, uce. Admit it. You’re jealous.”

Jey’s eye scanned across your naked body in what you thought was appreciation, watching as your tits bounced as Jimmy continued to thrust into you from the back.

“She is pretty,” Jey admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. “But we got shit to do, uce. So can you wrap this up?”

“What could possibly be so important you gotta interrupt this?” Jimmy sounded bored, releasing the grip on your hair to wrap his fingers around your neck instead, pressing a kiss behind your ear as he picked up the pace.

The twins were talking, but you weren’t hearing any of it. All you could feel was the pleasure curling at the base of your spine, the humiliation of being presented like Jimmy’s trophy to his own brother sending you hurtling towards the edge of your orgasm.

You threw your head back against Jimmy’s chest and felt him press a burning kiss against your temple, the touch surprisingly gentle after hours of manhandling you.

“You gonna cum in front of my brother, little girl?” he growled in your ear, too low for Jey to hear. “You like it when I treat you like a whore in front of him?”

You whimpered, your head feeling as though it were stuffed with cotton, your body trembling in Jimmy’s hold.

“Daddy, please, please,” your voice was barely a whisper, your eyelids fluttering as Jimmy pressed another kiss to your face. “I need…I need to…” You couldn’t finish the thought, your words completely gone as he continued to pound into you. He let out a mocking laugh, his fingers tightening around your throat. Your pussy spasmed in response and Jimmy groaned.

“Jesus, she’s strangling my cock, Jey. You see how good she is for me?”

You heard Jey speaking, but you couldn’t register any of his words, your eyes rolling back in your head as Jimmy continued to hammer into your g-spot with devastating accuracy.

“You’d better ask for permission, slut,” Jimmy snarled in your ear, his pace unrelenting. “Or else you won’t get to cum again for a week.”

He kept the one hand on your neck, using the other one to reach around you and pinch your clit, causing you to cry out.

“What’s that, little girl? Didn’t catch that.”

You felt tears prick at the corner of your eyes, the pleasure so good you felt like you were levitating. “Please, Daddy. Can I cum? Please?”

Jimmy laughed cruelly, the soft pads of his fingers now rubbing your clit with the perfect amount of friction. You felt your orgasm rapidly approaching, but he hadn’t given you permission yet. The tears were falling now, your muscles trembling as you struggled to hold off. The last thing you wanted was for him to follow through on his threat.

“I can’t hold it,” you sobbed. “Please, Daddy. Please, let me cum.”

“Whatchu think, uce?” Jimmy asked his brother, his voice somehow remaining steady even as you felt his thrusts stutter inside you, indicating that he was close too. “Does she sound pathetic enough?”

You couldn’t see Jey, not with Jimmy’s fingers wrapped around your neck as he kept you pressed against him, but you heard his next words. “I think she’s deserved it, uce. Ain’t you tortured her enough?”

God, you could have kissed Jey right then and there in gratitude, but it still wasn’t enough. You knew you couldn’t cum yet, not until Jimmy allowed it.

“Please, please,” you begged again, your core tightening. You weren’t sure how much longer you could last. “Daddy, please. Let me cum.”

Jimmy pressed another kiss to your temple. “Cum, slut.”

Your vision went white as pleasure ravaged your body, muscles jerking as your mouth parted into a silent scream. Your pussy spasmed and convulsed, milking Jimmy’s cock as he continued to slam into you, punching the air from your lungs.

Jimmy wasn’t far behind, his grip tightening around your throat. “What a good whore,” he snarled, his thrusts becoming harder and more erratic. “Gonna fill you up, pretty girl.”

With one final thrust he did, painting your walls white with his seed as he came inside you. You whimpered at the feeling, already feeling some of it leak out and begin to drip down your thigh. You made a pitiful sound as he released your throat, your head falling back against Jimmy’s chest. You tried to remember to breathe, to think…but things were too hazy, too drunk on cock to feel anything else. Your insides felt gooey, muscles shaking as Jimmy wrapped his arms around you to keep you from collapsing.

When he pulled out you felt your mind short-circuit as his softening cock dragged across your g-spot one last time, overstimulation wracking your body. “Shhh,” Jimmy soothed, pressing sweet kisses to your forehead. “Just relax, baby. I got you.”

Before you realized what was happening, he was hooking his arm beneath your knees and lifting you up, carrying you bridal style into one of the nearby bedrooms. You leaned against Jimmy's strong chest, your eyes already beginning to close from exhaustion. As Jimmy laid you down on the bed, pressing chaste kisses against your exposed skin, you distantly heard Jey ask "Damn, uce. You gonna charge me for that show?"

Jimmy's laughter was the last thing you heard before finally drifting off to sleep.

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yawnderu · 1 year ago

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Living Dead Man - Zombie!Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x Reader

What is a husband but a man with a rotting body you can barely recognize?

CW: body horror, gore, tongue kiss with a dead man(?), is she wrong? morally, angst with a happy ending.

You examine the man as if he was under a microscope, milky white eyes staring back at you with the same intensity they always did. His balaclava was ripped off halfway, revealing a dislocated jaw, the bits of skin you could see while he was wearing his uniform were now all mangled up and pale, a contrast to the surprisingly soft skin Simon had before.

''Don't bite me.'' You warn and the zombie simply lets out a grunt in response. It has been a week since he turned, and it took hours of convincing the rest of the 141 to let you keep him— with the pretext that you could use him to try and find a cure, and maybe that was true. There was nothing you wanted more than to find a cure and turn your husband back to who he used to be. So far, nothing was working.

''I'm going to draw some blood, okay? It might sting a little bit.'' Your tone is gentle and so are your hands, carefully lifting off his uniform sleeve to reveal his forearm, needle penetrating one of his protruding veins until the blood collection tube was full of his dark, purple blood. You removed the needle, grabbing a cotton ball and taping it with medical adhesive tape. You sigh as you put down the materials, sitting down in front of your former husband... does it count as former if he's not completely dead?

''I miss you a lot...'' You start, speaking to him the same way you have been doing ever since he went nonverbal, unable to speak due to the zombification and broken jaw. Based on the grunts and the way he looks at you, you convinced yourself he can understand and knows who you are.

''I'm trying hard to find a cure. I mean, I like to believe I'm sort of close... but I don't know if it'll do much since the necessary organs are already decomposing. I'm sorry, I feel like I failed you.'' Your voice is strained as your gloved hands hold his, tears rolling down your cheeks as you silently sob, bringing his hands to your face and giving his knuckles soft kisses, the same way you did back when he was alive.

''I don't think I can go on without you, Si... I don't want a life without you.'' Your heart breaks more when you hear a soft grunt, a noise you became familiar with, the same sound he made before, comforting you when he knew you were down. Your head snaps up and you can see a small tear roll down his pale cheek, your eyes open wide as you bask in on the discovering.

''So you are sentient to some degree.'' Fuck Element 115 and fuck the zombie who bit your husband, the bastard is sentient! A scoff of disbelief escapes your lips as you smile up at him. You may not have a cure yet, but at the very least, he's not fully gone. Your hands gently caress his decomposing cheeks, testing the waters as you slowly lean closer.

Closer...

Closer, until your lips are touching his bloodied, decomposing mouth, the broken jaw forcing you to have an awkward angle to make it work. His mouth parts slightly and you take the chance to slip your tongue inside, holding in your breath to not throw up at the smell of his rot. Surprisingly, you feel his cold tongue wrap around yours weakly, his poor attempt to kiss you with the little control he has of his motor skills. You break away for a second to take a deep breath, hands cupping his cheeks while you look deep into his eyes.

''I love you. I wish... things were different. I heard they'll bomb the entire country to get rid of the evidence of the virus.'' A small chuckle escapes your lips as he simply stares at you, tears blurring your sight while you lean your head on his shoulder, tears rolling down your cheeks while you try to stay quiet.

''I don't know what to do, Si... There's really no hope. Even if I found a cure for you, we don't have access to any planes to get out of here, and any neighboring country would kill you if they see you.'' You feel cold hands attempting to hold your waist and you look up just to find he was already looking down at you. Perhaps you're that delusional, but you could swear his milky white eyes softened. You try your best to put on a small smile, even if it doesn't reach your eyes.

''At the very least... we're together. I'll see you in the next life, my love.'' He grunts softly in response and you let out a soft laugh. You ignore the panicked screams ringing through the base, closing your eyes as your forehead rests against Ghost's, one last display of love before the bomb hits, wiping out of everything you ever loved.

''Hey.'' You call out softly to your colleague, holding a skull glove that slipped out of his uniform. He turns to look at you for a few seconds, his expression unreadable even when he remains unmasked.

''Earth to Simon?'' You tease, waving the glove around for a few seconds before he gently takes it from you.

''Thank you... Stray, was it?'' He asks, one of his thin blond eyebrows raising slightly as he looks down at you. You nod your head, offering him a warm smile. You were just introduced by Captain Price, yet it feels like...

''Do I know you? You look familiar.'' A small smile is seen on his lips before he looks away, trying to keep his emotions in check. He thinks about his answer for a few seconds before it all hits you. He's...

''Ghost?'' You ask, tears rimming your eyes as soon as he nods, his arms wrapping around you tightly while he holds a hand on the back of your head, not wanting to let you see the tears escaping his eyes as well.

''Found you, love.'' A second chance at life with him.

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rehmes · 2 months ago

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Nothing Solitary about Us : ⋆༘ Wriothesley / reader | headcannons . oneshot

‗ content / trigger warning: bigger story / reader background not fully mentioned, reader is a refugee, Wriothesley swooning (in his own way), thoughts of self doubt, fluff/angst?? Like a weird mixture of the two, not beta read, we die like Wriothesley's adoptive parents. ‗word count: 4k ‗ author's note: If you saw when I accidentally posted this the first time . . . no you didn't! Apologies if it's ooc, a little long, or has errors in spelling. English isn't my first language and this is the first time I've written for Wriothesley! Any suggestions to improve will be much appreciated! :D

Wriothesley could still remember the day he saw you, the day that you had come into the Fortress after, purposefully, committing a crime to gain some sort of refugee status; Why you thought to come to a prison, of all places, to receive such a thing baffled him the most. And it had baffled him for the longest time until you had told him why:

You and The Duke first met when The Duke wasn’t even The Duke; Meeting as cellmates in the Fortress, having been put in the same age group for practically everything that the Fortress had to offer at that time. Which wasn't a lot, and with Wrothesley’s lack of enthusiasm to even look in your direction, it made everything a lot more insufferable. But, Wriothesley didn’t know that; He was just intent on staying out of your way and not causing any more trouble for himself. Likewise, the thought of making friends with you did creep into his mind but so did the doubts that you might hate him after you figured out why he was sentenced here. So, it took a lot for Wriothesley and you to actually begin talking, despite being paired for a lot of the backbreaking activities. And, Wriothesley does still remember that day, too: It was after a tiring shift, where you were both thoroughly whipped out and about to crash at the dinner tables. You both had used coupons to buy food, and didn’t even have the energy to sit at different tables, muchless to open the containers containing your dinner. It felt as though every muscle in your bodies had been torn, limb from limb, muscle from tissue and bone, it was excruciating… and you were about sure you could appeal to the Iudex about this being considered some sort of child labor. Maybe even murder if they kept pushing you both like this. Luckily, you guessed, Wriothesley looked a little better in shape than you did, but he was not far lagging behind. With shaking hands he reached out to open his dinner for the night, to only pause and stare down in horror at what was on his tray. It made you nervous to even peek into yours, seeing the way Wriothesley’s face contorted; A corner of his left eye tightening, his eyebrows furrowing down to create visible creases along his forehead, and a scowl you’ve only ever seen when someone bothered him. A look of pure disgust.

Yet, you still checked yours away. You didn’t know that Wriothesley had glanced up to see if you had gotten the same horror as he did, and by some god awful prank (or pure disluck) you also had the conglomeration on your plate. Some weird, mysterious meat that sat on the plate, sometimes twitching like it was still mooing, sometimes resting as meat should rest. Equally unappetizing and making your hunger even more apparent, as you were tempted to taste the horrific creation that came out of that unsanitized kitchen. “You know,” Your voice caught Wriothesley's attention, as his had drifted down to the plate of food in front of him. His eyes shot up and barely met yours, “it could be worse?” You shrugged your shoulders in a joking way, giving Wriothesley an awkward look paired with an even awkwarder smile. He was a bit baffled at your conclusion, “It could be worse?” He questioned, calm and steady, confused and a bit curious on where you were going to go with such a statement.

In his fatigue, he had broken the one rule he had set for himself in this place; Don’t talk to anyone, don’t make yourself known, don’t make any friends. In his fatigue he didn’t believe answering you would be so wrong nor did he believe that you two would ever speak again after his point, so why not entertain you… and himself.

“At least they didn’t puke on our plate?” The joke fell from your lips with the weakest chuckle you could muster. Your eyes drooped and the pain was evident in the way your eyes shined ever so less than normal. Wriothesley was about to respond, yet you managed to get at it before him; “You know, where I came from, if you didn’t have a fire you had to eat your fish cold! Like, ice cold. And there was nothing you could do about it… other descale the thing and pray you didn’t just eat your last meal.” “Is that right?” Wriothesley cocked an eyebrow up, unsure where you had come from yet didn’t enjoy the images that came into his head. Well, one was particularly funny and it was the thought of you trying to bite into a frozen fish and hurting your teeth. Not like he wanted that to happen, maybe. “Well, don’t give the kitchen staff any ideas or maybe they’ll just import that from your weird homeland.” It had been a while since Wriothesley had laughed, and he couldn’t help but chuckle softly alongside you. The conversation was a ridiculous one, especially when first conversations usually went along the lines of introducing yourselves to each other. Yet, oddly to Wriothesley, it felt about right. And from that day, Wriothesley was sure he didn’t know of a day where he didn’t talk to you. Even if it started with a small greeting in the hallway or pointers on how to do a job more efficiently, small conversation gradually turned into the two of you chatting for hours eating lunch or dinner and even trying to talk after lights out. It finally felt like you had escaped your past and had a friend in a place you named your refuge, and Wriothesley finally felt like he had met someone (though this feeling was slow and gradually coming) that would accept him, despite his past doings.

Wriothesley interlocked his fingers, resting his elbows on the table, and nestled his chin on the finger net he had made. His eyes were softer than usual, yet that piercing blue. Back then, when you two had simply been inmates trying to work out your frustration and struggles with the world; Now, you laid on the couch in Wriothesley’s office in the fortress, with his coat draped over you like a blanket, napping. From outside eyes, you both would look like the perfect couple, yet he hadn’t even managed to ask you the question yet; But, he had an inkling you understood, just as he did, how he felt about you. Otherwise, Wriothesley couldn’t fathom why you decide to spend your nights in his office, keeping him company, when you could be in the nurse wing with Sigewinne or doing “orderly duties” for the fortress above on the surface. It made a small smile twitch onto his lips seeing you, you always managed to do that; But, it also bubbled the age old question in his mind . . . is this life good enough for you? Wriothesley is usually a calm man, a collected one, who didn’t often question why people came to the Fortress and simply gave them a second chance at peace – well, more frankly, at life. He understood how such a thing could quell the anger that simmered in convicts and made it his life work to make sure everyone was treated as fairly as they worked for. Yet, you? You were a different question. He still wasn’t sure why you had come to the Fortress in the first place, yet had deduced from several conversations you came from the Snezhnaya. Sure, he could go into the room lined with file drawers with the reasons why convicts had been placed into captivity, but that room was one, far too crowded for his taste, and two, he didn’t wish on peaking into your personal life. At least, without your permission.

Yet, still, the thought always crossed him on why you were here – by choice! Not that you walked in and checked yourself in, yet you committed many crimes to be noticed in Fontaine, trailed in court, then admitted to your crimes to be placed into the Fortress. The thought of doing such a thing made him cross his arms and lean back in the chair, his eyes more settled on your sleeping form and the way his jacket hugged the curves of your body. You always looked so happy on the surface, to see the sky and breathe the fresh air. Wriothesley wouldn’t want to keep you trapped in the Fortress. “I’ve never seen you so pensive before, Duke!” A voice suddenly appeared besides Wriothesley, causing him to jerk out of his train of thought. He sat up straight, a little suddenly, as he quickly turned to notice the all too familiar nurse of the Fortress: Sigewinne. The Duke played off his thoughts with a chuckle, “Ah, yes, well, I was thinking about something, Sigewinne.” He would half-heartedly joke, as the nurse gave him an all too unamused look. ‘No shit’, was what he was sure she was telling him in her head, but he only responded with a cool snicker. “Well, the tea you ordered from Liyue arrived at the Fortress and I came wondering if you wanted some,” The offer hung in the air, and Wriothesley knew the nurse would tag on a remark. “But it seems like you may need to talk out some problems.” She wasn’t an expert on human emotions, but she was better than spilling his mind to an inmate, Wriothesley guessed… or maybe even you. A pensive hum left the Duke’s lips as Sigewinne walked over, a hop away from skipping, and settled her tray with tea onto his desk. Promptly, she would nestle herself properly into a chair on the other side of Wriothesley’s desk, hands resting over her stomach and a pleased smile on her face.

“Go on, Wriothesley! I’m open ears.” Chimed the Nurse. Though only playful sarcasm came from the Duke as he poured himself a cup of tea, “Hmm, talking about my emotions? That seems like such a fun topic.” He knew it was needed, if not wanted. Even more so when Sigewinne didn’t seem too pleased with his half-hearted answer; As she pouted her lips and let out an extensive huff; “As the nurse, I care for everyone in the Fortress and that includes you too, Duke! Please, don’t make my job any harder than it needs to be.” There was an earnest tone in her voice, and Wriothesley knew she was getting better in her studies.

Even more so when she shook her head after his moments of silence, “Your eyebrows are frowned and your eyes rest everywhere but me or,” Wriothesley’s eyes drifted to you when Sigewinne pointed you out. You had shifted in your sleep, now laying on your back. You were peaceful; It made his eyes soften. He remembered when you used to have trouble sleeping by yourself, never feeling safe enough… Now you were sleeping like nothing in the world could ever hurt you. Like those fears of the past were nothing but fears. And they were; Wriothesley will make sure of it.

Sigewinne’s eyes had drifted off to you too. She was silent as she surveyed the way you slept and then the way Wriothesley lingered his attention on you. “You’re still debating whether or not to tell her, huh?” “And where did you hear that?” There’s the cheeky Sigewinne that Wriothesley knew. Of course, he knew her more caring side as the Nurse but he had a hunch that she also knew about why he had been so “thoughtful” – to put it colorfully. Though Sigewinne would shake her head and smile, “You’re very obvious sometimes! I think even Miss Clorinde knows!” That wouldn’t be good. Not at all. “Does she now?” But Wriothesley had to remain cool, collected. Now, it wasn’t that Wriothesley was embarrassed for others to know of his crush on you – well, by this point, it’s lasted so long he was sure he could dub it love, but better safe than sorry if you didn’t return his feelings – but he was simply cautious about other inmates knowing. After all, you were still technically one of them, an inmate. Your sentencing had been for about three years, maybe four, but you never left. You had chosen to stay since the first day you came, technically giving you a life sentence on your own will. So, if the other inmates know about the two of you – or well Writoehsley’s feelings – it could put your life in danger. There was a tick of silence again, something Wriothesley was rather fond of sometimes… like in this case. Yet, his eyes did not miss Sigewinne standing up from her chair and striding over to where you rested on the couch. There was a careful, cautious, way she held her hand out as she checked you.

“She’s still asleep,” Sigewinne noted.

And Wriothesley hummed in response, “I couldn’t tell.” Where was Sigewinne going with this, Wriothesley’s eyes narrowed slightly, though they were not harsh.

“Maybe she’s dreaming about you, Duke!”

Wriothesley is a hard man to crack. He was the Duke of the Fortress, a peacekeeper among the convicted, and yet sometimes when he was with you he couldn’t help but be that ever so lenient. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to confess to you after Sigewinne had come skipping into his office late one day while you were in her Medical Bay. It wasn’t uncommon, of course, being in the Fortress there were few people to speak to you with the kindness Sigewinne does; And you two often had conversations, even nights where you would have quote-on-quote sleepovers. Yet, today you went due to a headache. And, no less than an hour later, Sigewinne came skipping into his office like she had won the lottery – and Wriothesley half-entertained such a ridiculous thought. “What’s the good news, Nurse Sigewinne?” Wriothesley played along with her bubbly demeanor; Enjoying the change of pace from his slow, meticulous work which dragged on for hours on end. He swore to himself when he was half way done, he would go check on you, yet he was only a ¼. Luckily, seemingly, the news had been brought to him. “Well, they’re doing a lot better! It only appeared to be a headache due to not drinking enough water, but that tends to be normal.” Sigewinne reported as she came to a halt beside Wriothesley’s desk. “But, she also spoke rather colorfully about you!"

