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avifaunaa · 23 hours ago

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i tasted ash and knew [ it was you ] [ r.v. ] [ pt.2. ]

Authors Note: Okay -- wow. The feedback was unexpectedly amazing! Thank you guys so very much for the reblogs, tags, likes, and comments. I do not know how many parts I have set for this -- it could end after P.3 or it could go on longer depending on how I go about it. I hope you enjoy this! As usual, please check the content warnings and keep yourselves safe.

More Trivia:

Women could be pharmacists in the fifties! However it was a newer job field. Other new job opportunities for women at the time included: engineering and real-estate.

TV dinners were the first of their kind created and released into the world in 1953 as a quick meal that could be heated up in an oven and reduced the dishes one had to do, and fit onto a "TV tray". Added free fact: The first actual type of dinner of this kind was a Thanksgiving style meal and it was a success!

Milk was ordered through, humorously, a "Milkman" that would come door to door like the newspaper and deliver fresh bottles of milk usually daily and, depending on the company / location, took the empty ones.

Phone lines did use to connect the way they did through an operator and had multiple people trying to connect sometimes. What a tedious job!

Reader grumbling about religious scripture being sent to her home is a reference to Jim Jones — who would start the People’s Temple one year later [ 1955 ] and end up committing one of the most notorious religious massacres in history while murdering a United States official. It was a terrible tragedy and it opened a gateway to other cults who preyed on people just like Jim Jones did.

PART ONE | PART TWO [ you are here ] | PART THREE

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Fem!Reader

Summary: Death has caught up with you but she has not come to retrieve your soul as the natural balance demands and has for the near seventy years you've evaded your fate. Rio appears to be seeking some form of stability and control through you, but you are going to make it decidedly very difficult.

Content Warnings: Dark -- use caution and keep yourselves safe, flashbacks that contain period-typical views on gender norms and sexuality, discussions of death and past abuse, Rio making R her housewife, kidnapping, misuse of magic [ Rio ], manipulation, obsessive behavior, really stupid murder attempts [ reader giving lmao ], Stockholm Syndrome beginning to take a tiny bit of effect, READER CRASHING OUT, non-con, face sitting, fingering, ruined orgasms [ all Rio!receiving ], magic strap [ r!receiving ], breeding and possible impregnation [ r!receiving ]

Word Count: TBA

2024

Rio was doing it again.

You did not have proof of it but you could just tell she was.

The stuffed duck at the foot of your bed was taunting you and you wanted to strangle the hell out of it if you weren't on strike right now, willing the fake witch to take her physical form and become visible to you.

After having been chained to her for a period of time you had come to know when she was close. It was the one part of the magic she worked that you had never revealed to her and she hadn't assumed to ask if you could sense her presence like she could yours depending on proximity.

The beady, blank eyes of your companion was the only way you knew she remembered your interests -- or ones you had at one point.

It was an old, much loved thing. Won at a fair back when you had first come to grow closer with her after the death of your husband. She insisted on getting you out of the house and event was only for a week and she bribed you with the promise of a Ferris wheel ride that you'd always dreamed of riding.

It was one of the items she had waiting for you upon setting you up in this bedroom and told you to. "stay put" while she went and did her Deathly duties which you assumed included brooding and prowling ally ways when she was bored.

The bedroom was designed to your tastes and it made your tongue curl into your throat. She had been watching you long enough to get to know you all over again -- how the years had reshaped you so she could adjust to them accordingly.

She had even taken the new cookbooks you'd purchased from your coffee table, price sticker partially picked and all, and placed them in a very noticable way on the stuffed bookshelf in the corner.

Your door creaked open. Your head moved from the stare-down with the duck to the direction but found only Rio's idea for a gift sitting in the doorway with sharp eyes.

She got you a fucking cat.

A large, fluffy thing with a long feathery tail and tufted ears. Dark brown with sharper stripes than most knives you used to cut your ingredients and so standoffish you wonder if she found him in a dumpster somewhere and took him screeching, spitting, and hissing.

Well, tough luck dude. She did that to you too.

She had deposited him onto your lap not even fifteen minutes after fucking you into a stupor and you threatening to kill her with a smug smile. "His name is Billy. I figured you'd need something to take care of while I'm out working."

Billy had hissed, affronted, at Rio and scrambled off of your lap to somehow squeeze under the sofa across from the one she had lead you upstairs to recover on.

"You got a cat," you said, eyes focusing briefly on the spot where the tabby had disappeared before returning to Rio's features.

"We got a cat," she corrected, flopping down onto the couch next to you. "I can't have you getting bored and destructive when I'm gone at work, can I?"

