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penvisions · 13 days ago

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gone to the dogs {chapter 7}

Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: Tensions run high as you can't seem to recover from your bout of sickness even though Tess is back on her feet and helping the newest member of your pack sort out some things. Neither of you had told Joel yet, bidding your time until some things are taken care of but you have a feeling it's more than just that if Tess's determined silence is anything to go by...

Word Count:

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical gore, outbreak fic, mean joel miller, degrading language, violence, heated interactions, adult language, fighting, references to injuries, blood, sexual content, rough sex, p in v, smut, unprotected p in v (it's the end of the world, y'all), sexual propositions, oral (f receiving), talk of pregnancy, angst, reference to off screen assault, medical jargon, mentions of nausea, mentions of past trauma, mentions of canon death, mentions of past childloss, i think that's it for this one!

Fic notes: we are officially 10 years into the apocalypse! joel is 46 at this point and cane is early 30's, but please imagine her to look anyway you want! these are just rough estimates and descriptions that are not set in stone as per the x reader tradition. simply a way for me to get the story fleshed out a bit c:

A/N: this fic really just got so big and it can't possibly be contained to the original ten chapters when i first started it. these two have really taken the reigns and i am all for letting them develop and flourish as they wish ♡♡

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Joel scrubs a hard hand over his face, brushing away as much of the ash and dirt as he can as he lowers the bandana wrapped around his head as a mask. It’s not much, but it eases his mind enough for him to keep using it.

He’s been pulling more shifts, as many as they could give him. You and Tess both being sick was something that worried him, stressed him out. The dangers of the end of the world were rampant, too many to count and keep track of. A weakened immune system brought on by fever and sickness was something from Before that he had completely lost the notion of.

Seeing you beaten up and bruised from fights or shows of power, from hard days working whatever shitty physical labor the zone needed done or from crawling your way through the rubble of the fallen city around them in search of things to trade and sell- it was different. Different than seeing you wrapped up in all the thin blankets in the shared apartment, that he could get his hands on only to still see the shivers that rack your body and chitter your teeth together. It was different than seeing you barely manage to keep water down to take the pills he paid far too much for only for you to gag on the weight of it settling in your empty stomach.

The scraps of chicken and bone he managed to trade for had cost so many ration cards. But the medicine, the stock he was able to pull from the bone- all of it was worth it for you and Tess to start to get better.

Well, Tess was better. You were…you were…are still sick. No longer plagued by fevers, cold spells, and heat flashes. But your stomach was unsettled, and your appetite was borderline gone, the weight you dropped a little concerning and the color drained from your skin.

He’s been playing caretaker to whatever extent you’ll allow him when he’s in the privacy of your shared apartment. Even if it’s as simple as refilling your mug with hot water for a second cup of tea, of collecting the bowl you had used to try and eat something with before he got home. He’s willing to do it, to do more. But you won’t let him. Determined to hold onto your independence in a way that both makes him proud and feel a little useless.

So he works. To provide. To make it easier. To give you space. Doing the long standing trades, showing his face more on that side of things while you’re unable to do so. Tess now, too, is back at it and it seems like you’ve given her clear orders on who to trade with and who not to as the weather grows colder.

But right now all he can focus on is the sprawled out form of you on the bed. Sheets and blankets tossed and kicked to the end of the bed and nearly crumpled on the floor as you pant heavy breaths while trying to find a comfortable position to fall back asleep.

The baser instincts in him rise at the smell of sweat and the sounds your making, the slight groan of the mattress beneath your wiggling form. it’s not that he wants it for himself, well, not just that he wants it for himself. But your body is stressed, it’s fighting, mind and nervous system out of whack. He’s on you the second he steps over the threshold into the room, determined to give you some sort of relief. To give you something else other than seemingly endless days of sickness and being unwilling to leave the building.

“Joel, ‘m still sick.” You mumble halfheartedly, that tug in your navel letting you know that despite everything, your body still sings for him- because of him. And it’s intoxicating, the immediate reaction as you feel plush lips against your skin, feel the weight of his body so close.

“Don’t matter, want you.”

His kisses are like fire, trailing down from your chin where he nips hard to your neck and chest. Tank top pulled up as carefully as he could manage, ridding you of the thin fabric. His lips close around hardened peaks to pull out desperate sounds from you, so sensitive to the soothing swipe of his tongue after biting teeth. His nose skims across your skin, the sharpness of it driving you wild as his hands make quick work of removing the pants you had fallen asleep in.

His teeth nip gently at the swollen lips of your cunt through the fabric of your underwear before he breaths in deep. “Gonna get you outta your head for a bit.”

And like a switch, your mind and body only focus on him.

The drag of his nose over the same place, the tug of his fingers pulling the now damp fabric down. The hot, thick line of his cock against your legs as he pulls them up to bend into your chest. His tongue swipes flat over your folds, delving between them after, shockwaves of pleasure so intense after experiencing nothing but aches and pains for the last couple of weeks. It pulls a moan deep from your chest, the responsive chuckle earning him another as you feel the vibrations of it skitter across your skin.

He's pulling pleasure from you like he was made for it, his knowledge of your body all he committed to memory and you’re crying out within minutes. His fingers grip the backs of your thighs, spreading them to make room for his body to line of with yours and then he’s pushing in slowly. Through a crack of your eyelid, you see his focus on where the two of you connect, brown eyes dark and hair slicked back save for one stray curl folded over his temple. Teeth gritted and breath hissing as he fills you, slowly, taking in the sight for what it is, feeling it for what it is, living up to his promise to get you out of your head as he bottoms out and your mouth goes slack.

“Theeeere we go, huh, darlin’?” One of his hands snake up to grip your chin gently, pulling your thrown back head toward him. Thick fingers caress the too hot skin there and his eyes soften as your own fly open when he leans forward to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, the obscene sound of him pushing in deeper and your walls clenching around him. “Look at those pretty eyes, starin’ up at me with nothing behind them, that’s exactly what we wanted, wasn’t it?”

All you can do it try to nod, his hand so large cradling the side of your face, his lips so tantalizingly close but your body is frozen, the breath caught in your throat as you pulse around him, pleasure rippling through your body as he throbs deep inside you. He must see the way they tremble and he closes his mouth around yours, giving you exactly what you wanted without you needing to ask. When he pulls back, his teeth glint in the faint light seeping in through the window.

“Don’t gotta think about nothin’ else but how full you feel. Deserve to turn your thoughts off and just focus on gettin’ fucked.”

He’s pulling back a bit, his knees caging you in as they squeeze around your hips.

You can barely take a breath before he’s slamming back in and it’s pushed from your lungs.

Over and over again.

The day starts off normally, a plan in motion to tell Joel once he returns from one of his shifts. Tess spends the day helping to move most of Jean’s stuff out of the shitty apartment she had been given alongside two other single girls. Not enough room for her to even have her own space. But Tess was willing to give up her bedroom and move into the living room to provide some semblance of privacy and control for the young girl. You had taken her to the clinic, as well. Dropped her off and were due to pick her up any moment now, but you’re kneeled down in front of the toilet.

Your own sickness seems to linger while Tess is back in good health. Her color coming back while yours remains pallor, hot flashes and cold spells waring underneath your skin and making you nauseous. You were doing your best to hide the worst of the symptoms from Joel, not wanting him to feel like he needed to use the stock of goods and cards for more medicine that only worked at first. You’re just grateful that awful cough that rattled your brain and hurt your throat was gone, the phlegm that seemed to either clog up your sinuses or run far too freely gone as well. It had been a bad chest cold, same as Tess and you didn’t understand why you were better, but you weren’t…better.

You had given blood at the clinic, just to be cautious.

Because you were beginning to get worried. Between the new responsibility of caring for and protecting Jean, the rather startling reach out from Bill concerning new habits from Frankie he’s developed and the increasing scarcity of things to find in the city, you were feeling a slow simmering panic begin to form in the back of your mind and weigh down your mental and physical resolve.

The cold chill settling in the air wasn’t helping, telling you that it was about to get a while lot worse as the temperature dropped and winter weather became a daily struggle on top of it all. Snow and ice in Boston was normal this time of year, to begin falling from the sky and form on the ground.

Picking Jean up from the clinic was supposed to be a simple task. But you honestly don’t remember much of it. The ringing in your ears had started once the doctor had turned to you and read the results of your own testing. Effectively pulling the entire god damn earth’s crust from beneath your feet. You don’t remember the trek back to the apartment, nor the way that Jean was glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. Bottom lip between teeth as she contemplated commenting on same diagnosis that was read to you.

Shock. You were in shock. Mind reeling from the fact that now there wasn’t just one pregnancy to navigate, but two.

All you know is the startling cold of porcelain seeping through the towel you had placed over the top of the lid as you knelt in the bathroom once again. Stomach heaving and throat burning, heart beating far too fast as you struggled to regain your breath. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, a sharp contrast in how hot they were compared to the tile that surrounded you.

Just as you managed to stand up from your rather humbling position in front of the toilet again, you hear it.

The boom of Joel’s voice through the thin walls.

He was home early.

And Tess must’ve just told him what you two have been handling the past few days.

Keeping as silent on your feet as possible, not wanting to sound the creaks of your aged flooring, you inch into the living room and move into the kitchen. His voice is clear as a bell and angry.

“It’s just another fucking human being that’s going to be subjected to a shitty life and even shittier people. How do you think that kid is gonna feel when they learn about how they were conceived? You think she’s gonna be able to sit her kid down and explain to them the shit she had to endure? That she was raped and it was either go through with the birth or risk her life ending the pregnancy? You think that’s any kind of thing to put on child in this god forsaken world?”

“Joel, she’s scared. She said you told her to come to you for help. And Cane and I are an extension of that-“ Tess’s voice is raised, an attempt to wrangle in Joel’s own but its fruitless. You’ve only heard him sound like this when he deals with less than savory trade partners. You’ve only heard him when it was that first year of knowing him. When he didn’t trust you or share your bed. Before the shadow of a life you two slowly and carefully curated together.

“Just cause y’all are women doesn’t mean you know better about this than me. Don’t you try to pull that sexist bullshit with me, Tess. You know just as well as I do that bringing a new life into this world is a mistake. The risks of pregnancy before were deadly, with the help of machines and medicine. But now?”

He scoffs loud enough for you to hear it through the walls. You don’t flinch, though you know you would’ve once upon a time. There’s truth in his words, no matter how he’s weaponizing it to prove his point. To deny getting involved in the situation.

“Now she’s as good as dead if she goes through with it. And what if she does manage to give birth to a healthy baby and she’s the one stuck paying the price? Bleeds out or needs to be cut open, then there’s just another orphan the system is gonna abuse and use for their twisted sense of righteousness.”

“Joel-“

“She’s gonna be stuck with a kid, do you realize how much time and effort and work is gonna go into that and it’s all gonna fall on us. On me. And I am too fucking old for this shit.” You can hear silence that greets his harsh words, the raw and unfiltered emotions he feels on the matter. You knew Tess had a kid before all this and it must be hard for her to grapple with the reality of the situation. Especially as it brings up memories and her own past emotions. “There is no way in hell this is going to work out.”

“She came to us for help, Joel. You instilled in her that you would look after her, no matter what. And guess what? This is something big! She can live here with me, I can…I can help her through the rough patches, I know what it’s like to have a less than smooth time of it.”

“Tess…”

“I’m going to help her, Joel. From one mother to a prospective one. As a parent, I would think you feel at least a little connected to the issue at hand.” That gave you as much pause as it seemed to Joel. The silence that permeated the air was heavy, crackling tension palpable even through the walls.

“This is dangerous, this is stupid and reckless. Children aren’t a blessing, they’re a curse.” His even but thudding steps could be heard as he makes his way to the door. You’re still in shock a few moments later when it doesn’t slam shut, it doesn’t even open. He must’ve turned around and you can almost picture him looking over his shoulder. All broad and brooding, angry. “This is a mistake.”

With no other outlet for what you’re feeling, you shove your hands into the sleeves of your jacket and grab your keys from the nails they hang on beside the door. Glancing on the sleeping form of Jean on the couch, you’re relieved that she’s in a deep enough sleep to not hear the harsh words of the man who she had sought out for help.

You don’t even dare glance at the end of the hallway, not knowing what you would do if you glimpsed Joel at this moment.

And that scared you.

That you didn’t know if you would curl up into his chest, wrap your arms around his neck or waist and burrow your face into him. Inhale his scent and be comforted by the way he holds you back. Or if you would scold him for his choice of words, for the way he’s backtracking suddenly as the situation turns now to something he doesn’t have the patience and energy to deal with.

That you didn’t know if the words would immediately fall from your lips or stay lodged in your throat and suffocate you.

He had given Jean his attention, his protection, his word that he would look out for her. And he’s standing there determining the course of her future that would best benefit him. That would work in his favor, to not have to deal with something so monumentally important. The news isn’t the best, it isn’t born of a decision between two consenting adults who are determined to nurture and love. Hell, you aren’t even sure if Jean had ever admitted to wanting to be a mother beyond not feeling right with doing away with her condition. But it was something, it was someone.

Hope. It was hope you were feeling as you sped down the hallway and away from the harsh words that hang in the air.

Hope for a future that isn’t the same damn thing day in and day out. Fighting and hustling for supplies, for food, for water, for space in a crowded zone. That isn’t protecting your territory and your smuggled items, that isn’t holding fast to your going rates as people challenge them and clamor for them because even if you did want to provide things that were hard to find or considered contraband, you still needed to benefit from the effort and skills that go into supplying them.

The news Jean brought to you, born of devastation and immoral means, could be the universe’s push of urging you toward something else. Your own news born of a moment of passion under the influence with someone who you found rare solace and genuine companionship with. The naïve notion of taking it in stride and shifting everything for the better, for the hope of making something of the situation you’ve landed yourself in is a painful one. Cultivating and nurturing goodness back into the world where you could, back into your life that had become so violent and overwhelming in its eat or be eaten nature.

You’ve been violent for so long, have had to be violent for so long. The world demanding it of you if you wanted to survive, to breath, to live to see another tortured day. And all those days that it seemed like too monumental a task, too hard a thing to commit to once again. A flicker of your old, weaker self rising up and arguing that there was no point, that it was useless to survive a hard day and the only reward was another string of them. But now you know why it was imperative that you stuck with it, defending yourself, protected yourself, used teeth and nails and haunting violence to make sure you saw the sun rise each morning and set each night over a world that was decimated beyond help.

And that reason was a phantom weight low in your belly. The new reason you would fight even harder from this point on until the moment you drew your last breath. Your child would know better than you were thrust into, would know better than this broken world and mockery of what was once city life.

You would bite and claw and fight, shoot or slash anything that threatened the life you were determined to give to your child, to give back to her. That younger version of yourself lost piece by piece as things quickly fell, as people gave into temptation and damnation the second civilization crumbled.

You don’t realize the heavy words in your mind are coming out as snarled sounds every time your boots hit the ground with your fast pace. The man Jean had described was walking home, you on his tail and none the wiser about what fate was about to deliver. What you were about to deliver.

Crazy bitch. Depraved dog. Ruthless.

His insults don’t mean anything, as you stalk him through the streets and down the hallway that leads to his apartment. His pained groans and stuttered breaths mean nothing to you as you land hit after hit, they don’t give insight to anything but satisfaction that curls your lips up at the corners.

His words, Joel’s words, ring in your ears as you feel the impact of your knuckles on the man’s face. Each punch, each hit landing as the echo inside your head gets louder and louder. Those are the only ones that mean anything, the only thing that fuels your violence. The man crumpled beneath your knees deserving of every last bit even more so and you’re convinced he would feel the exact same way. He would see his own actions as righteous, taking what was his, what was deserved- the consequences not on his mind nor something he would feel like needs his attention. An afterthought, the result of an assault he forced on someone.

All of it, everything in the entire world was just- mistake, mistake, mistake. After goddamn mistake.

But this? Delivering retribution on the man who is weaker than you ever were, it feels right. It feels like something you’re meant to do. Despite the depravity and brutality of the sentence you’ve given him, it’s a step in the right direction. It’s a step toward a better future.

Please. Stop. I’ll do anything you want. Take anything you want. Please- no…no!

And then he’s no longer breathing the air he doesn’t deserve.

With bruised hands, swollen knuckles and aching fingers you gather everything in his apartment into his own duffle bags hidden beneath the bed.

You leave the apartment, ignoring the cracked doorways as people peek through them to see what the scuffle was about, who had been target this time- the only thing left inside besides dirty linens and dishes is his body with a note stabbed into his chest with his pocket knife.

Don’t mess with my people.

Signed off with a stamp of ink in the shape of a paw.

And though it’s far too early to feel the weight in your belly, something settles there and you feel it the entire walk back to the apartment building, even as you stand at the sink and wash the blood from your hands. The stain of it lingers even with the aid of soap and cold water.

His figure used to be refreshing, a comforting thing to see at the end of every tumultuous day. But now, your eyes track him, take him in as if he posed a threat. As if he had done anything other than simply walk into the room, his muscles rippling with the action of removing his jacket. His scruff a dark shadow in the low light that glitters when the gray there catches the light. He’s so broad, the entire doorway filled by the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest. The same body you found comfort in when it curled around you or pressed down upon you. But now, it’s as if a stranger has strutted into your home for all that had happened recently.

Large, calloused hands reach for his belt, remove with a simple pull through the fabric holding it in place and you feel nausea rise at the spike of desire that pools between your legs. Feelings and urges war with each other in your mind and heart, body reacting to his as he approaches. Your head tilting into the cradle of his palm even as your mind screams at you that he doesn’t care. This is the same man who had declared loudly and determinedly that he wanted no part in the situation at hand. The one that involved a child. He hadn’t known his words were not only for another woman but for you too.

“You okay, darlin’? You look a little waxy there. The meds workin’ alright or do I need to go and get some more from the infirmary?”

“Fine, Joel.”

“Hey,” His eyes search yours as he tips your chin up, locking onto them and trying to find out what you’re not voicing. But he can’t seem to, because his brow furrows and the corners of his lips pull down. “You sure?”

“Had to take someone out, is all. Muscles weren’t used to being used like that.” The admittance doesn’t lift any of the weight in your chest, but the words are out. No longer caged between your ribs with the other secrets you now carry.

“Tell me you didn’t.” He takes a step back, and he’s not upset…but he’s- something. How were you supposed to know it was fear, when you swallowed yours down so long ago?

“I’ll tell you I did, because it needed to be done. He didn’t deserve to breath anymore. He forced her, Joel. He manipulated her long before that and then when she was finally free from him, he goes and-“

“You shoulda let me handle it.”

“Why? Because I’m too weak?” The snarl in your words has him removing his hand from you, giving you space. He lets out a heavy breath as he realizes the way you had taken his worry, his fear.

The room is crackling, the energy flowing from you having built up for days, weeks now. It hadn’t bothered you at first, it hadn’t bothered you at all. Until someone had made a comment that you had been made to heel, fucked into your rightful place. Just as you had been leaving the clinic earlier that day. You had been preoccupied, yes that’s true, but that didn’t mean you had taken a step to the side and allowed for authority to shift. You had simply begun to focus more on finding things that would not only benefit the anticipated needs of the zone’s occupants, but of Bill and Frank as well. Then you had gotten sick, all of that paired with the reality you were facing alongside Jean and no one could blame you for the whirlwind that had replaced your heart.

“You’re just tired, is all. Not weak, I could’ve been there for backup.” He tries to keep calm, but you can see the way the muscle in his jaw twitches. He looks from the collection of items on the dining table, to where you had made up a nest of sorts on the couch as you had tried to get some time out of the bed you really should be swathed in to recover. “Let’s get you another dose of meds and maybe a shower.”

And you know he isn’t trying to belittle your emotions or step around them. He’s seeing them for what they are, as least as best he can. He knows you’re overwhelmed, that small things grow into big things over time, and this is one of those moments where you realize that they have and it’s completely out of your control.

“‘M fine.” You can’t help the snap of your teeth as you clench your teeth, head pounding and stomach turning. You hadn’t left for days but you had heard the rumors going around as you and Tess all but disappeared from the scene when you both fell sick. Determined to get out and reclaim some semblance of control, you reach for your coat. The clack of plastic makes you freeze, worried that the object got shoved from the depths of the inside pocket it’s hidden in.

Joel takes the moment to come up behind you, his arms wrapping around your middle. Grounding himself and attempting to ground you too, knowing there was no stopping you if you wanted to get some space. You know he wouldn’t take that from you, try to control that part of you. He needed space sometimes too, even on the good days. But this wasn’t one of them, this was a bad day. A monumentally bad one. And it’s made even heartbreakingly worse by the confession he breathes into the back of your neck, his forehead pressed to back of your head as he inhales your scent. Don’t go. Love you. Need you safe while you’re sick.

You freeze, processing.

Love you. Love you. Love you.

It echoes in your mind, his voice caressing and soothing despite everything. It calms you enough to take a deep breath, to try and center yourself for the barest of moments.