“Oh?” Wriothesley’s curiosity peaked, though a voice also nagged him about respecting your privacy. “Is that a good thing, or perhaps a bad thing, Nurse Sigewinne?” He knew she wouldn’t be able to tell him much, as there still was patient confidentiality, even in the Fortress. But, by the way Sigewinne’s face beamed and the way her hands animatedly rested upon her hip, he was sure she was about to tell him to shoot his shot… once again. He thought it was enough she had gotten the others to bug him about it, while also still placing stickers upon his back, but he couldn’t stay angered, or even annoyed, at them for long. Or at all. “I can’t say much, but I say you have a very good chance of landing her, Mr. Wriothesley!” Sigewinne beamed, and Wriothesley swore her smile went ear to ear.

Wriothesley was a private man, as private as one can get for being the Duke of a prison, yet you can always tell how he felt about a person from his actions. He was, and is, a man of few words … he always had been since you two were teenagers. And you never failed to take notice of it. Especially when he first began to give you some favor.

Of course, it was nothing too big, nor grand, when you were teenagers going onto young adults. It was small gestures that would brighten up your day ever so slightly more, like holding open the door for you or walking closer when a nasty group of inmates sent creepy looks your way. He had even gotten into a fight with one of them after they approached you. Wriothesley had walked away for a second, going to get you both your lunch, when he turned around to see the guy grabbing your arm. Seeing you wriggle and writhe under the man’s disgusting touch was more than enough for Wriothesley to send a nasty blow to the side of the guy’s head, which caused him to crack his head open on the floor below. It had been one of the few complications he had gotten into while at the Fortress, and he never regretted it. At least, that’s what he constantly told you and you had to believe his word. But, that event had been the first time that you felt some sort of pang in your heart regarding the, now, Duke; And it surely wasn’t the last. Especially after you were sure that Wriothesley was sending signals your way constantly by his small actions that always made you feel safer, closer, to him.

Yet, you had always had your own reservations on confessing to the Duke; Mostly having to do with where you came from, why you had left, and who was currently looking for you. You didn’t want Wriothesley, no matter how many times he defended you and said he would punch someone’s lights out if they messed with you, to get hurt because of the people you used to know. So you always waited for him to confess… and then tell him the dangers. But, day by day you compiled more and more reasons as to why Wriothesley might love you, and many more reasons why you loved him back. For one, he was a complete gentleman; To that, while he tended to be a little short and cold, he very much made it apparent that you could tell him anything, or even just lean on him if you needed. When you two walked, sometimes his hand would rest on the small of your back rather than your waist, and he would open the doors for you when you entered a building. Then there was the glares to the inmates who tried to mess with you, which was a little less fun to deal with, but a comfort nonetheless, and the visits to the Medical Bay he’d personally take to check up on your well being. There was, of course, a lot more that Wriothesley did that always made you feel special, more than you could ever count in a lifetime. And you were sure if things were different in your life you would have confessed to him long ago about the feelings that continuously welled in your chest, like a rapid river bashing against a dam begging to be freed yet never feeling such freedom. Man, wasn’t that poetic?

“Hey, we need to talk.” Wriothesley’s voice was like a net, catching your attention and bringing it to shore – bringing you back to the present moment and back to Wriothesley. You had been at lunch, having brought up your meal you bought with coupons up to Wriothesley’s office and was currently toying with it on his floor. You would usually be sitting on the couch, waiting for the Duke to spare some attention to you which he tended to grace you with more than others. (Seriously! You had watched Neuvillette have to sit and wait for about an hour or more to speak with the Duke as he finished up some paperwork. It was slightly painful). But, you decided to not test your luck that day and possibly stain Wriothesley’s couch with… whatever you were eating. Honestly, you were so lost in thought you had forgotten what they had served, and now looking at it, it was too much of a mess for your brain to piece together. “A talk? That’s never good,” The sly comment shortly dropped from your lips, a snicker across your face as you glanced up at the Duke. His arms were crossed in a somehow pensive and relaxed (you weren’t sure how that's feasible, but he made it work) fashion as he leaned back against his chair, having taken his eyes off of his work for the first time in a few hours. Unknown to you, he hadn’t been able to complete some of the papers that flooded his desk because his mind kept drifting back to you. You. God, you were so perfect in his eyes. Even if he logically knew that no one could be quote-on-quote perfect, he sometimes chose to ignore that fact for you. Only you, really.

“Nah, I think you’ll like this one,” Wriothesley continued, a chuckle present upon his lips that gave his stubble some light. When was the last time he shaved? The thought crossed your mind. You didn’t mind it, of course, you always enjoyed his stubble, it made him look more handsome in your eyes. But, even so, his looks weren’t enough to evade your skeptical side glance and the cock of your eyebrow. Even if Wriothesley snickered, knowing you had been checking him out a little; After all, he sometimes purposely lets his stubble grow out for you. Wriothesley was a man of few words, and even sometimes his words tended to fail him. So, there was a brief moment that his eyes lingered onto yours, and yours lingered right back to his. A beat, maybe even longer, before he stood from his desk and strided over to where you sat on the floor, kneeling down to your height. And, being so close, you could almost see all the words that were swirling in his head in his eyes; The regrets yet also momentums that wanted to pour out, yet he kept locked inside, as he reached a hand out and wiped a smug of food from your cheek. To others, his face might have seemed cold or indifferent, but you could tell there was some sort of attentiveness in his eyes that gave him away. It always had. And, just like Wriothesley, your own eyes and body always tended to give you away to him. The way your eyes crinkled ever so more when you laughed at one of his poorly delivered jokes. The way you always entertained the joke of Sigewinne being your shared child, much to her dismay, and the way you always naturally floated to his presence when he was in a room.

“You’re a horrible liar, you know that, right?” Wriothesley would tease, as a crinkle appeared in the corner of his eye. You knew what he was talking about and it made your heart flip. Both in a good way and a bad way. You would feel guilty putting Wriothesley into the fire that you had forged, which burnt down everything you had ever known beforehand. And yet, you were unaware that Wriothesley was equally as revered as confessing to you due to the likeness that the Fortress might become your shared home. He didn’t want that life for you as much as you didn’t want your life for him. And yet, despite that, Wriothesley was shooting his shot, as despite all the uncertainties that clouded both of your minds, there will still always be a shared affection for one another that wouldn’t fade easily, if ever. So, you snorted and confessed, “You’re not much better yourself, Duke.” Despite your mind screaming at you differently.

And, it was strangely peaceful to get that heavy weight off your chest, even if it felt like your heart was being crushed all the same. Though, if you were able to weather your own struggles with anyone, you know it would be with Wriothesley – in turn, Wriothesley knew that if push came to shove, you’ll be there to lend him the extra strength to deal twice the blow. And so it always felt right, in your hearts, for you two to be together. Yet, why did that new found heavyweight only grow heavier?

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#( masterlist )#wriothesley x reader #wriothesely x reader #genshin impact x reader #fontaine x reader #wriothesley #wriothesley genshin #wriothesley x you #wriothesely genshin #wriothesley x y/n #wriothesley fluff #how do you even spell wriothesley??

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pressureplus · 21 days ago

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*Jumps in through the hole in the ceiling*

Author-San you have to listen to this fic idea where the reader is besties with pandemonium in their first run.

Like imagine Sebastian just starts to introduce himself as the reader's only friend down there, and the reader's like, "oh I have my bestie waiting outside!" And Seb is just confused since he knew that urbanshade just send only expendable here so his like "who did you meet here, can I get to know them" And the reader is like, "sure! They're a nice big guy" And calls them to come inside the shop

Sebastian was clearly expecting a human to enter but in comes pandemonium, squeezing it's big body inside the vent to enter his shop.

Fish guy looks horrified while the reader just happily cuddles with pandemonium and is like, "meet my best friend pandy! "

No Problem!

Friends in Strange Places

Pairings: Sebastian Solace x GN!Reader

Au: Classic

Warnings: My version of Pandemonium, mentions of rotted flesh, Pandemonium is a sentient creature like a human person, does pandemonium count as body horror?

◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟

“You have…another friend in here?” He asks incredulously. His eyes narrowing in on your form standing so small and happy below him. His smile falling for only a moment at the thought of not being the first to grab a hold of you. He needs that data, he needs your trust. Still you smile and nod. His tail flicks in irritation at the thought of having to wrestle you out of another creatures grasp. Well, he supposes if he leaves you be, one little expendable can’t be worth anything…right?

“I do, he’s a bit big though, kind of like you.”

“Like me?”

“Yeah, like you! You wanna meet him?”

“Well I-” It’s much too late. You turn from him and pop the vent cover off once more, whistling for your supposed friend. It’s probably for the best he learns of what kind of competition he has down here. If it’s some kind of human much like you, he can easily get rid of them. Then, the distant sound of crunching metal and fast paced movement. Some kind of large creature racing through halls and claws digging into metal. A sort of screaming sound, a cacophony of wails. The voices of lord knows how many souls trapped and bound together by ties none of them understand. The screeching of the damned and broken, like a beast out of hell. The clatter and hiss only grows louder as the large creature forces its body through the vent to his room. Coming when called like a trained dog? How peculiar.

At last two large, clawed hands snap out of the vent, digging into the walls as a black sort of sludge slithers out. A body quick to reform, holes in its chest and sides adorned with eyes. The silvery gaze of what must be a few dozen eyes scan the room as the creature stands to its full height. A behemoth of what almost looks like rotted flesh, strips of black sludge connecting the sides of its jaws. The lower of which hangs like it’s broken filled with jagged shark like teeth. Long collections of black tendrils hook to the floor and walls to keep it upright and many more cover its head like long locks of hair, all connecting to the rest of its body oddly. A collection of what must be other mouths of sharpened teeth cover its large somewhat amorphous body as it seems unsure of what form to take. A being with a set mass but no set form, like some kind of liquid?

“Pandemonium.” Sebastian’s distaste is not at all well hidden seeing the animalistic beast before him. You, however, happily reach out to kind of pet the creature. It bends to your height as its eyes slowly disappear from the black hollow space of its internal body. It’s not an animal, not a human. All instinct and craving but not a human. How did you manage to get that thing to follow your every beck and call? Did you train it or something? How did you even manage that? What kind of monster are you?

“This is Pandy, isn’t he sweet?” The jelly like material making up the beasts body is cool to the touch, as it rests its head in your palm pleasantly. It’s careful to keep the form of an almost human like head to rest against you. A jawline, a nose, when you’ve devoured as many people as a beast like this has you recognize the forms and contours of a person. He has the appearance of a vaguely human shape in your presence rather than an indescribable blob of starved mouths, tendrils, and bloodlust filled eyes.

“Sweet is…a strong word. Where did you even find that thing- how did you get it to follow you?” Sebastian isn’t sure whether he should be impressed, horrified, or disgusted. You’re allowing that thing to act like a puppy as it nudges into your hand for good skin contact. It doesn’t get much positive contact, does it? It? He? It looks almost like both, maybe it is both? God why does it even matter?

“Hm? Oh! Well he ended up chasing me into a locker when I spotted him, him and one of those little void things in the locker fought over me. I thought I was going to be ripped apart until his hands jutted out to grab me. He tugged me free!”

“He isn’t supposed to have…hands.”

“Oh…?” You look over at Pandemonium, whose steely gaze is fixated on Sebastian. As if to demand he stops talking. It’s uncomfortable as Sebastian shuts his mouth.

“Well, either way, he saved me. I thought he was going to eat me but we kind of just stared at each other for a while. The rest is kind of history?” You smile and carry on like the confirmation of Pandemonium not usually having any other form doesn’t concern you. Sebastian just stares in mild horror. Is Pandemonium using you for something? He didn’t know that thing could plan let alone have complex thought.

“Right…well thats nice.” He clasps his hands together almost nervously as the beast's silvery eyes disappear within its body once more. He doesn’t want to deal with fighting it right now, and it seems more than content to not fight him either. Perhaps they can both work with you? He hopes so.

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the-s1lly-corner · 3 months ago

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could I request creepypasta x reader who can take their head off

Various crps x reader who can take their head off

pretending that i didnt tear up the roof of my mouth while eating my dinner shhhshhhh ignoring that my bottom front teeth rest on the roof of my mouth right where its all torn up thus making me hyperaware and by extension making me clench and grind subconsciously characters: jeff the killer, laughing jack, ticci toby, eyeless jack notes: reader is gn, reader isnt really human but theyre written to look human, focusing on first reactions cws: none unless you found taking ones head off as body horror? does it count? im not sure tbh.. mentions of anatomy and stuff in ejs part.. canon typical violence

LAUGHING JACK

finds it so cool, entertaining even... i like to think that he has "clown physics" to him, but im unsure if being able to dethatch limbs would be one... if he cant take his own head off hes going to be a tad bit jealous of you

sometimes yoinks your head and holds it up to his height so you can "see the world from his perspective", this is more likely if youre significantly shorter than him

if you allow it hes going to juggle your head or even "go bowling" with it... you... may get dizzy though, so agree with caution

if your head is loose and has a habit of falling off hes going to take it as a win if it falls as you laugh at one of his jokes

EYELESS JACK

honestly? not all that phased by your little party trick, at least hes not grossed out by the clear view of your necks insides- hes seen those plenty of times... both in the form of images as well as in person when hes needed to silence someone

that said looking at in tact neat remains is different than seeing it all messed up or in a diagram, so if you dont mind he would like to take a look at least once... totally not making notes for future reference

not many questions otherwise, surprisingly... i mean hes a man eating demon of sorts who mostly gets nutrients from eating the organs of humans- he doesnt have much place to ask you what you are exactly or what caused this sort of thing to happen

doesnt ask you to show off your trick, finds no interest in asking you to take your head off and goof off with it unlike some of the others

TICCI TOBY

oh! thats his partner taking off their head.... OH! THATS HIS PARTNER TAKING OFF THEIR HEAD- he... genuinely needs a second to process what hes looking at because it catches him so off guard, you only told him you had a party trick to show him

lots of questions, main one being how and why- were you not a living human this whole time? a little betrayed that you didnt tell him sooner, actually- and even if you did, why didnt you show him this sooner?

traces his fingers along your neck where it separates, after you put your head back on- even more impressed if theres no mark left behind

like jeff, hes going to try to get you to play some jokes on people- though its likely hes going to pull them on masky and/or hoodie

sometimes carries your head around with him while hes working- ignore how morbid of a sight thatd be..! he just wants some company without making it too obvious!

JEFF THE KILLER

stares wide eyed for a few seconds... ignoring that he doesnt have his eye lids anymore so hes always looking at you wide eyed-- thinks he may have actually lost it for a second before cracking up

probably one of the last things hes expected you to do but hey, he thinks its pretty wicked!

oh hes definitely going to try to get you to use your quirk to scare some unsuspecting people who are walking around- perhaps do it late at night for some added effect? and if they lash out he can always swoop in and come to your aid

will push your head off of your neck if youre being a smartass or generally lightly getting onto his nerves- not a hard push, but enough to knock your head loose

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ierofrnkk · 1 month ago

Text

Many Moons Are Deep at Play

werewolf!Steven x reader (~3.1K)

Summary: Ever since you and Steven were attacked on the last night of your camping trip, he’s been different. Six months after the fact, you learn exactly how different he’s become.

Content: 18+, gn!reader, the other MK boys aren’t around (sorry), body horror, graphic description of a werewolf transformation, Steven is a werewolf, he’s in pain for like 400 words sorry, overuse of italics

a/n: does this count for monsterfucktober? who cares. the title is from ‘dark necessities’ by rhcp!

It’s been exactly six months, eight days, and fifteen hours since you and Steven barely made it back alive from that camping trip.

It was your idea; you suggested that this was the perfect time of year to go camping—the weather was incredible and honestly, the two of you needed a break from the city, even for a few days.

What a mistake that would turn out to be.

—

The first few days were great; the spot you two had picked to camp out was perfect, there was nobody around to bother the two of you—it was great.

The last night was when things went terribly, awfully wrong.

You and Steven had put out the fire for the night and were preparing for bed when you heard it. At first, you both thought it could’ve been a bear or perhaps a neighboring camper’s dog that had gotten loose, but you very quickly—and too late—realized that it was something much, much worse.

The beast had lunged at the two of you from beyond the clearing, cloaked in darkness beside the taunting, hopeful glow of the full moon. You two barely had time to react—you managed to just get knocked back by the sheer force of such a creature, but Steven was less lucky.

The thing had gotten the best of him, but only for a second before being startled and running off. It still left its mark on him—a nasty scratch that ran from the top of his shoulder down near the middle of his chest.

You both are lucky to have made it out of there with your lives—thankfully, Steven’s injury was no more than a flesh wound, and healed with little scarring. When law enforcement arrived at your aid, you had been told that there had been sightings of wolves in the area, and were told that this was just a ‘freak accident’ and that you two were ‘not in any more danger’.

It was a difficult few months after that; poor Steven, as skittish and anxious as he already had been, was a total mess after the incident. He was grateful to have you around, though, and you helped him to return to some sense of normalcy.

Things have been generally pretty normal, but once a month, Steven is…different.

It’s like for a few days, he’s less like himself—he’s more reckless, clingier, like he can’t tear himself away from you even for a second. He’s abandoned his veganism, too, which you’ve found most strange.

He’d given you some rushed, stilted response; something about how he’d gotten tired of tofu scrambles and veggie wraps. It was very unlike Steven, but he’d been through a lot, so you’d forgiven it.

There’s a lot more steak in your fridge than you thought you’d ever have.

One day a month, though, he goes away overnight—tells you that some of his mates invite him over to have dinner and play some games, and you let him. He never tells you which friends he’s with, or where he goes.

A part of you thinks he’s lying.

He comes back all disheveled the morning after, a bit worse for wear, but he always insists that it’s just because he and the boys got a little wild the previous night.

It all doesn’t add up. You figure he’s just going through some kind of crisis in the aftermath of such a horrific attack.

But after months of this same routine, you’re fed up—it’s been too long of him lying and dancing around questions, skirting away from giving you any sort of solid, definitive answer.

“I’m coming with you tonight,” you tell him as the two of you sit on the couch together, spending time before he vanishes overnight.

He looks at you like he’s seen a ghost.

“No! No, you—love, it’s not—there’s nothing for you to worry about. Promise.”

You’re not convinced.

“I am worried, and I’m going to come with you. I don’t care what your friends say.”

He’s flustered now, nervous and looking like he’s trying to find an escape route to get out of this conversation. A part of you feels guilty for pressing him like this, but you need to know.

After what feels like an eternity of Steven struggling to find the right words to say, give some decent response to what you’re suggesting, he speaks up, voice soft.

“You can’t come with me, love.”

You make a face. You never knew Steven to be so insistent that you stay away from him, even if it’s overnight. So, you give him an ultimatum.

“Fine. If I can’t come with you, then stay home.”

He makes it seem as if that’s the worse option of the two, but he knows that you’ve got him backed into a corner. Either let you come with him, or stay at home.

That seems to have gotten through to him, and he nods, resigned. It was inevitable that you found out, and he knows that he’s damned no matter what he chooses.

“I’ll stay home, but we have to talk about this, yeah?”

You nod right away. Finally, you’re getting somewhere with him, so you’ll take whatever you can get.

He shifts in his seat beside you, suddenly feeling awkward and much more nervous about having such a conversation, but he eventually speaks up.

“After what happened to us a few months ago, I’ve been…different.”

No shit, you think. He continues, fidgeting.

“At first, I didn’t know what was wrong with me, I thought I’d just gone mental, yeah? But I didn’t. Something, er, worse happened.”

Your brows knit together in confusion, and you’re immediately able to tell that he’s stalling. Playing with his words and trying to put off this inevitable confession. You need him to tell you.

“Steven, just tell me.” You interject, tone a bit more firm than it usually is.

He tenses, and immediately blurts out the confession like the words burned in his throat.

“I’mawerewolf.”

What?

The words were rushed, all jumbled together but it was so obvious what he’d just said. You can’t believe it.

“Say again?” You ask, desperate for clarification.

His face is flushed red with embarrassment, and he can’t meet your gaze anymore—he’s awful at this, but he eventually gathers the nerve to repeat himself.

“I’m a…werewolf,” he cringes at the word, hating the way it sounds from his mouth. To further elaborate, he gestures vaguely in the direction of the window, where the sun has set and tonight’s full moon has begun to rise.

“You know; full moon, lycanthropy and all.” He makes a sad, awkward little howl noise, probably in some attempt to be funny or lighten the mood.

You stare at him, dumbfounded.

Unfortunately, it all makes too much sense.

The “wolf” attack, the disappearances once a month, the sudden change in his appetite.

Steven’s a werewolf.

The glow of the moon through the window is suddenly much less comforting. You realize he doesn’t have a lot of time before he’s unrecognizable.

“I go out to the woods every month,” he starts again after a beat of silence.

“I don’t want to hurt anybody. Don’t want to hurt you.”

You feel the guilt burn in your throat—that’s why he’s been so flighty, hiding away from you every month.

You don’t even have anything to say. What can you say to something like that?

