#accent empathy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

taintandviolent · 5 days ago

Text

that which terrifies ; Count Orlok x Reader

summary: You're a housemaid who is sent away by her employer to an estate nestled deep in the Carpathian mountains. On the first night, your dreams become very bizarre, and you are no longer so sure of your purpose at the Castle.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 3.7K | female reader, smut, period cunnilingus, vampire coercion, invasion of privacy, scent kink, technically dubious consent and somnophilia (cos Orlok likes to touch when reader is sleeping and it gets a little blurred there), blood mention, decay mention, monsters, vampires,, bloodplay, biting, drinking blood / blood loss, mentions of accents, shadow play (fingering), possession kink.

a/n: I feel like I should apologize in advance because this one feels weirder than my last one. again, you either get it you don't. nevertheless, I hope it is as good! thank you for reading if you do!!! MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR NOSFERATU 2024! banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

With a sharp crack of a whip and a high-pitched whinny, you are alone.

It’s snowing when you arrive. You look back down the pathway, unable to see the carriage any longer; the flurries obscure your vision. The coach that brought you to the looming doors of the entrance is long gone, as is the safety of it. The only sound that can be heard amongst the deafening silence of snow is the fading squeak of hinges and the clip clop of the horses’ hooves as they return home, wherever that may be… far away from this dreadful castle. As you gaze skywards, looking up at the castle, you wrap your shawl around your frail shoulders, shuddering. There is something that roils in your stomach like a malady, twisting and turning your insides until they ache so. Foreboding…

You had been sent here by your employer, a ruthless man who lacked any empathy, only possessed an insatiable greed for fortune. He had requested that you be sent away, to tend to a man who resided deep in the Carpathian Mountains. He had a large estate – a castle in every sense of the word – and needed it maintained. Your darling mother fretted the entire night, feeling as though it was an unwise and dangerous proposition; a young, unmarried woman going into the dark and cursed woods of Transylvania, forced so under the pretenses of mere employment. Though, you had been promised riches. This man, Count Orlok, would reward you handsomely for your duties. Or so it was said.

At first glance, the looming castle provides no welcome, nor does it beckon you inside. Though, the longer you stare, shivering in the snow like a lost child, the more inviting it becomes. As fearsome and ominous as it is, you know that within those stone walls, lies a comfort, a warmth of some kind. Another person to provide company.

With footsteps crunching down into the snow, you approach the doors. Your fist raises to the doors, poised to knock as hard as you can to alert the occupant that you’ve arrived. As you do, your knuckles pounding against the wood but once, both the doors swing open slowly, revealing a grand, but barren, courtyard. White blankets everything, obscuring any foliage that might have greeted you.

“Hello?” Your voice is swallowed up by the snow.

All at once, you hear scampering beside you, accompanied by a huff of breath from something and quickly pivot around, clutching your breast. When you turn back around, you’re met with a startling visual; a tall, intriguing silhouette, stands near another entryway. He’s stock still, the only movement is that of the furs that he wears, which blow delicately in the wind. After a moment, he turns, and disappears into another open door.

“Sir! Please, I beg of thee, wait for me!” Gripping your satchel in one hand and holding your shawl shut with the other, you hurry behind him, praying to get out of the biting cold. He does not wait for you.

Once inside, the castle provides little reprieve. It, too, is bitterly cold; the stone walls have absorbed the chill of the winter and seem to radiate out onto anyone who dares pass by, like long fingers, reaching out to pilfer any warmth that passes.

The staircase is dark, staggeringly so. It curls around a column, trailing ever upwards. He is gone from your line of sight, until you climb the last step, and enter the main room. It is dark, save for a robust fire that consumes the left hand side of the room, drenching it in warmth. Dropping your belongings, you hurry over to it and quickly stretch your palms towards the glow, the heat licking at your frigid fingertips.

Casting your glance over your shoulder, he stands near the table. You hum quietly to yourself, and turn back to the fire.

“Count Orlok…” you start, your voice feeble. You stare at him now, desperately trying to discern his features. Though he is unmoving as he watches you, the shadows which dance across his face obscure him. You swallow. “Pardon my –”

“Thy lord…!” he bellows, startling you. Despite the volume, his voice was low, deeper than any man’s voice. It was almost a growl, carnal and demanding obedience. You dare not defy him, not when he sounds as such. You furrow your brow to the fire, looking deep into the flames to hide your shame.

“My lord,” you started again. “I mean not to offend. I was only going to ask you to pardon my urgency in coming to the fire, I fear I may have caught my death had I been out in the storm any longer.”

“You,” he booms, his voice seeming to vibrate the air around you. He gestures, extending his long fingers towards the table. “...are weak with hunger… eat.”

You glance apprehensively at the expansive feast behind you; fruits, roasted meats, breads. It was enough to satisfy several men. “Are you not… not joining me, my lord? Surely, this is too great for my appetite.”

“…I shall sate myself… later….”

His response serves as nothing but confusion to you, for it is nightfall. Perhaps, you think, you are not accustomed to the habits of the area. You turn your attention back to the table; you are unable to deny the gnawing in your belly, and the enticing aroma of the food calls to your hunger, seducing you with promises of a full stomach, and a delightful, food-induced sleep. You get to your feet and approach one the chair, carefully setting yourself down upon it, smoothing out your petticoats as you do.

Wordlessly, you reach forward, plucking a single piece of fruit from the plate. Its glossy skin glistens underneath the flickering candlelight, and as you bring the succulent fruit to your mouth, its sweet nectar coats your tongue. You hum happily, and savor the taste, rolling it around on your tongue before gnashing it up with your teeth. Next, you reach for the fork that sits at the plate’s edge, and pierce the flesh of a morsel of meat. It’s tender; the prongs of the fork giving way, and the intoxicating aroma of herbs and spices fill your nose.

Though the food is delicious, it does little to distract you from the fact that you’re being watched. The Count sits across from you, his presence an ominous shadow that threatens to swallow you whole. You chew once, twice, and raise your gaze to his. It’s dark and envelops you like an embrace, one you cannot deny.

“My lord,” You say, swallowing the remainder of the meat. “Pray tell, who cooked this delicious meal? I was told that you resided here by thineself, hence your need for a ma–.”

Before you can finish speaking, his words slice through the space between you. “No… more questions. Eat.”

“I was only –”

“Hush now. You are too weary to have such… conversations.”

His words rang true; you were exhausted from the journey and the food was only increasing your fatigue. Now, with a full belly, you felt the first, soothing touches of sleep running its fingers through your tresses, beckoning you closer. You stifle a yawn, not wanting to appear rude in your present company.

“I long to become familiar with you, my lord. I have many questions… but perhaps, I’ll rest…” You say as you wander over to the fire, longing for its warmth once more. You fold yourself to the floor, resting your arms and head on the seat of the ornate wooden chair that sits in front of it. “If only just for a moment.”

With the crackle of the fire lulling you away, it isn’t long before the drowsiness takes you, your form drooping slightly in the chair as you nod off. It is not a restful sleep, however; it is a disturbed slumber, filled with bizarre dreams that feel like waking nightmares.

Shadows claim your body and soul as you sleep, drifting farther and farther away from your consciousness. Slender, phantom fingers graze over your heartbeat, feeling it, tasting it with physical touch, and they graze the fullness of your breasts. Lingering touches chill every inch of your flesh; your neck, between your legs, and along the length of your arms. You dream of being intertwined eternally, though if asked, you couldn’t explain what that meant. Pain, braided with throngs of indescribable pleasure.

You aren’t sure how long you sleep, but awake when the sun’s rays reach through a nearby window. You stretch your limbs as far as they’ll go, the muscles shaking with exertion. Then, unexpectedly, your palm flattens atop a cotton pillowcase, the tips of your toes feel sheets beneath them. A bed. The fire, you think. I fell asleep at the fire. He must’ve carried you to bed in the night – a thought that, while somewhat comforting in its thoughtfulness, concerns you. You remember not the feelings of him cradling you in his arms, carrying you to bed like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. You remember not the feelings of being tucked in like a child, delicate and small. But you remember your dreams.

Pleasures that capture your sleeping body, controlling it so that you thrash and turn on your bed. Long, slender fingers ghosting over your jawline, desperately twitching to pull your mouth into a bruising kiss. The overwhelming scent of Earth, the irony scent of blood, paired with a sickly scent that you can’t place. Stinging pains as the shadow in your room consumes you. Whispers of promises, of ownership, of eternities. Things that you cannot comprehend, but wish to agree to willingly.

Your eyes open fully, having now adjusted to the light. The realization dawns on you; your lewd dreams had been about your new employer, the mysterious man who had only insisted you eat. Knowing not what time it is, you quickly throw the covers from your form, and get to your feet. You’re still clothed, but the buttons on the front of you are peculiarly undone. Your fingers work fastidiously to redo them, before you cross the small room to the door.

Hurrying down the stairs, you return to the once warm dining room, now flush with sunlight, but still freezing. The fire has burned itself out, and the table remains full of food. The meat has likely spoiled, but the fruit and bread… You eye them both hungrily.

“My lord?” You call out into the emptiness as your heart pounds in your chest, a staccato rhythm against your ribcage. You wait… but nothing comes, no response, nor sound. Satisfied that you are alone, you rush to the table, hurriedly taking up a piece of bread and some of the fruit. You scarf it down in a very unladylike fashion, but no guilt taints your urgency; you’ll need energy to do your duties.

As you chew, you decide to meander some, and still, fail to find the Count. Your exploration yields very little aside from the discovery that this castle looks all but abandoned in the daytime. At night, at least there is a fire in the hearth to tell stories of the living craving warmth, but during the day… It is nothing but emptiness. The castle itself is so vast, so decrepit, that you have a hard time navigating it without feeling like you’re running yourself in circles. Most everything looks the same, and frustratingly, most of the doors are locked, try as you may to enter them. How is one intended to clean if they do not have access?

After several hours of cleaning to the best of your ability; sweeping up leaves and dusting away long abandoned cobwebs that hung in the recesses, you pause to wipe your brow, and in doing so, catch a glimpse of the setting sun. Like an overripe fruit, it hangs heavy atop the silhouette of the castle, and disappears, sinking into the horizon as you watch it. Has it been that long? Or had you originally slept much longer than you’d thought?

Gradually, the castle is submerged in darkness. You hum to yourself, retrieving the rag from the floor and return to the main room. The visual before is laid out as it was the night prior and you are equally as perplexed.

The fire roars once again, and the Count, with his tall, menacing silhouette, stands in front of it. As soon as your foot hits the last step, he turns, gripping his fur coat at the side. His fingers seem to go on forever, only lengthened by his sharp, pointed nails. You bring your hands to your lap, shifting nervously.

“You have been hard at work, I see…”

“I… yes, my lord. Though, most of the rooms are locked. Might I have access –”

“No.” He says lowly, curtly. There is an unsaid warning, discouraging any persistence.

“My lord…” You quiver, fighting against your own nerves. “Might I ask… what is my purpose here then? If not to clean thy castle… why for?”

He is suddenly beside you, his tall frame dwarfing yours. “You will… provide me… company.”

Your heart squeezes within your chest, tight, as though his hand had reached through your skin and gripped it with all his might. The rag drops from your grasp, falling to the stone floor silently.

“I’m afraid I don’t… I don’t understand.”

But you do. You understand that you were sent here under a falsehood, an arrangement disguised as employment. As you recollect, the terms in which you were sent away were very sudden, very demanding and very specific – he had requested a young unmarried woman. You thought it to avoid any incessant mail, perhaps, but realize, the reason is far more personal.

“Fret not,” he says, his fingers reaching up to brush across the warmth of your cheek. They are cold to the touch, frigid even, and you shudder underneath the gesture. His dark eyes suddenly seem to widen, his nostrils flaring. As he inhales sharply, he dips closer to you, his claws reaching towards your clothed hips.

All at once, his long arms wrap around you, seizing you, pulling you into a desperate, hunger-driven embrace. He tastes your flesh, licking from the nape of your neck to the hollow between your full breasts. It is not tender, nor is it heartfelt. It is insatiable, it is dark, yet… your supple frame melts into his grip, allowing him to support your wilting body in his grasp.

You feel the edge of his nails gently caress your body, fingers wrapping around the flesh of your arm with their length. Your lids flutter as his mouth nears your ear, his labored breathing hissing into the tight space between the two of you.

Deep between your legs, an incessant want pools. It is hot, greedy, and coils in your stomach like a venomous serpent. Your lids grow heavy with need. Above you, Orlok nears ever closer, dipping down until the bridge of his nose presses into your sternum. He inhales deeply, as though inhaling your very essence. He makes a sound akin to the low, warning growl of a wolf, though it’s tinged with something far more satisfied.

“That which terrifies you….” his full-bodied voice snarls above you, consuming you. “....pleases you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you realize what he’s just done, what provoked such a bold claim from his lips. He had smelled your blossoming state, your throbbing arousal and inhaled deep into the confines of his very lungs. No man has ever done such a thing, and the thought leaves you reeling, shuddering in his grip. Because, you know… he is no man.

“My lord,” you whisper. “I… I…”

“Speak,” he urges, his voice thickened with lust, with hunger. You can feel his breath upon your breast, upon the exposed column of your neck. He nears closer.

“I cannot! My words fail me, my lord… I know not what I speak of… what I feel deep within my chest.”

He growls, considering that for a brief moment, before speaking again. “Your body speaks loud enough.”

With your breath catching in your mouth, you quickly utter your next words. “I think I may retire… early this evening, my lord. I feel faint.”

“If you are… unwell, it would be in your best interest to do so.” His words are strung together so laboriously, punctuated by wheezing breaths and his heavy accent. You swallow again, looking up into his unimaginably dark eyes. There is a hunger there, a flash of something that frightens, but moreso, arouses you, and you gasp, turning quickly on your heels, heading back up the nearby steps. “I bid thee goodnight!”

You run down the corridors as though he is pursuing you. Hunting you. And as soon as you are in the safety of the room that he once carried you into, you shut the door, collapsing against the back of it. You pant, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but you cannot ignore the clawing lust that you feel.

You dress yourself in your nightgown, and quickly get into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as though that is some ward, some protection from the shadows which plague you. As before, it is not long before the warmth carries you off to sleep, the comfort of the bed acting as a tranquilizer for your nerves.

The dreams come again, wrapping themselves around your body and cradling you in their enticing embrace. They are heavy, like the weight of a lover atop of you, and they ghost along your legs, trailing along the curve of your thigh. You whimper, taking fistfuls of the sheets.

“I beg of thee… please…” you murmur, sleepily. Still, it is a call, a beckoning, and the shadow in your dream heeds it. Immediately.

You shift, kicking your legs and thrashing your head to the side, whimpering pitiably in your slumber. The sheets are cold and seem to cling to your thighs, bringing you no comfort and do not free themselves when you move your legs. There is a pressure, a pulling deep between your legs. You whine again, bucking your hips. Against something.

Your eyes snap open, your body jerking with unimaginable arousal. The first thing you see is the ceiling, decorated with shadows and uncertainty. The second thing is that your nightgown is pushed up to your waist, exposing your lower half to the chill of the room. The third, and perhaps the most startling, is that Count Orlok is nestled between your thighs, his lengthy fingers gripping your hips tightly, not fazed by the rocking of them as you feel, feel deeply, what he is doing. He pulls you closer, and you immediately feel his cool tongue as it laps at your center. He swallows loudly, wetly, and you immediately smell the harsh, irony scent of blood. As he gulps, you feel an ungodly pulling sensation, as though the essence is being drained from between your legs.

Realizing, you yelp and push your hips into the mattress, pulling his mouth from your cunt with a slick sound. His mouth chases you, but in the second in which the moonlight hits his angular face, you see that the lower half is coated in blood. You wince, and tighten your grip on the sheets. You had heard stories as a child of a mystical, monstrous creature… strigoi, nosferatu, vampyres… many names for one being you’d never thought you’d meet. And certainly not in this way. But you realize, as his mouth hovers over your core, his cool, wheezing breath washing over you, you do not want him to stop. The nerves, the anxiety, it had all been because his aura had captivated you, called out to you like a beacon in the storm.

“Give thyself to me…”

You nod once, unable to hide your true nature. Your hand drifts to his bare, decaying shoulder, urging him back between your legs. Orlok’s tongue snakes out once again, delving deep into your entrance and lapping up the viscous fluid that leaks from it. You nestle back against the pillow, allowing yourself to feel everything, to drown in the sensations. It is unclean, monstrous but you cannot contain your cries, the lascivious sound echoing off the stone walls. Your hips continue bucking into his mouth, your hand gripping his aged flesh with all the power you have left.

He laps at your cunt, starved for the sanguine nectar mixed with your sweet arousal, and your body quivers and shudders with each pass of his tongue. You feel the sharp points of his fangs grazing your swollen clit, a teasing, dangerous feeling. You dig your nails into his cool flesh, pulling him closer still and you feel that serpent return, coiling around itself until it threatens to burst.