Rage coiled inside of you tighter than a bedspring. "I wouldn't be bored," you started with an attempt to keep your tone steady, "if you hadn't trapped me in a cage."

"Hardly a cage, angel," Rio rebutted, legs stretching and feet crossing across one another on the coffee table. "I gave you the entire house and backyard to work with -- pool and yard included. That's three floors and a basement. An upgrade since the last time we did this, no?"

Her eyes stared holes into the side of your head and you refused to meet her gaze. You knew what you'd find, anyway. You'd find that prodding and incessant glint that she always had when she spoke to you in that fucking tone.

Your rage could only be filtered into one thing at a time and you decided that fighting a battle you couldn't win right now would only succeed in humiliating you further. So you decided to focus your melting attitude onto something you could absolutely control.

"Get your feet," you replied, teeth gritting, "off the fucking table."

That grin became feral in the corner of your eyes but she did as you bid and uncrossed her feet and spread her legs lazily across the floor instead. "Yes, ma'am."

"We do not have things to care for a cat."

She tilted her head at you. "Don't we?"

You blinked and opened your mouth to argue with her, but in an instant you were quickly set quiet. A large cat tree with multiple tiers sat in the floor to ceiling windows of the entry way not far off, cat toys and beds seemed to appear in the house later, too.

Not to mention the random cat food you found in the cabinet when you went to fix something later that night to get away from her.

But now Rio had bid you adieu with a peck to your cheek and a shit-eating grin.

You nearly smacked her and had your fingers flexing as if debating the outcome and if the repercussions would be worth it. Rio laughed and puffed away in an air of smoke before you could so much as lift your hand.

You and Billy now had an alliance of sorts. He had allowed you to put a collar with a cute bowtie and a bell on it so you could hear him prattling about -- only after you fed him a numerous amount of treats.

He also despised Rio and swatted at her if she came near if he was cuddled up to you. It was fun watching Rio ride out the consequences to her actions and she often threatened to make a new hood from his coat or use his teeth in a potion, or went the most mature route and hissed back at him.

But still -- you appreciated his company even if he often times only graced you with it fifty percent of the time.

"What do you want?" you finally asked the feline, who had taken your silence as an invitation to skulk into the room and rub himself across the furniture.

Letting him do whatever it is cats do, you return your attention to the duck and curl your fingers into the bedspread beneath you as the memories start to take over.

1954

Rio had been your rock for the last six months in which she took you in. For the first two you were in a numbed state of shock that barely had you moving about out of bed if Rio hadn't encouraged it.

Perhaps she was right in how she had confronted you so boldly that night you appeared on her doorstep. There was no grief in your heart for your husband as you planned his funeral with the help of your mother and father, sister in tow.

No grief for what "could have been" should he have not been in the accident that took his life when you bleakly watched from a distance as funeral goers left and four men began to lower the cheap casket into the grave.

There was not a drop of regret in you as you approached and dropped a green rose from Rio's gardens into the grave instead of dirt as your past and marriage was buried all in one.

You sold the house like Rio suggested. It was empty without his complaining and too clean when there was no bloody noses to clean up. No beer to restock or work clothes for the next day to be pressed and set out early for him.

Instead you handled well-kept skirts and fine women's wear without being asked.

Rio had found you one day after returning home from her work -- a pharmacy technician, according to her.

"I handle medications that doctors prescribe for people," she told you when asked. "Make sure they get the right dose and that the paperwork is handled. Call doctor's offices if needed and consult with the patient."

You had given her a look that she had memorized for the rest of her life. One of shock, awe, and absolute wonder. "You're able to do that? Isn't that a man's job?"

Rio smiled at you, leaning into the doorway. "This world is starting to become less theirs and more ours, angel. Society cannot run on the basis of the male gender alone and many areas of the workforce are recognizing that."

You had accepted her answer as truth.

She had three white medical jackets in which her name was stitched onto them provided by the drug store in town for her that you made sure to wash by themselves and iron before she went to work each morning.

She would often watch you do laundry -- hers or yours, after you moved in -- even if you were simply ironing in front of the television in the living room while she sipped on a bear in her suspenders and untucked white button-up, eyes focused on you rather than what the current state of the country was.

You had also changed the state of her eating habits in the time you'd been there, as well. You were horrified with what you found in her refrigerator and pantry.

Which was nothing pretty much.

The first night you had stayed over at her home you had also tried to cook. Mostly to have an excuse not to return to that dark, empty house just some stretches away, but also to thank Rio for creating a plan to ensure your comfort would remain.