You aren’t given much time to dwell on your thoughts before Steven doubles over in pain before you, and immediately all of your senses go on high alert.

“Oh fuck, Steven, are you okay?”

It’s a stupid question. Obviously, he isn’t.

You wish there was something you could do, but you don’t exactly know the protocol for what to do when your boyfriend starts turning into a werewolf.

“Fine! Fine, just—ah-“ he grimaces in pain, arms wrapped tightly around his middle.

You give him as much time as he needs, and he manages to get a few words out through his pain.

“Put away anything fragile—ah, fuck—please. I can’t-“ he doesn’t finish his thought, dropping to his knees from where he’d sat on the couch, and your heart aches for him.

After a few seconds of standing dumbly in place, you move with nervous speed, grabbing anything immediately fragile—glassware, the framed photo of the two of you in Cairo, anything breakable—and toss it all onto your bed, before shutting and locking the door.

By the time you return, Steven’s gotten rid of his clothes, and it’s the least of your concerns.

“I don’t want you in here when I—“ he cries out in pain, and your heart aches for him.

He doesn’t want you in the room with him when he turns.

You nod unsteadily, trying to wrap your head around this situation. An hour ago you figured that he might’ve been hiding something from you, but you never had thought that it’d be something like this.

Even though he’s warned you, you can’t take your eyes away from him.

The first thing that changes are his hands; his nails elongate into what you can only describe as claws—sharp and deadly.

You keep a safe distance.

With a pained shout, he arches back, and you bear witness to the grotesque sight—and sound—of his breastbone and ribcage cracking and stretching, expanding his chest to better accommodate the anatomy of a wolf.

It’s killing you to see Steven—your Steven—hurting and knowing there’s nothing you can do about it.

His canines stretch and sharpen into points. You back away from the living room.

You watch as he falls forward, leaning on his hands and knees; his back arches, his spine cracking and popping as his entire form is rearranged.

The sounds of his bones and joints cracking and shifting are awful enough on their own, but combined with the sound of Steven’s cries and shouts in agony, it’s that much worse.

His joints are rearranging, moving and grinding against one another. It’s grotesque and horrible, and you can’t believe that this is what Steven goes through every month.

It’s awful, and it gets worse when you see the way his face distorts, his nose and his cheekbones cracking horribly as his face stretches into something more canine than human.

It doesn’t take long until he’s completely unrecognizable. A hound; a werewolf.

You stand a fair distance from the creature that used to be your boyfriend, watching as the beast paces around your living room, sniffling and snarling as it takes in its surroundings.

“Steven..” you murmur, and the beast turns in your direction.

You can see Steven’s eyes, deep and brown—and even as unrecognizable as he is in this state, you still know that this is your Steven.

Against your better judgment, you step closer, treading softly and praying that he remembers you.

The wolf’s ears flatten against his head, and it takes a cautious step backward. It—he—growls, something low in his throat. Not quite a threat, but a warning. You can’t tell if it’s out of anger or fear.

He looks like a wolf, but bigger. You don’t know if that scares or excites you.

Every alarm bell in the back of your mind is blaring, telling you to run, get out of there, but you can’t. Not when you know that the wolf in front of you was your boyfriend a handful of minutes ago.

Slowly and carefully, you lower to your knees—you vaguely remember a documentary you and Steven had watched about wolves, how if you approach them on their level, they’d be less inclined to attack you. They’d be less threatened.

The wolf steps forward cautiously, sniffing the air in front of you as it tries to determine if you’re a friend or its next meal. It takes another step forward, and you put your hand out—palm facing upward—in front of it.

Those deep brown eyes you recognize so fondly as Steven’s never leave yours as the wolf sniffs your palm, its nose nudging your fingers as it does its best to understand who you are.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding when it presses its nose against your hand, a large, warm tongue swiping across your fingers.

He remembers you.

“Steven,” you breathe, and he huffs in response.

You move your hand carefully across the wolf’s snout, brushing your fingers over the fur on the top of its head gently.

You’re petting your boyfriend like you would a dog at the shelter.

The wolf takes another step forward, and you can see more of Steven in its eyes; that care, the affection, it’s all still there, just expressed differently.

He’s a lot bigger up close, definitely larger than any dog you’d ever seen, and that’s more obvious when the muzzle of the dog (if you can even call it that) nudges against the side of your head, then under your jaw. You can hear the way he sniffs and huffs as he takes in your scent.

Your hand slides from the top of his head down behind his ears, and you’re able to feel how soft his fur is. It’s dark, dark brown, much like Steven’s own hair color.

My boyfriend’s a werewolf, you think. Yeah, no big deal. I can roll with this.

You scratch behind his ears briefly, before you let your hands trail across more of that soft fur. With every pass of your hands, you can feel the strong beat of his heart, the way his chest expands with every breath.

After he’s gotten a good idea of your scent, he nuzzles against you for a few more moments. You can’t deny that the feeling is nice, like subconsciously, you know that it’s him.

You continue to pet him, before he shifts, and lays across your lap, putting all of his weight on you.

It doesn’t surprise you at all that Steven’s werewolf form is as much of a cuddler as he is. He’s warm, impressively so, and you take the tranquility of this moment to truly process the way this evening has gone so far.

Steven’s a werewolf. That night six months ago when you were attacked, he’d gotten scratched by what you can only assume was another werewolf, and that was all it took.

You resume brushing your hand across his fur, wondering what happened in your life to bring you to this point—sitting on your living room floor while Steven’s oversized werewolf form lays across your legs like some big lap dog.

Most of the night passes the same way, with the wolf curled up as best as it can in your lap, until you move him off of you when your legs fall asleep. There’s no complaint, though, and he settles down on the floor right in front of you, going right back to sleep.

Much to your surprise, nothing was broken like he thought when he told you to hide away anything fragile, and the two of you end up falling asleep on the living room floor.

—

When you wake up the next morning, Steven’s back to himself. You take this time before he wakes up to take in the sight of him now, and mentally compare it to the way he looked last night.

You drag your hand lightly down his bare back, fingers tracing his spine, remembering the feel of his thick fur beneath your touch. He stirs, so you retract your hand, allowing him to wake up on his own.

He does, turning and stretching as he comes out of sleep, sitting up to get himself more awake.

Before things can get awkward, you grab the blanket that rests on the back of the couch, pulling it down to cover his lap, since his clothes lay in a haphazard pile on the other side of the room.

He turns to you, a sheepish grin on his face as he takes in the sight of you.

“Hiya, love,” he murmurs, voice soft and still thick with sleep.

“Sorry about…everything.” He gestures to himself, before letting his hand fall lamely back to his lap.

You shake your head, moving so that your head rests on his shoulder, now sitting beside him as the two of you wake up in the aftermath of an interesting and unexpected evening.

“It wasn’t as bad as you probably thought it’d be.”

Now it’s his turn to look at you, dumbfounded.

It’s only then that it dawns on you that he might not remember everything that happens when he’s turned, so you fill him in.

You recount the events of the previous night to him, from witnessing his transformation to the way his wolf had cuddled and nuzzled against you for most of the night until you fell asleep.

“Oh, uh, I didn’t—“ he shifts, keeping the blanket across his lap.

“—didn’t know that I’d been such a lap dog.”

He says the words sarcastically, in that self-deprecating tone that you always associate with Steven.

You take it in stride, chucking softly.

“Oh, yeah, total pooch,” you tease.

“We even played fetch at one point.”

He flushes a bright red, the color bleeding down his neck, and you swear you can hear the way that his heart rate skyrockets.

“Shut up.”

After a few beats, you speak up, voice a bit softer and more sincere.

“You go through that every month?”

He pauses, eyes falling to the blanket in his lap, hands fidgeting with the fabric. He nods, taking a slow breath.

“Not really a good way to spend the evening, is it?”

You both chuckle softly, taking this quiet morning to become accustomed to what very well might be a new routine for the two of you.

“You were pretty calm, all things considered.”

He hums, nuzzling against the side of your face as you speak. You can’t help but make the mental connection between the way he did that same gesture as a wolf last night.

“Maybe you should just stay here when you..y’know. Turn.”

You can feel him pause for a moment, thinking, but after a few seconds, he resumes his nuzzling against your jaw and neck.

“I don’t want to put that responsibility on you,” he murmurs, tone low.

You shrug, bringing a hand up to card gently through his curls. You remember the texture of his fur beneath your fingers.

“I didn’t mind it all too much. It’s not like you tore up the apartment or anything,” you gesture around, his lack of destruction apparent.

You can feel the way he grins shyly against your skin, and your hand continues to brush through his hair.

“Thank you,” he hums sleepily, breath warm against you as he speaks.

You’re definitely not opposed to one morning a month turning out this way.

tags: @winniethewife , @faretheeoscar , @silvernight-m

#steven grant #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #monsterfucktober #werewolf steven grant #moon knight #some body horror lol #werewolves #steven grant fanfiction #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #oscar isaac #oscar isaac x reader #oscar isaac x you

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itwasntimethatdidit40 · 20 days ago

Text

Poison and Wine.

Pairing/Au: Javier Peña x f!reader

Words count: 1387

Rating: +18, NSFW

Warnings/Tags: pov second person, angst, smut, reader is described having breast and vagina, no other description of her is given (pic does not represent reader's appearance in any way, it is only aesthetic), oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (please use protections irl), sad thoughts, yearning, unspoken love.

A/N: Another fic I wrote a year ago, revised a year later. English is not my first language and I have no beta. I hope there are no mistakes but if there are, please excuse me. Writing Javier is not easy for me, I don't know why, but I tried.

It's inspired by the song Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars. I recommend listening to it for maximum effect. Hope you enjoy, thanks for your time!

You are in a small room. The moonlight comes in through the window, spreading across the floor in silvery streaks, leaving the rest of the room in semi-darkness. There is a bed in the center of the room, two nightstands on either side, a wooden chair in the corner with clothes haphazardly draped over it. Old curtains frame the sides of the window. The bed is covered with a red bedspread and cheap white sheets. The entire room smells of sex, cigarettes, and cheap deodorant.

On the wall opposite the bed is a small door that leads to a small, rather squalid bathroom. There is a man on the bed. He is lying on his back, his head resting on the pillow. He has short, thick, wavy raven hair, some tufts falling onto his high forehead. His eyes are closed, a strong, harmonious nose that blends perfectly with the rest of his face, shaved cheeks, pronounced cheekbones, full lips. The lower lip is slightly thicker than the upper one, covered by a pair of short, black, well-groomed moustaches, they’re parted, set in a sort of pout.

Neck relaxed, shoulders broad, arms stretched out at his sides, softly resting, hands open on the sheets. Regular breaths rise and fall on his chest, adorned with two small dark pink nipples, deliciously divided by the line of his sternum. His torso is almost completely hairless, except for a thin strip of hair that disappears into his black boxers. One of his legs is wrapped in the covers while the other is spread and the foot almost off the edge of the bed.

Your back rests on the pillow, which you have placed against the wooden headboard of the bed.

You've been watching him sleep for a while, he seems less worried in his sleep, less agitated by the urgency of not wasting time, of achieving the results he has set himself. There is always a tension in him, a restlessness that vibrates in his body. He is incredibly beautiful, you will never get used to how perfectly designed he is to make you lose your mind.

You are just a diversion, someone who calls to clear his mind, to chase away the horror he has to face every day. He never talks about his job but you are perfectly aware of what happens out there, you have seen it with your own eyes for as long as you can remember, you have lived here your whole life. The drugs, the corruption, the murders, the attacks, the bombs, have always been the backdrop to your life.

Most cops are corrupt, violent, double-crossing, you're used to not trusting them. There are few people who really try to do something good, like him. He was immediately kind and discreet, even if a certain cold detachment always remains.

You know he would never take advantage of you in a mean way. But you also know how he always sneaks out the door before dawn, making no promises, barely saying goodbye. You never know when he will call you again.

He takes what he needs and you are so eager to give it to him and he disappears like a ghost. Present in the moment, fleeting the next.

You know he asks you to meet him at these out-of-the-way motels because he’s afraid someone might follow you. You know it’s a way of protecting you as well as himself. But you can’t help but feel like you’re something small in his life, something not worth bringing into the light of day.

And you know you're already in awe, eager to have him, to taste him and feel his skin and his scent.

He smells like leather, cigarettes and tequila, with a fresh underlay of soap and men’s cologne.

You’re naked next to him, a heat still radiates from your lower abdomen and rises in your stomach.

You lie down on the bed, sighing, accompanying the pillow with your hands to slide it under your head.

Eyes on the ceiling, you’re trying to channel your emotions, without letting them crawl out of you.

You can make do with this. You can wait for him to wake up and you can tolerate him quickly picking up his clothes and leaving after a quick kiss on the lips. What he gave you before can be enough.

His hands running down your body.

Hands that can heal and can burn.

His lips in the crook of your neck, nibbling at the soft skin under your ear.

He pushed you, caging you between his body and the door, kissing you without saying a word. Flesh and teeth colliding.

He raised your arms above your head and his mouth trailed down your neck and chest, his mustache scratching you a little, his breath brushing your skin.

His impatient touch undressed you, his feverish fingers running down your tummy, lingering for a moment on the hem of your panties and then making room for them to look for your clit, drawing circles, making you vibrate.

He made you lie down on the bed, then took off his clothes and threw them on the chair.

He threw himself on you urgently, kissing your soft naked skin beneath him. He moved down between your legs to take care of your privates. His tongue was relentless, hungry, insistent as two fingers continued to rub your clit and his other hand was open on your hip. Your fingers were buried in his hair, your moans filling the silence along with his grunts of approval as he felt you tremble and melt for him.

His lips moved up to you, determined not to leave aside even an inch of your skin. You felt him everywhere on your body and you didn't care about anything else. He pulled you against him, wrapped one big, strong arm around your waist. Your breasts pressed against his chest, his cock poking at your entrance, stretching you an inch at the time, sinking into your warm, soaked cunt.

He moved slowly at first to let you get used to it, then harder, deeper. You felt his mouth widen into a smile on your skin as you repeated his name like a prayer.

Javier.

He held you tight to feel as much of you as he could, hammering your softest spot over and over again. He whispered in your ear, his voice deep, raspy, bouncing in your chest, in your brain, driving you crazy.

His jaw went slack, his eyes darker and full of lust as he came inside you, making you feel like you were one, painting your walls with his cum.

He didn't stop until he felt your pussy twitch and tighten around his cock, your head thrown back, your eyes closed, your mouth agape.

No one has ever made you feel this way, insatiable, overwhelmed by the need to have him more and more.

You are lost.

Empty.

You can't admit it.

You can't face it.

There is nothing you would like more than to feel important to him, someone who gives him peace of mind, someone who can always be by his side.

You know it will never happen but you can't stop wishing it would.

He wakes up. You look away, so as not to let him know that you were doing nothing but looking at him, in the vain hope of at least satiating your gaze, without success.

Javier.

He turns to you, strokes your arm and then sits on the bed, stretching.

He lights a cigarette, completely unaware of the battle raging inside you. He seems calm, relaxed, takes a drag and tosses the ash into the ashtray on the nightstand.

You want to shake him by the shoulders, tell him how hard it is every time you see him go, how painful it is. You want to ask him if he knows how he makes you feel. You do nothing, you just sit there, wrapped in the blankets, inhaling the sweet smell of his sweaty skin.

You smile weakly at him as he gets up, puts out his cigarette, gets dressed, gives you a quick kiss, and walks out the door.

Without saying anything, without promising anything, as usual.

I don’t love you, but I always will.

#javier peña x ofc #javier peña smut #javier peña x reader #pedro pascal #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña #narcos fic #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters fanfiction

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ssa-neeks-prentiss · 5 days ago

Note

hello hello hello !!

a teeny tiny request for you (hopefully it's not much to deal with): reader seeing Spencer interact with the kids who come knocking for treats, he does a small little trick for them too

reader with the team goes to catch an unsub hiding in an abandoned lab or hospital (maybe x aaron?)

honestly idk what I'm yapping about but here are some mediocre thoughts from my side

‹3

AN: Sorry for not being able to do the top ask, I started getting motivation a little too late- I also need a name for this series so tell me if you have any ideas :3

Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

Word Count : 1k

You stepped forward with your gun out. The team spread around you. You looked up at the large abandoned building in front of you. You let out an exasperated sigh as you finally noticed why the building was so large.

"An abandoned hospital. This sounds like it's straight out of a horror movie."

You muttered to no one in particular but they all heard and responded non verbally with grimaces. Frowning, you opened the door but winced as it opened with a loud creak.

"There goes our sneak attack."

Emily said to the team. You nodded in response. You agreed and you jogged forward, not caring about not making a sound anymore. The unsub had been alerted of your presence the moment you had opened that door.

Once all of the team was in the building, the door creaked shut, it was unsettling once it shut completely. As it was now dark and completely silent.

You crept through the hospital. You saw many things, but the thing that irked you the most was the fact the walls were void of graffiti. It was an obvious sign of something ahead. Especially since the place was obvious and not far from the main city.

The team split up and you were set with Aaron. The adrenaline rushing through your veins became more and more intense with each room you walked into. You came across many things, security cameras in tact and functioning, fully set up operating rooms, expensive equipment was still there.

"Something isn't right."

You muttered until you heard a bang and a loud scream. Both you and Aaron snapped up and ran to the sound of the scream. Panic made you run faster than you had before. Quicker than you thought was your limit.

You skidded to a halt as you rounded a corner but not before Aaron smashed into you due to your abrupt halt. You grabbed Aaron's hand and twisted sideways to avoid the knife that was being held out using some sort of contraption. You let out a quiet sigh of relief as you saw the rest of the team come from the other way. None of them would get hit by the knife. You sat up from where you were on the ground. Helping Aaron up, you dusted yourself off.

"This place is full of traps."

You muttered bitterly and Aaron gave you an apologetic look and you gave him a small smile in return. You trudged to the others.

"What did you find?"

Aaron asked them. Emily and JJ gave each other a look.

"We found a morgue."

You looked at them with a perplexed look, that was normal for a hospital like this. That was until JJ added onto Emily's statement.

"It was full of the missing people."

You paused. Oh. So this was where the unsub dumped the bodies. You turned to Rossi and Derek.

"Did you find anything?"

You asked the other two.

"We found.. Uh.. Organs."

Derek said with a tone of disgust. Your head snapped up in surprise.

"Where? Take me."

You asked and he nodded. The team followed behind you two.

Once you got there, you scanned the organs that were in the room.

"These are all the things that were 'wrong' with each person. The heart for heart problems. Lungs for asthma. The spine for back problems."

You listed off a few things. Until Aaron clicked it together.

"He was trying to fix them. Make them better. Take away what was bad and let them leave in perfect condition."

You nodded in agreement.

"Exactly."

You spun around at the unrecognizable voice. Your gun raised along with everyone elses. He held his hands up.

"I can go. I've saved all the people I need to."

At that Aaron nodded and Derek surged forward to snap handcuffs on the guy. They decided to go the way the guy came but before Derek could step forward with the guy you held a hand out and stopped them. You told everyone to go the other way and they did with only Aaron as an exception.

"Why did you tell them to go the other way."

Instead of answering properly you spoke instead.

"When I shout run. You run."

You waited for his nod and you grabbed something and threw it forward and the motion set something off as the place started to tick loudly.

"Run!"

You shouted as the two of you dashed out and got out of the hospital just in time to see the section of the building they were just in blow up. The two of you were slightly breathless from the running as the rest jogged to you both and bombarded you with questions.

"How did you know?"

You shrugged nonchalantly.

"He smirked and I noticed the motion sensors."

AARON'S POV

Aaron smiled slightly as the nonchalance reminded him of your daughter, Eleanor, he could tell that she got it from you. The smile was quickly wiped from his face as Rossi walked up to him with a knowing smirk.

Though you didnt notice that as you walked back to one of the vehicles, speaking with Emily.

He noticed a light red blushing on your cheeks as Emily teased you about something. You groaned as Emily laughed. Aaron didn't take notice of what Rossi was saying as he followed you.

He climbed into the drivers seat as you called shotgun and scrambled into the passenger seat. He smiled softly as you grinned and stuck your tongue out at Emily. You were a mix. You could be serious in times of need but also childish and light hearted. He admired that in you.

Emily grumbled and took the seat behind you and he held back a laugh as you gasped dramatically when Emily jokingly kicked your seat. You whipped around to glare at her but the smile that graced your face told him that you didn't mean it.

He turned the key as you begrudgingly turned around but not before giving Emily the middle finger.

Aaron enjoyed watching you interact with the team, he didn't know why but he did. It was nice. He enjoyed being with you overall but he didn't know why he felt a fluttering feeling with you. It confused him to no end but he didn't mind being confused if he got to spend time with you.

That was one of his favourite things to do and he could do it for hours.

#criminal minds #bau x reader #criminal minds x reader #fanfic #criminal minds x y/n #bau!reader #x reader #aaron hotchner x reader

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freedomfireflies · 2 years ago

Text

The Prism*

Summary: Harry and Dylan don't have a thing in common except for their hatred.