“Pl-please… my lord…! I’m… I feel as though I might…!” But he does not relinquish his feasting, nor does he slow.

Your body seizes up, muscles spasming as your back arches desperately, the fire of your orgasm reaches a peak, crashing over you like waves on a shore. Your hips buck violently up into his greedy, hungering mouth, crying out.

Finally, as the pulsing subsides betwixt your thighs, he is above you, lowering himself down upon your breast. His lithe fingers spread apart the pieces of your nightgown, exposing your skin to his waiting mouth. A white, hot lance of pain erupts over your sternum as his teeth puncture the waiting flesh there, the ache sprawling its stinging tendrils down the length of your arms and to your fingertips.

You gasp, your pupils dilating. The feeling is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, and you know, unlike anything you’ll ever experience again – a feeling, a craving that only he can sate. The room is filled with your weakening moans and the slick, gulping sound of Orlok as he drinks from you. Your menstruations were not enough, and yet, neither was a singular orgasm. Your hips writhe with a desperate plea, though he is too far buried between your breasts.

A dark cloudiness rings the edge of your vision. No… not sleep. Not now…. I beg of thee…

The world fades from your grasp, like water through thine fingers, the only sensation is that of your skin chilling, paling as he drinks your sweet, warm blood.

“M-my lord…”

#nosferatu x reader #nosferatu x you #count orlok x reader #count orlok x you #nosferatu 2024 #nosferatu #count orlok #vampire x reader #monster x reader #monster x human #vampires #myfics #vampirism #monster fucker #bill skarsgard #bill skarsgård #bill skarsgard fanfiction

550 notes · View notes

ohproserpine · 11 months ago

Text

vi. deer dolly

see all chapters here tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, heavy warning for violence and blood, overdose, murder, death, hunting, graphic descriptions of injuries, manipulation, allusion to death, grey morality, references to alcoholism, twisted view of love, gorey descriptions of love, murder, heated scene (making out)

˚୨୧₊♱

You never really liked cars.

The first time you had ridden in one was in the 1930s.

It was after one of your shifts, the wet streets illuminated only by the flickering glow of the rusting lampposts. There you stood, still in your glad rags and wrapped in a coat, the misty drizzle kissing your face. Alastor arrived a few minutes later with a honk of his horn, surprising you with a ride home in his latest purchase—a stunning red car with a sleek roof that gleamed in the dim light, its long, sweeping fenders and rounded body cutting a striking figure against the darkness of the night.

As you got into the car, excitement tingled in your veins, eager to experience the wonders of modern transportation. However, the thrill quickly turned to fear as the speeds increased, and your husband, the ass he was, seemed to enjoy nothing more than pushing the accelerator and hearing your horrified screams. Each time the car accelerated, you found yourself clinging onto him for dear life, the rush of wind slamming against your flushed face, your heart racing in your chest.

Since then, you swore never to get into a car again, preferring the safety of solid ground beneath your feet, the memory of that terrifying ride haunting your thoughts whenever you heard the roar of an engine.

Now, standing outside and shivering in the cold, you watched as a long royal blue limo pulled up before you. The sleek vehicle gleamed under the streetlights, its polished surface reflecting the dim glow of the surrounding city. The doors, adorned with gold accents, were automated and opened up for you, revealing a plush interior illuminated by soft, warm lighting. Small steps extended gracefully from below, inviting you to step inside.

Velvette wasted no time and went in first, her stiletto heels clicking against the polished floor as she settled into one of the luxurious seats. Already engrossed in a phone call, her voice echoed faintly through the open doorway, mingling with the low hum of the engine.

Meanwhile, Vox stood by your side, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the pavement. You knew he was making sure you wouldn't attempt to escape, although the thought barely crossed your mind.

After all, where could you possibly run to now? Any endeavor in that direction would likely prove futile and possibly even fatal. The evidence of your soul being sold was clear, evident in the now black color of your sclera.

"Well," Vox drawled, his voice carrying a subtle edge of impatience as he gestured towards the open limousine door. "Aren't you going to go in?"

You hesitated, biting your lip as you reluctantly took a step back. Vox eyed your actions warily.

"Is it safe?" you found yourself blurting out, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

"Is it safe?" Vox repeated with a scoff, a hint of annoyance flickering in his eyes. "Of course it's safe! I made it!"

He pointed to the VoxTek logo on the car—as though he were a seasoned salesman promoting a product. The metal emblem gleamed under the faint streetlights. Yet, rather than assuring you, the sight of the branding only heightened your unease.

Vox noticed the lack of change in your expression and sighed, deciding to take a different approach. With a faint glimmer of empathy, he motioned toward a nearby building which had a large billboard featuring his face and image.

"See there?" he gestured, his tone adopting a persuasive edge. "See what that billboard says? VoxTek is a symbol of power and security. You're in the safest hands possible. This limousine is equipped with state-of-the-art safety features."

His attempt to reassure you only rang hollow in your ears, and despite his words, a sense of unease continued to gnaw at you. Yet, Vox still persisted, his voice softening as he stepped closer to you. You had to crane your head up to look at him while he stared down at you, his figure casting a shadow over your form.

"I assure you," he pressed, his tone gentler now. "You have nothing to fear."

With no other choice but to comply, you reluctantly stepped forward, your movements stiff and hesitant. Vox held your hand as he guided you towards the waiting limousine. As you entered the luxurious interior, the door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing your fate as the vehicle pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.

Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of color as the limousine sped through the streets. With each passing moment, the distance between you and Mimzy's torn-down lounge grew.

Lost in your thoughts, you barely noticed when the limousine finally came to a stop, the sudden silence jolting you back to reality. As the door opened with a soft hiss, you gazed out to behold the imposing V Tower looming before you.

Its grandeur was undeniable, with its towering floors and striking red windows gleaming in the night. At the very top, a massive antenna sat, reaching towards the sky like a beacon, while a studio sign was plastered along the building's front, featuring red lips nestled within the arches of the middle V, an iconic symbol of the entertainment empire housed within.

Vox and Velvette emerged from the limousine, their presence causing a few loiterers on the street to scurry away in fear.

Oh, how you wished you could do the same.

Inside the car, you hesitated, nerves coiling in your stomach as you fidgeted with your hands. Then, unexpectedly, Vox turned to you, his expression unreadable as he extended his hand.

Surprised, you paused for a moment before accepting his hand, allowing him to guide you down the steps. The chilly night air enveloped you as your feet touched the pavement, the distant sound of the limo's engine fading away as it drove off.

Seconds passed, and Vox still maintained his grip on your hand, his hold firm. Confusion flickered in your mind as you turned to him, noticing the irritation in his gaze as he eyed your wedding ring.

"Is there a problem, mister?" you asked as you followed his gaze to your ring.

Vox's expression remained inscrutable for a moment before he finally responded, his tone cool and detached.

"I suggest you ditch that," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It's a liability now. Doesn't do any favors for your image, doll."

"But I'm awfully attached. It's…" you began, your voice trailing off as you struggled to find a good enough excuse.

You knew all too well the consequences of revealing your connection, especially in your current vulnerable state. The mere mention of Alastor's name could unravel everything, plunging you deeper into this mess. With two powerful overlords and a soul contract hanging over your head like a guillotine, caution was not just a choice but a necessity.

"It's a symbol of your past life," Vox interjected, his voice cutting through your hesitation.

"And we're leaving that behind now." He extended his hand, the glint of his metal claws catching the dim light, mirroring the uncertainty in your expression. "Hand it over."

With a resigned sigh, you reluctantly slipped the ring off your finger, a pang of loss gripping your heart as you handed it to the overlord. Vox accepted it with a dismissive nod before tucking it into his pocket, his attention already turning back to the looming entrance of the V Tower.

As you entered the building flanked by both Vox and Velvette, you were immediately struck by the brash, modern atmosphere that engulfed you. The walls were painted in bold hues of pink and red, illuminated by the glare of oversized LED screens that flashed with images and advertisements for upcoming events. The floor beneath your feet was polished to a sterile sheen, reflecting the harsh neon lights that bathed the space.

Velvette, with her usual air of haughty superiority, led the way to your room, her steps brisk and impatient. She barely spared you a glance as she gestured towards the metal door that stood before you, its surface cold and unwelcoming.

With a swish of her fingers, she conjured an obtrusively bright star decoration on the wall, reminiscent of celebrity door decorations found in Hollywood, with your name scrawled in cursive on its surface.

"Right, if there's anything you need, you just go down to the lobby and find someone named Shalom," Velvette barked, her tone sharp and impatient, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.

"Say, is there a chance I could lay my mitts on a radio?" you asked, hoping to grasp onto some semblance of familiarity in this alien environment, your eyes flitting back and forth between the two of them.

But instead of a response, Vox began to buffer, his screen flashing with bright neon glitches, while Velvette's lips curled into a sneer, her expression one of thinly veiled contempt and amusement at your request.

"Guess I'll take that as a no then?" you smiled tensely, your attempt falling flat.

To your surprise, Vox shook his head, and his screen flashed back to his face, the glitches disappearing as quickly as they had come.

The TV demon reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek smartphone. Without a word, he plopped it into your hand, and you turned it over, confusion evident on your face.

"A phone?" you said, flabbergasted, your eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. You blinked in astonishment, the absurdity of the situation not lost on you. You were more surprised by the fact that it came from his pocket. Does he keep random smartphones on him at all times?

"Yes, a phone," Vox confirmed with a smirk, a hint of pride dancing in his eyes. "Consider it a courtesy from VoxTek. No need for a radio when we have such sleek products. This is the future! You don't need old shit from the past. Those radios barely pick up anything worth listening to, just crappy, barely audible broadcasts."

"Oh," you said, the air deflating from your lungs as a pang of disappointment settled in your chest. The phone was a thoughtful gesture, but it wasn't going to fix your longing to speak to Alastor. "Well. I suppose I should thank you."

"Don't mention it," Vox replied casually, his demeanor shifting back to its usual aloofness, his tone devoid of any genuine warmth or concern.

With a resigned sigh, you turned and stepped into your new room. You looked around the décor curiously, taking in the sleek modern furniture and it's peculiar design.

Velvette followed closely behind you, her eyes, framed with smoky eyeshadow, narrowing as she regarded you with disgust. The glint of her perfectly manicured nails caught the harsh overhead lights as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Really? A hooverette dress?" Velvette sneered, each syllable dripping with disdain. "You're like a relic from the '40s. Outdated."

You felt a surge of anger at the comment. Sure, you died near the 1940s, but that didn't mean you were outdated. Before you could even muster a response, Velvette raised a hand, and with a flick of her fingers, she effortlessly transformed the fabric of your dress. It rippled and shifted, morphing before your eyes into a pink silk pajama robe, trimmed with a cream-colored fur. She stepped back, a self-satisfied smirk curling her lips as she admired her handiwork.

"Much better," she declared with a clap. "Listen, you're representing VoxTek now. Even when sleeping, we can't have you looking like a washed-up has-been, can we?"

Swallowing your pride, you forced a tight-lipped nod, suppressing the urge to lash out in defiance.

"Yes, ma'am," you managed to grit out, your voice strained. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she retorted, her tone sharp and dismissive. "I've got a lot of work to do, and you've got a long way to go before I can get you stage ready."

With that, Velvette stormed out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor with each brisk step. As she disappeared from view, Vox leaned in, his shadow casting a long silhouette against the wall. He reached for the doorknob, his fingers gliding over the cool metal.

"Goodnight," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning. With a gentle pull, he closed the door with a thud, sealing you in with your thoughts and fears. The latch clicked shut, and you were left alone, enveloped in the eerie silence of the unfamiliar space.

With a heavy sigh, you turned to survey your room even closer.

Your eyes swept over the tall walls adorned with abstract artwork, bursts of vibrant colors contrasting sharply with the subdued hues of the furniture. The wide windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, with skyscrapers twinkling in the distance like distant constellations.

Approaching the plush king-sized bed, you sank into its cloud-like mattress, feeling its comforting embrace envelop you. It was definitely an improvement from Mimzy's lounge. And yet, despite the luxurious trappings, a sense of confinement lingered. After all, a gilded cage remains a cage.

As you assessed your situation, it became clear that you were going to be the star attraction in Velvette's upcoming fashion extravaganza. Her shows were always a hit, and this year's circus-themed spectacle had her buzzing with excitement. The lead model was a singer-actress you'd heard of; you'd seen her the day Mimzy dragged her into the lounge. Pity the poor girl died.

Given the circus motif, it was apparent why Velvette had chosen you. Your background as a singer, coupled with your doll-like appearance, made you the perfect fit for the role.

The best course of action now was to play it safe. Going along with her plan was sure to draw attention, from the lowest imps to Lucifer Morningstar himself. Your face was bound to be plastered on every screen in the infernal realm, broadcasted to demons and damned souls alike. Even with his hatred for the picture shows, Alastor would have to be both blind and deaf to miss this.

He would come for you, you knew it deep in your bones, and yet a pessimistic voice in the back of your head whispered doubts.

Did you even deserve to be taken back after all of this?

With these thoughts weighing heavily on your mind like an anchor dragging you into the depths, you closed your eyes, seeking solace in the darkness behind your lids. But sleep remained elusive, evading your grasp.

As the night wore on, exhaustion crept over you like a heavy fog, its tendrils enveloping you in a suffocating embrace. Despite the turmoil raging within, your body succumbed to weariness, and gradually, you slipped into your dreams.

˚୨୧₊♱

Both you and Alastor embarked on a slow journey through the darkened streets of Louisiana, the car's headlights cutting through the enveloping gloom like beacons. Carefully navigating the labyrinthine city, you avoided the occasional patrol car with its blinding flashlights, skirting through shadowed alleys and side streets to evade detection.

Finally reaching the outskirts of town, where the forest awaited, Alastor brought the car to a halt, the engine's low hum fading into silence. Turning to you, he noticed the fear etched on your face, your wide eyes reflecting the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

With a tender touch, Alastor took your face in his hands, calling for you. "Cher?"

You turned to him, your lips parting slightly as tears welled in your eyes. Alastor's touch was feather-light as his fingertips traced a delicate path along the curve of your cheek. With a gentle brush of his thumb, he coaxed your eyelids closed. Tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving a trail in their wake. As you blinked your eyes open again, you were met with the tender press of his lips against yours.

"We did what we had to do," Alastor murmured against your lips, his voice a low rasp that sent goosebumps dancing across your skin.

With his eyes closed, he leaned in closer, his kiss growing more urgent, almost desperate. You responded in kind, the roughness of the kiss igniting a fire within you.

Feeling his fingers threading through the back of your hair, you whimpered and melted into his embrace, your hands clutching onto his broad shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his button-up shirt. Alastor groaned in response as he lifted you effortlessly from the passenger seat and settled you onto his lap. Your chest pressed flat against his, the rhythm of your heartbeat syncing with his own.

As the sky grew darker, the moon mingling with the fading hues of sunset, the wind whispered through the open windows of the car, carrying with it the promise of a new beginning.

Alastor eventually pulled away, his gaze lingering on your tousled hair and puffy lips as he leaned back in his seat, taking in every detail of your appearance. Seeing you in such a ruined state stirred something within him.

"Are you ready?" he asked. You nodded meekly in response, your heart racing.

Truth be told, you didn't think you could ever truly be ready for what you were about to do.

Your husband hummed in acknowledgment, allowing you to slip off his lap as he straightened his brown coat, the fabric rustling softly with each movement.

Guiding you out of the car, he then reached into the backseat, retrieving his hunting gun. The metallic click of the firearm being loaded echoed in the quiet night. And you damn near fainted when he handed it to you, the weight of it feeling heavier than you could bear. The metal surface was icy against your palm, and you fought the urge to recoil, but Alastor pressed it firmly into your hand, his touch reassuring yet commanding.

"You'll need this," Alastor spoke lowly, bending down to your height, his glasses slipping further down the bridge of his nose. "Use it for safety. There might be wild animals out."

You hesitated, the weight of the weapon heavy in your hand, but the urgency in his tone spurred you to nod in agreement.

"Do you remember when I taught you how to hunt?" he questioned, slipping on a pair of dark leather gloves he had pulled out of his pocket. His voice was low and smooth, laced with a hint of nostalgia. "You remember how to shoot, no?"

You nodded, eyes still glued to the gun, unable to tear your gaze away.

"Words, cher. Use your words."

"Yes, love," you whispered, finding your voice. Alastor smiled, the rough texture of his glove grazing gently against your cheek as he pressed his hand to your face one last time before stepping away.

Your husband made his way to the trunk of the car, the soft glow of the taillights casting long shadows across the forest floor. With strong pull, he opened it, revealing its contents. Your breath caught in your throat as he retrieved a shovel and a black body bag, the sight sending a sickening feeling through your stomach.

Alastor slung the bag over his shoulder and began walking, his steps confident, as if he knew exactly where he was going. The weight of the bag seemed inconsequential to him, swinging lightly with each stride. There was an odd, almost unsettling look in his eyes as he whistled a tune, the sound echoing eerily through the silent woods. A glint of something primal and untamed flickered within their depths.