Only to find she had little in terms of food. She had five TV Dinners stacked haphazardly and you cringed backward. Those were perhaps only good for Saturdays when one could sit in front of the television and enjoy their shows. The thought of Rio eating one every night left you nauseous.

You spotted an empty milk glass and snatched it out to set on the porch to be grabbed and replaced in the morning with fresh milk.

You stomped to the phone dangling on the wall and waited to be connected to the operator on the other line.

"Hello, number please?" the bored drawl asked.

You gave the older woman the number Rio provided and the answering clearing of a throat filled your ears. You heard a few flicks. "Thank you, please wait while we connect you."

"Sure." You held the phone to your ear and waited until the ringing started again.

"Westview Pharmacy."

"Rio," you greeted, wrapping a finger around the curly cord. Your heart paced in your chest at the sound of her voice.

"Hello, angel," she responded back, sounding pleasantly surprised. "What can I do for you on this fine day?"

"You have a sad excuse for a kitchen," you told her plainly, "and had you not taken the car I surely would have myself to go to the supermarket."

"I left some food for you to heat up, angel," she told you, confusion filtering through the line.

You huffed. "That is not -- I wish to cook, Rio. I may be a terrible baker but I am quite good at cooking otherwise and your lackluster pantry is ensuring I cannot do so."

There was a brief silence on the other end and for a moment you worried you'd overstepped, but then Rio let out a breathy chuckle. "Okay, okay. I apologize for any offense my kitchen and I caused."

You flushed. "I should hope so," you grumbled back, "I simply cannot understand how you lived this long. Did you not cook for your husband ever?"

"We weren't homebodies before he was drafted, no," Rio told you. You heard a rattle and assumed she was filling a prescription as she spoke with you. "He had a heart for eating out in diners and picnicking at the park. Every day was a new surprise."

"I see." You bit your lip and tapped the tiled floor with your flats. You regret bringing it up at all. "Well -- I only called to ask if you could run by the store on your way home and grab some essentials. Just enough for me to cook with until I can take the car."

"Of course I can," the brunette agreed instantly without thought. "And on that topic just start making a list of things you think we need so that way the next time we do go out we can grab it."

"I can do that."

"Good girl," the woman said. "Now, thank you for calling and asking me for something you needed. I do have to get back to work though. I will see you tonight?"

"Of course," you agreed, heart fluttering in your chest at the image of her walking into the doorway with that soft grin, "Sorry for keeping you."

"Never apologize, angel." With that, the line disconnected and left a low buzzing tone to tell you the line was dead. You hung up the phone and smiled wistfully to yourself.

It had been the first of many nights wherein you cooked for her and did her laundry and cleaned her house. She never missed a minute of telling you that she was grateful, or pointing out how well the dynamic seemed to be working out damn the gossip you feared would crop up.

Things changed drastically six months in as autumn began taking over Westview in a chokehold with no release.

The leaves were a falling and leaving the ground covered in the dark orange and yellow hues that you loved so and a chill began to sweep and take over the summer heat.

You eyed the calendar up on the wall in the kitchen and noted that Rio seemed to be gone more often in October, November, and December.

You had wanted to ask why but your engrained sense of minding your business and leaving it be kept your tongue stabled to the roof of your mouth for the most part.

"You're burning holes into the wall, sweetheart," Rio called from the kitchen table. She was sitting neatly in the chair reading the morning paper, coffee in front of her as she waited patiently for breakfast.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, returning to the stove and slipping the skillet before the bacon could blacken the bacon completely. The two strips fell onto the plate next to the eggs and you carefully set the skillet back down.

Your plate was empty on the counter next to the stove. Rio had few rules but one of them was that you made yourself a meal first unless you had time to share one together, and then make hers while you ate.

It was odd and very unusual for what was normally expected from most "housewives" in this case, but she was insistent and you were hardly one to deny Rio after she's taken you in and practically cared for you in place of you having to work.

You didn’t protest to her few rules — you obeyed them willingly and dutifully. In turn she ensured you had her company and you were comfortable.

Rio was at work one afternoon before a fair you had agreed to attend together and your mother had come to take you to lunch at a hot new diner.

She was updating you on your sister and her children, and the new car the family had obtained. Though eventually she asked when you’d find yourself a way out of Rio’s home— an opportunity to do something new and get out of the town where it all occurred.

You had simply looked at her questioningly, and asked, “Why would I ever want to leave? Miss Vidal has become my best friend and a dear comfort to me. She knows what I go through.”