That...and their insatiable thirst for you.

Word Count: 11k (I have no excuse for this, I was in heat)

*This is a Harry Styles and Dylan O'Brien crossover of sorts! I know that's not everybody's thing, so please feel no pressure to read! This part will contain Mature and Explicit content, so please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞*

The Prism.

Boston's very own sex club. Boston's best underground sex club.

Secret, but not unknown, The Prism is nothing short of legendary. The parties, the memories, the clients, the exclusivity. All of it making The Prism what it is.

This is where you find yourself one Friday evening. With your on again, off again boy-toy Harry by your side.

You figure it’s a good way to welcome in the weekend. A quick fuck to reset the stress from the previous week. A habit that’s becoming rather typical for you. Especially with Harry, who offers you nothing more than some good cock.

He might be a pain in your ass, but he certainly does know his way around your body. A talent that’s proven even now as he rests his hand on your thigh while you take a sip of your Sprite.

The touches always start innocently enough. A quick squeeze to your knee beneath the table as you laugh. He’ll make some comment about how perfect your dress is for easy access. How fun it would be to fuck you right there in the booth. How thrilling it would be to make everybody watch.

And everybody would watch. And they wouldn’t care. Because that’s just…what The Prism does. It’s why you’re all here. No judgements, no consequences…just sex.

And right as this thought occurs to you, Harry’s fingers begin their journey up your inner thigh. They always find themselves there eventually, and you aren’t about to argue. Especially with how determined his touch is tonight.

You’re tempted to wonder why but can’t find the willpower to do so as the soft stroking against your skin crawls higher.

Out of reflex, your legs begin to squeeze shut around his hand while your fingers grip onto the edge of your seat.

You turn toward him, face nuzzling into his shoulder as if to hide. Because you’re so smitten by this man and his touch and this feeling he’s giving you.

But when you glance up at him, maybe in an attempt to encourage him to finally touch you…you see that his eyes are not on you.

They’re on something in the distance.

Focused, and cocky, and somewhat angry.

And just as you’re beginning to ask yourself why…you hear footsteps. Growing louder and louder until they stop right behind you.

“Well, well, well.”

The new voice is enough to startle you, but it isn’t enough to deter Harry’s touch. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. Doesn’t offer you a moment of reprieve. No, he keeps pressing his thumb over the dampening spot of your underwear as you slowly turn to see who’s approached.

And to your surprise, and slight horror…you find Dylan.

Dylan, your friend of nearly eight years, looming above where you sit in the booth. Hands in his pockets, a smirk pulling at his lips, and his shirt unbuttoned about halfway down his chest.

For a moment, he eyes Harry’s wrist as it continues to disappear beneath the hem of your dress.

And then, he looks up. Finds you. Studies you for a moment as you quickly attempt to push Harry out and play coy.

“Hi,” you breathe, frowning when your attempts at shoving are unsuccessful. Harry won’t let himself be moved away from you, and you want to smack him.

And now you understand the look on his face. Understand why he kept his focus on the man across the room.

Dylan and Harry can’t fucking stand each other. You’re not sure why, but it’s been like this since the moment you got the outrageously idiotic idea to introduce them.

Dylan thinks you can do better than Harry.

Which, truthfully…you probably can.

And Harry thinks Dylan needs to mind his own fucking business.

Which, truthfully…he probably does.

But you never found the need to take a side. Because what you do with Harry only matters inside the bedroom.

And your friendship with Dylan matters outside of the bedroom.

There’s no need for the two relationships to ever overlap or interact.

Except for now.

Dylan’s smirk widens at your attempt at a nonchalant greeting, but he knows he’s caught you off guard. “Hi,” he returns.

“What, um…what a coincidence,” you say, clearing your throat as you squeeze Harry’s hand between your fingers.

“Isn’t it?” Dylan muses, nodding once as he looks down at you.

You swallow.

“Funny…this is the last place I imagined seeing you,” he continues, allowing for one glance at the man beside you, his eyebrow cocking up.

You clear your throat once more. “Oh, well, you know. We didn’t have much to do, and I’ve heard the mozzarella sticks are to die for.”

It’s a horrible cover. You know he’s not buying it, and Harry’s snort of amusement certainly doesn’t help your cause.

But Dylan graciously begins to grin, almost as if to appease you. “Is that so?”

You nod. “Yes. Yup. In fact, now that we’ve tried them, we’re probably just…gonna head home.”

“Oh, really? Already?”

“Yeah. Just…have a nice night in. Relax. Maybe watch a movie. Or two. Or three. Movies are fun. Aren’t movies fun?”

You’re rambling. You need to stop. But you don’t know what else to do. Don’t know how to look Dylan in the eye as Harry’s hand continues to tease you underneath your dress.

“Such fun,” Dylan agrees before he runs his tongue over his teeth. “But…I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.”

Now, it’s Harry’s turn to look intrigued. He leans closer, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he regards the confident man on the other side of the table.

“Why, um…why not?” you ask hesitantly, feeling rather caught between these two alpha-males.

There’s a pause as Dylan regards you, his attention falling down to your chest which is heaving beneath the fancy material of your outfit.

It makes him smile.

He leans closer. “Because what kind of friend would I be…if I made you cum around his fingers?”

Your eyes just about pop out of your head as you blink at him, stunned by the implication that he did in fact see what Harry was doing.

“I’d say a pretty fucking shitty one,” Dylan continues, placing his hands on the table as his head dips closer to you. “And am I a shitty friend?”

You don’t know what to do. Have no answer to offer him.

And just when you’re thinking you’d like to walk into the middle of traffic to avoid this interaction altogether…you feel Harry squeeze your thigh.

Either he’s furious with Dylan for showing up and intruding…or he’s reminding you to answer.

Both theories make your stomach flip.

“No,” you murmur, a bit mesmerized by the curious but lustful look in Dylan’s eye.

“No,” he repeats in agreement, nodding once. “No, I’m not. You know what kind of friend I am?”

Your head shakes.

“I’m the kind of friend…that takes you into that private room…and fucks you the way you deserve,” he whispers, eyeing you closely as he watches the realization settle.

The entire booth goes quiet. Still.

You have no idea where this came from. No idea how many drinks Dylan must have had to inspire him to even suggest such an idea.

And you have no idea why Harry isn’t stopping him. Telling him off. Shutting the idea down.

It’s as if you all understand the same thing. As if you’ve all landed on the same conclusion, the same page.

You almost feel dizzy from how fast this all happened. How fast Dylan went from being your longtime bestie to the man staring a hole right through you and promising you the kind of orgasm you’ve always deserved.

He leans back and outstretches his hand. “Up,” he commands of you, and you stand so quickly to your feet that you’re convinced it was your cunt making the call instead of your brain.

But it doesn’t matter because you’ve never felt so…sure. So safe. Stuck between these two men that you would happily entrust your pleasure with.

Harry stares at you both from his seat, and you wonder if now is the time for him to object.

But when he simply cocks his head and nods at you to step out of the booth…you feel your eyes grow wide.

You look back at Dylan as you take his hand, fingers slipping around his palm as he leads you out from the corner of the room. “What…what are you doing? What’s going on?”

“I told you,” he says coolly, stealing another glance at the man scooting his way after you. “I’m being a really good fucking friend.”

Your knees feel weak, but you toss him an unamused look. “Dyl…come on. You don’t…you’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying—”

“Actually, I haven’t had a drink all night,” he corrects. “I know…exactly what I’m saying. What I’m asking. And so do you. Both…of you.”

You tug on his hand until you’re sure you have his full attention.

Not that you haven’t had it since the moment he saw you walk in.

“Dylan,” you repeat softly. Urgently. “What are you doing?”

He studies you for a moment, almost as if contemplating his answer.

Then, he uses his other hand to brush a fallen hair behind your ear, his finger following the curve of your neck as he smiles.

“I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago,” he tells you, and you can hear the honesty in his voice. “And I guess I’m seeing if you want it, too.”

“You hate him.”

“I tolerate him,” Dylan corrects smugly. “I’ve just…begun to feel a little bad for you. That’s all.”

Your lashes flutter. “Bad?”

“Yeah.” His grin grows a bit more cocky. “I’m sure he’s perfectly…adequate. When you need him to be. But I think he could be better. I think you deserve…better.”

“And you’re better, huh?”

“I can be. For you.”

“Dylan.”

“Honey.”

You want to frown at the nickname, but the way he says it makes your breath hitch. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am,” he says confidently. “As long as you are.”

And are you?

You nod, a rush of adrenaline shooting up the back of your spine as he beams at you and begins to lead you toward the hallway at the back of the club.

And Harry is right behind, his watchful gaze never once deviating from Dylan. You’re sure he’s contemplating what Dylan’s true intentions are. Perhaps contemplating if this is even a good idea.

But something about The Prism makes every idea seem like a good idea.

You feel so pitiful with the way you follow after the handsome man in front of you, tripping over your own feet as he leads you all to the collection of doors.

You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it before. How could you not have? He’s charming, and he’s funny, and he’s been one of your closest friends for years.

And he’s a much more permanent figure in your life than Harry is.

But you feel safe with him. Safe with both of them, no matter how strange this entire arrangement has become.

When you come to a stop, you find that you’re in front of door number five, and just before you can ask what happens next…Dylan slips a gold-plated key from his pocket.

And once you’ve entered the room…everything changes.

You don’t know what to look at first. The large space is stunning, with a king-sized bed front and center. Silk sheets, a velvet couch, a mirror on the ceiling.

Not to mention the array of toys displayed in the corner or the bench with black handcuffs on it.

You feel like you’ve walked straight into a porno.

And while this is a sure upgrade from your previous visits, you don’t feel…unsettled. Or uneasy, or even unsure.

You feel…confident in your decision. In the idea that you really are doing this…with them.

And when you turn to catch a glimpse of Harry’s face…you find that he’s equally as enthralled by the prospect of tonight. Of the three of you.

This will most likely be a one-time thing, and perhaps this understanding is what’s inspiring you to throw caution to the wind.

After all, pleasure is pleasure.

And shared pleasure…well, that’s just a fucking dream.

Dylan steps aside to allow you both a look around. He seems amused by your awe, and even more amused by the way your fingers have begun to twitch by your side.

He can tell you’re desperate. You’re sure they both can. How could you not be? You have no idea who will hold the power tonight. Or what it would even look like to see them work together.

If that’s even possible.

“Problem?” you hear Dylan call, forcing your attention back until you see the way Harry shrugs.

“Just…wondering what exactly you think is gonna happen tonight,” Harry replies, brow raised as he watches Dylan’s arms cross over his chest. “What your plan is.”

“My plan, huh?” Dylan repeats, smiling softly. “My plan. Well, Harold…my plan is to show you…how to do it right.”

Harry begins to frown as your heart hammers against your chest.

“And my plan…” Dylan continues, taking a step closer, “…is to make you watch.”

Harry’s teeth grit as he regards the arrogant man a few feet away. “Is that fucking right?”

“That’s fucking right.”

Now, Dylan looks to you.

“Sit him down,” he instructs, nodding toward the bench in the corner of the room.

You and Harry both turn to look as well, and once Harry realizes what the plan is, he scoffs.

“Oh, I don’t fucking think so,” he retorts, straightening up. “No. You’re not fucking my girlfriend right in front of me.”

“She’s not your girlfriend,” Dylan reminds him calmly. “Besides, I don’t think it would hurt you to learn how to actually make her cum.”

“Oh, and you think you know how?” Harry snorts, moving closer as well. “What, all those years of pining for her really did the trick, huh?”

“Wasn’t about pining. I just knew she could do better.”

“Better. And you’d be better?”

“I’d certainly be a start.”

“Funny.”

“Not really. She deserves to know how it feels to have my cum inside of her.”

Your cheeks flush.

“And you expect me to watch?”

“I expect you…to sit the fuck down,” Dylan answers, with a bit more edge than before. “Exactly like I asked.”

But Harry doesn’t move. No, he glares at Dylan as you apprehensively approach from behind, hoping to ease the tension before it can rise any further.

And when Harry continues to remain put, Dylan decides to take matters into his own hands.

He places his palms on Harry’s chest…and shoves. Shoves him back, shoves him hard. Shoves until Harry has no choice but to stumble back.

Harry’s jaw snaps shut. “The hell are you—”

“Sit down,” Dylan repeats, just as sternly as before.

“Fuck you,” Harry seethes, stepping back up to his previous spot as Dylan’s head cocks.

“I’m sure you’d like to. But right now…I asked you to sit down.”

“God, you’re such a fucking—”

But before Harry can finish his spiteful retort, Dylan’s fingers are weaving through the roots of Harry’s curls to force his head back.

The room falls silent, save for the quick breaths you and Harry are both taking.

But Dylan is calm. Far too calm as he leans in and meets Harry’s eye. “Sit…the fuck…down,” he whispers. “And maybe…I’ll be good to you, too.”

For a moment, the two men are at an impasse.

They can’t stand each other and would happily spend all evening arguing and showing off if they had to.

But they understand that tonight is not about them.

It’s about you.

It always is.

So, Harry swallows his pride and relaxes into Dylan’s hold as a sign of good faith. Allowing the older gentleman to decide what happens next.

But Harry won’t like it…but he’ll at least get to be a part of it.

Dylan turns to you now, smiling his appreciation at your willingness before nodding once.

You take this as your cue to approach, gentle touch slipping around Harry’s hand as you gingerly guide him toward the bench.

And Harry lets himself be moved, even though you can feel the way his muscles have gone stiff beneath your hold.

Something that certainly isn’t helped by the way Dylan calls, “Attaboy.”

It's condescending, and arrogant, and everything Harry hates. Especially from Dylan. Even still, he remains quiet, instead moving his focus to you. The sweet girl just trying to do as she’s told.

And you still feel rather mesmerized by whatever spell Dylan has you under, following each order like a lost little puppy.

A submissive little pet.

Not that you’re opposed to playing this role. Especially with these two men. And you can tell Harry is rather amused by your eagerness, if not a little annoyed by it.

And you know how hard this must be for him. To give up control.

To give it to Dylan.

It’ll be out of his hands, quite literally. And Harry adores having power over you. Over everyone.

But tonight…tonight he’s far too taken with Dylan’s premise. And the promise of pleasure between the three of you.

Of the promise…of you.

And perhaps a part of him is hoping that this little experiment between you and your longtime friend will only prove that Harry is the superior choice.

And that thought alone has his cock twitching.

Once he’s sat on the bench, he shoots a peeved look Dylan’s way. Almost as if to reiterate the point that he’s absolutely not enjoying himself.

Even if he sort of is.

Dylan merely smiles, once again nodding his approval as he looks to you. “Hands,” he instructs simply.

He doesn’t need to elaborate any further for you to know what he’d like. So you reach for Harry’s large wrists, and lift them toward the restraints hanging off the back of the seat.

Harry continues to stew from his spot, but he doesn’t stop you. He waits for you to finish, taking note of the way your fingers gently shake with anticipation.

You slip his hand through and tighten the lock into place. Then, you move to the other side, and repeat.

Once you’re finished, he tugs on them, just to test them out, and is rather surprised to find how little room for movement he actually has.

An idea that’s exciting, invigorating, and arousing. But he keeps his expression stoic as he lifts his head and looks over to the man a few feet away.

Dylan is pleased with you, lips rolling into his mouth as he hums his approval. “Good girl,” he calls once you’ve stepped back to join him.

And your face flushes as your thighs begin to squeeze together. They both notice, but don’t comment on it as Dylan begins walking up behind you.

With his long, beautiful fingers, he sweeps your hair off your back and over your shoulder, allowing enough room for him to ghost his lips along your neck.

Then, he whispers, “Take off your panties.”

Harry leans back against the seat, his legs spreading rather angrily as he watches Dylan toss a smirk toward him.

But you do as you’re asked, slipping your hand beneath the hem of your dress until you can feel your way toward the lace.

And Harry’s eyes grow bigger as he watches you do this right in front of him. He doesn’t miss a thing. Doesn’t miss the way you’re forced to take a deep breath to compose yourself. Doesn’t miss the way you undoubtedly felt yourself dripping. Doesn’t miss the way you accidentally-on-purpose grazed your little clit.

All three of you know you’ll be unraveling before the evening even has a chance to get started.

Once the underwear is off and in your hands, you turn to Dylan expectantly.

He smiles and glances over your face. “Put them in his mouth.”

Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead as Harry rolls his eyes, grunting to himself before looking away.

But Dylan isn’t deterred. “Go on,” he murmurs, nodding his chin toward the perturbed British man on the bench. “Let him taste you. ’Cause this is all he’s gonna fucking get.”

With that, he places his hand on your lower back, and encourages you forward.

There’s a catch in your throat as you step up to Harry, filled with intrigue and promise.

He watches you get closer, going deathly still as you reach out to grab onto the underside of his jaw, and lift his head.

His gaze is venomous as you look him over. Perhaps he’s trying to communicate with you. Or perhaps he’s simply reminding you that he doesn’t enjoy this little show.

Either way, you smile softly to comfort him, thumb stroking over his cheek soothingly. “Come on, Har. Be a good boy and open up.”

He’d probably fight you on this any other day.

But today…he’s too desperate.

His lips slowly pull apart, mouth widening just enough to allow you to slip the soaked fabric inside before his jaw clamps shut.

You watch the way his lashes flutter at the taste of you immersing his tongue. A taste he’s so used to, so familiar with, so enchanted by…that he groans.

However, it comes out as more of an annoyed grunt, but either way, Dylan is pleased as Harry slumps down into his seat.

And once you’ve stepped back, you collide into Dylan’s chest, your heart racing as he snakes one arm around the front of your stomach to keep you stuck to him.

“Think that’ll keep him quiet?” he murmurs, lips following the curve of your ear as you become puddy in his hands.

And you can feel his hard cock pressed against your ass. Can feel the way he grinds against you, the way he breathes you in as if he needs you to survive.

And when you shiver within his hold, he smiles.

“How’s it taste, Harold?” he asks the tense man in the corner.

Harry's only response is a grunt.

“Yeah? That good, huh?” Dylan grins, fingers now traveling down the side of your silhouette as he pulls on the fabric of your dress. The hem lifts higher and higher up your thighs until a cool breeze finds its way beneath, forcing you to lean back into him. “Guess I should have a taste for myself.”

Harry’s focus falls toward your legs, watching with intrigue as the fabric is bunched into Dylan’s fists just above your belly button.

And you’re soaked. You imagine they knew you would be, but once they finally see it for themselves? See the way the light catches the drip down your thighs? See how swollen and needy you’ve become?

Harry makes another animalistic noise deep from the center of his chest, lids growing heavy with lust as your throbbing cunt sits before him. Right in his fucking face.

And Dylan’s only response is smug condescension, glancing down at the masterpiece before him while trailing his fingers toward the apex of your thighs.

And you watch him. Watch every inch of skin pass beneath his hand as he smooths his palm down your stomach.

Your breaths are quick and desperate, lungs practically aching as he finally reaches his destination.

Without permission, a small whimper rips from between your parted lips as you jerk against his chest. However, his arm keeps you still, keeps you obedient. Forced to feel each dip and pinch his fingers provide.

He slides through slowly, feeling you out, indulging in you. Spreading, and pressing before finally dipping inside.

A loud gasp rings through the room as you squirm a bit harder at the subtle pressure he applies. But before you can truly enjoy it…he pulls out, leaving you to wilt in his embrace.

And you want to be angry, but he never promised you anything more than a taste.

Which is exactly what he takes, fingers moving up to his mouth as he watches Harry from over your shoulder. Just to make sure he has his full attention.

Dylan’s tongue drags along the drops falling down his knuckles before he places those nimble fingers on his tongue.

And hearing him suck the ever-living shit out of them has your eyes squeezing shut. It’s too much—too good. You can hardly fucking stand it, and you clench pitifully around nothing.

And Harry sees this. Sees everything, hears everything. And he fucking loves it. Despite himself, he loves seeing the way your body reacts to something as simple as a sound. The way you fall apart, even by Dylan’s hand. The way you submit.

“You were right,” Dylan hums as his arm drops back down to your body. “She’s fucking delicious.”

Harry exhales heavily through his nose, his mouth watering, teeth clamping down on the panties still soaking his tongue.

You’re almost proud of him for how…complicit he’s being.

How…obedient.

When Dylan releases your dress, you almost want to whine. Tortured by the idea that he’s already through with you. That he’s going to leave you like this.

But you should know better. Should know the look in his eye by now. Should know what it means as he runs a hand through his dark hair and murmurs, “C’mere, baby.”

You turn to fully face him, wonderstruck by his beauty under these lights. In this moment. This one, divine experience you feel lucky enough to have.

He takes hold of your chin, tilting your face up until he can get a good look at you. His thumb brushing down your bottom lip, teasing you with the idea to take it into your mouth.