Nonetheless, you followed him, drawn to his presence like a moth to a flame.

Trudging deeper, the shadows seemed to grow darker, more menacing. The silence pressed in on you from all sides, broken only by Alastor's whistling and the sound of your footsteps crunching on the forest floor. Each step felt like a descent into madness, the unknown lurking just beyond the reach of your flashlight's beam.

Suddenly, Alastor halted in a secluded corner, where the trees were decaying, their long branches resembling gnarled fingers reaching out for you in the darkness. He turned to you, the dim light of your flashlight reflecting off his glasses, giving his brown eyes an otherworldly glint.

In that moment, illuminated by the pale beam, he looked almost demonic, his features twisted by the play of light and shadow.

"I'll be back shortly, cher," he hummed with a smile, adjusting the bag over his shoulder. You couldn't help but notice a darkened spot on his brown coat, the collar of his white button-up now stained with crimson. "Stay here."

With that, he disappeared into the darkness, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the forest, leaving you alone amidst the looming trees.

Time stretched on endlessly, each minute feeling like an eternity as you stood alone. Faintly, you could hear the distant sound of Alastor's shovel breaking through the earth's surface, its metallic scrape and the muffled thud as it struck the soil sending another wave of nausea curling in your gut, each noise a grim reminder of the task at hand.

All you wanted was to escape, to return to the safety of your quaint house in the city.

More than anything, you longed to open a bottle of whiskey, to drown your fears and sorrows in its comforting embrace. Maybe have a second, or a third, and just forget.

Forget about all of this. Forget it all ever happened. But deep down, you knew that no amount of alcohol could erase the memories of tonight, each image now etched into your mind like scars on your soul.

All of a sudden, a rustling sound behind you sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins, followed by the distant but unmistakable bark of dogs. The sound seemed to come from all directions, surrounding you in a menacing chorus.

With a sharp gasp, you spun round and round in a whirl, your vision tunneling with fear as you scanned the darkness, eyes wide and frantic. Every rustle of the leaves, every snap of a twig, seemed to magnify the sense of dread that gripped you. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the cool night air burning in your lungs as you struggled to keep your composure.

And then, without warning, something lunged from the darkness, a blur of movement that sent your heart racing even faster. Instinct took over, and without thinking, you raised the gun and fired, the deafening sound reverberating through the silent forest.

You gasped for air, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you found yourself sitting on the damp, muddy ground. The recoil of the gun had sent you sprawling backward, leaving you disoriented and breathless.

With trembling hands, you clutched the gun closer to your chest, the cold metal providing a shaky sense of security in the darkness. Despite the fear coursing through your veins, a surge of determination propelled you forward, your muscles tensed and ready for whatever danger lay ahead. Scrambling to your feet, you pushed yourself onward.

Each step was punctuated by the crunch of underbrush beneath your boots, the sound amplifying in the stillness of the forest. Amidst the shadows and foliage, you caught a blur of brown, relief flooding through you like a wave crashing against the shore.

Oh, heavens, it was just a deer.

As you trudged towards the poor animal, your foot caught on a branch, and you stumbled, the unforgiving forest floor meeting your body with a painful thud. In the fall, your gun slipped from your grasp, skidding off into the shadows.

Wincing, you pushed yourself up to your knees, the earthy scent of decay mingling with the metallic tang of blood. You looked toward the fallen creature, its form now visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the trees. But as you crawled over, dread crept into your heart.

There, lying face down on the dirt, was Alastor, his once-immaculate brown coat now dirtied, blending seamlessly with mud. His glasses lay shattered and discarded in front of him, glinting faintly in the dim moonlight that danced across the forest floor. A pool of crimson blood seeped from his head, staining the earth beneath him.

Your eyes widened with renewed horror as the truth dawned upon you, and you fell onto your back, scrambling away from the corpse of your husband, the damp earth sticking to your palms as you clawed at the ground in your panic.

The bark of the dogs were louder now, closer. Ignoring the dizzy vertigo in your head, you pushed yourself to your feet, your senses on high alert.

You choked out a broken apology but found that you could not hear it, that you could not make any sound at all.

You breathed, it was all you could do, all you could manage at the moment, and with the terrible weight on your chest, even that was made difficult.

What have you done?

˚୨୧₊♱

"Salutations! It's Tom back on the airwaves! Hold onto your hats because we've got some news that'll knock your socks off! Alastor Caron, the big shot radio host and husband of underground singer Dolly, also known as Y/N Caron, has been found pushing up daisies out in the sticks of Louisiana!

That's right, folks, he's dead!

Word on the street is, ol' Alastor met our maker with a bullet to the head in what can only be described as a real tragic whodunit. Sources close to the case are whispering in the wind, suggesting that Dolly herself might be mixed up in this spicy little affair. The coppers found her fingerprints on the gun! Can you believe it?! Stay tuned as we peel back the curtain and spill the tea on this sto—"

You shut the radio off with a frustrated slam of your fist, the sound echoing through the desolate living room.

Eviction papers and newspapers, crumpled and worn from countless readings, are strewn haphazardly across the table.

"Gone Girl," "Husband-killer," "Missing Marionette," "A Doll's Vanishing Act," "Manhunt underway for Suspected Murderer," "Louisiana Radio Host dead; Wife blamed."

The headlines scream, each word a painful reminder of the nightmare engulfing your life.

Empty bottles litter around you, their contents spilled and forgotten, the sharp scent of alcohol mingling with the drowning feeling of grief that permeates the room. Sirens wail in the distance while red and blue lights dance along the walls, cast by the dim light filtering through tightly shut curtains.

As you reach for another bottle, the drinks blur into one another, their labels indistinguishable in the dark room. The burning sensation as the liquid courses down your throat offers temporary relief from the turmoil raging inside your mind, numbing the pain and grief threatening to consume you. Each sip takes you further into a haze.

The room spins around you, items warping and dancing in a twisted mockery of your predicament. There are whispers now, soft and insidious, slithering into your ears like serpents. You try to push away the accusing voices echoing in your mind, drowning them out with your bottle's numbing embrace. But with each passing moment, the weight of the accusations grows heavier, dragging you deeper into despair.

Nausea churns in the pit of your stomach, and you finally stop moving, the dizziness overwhelming you. A deathly coldness settles over you, seeping into your bones like icy tendrils, causing you to shiver involuntarily. Your fingers lose their grip on the bottle, and it crashes to the ground with a shattering sound that echoes in the stillness of the room, shards of glass scattering across the floor like stars falling from the sky. You follow suit, collapsing onto the floor, limbs heavy and muscles twitching.

You stare vacantly ahead, unable to move, your eyes glazed over with a hollow emptiness as a sense of dread washes over you, suffusing the air with an oppressive weight. Each breath feels like a battle, your chest tightening with every inhalation, as if your lungs were filled with water.

Your breaths grow more labored, each one shallower than the last, until they eventually cease altogether, leaving you gasping for air that refuses to come.

The world around you fades into darkness, the edges of your vision blurring as consciousness slips away, leaving you engulfed in a silence broken only by the faint echo of your last heartbeat.

˚୨୧₊♱

There was screaming.

Footsteps thudded along a path nearby, accompanied by the fluttering of wings as creatures soared overhead.

You awaken with a startle, disoriented and groggy.

Slowly sitting up, you find yourself surrounded by a crimson landscape, a pentagram shimmering ominously in the air above you. As you move, your hand sinks into something cold and wet, a sickening squelch accompanying the sensation.

Horror grips you as you realize your hand is touching a corpse, its monstrous form adorned with twisted horns, jagged tails, and rows of sharp teeth. The pair of lifeless eyes shift and stare into you, devoid of any trace of humanity.

Frozen with terror and panic, you scramble away from the grotesque sight, the ground slick with crimson ichor, each step leaving bloody handprints and footprints in your wake.

The evening light of this place reveals a grim environment surrounding you – a lumpy, uneven field of corpses and bones, a mass grave unlike any you've ever seen. But these corpses are not human; they are demonic, twisted and contorted in death.

Before you can even make sense of this grotesque scene, a spear slices through the air, its sharp tip gleaming in the dim light. With a thud, it embeds itself into the ground beside you. A sharp, stinging sensation follows as your cheeks burn, crimson liquid trailing down your skin.

Gasping for breath, you look up and catch sight of a figure soaring overhead, its massive wings spread wide against the crimson sky. Each beat sends a gust of wind rushing past you, whipping your hair around your face. The figure's single eye fixates on you, its gaze piercing through the darkness, the other obscured by a large 'X' mark.

Adrenaline surges through your veins as you run away, the cold sweat of fear prickling your skin.

Your surroundings blur into a chaotic whirlwind as you race through the labyrinthine alleys of Hell. With every stride, your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. Each footfall echoes in the narrow passageways, the walls closing in around you like a vice, but the chase of the angel behind you drives you forward, your muscles burning with exertion as you push yourself to your limits.

Suddenly, you're yanked to a stop, your body colliding with a stone floor as you're pulled into a hidden doorway. Pain shoots through your arm, and you wince, clutching it tightly against your chest. It throbs with a dull ache, bruised from the fall.

As you cautiously lift your gaze, you find yourself in a familiar setting—a speakeasy, though more rugged and rundown than you were used to. The air is thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. Mismatched furniture and a barely held-together bar give the place a sense of makeshift charm.

"Well, look who it is."

The voice freezes you in place, and your eyes nervously move upward to see a familiar blonde woman before you, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light, her eyes dark and intense.

"Mimzy?" you whisper, disbelief coloring your voice.

"It's me!" she cheers, swinging her legs and jazzing her arms up in the air. With a jump, she plops onto the ground, circling your hunched-over form with a mischievous grin. "How you doin', Dolly?"

"How?" your mind scrambles. "You-You…"

"I know! You thought I was dead?" she snickers before knocking you upside the head playfully. "Welcome to the afterlife, you ditz!"

"What?" you rasp, eyes frantically darting from her to your surroundings. "What are you talking about? Why do you look like that?!"

"Look what? Adorable~?" Mimzy hums and waltzes over to a gramophone, inserting a disk and starting a scratching melody that fills the speakeasy.

Hello, Dolly! Well, hello, Dolly! It's so nice to have you back where you belong~

"Come on, Dolly," Mimzy says, her voice low and melodic as she sways to the music. The bedazzled fringes of her dress sparkle in the dim light as she twirls, her heels dragging along the floorboards. "You haven't been living under a rock, have you? Or did'ja just arrive?"

You're lookin' swell, Dolly I can tell, Dolly You're still glowin', you're still crowin' You're still goin' strong

"I don't understand," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to comprehend what's happening. Everything feels like a dream—a nightmare, more accurately. "Where am I? What's going on?"

"We're both dead," Mimzy chuckles, tapping her heels along to the beat.

We feel the room swayin' While the band's playin' One of your old favourite songs from way back when

"What do you mean?" you manage to croak out, the words barely audible over the music.

Mimzy pauses mid-twirl. "Oh, Dolly," she sighs, shaking her head. "Hell, darling. We're in Hell."

Your blood runs cold at her words, the reality of your situation sinking in like a heavy weight on your chest. The memories of that fateful night flood your mind, filling you with a sense of guilt and despair.

Before you can voice your thoughts, Mimzy grabs your hand and pulls you into a dance, the gramophone's melody swirling around you like a sinister lullaby.

"So, take her wrap, fellas," Mimzy sings along, her laughter echoing off the walls. Her eyes gleam with a mischievous light as she leads you through the steps of the choreography you once knew so well. She twirls you around and drops you into a dip. "Find her an empty lap, fellas!"

"Dolly'll never go away again~"

You feel a surge of frustration building within you, the absurdity of overwhelming your senses. With a shout of anger, you push Mimzy away, a scowl etched deep on your face. She stumbles back, nearly losing her balance in her heels, her smile fading into a look of annoyance.

"Will you cut it out!" you snap, your voice echoing in the empty speakeasy. "Tell me what's going on!"

"Killjoy." Mimzy rolls her eyes and lets out a scoff, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She moves over to the gramophone and turns it off, the melody abruptly silenced.

"I just told you what was going on, you doof!" Mimzy retorts, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The speakeasy falls into an uneasy silence, the air thick with tension, broken only by the faint sound of distant screams echoing outside the building. You gesture toward the source of the noise with a look of shock.

"Alright, I know well enough why I'm here, but what is that?" you inquire, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"An extermination. Angels come here to rid of sinners and such," Mimzy shrugs, her expression nonchalant despite the gravity of her words.

"Well, what about Alastor?" you press, the worry evident in your voice.

Mimzy's expression darkens, a flicker of anger crossing her features before she quickly masks it with a smirk. "Oh, you mean your darling husband? He's probably causing chaos somewhere, as usual. He'll be fine."

"I don't think he even knows you're here," she adds on with a yawn. "He probably thinks you're up in the shiny gates of heaven with his momma or something."

"Al knows I'm already dead?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yup!" Mimzy chirps, her grin widening. "Your death came out in the news months ago. But only Lord knows why it took 'em so long to get you through purgatory."

The barrage of new information leaves you dizzy, your head spinning with the implications. "Wait—my death? The news?"

Mimzy moves over to the bar, kneeling down the worn floorboards as she digs through the bottom drawers.

"Didja know there's this little killin' business in Hell? I.M.P.—the Immediate Murder Professionals. And there's this cute little fella named Blitzo who does deliveries for me. I was his first costumer and poor guy needs the extra money so—"

"Mimzy, why are you telling me this?" you interject, confusion evident in your tone.

Mimzy's grin widens as she peeks at you from over the counter, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Well, sweetcheeks," she purrs, continuing to leaf through piles of paper, "if you paid attention to their name, they do murder. Murder in the human world, to be exact. And I hired them to go snuff you out!"

"But lo and behold, to my surprise," Mimzy continues, her tone laced with amusement, "you did their job for 'em! And this is what they brought back as proof."

With a flourish, Mimzy procures a newspaper from the depths of the cabident, her hands waving it around in excitement. She throws it to you, and you catch it, fumbling to see the headline. Your stomach churns as you take in the bold letters.

'LAST SWING: Speakeasy Star Suspected of Husband's Murder Dies in Alcohol Overdose.'

"Hi-larious!" Mimzy snorts as she presses a finger against the title, her expression gleeful. You hold the paper up, your hands trembling as you read through the article detailing your own death.

With a cackle, Mimzy jumps onto a nearby table, her movements lithe and energetic as she snatches the paper away from you.

"So, did'ja do it?" she taunts, leaning in close to your face with a devilish grin. "Didn't take you as the type. What was it? Poison? Housewife classic, I tell ya. Maybe a knife? Good ole push him down the stairs? Or was it a gun?"

You tense up at her last words, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. Mimzy smirks, her snicker ringing out like a sinister melody. Curls bounce around her face as she leans in closer, her lips practically ghosting against your cut.

"You shot him?"

"I—" you stutter, your breath catching in your throat as you run a hand through your frazzled hair, the disheveled strands tangling under your trembling fingers. "I didn't mean to! Heavens. I thought he was a deer!"

At that, Mimzy bursts out in loud laughter, tears streaming down her face as she clutches her stomach, doubling over with mirth. The sound echoes off the grimy walls of the speakeasy.

"Is that right?" she wheezes between fits of laughter, slapping her knee while still shaking with amusement. "No wonder he looks like a deer! Oh! The irony!"

"Deer?" you whisper out in confusion, your mind struggling to grasp the implications of her words amidst the chaos of her laughter. She laughs even harder at your response, kicking her feet in the air with unrestrained glee.

After a few minutes, she finally calms down. With a skip in her step and a glint in her eyes, she saunters over to you. Humming a tune, Mimzy twirls around you again, her movements fluid and graceful despite her earlier outburst.

"I know something you don't know~" she sings.

"What do you mean?" you frown, your voice trembling as you gaze at her, searching for any hint of what she's hiding.

"All in good time. I've told you a lot already, didn't I?" Mimzy replies cryptically, her tone snappy. "Let's see—I graciously saved you from that angel that was ready to spill your guts out, I've given you a wonderful welcome, helped you learn about your death, and, well, you were involved in my murder. I'd say the scales aren't balanced! You owe me. A lot."

Guilt churns in your gut as you nervously wring your hands. "Mimzy, no words can express how much guilt I feel about your—"

"Oh, cut the weeping dame bullshit. I don't care about that," Mimzy interrupts with a roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand. Her eyes gleam with a predatory intensity as she leans in closer.

"I'm feeling generous today," she purrs, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. "So, I'll make you a deal."

You eye her warily, the guilt in your gut twisting into a knot of apprehension. Despite your unease, you nod, silently urging her to continue, bracing yourself for whatever devil's bargain she has in store.

"In exchange for absolving your involvement in my murder and providing information on your husband," she whispers, her voice dripping with malice, "you'll owe me a favor. A big one. I want you to work for me again."

You tense, your mind racing as you process her proposition, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. "What?"

Mimzy's smirk widens at your reaction, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she relishes in your discomfort. "That's right, sugar. I want you back on the job, working for me just like old times."