And it sounds so good, his voice quietly voicing the warmth and affection that had developed, that had been carefully cultivated between you two over the years. But as good as they sound, they don’t bring you the comfort you know he hopes that they will. Because he’s already undermined the sentiment, he’s already crumbled the very foundation of what you two stand on. It breaks your heart a little to not return the words, even as you feel them harden and catch in the middle of your throat.

“You gotta know that, by now.” He fills the silence as your body tenses in his hold.

But the timing of it, the words he had spoken so devoutly just the previous day are like shrapnel stuck in your skin, burning and stinging. No amount of picking at them will take away the damage they’ve done, clear the burns and the irritation, the pain.

“Didn’t know you were the type of man who cast aside a pregnant woman who came to you for help. A woman who you’ve done nothing but try and watch out for until this point.” Your voice is a whisper, anger bubbling up, heartbreak spilling your chest open, body almost numb from the way everything was so poetically fucked.

“You’re right, I’ve done nothing but try and watch out for her. And guess what? She still got hurt, she still got assaulted, she’s still in this goddamn situation that has no good outcomes!” He’s pulling away, you turn to face him. The darkness that had fallen as night settled is not longer comforting against the onslaught of photophobia you had been experiencing all day. Now it feels suppressive, it feels like you’re in a cage that you can’t escape from. The words Joel had said and is now saying are like locks, connecting together in a twisted way to make you feel the weight of how they can’t possibly be coming from the same person.

“Is it really that bad of a situation?”

“Is it- for fuck’s sake, Cane.” He scrubs a wide palm over his face, the scruff of his neck bristling at the action and causing goosebumps to sprout all along your arms. “I think I get a decent read on you and then you go and ask somethin’ like that. Do you not see how this will affect us? Affect everything we try to do to survive?”

His voice has shifted from anger to something that rings warning bells in your head, it’s not desperation and its not beseeching. But there’s something in the deep timbre that alights your nerves and makes you feel as if everything between you will be determined in the next choice of words. Despite how you feel, despite the way things have been going, the groove you’ve found with him and Tess. Despite the smuggling getting harder but still holding a majority of the supplies and power, and how Joel returns to you every night. Despite it all, the phantom weight you feel low in your middle compels the words that leave your lips next.

“I’m not even sure if I know what love truly is but if it’s not what I feel for you then I have no clue. It’s never simple and perhaps it just speaks to how I’m meant to be alone.”

“What’s more simple than telling me how you feel?” His eyes are narrowed, though you see the way his irises are blown out. You wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s panicking, but he’s not…he’s hadn’t expected anything other than reciprocation. And it breaks your heart, the chasm in your chest deepening as you realize you can’t gift them to him as easily as you would’ve been able to just twenty-four hours prior.

“Because I heard you, Joel!” Your words leave you in a shout, an angry frustrated cry that bursts from your chest. Unable to quell the spike of emotions, this wasn’t just about Jean anymore. “I heard you talking about how that girl you’ve taken under your wing suddenly means nothing to you the second you can’t handle the situation. The things you said, the fucking vitriol in your voice when you talked about an innocent, a baby.”

“That’s what changed your mind? Affected everything I’ve done in the past four years, we’ve done in the past four years.”

“Yes! Because you- it- because it was so hateful. Like, I get it, Joel, really. You’re a big scary man, you’ve got the brooding scowl down and the razor sharp glare, but she needs our help with this. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but I’m not about to tell her what to do with her own body. You cannot be so daft to not think that that’s not going to alter the way I think about you at least a little.”

He doesn’t seem to know how to respond, his full lips pull down into a deep frown and his brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything else. His eyes hard, sharp on you as he watches the way you shrug your jacket on and stand in front of the door. With a hand on the knob, you look back over your shoulder with a set expression, not willing for him to see any glimpse of what’s going on in your head.

“I’m going to take Jean to Lincoln. It’ll be safer for her there, better place to raise her mistake.”

The instinct to run, to protect, to build for not one but two mistakes settles deep in your bones as you realize the notion was a solitary one. Joel’s own instincts clashing with yours. Preservation and protection flare up and make you defensive, make you willing to walk away from the life you created with someone you love, to deny them the last true thing that makes life worth living- of loving and being loved in return, they allow you push through the heartache of leaving it all behind.

“I’ll be staying there to help her through everything.”

You don’t hear the whispered plea to not leave that falls from his lips, eclipsed by the sound of the slamming door. Or you do, and it push it from your memory for all the pain it brings to recall it.

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theredofoctober · 9 months ago

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MANNA- CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TRIPE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, child abuse and more (check the tags)

Read after the cut

By some sense of duty, or else an undug tendril of guilt, Will volunteers himself to oversee your evening routine alone. You allow him this, being in scant possession of what slim tolerance has borne you through Hannibal’s accompaniment thus far.

Will proves himself to be far less involved than the other man would have been in his stead. He leans against a wall with the nonchalance of a prison warden as you shower blood and spend alike down the receiving drain, allows you to pad into your bedroom, towel-wrapped, to select a clean nightdress and sanitary products with his head turned nobly aside.

You cannot determine if his distance from you is through respect for your condition or some lasting dislike of you, neither of which holds entirely true.

More likely it is that he does not see you as his child, yet, nor quite with the equality of a lover.

Still, as you get into bed he cannot help but come to you, uncertain as he his of his purpose.

“Will you give me a goodnight kiss?” you ask, part in bitter jest, and part in annoyance with his indecision.

That a man can fuck and beat you in throes of black delight and still skulk about like a repentant sinner would have confounded you in the days before you became accustomed to such duality. To what end, and upon what strength the latter side subsists is now the greater puzzle, for it is this that drags its heels and restrains Will from his full devilry.

“Well?” you say, brusquely. “What are you waiting for? Dad’s permission?”

Will gives a hard laugh, one hand kneading the back of his neck.

“I admire your commitment to the part, but you don’t have to keep it up so seriously when it’s just you and me.”

“I promised I would,” you remind him. “Why can’t you? You had no issue kissing me in front of Hannibal. I don’t see why it’s a problem now.”

You see Will’s fingers go to the bridge of his nose, wanting the guard of the eyeglasses he’s neglected to wear.

“It’s not genuine,” he says, flatly. “The only reason you’re asking is to manipulate me.”

“So what?” you say. “Scared that it’ll work?”

“Not scared, no.”

“Sure you’re not.”

There is something hysterical in your tone, the cut string of a trapped and weary madness.

Will examines you, aware of the power play you’re attempting over him, intrigued by it, despite himself. Attracted, even.

His gaze is like a stone in the sun, all heat, all black, all blue.

He knows what revulsion you must push past to test him like this, still slightly high from the forced euphoria of fucking, and the drugs. You’re beyond consideration of the consequences, irrational, barely attached to the tongue and teeth that bite at the air in their ire.

Still Will hangs from your words like a pilgrim knelt before an oracle, dependent on your answer.

“Haven’t you had enough of me kissing you tonight?” he asks.

Sniffing, you turn to face his gargoyle shadow on the wall.

“So it’s a no. You’d make a really terrible father.”

“One...”

“Not my name.”

So Will says it, gently, and you roll back towards him, your heart quick and high behind a rail of bone with the thrill of his appeasement.

Your truce, the union of flesh: they’ve altered Will, for as he looks at you a second time his pupils are the chasms between worlds, wild and deep.

Kneeling up on the bed, you make a trellis of both hands through his curls and clutch him to you in an ungainly kiss. Will stumbles in the force of it, his arms spilling about your back so as not to fall upon you with all his weight.

You gasp against his lips with eagerness to take what he has taken, to fallow the rose flesh of his inner mouth, the lathe of your tongue churning. Will is too surprised to kiss you in return, but as you hitch one leg after the other upon his hips you feel the vine of him against your groin, wanting you again, as always.

You think of him fucking you now, pinning your wicked hands with the nail of his fist as he thrusts through a sheen of blood. Though you despise him still, your loins smart with interest in engineering the act rather than merely suffering it as ever before.

At last Will returns your kiss, but briefly, and with a knowing restraint before he lays you back upon the bed again.

You grasp at his face in an attempt to reclaim his lips. He pushes you lightly away.

“Hey,” he grins. “You made your point.”

“Oh?” you say, coolly. “And what is my point?”

“That I like kissing you. That I want to kiss you, whether Hannibal’s here or not.”

“Right,” you say, twisting a corner of your quilt around one finger for something to do with your hands. “But you never would have picked me. Like, if I was in one of your FBI classes. If I was your student. Would you even have noticed me?”

Will laughs again, with a startled unease, as though the notion is foreign to him.

“Starting affairs with students isn’t exactly my style. I turn up, I teach. That’s it. I don’t get personally involved. Or didn’t, till now. Letting people get close is... uncomfortable for me.”

He glances down at the bunch of quilt in your closed knuckles. Unlike the ever-tactile Dr Lecter, he makes no attempt to take it away.

“So how come you got so close to Hannibal?” you ask. “Didn’t you say you had reservations about him?”

“He saw me even when I was making an effort to turn away. He and I have commonalities I can’t ignore, and enough differences to keep me wondering who he really is. There’s a lot even I don’t know about him, and there are times I wonder what I’m doing letting him in.”

You’re on the verge of another question as Will steps sharply back from the bed.

“We can talk more tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll still be here in the morning. But if you want my thoughts about Hannibal then it’s only fair that you tell me a little about you in return. If this is going to work long-term I need to know who you are.”

Then he goes over to the light switch and closes you in behind a shutter of night.

You’re roused from the saccharine heat of your bedcovers the following morning by Will rapping on your bedroom door. His face appears in the crevice between it and the frame as though wary to trespass, the broken spell of your desperation in his eyes.

“It’s so early,” you whine, noting the bare line of sunlight beneath the curtains. “And I feel like death, thanks to you and Dad. Can’t I stay in bed?”

“Hannibal just rushed out to an emergency appointment,” says Will. “One of his patients is having some kind of crisis, so it’ll be just you and me for a while. You want coffee? I was about to make some.”

An apology, you think, something to alleviate the swaddled and perspiring misery of your comedown.

“Sure,” you say, weakly. “Black, please. Sweetener, if there is any. The low calorie version.”

Will’s brows rise.

“You think Hannibal keeps that around?”

Reflecting on the little paper sachets that had been favoured throughout high school you say, “Ha. I guess not.”

Within twenty minutes you’re sitting up against your pillows, one hand gripping a delicate, steaming cup, the other soothing your stomach through which bites the first monthly cramp.

Will takes a nearby chair, eyeing the bars on your window as though assuming your daily view through the glass.

Though you loathe him still in his unpredictable oddities, you’re keen to make closer yet the allyship you’ve struck up with him, watchful though he is of that very attempt. If he will not help you escape, then a friendship at least may fortify the sanity you fear will leave you in this quasi childhood.

Will doesn’t seek your regression quite as Hannibal does— a cantankerous teenager is as young as he perceives you, the sick girl that never grew up. This house, then, is a Neverland in reverse, a sumptuous den of brutal sex.

Closing your eyes against such thoughts, you take in your coffee, each dark mouthful a long-acquired taste. You remember forcing back cup after cup of it, trusting it over plain water in the belief that it would burn calories as you drank.

Suddenly you’re acutely nostalgic for the days spent in your childhood room, scrolling through online threads of ailing young women in a community of mutual suffering.

It occurs to you that you may never feel so entirely comprehended without judgement as you were there again. You understand Will rather more through the thought, his convergence with Hannibal a relief to so lonely a monster.

“Tell me about ‘Dad’,” you say, into the silence. “You said you would, last night. Like, who even is he? Where did he come from?”

Will blinks, stirred up from his own brooding thoughts. In the dreary daylight he has the face of a beautiful invalid, all its angles skirted in shade.

“Hannibal’s from Lithuania, originally,” he says. “He had a younger sister, Mischa. She died a long time ago. I don’t know the finer details of what happened to her. She’s the only family he’s ever talked about, and even then it’s been bare bones.”

You sit up straighter, envisioning a young girl with Hannibal’s eyes, and none of his appetite.

“Huh,” you say. “That makes a lot of sense.”

"Hannibal would disagree. He doesn’t put much stock in the past making him who he is.”

“Seems kind of a weird thing for a therapist to say. He’s always digging into mine.”

Will looks at the floor, as though distinguishing some new pattern from the grains in the carpet.

“Hannibal views himself as... separate from other people. Being that he acts outside of ethics and the law in his own profession, I’d guess that what’s between us isn’t his only secret.”

“I’ve tried to tell you,” you say, tapping your coffee cup with bitten fingertips for emphasis. “I’ve known this for so long. But since you’re going along with his games how can you even judge him for whatever horrible things he’s doing?”

“Without knowing what he has or hasn’t done,” says Will, slowly, “I can’t say that I do.”

He gets up from his seat and paces before the window, his hands gesticulating like pigeons frenzied into startled flight.

“You assume that what I’m trying to learn about Hannibal��the core of who he is—is something ugly. But that isn’t what I’m afraid of. It’s the possibility of him lying to me. I don’t know if I could forgive him for that after the bond we’ve made. After what he encouraged me start with you.”

“You shouldn’t trust him,” you say, urgently. “Don’t. You don’t need him.”

Scoffing, Will says, “Jack seems to think I do. Alana— she’s convinced I’m one nudge away from disappearing so far into a case that I kill someone without even knowing it. Hannibal's the only one that doesn’t think of me as broken.”

You consider informing him of his suspected encephalitis, that Hannibal surely withholds this truth and more so as to keep his favour.

In the end you retain your silence; better that Will discovers the manipulation alone and behold how he has been misled upon this trail of darkness.

“Enough about me,” says Will, abruptly. “I know that someone hurt you, long before Hannibal. Before me. Someone you've never forgotten.”

Alarmed by the twist in conversation, you stammer, “I— I already told him some of it. I said I didn’t remember. But I was lying about that. I just don’t know if it was only one, long night, or it happened other times. I don’t know which is worse.”

You pause, slightly breathless. Like a portent from the white lips of some phantom you know that you must tell Will the truth, adhere him to your weeping heart with empathy for you.

“I was just a little kid,” you say. “And he was an adult. Nearly family— I used to call him Uncle Lee. Hannibal probably told you that. Anyway, I got my ‘wrong’ feeling about him way before he did what he did. Like I knew it was coming. Then he came into my room alone one night and... it happened.”

You put down your coffee cup, almost knocking it from the bedside table with the shaking of your hand. Will comes away from the window at once, dragging his chair to your bedside to listen. He neither speaks nor looks into your eyes, aware that you can bear neither without faltering.

“He touched me,” you say, “and the whole time I couldn’t even face him. I don’t even remember what I felt. Maybe I didn’t feel anything at all. Just stared at the ceiling or whatever. He did stuff to me that changed me forever. I felt like a tiny old person in a kid’s body, after that, knowing about things I wasn’t supposed to know.

“And the worst of it was still having to see him after. My parents— I tried to tell them, but I couldn’t get the words out. They just thought I didn’t like him. So he came back to the house, now and then. Never saw any consequences.

“I’ve always wondered if I was the only one, or if there were others. He was a plumber, or something; he could have access to people’s daughters anytime he wanted. Just walk into their room and... you know. I think maybe he did do that, a couple of times. Who knows.”

Your restless fingers pick at the gold embroidery on your bedspread, working it loose from the velvet. One of Will’s hands folds over yours, gently holding them still.

“What I always think about is how he treated me, afterwards,” you say. “I tried avoiding him, but it didn’t always work. One day he cornered me at the top of the stairs— my parents were in the kitchen, so it was just me and him.

“I must have been maybe twelve or so. Not far off thirteen. My body was changing. I was growing up. He said, ‘you’re getting a little chubby, you know. You ought to do something about that before you look like your mother.’

“Then he smiled at me, and just walked into the bathroom like there was nothing wrong with what had just come out of his mouth, or what he’d done to me all those years ago.”

Inhaling an unsteady breath, you try, with dubious success, to smile.

“So now you get why I’m like this. And knowing it wasn’t my fault, that Leland Frost is just a predator... it doesn’t fix anything. Like, where do I go from there?”

“He injured you,” says Will, softly. “And it may never stop hurting. But you can recover. No matter what you believe, it is possible. His shallow cruelty is not your compass. You don’t have to live on the basis of an insult.”

Scowling, you pull away from Will, trapping your hands under your armpits.

“How can I change when I’m reliving what I went through every day? Why does Hannibal think this’ll heal me? Why do you? Oh, yeah. You don’t.”

“I want it to,” says Will.

You snort dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah. Not so long ago you would have punched the air to see the back of me. You don’t want to share Hannibal with anybody.”

Will leans back in his seat, arms folded; it takes a moment for you to register that he is, by some subconscious impulse, copying your posture.

“I’m not sharing Hannibal with you,” says Will. “I’m sharing you with him. And I want to do that. You knew it before I did.”

His gaze snaps to yours, more arresting than his hands on you had been.

“You’re more like me than I cared to admit. Hannibal was right about that. And though everything about you should repulse his sensibilities he finds you adorable. You clearly don’t appreciate it, but there it is.”

You yearn to deny him, to condemn this speech as sophistry, but you are silent, as much a congregant to him as he has been to you.

“Leland Frost tore you down because he saw that you were growing up and away from him,” says Will. “He knew that one day you’d have a life, and achievements, and people that really cared about you. He was going to fade out of your world, and he couldn’t stand not leaving a mark.”

“I just don’t get it,” you whisper. “He loved me. Why did he do it?”

Will shifts his chair even closer to the bed so as to lean into you, his expression tender, tragic, sombre with a father’s sympathy.

“Leland never loved you, and that’s no reflection on you or your worth. It makes him weak, that he could throw away the relationship he had with you over an urge.”

You don’t have the strength to rage against the whited sepulchre in Will, not when he speaks the truth you’ve always yearned to hear from another. Pain winds through your body, throat to gut, great, twisting pulses, as though eviscerated on a blade of past.

What advice would Will give for you to survive what he and Hannibal have done, and will do?

Nothing. Not a word. He knows that the structure of the home, even comfort from those that afflict you has changed you in so short a time. Your desperation to be gone from him he senses, too, and with it your lust to be loved.

Will holds your hand for a long time before he speaks again, on another subject quite as dreary as the last.

“When you said it’d been years since you...”

“Since I last had my period?” you ask, touching your stomach through the sheets. “Yeah. It has been.”

Your body, the betrayer, making a scarlet banner of your betterment through cruelty.

“I never wanted it to come back. Having it again means I’m not as sick anymore, and that’s like... messing up for me.”

Will's head tilts, his face carved up by the shadows thrown from your barred window into a lattice of snow.

“Failing to die is barely a failure at all,” he comments.

You shrug yourself further under your bedcovers.

“It is if what’s happening to you is something worse,”

“Is it always so bad, being here with us?”

Will’s hand rises. Doesn’t quite touch your face. You turn your head away, but not cruelly; he’s not a bad man, you decide, only contorted so utterly from the ways of his fellows that he is some creature other, or from before, the flint-armed hunter of the caves.

And like such a creature, he seeks your answering affection for want of some warmth in the dark beginning of the earth.

You allow him to kiss your forehead, clumsily, inclined towards him as though you were not both aware of the fiction that allows this contact.

He can only guess how far you’d run from this, had you your chance. How readily you’d betray him.

You’re much recovered by the time Dr Lecter returns, having been hydrated and energised by a selection of unnamed supplements Will had you take with lunch; there is a cure for every ailment in the makeshift laboratory of the kitchen, it seems.

Hannibal discovers you at your usual perch of the parlour couch, writing in your journal with a blanket tucked loosely around you against the October cool.

Will stands to greet his companion, setting aside a book you’d offered him from your shelf to peruse, its cover depicting the bloody half-brain of the sun on a desert horizon.

“I didn’t expect our charge to be in such high spirits,” says Hannibal, with unmasked surprise. “Thank you for caring for her this morning, Will. I’m aware that whatever time you can spare for us in the midst of an investigation is very precious.”

Likely aware of your eyes on him, Will says, “I’m glad I stayed. I appreciated the company. How’s the other patient?”

“Suitably quieted. I doubt that I’ll be called away again on her behalf. Still, I made the most of the journey home.”

Hannibal reaches into a shopping bag looped over one arm and produces from it a wrapped package of fresh meat, marbling the paper with blood.

Grimacing, you say, “Ew. What is that? Looks like an organ.”

“It is. I’ll be making trippa alla romana tonight. It’s an Italian dish made from cow stomach. Don’t turn your nose up till you’ve tried it. Have I served anything to you yet that you haven’t enjoyed?”

After dinner, all three of the household recline, full and talking lazily before the fire. Had your company been any other than your abusers you would almost be content, for having been allowed to leave the table after a valiant half plate you are not so guilt-soaked as you’d have been had you finished it all.

You had, in fact, disliked the meal, a first in Hannibal’s house. The thought of the organ, plucked from the rib of a butcher’s shelf, had struck bile to the back of your mouth from the first bite.

A cup of chocolate, warmed to a froth and unadorned with cream is set in your hands instead, which you drink in feline licks to make it last.