He dips down, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you. And your heart just about leaps into your throat at the idea of finally getting to taste him this way.

Then…he pulls back.

“Take off your dress,” he instructs softly, head tilting to the left as if going back in to kiss you again.

But he can’t kiss you and give you the room you need to take off your dress, so you pout as you reach back to undo the zipper.

The sparkly fabric moves down your arms before falling to the floor, and you’re quick to step out of it so you can return to him.

But both boys need a moment to admire you. Need a moment to appreciate you as their eyes follow each curve and dip along your squirming frame. Your naked chest, your aching cunt, and the flush in your face.

Once Dylan’s eyes reach yours, he nods. “Now take off my shirt.”

You nearly lunge for the buttons trailing down the second half of his chest, slipping them free quickly before guiding the soft, black material of his shirt off his body.

And now it's your turn to admire him, taking note of his muscles, and tan skin. The few hairs that litter his chest and disappear into his pants.

Without realizing it, you’ve begun to tug on your bottom lip with your teeth, but Dylan realizes. And he swallows a laugh.

“Pants,” he instructs next, stepping out of his shoes as your greedy fingers reach for his zipper.

The feel of his briefs has your heart thumping in your chest, the idea of what lies beneath practically luring you in.

But you haven't been instructed to go there yet, so with a huff, you pull his jeans down to the floor and discard of them.

Your focus moves from his hips to his face, expression practically begging with him to let you remove the last item of clothing.

And Dylan looks at you like you’re the most adorable thing in the world, although he still refuses to give you permission.

Instead, he looks toward Harry. Still brooding behind you as you glance over as well.

"I want you to take off his pants for me," he tells you, his voice so low, it nearly vibrates throughout your entire body. "Take them off…so you can watch him leak for you."

Harry's chest just about caves in on itself as he shoots an aggravated look Dylan’s way.

But you hardly notice as you return to him, fingers outstretching for his belt to pull it through each loop.

And Harry watches you, looking down as his pulse races at the beautiful sight of you timidly kneeling at his feet.

And you’re watching your hands with your big eyes, cunt still throbbing as you attempt to squeeze your thighs together.

Both of you are dangling on the precipice of sanity as Harry’s nails begin to dig just a bit harder into his palms. A futile attempt at restraining himself from the thought of taking a fistful of your hair.

You’re so close to him. So fucking close to what you both know is his painfully hard and red cock. Proof of what you’re doing to him. What you’re both doing to him.

After a moment or two of struggle, you manage to shimmy his pants down to his ankles before flicking them off and tossing them aside.

His black dress shirt and boxers are all that’s left, and you have to take a moment to admire him, too.

Because just the thought of riding that glorious tiger tattoo on his thigh makes your head spin. The way it would look, glistening in your arousal, dripping down his leg before you’re forced to clean it up.

You let out a strangled breath as Dylan steps closer and clicks his tongue to call your attention back to him.

“Take ’em off,” he repeats, eyeing the only left between you and Harry’s cock.

Harry tenses once more, steeling himself against the bench as you face him. For the first time all night, he's practically pleading with you. Desperate for your touch.

And when you dip your hand inside, you feel exactly how sticky he is. How pathetically aroused.

You both gasp when the contact is made, his lashes once more fluttering quickly as he relaxes into your touch.

And he’d happily stay there in your hand all damn day if it wasn’t for the proud man behind you. Watching with that cocky expression that hasn’t been displaced all night.

You waste no more time, fingers curling around the band of his underwear before you’re pulling them down, revealing what lies beneath to your hungry gaze.

You try not to stare but you can’t exactly help it. It’s right in your face.

Dylan is a little less subtle. He gives Harry a once-over, feeling rather satisfied with the way his body tells him what Harry can’t. Proving just how much of a needy bitch this man really is.

Poor Harry is fucking humiliated under their stares. Leaning back against the bench as he pulls on the restraints, the veins in his arms straining against his skin.

But deep down…you know he loves it.

"What did I tell you?" Dylan muses, bending down so he’s closer to where you still sit on your knees. "Look at the way he needs you. The way he fucking leaks for you. Pathetic, isn't it?"

You nod mutely, attention still transfixed like a kid in a candy store.

Dylan hums. “Bet you wanna have a taste. Don’t you, honey? Go on then. Fucking taste him.”

You look up, finding Harry’s eyes as you search for his approval.

He offers a gesture that you assume is meant to be his consent before you straighten up and place your hands on his thighs.

Once you’re close enough, you waste no more time, dragging your tongue up the underside of his cock as his head drops back and he groans.

Your nails bury deep within his skin as you situate yourself between his legs. Allowing yourself to get comfortable while you wrap your mouth around his tip. Tongue swirling in percisce patterns as you whimper for added effect.

Harry just about loses it. You can see the way his chest has begun to heave from strained breaths and it sends your ego through the roof.

You love having this type of power over him. Knowing that his pleasure…is yours.

And Dylan allows this to go on for quite some time before he finally decides he’s had enough. You imagine he doesn’t want Harry coming down your throat so soon, and aren’t all that surprised when he reaches down to grab onto you.

His fingers tangle in your roots until you let Harry go before he’s yanking you onto your feet.

You don’t even have time to speak before he’s whirling you around and kissing you.

Instantly, his lips melt into yours, your tongue coated with Harry’s pre-cum, your jaw rigid beneath his palm.

And he takes. Takes everything you have to offer him. No hesitation, no remorse, no consequences.

He takes until you have no choice but to moan with satisfaction at the feel of the man holding onto you so tight. At the pain tingling across your scalp. At the way he grunts into your mouth like he’s never been so turned on.

His other hand finds your throat, pressing just hard enough to squeeze another whimper from you. Your fingers graze down his stomach as you attempt to steady yourself, but your knees feel weak. Your body instantly aroused by something as simple as a kiss.

Then, with the hold on your hair, Dylan slings you toward the bed just behind you like you were nothing but a fucking ragdoll. You crash onto the soft mattress, tits bouncing from the force as you gasp excitedly.

He’s quick to follow, hands and knees leading him closer as he hovers above you, caging you to the silk sheets.

He’s like a wild animal chasing after an innocent baby deer. As if you’re just waiting for him to eat you alive.

Which…you are.

But you’re also impatient, legs already attempting to spread as if to plead with him, needily reaching for his face in a silent request for another kiss.

And you imagine he might have given it to you until a certain darkness passes over his expression and he finds your throat once more.

With a warning squeeze, he murmurs, “No, baby. You do what I say. Understood?”

The rasp in his voice prompts a rather fast response as you nod and whisper, “Yes.”

Truth be told, you’d hoped the catch in your voice would perhaps change his mind but Dylan seems to know the trick.

He tsks again as he studies you. “My greedy little whore. Just aching for anything I’ll give her, hm? No. No, you’re gonna stay right here. Right fucking here until I come back.”

Confused, your eyebrows weave together as he pushes himself upright and steps off the bed.

You push yourself onto your elbows as you watch him walk away from you, expression growing sad the further he gets.

“Where—” you begin only to quickly realize that he’s stopping in front of the selection of toys.

Oh.

He takes his time looking over the display while Harry huffs from his spot. You imagine he’s just as apprehensive of Dylan’s plans as you are, and if he could talk…it probably wouldn’t be very nice.

As the minutes continue to pass, you grow anxious. Impatient. So pitifully desperate that you have to flop back down onto the bed and put your eyes on the mirror above you.

You watch your reflection with a pout, taking note of your breasts as they rise and fall with each breath. The way your hair is spread out across the bed. The way your thighs are squeezing together in an attempt to find some relief.

It would be so easy to just…slip your hand down and find it. Find a fraction of pleasure as you wait for Dylan to quit toying with you.

But before you get the chance to do such a devious thing, you feel a large presence looming to your left, and roll your head over to look.

Dylan has returned, a new object in his hand, and a stern expression on his face. He’s warning you to behave, and you have no choice but to oblige as you glance down.

He weighs the toy he’d retrieved in his hands, making sure to get a good feel as he glances between the two of you. Letting you anticipate him. Anticipate his plans.

And then…he turns it on.

The sound of the vibrations almost make you groan as you squirm a bit harder on the bed. Your longing gaze glued to the wand as you silently command Dylan to hurry up and put it to use already.

But he doesn’t rush to your side the way you had hoped. No, instead…he turns to Harry.

Now even more unsure, Harry attempts to straighten up as he regards the brunette boy walking toward him.

When Dylan crouches down, Harry shoots him a rather outraged look of warning.

He doesn’t want to be played with. He wants to do the playing.

“Something wrong?” Dylan asks quietly, finger hovering over the power button as he gently dances the vibrator closer.

Harry simply exhales another sharp breath through his nose, shooting daggers Dylan's way, to which Dylan merely grins.

Then…the wand is moved toward Harry’s cock, innocently grazing the head as Harry’s own depraved moan slips free.

And it’s angry, and it’s loud, and virile. The whole room can tell just how much he enjoyed the fleeting touch, and without a second hesitation, Dylan does it again.

“Don’t fucking cum,” he warns, eyeing the peeved man before him. “Do you hear me, Harold? Do not cum until I say so.”

Harry tries to scoff, but with the way his dick is twitching, he might not be able to hold off.

Which is exactly what Dylan wants. Wants him to be so close to release, that he'll even beg him for it. Wants to bring him to the edge and leave him there while he fucks you right in front of him.

You watch from the bed, whining to yourself as your thighs squeeze together, panting lightly.

And when Harry's eyes meet yours briefly, he has to take another deep breath, commanding himself to stay strong.

He's close. Too close, but now…Dylan finds it difficult to stop. There's something so…compelling about watching Harry like this. The snarky attitude now nowhere to be found as he becomes puddy in Dylan's large hands.

After all, Dylan did promise to be good to him, too.

Maybe he lets Harry cum all over his stomach.

And maybe he makes you clean it up.

However, this thought is quickly disregarded as he chooses to stick with his original plan. He pulls the vibrating toy away only moments before Harry can find his release, and the entire room lets out a collective sigh.

Satisfied, Dylan straightens back up, and turns to you.

He finds you still lying on the bed, dripping pathetically onto the sheets below as you look up at him with a whimper.

Your lips roll into your mouth the moment he steps closer, his eyes trailing down to your cunt before he’s returning to his previous position.

And then, he brings the vibrator into play.

"Is this what you want?" he asks, despite the fact that he already knows the answer.

But you nod frantically anyhow, thighs spreading once more to invite him closer. Invite him in, but he isn't fooled.

He takes his time, reaching out to grab onto your ankle and slide you down to him. The toy comes alive in his hand, now a bit more powerful than before, ready for use. And you eye it like it's a cool drink of water on a hot day.

Still, Dylan is patient. Slow. He takes the large head of the toy and brings it up to your sternum, dragging it down your chest slowly as you anxiously look back up at the ceiling.

Your eyes quickly find his body in the reflection above, and you can’t help but watch the way his back muscles move and strain as he continues his sadistic torture.

Everything about his body is like a work of art. He’s like a drug. Addicting from top to bottom, and you wonder how you’ve never noticed before.

He continues guiding the vibrations along your frame, over your hardened nipple, and down your stomach as you whine again. Unable to resist writhing against the sheets and away from the sweet feeling.

And when you begin to pant his name, you see him smile.

He fucking loves the sound of his name in your mouth. Always has. For eight fucking years. Loves to hear the quiet whisper of your voice as you breathe it out like you’re breathing just for him.

He can’t help but wonder if you’ve ever been teased like this. Truly appreciated like this. Given the time and space to be worshiped the way he knows you deserve.

And he decides right then and there that he will. From now until the rest of time, he will worship you. Your orgasms will be by his hand, his tongue, his cock. You’ll be ruined for anyone else. He'll fucking see to that.

"Watch," he commands once he reaches your hips, the vibrator now dangerously close to your aching cunt as your eyes move to his. "You fucking watch me make you cum."

You don’t argue. You’ll happily watch him ruin you forever, happily gaze upon his structured face as he pleases you out of your goddamn mind.

And right as you’re deciding that maybe this isn't so bad after all…he presses the vibrations up against your clit, and your nails immediately bury into the sheets as you pull and arch off the bed.

Dylan exhales slowly, his focus trained on the magic in front of him. You’re so fucking wet, absolutely soaking the toy. Soaking the bed beneath you. And it sounds like heaven. Like fucking music the way you say his name and beg for release.

However, he can't help glancing over his shoulder to see how much dear Harold is enjoying the show.

But Harry's got his eyes closed as he steadies his breathing, squirming around the bench as he rests his head against the wall behind him.

He considers forcing Harry to watch him, too, but he knows he will. Knows he won't be able to resist watching you cum around the toy as you lose your last drop of self-control.

He'll watch…because he's just as fucking desperate as you are.

So, Dylan returns his attention to you, adding even more pressure as you continue to cry out, writhing around so violently that he’s almost worried you’ll hurt yourself.

And it’s no surprise you’re close already. But while he'd love to edge you all night long, he knows he can't possibly edge himself any longer. He needs to feel you. Needs to feel you stretching around his cock. Needs to feel the way you soak him, hear his skin against yours, needs to fucking fill you with his cum and leave you swollen.

So…he will. He'll fucking abuse your tight little hole until it's practically molded to him and his cock. Until everyone (especially Harold) knows who your pleasure really belongs to.

It's an odd concept, truthfully. The idea that you’d want him to claim you the way he is now. Want him to protect you the way he is now.

But tonight…tonight you’re not just you and Dylan. Tonight you’re not just friends.

Tonight…you’re his good fucking girl.

His good girl who is eagerly waiting to taste him. Who would do anything he fucking asked. You’re a fucking dream for him. But you’re real, and Dylan can’t fucking believe he lived right next door to such a perfect girl all these years.

But now that he knows…he’s never letting you go again.

"C’mon, baby," he mumbles, leaning down to press his lips to your hip bone as you whimper. "I know you can do it. Give it to me, honey. Please. That’s it.”

He's actually begging you to cum and the raspy growl to his voice is what does it.

It hits you like a fucking truck, your head turning to the side as you nearly scream. Toes curling and fingers twisting around the sheets.

It has to last for at least a full minute, the overwhelming exhaustion that follows leaving you to gasp for air like never before.

But Dylan isn't allowing you even a moment of rest, instead tossing the vibrator to the side and tugging on your wrist until you’re forced to sit up.

You groan softly in protest at the way you’re not afforded the chance to revel in your orgasms. But before you can get too annoyed, Dylan is moving around to kneel behind you, pressing your back against his chest.

And it happens so suddenly. You hardly have time to understand as his hand reaches around to take hold of your throat and squeeze. The pressure just enough to make you gasp as he then forces your eyes on Harry.

"Look at him," Dylan whispers to you, almost viciously. "Isn't it so sad? Isn't it so fucking pathetic the way your poor little Harold leaks for you?"

You have to swallow another moan as your focus trails down Harry’s rigid body and toward the angry red tip practically calling out to you.

To both of you.

It truly is a sight to behold, and Harry grinds his teeth against the panties as you stare at him.

"Can't stand the idea of watching my cock ruin what he thinks is his," Dylan continues to taunt, making sure he has Harry’s full attention. "Can't fucking stand knowing that you cum for me…and me alone."

Your only response is to lean back further into him as if you can't possibly stay upright, and his grip gets tighter.

"You want that, too, hm?" he hums, letting himself inhale your intoxicating scent. It's a mixture of perfume, and sex, and Harry. He's all over you and it drives Dylan mad in the best and worst way possible.

He brushes his lips along your cheek for just a moment, wanting to give in and kiss you the way he's been thinking about all night…but he resists.

It's much more fun to leave your begging for more.

However this time, you’re the one to refuse. Refuse to waste another moment missing him. Refuse to go another second without the taste of his lips on yours.

So, you spin around. You spin around, and you move onto your hands and knees, and you force Dylan’s head to spin as he attempts to comprehend the new position.

You take hold of his hips and surge forward, dragging your tongue along his toned stomach, eager to hear the way his breath begins to stagger.

It’s like music, and you do it a time or two more, just to tease him.

You know he’s unsure of your plan, but he makes no move to stop you. After all, he couldn’t possibly fucking dream of stopping you now. Not when this is all he’s ever wanted anyway.

Harry watches with labored breaths, noticing the way Dylan's eyes widen and flutter as you move up his body. It's annoying, and aggravating, and so goddamn hot.

And Dylan could stare at your pretty pink tongue assaulting his skin for the rest of his life if he had the chance. But tonight, that’s not his plan.

You finally reach his neck, moving your sultry kisses to that spot just beneath his ear in hopes that he'll buckle beneath your touch. That he’ll finally give in.

But he sees it coming from a mile away. So, before you have the chance to use that pretty mouth against him, he suddenly grasps onto the back of her neck and tugs your head back, making you gasp.

Your jaw just about drops as you look up at him, now dripping pathetically down your thighs from the force, and from the way he's glaring at you.

"What did I fucking say?" he hisses, that dominant edge enough to leave you weak.

However, you can only respond with a shaky breath. And it the anxious noise would almost worry Dylan…if he didn't already what a fucking whore you were.

"Please," you finally find the strength to whisper as Dylan’s head tilts.

"Please…what, hm?" he replies, dipping down to ghost your lips together, exactly the way you wanted. "Does it hurt, baby?"

And even as he says it, you can feel the strange rush between your thighs. The way you feel so empty. The way your body is practically begging Dyaln to fill you. Fill you, fuck you, cum inside of you. Drip down your thighs, your throat, your fucking tits.

You whimper from the mere thought of it, and the dejected sound makes Dylan’s ego swell. You just need him to touch you. Need it. Your own fingers won’t do. They’re so small. So useless compared to him. Compared to anything he’ll give you. Even a look.

"Hurts," you repeat pathetically. "Please, Dyl."

His eyes dance across your expression as he thinks. "What do you need, lovie? Tell me."

But he already knows what you need. Who you need. But you know he wants to hear you say it.

And not for his benefit.

But Harry's.

So, you give him exactly what he’s searching for. "Need your cock, Dylan, please. Need you to ruin me, need it so fucking bad."

"Yeah? What else?" he pushes, nearly groaning. God, he loves hearing you beg. Loves watching the way your eyes go dark with lust. The way that sarcastic attitude of yours vanishes into thin air the moment he touches you.

"Need to taste you," you just about gasp, the idea alone making you shiver. "Need to feel your hands around my neck. Wanna see you on my skin for weeks."

"Yeah? Why?”

You know why. He knows why. Even Harry knows why, and he's this close to chipping a tooth at Dylan's little performance.

But you say it anyway.

"Because I'm yours."

There it is. Exactly what Dylan wanted. Your pussy, your mouth, you—all of it is his.

Not Harry's.

With this thought, he straightens up onto his knees so he can well and truly tower over you before tugging once more on your hair for good measure.

“Show him.”

With that, he lets go so you can comply, and like the good fucking girl you are, your immediately hands fall to his briefs.

Harry's focus follows, already glaring as he watches Dylan smile at you.

And you’re so fucking excited. Can barely keep your fingers from trembling as you pull the elastic band down his thighs.

He's hard, and red, and ready. He's wanted this since before he saw you tonight in the club. Since he first heard you fuck yourself in the shower just this morning and now, he's gonna give you exactly what you’d been imagining while you did it.

Forcing Harry to watch is just a happy coincidence.

"Turn around," Dylan instructs, nodding his chin toward the other side of the bed.

Your heart races when you realize what he wants, and you can’t help but swallow a small moan as you turn around and steady yourself on your hands and knees.

He quickly grabs onto your hips and gives you exactly half a second to prepare before he’s brushing his tip through your wet folds.

You reel at the faint contact, already unraveling from such a small touch.

And truth be told, he’d tease you all goddamn night if he could, but he’s beginning to lose his control. So, he once again reaches forward to grasp a fistful of your hair and yank your head up until you’re facing Harry.

Then, with a growl, he says, "You watch him. You fucking watch him while you clench around my cock. You watch him while I fuck you. Do you understand?"

You try to nod, but his grip is too tight. "Yes," you pant instead, eyes already locking on Harry's. “Yes, I promise.”

Harry lets out a slow breath.

Satisfied, Dylan finally allows himself to give in to everything he's been wanting. With one hand on your head, and the other on your hip, he surges forward, and buries his cock inside your aching cunt.

And the moment he feels you…everything changes. He likes to think he’d been doing so good, but you’re so fucking…tight. And warm. And wet. And fucking squeezing the shit out of him in a way that makes his head pound.

“Fuck…Dylan,” you whisper, so overcome by the pressure in your stomach that you’re not even aware you said it until he curses.

“M’so fucking good to you,” he breathes, unweaving his fingers from your hair so he can scratch down your spine. “Take such good care of you, don’t I?”

“Yes.” You can’t stand it. Can’t breathe, can’t see straight.

"I let him watch you just the way you like," he continues, and your eyes roll back. "Because you do, don’t you? Like to be watched like the pretty little whore you are. Makes you feel so fucking good, doesn't it?"