"Well I… I don't have much of a choice, do I?" you reply, clenching your fists in frustration.

Mimzy's laughter reverberates through the speakeasy, each chuckle sending shivers down your spine.

"Of course not! Would you prefer to go running to Alastor instead? Oh, dear hubby, please shield me from the consequences of my sins! My apologies for putting a bullet in your skull!" she mocks your voice, drawling the syllables out as she clasps her hands together and bats her eyes at you.

A surge of humiliation and guilt washes over you, weighing heavy on your shoulders as you struggle to come to terms with the choices before you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. Despite the overwhelming guilt and shame swirling within you, you know that you're cornered. Mimzy has you right where she wants you, and the only way out is to play her game.

"Fine," you say through gritted teeth, your voice tinged with resignation. "I'll work for you again."

Mimzy's grin widens, her sharp teeth flashed at you. "Excellent choice, darling. You won't regret it."

With a snap of her fingers, a contract materializes in her hand. She hands it over to you, and you read through it. Funnily enough, it looks almost identical to your previous employment contract in the living with her, but one detail catches your eye.

"To settle the debt incurred due to the aforementioned act, Y/N Caron, acknowledging the gravity of her transgressions, agrees to become a singer for Mimzy's Lounge for a duration of ten decades," you read the line in shock. Turning to Mimzy, you clutch the contract tightly, your nails threatening to break the paper. "Ten decades?!"

"What?" Mimzy scoffs, her voice dripping with derision. "You stuck here for all of eternity anyways, and so is your husband. Might as well do something."

With a theatrical flourish, Mimzy reaches into her chest and pulls out a pen, waggling it teasingly in your face. "So? What will it be? Are ya gonna sign the contract? Or am I gonna have to throw you out where those angels can tear you to pieces?"

You read through the contract again, your eyes frantically scanning the paper for any loophole or escape route, but you come up empty-handed. With a sinking feeling in your chest, you realize that you're in this for the long haul.

"But what about Alastor?" you pressed, urgency creeping into your voice.

Mimzy's laughter filled the speakeasy, bouncing off the walls like mocking echoes. "Oh, sweetheart," she cooed with faux sympathy, "haven't you read the fine print? Your dear Alastor is strictly off-limits. Can't have him interfering with our little arrangement, now can we?"

"But… I need to see him," you pleaded, desperation lacing your words.

Mimzy's smirk widened into a wicked grin as she leaned in closer, mischief gleaming in her eyes. "And I need to make sure my end of the deal is fulfilled," she countered firmly.

Glancing down at the contract, you saw her pointing to a specific section. "Y/N Caron's husband, Alastor Caron, is strictly forbidden from being physically present around her in any way, shape, or form for the safety and integrity of this agreement."

"But… can't we find some middle ground?" you asked, a sliver of hope lingering in your voice.

"Ah, I've got an idea," Mimzy grinned , reaching into her drawer and pulling out an old radio. She extended it towards you. "You can talk with him as much as you like. This little radio will be your hotline to him. But there's a catch: he stays far, far away from you and this joint. How's that sound?"

Twisting the radio in your trembling hands, you felt the weight of the decision settle heavily on your shoulders. The device seemed ancient, its surface worn and its knobs slightly rusted, yet it held the power to bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap between you and Alastor. With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly brought the pen to the paper, the ink blotting the sheet as you signed your name away, sealing your fate.

"It's a deal."

#sephiewrites #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel velvette

3K notes · View notes

rememberwren · 5 months ago

Text

A Girl (Not Mine) || 1

Ghost is a little obsessed with Soap and a lot obsessed with Soap's girlfriend--you.

About this: ghoap/fem!reader, suspension of disbelief regarding anything military related is actually necessary for enjoyment, canon-typical trauma for Simon, intrusive thoughts, slut shaming, voyeurism, fingering, accidentally seeing nudes not meant for you, poor writing unless you squint, try squinting. 4k

“I’m so glad I got a girl to think of,

Even though she isn’t mine.”

The first time Johnny mentions you, the 141 is fresh from a month-long leave.

Ghost has a love-hate relationship with time spent off duty. He’d like to enjoy it—to do fuck all, to hike through Clayton Vale twice in a day if it suits him, to drink tea for every meal. But all leave does is remind him of the glaring emptiness in his life, the one he usually fills with violence. So he spent the month climbing up the walls and crawling out of his skin, waiting to be called back like a dog brought to heel.

Here was his comeuppance for craving something to fucking do instead of relaxing the way Price had told him to do. Now they were on their way to San Lorenzo in Ecuador dealing with Ghost’s least favorite flavor of criminal: drug cartels.

It’s too close to Mexico. Too close to that which he would forget gladly if it didn’t come with the loss of so many valuable skill sets. He’s crawling out of his skin for a whole new reason, watching the water fly by beneath them, deep in memories.

Ghost takes all those feelings, fears, remembrances and swallows them whole. Lets them sink to a sour, dark place in his belly. He sits tense on the helo, still except for the rise and fall of his chest, his rifle a familiar weight across his knees. Sometimes he has to shut his eyes, swallowing against the rising nausea.

He only has half an ear on Garrick and Johnny’s conversation beside him, but it is all he needs to follow along.

“—lass of my own now,” Johnny is saying around a laugh, his accent thick enough to chafe at Ghost’s skin in a way he doesn’t want to examine, one that leaves him feeling raw but not necessarily hurt. “So no more picking up the barflies back in Hereford.”

“She making an honest man out of you, Tav?”

“Aye, you could say that.” Johnny sounds proud of the fact. It all is so far from anything Simon has experienced in his life that he feels no distant stirring of empathy, not even a muted sense of familiarity in the words. Honest men do not exist.

Not to mention, Simon’s never had a woman (willingly) and he never will.

“You love her?” Garrick asks, earnestly interested to hear the answer. Ghost couldn’t care less.

“Aye. There’s something special about her.”

“What, she’s cool with anal?”

Johnny crows with laughter, and now Ghost does feel something: annoyance, cloying, creeping up his spine like a spider in a web headed for the wiggling maggot of his brain.

“Will you two ever shut up?” he snaps. “Not a moment’s fucking peace since we boarded.”

“Sorry LT,” Johnny says, sounding genuinely apologetic. Ghost cuts his eyes toward the other man, assessing for honesty. Johnny’s face is too expressive: brows lifted, eyes wide and earnest, mouth tipped into a tiny grimace, like the thought of irritating Ghost gives him real pain. Between the two of them, Ghost can’t help but think that it’s Johnny who needs a mask if he wants to survive in the world.

Ghost doesn’t have the energy for this. He goes back to watching the scenery pass by. They are over trees now: thick lush jungle, the scent of which he associates with pain—plenty of which was his own. Plenty of which he caused to others.

“What about you, LT?” Johnny asks, calling out over the sound of the helicopter blades. “Do you have a woman back home?”

Ghost lets his head turn, slow and dangerous. Johnny’s audacity never fails to surprise him. “What do you think, Johnny?”

“Honestly?”

“Go on, then.”

“You look like if yeh’ve got a woman, she’s probably locked in yer basement.”

(right where she’d belong.)

Garrick slaps Johnny’s thigh, his face mottled with panic. He hisses under his breath, something like, There are faster ways to die, Tav! Less painful ways, too, Ghost thinks. He fixes Johnny with a dead stare. The silence stretches, growing long and thin and dangerous, like the blade of a knife, until Johnny looks away.

“Think less about my private life, Sergeant,” he warns him.

“Not often you tell me to think less, LT.”

Ghost just grunts, finished with the conversation, returning his unseeing eyes to the trees and slipping back into his own memories.

That should be—well, not the end of it. He expects Johnny to become insufferable about it; that’s just the other man’s way. Still, Ghost had never expected to see you.

He’s doing paperwork in the rec room, too stifled by the tiny, enclosed space of his office to remain there. Paperwork and debriefing are always his least favorite parts of an op. Give him a gun with which to kill and he will gladly kill; give him a pen with which to write and he spends half the time thinking about burying it in his own eye. Garrick and Johnny are there nearby fucking around on their phones having finished with their easy portion of the work ages ago.

A phone is what Johnny thrusts beneath Ghost’s nose. It takes all of his mental fortitude not to flinch away from the unexpected action (or, more likely, not to rip Johnny’s arm off and beat him half to death with it). His eyes flicker down to the screen on instinct and—there you are.

You have one eye squinted shut, your hand up to create a visor against the overbearing sun. The picture shows you from the bust upwards, and Simon sees it for approximately one full second before he grips Johnny’s wrist in a brutal hold and forces the hand and the phone away.

It’s already too late. He’s committed you to memory. The way your hair sits, its color in the blistering sun. The curve of your lips (fuckable, he thinks against his will) as you give Johnny behind the camera an exasperated smile. The arch of your nose (images now—fingers pinching noses shut, forcing mouths further down his cock just to watch them choke and struggle)—

“Get that out of my face,” he grits out through his teeth. His thoughts won’t stop, not now that the floodgates have been opened, and it makes him feel like a dog backed into a corner, frightened-violence rising up in the back of his throat like bile.

—the smooth line of your throat (and his hands around it, choking the light from your eyes just to fuck you when you’re soft and pliable and he doesn’t have to listen to you crying and begging)—shut UP!—

“It’s just my girl, sir,” Johnny laughs, his own eyes flickering back down to your image on the phone, like they are drawn to you. Like it is hard to look away. Ghost doesn’t have that problem—he has some discipline left. “And it’s not as if she’s naked.”

Ghost grips the pen in his hand so tightly that the plastic shell cracks. He’s barely keeping it together, sick and afraid and horrified and angry that Johnny has done this to him—has done this to his own girl—

His voice is rough when he croaks out: “What makes you think I care to see her, Sergeant?”

“‘S it wrong to share the most important person in my life with the other most important people in my life?” Johnny says, eyes too guileless to be taken seriously.

“Share less,” he snaps.

“Been saying that to me an awful lot lately, sir.”

“A good Sergeant would take my words to heart.”

“A good lieutenant would know a futile lesson when it’s biting him in the arse.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Johnny. As much as I hate paperwork, I’d write you up—gladly.”

Johnny gapes. “What for?”

Ghost grins without mirth, mask stretching around his features. Even grinning cruelly like this, his face feels unused to any expression that is adjacent to happiness. He swears darkly: “I’ll find a reason.”

It would send anyone else running. Even Garrick looks fearful, though fascinated: the same look a man wears when he’s watching a car crash in progress. But if sense were dynamite, Johnny wouldn’t have enough to blow his nose. Instead, he just flops down on the couch close enough to flutter the pages in Ghost’s lap. Close enough for their knees to brush.

“Jesus, you’re a tadger today,” Johnny says quietly, boot knocking against Ghost’s, a touch he feels all the way up his leg. “Shove off some of that paperwork on us. What’s the use of being a lieutenant if you can’t lord it over your sergeants?”

“I’m sorry, us?” Garrick asks.

“I don’t shirk my responsibilities, Johnny,” Ghost says coldly, gathering his papers. His elbow brushes against Johnny’s ribs, the firm, burning warmth of the other man’s body. He jerks away. He’ll take the stifling seclusion of his office, that makeshift coffin, before he subjects himself to any more of this. “You’d do well to follow my example.”

Ghost resolutely does not think of you. Not during quiet lazy moments on base, not during the frustration of training recruits, especially not during the eerie calm of missions. You do not cross his mind.

His dreams are another thing altogether.

There are the dreams where he hurts and the dreams where he is hurting, and he doesn’t know which are worse. He only knows that they are made worse by your strange presence: your body bent and being broken in by others; you, bent and being broken in by him. He wakes in cold sweats, jaw aching from gritting his teeth in his sleep.

He hates himself for this last place where he cannot execute control: his subconscious.

“Mail?” Johnny asks cheerfully at the sight of Garrick seated on the bench outside the DFAC, a stack of papers and letters laying on his lap.

Johnny is sweaty, gray t-shirt clinging to his toned body as he (for once) keeps a companionable silence at Ghost’s side. They have been training recruits all day—work which Ghost considers far beneath his pay grade, but which he can’t refuse when ops are so slow to arrive and when he is so eager (desperate) to keep busy. Ghost lets himself sit heavily on the bench a safe distance away from Garrick, sweat cooling on his own body.

He’s not ready to be alone yet.

He’s allowed to do that. To want company. Of all the people on base, Garrick and Johnny (and Price) might be the most tolerable of the lot of them. During the rare moments when the pitiful piece of humanity left inside him craves companionship, this is the least painful method to mainline it.

He ignores the lack of letters for him. There is no mail for Ghost—there never is.

Garrick passes Johnny no less than four envelopes. Johnny’s soft smile as he flips through them speaks volumes. Ghost can guess who they’re from: his mother likely, who writes as often as she can. One of his various sisters, surely. Take your pick. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Johnny flip through the letters and settle on one in particular, thicker than the others, tearing it open and tugging the letter out.

The pictures slip from the folded piece of paper and fall to the ground.

Johnny dives to grab them, but all it does is bring Garrick’s attention to them more. Even Ghost’s interest is piqued, his dark eyes giving up pretending to watch the recruits limp back to their barracks to shower before dinner and following Johnny’s hasty movements instead, watching the hot flush that crawls up the back of his Sergeant’s neck.

“What are those?” Garrick asks.

“No’ a thing.”

Garrick lights up. He practically tosses his letter to the side. “She sent you pictures?”

“Possibly,” Johnny says smuggly, the images—old fashioned Polaroids, a nice touch—pressed to his chest. His eyes narrow at the expression on Garrick’s face. “Don’t even think about it, Gaz—!”

Garrick pounces. The two begin grappling, both of their faces split into wide grins. Johnny can only defend himself with one arm, his other protectively clutching the photographs to his bosom. They take each other to the ground and Ghost watches, half interested and half irritated, wondering who will win.

The pictures go flying—and fate’s invisible bitch of a hand causes them to land at Ghost’s feet. Garrick and Johnny freeze.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, the same way he knows that he’s going to. Ignoring their renewed struggles on the ground as they fight to untangle themselves and stand, he leans down and reaches for the photographs.

The white of the Polaroid’s edges contrast nicely with his dark gloves as he gathers the pictures together like a deck of scattered cards.

“LT—“

They’re relatively tame. Perhaps you knew the high risk of sending them. In one you are kneeling on a bed amongst a sea of mussed, white sheets, wearing nothing but a t-shirt that you have tugged down between your parted thighs to offer yourself some modesty. It is painful to flip to the next one, but pain calls to Ghost, lures him in. In another you’re wearing some strappy lingerie but still covered artfully by the sheets, both hands covering your eyes, a grin on your face like you are mid laugh. Did Johnny take these photos of you himself? Did a stranger? A friend? Another shows your side profile, back arched, topless, every inch of you curved and poised.

You’re (a filthy little slut) so fucking pretty.

“Give ‘em back, LT, please,” Johnny asks gently, like he expects Ghost to tear them to shreds. Or confiscate them.

Ghost drops the photographs to the bench, wishing he could scrub the images of you from his mind. He shouldn’t have picked them up in the first place. It’s adding fuel to the fire of his broken brain, and he knows that he will pay for it dearly.

Johnny is talking. “—shy, she’d just die to know you saw.”

“She’ll only know if you tell her, Johnny,” Ghost reminds him. His mouth feels numb, his brain the quiet granted by white noise, a conglomerate of screams.

Johnny frowns. “Suppose so. You alright?”

“Since Ghost saw—“

“No, Gaz.”

Ghost watches the two of them enter the building.

His hand burns, where he has palmed the picture of you topless. He stands and slips the Polaroid into his back pocket. It’s on the tip of his tongue to call out for Johnny and give him the picture back—he could find some excuse, and Johnny would believe him, he knows it—but he doesn’t. He makes for his room, feeling sick with himself. He isn’t hungry. Not for food.

Ghost is compromised.

The thought replays in his mind over and over again as he drives to Price’s house in Solihull. You and Johnny have crawled beneath his skin and infected him, dug your way into his DNA and are affecting everything from his decision making capabilities to his dreams. He knows that going anywhere where you both will be is a mistake, but it’s one he can’t seem to help hurdling himself toward at high speed.

Nothing will happen, he tells himself, knuckles white against the steering wheel. He only does what he allows himself to do—no more. The others will be there at least, Garrick and Price and Johnny himself. Physical barriers between him and you. Human meat shields, if necessary. Ghost wouldn’t dare to lay a finger on you. (But who would stop him if he tried? Who could?) You are safe, he tells himself.

He is the last to arrive, dragging his feet up the concrete steps to the two story brick historical home that Price owns. He lets himself in the way that Price told him to and can tell by the eerie silence of the house that everyone is already outside enjoying the well-landscaped yard. Already he sees the evidence of you: a purse (go through it) laid neatly on the dining room table. He sets his keys beside it but does not touch it.