Your mother’s lips pursed and her eyes crinkled around the edges in a way that was all too familiar. Like she knew something you didn’t. “Sweetheart, that’s why I wanted to sit you down really. See your father and I have been communicating with the sheriff. You remember Richard Howards right? You were in the same class in grade school.”

A town as small as Westview hardly awarded privacy and the idea of being strangers to others. So you simply said, “Of course.”

Your mother nodded and fiddled with her pearl necklace as she spoke, “After the funeral we went down to settle the business of your husband’s work details. We wanted it done through the sheriff’s office just in case they tried to cause problems for you.”

“Why would they do that?” you wondered as you sipped your coffee and looked out the window toward the drug store Rio was contained in.

Your mother frowned deeply. “Have you not been looking through your mail? I suppose most of it must be trash — a lot of it is advertisements and magazine samples these days — but Eastview Grain Milling wanted to deny wrongdoing. They were going to try and drag his widow — you — through the mud in the process.”

Your eyes flashed back to her, eyebrows shot up high. “Under what grounds? I’ve no money and he certainly didn’t have much after his paychecks. He died in their factory.”

Your mother nodded slowly. “Precisely the issue, isn’t it?”

“Is it taken care of?” you asked hesitantly.

“We handled it. Mostly your father — he’s, well, you know how he is.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Your mother eyed you. “When did you become so uninterested in what happens to you, darling? You used to call your father if you got religious scripture —“

“Shouldn’t it be wrong to send that to someone’s home instead of finding other creative ways to advertise? Who wants to join an indescribable society without merit and has no name?”

“My point,” she interrupted before you could get riled up, “is that you haven’t been . . . You. Not for a while.”

“Well, my husband died.”

Your mother gasped your name out, slamming her cup on the table in shock. You stared back at her with a weak shrug. “It’s true. I’m trying to . . . I don’t know, Mother. Rekindle my desire to live?”

“Then go to the doctor!” she cried, and you paused to note the look of desperation in her gaze, “Come home to your father and I while you recover — you know we’d take care of you. But please, sweetheart, something isn’t right about this woman.”

“You don’t even know her,” you snapped. Then you breathed out, startled at your own tone. You gathered yourself, your thoughts, and said, “She’s my only friend. My neighbors aren’t kindly women, Mother.”

“Have you asked her anything of value?” she demands. “How she came to be widowed? What year she got married? How they met?”

“Why are you so suspicious of her? Do you think she’s a commie? I assure you, Mother,” you bit out, “after the death of her husband she’s never been more drawn to this countries’ ideals.”

“No.” Exasperated, the woman who looked so much like yourself leaned back into the shiny leather booths and rubbed her temple. “Mister Howards did a check on Miss Vidal’s records.”

“Mother, you didn’t.”

“She was never married,” she blurted once again, cutting you off from whatever it is you began to say.

You sat in frozen silence, shock more than anything coating you like a wet blanket. “W-what?”

“Rio Vidal has a completely blank canvas, sweetheart,” your mother told you, eyes softening when she took in your expression, “and I’m afraid that means that no records indicate she was ever married, much less to a man in the service.”

2024

You flipped the page of the current cookbook and steadied it on the stand, dropping a few chives into the soup you were prepping.

You almost destroyed the kitchen in a fury when you saw perfectly tailored apron that you always eyed in the store hanging on the hook near the back door.

You settled for dumping out Rio’s beers instead and getting to work. She allotted you as much time in the kitchen as you requested — but the knives you used were somehow spelled to never turn against her no matter how hard you tried. They would be come heavy in your hands and eventually disappear when you grew defeated.

You had an entirely different plan for her instead of stabbing her to death. Less messy and a lot more manageable in terms of sneaking it into dinner.

You didn’t know if you could kill Death — but you sure as shit would try. She’s kept you cooped up for no less than three weeks so far and any and all attempts were met with mockery and depending on her mood, you facedown and fucked into oblivion.

You hated it.

Fuck.

You emptied your brain for now to keep your attention focused on making this dinner as heavily flavored as possible. You tipped in a little wine for extra flavor, even, and took a giant gulp from the bottle yourself.

You set the table and poured wine for both of you. Your hands shook despite yourself and your body was stiff. You folded napkins just as perfectly as your mother had taught you and set the silverware in order.

You served each bowl a helping of the soup.

At the last second before you knew she would be walking through the door, you opened the box of rat poison and dumped all of the contents in and stirred carefully and hoped there was one thing that could defeat Death.

Your desperation — it was making you sloppy. Perhaps if you had waited it out longer and thought about it you would have decided that fucking rat poison wouldn’t work on her.