“Fuck,” is about all you can muster when he slams his hips into your ass.

"I let him watch," he murmurs, still thrusting into you so hard, and so deep that you’re convinced he might actually ruin you. "I let him watch me use what's mine. Let him watch you soak me. Let him see exactly what it looks like to own you. That's what you want, isn't it, princess?"

Your answer comes in the form of another gut-wrenching moan, the sound echoing through the room right as he grazes her g-spot, sending you down onto your forearms.

Harry's breathing is getting heavier, the underwear in his mouth now truly soaked from his drool while his cock is still aggressively aggravated beyond belief. It's fucking torture sitting so close yet so far away. Forced to watch you have all the fun.

But there's also something rather…addicting about watching Dylan clench his jaw when he thrusts, or feels you clench, or hears you moan his name.

And both you and Harry become quite mesmerized by the way Dylan's muscles flex whenever he pulls at your hip or pushes your head down onto the mattress, forcing your cheek taut against the silk. The way his strong thighs hold him up as he thrusts into you. The way beads of sweat are beginning to form around his hairline, forcing locks of messy brown hair to fall across his forehead.

And the noises he's making...low grunts of pleasure followed by rather animalistic moans.

You decide then that he’s got a great sex voice.

Dylan, however, doesn’t notice any of the staring. Instead, much more concerned with the way he's already so close to filling you up and spilling right out. And even more focused on the way he’s beginning to wish this night would never end.

If he had it his way, you’d fuck all night. Over and over and over, until you were raw and weepy. Until the tears were staining your cheeks as you scratched patterns down his back. Until Harry, and the whole fucking club knew exactly who your pussy belongs to.

But he fears this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Once you leave this room...the fun comes to an end. He doubts you’ll ever speak of it again, so he figures he needs to make every second count.

"Look at him," Dylan finally orders, calling your attention back to Harry's face. "Look at the way he wants to taste you on my cock. How he wants anything I'll let him have. But you're mine, aren't you? Fucking tell him. Tell him who you were really made for."

You can’t seem to speak, your tongue going numb as you subconsciously beg him to go harder.

Sensing that you need the encouragement, he leans down once more, brushing your hair off your back before pressing a rather delicate kiss to your shoulder. "Aren't I good to you? Sharing you the way I do? Letting him watch?"

You nod vehemently as you whimper, and he can’t help but smirk as he glances over to the man on the bench, who merely huffs angrily.

Suddenly, Dylan is reaching around to grab onto your jaw for a second time as he forces your head to the side so you can see him. "But this tight little hole? It's fucking mine. Isn't it? Yeah? Say it then. Tell him who you really want."

"You," you breathe instantaneously. And maybe tomorrow morning you’ll feel differently, but right now you really are his and only his.

"Good girl," he hums, releasing her chin. "But I think Harold's a visual learner. Think you need to fucking show him. Show him that I'm good to you. Show him that he's never gonna be good enough for you."

Without warning, you hear yourself moaning his name, your body stretching out across the mattress so you can take him deeper. It's too fucking good, too much to comprehend, but you do know that you’re close.

And Dylan knows it, too. And he wishes he could see the look on your face, but the view of your ass is a rather good second option. So, he watches his cock slip in and out out of you. Coated in you as it stretches you from the inside out.

He moves to grope your skin softly as praise before giving it a firm smack, just so he can hear the sound and hear the way you groan with pleasure.

Even Harry growls to himself as he looks away...although he immediately looks back, refusing to miss a second of it. Much to Dylan's amusement.

"You're close, aren't you?" Dylan taunts, reaching for the vibrator as you nod. "Attagirl, c'mon now."

The vibrator is on your clit within seconds, and even without him having to ask, you grind down against the toy with fervor. Lip between your teeth as you revel in how perfectly he fills you while your cunt is sent into overdrive. It’s so much, so perfect, so overwhelming that you have no other choice but to ball the sheets in your fists to brace yourself.

Your hips move up and down the vibrating object as he pushes you even further into that blissful state. Almost…so close…just a little further…and then you’re fucking gone.

Dylan cna feel you fluttering around his cock, and the second he sees you dripping down your silky skin…he follows.

So many sounds fill the space. His needy groans and your whimpers of pleasure. You can’t help but reach back and tangle your fingers in his damp hair when he brings himself close enough to you. Needing to share this with him every way you know how.

And it’s a beautiful moment for the two of you. Connected completely as he fills you, spills inside of you, drips down your thighs exactly the way he’d wanted to.

And then…there’s Harry.

He’s begun to grow antsy, assuming that now that it’s over…it’s finally his turn.

But the two of you take your time on the bed as you regroup and work to catch your breath. Almost as if you’ve forgotten he’s even still in the room.

But, finally, Dylan’s content gaze trails over and finds him. And in that moment, Harry’s breath catches as he pulls his eyebrows together.

Dylan can’t help but smile as he takes in the writhing man before you. The way Harry’s hands are balled into fists and his black shirt unbuttoned just enough to showcase his sweaty chest and tattoos.

It’s almost…entertaining.

Dylan leans down to press a kiss to your shoulder once more before murmuring, "Stay right here, darling. Don't fucking move."

You nod weakly as you straighten back up onto your hands while Dylan begins to pull out.

He's still at least halfway hard, which isn't very surprising, and he's sure with a little time, he'll be ready to ruin you again.

He stands from the bed, lazily pushing his hair back as moves toward Harry, who watches with weary eyes.

"Don't worry," Dylan hums with a smug smile, but Harry's expression merely darkens.

Undeterred, Dylan’s hand comes to rest on the back of the bench near Harry's shoulder as he leans down, bringing their faces much closer than ever before.

In return, Harry’s head tilts up as if defying Dylan's very presence, and Dylan has to chuckle.

"I'm gonna let you go," he tells him. "And you know what you're gonna do?"

Harry answers by huffing out a strained breath.

Dylan smiles. "You're gonna fuck your fist while we watch."

Their eyes lock together for at least a minute if not more as Harry attempts to decipher Dylan’s true intentions.

But his intentions are honest, and he quickly moves for the restraints on Harry’s wrist so he can click them up, and set him free.

Harry’s wrist drops to his side, lashes flutter with sweet relief as Dylan moves to the other hand to repeat the process.

And once both Harry’s hands are free, he lifts his fingers to his mouth, takes the panties out, and throws them onto the floor.

"Fuck you," is the first thing he decides to say and Dylan snorts.

"I think you mean, thank you," he corrects as he straightens up. "You wanna cum, right? Then go ahead. Cum all over your pretty hand."

With that, Dylan turns around and heads back to the bed where you await, your expression curious as you watch the exchange.

In all honesty, you had expected any interaction between the two of them to be much more hostile, but you’re pleasantly surprised by the way they seem to be getting along.

Especially because they're two of the prettiest men you’ve ever seen and watching them fight for control has to be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Dylan is back at your side within seconds as you roll over onto your back to look up at him.

He places his hand near her head, hovering above you once more as he whispers, "How do you feel, honey?"

"Good," you answer honestly, reaching up to run your fingers down his cheek. "You're so good to me."

"I know," he retorts with a teasing smirk, before dipping down to graze his lips over your bottom one. "Can't fucking stand not feeling you around me. Let me?"

At first, you’re confused by the request until you recognize the hopeful look on his face, and put the pieces together.

You nod and part your legs once again to allow him in, and he’s much gentler this time around. Guiding himself inside, easing in with great care before pulling your hips taut to his.

And you’re so fucking warm. Exactly the way he wanted. And it feels so…complete.

Not to mention, there’s something rather…enticing about knowing Harry’s still only a few feet away. Fisting his cock as he watches Dylan keep his cock warm inside you.

But you hardly notice Harry right now, much too distracted by the way Dylan is finally leaning down to kiss you the way he hadn’t been.

When your lips meet, it’s soft, and tender, and sweet. Even when he nips at the pink flesh so you’ll let him in, his tongue dancing with yours as he deepens the kiss in the same way he’s deep inside you.

And Harry watches. Watches as Dylan plays with your tit in his large hand, his fingers rolling your nipple around the pads of his thumb. Watches as you sigh and wrap you legs around his waist to pull him in even further. Watches Dylan look up at him as you kiss down his neck.

The smug son of a bitch knows exactly what he's doing and much to Harry's chagrin...it's working.

After spitting in his hand, Harry runs his palm up and down his hard cock, squeezing the tip as his head falls back into the wall from the building pleasure.

And in this moment, you all…exist. So much sex and understanding and…peace.

You devote your final moments to making Dylan feel good, running your hands and lips along his body as he smiles down at you.

Dylan keeps his eyes on the movement as he does so, sensing that eye contact is one of Harry's turn-ons. And who is Dylan to deny such a pleasure?

Once in a while, you’ll roll your head back to get a glance at Harry. And you’re so happy he kept that satin shirt of his on because the way his sleeves are rolled up to showcase the veins in his arms is sinful. Almost as sinful as the way his chest heaves with anticipation or the way his cock looks in front of it.

He’s so close to ruining the nice outfit with the way his movements are becoming faster and more sporadic. He’s trying to hold off, loving the way he’s being watched by you. But it’s been far too fucking long, and his body can’t take it any longer.

Dylan groans as you lick a stripe along his jaw, his own lashes fluttering as he buries his lip into your neck.

His hands smooth up your stomach and chest before they find their place back on your throat for a final time. He kisses you hard and deep as you whimper against his mouth, pulling him in by your legs once more.

"So good," Dylan whispers, although he's not sure who he's talking to. "So fucking good for me."

But both you and Harry bask in his praise, with you gazing up at him as you run her fingers through his hair while Harry sucks in a breathless whine, dick twitching in his hand.

When he finally cums, the three of you begin to relax. To make peace with the strange occurance of the evening.

To make peace with the understanding that it won’t happen again.

Or…maybe it will.

After all…

What are sex clubs for?

Thought I'd give this story a little x Reader makeover! In case it wasn't already blatantly obvious, I am in love with both of these men 😭

Dedicated to @straightontilmornin for being nice enough to want this with me 😭

~ Other Harry and Dylan Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

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sqyyadina · 3 months ago

Text

wrap me in your arms like i'm made of glass.

Pairing: Lorraine Warren X Reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Tags: possessed!reader, exorcism, self flagellation / self harm, disordered eating, mommy issues, hurt/comfort!

Summary: You've been fighting an evil spirit on your own for months, until an angel falls on your doorstep, and you no longer have to fight alone.

Author’s Note: This one is sort of dark, ee!! Sometimes a girl just needs to write an exorcism, I guess!! This is my first go of anything horror/angsty, so uhm.. it might be kinda bad. This is also on my AO3!!

It hates the cold.

As do you.

Yet somehow, as you lay by the flung-open bay window, watching the tiny, crystalline flakes fall to cover your once-blossoming hydrangea bushes, you feel your head silence for the first time in weeks. The lightweight blanket draped over your knees isn’t much help to fight the tremble in your fingers, which are wrapped tightly around a mug of hot chocolate— you’ve been falling victim to your sweet-toothed cravings lately, considering this very well may be your last chance to do so.

The television across the room hums whatever country music variety show is on this early in the morning; a few cars pass by outside, splashing up muddy sludge into your front yard. You can’t help but wince at the action. You once dedicated so much time to perfecting your lawn, just for all of that hard work to become irrelevant in a few short hours. It’s probably been decades since this town last saw any snow. You’d never seen so much as a cold rain in your few decades of living. It seems that Hell’s finally frozen over. It’s a shame you never paid attention in church long enough to find out what to do in such an event.

You’re feeling weak. This isn’t a new sensation. Weeks’ worth of sleep interrupted by family photos flung off of walls in the middle of the night truly does begin to take a toll on a young woman’s body. Not that you ever had much energy to begin with, what with the early mornings spent tending to horses and late nights attending to sick barn cats.

It’s quite shocking just how much energy a demonic being inhabiting your body saps up.

It only takes a few minutes, lounged by the window and focus blurring out on the white mounds of snow, for you to loll off to sleep, cocoa spilling onto your favorite quilt, but you’re not lucid enough to notice.

It’s a very gentle knock at your door that rips you from your slumber. Your encounter with whatever beast has been haunting your every move has made you an incredibly light sleeper. At this point, you could be woken by a light breath against your face. You believe you already have, a few times now.

It’s incredibly difficult for you to stand from your position on your once pristine, now chocolate-stained sofa, but you make it upright eventually. The blood comes rushing to your head at the sudden swing upright, your feet heavy against the cold hardwood floor that you never bothered to buy a rug for. Your feet were calloused enough, there was no need for comfort for something already so broken.

You cling desperately to the heavy front door that, by some act of God, you manage to swing open.

The light you’re met with is blinding. You’re not sure if it’s the sun’s rays beating off of the snow and directly into your eyes, or if the woman at your doorstep just naturally emanates such a light.

“Hi there.” Her voice is so kind and warm that your entire body feels like you’ve been sat next to a fireplace. Once your eyes fully adjust to the light surrounding your savior, you notice that her face holds a slightly bewildered look, but like she’s trying to hide it. To remain professional, to not let you in on the fact that there’s quite literally a demon hanging over your shoulders.

You take her outstretched hand in your own, shaking it weakly, and as you do, her expression is replaced by a frown. “I’m Loraine Warren,” She hums, wrapping another hand around yours, seemingly trying to bring heat to the five icicles you call fingers. “and you’re freezing.” You muster up a lackluster smile, ruminating in the warmth from the hands wrapped around your own for as long as she’ll allow. Your visitor doesn’t pull back until you do, to let her into your home.

Mrs. Warren has clearly not come prepared for this entirely unforeseen snow, seeing as she’s dressed in a plaid, tea-length dress, with only a light cardigan hung from her shoulders. There wasn’t a single weatherman on any of your very limited channels that had predicted this sort of weather this far south of the Mason-Dixon.

“Thank you…” You begin, leading the taller woman to your living room, where you practically fall to your position on the sofa again. “For coming to meet with me, Mrs. Warren. I’m so very appreciative.” Your eyelids are heavy, and your cheeks hurt with the strain of a smile, but you still force yourself to engage as delicately as you can with this woman, both for the beauty that you find so enticing, and for the fact that she very well may save your life.

The affliction you’d been suffering for the past few weeks of your life… you weren’t entirely sure what it was. At first, waking up standing in the kitchen and holding a knife to your own throat was something you could pass off as a traumatizing night of sleepwalking. The sudden headaches and physical aversion to reading your leatherbound, heavily annotated bible made you think you had suffered a concussion from falling out of bed one too many times.

Seeing the Warrens on your favorite morning talk show was what led you to raise your own suspicions. The way they spoke of a young girl in Poughkeepsie who had begun levitating in the middle of the night, who began seizing when she was read the word of God… You couldn’t help but see the similarities.

You couldn’t have possibly called the demonologists sooner.

On the phone, you spoke to a man. He was much heftier with the way he spoke, clearly the extroverted salesman of the team. He seemed skeptical, and unwilling to leave his home in New England, as he had every right to be. You very well could just have the flu. But you knew, deep down, that you didn’t, and it had to be them. It had to be. You had no other hope of surviving against your oppressor if you had to fight it alone.

Your frantic begging must have been loud enough for the people close to Ed Warren to hear, because as soon as you finished your rambling about how miserable you were, a distant, soft voice came from the other side of the phone.

Ed, listen to her. She needs us.

The line then went muffled, he had placed his palm over the receiver in hopes to hide the fact that they had begun arguing about you. You couldn’t quite make out what was said, only that the woman, Lorraine, very much wanted to come to visit you, and Ed did not.

It was as if by miracle that Lorraine showed up at your door only a day after your phone call.

“Please, call me Lorraine.” The older woman returned, standing above you. “May I ask why you have the windows open? It’s just so nasty out there… it may affect your health, sweetheart.” There’s a little glimmer in her eyes when she presses the back of her hand against your forehead, which, much to her surprise, was just as cold as your hands.

A stubborn frown returned to her pink lips, and Lorraine quickly closed the two windows behind you.

“The cold helps.” You say plainly as Lorraine moves around your vintage furniture to close the windows on the opposite side of the room.

“What do you mean?” She returns to your side, placing your quilt atop your knees and finding another to cover your shoulders. She then sits on the sofa next to you, delicately maneuvering herself underneath your blanket as well.

You blush a little, hiding your face behind the large mug that you’d once discarded.

“This… thing. Whatever’s inside me… it hates the cold.” You reply, staring down at your feet, which wiggle to regain the feeling that the cold air had taken away.

“How do you know?” The clairvoyant muses, reaching up to pet the hair that’s turned into a mat behind your head. You’ve had a horrible go of taking care of yourself lately, with things as simple as brushing your hair disappearing from your mind for days at a time.

“It started snowing just last night… Since then, it’s been quieter. I’ve been able to take control of my life again, at least a little bit.” You hum, leaning into her touch, which has dropped to press comfortingly to your shoulder. “But as soon as I lit a fire, tried to get warm, it all came back. The chaos. The… evil.” You shudder to remember the noise that’s filled your head for the past few days. The screams, the whispered urges to harm yourself and others. It’s like you’ve been sent to your own personal Hell, like God finally punished you for the way that you look at women like Lorraine.

“You’re a very perceptive girl.” Lorraine offers you a smile, and you find that it may not only be the cold that calms you. Her presence has offered you more solace than any pain killer or chamomile tea has offered you in your entire life.

You try to giggle, try to accept her praise, but her warm touch, paired with your general lack of sleep, has made it truly impossible for you to remain at all upright. You slump over, dropping your cocoa once again, head landing on Lorraine’s shoulder.

“I believe you.” She whispers quietly, maneuvering your shoulders so that your head lays on her lap. The words are all you’ve ever needed to hear. To be assured that you’re not going crazy is all you need in order to finally fall asleep, and the hands that press warmth into your neck and forehead are the best medicine you could take.

You fall asleep in less than a second, your ears muffling all the noise in the room, yet you can still hear your visitor humming along to the tv as your muscles relax into the sofa.

♱

A soft whine escapes your lips before your eyes open. It’s a combination of bright light and tugging at the back of your head that wakes you up, and as much as you detest being stripped from the best sleep you’ve had in at least month, you feel rested enough to accept it.

“I’m so sorry. Keep sleeping, little one.” Your brain fights to register who the voice belongs to, but judging by the fact that you’ve only received one visitor in the past weeks, and the fact that no visitor you’ve ever met has had such a honey-coated voice, you remember right away. It’s Lorraine.

It’s Lorraine, and the light tugging you feel is a comb being pulled through the hair that hasn’t met such a thing in far too long. You’re hit by a sudden wave of embarrassment, knowing that the state of your hair must make you look so pitiful, like a child that can barely take care of herself. You hide your face in your hands, whining once again, hiding from the yellow light of a lamp above you, and from the fact that you look such a mess in the presence of one of the most well-kempt women you’ve ever met.

“I’m all done.” She purrs softly, running her fingers through your now untangled hair, tucking it behind your ear. You sit up, face beet red as you do so. You’re sure you’ve never felt more embarrassed in your entire life.

“Thank you…” You stutter out, voice heavy with sleep. “I’m sorry for falling asleep. I just… haven’t in quite a while. I hope I’m not taking too much of your time.” You glance up at her, eyes squinting to view the porcelain skin adorned by a smile. Lorraine Warren must truly have the kindest heart in the entire world to spend time taking care of someone she’s only just met.

“Don’t you dare apologize.” She says quite firmly, pressing her hand against your cheek, and you can feel yourself becoming addicted to her touch. “I want to take care of you.”

You feel a warmth in your cheeks, and a certain tingling in the pit of your stomach. You’ve never heard these words before, and the last time anyone had earnestly taken care of you was… well, you don’t really remember. It was probably in your early childhood, but even then, you weren’t too sure.

The butterfly wings in your stomach are quickly replaced by a different sensation, a large growling that just about reverberates through the living room. You’re filled with another bout of humiliation, and grip your stomach tightly. You’re also not too sure when you last ate.

A ginger hand presses against your stomach as well, and it dawns on you just how close to the older woman you’ve become. She’s pressed against you so much that you’re nearly sitting in her lap, and her other arm is wrapped around so very tightly around the small of your back. Lorraine is quite the touchy woman, and you couldn’t be more appreciative of such a character trait. You lean into her hands greedily, head tilting over to rest on her shoulder once more.

“Can you stand?” She hums, pressing her cheek to rest on the top of your head.

You nod slowly, not quite too sure that you’re telling the truth, but if Lorraine wants you to stand, you’ll stand. And you do, pushing hard into the ground, thankful that before all of this mess you were at least regularly active, and your body was fairly well maintained from throwing bales of hay.

“Good girl.”

The words make your knees go weak, weaker than they already are, and you falter a little in your steps. You thank God that Lorraine has such a strong grip around your waist and is able to keep you upwards.