Ghost doesn’t bother trying to delay the inevitable. Every part of him wants to run, but that’s all he’s ever wanted his whole life. He’s used to it by now, used to being forced to walk toward the thing which terrified him. He squares his shoulders and slides open the patio door, slipping back out into the muggy heat of the afternoon, face mask in place, hood up.

The landscaping is one of the best features of Price’s house. The privacy fence is tall and appealing to Ghost’s seclusive nature, the lawn neatly clipped. There is a hedgerow running along the southern edge of the fence that is meticulously maintained. Flower beds lined with bricks rest along the house full of geraniums and phlox. The patio is smooth stone with an inlaid fire pit that would be crackling if the weather were any milder. An iron-wrought table sits nearby surrounded by chairs, and seated there are Garrick, Johnny, and Price.

You are over by the flowers, kneeling in the soft grass, picking phlox just a few shades darker than the sundress you’re wearing, the one that skims your soft thighs. Ghost’s eyes roam over you and away all before your head even turns at the sound of the door opening.

“LT,” Johnny calls, lighting up. “You made it!”

“Didn’t think you’d show, Lieutenant,” Garrick says with a smile.

“As if he’s got something better to be doing than spending time with us,” Johnny crows.

“Jesus, will you two leave the man alone? Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already regretting coming,” Price says. Ghost inclines his head, grateful for the backup.

He hears your approach, the soft sound of your flats against the patio stone. You are small (weak) compared to him, craning your head up to look in his eyes. He hates the dark part of his brain that calls you easy prey as he watches you twist the phlox stems between anxious fingers.

“You must be Simon—” Johnny shakes his head a little, subtle, visible only out of the corner of Ghost’s eye. “—ah—Ghost? I mean—”

“I don’t care what you call me,” he admits.

“Ghost,” you settle where it is nice and safe. “It’s nice to meet you. John talks about you all the time.”

“Likewise,” Ghost says flatly, hoping you will not mistake it for a compliment.

Garrick snorts. “Never shuts up about you is more likely.”

There aren’t enough chairs for everyone, so you sit on Johnny’s lap, legs crossed demurely, skirt riding up around your upper thighs. He wonders about the softness of your skin, wonders if his calloused touch would hurt you or if you’re used to Johnny’s by now. He could make it hurt. The thought doesn’t come with any zing of pleasure, just the cold apathy of fact. Has Johnny ever tried that? Has he ever—

Ghost’s gloved hand clenches into a fist, curling around the iron armrest of the chair. He takes a measured breath and holds it until his lungs ache. Those thoughts aren’t his own. They come from the dark part that Roba seeded inside him, that part with creeping vines too deep to root out. That part with thorns.

He could hurt you, the same way he could hurt anyone, he tells himself. But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to.

He does only what he allows himself to do. No more. No less.

You and Johnny stand, heading into the house to retrieve a round of drinks for everyone. Ghost watches Johnny’s hand dip low on your back to the curve of your ass as he guides you through the open door, shutting it behind you.

“Are you alright, Simon?” Price asks around a cigar. “I know meeting new people isn’t exactly in your repertoire.”

“Don’t mother me.”

“Don’t have to be your mother to care about you.”

“Garrick—get lost,” Ghost barks.

The iron chair legs screech against the stone of the patio as Garrick stands hastily. “Had the same thought, sir. Hedges look lovely this time of year.”

When Garrick is properly out of earshot, pretending to find amusement in the neat hedgerows along the fence line, Ghost says: “I shouldn’t have come. I’m… I— can’t be left alone with her.”

“With—? Soap’s gal?”

Ghost grits his teeth in shame and nods.

“Do you know her?”

Ghost shakes his head in the negative, but it’s not necessarily true. He knows a thousand women just like her, soft and unexpecting. The betrayal always cuts deeper than his cock could reach (estoy preso, somos lo mismo, por favor).

He stands, chair legs dragging against the stone. “This was a mistake. I need to leave.”

“If you say so,” says Price, knowing better than to argue. “Go around the side. You won’t even have to see them.”

“My keys are inside. I’ll be quick.”

“Take care of yourself, Simon,” says Price, his eyes dark and lips downturned as he watches Ghost stalk to the patio door and slip inside.

He braces himself to see you and Johnny in the kitchen, but when the door slides open near-silent, neither of you are anywhere to be seen. Like a fool, he considers himself lucky. Quiet as his namesake, Ghost goes to the table and picks up his keys, palming them.

That’s when he hears it. The unmistakable muted slap of flesh on flesh.

(Go look.)

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, but that is his modus operandi these days: failing himself, doing what he isn’t meant to, seeing what is not for his eyes. His feet carry him silently to the door, which is cracked open just wide enough for him to see through into the room. It is a guest bedroom judging by the bland decor, the queen sized bed. Johnny has you sprawled on it, your sundress hitched up around your waist, his fingers buried to the final knuckle inside your cunt. Ghost can hear the way it squelches from all the way outside the door, knows that you must be dripping down Johnny’s wrist.

“Keep quiet, love,” Johnny pants, one hand over your mouth (he’s not doing it right) to muffle the whines and groans trying to slip past your lips. “Needy little thing, aren’t yeh? Squirming in my lap, making my cock hard right there in front of my Captain, in front of my Lieutenant—“

You whine something back, but it is lost into his palm.

“Don’t have time to get my cock in you,” Johnny sighs, twisting his fingers inside you, hooking them to press against that tender spot past your pubic bone that has your knees knocking together. He shifts his palm down to grip your neck, your panting breaths filling the room. “But you can bet this dress is coming off as soon as we’re home, do y’hear me?”

“Yessir,” you whisper, and it has Ghost’s cock throbbing.

This is not for him. He thinks about Johnny’s words from months ago: that you are shy. There’s no chance you would ever want to be seen like this by him. Reaching out, he grips the doorknob and quietly tugs the door closed, til the sound of Johnny’s palm slapping against your clit is muffled behind the wood.

He takes his keys and is gone before you ever know he was there.

Johnny texts him later that night:

Why’d you leave early, you numpty? We wanted more time with you.

Ghost doesn’t respond. He’s too busy spiraling in his own flat, losing control every few minutes and slipping back into that place of pain and blood and dirt.

An hour later, Johnny ends up adding, My girl wants me to say she was glad she got to meet you. Only Jesus knows why! Ghost definitely doesn’t respond to that. But he doesn’t delete the messages either.

#ghoap x reader

948 notes · View notes

kirammanswifey · 10 days ago

Text

《Beneath Her Wings》

Caitlyn

writer's note: attorney caitlyn it's so fucking hot. it was so cute writing this, i felt butterflies in my stomach and i still do, i want a caitlyn kiramman in my life too please i'm begging. anyways, this little (pretty long) scenarios comes from my arcane imagines, i'll let the link down there for anyone is interested, also i'll be posting a story for each one of those scenarios for this week, tomorrow it's silco's turn ;)

link:

warnings: smut, scissoring, breastfeeding kink, lap riding, mentions of physical assault, harassment, fluff and a lot of drama but it has a happy ending.

The sound of your heels against the marble floor echoed subtly in the spacious hallway. The white walls, adorned with minimalist paintings, felt cold, almost intimidating. In front of you, the frosted glass door bore the name "Caitlyn Kiramman, Attorney." Your hand trembled slightly as you turned the knob. This wasn’t the first time you sought professional help since the divorce, but something about this place felt different. Perhaps it was her prestigious reputation, or maybe the faint hope that this time, someone might truly help you.

Inside, a receptionist with a kind face greeted you with a cordial gesture. “Ma’am, Attorney Kiramman will see you shortly. Would you like some water or coffee while you wait?”

“Water, please,” you replied, though the lump in your throat made drinking seem impossible. You sat in a leather-upholstered chair, feeling small in the wide and sophisticated space.

It wasn’t long before the door opened, and Caitlyn Kiramman made her entrance. Her slender figure, wrapped in a perfectly tailored suit, exuded an imposing yet non-aggressive authority. Her dark hair, tied in an impeccable bun, contrasted with her piercing blue eyes. She walked towards you with confident strides and extended a hand.

"You must be my new client. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Caitlyn," she said with a voice that was both professional and warm. Her British accent was quite captivating.

You stood up, shaking her hand with a mix of nervousness and caution. "Thank you for seeing me… I know your schedule must be very busy."

“There’s always time for someone who needs help,” she replied with a faint smile. “Please, come into my office.”

The office reflected her personality: modern, structured, and welcoming in just the right measure. Shelves full of neatly arranged law books lined the walls, and a painting of a mountain landscape adorned the main wall. Caitlyn gestured to a chair in front of her desk and waited for you to sit before taking her seat.

“Well,” she began, pulling out an elegant leather notebook and a fountain pen. “Before we begin, I want you to know that everything you share with me is absolutely confidential. My goal is to make sure you get the justice you deserve. But for that, I need you to be completely honest with me. Are you ready?”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her gaze on you. There was something in her eyes, a blend of professionalism and empathy, that made you want to trust her, even though your instincts screamed that trusting someone again was a risk.

“Yes… I’m ready,” you replied, though the truth was you weren’t sure you were.

Caitlyn nodded calmly. “Perfect. Then let’s start from the beginning. Why did you decide to get a divorce?”

The air suddenly seemed heavier. You looked at your hands, playing with your fingers in an attempt to keep your composure. The words were trapped in your throat, as if saying them would make everything real again.

"My ex-husband... he wasn’t who he seemed to be at first," you began, your voice barely a whisper. "When we got married, I thought I had found someone who loved me. But over time, he changed. It started with small things: constant criticism, unfounded jealousy. And then… it became physical."

Caitlyn’s face remained neutral, though her eyes reflected a spark of contained indignation. "Can you be more specific? This is important for the case."

You took a deep breath, trying to gather strength. "He hit me. When things didn’t go his way, he’d take out his anger on me. He told me I was nobody without him, that no one else would ever want me. And for a while… I believed him."

Your voice broke on the last word, but Caitlyn didn’t interrupt. She gave you space to continue, which was, in a way, comforting.

"After a long time, something inside me broke. I couldn’t take it anymore. I asked for a divorce, but he… he didn’t accept it. He’s still harassing me, calling me, showing up at places he knows I’ll be. It’s like I can’t escape him, even after leaving."

Caitlyn set her pen down on the desk, leaning forward slightly. Her expression was serious but not stern. "I’m so sorry you had to go through that. No one deserves to live like that, and I’m glad you found the courage to leave. Now, let’s make sure he has no power over you ever again."

Her words resonated with you, though part of you still doubted. You’d heard promises before—from friends, therapists, even other attorneys. But Caitlyn seemed different. There was a conviction in her tone that made you want to believe her, even though the fear lingered, ever-present.

“What can we do?” you finally asked, your voice still trembling.

“First, I’m going to request a restraining order to keep him from coming near you,” Caitlyn explained with a confidence that was almost reassuring. “I’ll also review the terms of your divorce to ensure you’re fully protected legally. This includes any financial or property agreements he might be using to manipulate you.”

You nodded slowly, feeling a faint spark of hope. “Thank you… I really appreciate it.”

Caitlyn smiled, this time with a touch of softness. “It’s my job, but it’s also the right thing to do. No one should live in fear. And if you ever need to talk about anything, don’t hesitate to call me. I’m here to help, not just as your attorney, but also as someone who cares about your well-being.”

Her words disarmed you. You weren’t used to someone caring about you without expecting something in return. Maybe, just maybe, Caitlyn Kiramman was different.

When you left her office that afternoon, you felt as if something inside you had shifted. Perhaps it wasn’t hope yet, but it was a small glimmer of possibility. Maybe this time, things could be different.

The sunlight streamed through the windows of your apartment, illuminating the unpacked boxes still occupying the corner of the living room. Days had passed since your first meeting with Caitlyn, and although she had promised to work on your case, the anxiety continued to linger like a shadow. Every time your phone vibrated, your body tensed. It was always the same: a message, a call, or an email from your ex-husband.

Today was no exception. The phone on the table started ringing. You instantly recognized the number, and a shiver ran down your spine. You hesitated for a moment but finally picked it up, as if facing him was inevitable.

“What do you want?” you asked, your voice dry.

On the other end of the line, your ex-husband's voice carried the same false sweetness you knew all too well. “I just wanted to know how you’re doing. I worry about you being alone in that big apartment. You don’t have to do this alone, sweetheart. We can fix things.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m not your ‘sweetheart.’ I don’t want to hear from you again.”

There was an awkward silence before his tone shifted, becoming colder, more menacing. “Don’t be so ungrateful. You know no one else will take care of you the way I did. You’re acting like a child, but I promise you this isn’t over.”

You hung up before he could say anything else, dropping the phone on the table as if it burned. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You wouldn’t give him that power, not again.

Then your phone vibrated again, this time showing Caitlyn’s name on the screen. Quickly wiping your face, you answered.

“Hello,” you said, trying to keep your tone neutral.

“Hi, how are you?” Caitlyn’s voice was a balm after the poison you’d just heard. “I’m calling to let you know we’ve started the process for the restraining order. I need you to come by my office tomorrow to sign some documents. Does that work for you?”

“Yes, of course,” you replied, feeling a small wave of relief. “Thank you, Caitlyn.”

“There’s no need to thank me. It’s the least I can do,” she said. There was a brief pause before she continued, her tone more personal this time. “Are you okay? You sound... upset.”

You hesitated, but something in her tone made you feel like you could be honest. “He called. He keeps saying this isn’t over. It scares me to think he’ll never stop.”

The silence on the other end of the line was brief but filled with intention. “He will stop. Trust me, I’ll make sure he has no way of getting near you. But if you ever feel unsafe or if he contacts you again, call me immediately. No matter the time.”

“Thank you,” you repeated, this time with more sincerity.

“Get some rest tonight,” she said before hanging up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That night, you slept with your phone by your side, her contact saved in favorites, like a safety net you’d never had before.

When you arrived at Caitlyn’s office, she was already waiting for you in the reception area, looking just as impeccable as the first time. This time, she greeted you with a slightly more relaxed smile.

“Hi,” she said, extending a hand to you. “Ready to tackle this?”

“Ready,” you lied, though the truth was that the thought of facing your ex-husband made your stomach twist.

The meeting was brief but intense. Caitlyn explained every detail of the process, ensuring you understood everything you were about to sign. Her patience was admirable; no matter how many questions you asked, she always answered with calm and precision.

“With this, he won’t be able to come within 500 meters of you,” Caitlyn explained as you signed the final document. “And if he does, he’ll face immediate legal consequences.”

“Do you think that’ll stop him?” you asked, your voice unsure.

“We’ll stop him,” she replied firmly. “You’re not alone in this.”

There was a moment of silence when you realized how much those words meant to you. You weren’t used to someone else sharing your burden. Caitlyn, with her steady gaze and unwavering posture, seemed like the only person who truly understood what you needed: support, without judgment.

When the meeting ended, Caitlyn walked with you to the elevator. “Do you have plans for the rest of the day?” she asked.

You shook your head. “Not really. I guess I’ll head home and try to relax.”

“How about grabbing a coffee?” Her proposal caught you off guard. Caitlyn noticed your expression and smiled. “Nothing case-related, I promise. I just thought you could use a break.”

For a moment, you hesitated, but something in her smile made you nod. “Okay. I think I could use that.”

The coffee shop was small and cozy, far from the city’s bustle. Caitlyn ordered an espresso while you opted for something milder. The conversation, to your surprise, flowed naturally.

“So, you don’t believe in love?” Caitlyn asked at one point, her tone curious but non-intrusive.

“Not after what I’ve been through,” you admitted with a surprising level of honesty. “I feel like trusting someone is too dangerous. I’d rather not take the risk.”

Caitlyn nodded slowly. “That’s understandable. We all carry our wounds, but I don’t think you should close yourself off entirely. There are loves that don’t hurt, loves that heal.”

“I’m not sure those exist,” you murmured, staring into your cup as if the answer lay at the bottom.

“Let me ask you something,” Caitlyn said, leaning in slightly. “If you could imagine the perfect love, one that doesn’t hurt you, what would it be like?”

The question caught you off guard but allowed you to dream for a moment. “I guess it would be... someone who respects me, who doesn’t make me feel less. Someone who’s there because they want to be, not because they need me to feel better about themselves.”

“That doesn’t sound impossible,” Caitlyn replied with a soft smile. “Maybe you just need time to find it—or to let it find you.”

The warmth in her words made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t in a long time. Caitlyn wasn’t trying to fix you or judge you; she simply wanted to understand you.

After a while, the conversation turned lighter. Caitlyn talked about her hobbies, her walks in nature, and her passion for art. You discovered a shared love for museums, and at one point, you both laughed as you realized you had completely opposite opinions on a famous painting.

Before you knew it, hours had passed. When you finally left the café, you realized that, for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about your ex-husband or your fears. Caitlyn had done something you thought impossible: given you a break from your own thoughts.

“Thank you for this,” you said as you parted ways.

“Anytime,” she replied, with a smile that seemed to promise she meant it.

As you walked home, you couldn’t help but feel that something had changed. For the first time, you began to wonder if the love Caitlyn described truly existed—and if you might deserve it.