Will’s phone shrills abruptly in his pocket. Frowning, he glances at the lighted oblong of its screen and starts at a familiar name.

“It’s Jack,” he says. “I’d better take this.”

He promptly exits the room, speaking with clipped tones into the device.

Alone with Hannibal, you become acutely aware of him looking at you, not quite with suspicion, but not so far from that.

"I see that you and Will are becoming close,” he says, at last. “I’m glad to see it.”

Humming vaguely, you snatch up the journal again and weave your pen about in a pretence of writing.

Hannibal says, "Still, it saddens me that—for all your pretty words of promise—you display a lesser willingness to befriend me.”

You do not answer, pressing your pen so hard against a page that it blots through to the other side.

"Put your journal down a moment, Little One,” says Hannibal. “I’m speaking to you."

Without looking up, you answer, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You needn't say anything at all. It's your behaviour I wish to change."

In a flounce of irritation you throw the journal upon the floor, its spine creasing.

“I do what you say, and I don't fight you anymore,” you say. “Isn't that daughterly enough?"

"For the purposes of your treatment,” says Hannibal, “it is not. You remain closed to me, parted only by narcotic aid. I'd prefer you to open to me of your own volition. With Will, you prove yourself increasingly capable of that.

“I’ve given you all you’ve asked for, and more, and yet you show little gratitude. I wouldn’t wish to remove these luxuries for you to appreciate my endeavours.”

You look at him, then, this man both jealous and performing jealousy to groom you into his concubine, and in looking see that he will deconstruct your room into the barest cell, should he not have his way.

"I do appreciate what you’ve given me," you hastily protest. "I do, Daddy. You don’t have to take anything away. But I— I just don’t know you the way I know Will.”

“But you do,” says Hannibal, rising to sit beside you, a dangerous proximity. “That’s why you are so afraid of me, is it not?”

You begin to object, trailing off at the sound of approaching footfalls as the younger of your captors returns, listing in the churning swell of stress.

“It's the investigation,” says Will. “Another doll’s been found. Savannah Belmont. It’s too soon to be the Lover’s kill. He has a cool off point between each abduction.”

Hannibal straightens in his seat, rapidly alert.

“A copycat, then.”

Will nods, his throat tightening. His eyes touch your face briefly, and you offer him a small, close-lipped smile, an extension of comfort from across the room. His shoulders drop from their rigid line, and when he speaks again the frantic note in his voice is tempered slightly.

“Definitely a copycat,” he says. “The Lover disposes of the dolls by throwing them into rivers like garbage. No attempt to lay them to rest. Savannah was put on display, placed in a chair on a dirt bank as though she was waiting to be found.

“Both killers meant to degrade their victims, but only the copycat’s is implied to understand and accept that humiliation. Savannah Belmont died aware of her inferiority in the eyes of her murderer.”

You find yourself sitting on your hands to prevent them from betraying your agitation with their unsteadiness. Your leg, however, you cannot control, the right foot gyring an inch above the floor.

Hannibal eyes it without speaking, folding your reaction into the lengthy tome of his mind.

“The victim’s stomach was missing,” says Will, turning to pluck a bottle of whiskey from a nearby cabinet like some bronze fruit. “That’s new. The Lover’s mutilations are all with the purpose of fitting the bodies of his victims inside their silicone casings. He has no surgical skills.

“This new killer obviously has expertise. Savannah’s stomach was cut precisely from her body with the clear intent of taking it as a trophy.”

“Her stomach?” you repeat.

You feel the heaviness of meat within you and are chilled by the coincidence.

Hannibal could not have known what the copycat would take to reference it, could not have known of his existence to begin with, and yet as you glance at him under your lashes you don’t quite trust the seriousness of his expression, his eyes gleaming dimly as tarmac in the rain.

“You mustn’t worry, Little One,” says Hannibal, turning to lift you up onto his lap. “The Lover can’t hurt you. We will protect you, always.”

He settles your head against his chest, which resounds with the slow beat of his heart and the machinery of organs digesting his own rich meal.

The monster knows of your renewed distrust and is unthreatened by it, declawed and tooth-filed as you are by his influence over you and all the passageways of the world you’d otherwise cross in your escape.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Daddy,” you mutter, against his shirt, and the warmth of Hannibal’s palm cups your buttocks with a tormenting friction, both threat and tease at once.

While you hate him—are in terror of him, always—your form is increasingly enamoured by his touch as though it knows that it must be so, or die.

“No need to thank me for performing my duty to you, Little One,” says Hannibal, into your ear. “For you belong to me, and to Will, and you must never forget it.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #tw noncon #tw csa #tw abuse #tw drugs #tw captivity #dead dove do not eat #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #darkfic

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rotworld · 2 months ago

Text

28: Cold-Blooded

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you've known for years that your best friend nor comes from the most dangerous and prominent dragon crime family in town. you've never worried about it too much, but you probably should have.

->original work. explicit; contains non-con, graphic descriptions of violence, manipulation, murder, feral behavior, possessive behavior.

Red flag number one: Nor shows up at your door two hours before the party. There’s a pair of plastic drycleaning bags slung over his shoulder and he’s dragging a suitcase behind him. You don’t want to let him in but he does that thing you knew he’d do with his big, pretty tourmaline eyes and the saddest, most pathetic pout like a kitten begging to be rescued from a storm drain, and you cave. He waltzes right in like he owns the place and makes a beeline for your bedroom.

“This should be everything,” he says, laying the drycleaning bags out on your bed before he kneels to get the suitcase open. “Yours is on the left. Go ahead and start putting it on, I’ll help you with the ties in a second.”

“You’re kidding.” You very pointedly don’t get a response. “You said this was a normal party.”

“It is normal,” he insists. “For me.”

The zipper shrieks apart and he spreads the suitcase open across the floor. There’s an antique wooden box inside that smells faintly of floral perfume, the surface carved with intricate looping symbols that wouldn’t look out of place along the borders of a medieval tapestry. The hinges creak when Nor opens it. Small decorative jars of colorful glass and gold filigree sit in red velvet. There are brushes clasped by leather straps to the inside of the lid, ranging from broad, puffball bristles to very fine points.

“What does that mean?”

Nor looks up with a pleading expression. “I’ll handle everything, okay? That’s why I brought all this stuff. And I’ll be next to you the whole time, I swear, I don’t even want to go to this stupid thing but my dad won’t get off my ass about it. We’ll just hang out in the corner, eat some food, and slip out when nobody’s paying attention.”

“This is a family thing?” He nods pitifully. How can a dragon, in human skin or otherwise, look so much like a scolded puppy? “Don’t just spring this stuff on me. I would’ve gone if you told me from the start, you don’t have to lie.” It wouldn’t be the first formal event you’ve saved him from and it probably won’t be the last. So why is he being so cagey about it? You pick up the drycleaning bag set aside for you and frown. “Nor,” you say slowly. “What is this?”

He grins, showing off a mouthful of daggers. “It’s your outfit,” he says, knowing damn well that’s not what you meant.

Red flag number two:the “clothes” are a tangle of sashes and scarves that will show far more than they cover. You peel off the plastic and run the material over your fingers. It’s nice for sure, really nice. Each sash is made of sleek black fabric that’s velvety smooth but lightweight and flowing, decorated with embroidery in intricate geometric patterns. The stitching is luminescent and changes color when you look at it from different angles, shimmering in a prismatic cycle from red to blue as you slide it across your palm.

“What kind of party is this, exactly?” you ask.

“Dinner party with lots of standing around pretending to be important. You know, the usual.”

This certainly doesn’t look usual to you but you lose your train of thought when Nor suddenly undresses without warning or shame. He exhales slowly, pushing stark white hair out of his face and flexing the muscles in his back.

A line of jagged bone like a miniature mountain ridge juts from his spine, bloodlessly piercing a thin membrane of pseudo-skin. You can see his wings trying to form, an unsettling squirming in the flesh of his shoulders, but he keeps them tucked away for now. His tail snakes out at the very bottom, a lithe rope of solid muscle with stiff thorny protrusions along the top. What used to be a pair of little rounded nubs have grown into snaking upturned horns, brown and rough like tree bark. Skin hardens in glinting patches along his back and down his sides. Nor’s scales are gold and nacreous silver. Seeing him shifted, whether half or whole, always steals your breath.

“I don’t love this either,” he says, his tail flicking irritably. “But it is what it is.” You’re surprised that there’s an identical outfit in the other bag. He puts it on with practiced ease, knowing exactly how and where to loop and tuck and tie each sash. The result is an elegant, form-fitting garment criss-crosses his body that accentuates rather than conceals. His chest is framed with black stripes over and under it, the scales of his hips on display in the gaps left at his sides. Long panels dangle in front of and behind his legs. There’s a strategically spaced gap left for his tail.

Looking him over, you realize it’s not quite the same outfit. His is plain. The sashes are undecorated, lacking any pattern or embroidery.

“Did you mix these up?” you ask him.

He looks at you, head tilted and pupils narrowed into long slits. “No?” he says, sounding confused. “This one’s for family and that one’s for a, uh…guest. We really need to get started on yours, by the way. We’ve got like a thousand pieces of jewelry to put on each and then I have to do the ceremonial markings.” He gestures at the bottles and brushes. You haven’t even done anything and you’re already feeling overwhelmed.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I don’t want to embarrass you. Shouldn’t you bring someone, uh…I dunno, prettier?”

“Don’t ever say that again.” Your heart leaps into your throat when Nor lunges at you. You stumble back, pinned to the edge of your bed when he plants his hands down on either side of you. His eyes are wide and he’s baring his teeth, practically snarling at you. “What does that even mean, ‘embarrass me?’ You’re perfect. If I wanted someone else, I would’ve asked someone else. I want you—” You’re both startled by the sound of his claws ripping through your sheets and mattress. He backs off immediately, tail drooping and claws clutched against his chest like he doesn’t trust them. “I want you to come,” he says sheepishly. “There’s lots of people I could ask, but you’re…special. You always have been.”

It makes you roll your eyes when he says stuff like that. It’s not that Nor is never sincere, but his reputation as a heartbreaker is legendary. He was a menace in high school and you’ve heard through the grapevine that he hasn’t changed much since, still a pretty face with a silver tongue and habit of never calling back. The two of you were a romcom waiting to happen—a rich boy who never heard the word “no” in his life and the only kid who wouldn’t kiss his ass, but things never went that way. You were the only constant in a rotating roster of fairweather friends who liked his family’s money and lovers he couldn’t be bothered to keep, the only one he’s ever asked to keep him company at these stiff family get-togethers.

You hold up the sash again, grimacing. “How do you know this’ll even fit me?”

“Magic,” Nor says, waving his hand dismissively. “Now come on, hurry up and try it on.” His tail swats your leg when you don’t move fast enough.

It’s not like there’s nothing there. There always has been. Simmering just under the surface, there’s this tension you’re both afraid to acknowledge out loud. Nor insists that you get changed in front of him and watches just a bit too intently when you undress. He stands behind you when he ties the sashes in place, his chest pressed against your back and his breath blowing softly against your ear. He stretches the fabric from your waist to your shoulder and runs his hand over it, smoothing his palm over your skin. You offer to hand him the next one but instead he bends over you, forcing you to bend with him, and reaches for it himself.

You can feel him against your back. His pectorals, the firm, lithe muscle of his abdomen, his cock nestled between your thighs with only the fabric of the sash keeping it from twitching against your skin. He’s cool to the touch but he gets warmer the longer he’s pressed against you, absorbing your body heat. “Nor?” you say, your voice quivering with—nerves? Anticipation? Do you want him to stop or do you wish he’d keep going?

“Yeah?” he says, low and husky. He tilts you back upright and keeps working like nothing happened, stretching the next sash across your body. You shiver when he secures a tie at your neck, the tips of his claws softly grazing your throat. “What? Did you want to ask me something?” The tip of his tail coils loosely around your ankle.

“Do I get a coat, at least? I’m freezing.”

He snorts. “Don’t you remember what these are like? It’s a dragon party. You can bring one, but you won’t need it when we get there.”

Nor’s touch still lingers and sometimes grazes somewhere sensitive, but there’s some distance that wasn’t there before. He talks while he gets you ready, reminiscing on all the trouble you used to get up to together at these parties—more accurately, all the trouble he’d get into and you’d witness. Tearing holes in the tablecloths and knocking over very expensive floral arrangements with his tail, sneaking off to the kitchens and begging the chef to make you both an early dessert. She always did. You’re not the only one that sad, soggy cat look works on.

The ceremonial markings take almost an hour all by themselves but Nor is surprisingly focused and patient when he wants to be. The symbols he draws are small and complicated. You can’t see what he puts on your forehead or neck but the small shapes he draws on your arms and legs are repeating, interlocking shapes, something like broad, flattened diamonds. Scales, you realize. They’re a scale pattern—Nor’s scale pattern.

The brush tickles when it grazes your stomach. Nor teases you for squirming but he behaves for the most part. You try not to think about why that disappoints you so much. Tucked into a zipper compartment on the other side of the suitcase is a small fortune in gold chains, bangles, rings and necklaces. You don’t want any but Nor insists. “Going to be a little awkward to drive in all this,” you say.

“No worries,” he says. “Dad sent his driver.”

You’re in the backseat of red flag number three for a drive that is both excruciatingly long and far too brief. The driver is wearing a suit and tie. He calls Nor “sir” and opens the door for you, then doesn’t say another word. It’s late and everything is shadow beyond the headlights and the faint glow of the moon on a winding country road. Nor wants to make conversation but you’re too unnerved to offer more than one-word answers and sounds of acknowledgement. “It’s like a business thing, but also just a fun thing,” he says, trying and failing to put your mind at ease. “A bunch of family friends come over and everyone catches up. We’re nosy. It’s a cultural thing. You’re supposed to announce anything new you’ve got going on, like if you’re going on a trip or getting mated.”

“Do you have anything to announce?” you ask.

His hand rests on your thigh, thumb tracing the dried scale patterns he drew on your skin. He doesn’t answer.

Nor’s father lives atop a hill at the edge of town. To call it a house or even a mansion is like calling the ocean “a bit of water.” The sprawling estate has a forest for a yard, complete with a tranquil lake where Nor used to swim as a boy, the water glittering on his scales like morning dew. The home itself is best described as a castle, a three-story complex of gray stone spires. The car pulls into a circle drive with a fountain in the center. Soft orange candle light flickers behind the curtains, not on the first or third floor but exclusively on the second.

To your horror, Nor’s father is standing outside. He watches the car pull up with a scowl on his face, waiting beneath the arched entryway. He’s dressed like you and Nor but his sashes are far more numerous and extravagant, draped like a robe over his frighteningly tall figure.

“Am I supposed to be here?” you whisper. “Why is he glaring at me?” You shrink back when the driver opens the door but Nor puts a hand on your shoulder and pushes gently.

“Yes, you’re supposed to be here. And he’s not glaring at you, he’s glaring at me,” Nor says. He follows you out and grabs your hand, wrapping his fingers around yours. “It’s fine,” he insists gently. “Don’t worry, okay? Just trust me. I’m going to take care of everything.”

You want to ask him what the hell that’s supposed to mean but you never get the chance because his father walks over. Druezaghrath never makes himself more than half-human. He looms over both of you, amber eyes flicking back and forth in black sclera. His scales are gold and his horns are much larger than Nor’s, but they arch straight back instead of curling up like his son’s.

“You’re nearly late, Norlathellios,” he rumbles.

Nor cranes his neck and looks his father in the eye without flinching. “Can’t be late to my own fucking announcement,” he says. “What’re you gonna do? Start without me?”

Druezaghrath narrows his eyes and smoke trickles from his nostrils. His tail thrashes, striking the concrete behind him hard enough to shatter it. His gaze flicks to you when you flinch at the sound and you avert your eyes. “Save your defiance. You have a challenger.”

“Fine.” Nor squeezes your hand. You don’t want to follow him when he starts moving. You dig your heels in. Something is wrong here, about all of this. Nor looks back at you with that sad expression but it doesn’t work this time. “Come on,” he says, tugging your hand a little harder. “I told you, it’s fine.”

“Go inside,” Druezaghrath says. “We’ll join you shortly.”

Your stomach lurches in panic. This is so much worse. Nor doesn’t want to go but he glances up at the cold stone and flickering windows with a solemn expression. “They’re already scared,” he says. “Go easy.”

“Nor?” you say, your voice pitched in terror. He lets go of your hand. You try to reach for him but Druezaghrath’s large, coarse claws close around your forearm and drag you to a stop. “Nor, wait!”

He does, but only for a second. He looks back and his smile is bittersweet. “Sorry about all this. You’ll get it, when it’s over. It’ll make sense. And maybe you’ll…” He doesn’t finish the thought. His gaze flicks up to his father looming over you and he takes a deep breath. Then he turns on his heel, sashes fluttering, and disappears through the front doors. You try to follow him and don’t make it even one step, Druezaghrath’s grip on your arm tightening to painful, bruising pressure.

“I need you to understand something,” he says. He turns you around and you see his eyes glinting like a predator’s in the dark. “If you run, I’ll catch you. You won’t get anywhere close to the property line. You don’t want to waste my time like that, and you need to save your strength. Nor has been looking forward to this.” His grip shifts down and he holds up your wrist, examining the ceremonial markings. “I really should’ve seen this coming,” he muses. “He was always so particular about you.” Your trembling makes him exhale sharply in amusement. “He didn’t tell you a single thing about what’s happening tonight, did he? That boy…”

A whimper slips out when he starts moving and pulls you with him, far stronger than Nor and completely unconcerned with how much you fight and struggle. He drags you through a foyer so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face, then up a carpeted flight of stairs.

“My son has requested an audience to witness his mating announcement,” he explains, ignoring your pleas and protests and begging. “Some say he’s too young. I was well into my second century before I considered such a thing. There are concerns that a mate at this age might affect his decision making and negatively impact the family business. He must prove two things tonight: that he is capable, and that you are compatible. It sounds like the first test is already underway.”

You don’t know what he means until you hear something in the distance, too muffled at first to make out. Something falling? Something hitting something? Candles flicker in wall sconces, lighting a long hall to a pair of wooden doors cracked ajar. You hear a low, rumbling growl like the grinding of stone and then a much shriller animal sound of distress that makes your blood run cold. Something crunches and splatters. Something hisses and wheezes, flailing against the hard stone floor.

Druezaghrath approaches the doors first. He nudges them open, peering inside. You don’t want to look. Now everything you hear is wet—the slick sound of sharpness parting flesh, liquid spilling, soft things squeezed and crushed until they burst. “Is he…okay?” you whisper. Druezaghrath looks at you like you grew a second head. You don’t know why you’re asking, either. You don’t want to be here. You’re scared out of your mind. But the idea of him getting hurt, of those awful noises coming from him, makes the horror unbearable. “Nor, is he—he’s fighting someone, isn’t he? Is he hurt?”

Nor’s father tilts his head, looking at you as though spotting something he finds interesting, maybe even appealing, for the first time. His grip on your arm loosens, his thumb rubbing gently at the bruises he left behind. “Your mate is strong,” he says with quiet pride. “I hope to see you match that strength.” He pushes both doors open and throws you forward.

You might’ve caught yourself if the floor wasn’t wet. You land badly on your hip and shoulder and everything stings for a moment, the room out of focus. It’s red. You know that much. And it’s no mystery what all the red is because the acrid, metallic stench of it fills your nose. A circle of candles, mostly melted into puddles of wax, delineates what must have been the dueling grounds because the blood only rarely trespasses that boundary.There are people here—dragons, a crowd of them, gathered at a distance. They stand beyond the reach of the light so all you can make out are towering silhouettes and glinting eyes.

No one speaks. Maybe this kind of announcement needs no words. Maybe Nor’s face says it all. You see him in the center of the carnage, skin and robes drenched in clinging gore and viscera. A body twitches on the ground at his feet, more than half-dragon and covered in scales. It’s disemboweled, an unraveled loop of entrails cooling beside a horrific gaping wound in its belly. It was clawed open. You can see everything inside from the curled bars of a ribcage to colorful organs. Nor holds a severed wing in his fist, clutching shattered, jagged bone and scrunched cartilage oozing blood between his fingers. The other wing lies on the floor, shredded and limp like a torn sail.

The sound of you slipping and falling attracts his attention. His pupils are blown wide and for a moment, you wonder if he even sees you. If he’s so lost in bloodlust that he’ll attack you next. You flinch when he drops the wing. It lands with a heavy, squelching thud, tattered membranes leaking fresh puddles of blood. He kneels, gathering you in his arms with his staggering inhuman strength, lifting you up and standing in the same fluid motion.

“This is my mate,” he tells the others. The cold sharpness of his voice makes him sound like his father. He pauses a moment, his eyes scanning the crowd. Looking for dissent, maybe. For someone else to tell him he’s too young to have what he wants. No one does. He lets out a breath that rumbles like a growl, exhaling smoke. “Then it’s settled,” he says quietly. He starts moving. Not towards the crowd or the door, but to the center of the circle of candles. To the corpse of whoever he just killed. You call his name but he doesn’t hear you. Maybe he doesn’t care. He’s already come this far and nothing’s going to stop him now. Certainly not you.