“Show me your kitchen?” The clairvoyant asks softly, and while you do just as you’re asked, her steady gaze washes over each little family portrait, each corn husk doll, even the sunhats you’ve worn so much that they’re full of holes. One may see her wandering eyes and find her to be a terrible snoop, but Lorraine is doing her job, gathering every piece of evidence she can to use against your demon. She wants to know everything about your past and present so that she may rid you of this retched thing.

She gets no clue as to what suffering has conflicted this household from the photos of a quite happy family hanging from your walls, but she can sense it in the way the house creaks with her every step. There’s an evil lingering in these walls, and Lorraine can feel it.

“I’m… I’m not sure there’s even any food that’s still edible.” You speak gruffly as you arrive in the kitchen that overlooks your barn that was once such a brilliant red, and now stands with peeling paint and water damage. It’s a proper metaphor for your own status. You haven’t been in this room in many days, and the sight of wilting flowers and rotting vegetables depresses you immediately.

“I’m sure I can make do.” Lorraine shoots you that oh-so very reassuring smile once again, and leads you to sit at the dining table that’s only ever been set for one. “When was the last time you ate?”

It’s a dreaded question. A question that, once again, you don’t have a clear answer to. You think the last thing you ate was a handful of boiled peanuts… or was it oatmeal? Lately you had only had incredibly unpleasant dreams about food, and your brain has been so occupied by so many voices, that sustenance was the last thing on your mind.

“I’m not sure.” You muster in response, and Lorraine’s frown returns once again. She’s not mad at you, only furious at the creature that’s taken hold of you, keeping you from living a healthy life.

“You need to keep yourself fed.” Lorraine speaks softly, peeking out from behind the cabinet she’d begun rummaging around in. “Communing with the being, and an eventual exorcism, will take a lot of energy.”

She speaks so calmly about something that is so terrifying to you. You weren’t raised Catholic, and didn’t know much about their traditions, but the interview that you had watched of the Warrens spelled an exorcism out to be one of the most dangerous, mortifying acts that one could participate in. You trust Lorraine entirely though, and are filled with the knowledge that if she has to do such a thing, she will treat you delicately, and cause as little harm to you as possible.

It's only a few groggy minutes before there’s a plate laid in front of you, and by some act of God Lorraine has found another chair to sit in. She’s pulled up right next to you, and while you’re a bit surprised she hasn’t chosen to sit across from you, her choice is very welcomed. The heat from your plate warms your face, and you press your hands against it in hopes that they’ll warm as well.

“It looks delicious.” You look up to the women through your heavy eyelids, weakly grabbing hold of your fork to start lifting potatoes to your mouth. “I can’t believe you were able to make this so quickly! Thank you so very much.” You smile to her, licking your lips, stomach so very grateful to the woman beside you.

“I’ve always been a good cook. My husband is never very appreciative of my skills.” She laughs softly, but you can tell it’s something that truly upsets her. If you were lucky enough to live in a home with Lorraine Warren and have her food for every meal, you consider yourself to be in Heaven. From your short conversation, Ed didn’t quite seem to be a wholly grateful man. “You’re not married.” She then says, taking a sip from the old whiskey glass that’s now filled with water.

Her words are more observational than questioning, and it causes a twinge of discomfort within you. You’d always been questioned for your spinster-like nature, women in your church always wanted to set you up with their sons or nephews. You’re such a pretty girl, they’d say, why on God’s green Earth aren’t you dating anyone?

It was impossible to tell them that you’d never want to marry a man, even if someone held a gun to your head.

“No…” You reply awkwardly, and the word turns into a yawn, leading you to cover your mouth with one hand. “I’ve just… never met the right person, I guess.” You huff, kicking your elbow up on the table and resting your chin on your fist to keep yourself propped up. Who knew something as simple as lifting a fork to your mouth would be so difficult. “Or… Well…” You start again, feeling almost too comfortable in Lorraine’s presence to share a little more. “I’ve just, never really been interested in anyone.”

When you drop your fork to your plate with quite the dramatic tink, that same loving hand returns to your lower back. Lorraine has taken your fork between her perfectly manicured fingers, and lifts another bite towards your lips, which you not-so-gracefully accept.

“Well, that is a shame.” The brunette responds, and though you can’t see it, there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk on her face. She seems to be a bit too pleased by your loneliness. “I do hope you’ll find someone soon. You are so deserving of love.”

You’re not sure if you’re deserving, but you’re damn well desperate for it.

Lorraine continues to feed you, lifting small bites of vegetable to your lips while whispering her gentle praises after each bite. Your face is now permanently pink, with each of her cooing words turning you into a little mess beneath her. You’re connected at her hip once again, legs tangled around each other under your gingham tablecloth. You’re so very lucky that you never receive any visitors, for you deign to think of anyone’s reaction to your little displays of minute affection.

“I was hoping I might stay with you here. I always find it more helpful to fully integrate myself into the lives of someone I’m helping.” She hums once you’ve finished all of your food, and she can move onto her own. You lean against her shoulder once more, eyes closed, yet you’re completely awake. Her sentence is entirely shocking, yet you’re completely excited by it, and couldn’t possibly accept her request quicker.

“Yes, of course!” You hear the over-enthusiasm in your voice, and hope you haven’t come off too strongly. You sit up to meet her gaze, blushing just from the way she looks at you so sweetly. “I only have the one bedroom, I’m afraid. It’s a bit of a mess at the moment, but I can wash the sheets, and you can sleep there! I spend most of my time on the sofa anyway, I’m happy to sleep there.” You nod cheerfully, hoping with all of your heart that she’ll not be too deterred by your excitement.

“Don’t be silly.” She smiles, lifting her hand to gently pet your hair, her fingernails grazing your scalp in a way that sends a tingle down your spine. “I’ll take your bed, but only if you’re in it as well. If that’s alright with you, of course. I just want to keep an eye on you.” She winks, and it’s that moment that you feel your soul leave your body. You choke on your own saliva, coughing a few times. You’ve been sitting so close to Lorraine today, that you shouldn’t feel so strange about sharing your bed with her, yet it brings a worried feeling to the pit of your stomach. When you explore that feeling more, you’ll find that it’s really excitement, and a desperation to sleep next to another body that you’d never knew you had.

“That’s fine by me…” You stutter, trying to hide the eager smile that’s threatening your lips. You chew on the insides of your cheeks, your hands finding their way to some fabric, not knowing if it’s the tablecloth or your shirt or maybe Lorraine’s skirt. Whatever it is, you grip it tightly, trying to force all of your delight on an object rather than voice it. “It’ll be good to share each other’s’ body heat… it gets so cold at night even without the snow…” Your voice is trembling a little, betraying how fast your heart is racing.

You’re ready for the sun to go down now.

But you still have a few hours of sunlight left, and Lorraine fills it with questions about your family history, about your experience with this malevolent being, and just about your daily life. She wonders what it is that you do for fun in such a small town, and you feel shy to admit that you rarely leave the house except to go to church. That leads her to talk about her own religion, and it’s so mystifying to hear her speak about her passion for Christ. She speaks in such a profound way, like she’s spent time as a pastor, though you’d never once met a female pastor. Lorraine is certainly a better speaker than all the old men that lead prayer at church and quote the same bible verses into monotony.

She proudly shows you the rosary around her neck, explaining the story behind it with the most adorable sparkle in her eyes. When you take the metal in your hands, wanting to share in her passion, it burns. Burns like you’ve just pressed your hand flat into the cooktop of an oven. You recoil in pain, but when Lorraine attends to your palm, there’s no sign of a burn.

“It… It stings.” You whine, looking down at your hand in disbelief. You’ve never felt such pain, and the fact that it’s not left a visible mark is messing with your head so much that your eyes begin to well with tears.

“I know it does, sweetheart. I know.” Lorraine hums, holding you tightly, lifting a thumb to wipe at your tears. “Ointment won’t help it, I’m afraid. It’s the spirit reacting through nerve induction. It will go away soon. I promise.” The demonologist quickly stuffs the rosary down the neck of her blouse, wanting to hide everything that causes you pain. Lorraine hates to see you in such a state, and though you don’t comprehend anything about this spirit, her brain is working overtime to plot a strategy to rid you of this beast.

You sit together for another half hour, Lorraine consoling the pain that has long since disappeared thanks to her sweet whispers and distracting stories. You nearly fall asleep on the sofa once again, and she can see it, so without having to ask, she takes you up the stairs and to your bedroom.

“I’ll just go down the hall to get myself ready for bed. I’ll be right back, I promise.” She hums, pressing an innocent kiss to your forehead before leaving the room. Watching her walk away from you shatters your heart into a million pieces, but you know she’ll come back through the doors quickly. You trust Lorraine’s promise.

I need to change before she gets back, you think, but your body simply won’t allow you to move. You’re stuck to this bed, to this soft mattress that you once so adored, but now only fear for the horrible dreams it brings upon you.

You sit in this fear, for how long you’re not certain, before Lorraine returns. Her hair is combed through yet still has that lovely, silky wave to it, and she’s dressed in the prettiest white nightgown. She looks like an angel, in shiny white linen. She’s just missing the wings and halo. You feel a warmth rise to your cheeks, seeing her in this state, a state which she’d probably only ever been seen in by her husband. You feel so scandalous, like you should avert your gaze, like God is going to find you sinful for looking at her like this, but your eyes are locked onto this heavenly body in front of you, and you can’t pull away.

“I’m sorry I—” You begin, hands gripping at your shirt, trying to indicate to her that you’re upset with yourself for not getting dressed in her absence.

Lorraine only tuts at you, placing down her bag before rounding to your side of the bed. She helps you stand, and begins through your closet, looking for a nightgown for you to wear. Much to her chagrin, however, all she can find is dirty jeans and some oversized t-shirts, which makes her feel pity towards you, but also causes a small giggle to escape her lips because she finds the clothing choices so adorably fitting for a young farm girl. She settles on the least stained of all of your shirts before returning to your side.

“May I?” Her voice is low, knowing that you’re the only person in the world that needs to hear her. When you nod, she pulls your blouse over your head, and she develops a blush of her own to find that you’re not wearing anything beneath it. You try to hide, snaking your hands around your chest, a new warmth between your legs as you realize that Lorraine’s hands are wandering over your body, the pads of her fingers lightly prodding your exposed skin.

“You sweet thing. You just need someone to love you.” Your savior hums, delicately examining all of the bruises that cover your skin. You’re not even sure where they all came from, just that they developed fast. A few concern you more than the others: the ones shaped like fingers and teeth marks. They never hurt at night, but the fear that strikes you every morning when you reveal a new marking in the mirror is something that you never want to feel again.

Lorraine presses another small kiss to a bruise on your shoulder before helping you pull the sleep shirt over your head. She reluctantly, yet with the complete confidence that she’s carried herself with all along, pulls down your pants in one swift motion. You’re back in bed before you know it, Lorraine tucking you in tightly and making sure you’re perfectly comfortable before taking her own place beside you.

Your brain is rushing, not with the demonic thoughts that you’ve had all this time, but with so many feelings that you never knew existed before meeting Lorraine. You feel horribly antsy, like you have enough energy to run laps around the house. You miss the tiredness that had been affecting you earlier this morning, it was going to be quite difficult to sleep tonight.

“I’m so very glad you came to help me.” You whisper, voice shaky with nerves as you turn on your side to face the woman who’s already turned towards you. You can feel how close your bodies are, yet they aren’t touching, and your brain is working overtime to decide if you should close that space between you.

Luckily, Lorraine is making all of your decisions for you.

You feel the soft skin of her legs first, when they wrap around yours, holding them still. Her right arm is next, draping over the curve in your waist so gently, yet she has the firmest grip on you, like she won’t let you leave even if you tried. You’d never try.

“I…” You start again, shifting even closer to Lorraine, placing your hand on her chest so you can feel her heartbeat. You pray she can’t feel yours, for its beating is so quick it’s probably quite dangerous, and you’ve already worried her enough. “Since you’ve been here, my brain has been so… still. So quiet.” That’s not entirely true, as the angelic woman in front of you has only replaced all of your thoughts, but it’s close enough. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She whispers back, voice so low and gravelly with her own sleep, so that you have to lean even further forward to hear her, and your noses nearly touch. “I haven’t done my job just yet.”

You tense, suddenly filled with worry about what will happen when Lorraine eventually does what she’s come here to do. If your still-burning pain from merely touching a symbol of the Lord is any indication, you’re in for a wellspring of hurt when you wake up in the morning.

As for now, though, you’re completely safe, protected by your guardian angel, and you can sleep soundly for the first time in far too long. You fall asleep under Lorraine’s grasp far quicker than you’d like, as you’d really prefer to stay awake and really cherish the soft circles she’s rubbing into your flesh, but your eyelids fall shut on their own accord.

Lorraine, however, stays up a bit later, watching your face for any sign of nightmares, wandering hands exploring your curves as if looking for clues, soothing you into the deepest sleep of your life.

Lorriane wakes groggily, yawning while rubbing at her eyes with balled-up fists. She notices first that it’s still not light outside, that she still has time to sleep. Though she won’t, because a panic rips through the woman when she registers your absence. She shoots straight up out of bed, body moving to wrap herself in one of your mother’s old house coats faster than her brain can function. It’s on sheer instinct that Lorraine wraps the rosary around her hand and stuffs her small Bible into her pocket.

She races through the creaky old home, feet freezing against the hardwood floors that whine with each of her frantic steps. Lorraine shouts your name and is only met by her own voice echoing back at her. She searches each room of your house, her eyes still blurry from sleep. She whips open cupboards and is even sure to peek into your attic, which you haven’t so much as thought about since inheriting the home.

A worry is settled across Lorraine’s face when she makes it into your kitchen, but her expression turns to true fear when she sees that the lock on your back door has come undone, and the door isn’t settled into its place in its frame. She searches for any pair of shoes she can find and settles for a pair of boots that barely fit her feet, but their steel toes will at least protect her from the elements. She’s shivering, and her eyes are watering so much that the tears turn cold against her cheeks. The demonologist places a hand over her chest, gripping onto her rosary for a moment, bracing herself for the cold, before she slings the door open and steps out into the night.

The snowfall has picked up tenfold, and there’s now a little under a foot of snow packed onto the ground. Lorraine pulls the small cotton coat around herself tightly, her hair whipping wildly around her face as she blinks back tears, searching for any sign of life. When she looks down, there’s an obvious set of footprints: kicked-back snow heading in the direction of the old, forgotten barn.

Lorraine follows your shoeless prints, still screaming your name into the void of night, her voice strained and muffled in the silence that surrounds her. There isn’t even the typical wee-hour birdsong that too frequently keeps you awake. No cars on the road make their habitual noise, no cows bellowing from across the street. Only the exhausted screams of a woman so frightened for your survival.

When she arrives to the barn, finding safety from the wind in its high walls, feeling so close to dropping to her knees and praying that she had never fallen asleep in the first place, Lorraine spots you. A frail, half-naked body illuminated by one flickering, dangling light that allow the older woman’s eyes little vantage.

She’s filled with relief that she’s found you, but that relief only lasts less than a second before she’s filled with dread. Dread that something is horribly wrong. Dread because you’re dripping with a slick, dark, shimmering liquid.

Lorraine falls to her knees beside you, taking your near-lifeless face in her hands.

“What have you done to her?” She yells, voice harsh and gravelly. She’s speaking to your demon, to the thing that has taken control of your legs and marched you out to this barn, that has treated you like such an animal.

You’re barely conscious, losing the internal battle to keep control of your own mind. All you can do is lean your pained body into Lorraine, trying to give her some sort of message that you’re still there, that you’re still swimming in your own mind, trying to breach the surface.

The clairvoyant asses your injuries, wiping the tears at your eyes and her own. Thankfully, the only damage is done to your back, the lashes across your spine that fuel Lorraine with so much hatred. When your shaking hands lift the riding crop to lay even more agony against your tender flesh, Lorraine wrestles it out of your tight grip and throws it aside, far out of your reach.

“We have to do this now.” Lorraine’s voice is significantly kinder, her hands holding your head close to her chest. She sits in her own fear for a moment, building a strategy to get this thing out of you once and for all. She whispers a prayer, and the words hurt your head, fill your brain with a terrible, searing scream, but there’s simply nothing you can do to stop it. Your livelihood now rests at Lorraine Warren’s feet.

Lorraine stands, guides you upwards. She’s shellshocked by the fact that she’s about to take on a task that she had never solely performed before, and it’s caused her knees to walk unsteadily. She takes the housecoat off and guides it over your shoulders, face twinging as she lays it against the open wounds of your back, but she’d rather you feel pain for a small moment than have your delicate skin come into contact with the weather. The woman ties the coat tight before picking you up, carrying you back through the strong winds, shoes clumping down on the piling snow.

When she replaces the darkness of the sky with the darkness of your home, Lorraine places you down on the sofa where she had once sat with you. You sit in a crumpled state, arms limp, though they fight to wrap around your body, subconsciously seeking heat. You’re impossibly cold, and the longer your toes sit with minimal blood flow, the angrier your beast grows. Your shivering only grows worse when Lorraine throws open the French windows behind you, allowing the snow to come in through the screens and settle in your hair.

“I know it hurts.” She whispers, trying to find some sort of life behind your glassy eyes. Lorraine has forced herself into seriousness, closed her tear ducts and is carrying herself professionally. She knows that treating this with any level of emotional attachment could be suicide for the exorcism, and though the near love that she’s developed for you still lingers at the back of her brain, she has to silence it, she has to save your life before she can worry about you anymore.

Sniffing back the wetness that’s come from the cold air beating against her face, Lorraine finds the Bible still sitting in the pocket of the coat draped over your shoulders. She holds her left hand against your forehead, and the cross casts a warmth against your face that you lean back to fight against, though you’re not sure if it’s of your own action or that of something else.

Lorraine begins reciting a prayer in Latin, that you’d surely be swooning over had you been at all conscious. You’ve nearly lost your battle, your body completely limp against the pillows, as though you’ve lost all muscle mass in less than a minute. You’ve lost all awareness of the situation and now exist only in your own mind, trying your damnedest to regain control.

Each word Lorraine yells with a cracking voice causes a new pain to emerge somewhere within your body, and the pain consumes you so much that you fall over, landing in a fetal position against the cushions of the sofa. Lorraine’s hands want to reach out to soothe you, to press their warmth into your blue skin, to replace your pain with her loving touch, but she restrains herself. She knows that you must feel this pain, that it will drive the presence out of your body and back to the Hell that it emerged from.

“I need you to fight it.” Lorraine interrupts her own prayer to press her forehead against your own, fingers gripping your jaw like her life depends on it. “Don’t give in, don’t let it take you.” She calls, holding the weight of your head in her hands, feeling how much authority you’ve lost over your own body. “Please, fight. For me.”

You’ve already done your fighting. Though you’ve been so horribly affected by this presence in your home, disrupting your livelihood, your sleep, your will to live, there’s not really been anything impacting your will to live at all in years past. You’ve simply been existing in this plane, doing your chores and going to church, following your routines for no reason other than it’s what you’ve always done. Your routines that are so set in stone that it took a demonic presence to shake them up. But you’ve had no one to share your routine with, no one to cook for, no one to compliment how beautifully your flowers have grown. You’ve had no one to fight for.

Your life is not one worth fighting for.

Lorraine Warren, however, feels the opposite. The way she’s holding you so tightly, on her knees in front of you, begging you to stay alive… though you can’t see it, aren’t cognizant enough to hear her begging, you can feel it. There’s a warmth against your chest that’s keeping your heart beating, and a light behind your eyes that’s pushing you to keep going.

So you do. You do as Lorraine asks, and the last little bit of willpower you have musters up into your fingers, and you grab onto Lorraine’s shoulders with an anemic grasp, trying to pull her closer. You force your eyes open, though it’s so very painful due to the rosary still swinging in view, and look up at Lorraine’s worried features. More than anything, you’re filled with hatred that you’re the one to cause her this anguish, that she shouldn’t be so concerned over a life as meaningless as your own.

It's the most beautiful smile you’re met with that causes the final push, that forces your beast out of your mind and into the wind that’s still blowing melting snowflakes onto your already freezing body. A sudden relief fills your body, the power over your own actions that brings back the feeling in your muscles. You sit up, blinking slowly, reliving the past few minutes over and over as you regain a full level of awareness that you’d been left without for the past months.

Lorraine allows you your time to rejoin the living world, slamming shut the windows behind you and throwing several blankets over your freezing body. She drops back to her knees to assess you once more, seeing the color back in your eyes and the warmth rising back to your cheeks. She had seen you in such a terrifying, corpse-like state that she’d surely soon have nightmares about, so the fact that your eyes were finally locking onto her own was an answered prayer.

You eagerly wrapped both arms around the woman’s neck, holding her as close as you can, thanking her over and over again, until the stinging on your back takes the brunt of your attention.