But it didn’t cross you — not when you could feel the subtle shift of the invisible chain around your throat that dug in anytime you inched too close to the property line. Not when you tried to make a new design for the rooms and ended up in bed for hours for thinking you could try to enjoy this life again.

Never. Again.

She came in through the garage door with a flourish. For whatever reason you couldn’t grasp, she wore suits when she left and came home as though she were going to a normal nine to five job instead of reaping souls for her jars of whatever the fuck she did with them.

She strides through the house, calling your name and finding you waiting at the table with a fake smile plastered to your face and your chin resting on your palm as you greeted her.

“What a sight,” she drew out as she took her jacket off and slung it over her chair before rounding the table, “and what a beautiful dinner, too,” she added, finger lifting your chin. You let her guide you into a soft kiss, playing your role until you could unleash yourself entirely.

“Mm,” you said, then spread a hand out. “I made something new. It may not be up to my normal standards, considering.”

Rio eyed you curiously as she undid her sleeve cuffs and sat down across from you. Steam was still rising from the bowl and she stretched her arms out to allow her sleeves to ride up.

“I am sure that whatever you’ve made will be as delicious as the things you’ve made ten times before.” She went for the glass of wine first, so you followed in suit.

For once you started to feel like the lioness stalking her prey rather than the prey itself. You knew for sure that Rio could sense your observant gaze — how you kept attention to her over the rim of your wine glass and as you twirled and sipped at your soup.

It sparked curiosity and perhaps even a little suspicion from her end of the enchantment she had on you. Good. It was your turn to play a game with rules she couldn’t possibly follow.

“What did you do today?” she asked, setting the glass down and going to grab the spoon laid pointedly out instead. Dipped into soup, lifted to a mouth.

You smiled as she sipped it, and said casually, “Oh I didn’t get up to much. The house is quiet even with Billy around to keep company. Too big. I pulled some weeds from the garden and harvested some vegetables.”

“Did you now.” Dark swirls of magic in her eyes — an illusion to keep you from reading her. You hated that she used it so often.

“Mm.” You ran your finger around and around the rim of your wine glass. “I think a dog would be nice too. More company and would be enough to keep me busy.”

“A dog,” Rio echoed as she ingested a second sip of soup. “I thought you hated dogs.”

“Until I learned they hated you. Now I think one would be rather nice.”

Eyes locked across the table, and a small smile formed. “My angel wants a dog. As if it would protect you from me.”

Silence filled the room as you prepared for a standoff. Something about her demeanor had grown darker and more pronounced than when she stepped through the door — and if Rio knew you a hundred ways you knew her at least ninety-nine.

She knew.

She finished the entire bowl and let the spoon fall with a clang into it, leaning back into her chair to finish her wine. “Angel, what a delicious meal. I was worried I would never get to taste your cooking again. It’s one of the ways I can understand how you’re feeling without invading you with my. . . Abilities. Your cooking is your tell.”

You held your glass loosely in hand, allowing your features to come across as lazy and uninterested despite feeling as though a bloody battle were about to ensue. You lay your chin on the top of the back of your hand holding the glass.

“Oh?” you say, pretending curious reactions to keep her talking. She would be gone by now if the poison had worked, so you could only hope she couldn’t have tasted it. “What did this meal tell you about me tonight, then?”

Rio takes one of her index fingers and runs it along the inside of the bowl until it comes back with remains. She sticks it onto her tongue and leans forward as if to tell you a secret.

“It means, angel, that tonight you gambled with Death and you were feeling bold and tried something new and out of your usual style. So fucking bold that you thought a mortal poison — a weak one at that — would destroy me.” Something deadly and calm crossed her face, but the smile was something you’ve only seen a few times on her, “I am no rat, angel. All you’ve done tonight is play a little game I indulged in.”

Blood filled your ears. You could hear your heartbeat so fucking loud and you were drowning in the thickness of it.

Then pain pulled you out of it as quickly as it forced you in. You jumped, turning and realizing you’d broken your glass. Wine mixed with blood as shards of glass struck deep into your skin.

The pain didn’t do much to douse the fire that was your rage, your upset, your years of distress.

It lit them all up like gasoline on a volatile fire. You slammed your bloody fist onto the table and shoved it into Rio, who grunted in surprise as her hands flew up to catch it before it rammed into her abdomen.

“I am not your plaything for you to amuse yourself with when you’re bored and can’t find Agatha to annoy,” you spat, shoving the chair with your foot and causing the table to inch deeper into her palms. “I will find a way to destroy you — collar or not.”