Nor sets you down gently. The gesture is ruined by the disgusting sounds of the organs puddled under you. You’re sitting in it. There’s blood and muscle and jutting bone and vein-streaked offal everywhere. It smears over your ceremonial markings and stains your sashes, turning the embroidery bright red. Nor kneels in the same mess. He reaches out and cups your face with his filthy, gore-covered hands. He kisses your forehead with bloodstained lips, then your cheeks, and then just briefly, chastely, on the mouth.

“I love you,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

You struggle when he climbs on top of you. You don’t care how it looks or what it might mean to the people watching, if it ruins the whole announcement. You don’t want this. But Druezaghrath was right—his son is strong. You had no idea because he’s never used that strength against you before. He doesn’t care that you flail and kick at him. He flips you over and pins you down with one hand, forcing you flat against the sticky floor. His claws shred your sashes with such perfect precision that he never scratches your skin.

You get loose when he tries to line himself up with your entrance. You don’t get far before he’s on you again, dragging you back into position with labored breaths. It suddenly hits you that he just killed someone—just fought someone to the death in the time it took his father to walk you up the stairs—and he’s still faster than you. Still able to force you back down and nudge your legs apart. You hear him moan quietly and the slick sounds of his fist working his cock before the tip starts prodding at you. You whimper and he shushes you.

“I know, baby. I’ll try to make it quick,” he murmurs. He lays himself over your back and you’re completely trapped. Was he always this much heavier than you? Or did he always hold back when you play-wrestled as kids? He moves his hips slowly at first, testing the waters. He pays attention to the noises you make. He doesn’t stop, no matter how much you sob, but he listens intently to how your breathing hitches as his thick tip spreads you open. He’s gentle. He’s going so, so slowly. It’s almost worse than if he were rough. There’s no pretending this is something else. It’s him, it’s Nor, as sweet as he’s always been to you. This unspoken thing lurking between you is suddenly dragged up into the light and it hurts to look at.

You’ve always wanted him but not like this.

Nor thrusts his hips and more of his length sinks into your body. He’s big. The stretch stings but he’s got a hand tucked under you and slipping between your thighs, fingers carefully working your sex. “You’re so tight,” he whispers against your ear, kissing and licking the lobe. “I know you’re scared, but it’s all gonna be okay. I’ve got you. Just feel this.” Every shock of pleasure makes your head spin. You don’t want to enjoy this, but Nor learns your body in a matter of minutes. He searches for the places that make whimper in a different way and then he teases them mercilessly.

One hand stays between your legs, dexterous fingers stroking with just the right amount of pleasure to make your hips buck against him. The other wanders, lingering anywhere sensitive. He never stops fucking you. He’s pumping his hips now, sinking deeper and thrusting harder. Your hands slip on the floor in search of something to hold onto, something to anchor you. All you find is the dead dragon and everything that should be inside it piled outside, making a sound of mindless distress when you grab onto something that’s still pulsating. None of Nor’s sweet nothings soothe you but he doesn’t stop trying. His voice is a constant heated murmur, only interrupted when he pauses to kiss and suck at your neck.

“You’re doing so good, baby. So, so good. I want you to cum for me. Can you do that?”

You can’t. You don’t want to. Not here, not in front of all these people—is Druezaghrath here? Watching this? You feel sick. You can’t. But Nor doesn’t let up. He mouths at your pulse, strokes you harder, fucks you faster. You’re moving and you didn’t even realize it, didn’t mean for your body to move against his fingers and back into his thrusts. He pushes your legs even further apart and then he really starts rutting. The sound of flesh slapping flesh, your hips meeting, his balls slapping your ass as he hilts himself inside you over and over again, fills your ears.

“Cum for me,” he begs you. “Baby, please. Cum on my cock. Doesn’t it feel good? I’ve been practicing for this—for you. It’s okay to like this. Just let go.”

Practicing, he said. Is that what all of that was before? All those furious ex-partners, all those sobbing confessions, all those angry late night calls and texts that made him turn his phone off and go back to pretending he was cuddled up against you in a totally platonic way? Just practice for the person he really wanted?

“I love you,” he murmurs. You hate that it makes you tighten around him. “You like it when I say that? I’ll say it as many times as you want for the rest of our lives. I love you, baby. Fuck, I love you so much…” He keeps saying it, keeps whispering his devotion until the sounds mean nothing. Eventually, it happens. You don’t want it to but he nips at your neck and grinds his cock deep inside you, and you scream. It’s the worst and best orgasm of your life. Nor drags it out as long as he can, fucking you through your shuddering gasps and whimpers until you’re limp underneath him. He pulls out but your relief is short-lived.

He turns you over onto your back. You barely recognize him. His eyes are different. Wilder. Glazed in pleasure. The blood has dried to his skin, dark red smears on his chin, his chest, his arms. His gaze rakes your body and then he’s reaching for you again, lining his cock up with your aching entrance again.

“Almost done, baby,” he rasps. “Just a little more. Just gotta make me cum and it’s over. Don’t think, okay? Don’t think about anything. Just feel me. Feel this.” You can’t. You try to tell him that but your voice is hoarse and weak. You let out a strangled whine when he pushes into you again. He tells you he loves you again. He apologizes again. He kisses you with ferocious hunger and your legs wrap around his waist. He moans against your mouth, a hand stroking your thigh.

You cum before he does, back arching, arms wrapped around him. Nor keeps saying just a little more, just a little more, praise and promises. Eventually, you take his advice without even meaning to and stop thinking about anything at all.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #original #super late one and im about to pass out so sorry in advance if typos i'll give this one a look first thing in the morning #i'll try to give all of these another pass at the end of the month lol

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inflatuati0ons · 10 months ago

Note

Can you please write NSFW headcanons for Seo Moonjo for a female reader? Reader used to be a tenant in his building, and he became obsessed with her. So he stopped others from killing her and made sure she was unaware of their killings. But when Jongwoo came, they became close friends because they were the only sane people. That made Moonjo jealous.

-> Pairing: Seo Moonjo x Sub!bot female reader

-> Content(Warnings): Can be read as GN, Dubious-consent(?), Attempted-murder, mild Descriptions of violence, Oral fixation(?), stalking, Blood kink, Sadomasicism, Exhibitionism -implied, corruption kink(?), spit as lube, penetration, bondage, Sensory deprivation, Orgasm denial, Overstimulation, Sex under the influence of, free use kink, thigh-fucking, Cum eating, Cum play -implied, 3rd POV.

-> Author's Note: Sorry this took me so long to post. I had alot of fun writing it. Sorry if it isn't exactly what you wanted, I got carried away just a bit...

---

• He wanted to shove the limits of your sanity. He does everything in his power to make your life completely miserable, playing with you and your mind before he even considers killing you. Only to fall victim to you and your silly emotions when you become too friendly with Jong Woo instead of him. Watching from a hole in the wall as you spent time with the boy he grew resentful, almost spiteful. Laughing at his jokes, smiling at every little kind act, all the kind, sappy things you can think of. He hated the weak human empathy and the need to flock towards the weak, the longer he watched the more he wanted to see you crumbling into his embrace. He wanted to see you at your most animalistic, to see the bloodlust leak from every pore as you fought tooth and nail for your life, only for it to turn into unchanneled fear as he ripped your flesh off the bone.

He almost craved it, seeing you fight through the crack in the door wasn't enough. He wanted to hear your anger, feel your rage, taste your despair on his tongue. Watch as the life drained from your once vibrant eyes as he devoured every single part of you.

• But at the same time he wanted to feel the same kindness that radiated from your human soul, he wanted to be the cause of your laughter, the reason for your smile. He wanted to feel the warmth of your skin against his. Your lips pressed down firm on his, your tongue invading his hot mouth as the addictive taste of you plated on his tongue. Your warm hands ran through his dirtied hair, caressing his heated skin. Just like you did with him, he wanted to have you all to himself. Just one more night.

• The thoughts that plagued his mind at every hour of the day, wrapping around his head. You captivated him, hypnotized him, wiggling your way into his mind like a fucking worm.

• Every hour that should have been spent sleeping was used to watch you, watch the rise and fall of your breasts as you slept, the peace that adored your face, the drool that seeped from the corners of your lips, your soft human body covered by the stained white sheets. You were right there so exposed, so vulnerable. Oblivious to the danger that lingers before you. How easy it would be to wrap his, hands around your tender neck as he wrung the life from your body, your warm skin contrasts his cold hands, tightening around the curve of your neck. Grip faltering when you groaned, slowly stirring from your peaceful slumber. Watching as your breathing slowed uncertain emotions consuming him, fear, regret? What would he have to fear? He killed many in his life, humans and animals alike so why did he release you? Why did he spare your life? Why did he stop the others from killing you? Why was he so afraid of your death?

• He observed, watched, stalked, and got to know you without you ever getting closer to him. When the long-awaited opportunity sprung out and you eventually had to go to the dentist there was no way he would pass you up. And when you were finally between his teeth, he wouldn’t let you go.

• He spent unnecessary minutes just exploring the moist cavern, uncaring of your heavy pants and deep squirming. You gag on thick fingers that prod and glide around your mouth and press down on your tongue, doing so without the uncertaintyof your feelings. Simply enjoying the wet sensation of your tongue, the smooth nature of your teeth and the constant tightness of your throat he wished were wrapped around another part of him.

• He likes being in your mouth, whether it's your tongue wetting your fingers or your lips sealed to his cock, he simply can't get enough of the feeling.

His face remained professional under your flustered gaze but the hot boner he sported was anything but work friendly and he made sure you knew that, letting you get a peek of the bulge as he rose off the stool.

• But he didn’t let himself indulge too much in you, he wants you to come to him, to beg him, want him. He wanted the moments shared between you to haunt you, your emotions subconsciously drawing you to him. You just have to let them.

• He hates how close you become with his little project. He loathes how you long for another when he is the one who will give you everything. And he likes to remind you of that.

He grinds against your slick flesh, watching as he disappears through the tightly drawn meat, leaky tip peeking at the other side as you whined, groaned, and moaned on his cock. Unable to control when the little movements and sounds. He watched as you squirm desperate to feel it somewhere else, hole pulsing -begging to be filled with his sticky semen. Rough fingers pet at your damp hair, stalking down your painted neck and flicking swollen nipples. Spreading his filth across your scolding, bare body

"M-moonjo..."

He heard your pleas and sobs choosing not to listen to your squeaks and wheezes, your body told him all he needed to know. He forced his cum covered fingers down your throat without resistance, tasting yourself on him and savouring the flavour of both of you.

• He knows what you feel and he wants you to choke on it. Shame stitched into your memory of this day. The day you let yourself go.

He hovers, peering upon you. Humming with content, taking pleasure in your bare form and the distress that leaked from every pore. The position brought you nausea. Your moans taunting you, your mind spun, cunt twitching. Pleasure washed away any embarrassment, you were too desperate for a release, pride long discarded you. All you were made to do was beg.

• He would refuse any penetration, only allowing himself to revel in you when you find it in yourself to drown in him. He wants you begging for something you're not even sure you want. He likes you confused and wanting.

• and when he finally has you where he wants you, You don't even have to ask and he won't say no; He loves the thought of you coming to him for another way to calm down your discomforted heart. It doesn't matter what he's doing, make a statement(a claim), spit on his cock, and force your way down.

He adores feeling his heartbeat try to match the speed of your hips ramming against the hardness of his pelvis, moans vibrating deep in your throat as your musk fills his lungs. It's tight and dry, painful but pleasurable. It's raw and real.

• He likes to have sex with you under the influence of alcohol but not drunk enough where you can't remember anything. The alcohol both dulls your senses and enhances them. He loves to watch you function with a half-drunken mind, admiring you and the strong shape of your body as urges and impulsive consume you. Burning the images of blood sliding down your contorted face into his mind and the sweat that glides down your body creating such an arousing shine that he adores so much he tries to mimic it with his cum.

• As much as he adores taking control of the situation, forcing you through painful and forced orgasms and even taking them away. He worshiped the way you finally go out of a zone of comfort to assert dominance, fed up with his attitude and possession.

• Please, Tie him up, blindfold him, gag him. Even if he is unaware and vulnerable not able to do anything but can still feel everything. Draw lines of red across his skin, and let him feel the warm sticky fluid peel down his skin and burn.

He needs to feel you, he needs to know its you touching his everything, you who's bringing him to his peak. Even if it isn't...

• He dirted you, forced his filth onto your clean skin, and turned you into one of him. He relishes in the way you would learn the truth and accept that animalistic part of you, preening at the bloodshed and the life you take with your bare nails and the growth you cause him under your excruciating touch. He wants you to remember the pieces and work to put the entire puzzle together to reveal what you have done and why you want to do it again. Together again.

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heartofsnark · 1 year ago

Text

Warmth (Astarion Drabble)

Author's note: Blame my friend Ellen for this one- they know what they did, I'm not even an Astarion romancer. This is a quick messy drabble because I was having feelings about Astarion and his relationship to cold and warmth and heat- given vampire.

Technically- this is Astarion/Tav or Astarion/Durge. It coule be either, it's kept purposely vague. No gendered pronouns, no physical features, and no defining traits mentioned. If you really want, you could pop anyone in the "they" role, they only have one line since its not a dialogue focussed oneshot.

TW: Astarion's backstory, nothing explicit, but it's a drabble focused entirely on him so- trauma be here. The world has had a chill for two-hundred years. Since the life was stolen from his veins and a new bastardized version placed in its stead. Astarion’s world has been chilled. Cold more often than not. Pale skin cool to the touch, innards hollowed. Heat no longer lingers in his skin, no longer pumps through his veins- he’s never fed enough for the blood to truly pump. Barely kept at the edge of starvation. A bone deep chill that rarely recedes, his body never warm- not even his.

The only breaks are not warmth. But smothering heat, cloying heat- the slap of flesh, the friction of grinding bodies. A temporary surface level heat, it stays in his skin for a moment, but it never reaches his bones. It’d burn him alive if it did. Stick sweat, the sear of groping hands, touches he doesn’t want, didn’t ask for, made to take, made to endure, made to be used- his body is not his, the only retreat a wandering mind.

He thinks he prefers the chill. Even in the coffin, it was coldest by far, even when he screamed and his throat ran raw- even the blood drawn from his clawing, breaking fingers couldn’t warm him. But at least the only hands in the prison were his own, well- not his, but a small comfort regardless.

Blinding rays of sun, sand beneath his fingers- a jolt of fear, a prey animal instinct curling around his insides and demanding he run. The sun, bright and big, it hangs above his head and he waits for the flames. To die in smothering burn and ache, for all to end in heat.

His skin doesn’t blister, doesn’t char- it warms.

And he can’t help but think faintly that two-hunded or more years ago, a version of him that’s long since died- liked to feel the sun on his face, when it felt like his.

No one takes the sun from him, not truly- only missing out on it’s rays when the night falls and he finds himself yearning to feel it again. But in those moments, it’s replaced by the crackle of bonfire. Flickering orange flames throwing off thin remnants of warmth, though it comes of his company is far larger waves.

The body heat most give off, most with proper pumping hearts, the living. Even without their skin touching his, he can feel it when they linger around the same space- the warmth that comes off their skin, when they share stories and pass around cheap acrid excuses for alcohol.

A small bump, a jostle, his skin prickles- hackles raised like a cat, an arm brushing his when their leader turned too quick. When they forgot the space between them, an accident, barely last a moment but the warmth of their skin lingers on his own, doesn’t burn, and there’s an apology on their lips a moment later. For something so small, so pathetic- already sorry, sorry to touch him without meaning to, without asking to. They treat his body like it’s his, he wishes it felt like it was.

Warmth of blood- a full belly. He’s never felt so sated, so powerful, so warm. He drains boards until they’re nothing but hide and flesh, drinks a bear until his stomach feels it may burst- but it never feels like enough, never sated after knowing hunger so long.

He tries to sneak his fangs between their veins, to sape some of the warmth that still a tenday later still clings to his arm- to know what it may be like to eat what he never could, to have more power. Maybe then his body will feel like his own, he tries to take without asking- that’s what the world does, so why shouldn’t he?

But then they let him. Let him feed. Let him eat, allow him to sate himself. Allow him to climb over their body, to feel the same warmth of their body nears his- then drain the heat of their blood. To drink until he can feel a chill enter them, until he nearly sapped all that precious warmth, only then asking him to stop. Forced to tear his fangs from their flesh, a bone deep warmth inside of him, settling in his veins- in his gullet. He thinks this may be what people mean when they speak of the warmth of a homecooked meal, he can’t remember if he’s ever had one- but this feels cozy, pleasant, warm.

And they let him do it again.

Let him feed when he needs to. Let him sidle up to their side every couple nights, lean into that warmth, bury his teeth- and he waits for the burn. Waits for that warmth and comfort to give away to the scorch of a wandering hand. For the spike of arousal he feels in their system when he bites to become a grope, a push, to find himself on his back, and used. His body not his own.

But their hands never stray. Never demand. Never even ask. They allow him his fill and allow him what he wants after. At first to leave with no questions, no fuss- no ask for more, just a kind good night as he saunters off with a full belly. Later, they allow him to stay. Allow him to pull off their bleeding veins and linger. To lay the weight of his head between their neck and shoulder, to lean into their skin. Never a question, never an accusation- there are no demands made of him. Allowed to sprawl like a cat against a sun warmed patch of grass.

He feels the sun, he sates his hunger, he knows warmth- but the chill is never far behind. He’s a hunted man, a hunter in a bog- a reminder that he’s not cut his collar, but merely lengthened his leash. That until he can sever it, until he can off off the hand yanking it back- he will never be free. His body will never be his own. He will find himself again in a world of chill and burn.

It’s a plan. A strategy. Not affection or love that pulls him to invite them out. Someone to keep him protected. To help keep him safe as he figures his way out of this, as he tries to sever his leash. They’re the obvious choice. The leader of the motley crew, at times desperate good doer, already fond of him, and most importantly- they want his body. He feels it in the casual lingering glance, the hormones in their blood when he drinks from them- they don’t say it, but they want him. And if they’re willing to slaughter a hunter for him now, what will they do once they’ve been given his body? How much harder will they fight for him if he gives them what they want? All anyone wants from him.

His body is a weapon, wielded by Cazador for two-hundred year- why shouldn’t he wield it as well?

This time it’s his choice. It’s different. He initiated. He asked for this. Not in a pathetic simpering self blaming way, but he verbally asked for it- he invited them out. His way to claw back some power, some control, to use and be used but on his own terms- for his own safety, his own freedom. It’s his choice, for once in two-hundred fucking years it is his choice.

But it feels like it did every time before. He chose this, but it doesn’t feel like it. Still a tool but he’s learned how to work without his master, still a means to an end- his flesh just the way of getting what’s needed. The same cloy of body heat, the cling of sweat, his mind far away. His body not his own, abandoned as it does what it needs to. It’ll help him in the long run, it’ll be okay, steel his nerves, and wait for it to be done. Tells himself there’s a power in this, he’s making a choice, he’s choosing himself- protecting himself, that he’ll never feel the bone deep chill again.

He feels half frozen when he lays at their side.

He plays his act as well as he always does. Uses his body when he needs to. Manipulate. Seduce. Trick. Running off a script he’s memorized over and over. Same song, same dance- telling himself he’s running the show. But between lies and disassociation, the other things bleed through.

Warmth. Being asked for nothing but a cuddle on a cold night, his flesh unable to warm- but they ask to curl around him all the same. They give them sweet words and kind gestures, he gives them back with a smile that doesn’t always reach his eyes. They worry for him, fret over him, and at some point he realizes he’s the only one pushing for those burning touches. Those moments where his mind has to wander to make it okay, because otherwise- why would they keep this going on? If he’s not spreading his legs, what good is he? He can’t risk them losing interest. Can’t risk them growing bored before he gets the leash severed, before they’ve helped him- before he’s used them.

A broken mirror, long forgotten after a conversation of forced compliments and faded memories. He assumed it’d been abandoned at the same campsite he’d thrown it against the ground on. Reminded that he’ll never see the visage of who he was again, that who he was is but a stolen memory.

But it’s silver decorated handle is laying face down in his tent night. No speck of dirt nor grime, plucking it up between his fingers. His eyes narrow, a portrait in charcoal, the paper tucked neatly within the framing panel where the mirror glass once sat. The visage of a man looking back at him- sharp eyes, hair curling around his ears, smile lines- a name jotted in the corner.

Astarion.

It’s him. And he knows exactly who did it. The only person who would, the same person now poking their head into his tent- but something is wrong.

His face burns with warmth and heat, up his cheekbones and clear into the tips of his ears as they poke their curious face inside, their own face a deeper ruddier shade than usual. An awkward scratch of their neck, acknowledging he found their present- asking if he likes it, but how can he even know when there’s a sudden inferno in his face. Not smothering or cloying, but hot. Fever was a symptom of the parasite wasn’t it, is that what this is? His fingers graze his cheekbones, brush along his jaw- they feel warm and alive, but they shouldn’t

“Something is wrong, my face is- my face is burning,” he yells, he warns, feeling the fear in his chest pit- of course he’d turn first, the world too cruel to do anything else, “Am I, is this-”

Hands delicately cup his cheeks, warm, so warm- their eyes examine him as they did the night they played his mirror, the heat only worsens- the fever spikes. Their thumbs stroke along his jaw where tentacles would split his flesh.