“Don’t thank me. It was all your own work.” She hums, trying to find anywhere she can hold you without wrapping her arms around your back. Lorraine then stands, settling on petting your hair, looking around for any other sources of heat that she may impress upon you. “Do you have any fire woo—”

She’s cut off by the swift action of your standing up, an action that she would surely advise against had she had the option to. But her lips are unable to protest, because they’re met by your own. You’re shocked by your own straightforwardness, and though the fear that she’ll run away and call you a freak is very prominent in your mind, you feel so swept up in thankfulness to this woman, so swept up in love, that the only thing you feel like doing is kissing her.

You internally thank God that she’s not pushed you off, and instead, once the initial shock wears off, Lorraine’s hands are gripping your cheeks and are tugging you forward into her. Though you’re near hypothermic, the warmth that radiates through you when you wrap your arms around Lorraine Warren’s waist is something truly heavenly. You can feel the ice melting away from your fingers and toes, even though you still stand within a house that’s currently running below freezing.

You try to stay attached to Lorraine’s lips for as long as you can, as long as she’ll allow, and as desperately as you both are to stay in this state, Lorraine’s overall concern for your health reigns supreme, and she pulls away to once again ask her question. You giggle softly, hiding your face against her chest, hoping she hasn’t seen how overjoyed your smile is. Though if you were to pick up your head, you’d see that she dons a similar expression.

You direct Lorraine to a closet, and she returns to build a fire. She sits you down right in front of it, and for the first time in far too many days, you feel warmth against your face. You’re not too sure just which direction that warmth is coming from, whether it’s from the fire or the woman sitting next to you, carefully washing the horrible scratches along your spine, but you feel a warmth unlike anything you’ve ever felt in all of your years of living. A warmth you never want to go away.

#𓏲🎀ꜝֶָ֢ annie's fics ⋆⸜ ‧₊˚#title is from a kacey musgraves lyric!!#lorraine warren #the conjuring #lorraine warren x reader #lorraine warren x you #lorraine warren fanfic #the conjuring fanfic #wlw fanfic #x reader fanfic #fanfic #lesbian fanfic #angst fanfic #horror fanfic #lesbian x reader

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shalotttower · 10 months ago

Text

Pholcus phalangioides

Title: Pholcus phalangioides

Fandom: The Collector (2009). Can be read as an original inspired by the source, because I took some creative liberties.

Summary: There's a spider in your bathroom, it lives under the mirror cabinet and you a) don't want to kill it, and b) are too scared to touch it, so now you can either keep giving it one side eye after another, or ask your neighbour for help.

Word count: 4000+

Characters: Asa Emory x Reader

Notes: yandere Asa, spiders and insects descriptions, stalking, voyeurism of sort - Asa watches Reader without her realizing it, kidnapping, vague hinting on body horror, non-con touching, Reader is socially awkward. Asa is not 100% in-movie-character Asa (he actually talks lol), a huge chunk of him is based on my headcanons.

You have this problem - a spider problem, to be precise. Not that it's too big of a deal, but...it also is.

Spiders are generally okay.

They eat unwanted guests, like flies and mosquitos or even other spiders. Make cool webs, which is probably one of the most complicated forms of art, not to mention a mathematical pattern to it - a combination of radial and circular symmetry. The golden ratio in nature.

In general they're important for keeping a backyard ecosystem nice and intact.

But.

But there is a spider in your bathroom, right under the sink cabinet, with thin legs, a long body, and of course - eyes. Quiet, kept to itself, really chill spider who doesn't move much except to crawl around a little and sometimes look at you when it catches you looking.

It probably lived in hiding somewhere, before deciding that dark spaces weren't up to its standards anymore and making an appearance. You haven't swatted it away, caught it, struck it with a paper - mostly because you're not good at killing living creatures, and secondly because the spider isn't doing any harm, just observing your every step, and generally being present.

When you check your makeup bag, it watches. When you brush your teeth, it watches. When you close the cabinet door it wiggles and your heart goes "ee" as if someone shocked it with a static charge. This yellowish-brown witness of your everyday activities, silently approving and judging, lately makes you feel like a nuisance in your own bathroom. You desperately wish there was a way to make it move to another corner. A less centralized one, less straight in your face. Yet the thought of touching it makes you cringe inwardly; your mind conjures images of different scenarios involving spider-related unpleasantries - accidentally squashing it, or getting bitten and dying a slow, miserable death.

It's gotta go.

Because the more you see it, the more your brain tries to assign it human features. And the longer it stares, the bigger the chance it might grow a pair of lips to say "get out of my bathroom".

The thought comes to you in the morning while setting a breakfast plate on the kitchen counter. The house is quiet, all windows are open and you stare through one of them at your neighbour's fence. You rarely see him, though the parked car is always a giveaway of his presence. Emory, that's what the mailbox says, and he has a neat garden, not an extravagant type, but everything is carefully trimmed and arranged into simple patterns.

There's even a stone bench by a small tree. Does it actually get used on sunny days? Probably no. He seems like a loner, from what you've seen so far: tall and pale, with wire-rimmed glasses and still grey eyes. Very focused and put together, a turtleneck and dark trousers kind of Mister. Never waving when passing by, though he does glance sometimes - sharp and attentive.

Once you caught him leaning over a bush with back straight and head hanging low. Your stomach gave this funny, nervous twitch, like when a stranger tries to start a conversation in public. He looked your way and then resumed whatever he was doing.

"Whatever" appeared to be something small, sharp limbs and a shiny body. It looked like a beetle, stretched to an absurd degree, and the way he held that thing felt strangely intimate. The same way you'd cradle a baby animal in your hands, rubbing its forehead with a fingertip. Emory put it in a plastic box, sealed it, and went into his house, not sparing you another glance.

This particular memory - of long fingers and a careful grasp - is what makes you think that maybe, possibly, theoretically, he could handle one pesky spider for you. You've seen him with insects a couple of times after, no doubt Mr. Emory is one of those who glue bugs to display boards. The creepy friend in the bathroom must be right up his alley then.

Five minutes later the two of you are staring at each other in awkward silence. Bothering barely acquainted neighbours isn't usually high on your list of priorities, especially if said neighbours look like they prefer being alone. You know it's odd, you know it probably crosses some boundaries, yet here you are.

With a crease on his brow and a tight mouth, Emory isn't thrilled at this sudden visit. Maybe he was in the middle of something, or is just uncomfortable with people invading his space. In any case, you clear your throat.

"Good morning. I live in the house across the road. The white porch? With-"

"I know," it's a dry reply. Not rude, more matter-of-factly; his eyes are fixed on you with a hint of unsettling peculiarity which makes you shift from one foot to the other.

He's not pest control, you think. Or obligated to help in any way. Emory can tell you to kindly fuck off right now and close the door, why did you even come here? It's stupid and intrusive. You're almost ready to take it all back and go home, pretend like nothing happened and just deal with that spider yourself, when he speaks again.

"What do you need?"

He has a quiet voice, a very even direct tone that doesn't encourage small talk, but prompts answers. Now and without pointless filling.

"I know how it's going to sound," you start, cringing inside, "and apologize in advance for bothering you, but I had an impression you collect...bugs."

"Insects. Arachnids."

"Right. So I was thinking if you'd mind removing a spider from my bathroom. I don't want to kill it, but I can't- I can't touch it."

His gaze slowly shifts from your face to the house behind you. As if Emory has an x-ray vision, or a complete mental map of your household layout. Ha, this would be ridiculous. There's no apparent disapproval in his pale face, but something else, a different kind of assessment. Evaluation of how much it is worth spending time on someone with an overgrown lawn? His eyes return back and you feel pinned down.

The longer he stays silent, the more you wish for the ground to open and swallow you whole.

"If you can't I totally understand-"

"What kind of spider?"

It's your turn to stare. How are you supposed to know, you've never studied spider biology. It looks like any other common variety, except creepier because it refuses to leave its spot and stay in the sewer where it belongs. "I...light-brownish, with long legs. Thin? Slender," there's more you could add but any further description will probably make you sound like a total dunce who can't recognize basic arachnids. "Kind of big."

You expect a 'sure', maybe 'I'll be there shortly' or 'no'. What you get is Emory moving past you and walking up your front porch. The scent of laundry detergent and soap, very clean, hits your nose before you rush to open the door.

"Uhm. Second floor," you explain, awkwardly shuffling after him. For the first time since the day you moved in, you worry about what someone might see inside the house. As far as clutter goes, your place is acceptable, perhaps a few forgotten cups around and yesterday's sweater thrown on a couch. Surely, it's not too bad.

Emory, however, doesn't seem interested in the surroundings. The staircase doesn't even creak under his weight, despite the house being around a century old. He steps over the little border which always makes you trip if you walk too fast, like it's not there. Like the corner you often bump your hip into doesn't exist either. He navigates your home with effortless precision, an inward kind of certainty that makes your eyebrows rise. Maybe...the houses on your street have the same blueprint.

Either way, he walks into your bathroom without hesitation, turning on the light. You hover by the doorway, unsure: should you offer something to drink, ask him if he needs anything else or just step away and leave him to do his thing?

The spider is there, hiding under the cabinet, when Emory leans over to observe it. He's probably seen many different specimens, you think, and this isn't interesting at all compared to the ones who have an intricate design or unique behavior.

"She's a part of the Pholcidae family," Emory says suddenly. Just like that there's 'she', instead of 'it', and the spider twitches and shifts. "Daddy long-legs. Harmless."

He puts his palm up close to its back. At first, it seems startled, but after a moment slowly calms down, and moves a leg - left then right - getting familiar with his hand.

"Docile creatures," Emory continues, while the spider walks along the edge of his palm. No running around, no random leaps, stick-like limbs touch and probe him with curiosity, much like you'd study something new. "They stay in the dark, hide in the corners while feasting on smaller things. Your intruder is a useful tenant."

It makes you feel slightly nauseous, how nonchalant he is about holding something that prompts recoil on instinct.

"Do you want to hold her?" Emory turns to you and there's a faint, strange smile on his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes and makes him look like an alien who tries to mimic human expressions based only on observation. His pupils are so dark that you can barely tell the difference between the irises and the rest. They seem bottomless, absorbing all light, but reflecting none in return. You take one step backwards, shaking your head.

"I'll pass."

He keeps staring at you for what feels like forever before returning his attention to the spider crawling on his skin. Emory reaches into his back pocket for a small container.

"Are you not setting her outside?" You ask. "She...she doesn't look like, uh, a rare species."

Not that you're an expert.

"No," Emory closes the lid with a quiet click. "She isn't one. But I'm going to keep her."

And he does. The little captive spider rests at the very bottom of a plastic case when you send the man on his way and thank him for the help. Emory accepts it with a nod, no further words, and then there's only his back when he leaves. The morning air rushes in, crisp and fresh, smelling like grass, tree leaves and soil.

It feels like you blink, and three days go by. You still keep an eye on the bathroom cabinet by some sort of habit, however there's nothing out of the ordinary lurking there, no creepy critters and definitely no thin legs scattering in multiple directions. All is well, now you can brush your teeth, take care of business and even lean close without fear something might fall on your head.

It's just a spider. You googled it later, and how common it is around the continents should be a bit ridiculous. Keeping it might equal to going on a beach and picking the most unremarkable pebble you see; Emory certainly could find hundreds more Daddy long-legs wherever he pleased - parks, gardens or forests.

So...why?

The question gnaws at you, together with that smile and cold grey eyes hidden behind glasses' frames. The weirdest part wasn't the expression, it was how you couldn't read it. Despite the obvious display of human emotion, however misplaced and alien, it failed to reveal anything. The smile was there, and yet nothing broke through it, not amusement, nor politeness - or any kind of feeling whatsoever.

Your neighbour is odd.

Not necessarily scary, though there's a sense of mystery surrounding him, it makes you feel like standing next to an iceberg and only seeing its tip. Or you've just read far too many psychological thrillers and your imagination likes to conjure up the wildest scenarios, trying to turn each and every thing into something sinister.

Maybe you should just chill and get some tea, and stop being so dramatic about a guy who came over and politely removed a spider for you.

They're not a unique species. Not even remotely uncommon.

He taps the container gently with his index finger, making the spider move back and forth. She doesn't have venom, no poisonous chemicals to injure and kill. Hiding in abandoned corners she does, patient and careful, waiting to catch the wrong fly.

You're just like her. Nothing exciting. Not unique.

Your movement patterns are similar, concealed in a different package you're still predictable: getting home from work, cooking dinner, watching TV shows. Everyday routines.

Fear is a part of your nature. Awkwardness which comes with socializing: you shuffle when uncomfortable, avoid prolonged eye contact and don't like confrontation, he noticed this right away. A quiet type, keeping mostly to yourself unless you need something urgently; and then you rush, like a scared Daddy long legs. There's this shiftiness, an inner desire to be less visible, but also a yearning for recognition because the lack of it hurts. And he saw all those small things, catalogued them one by one, as you moved into his street and became a constant presence.

Asa has never thought about keeping something - someone - so mundane before. Never. He likes rare things, spectacular, and those collected in the basement, they all are, especially when he's finished with them. They're extraordinary, displayed under glass cases and preserved for eternity.

He doesn't collect common species. Daddy long-legs are abundant everywhere around him.

But.

There's the way you linger by the kitchen window during the morning routine, slowly sipping hot coffee. When your lips purse and eyes lose focus for a moment. Or how the corners of them wrinkle sometimes when you have a genuine, amused laugh. It's something like warmth. There's no label for the feeling - positive, negative or neutral, it just is, like one single, meaningless element in an ecosystem.

He shouldn't want someone so average.

And yet Asa watches from the corner of your living room, crouched on the floor by a plant.

You don't hear him, too invested in your personal bubble. Well, he had enough time to polish his craft and figure out how soundless he can be when moving through spaces, how much weight he needs to place onto soles to avoid creaking wood and floorboards.

It's interesting to see you interact with your environment, unaware of being watched. There's an invisible pattern behind each action, even if you think everything is randomized. The web you wove around yourself is cozy, and Asa follows its threads while you check the phone and frown at whatever notification pops up. He is considering. Contemplating this impulsive desire he has yet to identify.

Would it be worth it? Keeping you. Adding you to the collection and seeing what comes out of it, how far his usual approach might take him with you in the same conditions. You're just a face with features. So...ordinary. He wants to pick you apart and look inside to make sure it's not some strange sort of mimicry, camouflage of a different nature hiding something else entirely.

There's this vague idea how those features may feel when touched. He can recall them accurately, even when you've never stood too close. Asa watches quietly from his hiding place, memorizing a displeased mumble and then a frustrated gesture.

You seem so alive.

Those below who are frozen in time now were too, before Asa decided to give them a purpose and make something special and worthy of his attention. They were alive like you, but now they're something better.

What purpose you have remains to be seen.

Asa decides then.

A plain trunk is nestled in the corner behind a coat hanger, no fancy latch or keyhole needed, only an ordinary padlock. You'll fit in nicely, squeezed in the cramped space, it won't be the most comfortable experience, but it's not for long and then...then he can show you the room where others stayed before, and where you'll be next.

Asa looks around one last time: the front door is locked, blinds down, lights off - you get up from the couch and head upstairs, right on the dot. Your house is easy to navigate despite the darkness; Asa knows his way around it, having been here already more than once. A step after a step he follows the soft padding of your bare feet, and when the steps halt, he pulls out a cloth. It's a heavy kind of pleasure to be able to stand right behind and admire your nape, there's a strange sort of vulnerability to it.

Something raw and very exposed.

It takes only a few movements, he catches your yelp into one of his hands and holds it clasped tightly as you thrash. Your nails dig into the fabric of his turtleneck but fail to leave any marks. He's never tired of it, the initial fear of his specimens realizing that their secure habitats are ruined. He doesn't mind this fight for survival.

"Shh," Asa breathes into your ear. "Shh."

The struggle doesn't last long - you're not a fighter - and when your body goes limp, he picks you up. Your perfume is surprisingly light, a very sweet and pleasant aroma, not overwhelming at all like he'd expect it to be.

It's nice.

He puts you in the trunk, a boxy space barely big enough to fit you curled on the side, it's going to take around thirty minutes to reach the hotel and another three to put you in the right cell. You'll sleep the rest of the journey, which is fortunate for everyone. It's always easier to deal with a specimen if they're resting.

The lock clicks softly - it's time to go home.

Something runs down your cheek - a drop, a bead of sweat, a touch - and you blink, trying to make sense of it. The surroundings are unfamiliar, blurry shapes with undefined outlines that stretch and wobble before your eyes. Your jaw hurts, clenched so hard that teeth grind together, and it takes a conscious effort to relax.

Where...what?

The living room, a TV program, a soundless whisper that froze the hairs at your nape, then someone was behind you. You remember a sickly sweet smell, and after that nothing but a haze and the dark, and the sensation of being squeezed into a shape. Your legs feel numb, arms too, like you spent hours immobile in one position. Slowly the world sharpens back into focus, but instead of relief there's only dread.

You're in a room.

No bigger than a regular bathroom and void of any furniture beside a cot-like bed, a toilet in the corner and a sink. The walls are a bluish-gray with thin cracks, tiny fissures that create uneven lines from the ceiling all the way down to the floor.

And there's a man, observing you quietly through the thick glass.

You don't notice him immediately, too busy assessing your new location, and when you do the air feels heavier, difficult to move past your throat. He's wearing a mask. Black rubber or something, covering everything except his eyes. He presses two palms against the barrier separating you, the silence stretches into an eternity.

'Who are you? What do you want?' - these are kind of questions you should be asking, but they don't come out. You remain glued to the spot, counting the passing seconds by their painful tick-tock-tick-tocks. One minute turns into two, and he...just stares without moving a muscle in a beyond unnerving manner. Your gaze dips lower to check his clothes, perhaps find a pattern to identify this person later.

There's none. Everything is plain black, like a uniform made to be invisible - turtleneck, pants, even gloves and boots.

It seems that your silence somehow pleases him, because a few moments later he leaves without looking back.

You don't know how much time passes; there's not a window around, only a bare, stark bulb, yellowish in its brightness and casting unpleasant shadows all over the floor. Not a single sound. Traffic, voices of distant passersby or birds - all is absent and doesn't provide even a bit of understanding where the hell you are.

In the end, you...sit down on the bed and wait, because what else is there? Everything is eerily silent and very, very uncomfortable: this emptiness, the absence of noise, the endless ticking of an invisible clock. It's difficult not to cry, but you try your best, somehow it feels important to remain composed. There has to be a reason behind this. There must be one, and you repeat it over and over, like a mantra to soothe the nerves and present your mind with some semblance of logic: once you figure out what's going on, you'll figure out how to get out as well.

Pulling loose threads from your sleeve is poor entertainment, if anything, the strain of boredom and unease gradually grows into anxiety so sharp that you almost miss the sound of approaching footsteps.

He's back again, the masked stranger who stands in the doorway with hands clasped behind his back. A pair of light grey eyes is a splash of different color, but they are blank. They watch with distant curiosity of an animal trainer monitoring a newborn cub. The comparison makes something ugly squirm inside you. A part of you wants to make a run for it, the other keeps yelling that it would be immensely stupid.

One, two, three, four steps he takes into your cell. Your back meets the wall, the chill coming from its solid surface cuts right through the layers of clothing. Five, six. He stops only when there's less than arm's reach between you, then leans to brush away loose strands of hair sticking to your temples. Your stomach goes taut. This scent. Laundry detergent mixed with soap. The turtleneck, grey eyes, very collected kind of Mister.

A sickly shiver of revulsion shoots down your spine, making you curl tighter into a ball. Emory cups your jaw with both hands - they're cold even through the gloves material. This is too close, an unwanted and unpleasant violation of boundaries, and yet he continues to examine your face, like you're some sort of an object he can handle however he pleases.

Your cheek gets a light pat. Any theories about his identity stay unvoiced, mostly because you fear the reaction they might prompt. Something tells you that screaming is a bad idea too. 'Be quiet,' an insistent whisper says deep inside your skull, 'be still.'

His thumbs press to the corners of your mouth. "Open," he orders, and you can't not, even though the whole thing sounds and feels bizarre. "Wider."

There's a quiet click. A flashlight, of those small ones you can easily hold in one hand, shines right into your eyes, making them water from the unexpected brightness. "Don't bite or I'll remove all of your teeth."

It's a simple threat, delivered with such a calm tone, there's no need for yelling when words are that clear and straightforward.

He inspects your mouth, the edges of teeth and gums, your inner cheeks, and you let him, clenching your fists. There's not much you can do, at least that's what you keep telling yourself to ease the heavy, sinking feeling of powerlessness. Your mind chants 'too close' on a loop, urging to wiggle away; you stay. It's unclear what exactly he's looking for - dental or oral diseases, a sore throat, cavities, or the lack of them?

It lasts forever until he straightens back up and puts the light away.

"Good," Emory states. There's another pat to your head before he turns around to leave. "No biting."

The door panel slides with a soft hum, locking shut. And the silence, and the waiting, and the mind numbing monotony is back again.

#shalott fanfiction #yandere #the collector #the collector (2009)#asa emory #asa emory x reader #slasher fanfiction #slashers

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