Something you said was wrong, or perhaps the way you said it. One moment she was shocked and even bemused at your explosion and next she shoved the table back into your direction. You had to leap out of the way with the speed in which she had kicked it.

Glass and silverware went flying as the table slammed into the entryway and wall, shattering into broken pieces. A piece from one of the bowls snagged your cheek but the pain was minuscule and you grabbed the empty pot from the sink and threw it at her.

“You’re fucking pathetic, sweetheart.” Rio whipped her hand out and caught the pot with a swirl of dark green. She twisted her fingers and you watched in despair as the object was crumbled like a ball of paper and tossed out the window behind you.

You ducked for cover and cursed viciously as she crunched through broken plate ware and kicked aside table-legs for good measure in case you got any ideas.

She knelt down before you and wrapped her hand around the back of your neck tenderly, caressing the spot where her sigil hummed the loudest when she was near.

"You are my only focus now," she told you calmly, then grinned as though sharing a joke, "As long as we don't count the soul-reaping I do. But that's not really something I can simply give up, I'm afraid. I will admit I was impressed by your sad attempt at freeing yourself from me that I rewarded you with . . . enclosed freedom. I decided to decrease the size of your enclosure, really, is all I did. You never left me."

You bared your teeth at her in a meek attempt at having some sort of shield from her mocking. Blood dribbled into your mouth, between your teeth, and soaked into your tongue.

"I will never be complicit to this again," you spat at her. You hoped the droplets wouldn't wash out of her pants. She ignored the staining as though it were a common occurrence. "You can't make me happy, Rio. All of this -- from the day we met -- has been built on a lie that has crumbled around you. You aren't lovable."

The pressure suddenly eased as Rio seemed to process what you said to her. You had hoped to hit a weak spot and get her angry enough to back off, but her next response was the exact opposite.

"If I cannot make you love me," she whispered, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your ear, then your jaw, "then I will give you a part of me that you have absolutely no choice but to love. Much better than a dog."

Dread slapped you across the face as Rio pulled back and snapped her fingers.

You were out before you could process her statement entirely.

You awoke in the bedroom under the cool sheets. You had a distinct throbbing in your head that reminded you of drinking too much or pulling an all-nighter during the nineties when you went to college for the first time.

You sat up slowly to prevent the increase of pain and crossed your arms when the sheets fell. You were naked -- entirely fucking naked -- and there was no evidence of any indication of Rio being around while you were out.

You trembled when you went over the events of the night. The alarm clock said it was five in the morning -- dinner had been at six. you slept for eleven hours straight . . . or were kept in a controlled state of unconsciousness by Rio until she could decide what to do with you.

As if summoned by your loud thinking, the door opened and in came Death herself. She looked rather stern as if you had started a stupid, petty fight and were at fault for it.

You wanted to wring her neck.

She took your silence in, the hostile expression, and swaggered on over to the bed like it was an invitation rather than a warning. She was wearing a silk robe and on closer inspection you noted her wet hair was in a bun.

"Did you get the tantrum out of you?" she asked casually, leaning over to turn on the bedside table lamp.

You curled your lip at her like a tethered animal that's been cornered and whipped.

"Because, you see," she continued, undoing the belt of her robe and letting it slide off her shoulders to reveal nothing but her prone form underneath, "I've decided that despite your outburst to give you a gift."

"I do not want," you breathed, finding leverage and support in the sheets keeping you covered, rage now leaking into your every word, "any gift you think to offer me. I don't want it. Fuck off."

Rio sat down next to you with a pout as she revealed a green rose in perfect beauty to you. "From my own personal gardens. It grew and died for you, my love."

The phantom sting from your thumb where one of her roses had cut you when you first saw one of those damned things in years made you fist the mattress underneath the comforter and sheets covering you.

"I am tired of things dying for me."

And suddenly a palm was on your forehead, shoving it down onto the soft, feather-stuffed pillows as Rio flung a leg over your waist and leaned over you. "Well, isn't that just too bad?" she murmured. "I don't get your love, and you don't get to stop those that lose their lives in your place. A pity all around."

You tried to ignore her, dragging your eyes upward to the ceiling instead as tears threatened to rise. You were so fucking tired -- of her, of living like this, of fighting.

"You're going to make me feel good in return for that stunt you pulled during dinner," Rio told you in a matter-of-fact tone, not minding you not keeping focus on her as she ripped the protection off your body and allowed the cold to sweep over your skin. "And after, I'm going to give you something I've only ever given to one other person."

You did not follow the line of discussion, the branching topic she wiggled in front of you like meat on a string. You told her you did not want it because her gifts always came with unspoken implications.