The sense of calm Caitlyn had provided at the café lasted longer than you had expected, but it wasn’t eternal. The next day, the sound of a notification on your phone shattered the fragile tranquility you had begun to build. It was a message from him:

'You can’t hide forever. You know this game won’t last much longer. Just come back, and everything will be as it was before.'

Anger and fear mixed in your chest, forming a knot you could barely untangle. You carefully placed the phone on the table, as if any sudden movement could trigger an explosion. For a moment, you considered doing nothing, but then you thought of Caitlyn—her firm voice, her promise to help you.

Determined, you dialed her number.

“Hello,” she answered, her tone immediate and professional.

“He messaged me again,” you said quickly, as if saying the words more slowly might somehow make them more real.

“What did he say?” she asked, her voice tinged with genuine concern.

You read her the message, and when you finished, there was a brief silence on the other end before Caitlyn spoke. “This confirms he’s violating the preliminary terms. I need you to send me a screenshot of the message. This will help us strengthen the restraining order.”

“Of course,” you replied, but your voice trembled.

“Listen,” Caitlyn continued, her tone softer now. “I know this is hard, but you’re doing the right thing. Every step we take brings him closer to facing the consequences of his actions. You have my word—we won’t let him get away with this.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, tears welling up in your eyes but refusing to fall. Her voice was like an anchor, something to hold on to while fear threatened to pull you under.

Later that same day, you received another message from Caitlyn. This time, it was an invitation:

'How about a break? If you’re free this afternoon, I’d like to take you somewhere I think you’ll like. We could chat a bit, outside of the legal context.'

The simple fact that she thought of you that way, beyond her professional obligations, made you smile. You hesitated for a moment but then accepted.

The afternoon was warm and sunny when you arrived at the place Caitlyn had indicated: a sprawling field where a small group of horses grazed peacefully. Caitlyn was waiting by the fence, wearing a casual outfit that contrasted with the always-polished image you had of her.

“Horseback riding?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you approached.

Caitlyn smiled, amused. “I thought you might enjoy something different. You don’t have to ride if you don’t want to, but you should at least try.”

The sparkle in her eyes made any resistance you might have felt vanish. “Alright,” you agreed, even though you had no idea how you were going to manage it.

Caitlyn introduced you to a light brown horse named Storm, assuring you he was calm and obedient. “He’s perfect for beginners,” she said, gently stroking his mane.

With patience and a contagious calmness, Caitlyn taught you how to mount. Her voice was firm yet encouraging, guiding you step by step. At first, you felt clumsy and out of place, but little by little, you began to enjoy the experience.

“This isn’t so bad,” you admitted after a few minutes, surprised at yourself.

“Told you,” Caitlyn replied with a smile.

The afternoon passed in a flash. Caitlyn led you along a trail winding through the trees, and for a moment, you felt free. No past, no fears, just the present. Caitlyn rode beside you, sharing stories from her childhood and laughing with you when you made mistakes.

Then it happened. A low-hanging branch caught you by surprise, and in your attempt to dodge it, you lost your balance. Although the fall wasn’t severe, you hit the ground with a dull thud.

“Are you okay?!” Caitlyn dismounted quickly and ran to you, her face full of worry.

“I’m fine,” you replied, laughing nervously as you brushed off the dirt. “Just hurt my pride.”

“Don’t do that to me again,” Caitlyn said, kneeling beside you. Though her tone was firm, her eyes were full of relief.

Before you could respond, she raised a hand and removed a small twig tangled in your hair. The gesture was so tender and natural it left you speechless.

“Are you really okay?” she asked again, her eyes searching yours.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The silence that followed was different, charged with a tension you hadn’t felt before. Caitlyn was so close you could see every detail of her face, from the gentle curve of her lips to the light in her eyes. She was beyond gorgeousness.

And then it happened. Caitlyn leaned toward you slowly, giving you time to stop her if you wanted. But you didn’t. When her lips finally touched yours, it felt like the world stopped. Her kiss was soft, careful, as if she feared breaking something fragile.

When she pulled away, she looked at you with a mix of curiosity and nervousness. “Are you okay with this?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you simply nodded.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about your past or your fears. In that moment, there was only Caitlyn and you. And that was enough.

Caitlyn helped you up after the kiss, holding your hand as you stood. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, but she didn’t comment on it. You didn’t know what to say either; words seemed caught in your throat. You simply walked beside her in silence toward the horses, still trying to process what had happened.

“I think it’s best we call it a day for riding lessons,” Caitlyn finally said with a soft smile as she stroked Storm’s mane.

“Yeah... probably for the best,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

You got into Caitlyn’s car, and the ride back was quiet. Though the conversation was light and comfortable, you couldn’t ignore the change that had occurred between you. The kiss lingered in every pause, in every glance she shot your way, and in the slight nervousness you felt whenever her fingers brushed yours on the gear shift.

When you finally arrived at your apartment, the atmosphere was heavy with unspoken words. Caitlyn walked you to your door as she usually did, but this time, both of you knew something was different.

“Thank you for today,” you said, finally breaking the silence. “It was... unexpected, but I’m glad I went.”

“Me too,” Caitlyn replied, her eyes meeting yours. “I’m glad you gave yourself the chance to try. And... that you let me be there.”

The air between you grew heavier. You didn’t want her to leave, but the idea of inviting her in was terrifying. You’d been avoiding confronting your feelings, your desires, but now they were right in front of you.

Finally, Caitlyn spoke, her tone gentle and cautious. “I don’t want to pressure you, but... would you like me to stay a little longer? Only if you’re comfortable with it.”

You were so happy, it was like she could read your mind, no one had never understood you as well as Caitlyn did.

You nodded slowly, your heart pounding. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Inside your apartment, you tried to keep yourself busy making tea, but your hands trembled slightly as you set out the cups. Caitlyn stood near the table, watching you with a mix of patience and something else you couldn’t quite identify.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer.

“Yes... just nervous,” you admitted, not turning to face her.

“You don’t have to be,” she replied, her voice low and reassuring. “I won’t do anything you don’t want. I’m just here because I want to be with you, not because I want something from you.”

You took a deep breath and finally turned to face her. “It’s just that... I’ve never been with a woman before. I don’t know what to expect, and... I think I’m scared of doing it wrong.”

Caitlyn smiled, stepping closer until she was close enough to take your hands. “This isn’t a test or something you can fail. It’s just... us. No one else, no expectations, just what you want.”

The sincerity in her voice and the softness of her touch made something inside you relax. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could let your guard down, at least a little.

“I trust you,” you whispered, surprised by your own words.

Caitlyn leaned in and kissed you again, with a tenderness that melted away all your nerves. There was something about the way she touched you, the way she looked at you, that made everything else seem irrelevant. There was no rush, just patience and care, as if she had all the time in the world for you.

As the kiss deepened, she slowly guided you to your room, always attuned to your reactions, ensuring you were comfortable. Your breathing was uneven, but not out of fear this time. It was different—something warmer, more intimate.

“If at any point you want me to stop, just say so,” Caitlyn murmured against your lips, her tone filled with so much understanding it nearly made you cry.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Caitlyn smiled and sat you down on the bed, she knelt down in front of you and carefully removed your shoes, placing them on the side of the bed, perfectly aligned. There was something about the way she touched you, it was so motherly, so loving.

“What do I do?” You asked, your nerves on edge, sounding like a complete novice, in fact you felt like you were a virgin again.

But Caitlyn didn’t judge you, she moved closer to you, her perfect posture slightly bent.

“Why don’t we start by taking off our clothes? We’ll be more comfortable that way,” She caressed your cheek before adding, “I would take them off myself, but I want to push you to get out of your comfort zone on your own. I know you can do it.”

You rubbed your face against her hand, grateful. The way she always believed in you, with her encouraging words, gave you enough confidence to do it. This was the first time you had ever stripped so quickly in your life, your pants and sweater flew across the room, as did your underwear. And you were anxious, eager, it was a new experience that even though it terrified you, you really wanted to enjoy.

Your cheeks burned when you saw a naked Caitlyn in front of you. She was standing upright with that confident smile, and how could she not be confident in herself if she looked absolutely breathtaking? Her build was slim, but not flabby, you could tell she took great care of herself, perhaps with a strict diet and exercise routine. Her waist was so small and her hips big, Caitlyn was the physical definition of what an hourglass was.

However, that wasn't what caught your attention the most. You couldn't take your eyes off her breasts, they were much bigger than yours, pale and firm. They probably wouldn't fit in your hands completely, they would overflow through your fingers. Your tongue licked your lips as you imagined such a scene.

"Do you want to touch them?" Caitlyn once again read your mind.

At another time you would have been extremely embarrassed, but this wasn't the case, your mind was clouded with fictional scenarios that you wanted to make come true at all costs, so you nodded without thinking.

A small smirk played at the corners of her lips as she reached out, taking your hand in hers. Guiding it slowly, she placed your palm directly over one of her soft, supple mounds.

"Go on then," she purred, her voice low and inviting. "Touch them. Feel how soft and warm they are..."

As your fingers began to explore her delicate flesh, Caitlyn let out a soft sigh, arching slightly into your touch. Your hands kneaded and caressed, marveling at the way her nipples stiffened beneath your palms.

"Mmm, your touch feels so good..." she breathed, desire evident in her half-lidded blue eyes.

She took your other hand, placing it on her hip before slowly trailing it up the curve of her waist, over her ribs, until it too cupped the weight of her other breast. Caitlyn shivered at the sensation, her heart racing as she gazed into your eyes with open want.

She leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that left no doubt as to her intentions. Her tongue dominated yours, stoking the flames of your desire as her naked body pressed against yours, soft curves melding with harder planes.

"Can I put them in my mouth?" You asked like a hungry baby.

Caitlyn's breath hitched as she felt your eager words whispered against her lips. A thrill ran through her at the desperation in your voice, the clear desire to taste her. She pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, her own gaze smoldering with want.

"You can do whatever you want, though I love that you ask permission first. Go on then." Caitlyn whispered to you, tucking your hair behind your ears.

She guided your head down, cradling the back of your neck as she brought your lips to the swell of her breast. The scent of her perfume mixed with the natural aroma of her skin filled your nostrils, making your mouth water with anticipation.

"Don't hold back, love," Caitlyn encouraged, her British accent husky with desire.

And you didn't waste any more time, you buried your face against her breasts as if your life depended on it. You sniffed like a bloodhound tracking the tracks of a wild animal in the forest. It was like hugging the best pillow on the market. It was a soft paradise.

She gasped as your lips closed around the hardened peak, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive flesh. Her fingers tangled in your hair, holding you close as jolts of pleasure raced through her body.

"That's it," she panted, arching into you. "Just like that... Ah! Your mouth feels incredible... Are you sure that's your first time with a woman?"

You blushed and suddenly found yourself thirsty for praise, needing her approval.

“Am I doing this right?” You murmured with her right nipple still in your mouth.

Caitlyn closed her eyes and frowned, as if trying to control herself, you were pushing all the right buttons in her.

Caitlyn let out a sharp gasp followed by a low, appreciative moan as you suckled harder at her breast, your enthusiasm evident in every movement of your mouth. Her fingers tightened their grip in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp.

"Oh, yes, you're doing it so very right," she praised breathlessly, her voice dripping with desire. "Your mouth feels divine on my skin. Don't stop, darling... Keep worshipping my breasts just like that."

She guided your head from one breast to the other, making sure you gave each the same devoted attention. With each suckle and lick, Caitlyn felt the heat between her thighs grow, her arousal building with every passing second.

"That's it, sweetheart... Use your tongue more, trace the curves of my breasts. Ah! Yes, just like that..." she encouraged, her head falling back as she arched into your touch. "You're stoking the flames of my desire with every brush of your lips against my skin."

Caitlyn's heart raced, her chest heaving with each ragged breath she took. She had never felt so wanted, so desired, and it was all thanks to your eager, inexperienced touch. It was intoxicating, and she knew she wouldn't be able to hold back for long if you kept touching her like this.

"Mmm... You're a natural at this," she purred, her words dripping with approval. "Keep pleasuring me just like that, and I'll make sure to reward you properly..."

With that promise hanging in the air between you, Caitlyn guided your mouth back to her breast, desperate to feel your lips and tongue on her sensitive flesh once more. She needed you to keep touching her, to keep stoking the inferno raging inside her... until it consumed them both.

Caitlyn gazed at you with a mix of lust and adoration, taking in the sight of your messy hair, saliva-slick lips, and those adorable, desire-glazed eyes. She felt her heart clench in her chest, overwhelmed by the sheer, unbridled want she saw reflected back at her. Unable to resist, Caitlyn leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that left no doubt as to her hunger for you.

As she broke the kiss, Caitlyn's hands slid down to your waist, gripping you firmly. With a surge of strength, she flipped your positions, easily maneuvering you both until she was lying on her back on the bed, your smaller frame now draped over hers. She could feel heat the of your skin against every inch of her body, stoking the flames of her arousal to new heights.

Her breath caught in her throat as she felt your core grind against her thigh, your slick arousal coating her skin. The sensation sent a bolt of desire straight to her own aching center, making her hips buck up involuntarily to meet yours. She could hear the needy moan that tore from your throat, the sound echoing in the charged air between you.

"Mmm," Caitlyn purred, her voice a low, seductive rasp. "Does my girl want to ride my thigh? Is that what you need, love?"

You felted so ashamed, but that didn't stopped you from nodding.

She reached down, gripping your hips and guiding you to grind against her thigh more deliberately. Her own hips rolled in tandem with yours, providing a steady, delicious friction that promised to drive you both wild with lust.

"That's it," she encouraged, her blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded as she watched your face contort with pleasure. "Use my thigh, sweetheart."

Caitlyn's own body thrummed with need, her core clenching and fluttering around nothing. She desperately wanted to fill you, to claim you, to make you hers in every way imaginable. But for now, she would settle for watching you take your pleasure from her, knowing that your satisfaction would only heighten her own.

You let your own body move, grinding your pussy over Caitlyn's thigh. Your whole face was bright red, you were so embarrassed that you liked something so dirty, you couldn't believe you had these kinds of... fetishes. Caitlyn was making you discover new things about yourself.

Caitlyn watched in awe as you began to move your hips more urgently, grinding your dripping pussy against her thigh with increasing need. She could feel the heat of your arousal, the slickness of your desire coating her skin, and it only fueled her own rapidly growing hunger. Your face was flushed a pretty pink, your eyes wide and uncertain, and Caitlyn found it utterly charming to see you so shamelessly chasing your pleasure.

"Oh, sweetheart," she breathed, her voice heavy with lust and a touch of amusement. "You don't need to be ashamed. Feeling good, taking what you need... it's not naughty or wrong. It's natural, and I think it's absolutely delicious seeing you lost in the throes of passion. Actually, I think now that you're even a better rider than me."

Her statement made you shiver with excitement. You weren't used to seeing this shameless side of Caitlyn and you loved it.

Caitlyn's hands slid around to cup the rounded globes of your ass, squeezing and kneading the firm flesh as she encouraged your movements. She guided your hips, rocking them against her thigh in a steady, sensual rhythm that had your breath coming faster and your moans growing louder with each passing second.

"That's it, darling... Let yourself feel good," she purred, leaning up to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. "I want to watch you come undone, sweetheart. I want to feel your tight little pussy flutter and clench as you find your release..."

God, it was too much for you. Seeing the renowned and dignified attorney Caitlyn Kiramman swearing like that, telling you these dirty things. It was just too much.

Caitlyn's own body was burning up, her core aching with a deep, throbbing need. She could feel her juices flowing freely, coating her thighs as her desire grew more urgent. The sight of you lost in pleasure, the sounds of your increasingly desperate moans and cries, it was all pushing Caitlyn closer and closer to the edge of her own climax.

"Come for me," she demanded breathlessly, her voice thick with longing. "I want to feel your pleasure, sweetheart. Give yourself to me, and I promise I'll give you everything you've ever wanted and more..."

You wanted to give it to her, you wanted to keep going, but your lower body hurt, you weren't used to physical exercise. Besides, you couldn't remember the last time you had sex, it was normal that you were so rusty.

"I'm tired, Cait," you confessed breathlessly, it was the first time you had called her that way, it had escaped so naturally from your lips that it made both of you smile.

With a sudden, swift motion, she flipped your positions once again, this time pinning you beneath her on the bed. She settled her hips between your spread thighs, her dripping core pressing hot and hard against your own. Caitlyn's breath caught in her throat as she felt the slick slide of your sexes meeting, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity through her body.

Caitlyn began to move, rolling her hips in a sensual grind against yours. She could feel her slick arousal mingling with your own, the combination of your juices creating a delicious, intoxicating friction that made her toes curl in bliss. She set a steady, sensual rhythm, her hips undulating sinuously as she scissored her aching sex against yours.

"That's it, love," she panted, her blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded as she gazed down at you. "Feel how wet I am, how much I want you... I'm going to make us both come, sweetheart. Hard and fast, until we're both drowning in ecstasy."

She was so romantic and naughty at the same time. She was just perfect.