“No squidier than before, love- just a little flushed,” they tell him and the heatn only spreads- flushed, blushing. He hardly ever had the blood to do it before, barely enough to perform how he was forced to.

But his stomach is no longer concave. His skin so rarely chilled. And an affection he’s lied to get is turning his face scarlet. Too much, far too much- pitting a heat in his chest, where the warmth has never reached.

And eventually he can lie no more. Can use no more. Defenses laid down and vulnerabilities splayed out like viscera in an autopsy. The truth of how it hurts to be used, how it hurts to never be in his own body, how it never feels like it’s his body, and how it hurts that he’s done it to himself as readily as Cazador did it to him.

He waits for the rejection, refusal- what good is he if he cannot sate them, what use is he if not fro what’s between his legs, and if can no longer give that- what else does he have to give?

Arms wrap around him- warmth. And he hardly knows what to do with himself, where to put his hands, or how to pull them in. But it settles in his bones and he longs to cling, to allow himself to cling. To cling to every promise on their lips, that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to- that they don’t need anything from him he isn’t willing to give.

That never need feel a touch he doesn’t want.

That his body is his own.

It may be the first promise he’s never seen broken.

His body is his own, his life is own, and he’s allowed the space to learn what that means for him. He’s allowed to make choices, some good, some bad. He tries things outside his comfort zone- some good, some bad. Sometimes he feels silly, making choices, agreeing to things- only to find himself unhappy, uncomfortable. To learn it’s not something he wanted. But every misstep, every utterance of ‘I thought I was ready, I thought I’d be okay,’ is met with nothing but warmth, it’s okay that he didn’t know. It’s okay that he’s relearning how to own his skin, his body, his life- that it’s not an easy process, but he’s learning who he is. And he doesn’t need to know every answer, they’ll learn them together in time.

But the leash still clings. A hand still pulls and temptation calls to him.

And he makes a choice.

He stabs and he stabs, until his blade chips into the floor. The warmth of blood on his skin, soaking into him- Cazador’s. The hand that pulled finally severed and his body wracks with tears, with hurt, and he cries out. Cries out for two-hundred years of chill. Cries out for the power he didn’t grasp. Cries out for everything he’s lost, he’s gained, and the path that lies ahead. Cries for the sun that may never warm his skin again.

Cries until arms wrap around him, until he’s pulled into familiar warmth- until he’s sobbing into the joint between their neck and shoulder, the place he’s began to see as home. A promise in their touch, in their love, their grace, their kindness- that he may never know the warmth of the sun, but he’ll never feel that chill or burn again, that their warmth will fill the spaces where sunlight can no longer reach.

He hopes that too is a promise he’ll never see break.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion acunin #astarion x tav #astarion x durge

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heliosthegriffin · 1 year ago

Text

Shadow Knight, and Magic Girls Vi

Chapter 6

Red yawned. "Sure is quiet tonight."

"I know, right?" Yellow answered.

White looked around. "The Grimm aren't very active tonight."

"I'm not sensing anything," Black muttered.

Crimson nodded. "Well, lets call it a night, then. Unless, you four want to go looking for the Shadow Knight?"

Blake grimaced. "I'd like to, but he's been quiet the last couple nights, I wonder what schemes he's up to?"

-----

Jaune grimaced as he was shot with a hose of cold water and soapy bubbles.

It was pass midnight, and they had not gone to get anything to eat, yet.

Instead they had taken him to a car-wash, to clean up Amber's car, and Jaune.

That said, Amber hadn't been lying, she knew how to get blood out of the seats.

He had been nervous about cops for a moment, but Melanie sent a text, and said they didn't need to worry.

Then they sent him through the drier, and a fluffy pink bathrobe was pushed into his hands. "There, we've had enough of your fine ass for now." Militia added.

Jaune slipped it on, then moaned happily, feeling warm and dry and clean.

For some reason Militia blushed, then got behind him and pushed him forward. "Come on, lets go get breakfast."

Jaune nodded. "Sounds good."

The five of them then went into a nearby dinner, unnoticing of the four boys staring in awe at Jaune in nothing but a bathrobe surrounded by hotties.

Cardin dropped his fork. "My life is a lie."

Dove looked at him. "Cardin?"

"All this damn time, I've been playing the wrong game. Alpha this, Chad that." He put his hands in his hands. "Badass, or whatever. I need whatever he's got." Cardin jerked a thumb at Jaune who was looking at the menu.

Then noticing how tired and drained he looked, and how relax and satisfied the girls looked.

Seeing that, they could only salute in honor, then left. Giving him a pat on the back as they left.

Jaune looked confused.

"What was that?" Vernal asked, drinking coffee.

"I don't know, but I think I just made amends with my former bullies." Jaune said uncertainly.

"You get bullied?" Vernal laughed. "Yeah, right. I've heard you earlier, what are they made of steel?"

"No, flesh and bone, but I did say former, this was over a year ago, and I made my stance known on bullying since then." He smirked. "I almost got expelled when I did that."

Vernal leaned back, smirking. "Sweet." She then looked at Jaune's chest. "You ever think about getting inked up? Scars are sexy and all, but so is ink." She pulled down her shirt slightly, showing where her sleeve ended near her chest, Jaune getting a nice view was just a coincident.

Jaune turned away, blushing. "Maybe."

"Just think on it, Tiger."

Jaune felt a shove on his shoulder. "Move over," Militia pushed on him, but struggled to even make him budge, until Jaune obliged, and found himself pinned in the middle of the booth.

Amber and Vernal on one side, Melanie and Militia on the other.

Breakfast in the middle.

Jaune made his choice.

The girls then bonded in fascination as they watch Jaune put away enough food to feed a family of body-builders.

Though, soon as they were all done eating, reality made itself known.

"So, what now?" Vernal asked, holding her mug.

"What do you mean?" Melanie added.

"You came to our house and-" Amber caught herself. "You know, we might have allied for the moment, but it doesn't change what happened."

Militia shrugged. "That's true." She picked at her omelette. "I don't feel like killing anybody right now, though."

"Not when you don't have any men backing you up?" Jaune added, looking at her omelette hungrily, which she quickly surrendered.

Melanie scoffed. "Like that would help, our boys are dead for nothing, we saw your handiwork, what you deal with, we'd have to call in support from some PMC's that owe us if we wanted to put you down."

Amber bowed her head. "I'll go back, live in a compound if that's what you two want, just let them leave."

"Junior's dead." Militia said flatly. "We're going to have to tell Big Bear, he's not going to be happy."

"I know. But, just consider,-"

"Amber, I heard what you said to Junior." Jaune said piercingly. "Why did you want to die?"

The table went silent.

"Jaune, please-"

"You tried to throw your life away, if that's the case, I found it, it's mine now." Jaune said, he poked her chest. "You're don't have the authority to do give it to them, so tell me, so I can help you."

Amber bowed under his gaze. "I can't stand it. Couldn't stand it anymore. I'm saving people who make other people's lives a living hell. How am I supposed to live with myself?"

Vernal shrunk in on herself, Jaune noted that but said nothing.

"I've spent my whole life wanting to help people, and now, due to my own choices, I'm obliged to make other's lives hell by proxy, I couldn't live with myself Jaune. I've always heard, rumors, I guess, that thinks attack people out there." She paused, she shook a little.

"I thought, if I went out, maybe I could do some good, If I got killed by one of those things, maybe, it'd keep someone else alive."

Smack.

Jaune stared at Vernal, she had slapped Amber right across the face. "What the hell, are you thinking?! What right do you have to give up your life? Jaune's right, you should be his, because you can't seem to think at all!"

Jaune blushed.

Phrasing.

"Just because, they're bad guys, doesn't make you a bad girl, sure, they do bad things, but does that stop normal doctors from saving criminals, either? No! You're just doing your job, and if you feel so bad, go volunteers some fucking hours, you damn idiot!" She pulled her into. "What do you think I'd do without you?" Jaune heard her whisper.

He heard Amber start to sob, without thinking, Jaune started rubbing circles in her back.

"Ok, that's nice, but there are pretty good guys who work with us, that you saved." Melanie said sharply. "What? Do you think everyone who works outside the law is just a puppy-eating monster? No, they're just people like you, me, or him. It just so happens, this might be best way to pay they're bills, or the only job they can get."

Amber looked at her. "I know that, but it doesn't make me feel any better!"

"Then shut up," Militia said coldly.

Vernal looked ready to start a brawl, but Jaune put a hand her shoulder.

"Blondies right, you don't have a right to your own life anymore, but it's not his, or yours, or hers. It's ours, it ceased to be your own when you signed on with us to get out of Mistral," She shifted her finger to Vernal. "And, her away from the Branwens, we risked our lives, and connections in Mistral to get you two here." Militia sighed taking a breath. "The least you could do is honor that."

Melanie took over. "Look, I'll admit it, Junior jumped the gun, he shouldn't have done what he did, and we should have tried to curb his anger, but it's too late for that." She took a drink of water, side-eyeing Jaune.

"We'll just have to live with ourselves then." Jaune said tiredly. "Look, I'm not sorry, not at all, I like living, but more than that, I like other people living happily." He drank his glass of water to the bottom. "So, how are we going to solve this? I'm not dying, and I'm not handing them over, this the starting lines on negotiating."

Melanie gave him a brave look. "You and what authority?"

Jaune sighed, then casually pushed her. Melanie and her sister went falling out of the booth.

From on the floor, she looked up at him. "Ok, point taken."

"You were sitting next to me," Jaune pointed out. "I could have done any number of things, but that was it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever mister muscles." Militia said getting back in the booth.

Melanie sitting back down next to pink-robed boy, nodded. "Alright, but think about this from another point of view. They're homeless, you're a teenager, they have no job without us, or finances, and I doubt you have the means to support them."

Jaune nodded. "Yeah, that's true, but we could figure out something?"

"Look, we're the reason they even got into the Kingdom, without us, they'd have Kingdom Immigration forces breathing down they're necks. Even if you protect them from us, could you protect them from the taxman?"

"What if I marry them?" Jaune said idly, making them freeze up.

"First off, bigamy isn't legal in Vale anymore, second off, you're not of age, they're go to jail."

"Only if my parents don't consent, and they always want more grandchildren."

"That's true, but we're just talking about green-card marriage, getting them knocked up is a huge decision. Can you really afford to be a father, and do your heroing, Mr. Knight?" Melanie added more weight to her argument by the minute.

Jaune shrank.

"If you die, what then? They no longer have your protection, and the children grow up without a father. Your family has to take up the burden, and we are free to target-"

Jaune's hand ghost over her neck, barely stopping himself from snapping her neck. "You touch my family, fuck right or wrong, I will go to war with you. If I have literally tear myself apart to do so, I will, and I swear on my families name, I will leave you, your sister, your mother, father, and the rest of your gang nothing to be remember as but another bloody page in history, am I clear?"

Melanie stared into his eyes, and knew, in her soul, that he was telling her the truth.

"Yes." Jaune retracted his hand, but did not relax.

"Amber," He said calmly. "We're going to renegotiate the contract."

"What?"

The twins stared at him. "What?"

"Bring me to Big Bear, we're going to talk."

"Are you insane?" Militia asked.

"Probably, but, if he's going to find out his son's dead, it may as well come from the killers lips." He turned to look at the car. "And, if nothing else, I imagine he can wait to kill me a bit, if I give him some information."

Melanie leaned forward. "What could you have to offer him?"

Jaune smirked. "Well, you can't tell me, that you're not curious about those monsters, so, what makes you think you're boss wouldn't be either."

------

"Red." Black said ominously. "Where's my books?"

"Ju-just give me a little more time, please?" Red squeaked, hovering back from the eerie presence Black was giving off.

"Oh ho ho, you want more time? What will give me for it?" Black held her hand to her mouth.

Red stiffened. "Are you blackmailing me?"

Black looked at her like she was a idiot.

"Ok, more than you already are!" Red huffed. "At this rate just go ahead and tell them! It can't be any worse, than -, What- what is that in your hand?" Red held a shaking hand at to what Black held.

In her hand, a scroll, it was playing a video of Red. It was a compilation labeled, Magic Red Fails.

It was over two-hours long.

Part 1 of 10.

Red's eyes began to water. "Please, don't." She asked sadly.

"Red." Black said softly. "I'm not Yellow, or Ms. Purple, that won't work on."

"Dag-na-bit!" Red sort of swore.

"Wow, why don't really let me know how you feel?"

"I'm sorry, I just don't like being backed into a corner, alright?!" Red then sighed. "What are your demands, oh great and awesomey, Magic Girl Black?"

Black reached behind her, bringing out a list. Red read it, then kept reading it, then paled as the scroll started to unfurl further and further down till it hung in the air ten feet down from where it started.

It was only after hovering down half-way down the list, that Red realized she couldn't actually read anything on it, as it was just shifting illusionary words meant to take up empty space.

"Did-did you use your magic just for a joke?" Red said confused.

Black didn't blush, but hurriedly rolled up the paper. "I'll just forward it to you later. Don't disappoint me." Then flew away as fast as possible.

Red hung there in the air. "She can make jokes?" Stupefied. "I can tell no one. They will never believe me."

------

It was a generic office building, well-kept, but uninteresting, where the Xiong Family met. If one where to peer from the outside, they could never guess what was going on in the inside.

Jaune sat on the floor before a mountain of man, taller and broader than he was, with flowing grey and black mane of hair, and well-groomed beard.

His eyes were somewhat beady, but they're intense and focused.

Big Bear, Hei Xiong Sr. was dressed similar to Jaune in just a robe, but his was far more formal and expensive.

He was attended to by a dozen, pretty and young women, all barely dressed at all in short, thin silk dresses, and they all looked more than happy to be here with Big Bear.

With a gesture from the man's massive paw, one of them came over and poured them both a cup of some strong smelling fruity alcohol.

"Drink." The man said simply.

"No." Jaune responded.

"It's not poisoned."

"I don't drink. I'm not legal."

"Bufafafa!" The man bellowed, slapping the ground. The ground shook like a dump-truck hit the building. "You're a silly child. What are you? 18? 20?"

"17."

"When I was your age, I'd drink my own weight every night." Big Bear said reminiscing. "Though, I can't say I'm as wild as you are."

Jaune nodded. "I can't say many are." He looked at the drink. "I mean no offense, but I like to be clear as minded as possible, at all times."

Big Bear took his cup and drained in two gulps, his cup was the size of a mixing bowl. "That's not a slight is it?"

"Not at all, but considering I spend most nights on the streets fighting ... things, I try to not be drunk."

Big Bear chuckled. "Usually, it's the other way around, getting drunk most nights and then trying not to get into street fights, but it happens."

There was a pause, with only water trickling from a fountain in the back and the girls moving to fill the void.

"You killed my son," Big Bear said simply.

"I did."

"He was my only son."

"So he was."

"Drink." Big Bear said simply, pushing the cup to Jaune. "To his memory, oh, killer of my blood."

Jaune stared at cup, it was the same size as Big Bears.

Holding it, he held it out. "Cheers, to his memory."

Big Bear had his cup refilled, then met his cup. "To his life."

Jaune drank deeply from his cup, drinking till there was no more to drink. It burned going down, with a heavy musky taste, but it was also sweet and fruity.

"Not bad for a first timer." Big Bear said amused. "More?"

Jaune shrugged. "Why not?"

"Good." Big Bear said. "If you are to die tonight, die with warmth in your veins."

Jaune nodded. "If I am." He took another long drink after his cup refilled, he was starting to feel loose and warmer. He smiled, his eyes watery from the scent of the drink. "So, shall we get down to business."

Big Bear straighten himself out. "Yes." He said seriously. "You want to renegotiate for Ms. Autumn, and her friend? And, your own life, I suppose?"

"Preferably," Jaune said loosely, then smirked. "Or, if you wish, we could negotiate for yours?"

Big Bear blinked at him. "Daring aren't you?"

"Seven women, all with suppressors," He gestured to the scantily clad women, pointing out the hidden weapons on them. "All of them, aimed at me from the moment I enter this room, at least one might hit me, but not before, I can break your neck." Jaune laughed, the drink was getting to him. "Even if they do hit me, I'll make sure to take every one of you bastards with me." Jaune smiled, it was predatory.

Big Bear blinked again. He drank when he met with those that talk with him, to weaken the barriers between them, to lower inhibitions and make them expose they're truth.

He smiled, so this boy's truth was so bloodthirsty?

"Oh, you think you can take me?"

"Oh, definitely. You're bigger and stronger than me, maybe," Jaune sloshed his cup. "But, also bigger, slower, older, and ... and, well, I just have to break you neck once, right?" Jaune leaned back. "I mean even if I don't, you're what sixty? Seventy?"

"59," Big Bear added.

"Whoops, anyway, you're getting older, I don't have to kill you, if I hit you hard enough, you're not going to recover again. You're body is slowing down, and so is your healing. I break your leg, arm, ribs, it won't ever be back to 100%. Then what?"

Big Bear nodded. "Correct, but your point?"

"Might makes Right? I guess?" Jaune stretched. "Lets not play pretend, saying you got this far by being just a good business man and leader, though, I bet that helped, but you're such a big-mother fucker, that you could just throw most men out the door, if you get crippled, and you have no heir, then what?"

"I imagine, I'll be dethroned."

"Exactly, imagine if I kill you, then what? You're whole organization falls apart, decades of work gone in months, because every black-suited jackass here will be scurrying for the scraps you leave behind. No heir, no leader, then all your sub-bosses will think, 'My turn.' Wouldn't they? You don't get to the top by being a nice-guy, right?"

"You sure are threatening my life a lot, for a man here for peace talks." Big Bear said amused.

Jaune shrugged. "You're the one that made me lower my inhibitions, I know what drink does, doesn't make you do anything you wouldn't already do, it just makes you not think twice about it."

Big Bear smiled widely. "I love honesty, what I love about booze, always brings out the realness in people. Can't hide anything, much less anything to yourself." He then sighed. "I like you, boy. Shame though."

"Yeah, can't imagine you're just going to let me get away with everything." Jaune straighten up. "My deepest apologies for you loss." He kneeled till his head touched the floor. "I'd offer my life, but that will not make up for your pain."

Big Bear grunted.

"But, I can not offer you revenge, not yet, I have to give my demands."

"Which are?"

Jaune rose looking him in the eyes. "Move Ms. Autumn to an actually hospital, offer your continued protection to Vernal, do not hold any grudges towards the Malachite Sisters, harm my family, and finally," Jaune took a breath. "Please, do not let my work got unfinished."

Big Bear stared at him curiously.

Jaune stared him pupil to pupil. "The death of the monsters that hunt the night."

------

"So, how's the crush, White?" Yellow asked as they flew over the park.

"How's the black-eye?" White responded.

"What black-eye, - ah!" Yellow then crashed into a ice-berg hovering in mid-air, crashing through it.

White watched as Yellow then slammed through several trees in her fall. "Hmm, they saw vengeance is empty, but I don't know, this feels pretty cathartic." A fire ignited on the ground catching on the broken trees like tinder, as from the ground, as a luminously angry Yellow soared up at White, who gulped and flew away as fast as she could.

"Not as planned, not as planned!" She muttered, as she heard Yellow roared behind her.

------

Big Bear was silent.

"You aren't blind, or deaf." Jaune accused. "You can't possibly think I was solely responsible for all the deaths of your men, do you?" He points to his teeth. "Do you think I am the one who ripped them apart with my great fangs?" He curls his fingers. "Or, do you think I used my sharp, long claws to cut them apart?"

"I know of them." Big Bear said after a silence. "These are what you go out at night to combat, Shadow Knight?"

"For as long as I have been able, for as long as they've existed."

"Hmm, I did not realize you have lived step for step with all of mankind's history. That contradicts your statement of being only 17, who's the real, old man here?"

Jaune's eyes widened. "They go back that far? I thought that they only showed up last year..." He searched Big Bear's face for any lies. "You're telling the truth."

"Yes. How arrogant you are."

"That means-"

"Tales go back as far as the dawn of man, telling story of monsters in the dark, of to beware the night. Tell me, do think they are all fable?"

"No, not now." Jaune stared at him intensely. "Then what do you know?"

Big Bear breathed heavily, his breath still smelling of they're drink. "Not enough."

Jaune smiled bitterly. "Isn't that the truth."

"But, I do know what my own father had told me, what his father told him, my family is old boy, dating back to the founding of Haven herself." His eye suddenly looked much older. "To not go wandering into that dark night, less you find yourself consumed by it."

Jaune listened.

"When I was a boy, around your age, I had everything I could desire. Money. Women. Power. Influence. Friends to drink with. I was the master of my fate, and was set to inherit this seat before you, which I did, but that's a story for another day." He breathed out, he started to tremble. "I thought, I believed truly, that I was unstoppable." He brought his head up, staring at Jaune with haunted eyes. "I met something that was truly unstoppable."