She moved suddenly and quickly, her body moving upward until she was hovering over your upturned face and she reached a hand down to run fingers through your hair. "Remember to breath, angel," she purred and then lowered herself onto you. Then she tugged when she got no initial reaction, “You’re gonna touch me, sweetheart. Go on. Don’t make it worse for yourself.”

Even as your tongue began to lick upward on instinct, you debated with yourself on biting her. Hard.

She’d probably only be mildly irritated at most and take it as a challenge rather than an attempt to get her off of you.

Your hands shakily reached up instead and with one hand you dug fingers mercilessly into the meat of her hip while a second hand scrunched between you two so you could thrust two fingers upward at the same time as your tongue entered her.

Rio released a moan that was breathy and sweet in essence as her thighs took form around either side of your head. You felt the headboard move and figured she was grabbing onto it with her other hand.

“Fuck — you still remember what I need, don’t you, angel? Good girls always remember even if they don’t want to,” she whispered in unsteady gasps as you found a rhythm. She kept herself from moving at first, instead using built up energy to dig nails into your scalp as your fingers thrusted upward while your tongue created tight friction.

Everything about her made you ache — down to the familiar smell of her and the way she twitched when you thrust slowly in the circular motion that she liked.

She was going back and forth from offering praise to you to being unable to form coherent words for some seconds when you let your teeth graze her clit every so often. Never enough for her to come.

“You’re being a tease,” she told you obviously, grip tightening with warning. However the grip faltered ever so slightly when you found the spongy tissue inside of her and added pressure. She fell into a low gasp and a knock against the headboard made you guess she had dropped her head on it.

“Fuck — right there. Yes, angel, keep going.”

You obeyed for a brief period in order to draw her closer to the edge. She was fiercely grinding her pussy down against your face now as she kept herself balanced.

Her thighs were beginning to twitch around your head and she was getting slicker by the moment. She was entirely vulnerable above you but you now knew not to make the mistake and think she didn’t have some sort of defense ready if you did something really stupid.

Just when you knew she would tip over is when you pull away, allowing your fingers to brush her g-spot one last time and sending her careening over that sharp edge. She let out a choked moan, surprised, as you abruptly removed all stimulation minus the forceful grinding she was giving you.

She panted above you but she didn’t sound satisfied like she usually does when she has an orgasm. She sounded wrung out, like reaching something with no payout.

“You have some goddamn balls,” Rio snarled, slipping away from your face and snatching it in her palm despite the wetness covering it. “You ruin my orgasm and think it’ll go any good for you?”

You stare her down with unwavering contempt. “You still came, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I’m loving this new part of you. The vile rage that seeps from your pores every second you’re around me,” she sneers as she wipes a trail of her slick from around your chin and shoves the appendage in your mouth.

You bite her finger but she does not flinch, does not blink. She only grins at you. “Oh yes, you wild little thing of mine. I am going to enjoy what I am going to do next. It will dampen that fire in your belly — or perhaps it will enrage you further. I cannot wait to see.”

You were grabbed so roughly you hardly at time to fight back. Arms and legs were rearranged and your face was shoved facedown into the pillows this time as fingers drifted gingerly down your spine.

“So pretty,” your captor mused, as if considering a piece of art in a museum. They trailed down even further until they brushed against the backs of your legs and angled them up so your knees and ass rose into the air. “Yes, angel, I’m going to want you to stay like this. Be my muse.”

“I will destroy your entire being,” you vowed as the magical directive took effect and your muscles relaxed without your consent. The weight of the bed lifted as Rio removed herself and murmured something under her breath.

“While you work on that, I think I’ll work on something else more productive,” she mused as she rejoined you a few moments later with her pelvis resting against the very bottom of your ass.

“You say a lot of words but speak such bullshit,” you snarled back, unable to move your hips an inch despite your attempts.

Rio laughed. “Fuck, I love you so much. Which is going to make this all the more fun.” And then you felt it sliding between the crevice where your cunt was.

“Absolutely not,” you jerked your upper body forward in desperation with no prevail, you were unable to get away. To make it worse she placed what she believed to be soothing hand on your now clammy back. “Rio — Rio, stop.”

She ignored you and tested you for wetness, and you were embarrassed at what she found when she sought it out. She leaned her body over your upturned hips and whispered, “So wet and yet you claim you want me to stop?”

“That’s how consent works, Rio,” you panted, jerking your shoulder but gaining no traction as she moved just out of reach in time. “I say stop and you stop.”