Caitlyn leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing, dominating kiss. She plundered your mouth with her tongue, swallowing the sweet sounds of your pleasure as she ground her hips more insistently against yours. She could feel her climax building, the coil of tension in her core winding tighter and tighter with each passing second.

"Come with me, sweetheart," she demanded breathlessly against your lips. "Let go, and I promise I'll catch you on the other side. I want to feel you shaking apart in my arms as we come together..."

With a final, sharp thrust of her hips, Caitlyn pushed you both over the edge, crying out in rapture as her orgasm crashed.

Caitlyn's body shuddered and convulsed against yours as her climax slammed into her with the force of a freight train. A guttural, wanton moan tore from her throat, the sound echoing off the walls of the bedroom as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure consumed her. Her hips jerked and spasmed, grinding her spasming sex against yours in a desperate, almost frantic need to prolong the mind-blowing sensations coursing through her veins.

"Oh, fuck!" she cried out, her voice ragged and raw with ecstasy. "Yes, yes, fuck! Don't stop, please, sweetheart!"

It was so funny how Caitlyn cursed but never forgot her manners.

Your nails raked down her back, leaving red lines of passion in their wake as you clung to her like a woman possessed. She could feel your own body trembling beneath hers, your pussy clenching and fluttering wildly against her own as you teetered on the brink of your own shattering release. The knowledge that she had brought you to this point, that your shared pleasure was about to crest and break over you both like a tidal wave, only heightened Caitlyn's own rapidly building peak.

"That's it, my sweet girl," she panted harshly, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. "Let go, baby. Let it happen. I've got you

With a final, brutal thrust of her hips, Caitlyn drove you both over the precipice, screaming in rapture as your combined orgasms exploded through you like a supernova. Her pussy clamped down around yours, pulsing and throbbing as she gushed her release, coating your thighs and your belly with her slick essence. Caitlyn's entire body quaked and shuddered, lost in the throes of the most intense, mind-melting climax of her life as she rode out the aftershocks of her pleasure, pinning you beneath her.

You both stayed there on the bed, fighting for air.

“How did it feel?” Caitlyn asked you, very interested in your answer.

“Amazing,” You admitted with a smirk. “I don’t know how I haven’t tried this before. Lesbian sex is amazing.” You teased a little.

Caitlyn chuckled softly, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her kiss-swollen lips as she gazed down at you with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration. She could still feel the aftershocks of her intense orgasm coursing through her body, making her skin tingle and her heart race. The sight of you lying boneless and sated beneath her, your face flushed and your eyes glazed with post-coital bliss, only served to heighten Caitlyn's own sense of deep, visceral satisfaction.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, sweetheart," she purred, her voice a low, sensual rasp.

Caitlyn rolled off of you gently, but kept you tucked close to her side. She draped one arm possessively around your waist, holding you near as she traced idle patterns on your sweat-slicked skin. The feeling of your naked body pressed against hers, the way your curves and valleys seemed to fit so perfectly against her own, made Caitlyn's heart swell with a fierce, protective affection.

And with that, the moment changed. It was as if everything you had been afraid of vanished, replaced by a feeling of connection and desire you hadn’t experienced before. Caitlyn was everything you had needed, everything you had never believed possible.

That’s when you realized: for the first time, you weren’t running from your past but embracing the possibility of a future.

You woke up early the next morning, sunlight streaming through the curtains of your bedroom. The feeling from the previous night still lingered in your body—a mixture of disbelief and a warmth you hadn’t felt in a long time. You turned your head, and there she was, Caitlyn, still asleep, her dark hair framing her peaceful face.

There was something profoundly calming about seeing her like this, stripped of her usual elegant and composed demeanor. For a moment, everything felt simple. But then, your thoughts began to swirl in your mind.

"What does this mean? What does she expect from me? Can I handle this when I don’t even trust myself yet?"

You carefully slipped out of bed so as not to wake her and headed to the kitchen. You needed coffee. Leaning against the counter, you stared into the void, trying to organize your emotions.

"I didn’t expect to find you up so early," Caitlyn’s calm voice spoke behind you.

You turned quickly, startled. She was there, wrapped in one of the sheets, a soft smile on her lips. She seemed completely relaxed, as if last night hadn’t been an emotional earthquake.

"Sorry if I woke you," you said nervously, avoiding her gaze.

"It wasn’t that," she replied, approaching. "I was just worried when you weren’t in bed."

The concern in her tone caused a knot to form in your throat. "I just… needed a moment to think."

Caitlyn didn’t push you; she simply approached and took your hands. "If you need space, I understand. But I want you to know I’m here. And I don’t expect anything from you that you’re not ready to give."

Her honesty was disarming. You had never met someone who respected your boundaries so much, who made you feel seen and heard.

"It’s complicated," you finally said. "This is new to me, and I’m still… dealing with everything that happened with him."

Caitlyn nodded, her eyes full of understanding. "You don’t have to explain everything now. You don’t have to have it all figured out. I just want you to know you’re not alone."

You took a deep breath and nodded. Her words, though simple, struck deep. Maybe you didn’t need to have all the answers. Maybe you just needed to allow yourself to feel, step by step.

The rest of the day passed in a strange but welcome calm. Caitlyn offered to make breakfast, and you watched her as she skillfully moved through the ingredients, enjoying the simplicity of the moment.

"You should know my culinary skills are pretty limited," she joked as she placed some toast and eggs on a plate.

"If you do worse than me, that would be an achievement," you replied, relaxing enough to smile.

The shared laughter eased some of the tension you still felt, and for a moment, it was easy to imagine this could be normal.

"So, what’s the plan for today?" Caitlyn asked as she cleared the dishes after breakfast.

"I guess I should work on some pending paperwork," you said, though you knew your concentration would be nonexistent.

"What if we take the day off?" she suggested, leaning against the doorframe. "We could do something relaxing, something that makes you feel good."

"Like what?" you asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"We could take a walk around the city or visit an art gallery. There’s a photography exhibit I’ve been wanting to see. Or we could just stay here and watch a movie."

The ease with which Caitlyn suggested plans, without any pressure, made you feel more comfortable. "The gallery sounds nice," you finally responded.

The gallery was everything Caitlyn had promised and more. The space was wide and bright, with white walls that highlighted the vibrant framed images. Each photograph seemed to hold its own universe, from natural landscapes to portraits that captured human emotions with disarming intensity.

Caitlyn walked beside you, occasionally stopping to read the descriptions or admire the details of a piece. You were surprised by the depth of her comments. "Look at how the use of light here gives a sense of hope, despite the somber setting," she pointed out in an image of a desolate alley illuminated by a rising sun.

"Are you always this observant?" you asked, trying to hide your admiration for her intelligence.

"I guess it’s part of my job," she replied with a smile. "You learn to read between the lines, whether it’s in a case or a piece of art."

There was one particular moment that struck you. You stopped in front of a black-and-white photograph of a woman in the rain, holding a broken umbrella. There was something in her posture, in the lost look that didn’t face the camera, that deeply resonated with you.

"What do you think of this one?" Caitlyn asked beside you, curious about your reaction.

"It reminds me of myself," you replied after a moment, with a honesty that surprised you.

Caitlyn turned to you, her eyes full of interest. "Why?"

"Because she looks lost but is still standing. Even though everything around her is falling apart, she’s still there."

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Caitlyn simply nodded, as if she understood exactly what you meant, even without further explanation. "That strength you see in her is also in you," she said softly.

She took your hand, and for the first time, you didn’t feel tempted to pull away.

Back at the apartment, the atmosphere was different. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was a palpable emotional weight that seemed to fill every corner of the room. Caitlyn sat on the couch, her eyes following you as you moved nervously, unsure of what to do with your hands.

"Do you want to talk about what you’re feeling?" she finally asked, breaking the silence.

You stopped, your heart pounding. "I’m not sure what I feel. All of this… you… it’s so different from what I’m used to."

She nodded slowly, remaining calm. "I know this is new for you. But you don’t have to have all the answers now. I just want you to trust me. To trust that I’m not going to hurt you."

Her words were like a balm for your wounded soul. You sat beside her, your trembling hands finding hers. "It’s hard to trust. After everything I went through… I feel like if I let go, I’ll end up broken again."

Caitlyn didn’t look away. "I can’t promise everything will be perfect. But I can promise I’ll do everything I can to take care of you. To not be another wound in your life."

You stayed silent for a moment, processing her words. Then, in an act of bravery you didn’t know you had, you leaned closer and rested your head on her shoulder. "Thank you for staying," you whispered.

"I always will," she replied, wrapping you in an embrace that was not only warm but filled with the promise of a love unlike any you had known before.

The night falls with an unsettling stillness in the air. The apartment is completely silent, interrupted only by the soft sound of waves crashing against the shore, but there is no peace in your mind. The phone on the table flashes, and with a sigh, you take it in your hands. It’s a text message, something that twists your stomach every time it appears. The name on the screen burns your eyes.

The message is brief, but its words are like poison infiltrating your thoughts: "I know where you live. You know you’ll always belong to me, right?"

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself, but anxiety begins to boil inside you. Fear, panic—you thought you had buried these feelings weeks ago, but now they resurface stronger than ever. He always had a way of manipulating you, making you feel like there was no way out, like he was the only constant in your life, the only source of "safety." And even though you left him behind, every message, every word, is a reminder of his control. A control that now seems to be taking hold of you again.

You can’t let that happen—not this time.

Suddenly, Caitlyn appears in the kitchen doorway, concern etched on her face. Her eyes immediately catch the phone in your hand, the tension in the air between you both palpable. You don’t need to say anything for her to understand. Caitlyn’s face hardens, and without hesitation, she walks toward you.

“Is it him again?” she asks, her voice low but firm.

You nod, putting the phone away, though the desperation still courses through your veins. Caitlyn steps closer and takes your hands in hers, looking at you with a protective intensity that makes you feel a little safer. “You’re not facing this alone,” she says, her words full of conviction. And even though you know she means it, you can’t help but feel a shadow of doubt. After all, it’s not clear what anyone could do to stop him once and for all.

“I know, but…” you hesitate, your voice trembling with fear and frustration. “I don’t want you to put yourself in danger. You don’t have to get involved in this.”

Caitlyn looks at you with a soft but determined smile. “I’ve told you before. I don’t want you to face anything alone. And this isn’t just your problem, you understand? This is mine too, because I love you.”

Those words, those three simple words, hit your chest like a lightning bolt, and for a moment, everything else disappears. The fear, the despair, the harassment… all of it fades in the warm light of her gaze. Is it possible that you’ve found something greater than fear? Something stronger than your past?

Your mind races, but your heart stops for an instant, as if time itself has frozen. Caitlyn loves you. And you… you felted something too, more than you dare admit. But fear, that dark shadow you’ve always carried, prevents you from fully trusting.

“What are we going to do?” you finally ask, though you know the answer lies beyond your fears.

Caitlyn looks into your eyes, her expression serious but her tone firm and protective. “I’m going to take more aggressive legal action. We’re not going to wait anymore. We’ll make sure he stops.”

The knot in your stomach loosens slightly. The confidence in her voice, the promise in her eyes—these are all you need right now. You accept her support, though part of you still wonders whether this is the end of the road or just the beginning of more suffering.

“What if… it’s not enough?” you whisper, almost as if speaking it aloud would make it real.

Caitlyn crouches to your level, gently taking your face in her hands. “If it were just my fear, I’d face it alone. But it’s not, and if you ever feel this way, you tell me, alright? I’m your partner. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Her tender gesture surprises you, but it also inspires you. Despite everything you’ve been through, the fact that she’s willing to fight alongside you gives you a glimmer of hope you’d long forgotten.

Caitlyn pulls back slightly but not before placing a kiss on your forehead—a silent promise that everything will be okay, or at least that you’ll try together.

The next morning, Caitlyn becomes an unstoppable force. She calls a few trusted colleagues, begins drafting legal documents, and files a formal complaint. She doesn’t do it out of revenge but for you, to protect you. And while you know the legal battle could last weeks, months, you feel a small spark of relief.

Meanwhile, your feelings for Caitlyn begin to solidify. Her constant support, her determination, her bravery… all of it makes you question what you thought you knew about love. Over the days, your conversations grow deeper. The fear of rejection, of vulnerability, still lingers, but so does the certainty that this woman won’t let you fall.

And amidst all of it, your ex-husband’s harassment, though it hasn’t completely stopped, seems to lessen. But there’s still something inside you that you can’t let go of—a sense of insecurity that remains, hidden in the shadows of your heart.

But Caitlyn is by your side. And that’s a truth you’re willing to believe.

The trial has been long, exhausting, and at times, almost unbearable. The days have stretched on, evidence has been presented, emotions have run high, but today, finally, it feels like it’s all about to end. The courtroom is filled with a palpable tension. Nerves are so thick they could be cut with a knife as you await the verdict.

Caitlyn stands by your side, her constant and comforting presence. She’s been with you through every moment, facing every challenge and obstacle alongside you. You feel her hand touch yours, a small gesture, but one full of meaning. The warmth of her touch is the only thing grounding you amidst the emotional storm surrounding you.

The judge finally enters, his voice resonating in the silent room. "We have heard all the evidence, analyzed the testimonies, and after deliberating, this court has reached its verdict."

Your heart beats faster, each word from the judge making time seem to stretch even further. He looks at your ex-husband, with a disapproving expression, and then turns to you, as if everything you’ve endured up until now is finally coming to a resolution.

"The verdict is in favor of the plaintiff. Custody of assets, protection orders, and the no-contact ruling will remain in effect. The defendant, Mr. King..." The judge pauses, as if his words carry the weight of an entire destiny. "...is hereby issued an arrest warrant for his violent behavior during this process."

A sigh of relief escapes your lips. Caitlyn squeezes your hand tightly, sharing this moment of triumph with you. You’ve won. The fear, the uncertainty, the pain—all of it has finally come to an end. But before you can fully savor the feeling, something shifts.

Suddenly, he stands up, his face red with rage. "This isn’t over!" he shouts, his voice filled with fury. "You’ve ruined me! You’ve taken everything from me! I’ll make you pay!"

Fear courses through your veins, panic overtakes you, but before you can react, he lunges at you, his hands wrapping around your neck with brutal force. You can’t breathe; the air is knocked from your lungs, and the pressure on your throat makes you see stars.

In that instant, Caitlyn intervenes. You see her move swiftly, shoving him with all her strength. But the force of her push causes him to lose control, and in the process, he unintentionally pushes her so hard that she falls to the floor, her head striking the edge of a nearby table.

Everything stops.

The chaos of the courtroom fades, and all you can hear is the sound of your own racing heartbeat. Caitlyn lies on the floor, motionless. The wound on her forehead is evident, blood beginning to pool on the ground, and a wave of terror and despair washes over you completely.

"Caitlyn!" you scream, rushing to her, your body trembling as you try to cradle her face. Your hands shake as you touch her skin, now slick with blood, and the sight of her still form on the floor makes you feel as if the entire world is collapsing around you. "No! Please, wake up!"

People shout around you, some rushing to call for an ambulance, but all you can think about is her. Caitlyn. The woman who has stood by you, who has fought for you, who has done everything to help you. And now she’s here, on the floor, unmoving.

Your breath catches, but you manage to stay calm enough to check for her pulse. Seconds feel like an eternity, but finally, you feel it. She’s breathing. Relief. But it’s only fleeting. Fear still grips you, the pain of seeing her injured consumes you.

The ambulance arrives quickly, and within minutes, they’re taking her to the hospital. The paramedics assure you that the worst is over, that her injury isn’t severe, but you can’t shake the knot in your stomach. Everything you feared has happened. Now, the future feels more uncertain than ever. Guilt mixes with the fear of losing her, and for a moment, you doubt everything you’ve known so far.

You sit in the hospital hallway, trembling, your body unable to stop its small shudders of anxiety. The hours seem to stretch on, but you can’t move. You can’t breathe easily until you know she’s okay.

Finally, a nurse appears. "Ms. Caitlyn is awake. You can go see her."

Your heart pounds as you rush to the room. When you enter, you see her there, lying on the bed, her face pale but with that familiar smile on her lips. She’s not as bad as you feared, but the sight of her injured still stings deeply.

"How are you?" you ask, your voice trembling, fear still running through your veins.

Caitlyn looks at you, her eyes shining with a tenderness that melts you. "I’m fine," she says softly, though her tone is full of exhaustion. "Just a little dizzy, but what matters is that you’re safe. That’s what’s important, right?"

You sit beside her, gripping her hand tightly. Your fingers tremble as you seek her touch. "I saw you fall," you whisper, your voice breaking. "I saw you fall, and it felt like the world was ending. I didn’t want to lose you, Cait. I don’t want to lose you."

Caitlyn squeezes your hand, her face filled with that calm that always reassures you. "You don’t have to lose me," she says, her voice steady. "I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to stay."