----

White met Black mid-air, stared at each other, seeing panic in one's face and embarrassment in the other.

"We never saw each other." White said quickly, looking behind her for any sign of Yellow.

Black nodded. "Agreed." She saw what looked like a small yellow bonfire approaching from behind White. "Good Luck."

"Thanks, I'll need it!" Then they separated. "Wait! Where's Red? She might be my only hope to calm down her sis-, I mean Yellow."

Black then disappeared, saying nothing.

"Well, that's a lot of help, you are!"

-----

"I had decided one night, to return to my motherland one summer." Big Bear said. "To go back to Mistral, to see the place of my grandfather's birth." He paused, thinking, smiling. "I had been young and full of myself, it was as you said 'a big-mother fucker,' " He smiles pridefully. "I could knock out any man I saw, and have any women I put my gaze on. It did not matter that I was a stranger in a old, old land. I was King. I could not be toppled."

He took a deep drink, his cup empty, he dropped it. A girl came over with a bottle, but he wavered her away. "No, not a drop more for me," He looked at Jaune. "You?"

"Do you want to see me drunk?"

"Bufafafa!" He laughed. "No, I don't think I do, you're bad enough tipsy."

He paused. "Funny, how the Gods write our fate, I only had the one child, and no woman has ever approached me with a bastard." He looked sadly. "I would never turn away a woman, either. Yet..."

Jaune scanned the women around him. Not a single belly-bump on any of them. But, it was obvious to him they're relationship, Jaune could practically smell him on them.

"Excuse this old man his rambling," Big Bear bowed slightly, there was a genuine sorrow in his eyes. "Back to my tale. I was young once, and proud too, I thought I was a master of all I saw. Despite my arrogance, though, I made many good friends in my time in the Old Land. We fought together, drank together, laughed together, I thought I had found by comrades that I could take back with me to Vale. One that would be with for the rest of my life as I tore a bloody swathe through our fair city, till I reigned as her master."

He looked out into the cities night. "It was not to be."

"This was some thirty years ago, the last free years of my life," Big Bear turned to a woman. "Bring me some water, please." She obliged. "I wanted to leave my mark on Mistral before I left, to take my place as you see here."

Jaune looked at him. "You met them didn't you?"

"A big one. I had heard rumors, of something in the deep country of Mistral, where they still practice the old ways, away from our living, they're very spiritual people, powerful too." He looked Jaune over. "But, not like us, brutes. They're power is more subtle and focused."

Jaune looked at him curiously. "How so?"

"They're a slippery people, impossible to touch or sneak up on, and strong enough to slip a boulder in two." He looked at his hands. "If you haven't seen it, you wouldn't believe it."

Jaune thought back to firing point blank into that girl, and not even phasing her. "No, go on, I believe you.'

Big Bear looked at him, then blink. "You've fought one, haven't you?"

Jaune nodded. "If I can help it, I'd like to never do so again."

Big Bear thought for a second. "In this city. Recently," The great man sounded shaken. "It's related to all the property damage isn't?" The man put two and two together. "They're fight those monsters aren't they?"

"You've seen the streak of light at night, haven't you? They weren't meteor, or swamp gas. They're powerful, but they're uncontrollable, unskilled. They're still plenty of monsters that they miss, possibly because of how unskilled they are."

Big Bear breathed slowly. "Bufafa," He chuckled slowly. "You just keep destroying my world, don't you?"

"Not destroying, just making room."

"I had heard stories about people like that too, back in Haven, in the Old Land. Stories of girls of great power?" He looked at Jaune's face. "I see. Back to my tale." He took a drink of water, then smiled. "I got my ass handed to me on a platter by one of those people, it was awe-inspiring. I was so confident, and that lost spurred a fire in me that I never knew existed."

"I know the one." Jaune agreed.

"It made me stupid." Big Bear continued. "I had lost to a person that was half my size, and old. It was embarrassing beyond belief, all my comrades rushed him, they got the same fate. We were fools, he had come to warn us. He knew what we were out here for.

"He knew of the beast out there, generations of his family knew of it, and none had bested it, only survived. The Nuckaleeve."

-----

Red was still hovering in the air, when White flew and hid behind her. "Red! Red! Save me!"

"From what?"

"That!" She pointed at fire-storm approaching them.

"Oh." She patted White's shoulder. "Nice run, kid."

"This is not the time for jokes!"

"Ok, ok!" Red said, then flew at Yellow. "Yellow! Stop, bad Yellow! Bad!" She said with a finger pointing at her accusingly.

"What?! White started it!"

"Did she?"

"I mean ... kinda?"

Red looks at the burning park in the distance. "Sure, she did."

"Argh, fine. Maybe, I over-reacted, just a little bit?"

"Yellow."

"Fine! I'm sorry, White for messing with you."

"Thank you." White said haughtily.

"White." Red said.

"And, I'm sorry for giving in to your provacation."

"Good." Red said, she jerked a thumb at the ground. "Because, we got company!"

Hundreds of Grimm were charging towards them, following Yellow's path.

Yellow punched her hands together. "Good, I could use some stress relief!" She threw a glance at White. "Be glad it's not you."

White smirked. "Want to make a bet? I believe I can slay more Grimm than you can."

"Oh, it's on, my sister from another mister!"

"I'm in too!"

-----

"We chased after it anyway," Big Bear continued. "I called in every favor I could, I had something to prove. I wanted this thing dead, if I couldn't beat that old man, I was going to one up him, prove myself superior, then return home a champion."

Jaune looked at him sadly. "I see."

"I had made many friends during my stay in Haven, many with connections to powerful forces. Millions of Lien spent in one night. Tanks, APC's, Experimental Weapons powered by Dust, Guns, Rockets, Jets, hundreds of men. All led by one brass balled idiot."

Big Bear gestured to himself. "I have never had one moment in time I wanted to turn back more than that night." He moved his hand as if winding back a clock. "We were slaughtered, it wasn't a fight, not even close to one." He shook. "I don't even know I how I survived. I just woke up the next morning, my leg broken, and the remaining men pulling me out. They said nothing to me, but I knew they blamed me, they wanted to kill me. But, for whatever reason, they choose not to. They're are nights I wish they had."

"Your comrades?"

"Dead. Not even enough to bury. Miles of beautiful old country gone, but It wasn't scratched. It rampaged for days, and when we went to where that Old Man lived ... The village was flattened, and he was a not much more than twisted bone and skin. Horrible way to go, the Thing seemed like it had a personal hatred for him, we just pissed it off enough to make it act on it."

"Did ... Anyone?"

"Yes." Big Bear answered bluntly. "A little boy. The Grandson of the Man. I took him in, you know, took him back with me, along with two little infant girls, the daughters of the former heir of ... Well, that's not for you know." He stared at Jaune harshly. "I imagine you can guess."

"I can."

His eyes softened. "I fucked up. Not just on that, but on being a father." He said hatefully, but not to Jaune. "I spoiled him, gave him everything he could have ever wanted, thinking that would make up for taking away his family." He slammed his fist on the floor. "It made him a conceited little shit, who thought the world owed him everything."

Jaune breathed out. "Shit."

"Yes."

Silence reigned.

"What now?" Jaune asked.

"I don't know." He looked at Jaune, eyes uncertain. "I truly don't know. I can't let you go, but I don't blame you either. But, you are a good man, better than me." Big Bear reached into his robe, pulling out a pair of twin axes. "Blood demands blood."

Jaune stood up. "Blood demands blood, however, my demands?"

"Granted." Big Bear said softly. "On my words, for all the meaning it may have to you."

"Everything." He looked away. "Could... You tell my parents I love them?"

"I could."

"In my room, if you search, you'll find everything I have on the Monsters, all my records. How I fought them, how I won, what I know."

"Bow, child."

Jaune knelt.

"Hand out."

Jaune put his hand out.

One of the axes fell into his hand.

Blood dripped down from Big Bear's other hand.

"Cut your hand, boy."

Jaune looked up in confusion.

"As I say."

Jaune made a line across his hand.

"Hold it out."

Jaune did so.

Big Bear, Hei Xiong Sr. Grabbed Jaune's hand, they're blood mingling.

"From this day on, you are a member of the Xiong Clan. Welcome, my heir to the family."

Jaune froze, looking dumb-struck. "You don't want me dead?"

"A little bit, but as you say, I'm old, I have no heir, my men are power-hungry idiots. But you? You're young strong, brave, and most of all, smart. You're what the family needs." He looked down at him. "What is your name, boy? Mr. Shadow Knight, sound a bit too title like."

"Jaune, Jaune Arc."

"Arc?" He paused. "Interesting. Regardless. From this day on, to replace the blood you have spelt, you will take it's place. Rise, Jaune Arc Xiong, my son. For where I have failed, you shall succeed."

Jaune rose up awkwardly. "I still have parents,"

Big Bear shrugged. "Then just call me Uncle Xiong, nephew."

"I'm not a criminal."

Uncle Xiong looked at him like a fool. "No one said you had to be... Well, you already kinda of are. But, that doesn't mean I need you to be a criminal, I have plenty. No, I want you to be my sword in the dark. Against the monsters out there."

Jaune nodded. "That I can be."

Uncle Xiong smiled. "Good." Then he looked down. "Have you not been wearing pants this whole time?"

#jaune arc #fanfic

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hazbincalifornia · 4 months ago

Text

Aftermath

Chapter 67: The baby’s here.

Ao3 link

They’d settled him on the guest bed, rearranging the blankets. Loona had used the book to bring over a few more from the cabin after Stolas had directed her where to go before letting them have some space, and having things that smelled of Stolas mixed in with the scents of his family in Loona and M+M… it helped ease the itch in the back of his brain at least a little, even as his eyelids dragged with the weight of post-extermination corpses.

Someone had cut the cord when he had passed out- Millie, apparently, which sounded about right. Right now, he was trying not to let his eyes flutter shut as he held the baby close enough that the slightly-sticky skin clung to his own.

(He’d almost been too late to stop Striker. What was to say there wouldn’t be another in the wings once they realized the cowboy had cocked it up?)

Stolas had tried to offer to hold her, but Blitzo only clung harder, only compromising enough to have Stolas’s arm rest next to his own to share the weight. He’d pushed her out, he got first dibs. (What if she got dropped or someone tried to come in and kill her again, what if he hurt her, what if, what if, what if-)

Baby wiggled in his arms, making little peeps and nuzzling against his chest with her cheek. She was alive. She was moving, and alive, and really, really, real. Not just some little lump on a magical screen, but a real, warm, flesh and blood bird with imp horns and an imp tail and scars right from birth because he- because he-

She peeped again. Hungry. Of course she was, she’d never had actual food that wasn’t dripped into her belly through a squishy meat tube. Unfortunately, while Millie was able to scrounge up an old cloth diaper that fit her okay since it was meant for an imp infant a few months older, there wasn’t exactly owl milk laying around in a glass labeled ‘drink me!”, and Blitzo was going to have to deal with that particular thing himself.

It was a lucky thing that Aamon’s little gift came with it free on tap, since her squirms in his arms had seemingly kicked his chest into full ‘oh shit, baby time’ gear and a tender prod with his finger came away dripping white. Bingo.

“Alright, squirt, you want the special? Just for you, unless your bird-daddy decides he’s thirstier than usual,” Blitzo said, adjusting her in his arms. The dregs of the tranquilizer and the weakness from the energy-drain and the holy injuries dragged at his bones and fuzzed his head, but he could do this. People had been doing it since the start of boobies themselves, and his were just the right size for an owlet ready to nurse, particularly one that was rooting against his chest like it was cleavage full of good-quality coke.

“I think I’ll manage without,” Stolas said, a tinge of bemusement even as he shifted closer. “She needs it much more than I do.”

“Yeah, because you eat shit like whole rats on purpose,” Blitzo said as she found her prize on his chest and opened her beak. “I only did it because little miss-”

The screech he let out didn’t break the windows, but got real fucking close as her razor-sharp beak closed around the nipple- without the advantage of years of careful practice Stolas had that had left him adept enough to swallow down parts of Blitz’s anatomy without tearing them in half.

Well, shit.

Black dripped down to mix with white as she happily drank down the milky concoction mixed with droplets of blood. (At least somebody was happy.) Blitzo only barely managed to stop himself from tearing her away, and that was only because it would have ripped the whole fucking thing off. Instead, his fingers tightened against the slightly squishy baby-soft skin of her body and head as he sucked in a deep breath and let it out. After the initial bite, she hadn’t dug in any deeper, and she’d have to let go eventually, right? He could outlast a stupid baby and her stupid mouth drinking down the stupid milk that might have felt kind of nice if it wasn't for the pain.

But what about when she got hungry again? Already blood was dripping down and smearing over the skin of her chest and stomach, and he couldn’t just do this every time, it’d develop scar tissue that would affect the milk if nothing else. Fuck, how hadn’t he thought of this? Stupid, stupid-

“Please, are you alright, dear?” There was a hand on his shoulder. Stolas’s tone indicated he’d asked before and Blitzo hadn’t heard it over the ringing in his head, but he managed to nod.

“Yeah, I’m-” He shifted her in his arms. “I didn’t realize she was going to do that, but I shoulda figured after she sliced half my guts open asking for a snack earlier. Are there any of those, uhh… pump things laying around? Did we add those to the supply list?”

“I’ll have to check, but I’m sure there are,” Stolas reassured him as the baby’s head lolled slightly into him, beak falling open as she yawned and nuzzled into his chest again. “We can get them if we need to, I suppose I hadn’t thought… we had a wet nurse preparing milk for Via before she could eat solid meat chunks, but it was so brief that I’d nearly forgotten.”

“Great, so I can blame you then,” Blitzo said, but the bite had drained from his voice. She was still lapping up her first drink, and the sensation was… odd, especially when combined with how his body was a strange combo of achey and floaty from the pain meds. He wasn’t quite sure if he liked it, but the way her tiny body wiggled and made happy coos from inside the blanket seemed to indicate that she was a fan of what he had to offer, at least. Small mercies.

“At least she’s getting what she needs now,” Stolas said, shifting on the bed. “Going back to my question, though- are you alright?”

“I’m not bleeding out, and she’s alive.” Blitzo said. “Everything else is just gravy.”

“Mmm, well, I’d rather you be a bit better than ‘not bleeding out.’ We’ll have to find someone-” He was cut off by voices from outside.

“Mama, you aren’t gonna wanna-”

“It’s our house, Mildred, what’s in there that you don’t want us seeing?”

“It’s-” She sighed. “Blitz had the baby, right after the ceremony. There wasn’t a mess or nothing! But he’s not gonna want-”

“Oh, was that what it was?”

“What did you- did you hear the screaming and didn’t ask? I thought you were out visiting the Dustins like you usually do-”

“We just figured you were taking a break from that city boy of yours, we heard him hollering his head off when we popped our heads back in and figured you’d want some privacy.”

“You thought I was what?”

Blitzo couldn’t help a snort of a laugh as Millie started vehemently defending Moxxie’s honor. “Pssh, woulda been nicer to get laid than to shove this little lump out.” He turned his eyes down as the baby’s beak opened and she freed his nipple completely, blinking her bulgy eyes up with white and black droplets dripping down her chin. “Yeah, I can’t imagine it was a picnic for you either having to crawl through Daddy’s tight wet hole when you've been getting to chill inside your entire life, especially not when there was that whole holy weapon bullshit going on, but you made it out anyway. Who’s the best new little hellspawn in all the rings?”

She made a chirp that seemed to agree.

“As I was saying, we’ll have to have someone look both of you over,” Stolas murmured, even though he sounded slightly distracted watching the two of them. Fair enough- in his position, Blitzo probably would have been distracted too. Even now, he was only kinda half-listening, fuzz in his brain crowding comprehension as he stared down at the baby. “You both made it through the birth without any apparent issues other than her scarring, but-”

“But I’m still right here and haven’t kicked the bucket, so we’re-”

“Blitz.” Stolas cupped his cheek with one hand, his thumb rubbing over the gentle bumps of the white scar tissue. “We need to make sure that you’re both alright… that nothing will grow into a problem later. You don’t want that for her, do you?”

Blitz looked down. She was heavy in his arms, but also so, so fragile- delicate skin, too-big eyes, light bones… a doll that could break all too easily, cradled in arms that had never been good at healing, only destruction.

“Alright,” his voice murmured. “Alright, fine, we can have somebody check her over.”

“Check both of you,” Stolas said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I don’t want her to lose one of her fathers so early any more than I want to lose you.”

“Sap,” Blitzo muttered, but didn’t pull away- having Stolas’s gentle scent close to him helped soothe some jittery part of him that just wanted Mate, Nest, and Rest. “She’s going to have a hard enough time in the shitshow called life, probably a good thing I was able to stop cowboy casanova down there from taking you out too.”

“I’ll certainly have to pay you back for that,” Stolas said with a little nudge, one hand raising to squeeze Blitzo’s shoulder. “You’ve more than earned it, after everything.”

“Damn right I have,” Blitzo said with a yawn, eyes drooping down to watch the cute little meat nugget again.

She adjusted in her blanket to get her baby coze-levels at maximum, then rested her cheek against his chest with a little rumble and a flick of her tail that made a tiny twitch, the blanket muffling it slightly but not quite enough to let it disappear. He only clocked it after a second, eyes widening.

It was her very first purr, and it was for him, with him, laying against him with a chirpy little sound that called him home. (His eyes shouldn’t have been watering that quickly.)

“She…”

“She loves you,” Stolas said, adjusting her head slightly so Blitzo could see the tiny smile on her face as Stolas’s eyes welled with tears. (It wasn't like Blitzo could exactly judge, and he leaned a little more into Stolas's weight, allowing the soft feathers to cushion his sweaty skin.) “Loves us.”

“You too,” Blitzo whispered to her, arms tightening ever-so-slightly. She was squishy and vulnerable and had come into this world screaming, and he’d be blessed if he’d let anyone get in a second chance to end the perfect life that had only just begun.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and the purr they shared was a promise.

#daddy blitzo #helluva mpreg #one time #shadow writes stuff

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salvager-beyblade-fanfiction · 4 months ago

Text

Salvager Chapter 5 (2): Home

“Shinoda!” Salvager screamed, kicking the Starving Silver android off of his leg, even as it ripped its claws into his flesh, its coagulated metal coating squirming like a storm of maggots into his blood. Fire immediately shot up his calf and the veins inflamed. “AAURGH--! RELEASE IT! RELEASE!”

...

Venom dropped to his chest over the lip of the door bank, snapping out his arms and only just barely managing to catch Salvager’s wrist in time. With a savage, windless grunt, he dragged the older man upward, practically throwing him onto solid ground. He himself scrambled back the very instant after, throwing his back like a shield over Salvager’s body as the man’s fifty summoned player boards split open and, with the sound of a thunder clap, all his inventory came hurtling out in a river of sheer metal. It was a terrible, screaming explosion. Salvager’s cannons, rifles, blades, bombs, and grapnels; his tools, projects, and batteries; his food, utensils, and first aid supplies--they all fell at once.

The entire Tower must have quaked.

Venom ducked his head and screwed his eyes shut. Salvager began to scream. Vaguely, Venom registered that that shouldn’t be right. Had he gotten hurt? Only once he pried his eyes open did he see what’d gone wrong.

And the color promptly drained from his face.

Salvager’s pant leg had been shredded and, spattered alongside the pooling blood, was a wriggling stream of Starving Silver. He’d… he’d been infected? The man, veins bulging and hands shaking, was biting down his screams now, holding them behind his teeth, although the reduction of sound did nothing to make his expression anything less than a picture of pure agony. His eyes bunched, welling with tears of sheer pain, and deep claw-mark creases forked down the sides of his mouth and brows. Had he been hurt just now? Venom blinked, a sense of bitter amazement dripping against his skull, like a stream of water against a stone. Did this happen in the elevator shaft, just a second ago? He hadn't seen it. He didn’t know. When had--?

And… Did that mean…?

Salvager had only…?

Minutes.

Venom swallowed with some difficulty.

He had only minutes.

The Starving Silver would eat its way into his nervous system and then chew apart his spinal cord, burrowing into his bones, brain, and organs, replacing his tissue, killing him from the inside out. And then it would take control of his corpse.

The spit he’d choked down met a wash of bile and Venom quickly lifted a hand to his mouth, gagging on the stuff as it reached his tongue. He couldn’t be sick. Not now.

“That… that last android got you?” he managed. “H-how?”

Salvager made to laugh, but it came out more like a strangled sob. “I-i-it’s bad, isn't it?” he choked, voice fracturing.

Venom just stared.

“Th-thought s-so…”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, hearing his own voice hitch as it passed through his chest, almost as if the sound was coming from somebody else. “I-I can cut out the wound. Or burn it. Or… or take the whole leg, maybe. I--”

“Just--!” Salvager barked suddenly, seething as the Silver wriggled farther up his body, bloating his veins and rupturing a foot-long length of skin. As his blood fountained from the wound, a high-pitched keening burst through his throat. His face contorted. His eyes screwed up like bottle caps. Hot, violent tears poured like rain from the corners. “Just calm--! Calm down, Venom!” he demanded. “You’re g-gonna make me panic!”

They were already past that point. Venom’s cybernetic knuckles locked into fists. “Do you want me to cut out the wound?” he shouted back.

“No!”

“Tell me what to do, then!”

“The leg!” Salvager screamed. “C-cut the whole leg off!” His hand fell to his knee, trembling like a bridge in an earthquake, and drew a lopsided line over the top of his patella. “Right--! Right here!”

Venom marked the place in his mind, biting into his lip, drawing his brows together. “You better be sure,” he sighed.

“I-I’m gonna--! Gonna get out of here a-a-alive!” the older man snarled, gasping for breath. It was a sincere, desperate effort to scrape out each word. “Whatever it--! Whatever it takes!” ...

Venom curled his awkward, knobbly metal knuckles over the hilt of his blade, feeling the energy it carried buzzing like a beehive up his arm. “Want me to knock you out real quick?” he muttered, measuring the trajectory of the cut in his mind, picking out the line where Salvager had indicated his leg be severed.

“Th-the pain… pain’ll d-do that j-just… just fine,” the older man groaned, digging the back of his head into the floor, eyes scrunched nearly to slits. “B-be fast, okay?”

“Yeah,” Venom managed, hefting his blade back, squinting through the hazy shadows its glow cast across the ground. They wrapped over Salvager’s exposed skin like tendrils of smoke, painting his writhing, inflamed veins with long streaks of gray. “Three…,” he swallowed. “Two… one!”

KRAK!

An energy burst collided with the side of his hand, turning his fingers to slag and flinging the blade from his grip. The orange glow spiraled. Salvager called for a gun. One fell into his fists as Venom tore his own from a playerboard. He spun in the direction of the shot. His trigger finger had melted. He couldn’t fire. Salvager, however, launched three succinct charges into their assailant’s torso. The lasers crackled like sparklers against his chest, fizzling out almost immediately. But the figure staggered and--

“What the heck, Valt?”

Venom lowered his gun, breath halting. Valt?

“Did your dexterity go up a rank or something?”

“R…?” Salvager choked, and Venom saw the blood drain from his stricken face. “R-Ran…?”

Their assailant stepped carefully forward, dropping his rifle so that its nose swung downward, clacking slightly against his side. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a black police uniform of sorts--an armored jumpsuit and jacket, overlaid by a thick tactical vest, and a shooting mask that concealed the lower half of his face. A ballistic helmet was capped over his skull, which he reached to unclip, his heavy, rubber-soled boots bringing him to a stop just beside Venom. “I’m glad to see you kept practicing,” he managed, dragging the thing from his head and letting it fall back against his fingertips. He was younger than Venom had expected. Thick blonde hair was matted to his scalp and his eyes were clear, the skin around them smooth and unwrinkled. The only mark of age at all was a hypopigmented scar, which spanned the bridge of his nose, just barely peering out from beneath his mask. “But, dang it, man,” he huffed, voice thick, eyes falling on Salvager’s ravaged, blood-soaked leg. “I really wish you’d take better care of yourself.”

Rantaro Kiyama

Shinoda chimed in--a little belatedly, Venom thought.

[ROAR]

Rank: N/A

Strength: S

Speed: C → S [TEMPORARY]

Override code: SPRIGGAN

Owner: [STORM]

Endurance: S

Dexterity: C

Power: B

Inventory: A

TOWER CLIMB: COMPLETED

LEVELS ASCENDED: 193

AFFILIATION: Police

Unit: Tower Extraction

Salvager’s face crumpled like a sheet of paper and he let his disruptor pistol fall against his chest, raised arms collapsing. “Rantaro?” he gasped, a fresh assault of tears raining from his eyes. “Wh-what are you--?” His voice cut abruptly, choking as the Starving Silver rocketed through his calf, wrapping over his knee. The wriggling metal ruptured his skin and blood gushed from the split. He bit his lip, chest heaving in agony, a strangled cry wrestling out of his throat.

“Hey--!” Venom started forward, but then halted, knowing there wasn’t anything he could do. We’ll have to cut higher now, he thought, eyeing the gleaming, parasitic material growing out of Salvager’s patella. If we can cut at all. He let his gaze flicker to his newly liquefied dominant hand. No good. “Roar?” he turned.

The blonde man had hunched down beside him, the visible half of his face creased with worry. “Your ID’s Pomegranate, right?” he said, the words slightly muffled by his mask.

“Venom.”

“That’s right. Sorry.”

“Can you cut Salvager’s leg?”

He stiffened. “No way.”

Venom’s brow furrowed. “If we don’t get it off, the Silver’s going to kill him.”

“R-Rantaro,” Salvager seethed, fixing the blonde man with a fierce, commanding glare. “You sh-shot off Venom’s… Venom’s hand. I need you t-to do… do it instead.”

A flash of guilt crossed Roar’s eyes--his gaze dropped to the melted remains of Venom’s prosthetic--but, simultaneously, his jaw set into a hard line. “I would, but there’s another way.”

What? Venom bit his lip. Another way? You purged Starving Silver or you died--end of story. “I don’t--” he began.

“Valt,” Roar cut in, flicking a grave look at the cyborg. Hear me out. “Do you still have Shinoda’s Wings?”

Salvager’s strained expression tightened, his eyes cinching. “Uh--I-I don’t…”

“Open your inventory,” Roar ordered.

Venom cringed. They’d just emptied it into the shaft. “Roar--”

But Salvager did as he’d been told, summoning his blue player board at a perfect vertical angle, hovering at a good reading distance, roughly eighteen inches from Roar's nose.

INVENTORY

The screen read,

Capacity rank: SS

Capacity limit: None

Current items interred: 1

Lifetime items interred: 100, 802

Venom blinked. There was one left?

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It was difficult to distinguish from beneath his shooting mask, but Venom imagined a relieved grin lifting Roar’s face. “That’s amazing!” he gasped, eyes wide. “Okay--Valt--I need you to key for it!”

Salvager grunted, obediently trying to raise his hand. However, labored with pain and trembling like a sprout in a snowstorm, his arm reached its apex a mere six inches from the ground and could go no further. Venom grasped it by the wrist and pushed it higher, submerging his companion’s fingertips in the player board. “Try now.”

A second passed.

“N-not,” Salvager gasped. “Not w-working.”

“Could be voice activation,” Roar chanced, leaning forward, a deep crease forking between his brows. “Ask for it.”

Salvager whimpered--Venom glanced down, sickness stirring in the pit of his stomach as he watched a worm of Starving Silver dig into the man’s open wounds--but dragged down just enough air to grind out a request. “Shinoda,” he cried. “Give me your wings.” ...

Kento’s knuckles tightened over the guardrail and he bit his lip, leaning as far as he could manage over the safety barrier’s edge. Rain spilled down from his flattened, windswept hair, rolling into his eyelashes and dripping from the end of his nose. He was soaked even beneath his waterproof jacket, cold and shivering, and the fog of his breath clouded his vision.

He couldn’t take his eyes away from the helicopter, though.

It had descended from the Tower bare minutes ago and only just settled atop the landing pad. Its rotor blades were still spinning. The policemen manning the hundred-foot safety radius around it had yet to open the gates.

Dr. Kurenai and the police chief had assured him that his son would be inside. That he, Chiharu, Toko, and Nika would finally be able to see him again. Despite their word, though, a cold stone of fear still rested in his stomach, and half his mind had already prepared itself for the renewed grief at discovering--again--that Valt hadn't made it. Kento had been to this landing pad before, after all, surrounded by desperate families, all waiting with a slurry of dread and hope, ready to receive their long-lost members home. He’d been gripped by his wife and twins before, too, each of them watching for the helicopter, searching for the slight, dark-haired teenage boy they’d lost seven years prior. But, last time, Kento swallowed. Valt hadn't been there.

Would it be any different today?

Was his son really in that helicopter, only one hundred feet away?

Almost as soon as the thought occurred, the cabin door gave a jerk from across the landing pad and began trundling open. Kento’s heart slid into his throat. Chiharu’s gloved fingers dug into his arm. Toko released a semi-strangled gasp and stumbled up to the guardrail, his twin sister close behind, flinging off her hood and scooping her bangs from her eyes.

Their reaction wasn’t unique. Kento vaguely noticed the family beside them--the Zakuros, he thought; Dr. Kurenai had introduced them earlier that day--also running to the edge of the safety barrier, straining to watch.

Please, Valt… Kento prayed. Please…

Out jumped the first of the helicopter’s occupants. Rantaro. The blonde policeman landed easily on the concrete, bending his knees to take the added weight of his armor, and then turned, holding out a hand for the next passenger.

It was a young man, light-haired and paler than a ghost. Through the rain’s distortion, Kento imagined his arms whittled down to points at the end, but that couldn’t be right. He gripped Rantaro’s wrist as he lowered himself down, taking the drop as easily as he might’ve taken a stair. His foot splashed into a puddle. He seemed somewhat stupefied by that. Even at a hundred-foot distance, Kento saw the survivor’s eyes widen, staring around at the storm. He hasn’t felt rain, Kento realized, knuckles closing tighter around the guardrail, in seven years.

“D-Delta?”

Kento glanced through his leftmost periphery at the Zakuro family.

“Delta! Delta!”

“He’s--! He’s right there! H-he’s alive!”

“He’s alive!”

“Delta!”

He smiled.

“Kento,” Chiharu whispered suddenly, voice breaking, her hold constricting over his arm. “He’s coming…”

Kento’s gaze snapped back to the helicopter, heart beating like a sledgehammer. Already, his chest ached. If it isn’t Valt… If he’s been left behind again… Both Rantaro and the first passenger--Delta--had extended their hands to the doorway and were gesturing their last companion forward. Kento held his breath. If he can’t come home…

A head, full of thick, shaggy dark hair, emerged from the shadows first, followed by a set of lean shoulders. Socked feet came after, padding up to the lip of the step. One of the survivor’s pant legs had been ripped to ribbons and he limped slightly, favoring his other side. But, using his companions’ offered hands, he managed to hop from the helicopter, out into the rain. On the landing, he staggered and Rantaro pulled him hastily upright. His face turned, for the first time, so that Kento could see.

That’s my son. He stared across the concrete. That’s my son, he realized. That’s my son.

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aerodaltonimperial · 2 years ago

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Prompt idea: Demonhausen as sort of a ghost buster /deals with spirits and other demons causing trouble and Hook finds out about it and joins him when they do shows together

(Went sideways a bit here, too... LOL)

She smells human. That isn't strange; they are everywhere, and they positively reek of compassion, of kindness, of the disgusting drive to do the right thing. After awhile, the obnoxious scent of goodwill can become positively overwhelming. But they aren't usually here, in the dark shadows of the sewer system, and they don't usually smell of...violence. This one smells of violence and blood and rage, and her stomach rumbles in response. She hasn't scented anything this good in months.

Oh, what a treat! A silly creature exploring the underbelly for some reason, or, maybe, the unlucky city worker sent on the night construction shift? What does it matter; this human smells so delicious her toes are curling in her boots, her borrowed eyes fluttering closed. Oh, she will revel in tearing this one open and carving out its fury-soaked heart.

She glides around the corner, keeping her feet light. So lovely a scent is easy to follow, even with the garbage odor that accompanies these underground tunnels. Pressing her palm against the damp concrete walls, she peeks around, taking stock of the situation: one relatively young man, standing at the side, away from the sludge. Alone.

Her mouth waters. He smells even better up close, like anger has congealed with bloodshed, with the causing of pain. She's nearly bowled over by her want. He'll be such an easy target, too, standing there with his hands shoved into his sweatshirt pockets.

She doesn't even need to take this one quickly; where would he run? There's nothing but sewer ducts and grime around them, the only real light shining in from the storm drains spaced overhead. She gets halfway to him before he notices her approach. She expects him to panic, and he doesn't. This is the first red flag.

He tips his head to the side, observing her. He ought to be screaming--she's not wearing her disguise, the face that blends her in with all the humans topside. Her teeth are out, the elongated canines, the extra row that fills her mouth for better tearing and chewing.

Why isn't he running from the terrifying sight of her true form?

"Hm," the young man says. "Smaller than I expected."

What? No matter; his scent is clinging to the fabric he wears, divine. She is desperate to taste his flesh. "Humans are so talkative when meeting their ends."

"Some," he says, a faint agreement. Then he shrugs. "I don't like words much."

She doesn't care. She extends her claws, human bones pushed to the side as they materialize, and prepares to leap at him. Only as she's readying the spring in her calves, something smacks into her from the side, like lightning striking her. Her skin, both borrowed and true, shrieks with pain. She is burning from the inside out, set aflame. She falls to the ground with a howl as her sight goes dark, the abilities dimmed to normal human standards. Her sharp teeth come down on her tongue, nearly tearing the whole thing free. She tastes her own blood.

Staring up at the ceiling in agony, her young mark's face appears. His expression hasn't changed. "More than ten?"

"Almost certainly," another voice says, and she...no. Even in her miserable haze, as the holy water eats through her flesh and begins to corrode her true form housed within, she knows that voice. It's him: the traitor. The betrayer. "All on this side of town. Danhausen rather thinks the number is higher than that, but perhaps spaced out more."

"Hm." The young man nods, slowly. He is still watching her with a neutral gaze. "Guess that's good, then. Probably would have hit another one soon; she's nearing the feed time."

"Likely a low-income apartment unit," the betrayer agrees. "Low security and high density. Easier to slip through the shadows."

"Sorry," the young man tells her, and doesn't sound sincere at all. The worst part of this, as her skin crackles and peels, blackening and shedding, as the betrayer pours more holy water on her and winces at her agonized howl, is that here, at the end, as she begins to crumble apart, the human still smells like the most delicious morsel she's ever encountered.

Perhaps it's not the worst thing to have filling her senses as she dies.

#Oh no I sort of love this idea HAHAHAHA

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voraciousvore · 1 year ago

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Bucky's (7/44)

***Content Warning: EXTREME GORE and FATAL HARD VORE! Do not read if you are squeamish! (also some soft vore)***

Chapter 7: Fatal Ingestion

“We’ve seen those customers come in before,” Nutmeg explained to Patty, hopping from one foot to the other with nervous energy. “They are extremely savage and violent with how they eat their human entrees. It was horrid to see last time. I guess they’re some of the lucky few rich enough to be able to afford fatal ingestion. Unfortunately for us.”

Patty didn’t want to behold these two people, whom she had just spoken with the prior evening, getting killed, but she couldn’t not watch either. The whole situation was just too horrible to fathom. She couldn’t wrap her head around the concept or believe any of it was real. She was still waiting to wake up from her phantasmagorical nightmare. She’d find herself back in her own apartment, safe and sound, never having seen a Giant in her life, next to her boyfriend, who of course would never have abandoned her. Nor would she have gone to jail, or wrecked her car, or lost her job, or had anything to do with her roommate. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass and sighed. She wanted it all to just go away.

She was jerked back to reality when Nutmeg shrieked, “There they are!” The waitress hustled out of the kitchen, balancing one plate on each hand. Apple was seated on a rack of ribs, smothered in barbeque sauce, with a side of mashed potatoes. Chuck Roast was on the other plate, nestled in between tomatoes, bacon bits, and croutons in a salad and drenched in dressing. They both looked genuinely terrified, their eyes darting about wildly for some way out.

When the waitress set the plates down on the table, both humans tried to make a break for it, in a last-ditch effort to survive since they had nothing to lose. Their efforts were in vain. The Giantess stabbed Chuck Roast clear through his leg with her fork, pinning him on the edge of her dish. He screamed in pain and she giggled as his blood drained into her salad. She dragged him back into the salad, mixing him up in the leaves to spread around his blood. She picked him up with the fork, dangling him from his skewered thigh, and bit into his flesh, ripping off his other leg with her teeth and chowing down on it while he pleaded through tears and agonizing screams for clemency.

Apple was not harmed right away; rather, the Giant dragged her back with his fingers. He wanted to torment his prey first, so he started with the rack of ribs, shredding the meat off the bones and slapping them down on the plate. Whenever Apple tried to run, he whacked her hard back to the center with one of the rib bones. Battered and bruised, Apple eventually stopped trying to run. The Giant licked sauce off his fingers, raising his eyebrow as Apple trembled uncontrollably on his plate. He leaned over her with menace and snatched her with both hands, holding her just like he held the ribs before. He began tearing the meat off of her own much smaller ribs, cracking through a few like they were nothing more than toothpicks. He sank his teeth into her thighs and calves, stripping the bones of their fleshy exterior. Blood spattered his cheeks and crisp suit, but he hardly seemed to care or notice. Apple’s shrieks reached a fever pitch, and the Giant shoved what was left of her entirely into his maw, grinding her into a pulp before swallowing. He smacked his lips with satisfaction and grinned at his partner with bloodstained teeth, then wiped his crimson chin and lips off with a napkin.

While he was eating Apple, the Giantess had continued to dismember Chuck Roast, limb by limb. She sliced open his belly with her fork and scooped out his entrails with the prongs, mixing them into her salad. Chuck Roast was delirious and nearly dead by this point, so she took the fleshy shell of the man and slurped it into her mouth, chewing him vigorously with her teeth before gulping the mutilated carcass down her throat. She kissed her Giant lover, her eyes shining, and left a scarlet outline of her lips on his cheek. She enjoyed the rest of her blood-soaked salad with more dainty bites while he wolfed down the remainder of his ribs and mashed potatoes.

The humans in the tank all gaped in horror at the gratuitous display of brutality. Indeed, even the nearby Giant restaurant patrons stared or fidgeted with discomfort, particularly when the humans screamed in pain. Most of the Giants who ate there were accustomed to swallowing their humans whole and leaving them alive upon completion, after all. They usually didn’t witness such egregious butchery, and many of them seemed put off by it. The waitresses were more hardened to the spectacle and for the most part appeared unfazed. Bucky was grimly amused, particularly by the responses of the humans in the tank. The couple was indifferent to the judgmental looks as they finished their meal. When they went to pay the check, the Giant pulled a lavish wad of Big Bucks out of his fat wallet to fund their gluttony. The waitress scowled when she saw the comparatively stingy tip, however. The customers left satisfied and full, rubbing their bellies on the way out.

Patty was brought to her knees, permanently scarred by the carnage she had witnessed. Next to her, Nutmeg was devastated and shaking with overpowering emotion. She wrapped her arms around Patty in a hug, desperate for comfort, but Patty was in too much shock to reciprocate. Even if she hadn’t been, Patty wasn’t the most nurturing type regardless. Nobody spoke for a while, just sobbing and whimpering. What made it all worse was that the humans were still on full display, available to order for dinner, so people continued to be plucked out at random intervals to feed more hungry Giants.

Nutmeg pulled away as if stung, and Patty was so withdrawn into herself she didn’t comprehend why until a shadow encompassed her. A gigantic feminine hand wrapped around her and she was raised up out of the tank. She wriggled feebly but didn’t feel like fighting back. The horror had drained into her core and rotted her inside. Having to be eaten now, of all times, seemed worse than ever, but she had no will to resist. If those humans couldn’t get away, neither could she. She was hopeless.

The waitress carried her into the kitchen and plopped her down on the countertop, where Chef Cruor was waiting for her, sullen and gloomy as usual. “Human bacon ranch crunch wrap for table 12,” she announced, then turned on her heel and rushed out. The cook didn’t say anything, but removed his soiled gloves and made a motion to grab a fresh set.

Patty had succumbed to defeat, yet in that moment she saw an opening. However slim it may be, she had to seize it. She bolted, having no clue where she was going, only that she needed to get away. Chef Cruor spotted her dash in his peripheral vision and snapped around. He slammed his bare hand down in front of her like a wall and dragged her back, coiling his fingers around her in a fist. She bit into his skin, but he remained unfazed. He didn’t even seem angry at her escape attempt. He was more weary than anything else.

“Don’t do that again,” he chided. He checked her nametag. “Patty. I’ll remember that. You try to run too many times, and I’ll get tired of dealing with you. If I get fed up with you, next time you’re fed to a customer, you’re not coming back.”

He reached up with a speck of something pinched in his fingers. Patty recognized it as a pill and reached her hands out from in between his huge fingers to receive it. She knew she needed it to stay alive. The cook held her up to his colossal face and looked at her closely, studying her. She was surprised to see, up close, his irises had a dark violet tint to them.

“You understand, yes? I could always ‘forget’ to give you a pill, if you stubbornly refuse to cooperate.” His eyes narrowed with intensity, his thin eyebrows drooping down. Patty gulped, taking her pill in the process, and nodded. She understood the threat all too well. “Alright then. Don’t be a troublemaker.” Patty felt small and helpless in the Giant’s hand under his watchful glare. Her spirit to resist dissipated again and she became listless as he began to prepare the meal she would be served in.