A few minutes of silence pass, broken only by the soft sound of Caitlyn’s breathing and the rhythm of your heart. The fear of losing her, that overwhelming feeling that you couldn’t live without her, is something new to you. But in that moment, you realize something. Something you’ve been avoiding, afraid to feel it: you’ve fallen in love. Not just with Caitlyn, but with what she represents to you, with how she makes you feel when she’s with you. You’re no longer afraid of what’s to come, because now, the only thing you know is that life, though uncertain, is far more bearable with her by your side.

A few hours later, your ex-husband is arrested for attempted murder. He’s taken into custody, and although the legal process will continue, the fact that he can’t come near you ever again is a relief. You feel a peace you’ve never known before.

Night falls, and you and Caitlyn return home in silence. At your side, she smiles, and though you don’t say a word, you know everything has changed. The fear is gone. The pain has given way to new hope.

Before entering the apartment, you stop and look into her eyes. "I love you," you whisper, finally allowing yourself to accept what you’ve been avoiding for so long.

Caitlyn looks at you, with that gaze that makes you feel safer than ever. "And I love you," she replies softly, before taking your face in her hands and leaning in to kiss your lips tenderly.

At last, you feel like the future is yours to write, together, without fear or shadows.

155 notes · View notes

catiuskaa · 1 year ago

Text

I.O.U. [pinky promise]

SUMMARY: minho’s fear of heights is not alone, because airplanes are also in the equation. but rest assured, lovely strangers like you are there to help him.

TAGGING! @evermourning, i finally finished minho’s vers <3 hope you like it!

TW: slight panic attack, mentions of anxiety, mentions of aerophobia (fear of flying), swearing, [still fluff af].

WC: 3.1k

[★☆✈️☆★]

Everyone that knew a bit of StrayKids and their members knew for a fact that their second oldest hyung had a problem with heights. But, added to the issue, planes where also not really a comfortable idea for the cat owner, as mandatory as they were for his career path.

“We’re on the airport, can we go back now?” He’d joke everytime they had to travel, sometimes earning small giggles from Jisung, Hyunjin or Felix, or teasing groans from Seungmin.

They had been informed that this airplane’s rows had space for two people per row. Normally the situation would be handled by sitting one of the members next to him, and he was fine with that.

“Oh, the seat 16A can’t be used due to its condition in case of evacuation. Excuse us for the late notice, we’ll find you other seat right away.”

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

He had simply nodded, looking at his only hyung with anxiousness on his eyes. Yongbok hugged his arm while Han held his hand tight.

“It’ll be ok, Minho hyung.” Jeongin tried to comfort him. He smiled weakly, wishing for the youngest to be right, but deep down, he knew it was bullshit. He felt dizzy, and he hadn’t even got on the damn plane to begin with. Chan offered to trade seats, but all truth be told, he felt like he needed to do this one on his own. He liked that the members supported him, but he didn’t want to be babied. Even if he would complain about the alleged “lack of empathy” the group had with him —always in a teasing manner— he declined the offer nicely.

He left Felix’s side once the row 16 was behind him, seating in one of the two seats in row 21, as far as he could from the window, even though he could still see the finger connected to the plane and some people coming inside it. He knew that Changbin and Seungmin weren’t far away from him. He’d be ok. Yeah. He could do this. He was Lee Know, pro idol. He had to hold back the awkward giggle that the thought gave him, and snorted lowly.

“Sorry, can I…?” You trailed off, apologetically pointing to the seat next to him. He smiled sheepishly and nodded, feeling his tongue stuck, and connected it to because of how nervous he was, letting you pass through. You sat next to him, smiled kindly and then looked down at your phone.

He stared at you for a bit, a bit jealous of how calm you looked. He was on the edge, thinking of walking out and paying for a taxi. From Australia to Korea? Nevermind. On a second thought, he would pay for a fucking submarine. Or autostop… with boats. Or swim.

At this point, he wasn’t sure if he would mind drowning too much.

“First time flying? You look kinda nervous, mate.” You joked lightly, taking one of your headphones off when you noticed his eyes on you, his fidgeting and his shaky leg.

He noticed an Australian accent rolling off your tone, and the known sound made him relax a bit.

“Oh… s-sorry… eh, no, actually. It’s just… It’s for work, but I don’t really… enjoy…flying.” He stumbled on his words, his hands traveling below his thighs. He felt them cold. And sweaty.

God, this was going to be the death of him.

“Damn. That’s tough. Sorry for you, bud.” You sighed, sharing the shittyness of his situation.

“It’s fine, I guess. You? Work related?” He never was in the mood for initiating small talk, but he desperately needed to cling onto something so he would just stop thinking about the fucking plane.

“Nah. Visited the family, going back home now.” You smiled at him, trying to comfort him a bit. “Hope they pay you well if they make you fly.” You laughed.

He giggled slighlty, and nodded. “Not to brag, but that they do. At least I have that.” You laughed at his honesty.

You presented yourself in hopes of making him feel less awkward. With a slight hesitation, you ended up adding. “Just, don’t be afraid of pulling my headphones off or anything if you need. It’s ok to be scared, mate,” you mentioned with a calm smile. “You know, my sister is terrified of heights. I know its not the same… but stilll. ‘M used to it.”

Minho looked at you as if you had fallen straight from Heaven, all for the right reasons. “…pretty name. Uh. Yeah.” He mumbled messily, to which you laughed. He smiled. “Lee Minho. Don’t tempt me too much, ‘cause I might destroy the seat in a panic attack.”

You giggled, and that lowered the burden on his shoulders a bit.

The conversation died, turning in a comfortable silence, but Minho regained conciense of his surroundings once the plane started working, the vibration of the motors all through the plane. He started shaking his leg anxiously, picking the skin between his fingers. Unbeknownst to him, his breathing pace quickened by minutes. He could hear his heartbeat right on his ears.

Fuck, he couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t-

“Hey, Minho, you there?”

Your soft tone of voice brought him back for a second. You noticed how he eyed to the window behind you, so you closed it. You took out of your pocket your headphones, and bended down to your backpack just to take other headphones and an adapter, plugged it to your phone and gestured to him.

“Care to miss the evacuating instructions? If it makes you feel any better, I know them by heart. Pinky promise.”

He smiled lightly, a tad embarassed, still, a small chuckle left his lips as he took the headphones.

“You choose or I choose?”

He seemed troubled, a bit lightheaded, subconciously focusing more on the plane than anything else.

“We’ll take turns, then.” You smiled.

You played music by presing the shuffle button on your liked songs, skipping until you’d find something to listen to. Bruno Mars came along, and you let it be. It was a safe choice, right? Who doesn’t like Bruno Mars?

When Finesse started playing on his headphones, Minho failed holding back a smile. The known melody caressed his mind, the shaking now turned to tapping to the rythm. You smiled and let him be, feeling better now that your flightmate didn’t look like he wanted to die before departure, and happy that you had been able to help.

You left your phone on your leg, clinging your arm on the the armrest in between both of you. He tried to get comfortable, just to find your hand in the same place as his. He quickly apologized, pink tinting his cheeks, and you brushed it off with a sympathetic smile.

But then, the airplane started going faster, and faster, and the music wasn’t able to cover the sound that the air made when crashing to the metal walls of the aircraft. Minho felt on the edge of a heart attack, and in a desperate cry to just calm down he gripped your wrist, to which you turned your arm to hold his hand properly, caressing his palm with your thumb. It reminded him of what Yongbok used to do, and the familiar thougth calmed his dizzy, crowded mind for a few seconds.

“Hey champ, we’re on air.”

Again, your voice made him open his eyes, ones he didn’t realise he had closed, and suddenly, he recognised the new melody that was playing for both of you.

“…Wonder Girls?” He whispered, staring deeply into your eyes.

You blinked repeatedly, confused, then smiled. “Oh, yeah. You don’t like it? You can change the music if you want…”

“No…! It’s… it’s ok.”

Minho found himself forgetting about flying, focused on the music, without being able to notice his small smile and pink colored cheeks nor how he was humming to the melody.

Half of the flight had passed, which meant 5 hours had passed and other 5 were left. Minho had fallen asleep, one of the headphones hanging low on his neck, the other one threatening to fall down.

Turbulence shook the aircraft slightly, enough for the sleeping beauty to move, head falling to your shoulder. You tensed up, blushed, then relaxed and leaned into him, effort settled on trying to find a position that wouldn’t mean infinite neck pain the moment he would wake up.

“Don’t worry too much. He owes you a big one, but he’s a heavy sleeper. Plane could fall down and he wouldn’t notice.” Another strong-looking young man with black, slightly-curled hair joked. He was waiting in line for the bathroom. He was strangely wearing a black rain hat, inside of the plane. You thought of it as extravagant, but brushed it off.

“Oh, you know him?” You questioned with a small smile.

He giggled, and you knew he was smiling underneath his black mask because of the creases close to his eyes. “You could say that, yeah,” he teased. “We work together.”

“That makes me feel better. He seemed quite nervous before.”

“I hope he isn’t giving you any trouble…” he mentioned with an awkward tone.

“Not at all, mate! Don’t sweat, he’s really kind. Wish my coworkers were this nice.”

He blinked, eyes big, surprise pampered all over the features you could see. “Kind?”

“Yeah…?” You answered with doubt in your tone.

“No… it’s just that, mind you, but no one really describes Minho hyung as kind. Not by a first impression, really... no, but he is, yeah. ‘M glad you noticed, otherwise the trip could be very long.”

You giggled lowly, still slightly confused but happy that at least Minho wasn’t traveling completely on his own.

“Oh, sorry. Seo Changbin.” He tilted his hat on your direction, and you snorted while presenting yourself.

“G’day, mate.” You winked.

“See ya, Aussie.” He teased.

You’d kept on reading in your phone, Minho snuggling into you from time to time which made your cheeks pink as you laughed as lowly as you could, because sleeping when afraid of flying was really one of the best medicines, but suddenly noticed the belt sign turning on. Windows still fully blue, you sighed at the thought of turbulence coming. So you wouldn’t need to move Minho, you clung your feet to your backpack and stuffed everything inside of it, leaving only your small blanket and phone outside, alongside with the pair of headphones. You’d taken Minho’s a while ago, as they had fallen onto his lap.

The armrest was pushed back so Minho could lay on your shoulder better, and you doubted if you should lower it down. You definetely didn’t want to wake him up, that’s for sure. The plane started shaking, enough for anyone to notice, but you focused on putting Minho’s belt on, finally decided on lowering the armrest, setting his arm first and then you made yours link to his as smoothly as you could, holding hands.

You noticed that as the airplane trembled, Minho was waking up.

“Minho, you up?” You whispered, your warm breath on his neck giving him chills.

He tensed up, squeezing your hand as soon as he noticed his surroundings shaking. He suddenly felt small, anxious and in total danger.

“Minho, can you hear me? If you feel like you can’t answer, nod.”

He nodded.

“I want you to concentrate on my voice, can you do that?”

His grip on your hand got tighter as the aircraft kept shaking, but he nodded.

“Do you know how airplanes fight off turbulences?”

“N-no…” he mumbled.

“Basically, the usual protocol is to avoid them.” You started speaking softly into his ear, barely a murmur, tracing shapes with your fingers on the back of his hands and the part of his forearms that could be seen because of the sleeves of his shirt, rolled up just below his elbows.

“There are two ways of dealing with them.” You looked at him, noticing how his eyes were fixiated on the movements your hand made, making you move your gaze to the bracelet he was wearing. “One, they are prepared for it and they avoid it.”

“What if they aren’t prepared?” He mumbled, fear showing through his weak tone. You smiled, because he was trying to pay attention to you and at least a bit less to the airplane.

“Then the pilot goes above or below it, that’s why you feel like the plane is going up or down really fast. But it’s a controlled move.” You noted. “You’re not in danger, Minho.”

He suddenly nuzzled into your neck, trying to hold back tears. He felt safer, but still, his heartbeat kept running like crazy, beating so loud that he could hear it in his ears. Breathing turned like a complicated task as he struggled to keep calm.

“Follow my breathing, Minho. I need you to do that, ok?”

You started breathing in and out at a really slow pace, noticing him following you despite trembling from crying silently into the crook of your neck. A small voice in your head whispered a question, and for a moment you agreeded, because why wasn’t this a bit awkward? Why were you feeling all flustered and worried over someone you met less than 10 hours ago?

The turbulence went away, and the plane stopped shaking.

You moved the hand that was free, the other still holding Minho’s, and you softly stroked his hair. He moved his head back from you a bit, just enough for you to notice the tears on his cheeks. You quickly wiped them away and smiled.

“It’s ok, Minho. It’s over.”

He blushed and nodded, eyes glossy as he leaned back on his seat, his cold hand never leaving your warm one, trying to calm himself. Thank God you were there.

“I’m-“

“Don’t you dare apologize,” you threatened in a teasing manner. “You’re ok. It’s no big deal, really.”

He felt heat rush to his face as a smile plastered in your features. He closed his eyes, flustered, and eventually fell asleep again.

The plane landed while he was sleep. You wondered how much could a person sleep, because out of the ten hours of flight, he slept for almost 6 of them, when you could only manage to rest for 3.

“Hey, sleeping beauty, you made it.” He looked at you, as if something was different, as you walked through his legs to go get your suitcase from the compartment above.

“I didn’t wake up for landing?” He asked softly, voice a bit raspy.

“Nope. Slept through it like a lucky motherfucker,” you laughed.

He started tiding up his stuff in his backpack and thanked when you gave him his own luggage.

“It was a pleasure to meet ya. I’ll see ya again. G’day!”

Minho froze as you walked away. He felt a little sting on his chest, one he didn’t quite understand as he shook his head sideways as joined the rest of the group outside.

But then, a femenine voice called.

“Chris!”

He recognized that voice. That voice that had lulled him to sleep, to a state of calmness that he had never achieved before in an airplane.

“Mate!”

You and Chris shook hands vigorously, patting each other’s backs.

After all, how could you forget your co-star in that tv add from years ago? Your mom still had contact with his mom —as weird as it can sound— and still made funny remarks about it; a long-lasting joke in the family by now.

“I knew your name sounded familiar!” You smiled to Changbin, starting some sort of small talk as the fellow Aussie presented each member.

Yeah. Minho scoffed.

Luck? Most likely?

Unbelievable.

Of course you knew Chan. Everyone knew Chan, for fuck’s sake. He directed himself to Han and Jeongin, not thinking about the fuzzy feeling on his hands when he eyed to yours, as if wanting to hold them again.

What the fuck? What was going on with him?

Their security came by pretty fast, allowing you to tag along with them as it was too early in the morning for anyone to really care. The members walked in front of you, who was ‘caching up’ with Chan.

“So? What do you think?” Chan asked in the strongest accent he could, as a way of making it harder for the rest to understand.

“He’s brave. And kind. I’m surprised he didn’t kick me for being too nosy or touchy.” He gave you a look as he wiggled his eyebrows, and you pushed him teasingly as he giggled. “Shut up, you cunt. You’re lucky I was on the plane.”

“Thanks, mate. I owe you one.” He mentioned sincerely. “And Minho does, too.” He teased, winking at you.

Because it wasn’t mere coincidence the fact that you were so nice to Minho, helping him out. You’d recognised the name, and his face looked thoroughly familiar. As soon as the idol fell asleep you texted your friend, hoping he was using the airplane’s wifi. He replied asking for a favour, for you to take care of the pretty man till landing, because Chris was quite worried about him.

You walked with them until they reached the cars prepared for the group. And when he was just about to run the whole hallway to ask you to wait, begging for someone, anyone, to do something about how the fuck was anything of this even possible or real, you turned and hugged Chan, waving goodbye to the members from outside the car.

Minho and you locked gazes, and you quickly pointed to your left wrist with your cheeks turning pink, leaving the parking and walking towards your own vehicle.

He didn’t understand, but remained looking to your figure from the distance and how it became smaller and smaller while they were exiting the airport.

“What’s that, hyung?”

He turned around to face Jeongin, who was chewing some strawberry gum that the members were passing around for regulating the pressure after the flight, and looked to where he was pointing: his left wrist.

Tied to his black bracelet, the one you’d been fidgeting with, there was a small, light blue ribbon. Something clicked on his head as he now knew what was different: your hair was resting on your shoulders when he woke up. He untied it with utter care on his movements, causing a slight surprise on Jeongin, and Hyunjin —as we all know, curiosity killed the dumpling.

Since when did their hyung took so much care in something so small?

“Well? What is it?” Hyunjin asked.

Minho held back a smile as he read what was scribbled on the small fabric.

‘Think my name’s pretty? I think you’ll like this better.’

Followed by… a phone number.

He smiled, flustered. He didn’t like it.

He loved it.

~kats, who wanted to post because IDK, HAPPY NEW YEAR!!1!1!!1!1!!11

#i love this #stray kids x reader #stray kids #stray kids scenarios #stray kids fluff #stray kids imagines #skz scenarios #soft hours #stray kids lee minho #lee minho fluff #minho fluff #lee minho #stray kids minho #minho x reader #minho x y/n #minho x you #lee know x you #lee know fanfic #lee know x reader

623 notes · View notes