The Giant chef set out a gargantuan piece of pita bread and spread ranch over it. He filled the open wrap with lettuce, sliced tomato, diced onions, bacon bits, cheese, and crumbles of flavored tortilla chips for an added crunch. The last ingredient was, of course, Patty. She was placed in the middle of the wrap and then rolled up into cramped, flavorful darkness. Fear was gnawing at her insides and she started to sweat. With the position she was in, the Giant who was eating her could potentially bite into her, even if he didn’t intend to. She shifted around in discomfort, but she was too tightly entrenched in lettuce and tomato to move much. The smell of ranch was overpowering. The rough edge of a chip dug into her back, so she squiggled to the side until she was free of it.

She felt the plate surge and bounce underneath her, and she realized a waitress must have grabbed it to bring to the customer. Sounds outside the wrap were slightly muffled, but she could still hear the familiar ambience of the dining room, with silverware clinking against plates and Giant voices rumbling all around. The plate clanged against the table, and Patty couldn’t help but shake as she dreaded what was inevitably to come. The wrap compressed around her as Giant hands gripped it and lifted it up into the air.

Patty grimaced as she heard a loud crunch a few yards above her head. From outside, she heard titanic jaws chewing, followed by a tremendous gulp. Another large crunch resounded above her head, closer this time, accompanied by more obnoxious chewing and swallowing. A third bite revealed light up above, and Patty could make out the Giant’s face on the other side, distorted from the awkward angle through a forest of lettuce leaves. She wiggled in the wrap, not to escape but to alert the Giant not to bite into her with his teeth. She was reminded of all the bloodshed from the ravenous Giants earlier, and she prayed with all her might that she would not meet the same fate.

The next bite was mere inches from her face. Patty watched the huge white teeth clamp together right in front of her, dangerously close, cutting entirely through the wrap and exposing her to the world. The mouthful was easily as large as a sofa. As he processed the food, the Giant gazed down at the frightened human wrapped up in his meal and turned up the corners of his mouth in a smirk. He finished eating what he had chomped up and parted his lips and teeth again, ready for another bite.

Patty could only watch with a desperate horror as the vast mouth yawned open in front of her and approached against her will. She drank in all the unsettling details with her eyes: the organized rows of teeth, stretching back deep inside; the squishy fat tongue, curling with impatience; the ominous gullet, lined with tonsils and a uvula; the curved roof of the mouth, ribbed and pink; and the moist red of the inner cheeks unfurling as the jaws stretched open. The mouth came closer until it drew her in and was all around her, trapping her in humid warmth. The all-too-familiar loud crunch of the teeth severing the bite of dinner Patty was tucked inside emanated from beneath her feet.

She was pulled further inside by the jaws. The teeth dismantled the wrap around her until she was laying bare in the curve of the wet tongue. Patty was terrified, but didn’t try to resist this time, with the knowledge that her efforts would be in vain. The gigantic jaws flexed around her, and the chewed-up mush flowed down the throat in front of her. She tried to assure herself, logically, that she would be alright, that she wouldn’t die or be disfigured, but the prospect of being eaten was still hideously frightening for her, on a primitive level. After being shuffled around and tasted on the tongue, she was nudged into the throat and, as expected, swallowed whole.

Patty squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to panic as she slipped down the long tube. She knew she needed to endure as the powerful muscles crushed her and forced her down. She felt like she was sliding down into the deepest layer of hell, never to be seen or heard from again. The feeling was only magnified when she reached her destination, the dead end of the stomach at the bottom of the tube. She splashed into the acid and shivered, despite the infernal heat. All her energy sapped out of her with the accursed knowledge that she would be trapped inside the gurgling sack for hours. Patty settled in, trying and failing to get into some sort of position of comfort, despite how slippery and sopping wet everything was. She sighed with misery. This was her life now.

Chapter 8

Chapter 1

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jotunkhiicha · 21 days ago

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Rosalyn is back and I’ve finally got RE1 & RE0. I’m hooked! I also want to raise a glass to photo mode in RE4 Remake.

“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑁𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑄𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝐼𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝑂𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎.”

When forever runs out, what happens next?

Does tomorrow become a useless function, a lie fed to the people to ensure servitude and to give the miserable their only medicine, hope? These moments bleed into nothingness, draining the wonder and brilliance of mortal ambition into the ether where their gods might finally have a taste of their struggle. Will it make anything worth it?

What of the ring, bound to their flesh like the rings within a tree? Do these decayed circlets of love and wonder become little more than epitaphs of a worthless vow?

Sometimes, when she feels the familiar drag of her dagger against her flesh, she allows these nihilistic thoughts the crawl between the gaps in her synapses, jumping between them to land closer to the housing of her soul to eat it—consume it—obliterate her spirit and grant her grace in the condemnation of self. She was beyond the salvation that man pines so fervently for, forever cast to be washed at the Devil’s feet for her sins—for her good intentions. She accepted this fact, embraced it even, but she still wishes, in some worn away part of her soul, that it didn’t have to be this way.

That she didn’t have to be this.

“Prevedibile (Predictable).” Rosalyn murmurs as the orchestra thrums to its apex, the violent torrent of squeals from the violins, the crashing of keys as they are struck upon the piano and the way the trumpets sing to the tune of destruction.

Her backless green gown scatters remnants of her past across the floor, each drag of the fabric across the marble floor, stained red in the blood of patrons—her would be villains.

It didn’t have to make sense, it wasn’t her job to make it make sense, her job is far simpler than that—to eradicate.

As her heels clack and she hears muted footfalls behind her, she spins in the same heels to face her opponent, eyes focused and brows furrowed with training moving her muscles.

It is the same as it always is.

Rosalyn swings to the left, avoiding a bullet, with grace befitting a swan as it flitters above the lake surface, and she unlatches her gun from its holster—her beloved Beretta 89—and fires three shots, in quick succession. One penetrates the flesh of his knee, crushing the bone and destroying the joint, if he survives this engagement, he won’t be the same man he was when he entered it. The second shot takes finesse, it catches his shoulder, sending him spluttering back and the third, the finality that even a God wishes they had, comes to rend the mind from the beast.

It splinters through skin and bone, the brow lines that showed frustration, the stress that servitude can bring, and pulls apart the pretty little neurological pathways that made him who he was. His eyes roll back into his head, trying to see what once was in the back of his eye sockets as nothing makes sense anymore; nothing ever did.

“Prendi la cagna! (Get the bitch!)” she hears above the sound of the opera singer.

Maybe Leon was right, there’s nothing quite like Italian opera.

#writing #short story #writers on tumblr #spotify #oc #random story #story #original character #original story #fanfic #resident evil #RE #action #spy

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cryopathiic-a · 1 year ago

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A smile cracks through the tension when rhinestone eyes meet their fragmented counterparts. That other time, the ancient warrior's gaze had confessed a measure of wariness. This time there's naught but pure rage; the younger oni tastes it in the air between them, and savors it with a flick of the tongue. Invigorating. He's breezing off of Akaza's wrath like a leaf on the wind; taking it and reflecting its ugly truth. That the third moon thirsts for blood, for power. That he is no better than the rest of them. And so, seraphic features flash a malevolent smirk; triumph.

It lasts for a moment. The next, he's sent flying to the edge of the chamber. His limbs, his form, reduced to a ragdoll when the punch blows a hole in his midsection. Guts fly left and right. His claws manage the merest scratch on Akaza's wrist with a half hearted attempt to grip it when it plunged inside his viscera. Those same claws dig into the floor to stop him slamming his back and taking the shoji down with him.

Pushing me out of close range, where he has the advantage? He must have wanted to stall. He's too eager to look for the human.

A brief glimpse of their true, empty visage. Their spine unfolds; they rise, as threads of bone and muscle begin to weave a hollow midsection back together. It's purposefully instantaneous and that alone should suffice to send a very clear message as to who holds the upper hand between them. Dōma has no bark; so his bite would be felt twicefold.

꧁༺B̝̼͓l̡̺͓o̡̠͙o̘̺͇d͓̻͓ D͇͜e͎̙̙m̫̼o͎͔n̢͇͍ A̡̼̘r̺̦̝t̢̢:̼̫͜C͛͒o̾͊̕l͋͌d̔̐͒ W͐̿͌h̿̈́̕i͐͋̓t́̔͝e̐͑͘ P͊͐͘r͊͆͝i̾̐̾n̓͛͆c̾͐e͑̈́͛s̿̓s̾͐̚e͑͊̾s͊̀̐༻꧂

There's space between them now. Enough to place two more pawns down on the board - the compass, that would alert his companion to the abrupt entrance of those familiar, demure faces. Their long hair unfolds in waves this time, and puckered lips blow two gusts of hoarfrost in the crouched oni's direction. What the hell was Akaza thinking, giving him the opportunity so freely?

❝ Don't be silly. He's a human. He's a pillar. ❞ He's the enemy. He's the one they have all been programmed to hunt and eat. Once again, Destructive Death gets to be the exception; and the red horse's whims might just fly in the end, because that man bends the rules for him. ❝ Even if you've battered him pretty badly, he looks positively delicious~ ❞ A languid lick of the lips, eyes crinkling with a short-lived giggle; as soon they would flash wide upon being met with... utter ignorance.

His best friend was busy calling out to that human.

I have to exhaust him. If I keep triggering his compass, he will have to keep his attention on me.

❝ Oy! I'm talking to you over here. Akaza! ❞ A mock pout. He waved; fan shut in his palm yet slipping open inconspicuously when he slouched in a dejected fashion. ❝ Bah. You can be so rude sometimes, you know? Hm. Perhaps this will get your attention.❞ A light-hearted giggle prefaced the attack; fans snapped open instantaneously and a graceful motion had them slice piercing shards of ice into life.

꧁༺B̝̼͓l̡̺͓o̡̠͙o̘̺͇d͓̻͓ D͇͜e͎̙̙m̫̼o͎͔n̢͇͍ A̡̼̘r̺̦̝t̢̢:̼̫͜W͊͛͆i̓̓̕n̈́̓t̓̈́͒r̿̚̕ÿ́͊ I̽́c͌́̕y͋͘͠c̓̽��́l̒̿͌e̿͐̈́s̀͌͆ ༻꧂

Scattered into the artificial wind, these pointy cones would head straight for the third moon's neck. There would hardly be space for him to fully dodge that between the girls' frigid breaths. Even a few scratches would be enough to have his blood art suck the other's flesh and drain it of much needed essence. Small lashes, a snake biting the tiger's feet. To wear him down; to stop him, before his anklets chimed of doom.

@bellsplit

#bellsplit #(( hmmm what should I name my verse for this :D ))#fallesto

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yanderes-galore · 2 years ago

Note

A1 vampire Albert Wesker or Sergei Vladimir?

I feel like Wesker works. We're doing vampires again ^^;

Prompt Found Here

Yandere! Vampire! Albert Wesker Prompt A-1

(Halloween Event - Hunt)

Pairing: Romantic

A-1: "I want to know how you'll taste between my teeth."

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Stalking, Hunting, Vampires, Blood, Blood drinking, Descriptions of eating people, Threats of breaking bones/threats in general, Sadism, Implied kidnapping/death, Deception, Violence, Choking in one part.

"You must be aware I'm stronger than you, yes?"

A voice taunts you, the mouth who uttered it licks their fangs hungrily. Ghoulish eyes track their prey through tinted sunglasses as you run. Many of his prey ran like this, it was a hunt like all the rest.

Every movement he made towards you was calculated. Taunting you while he stalked you in the night. He plays the act of human well, yet his movements while hunting were far from human.

"I could break each of your bones like a twig. What's stopping me from squeezing your ribcage until your organs give out?"

The sound of your ragged breath gave away your position. Just when you thought you were safe, that familiar trenchcoat would come into view. Then you're right back to square one again.

"Oh to drain your blood into a bucket to savour the taste sounds delightful."

He laughs in the darkness, continuing his brisk pace.

"Your fear will only make my dinner taste better."

He turns a corner just in time to see you run another one. He grins, crossing his arms while walking. He didn't have to try too hard for this.

"Maybe I'll even play around with you for a bit. Get you all worked up to sweeten the taste of you... the choice can be yours."

He's fast, toying with you. He keeps a certain distance away from you to give you the illusion of escape. When in reality, he could catch you right then and there.

"Will you really make me wait like this? You're so cute... although you should know you're teasing a hungry beast."

He's drooling at the mouth, desperate for his next meal. He loves playing with you, yet it only makes him hungrier.

"I want to know how you'll taste between my teeth."

The vampire sighs, closing the distance ever so slightly. He was getting impatient. He's been watching you for a long time now. His mouth prepares itself to catch you and sink into your neck, fantasizing about how you'd taste.

It would be so wonderful if he littered your weaker body in bites, your blood flowing into his mouth and blessing him with a new taste. A bitter taste of fear... but a sweet taste of pleasure. Such a concoction is addictive to vampires.

He may keep you around if you're good enough to his tastes. If you manage to entertain him on a game of chase... and charm his taste buds, you've won a place beside him. Many pets have come before you...

He wants you to prove you deserve to join their ranks.

"If you come to me now, dear... I promise I'll give you luxury."

His words are coated in a sugary trap. Come too close to taste it... and you'll be either hooked or dead. Wesker, the name he went by, was a monster that cloaks himself in the night. Would he really be merciful to prey like you?

He didn't want to let you go after he drank from you. He may not even give you luxury. However, because you have something he craves, he's willing to do every lie in the book to coax you.

He treats you like a frightened animal once he catches you, dashing towards you with inhuman speed before picking you up by your neck. You choke on his grip and squeal when he pushes you against the wall. Those orange eyes are those of a predator.

A predator who's rather pleased he caught his prey.

"Enough games. Look at me as I do this..."

He grins, opening his mouth just enough to reveal his fangs. Sharp and ready to sink into your flesh like candy....

"It'll be over soon. As I find myself growing fond of you, I'll make it quick."

Yet another lie tumbles from the vampire's lips. He plans to draw out this session with you. Wesker wishes to savour your taste like fine wine...

You stand no chance against him.

#yandere resident evil #yandere albert wesker #yandere vampire #panther halloween event 2022

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lokiprompts · 3 years ago

Text

The Trickster & The Healer: Chp 4

Summary: Loki learns about your past.

Warnings: mention of torture and abuse.

Words: 1500

Other chapters on master list.

“You were Hydra’s prisoner?”

You had just woken up from an intense nightmare, more like a night terror as you relived your time spent with Hydra as their precious experiment. As soon as you escaped, insomnia was your best friend. The fear of being taken again kept you awake for days on end until you would finally collapse in exhaustion. It was just shy of a week when you had your first nightmare. It was so real, so terrifying that you barricaded yourself in your safe house for two weeks, never leaving and barely eating. As time went on, the nightmares became more infrequent, but never gone.

“I was Hydra’s experiment,” You clarified, still trying to catch your breath. Loki took your hand in his and placed it on his chest, taking deep breaths. You caught on to what he was trying to do and you mimicked his breathing, the sweet oxygen making you feel a bit dizzy.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

You shook your head, removing your hand from his chest and back in your lap. “No, if I am going to stay here, someone should know. They are always trying to find me. That is why I never stay in one place, and I avoid cameras and being out in the media. I can’t have them find me.”

Your breath started to become uneven again just at the mere thought of them finding you. The fact that you were in a superhero strong hold gave you no comfort. In your mind, they would always find you and the only solution was to run. You started to fidget with the sleeve of your long sleeve shirt, anything to divert your panic.

“It started when I was a child. I was taken from my parents.” You let out a long exhale, the memories fresh from the nightmare and flooding your mind, “I had my healing gift from a young age. I never got sick, and I never really had any of those normal kid injuries, you know? A scraped knee, cuts, bruises…And when I did, they would heal up right away.”

You smiled a bit, “My family was so proud of me. They loved my gift, and I was able to help the people around me. Since I was so young, it was usually just small things…not fatal diseases like how I can do now.” Your frown vanished, “that all changed when Hydra took me.”

“I was a money maker for them. They have massive ties to big pharma and all the money and investments that come with that. So, when they found out I could heal, they just saw dollar signs. But what I did…healing bruises, broken bones, things like that, it wasn’t enough. They wanted me to be able to heal anything and everything.”

Silent tears were started to trail down your face. Your fingers trailed up and down your arms as you tried to self soothe. You didn’t notice when Loki reached forward and helped wipe your tears away.

“They tortured me. They injected me with every kind of disease they could get their hands on. They exposed me to radiation to give me cancer. They cut me and drained me of my blood.” You couldn’t bear to look at Loki as you rattled off the tortures you experienced, choking out every word in between sobs, “They cut off my fingers.”

You looked down at your hands, your fingers and flesh intact as if nothing ever happened. “This went on for years. Every time they gave me a disease or hurt me, I healed myself and then I was able to heal others. I tried to not help them…”

The pleading look you gave Loki broke his heart. It was clear you didn’t want him to judge you. That shame lingered in your heart for the role you played with Hydra and their advancement, “I really tried not to give them anything, but they brought in people. Real people.” Your hands started to tremble, and Loki held them tightly, grounding you, “I couldn’t let them suffer too.”

The emotion in your eye grew dark, and you looked right into Loki’s crystal blue eyes, “Their plan was to take my healing abilities and harness it into modern medicine. They would take that medicine, like one that cures cancer, and they would jack up the prices and make a fortune.” A laughed bubbled up from your chest, and the range of emotions you were showing was worrying Loki, “But they never got that far.”

“They didn’t develop the medicine?” Loki asked, idly rubbing circles on your hands with the rough pads of his thumbs.

“No,” You laughed again, “They tried. They took my blood. They took samples of my flesh. I think they got close, but nothing ever worked.”

Loki hummed thoughtfully, trying not to let the heartbreak from your torture show on his face. “So, how did you get out?”

“To be honest, I don’t know.” You shrugged a bit, being completely honest, “One day they were taking a tissue sample and the next thing I remember, everyone around me was dead.”

Loki’s eyes shot wide open, “Everyone was dead? Did you kill them?” The question slipped out before the god could really think about the ramifications.

You shook your head, “No, I don’t know how that would even be possible. I am a healer. I have always been a healer. My powers help others, not hurt. I think someone was helping me. I just don’t know who. I was able to escape after that and I have been on the run ever since.”

“You said they always found you. Were you taken again?”

The shudder that traveled through your body went straight to your soul. The torture was terrible, but the years on the run was almost as equally bad. During the first year, you were always alone. You never dared to be out in public for too long and you never dared to take a job or make a friend either. But as time went on, you became braver. You would take volunteer positions at local hospitals and used it as an opportunity to use your gift in secret. It felt good to be able to help others. It gave you a sense of purpose during your time as a vagabond.

“They found me a couple of times. They always think they are so slick,” You grinned, and Loki found himself mirroring your expression, “But I always saw them coming. I don’t know how or why, but I could always tell when a Hydra agent was undercover and following me. I would always leave before they got too close.”

Loki looked down at your still joined hands and gave it a gentle squeeze. He didn’t dare look up at you, “Perhaps, all the goodness in you could sense the evil in them.”

You removed one of your hands from his and placed a tender finger under his chin, lifting his gaze up to you, “Well, if that’s the case, you certainly aren’t evil Loki. I know all about you and while you may have made some mistakes, your past does not define you nor does it define your heart. You’re good, Loki. I’m sure of it.”

Tears threatened to spill from Loki’s eyes as he heard your words, but his stone-cold façade always kept them at bay, “I thought I was supposed to be comforting you.”

It seemed as soon as Loki’s emotional walls went up, so did yours. Your face exploded into a wide grin as you patted his shoulders, “Well, consider me comforted, Trickster. I appreciate it, but I think we should really get some rest.” You stood up from your place on the couch and smoothed down your shirt. The very air around you had shifted and everything about you was now cold and calculated. The truth was you couldn’t afford to get close to anyone.

It was a feeling that Loki understood all too well. He too stood and gave a playful bow, before turning on his heal and walking towards your door. Just as he placed a hand on the doorknob to leave, he turned to you.

“My dear Læknir, you are not alone here. I am here for you whenever you need, for whatever you need. Consider me your friend.” Loki’s soft, charming smile had your stomach doing flips. You wanted to believe him and a part of you did, but the sensible part of you knew that while you were offered a home here, it wouldn’t be for long. Hydra has been around for decades, and they still endure like the disgusting cockroaches they are. And you? You are their cash cow, and you knew you already were on borrowed time.

The fact that you did not believe him, and that you were holding him at arm’s length was obvious to Loki, but he took your thanks with grace and left you.

He would just have to prove to you how much he cared for you and Loki never backed down from a challenge.

-------------

Translation: Læknir is "healer" in Norse.

Unicorns 🦄: @theawkwardavenger @nonsensicalobsessions @purplekitten30 @lostgreekgod @slytherinintj13 @huntress-artemiss @midnights-ramblings @xorpsbane @ravenmailey @vbecker10 @lazulifoster @winterfrostsarmy @ada17h @lokisprettygirl22 @theaudacitytowrite @lokis-little-love @lokis-tigress

#loki fanfic #loki fic #loki odinson #loki #loki x female reader #loki x reader #loki x you #loki fluff #loki fluffy drabble #loki laufeyson x reader #loki angst

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