“I’m afraid that’s not in our contract, my love,” she sighed as she fingered the area around your neck and somehow managed to pull tight. Your airflow was restricted and you gasped out for air. “I own you entirely and have for a very long time. I decided you were mine the second I was called to take you away. I’m gladly taking others instead — and you’re granted a lifelong advantage on top of that. It’s time we add to it — don’t you think? Keep that destructive, wandering, little brain of yours busy will do wonders so I don’t have to dumb you down with my magic.”

She released you and your head fell back down as you gasped and inhaled for breath, fingers flexing into the sheets as dizziness swirled around you.

The tears started then. Rio crooned as she kissed gently down your back and entered you with an ease of a lover who actually cared would.

“Oh, angel, there is no need for those,” she murmured as she sucked bruises where each kiss was left. “Tears are a waste of your energy when considering why you’re crying.”

“Fuck you,” you sniffled, the emotions overwhelming you too much and your brain filled with an overload of pleasure chemicals to say much else.

“I’m so trying,” she promises followed by a very deep thrust. “Do you know what I’m doing, love? Why I chose to wear the cock?”

You didn’t answer her, too wrapped up in your own feelings to play her game and amuse her as she fucked you like her life depended on it.

“It’s because,” she continues like she was discussing the weather with you, “I’m going to breed you. I’ve put some thought into it — you’d be impressed how much time I spent thinking instead of acting on innate desires.”

Your body shuddered when the ridges of her specially designed cock rubbed your walls, followed by one of her arms reaching around so she could cup your breasts. “You never liked being bored, did you?” she grunted as she found a better angle and upped her speed.

You let out a sob-filled moan and suddenly you could move your hips again — and the first thing you found yourself doing was thrusting them back in time to meet her.

“Good girl,” she whispered, kisses lining your jaw, down your neck as she squeezed your breast and kept you in a constant state of physical overstimulation and unable to clearly think. “You’re doing so fucking good despite how fucking difficult you’ve been lately. That’s okay — we’re going to fix that aren’t we?”

Suddenly you were drawn upwards until you sat on her thighs, with her chest pressed against your back as she rolled her hips as deep as they would go and held you up with the arm holding your tits.

“I’m going to make sure you stay, angel. I’ve lost — I’ve lost too much already.” Through the fucked out haze you thought you detected despair and need within the tone she used — but she didn’t allow you long to process it as her other hand reached down and started rubbing your clit with harsh beats that met her thrusts.

“I’m going to — I’m going to give us a better life, okay?” she whispered just as the build up continued to grow with no possible escape in sight.

You gave in — at least for this — and closed your eyes and leaned your head back against her shoulder as she kept her pace violent and unyielding, seeming to have a goal to achieve.

It didn’t take much longer — not for you or Rio. Both of you were thrown into orgasms that had you rocking forward back down into the bed, your groan and gasps eroding away at any belief she would ever let you go.

A tingle that you came to associate with her use of magic started rippling across your skin like electricity until Rio stopped moving inside of you, growing briefly still.

You were shaking and trembling, biting your tongue so hard that blood filled your mouth as you contained your devastated cries and curled your legs into you.

Rio brushed some hair away from your neck and rubbed at your back in an effort to comfort you. Perhaps she thought you were overwhelmed in the way she was — you weren’t entirely sure ever what Rio thought most days.

“It’s going to be okay,” she tried to soothe, her touch like burning oil as you tried to flinch away from her. “Angel? I promise. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be a family. I am Death. Nothing will take us away.”

But who was Death really when she was able to create life? The very thing Rio had once claimed was against her rules.

Rio and Reader will return in Part Three.

Taglist [ holy shit I remembered ]: @girlsgotissues ( it won’t let me tag u im so sorry )

PART THREE

#rio vidal #rio vidal x reader #agatha all along #dark fic #itaakiwy

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laswells-ashtray · 2 days ago

Note

Hello comrade (also please tell Orca hi from me), I know you did a wonderful piece on Adler and baby Phil just recently, but I am unapologetically greedy about your writing, so if you do not mind, could you maybe share your thoughts on how they would spend, like, a fun weekend day in the city? Maybe a zoo trip or one of those science museums that have cool interactive exhibitions where you can watch like a tornado form in a glass box by a press of a button and then it explains some physics laws (do I make sense? I hope you get which ones I mean, I am obsessed with them). Or something like that.

In any case, I hope you have a great day/night and remember that you are our very loved comrade and always a delight when you post literally anything ❤️🦍

I'm gonna be honest with you, I'm choosing the zoo because it's easier to describe than sciencey things as someone who enjoys those museums but also failed every science I ever took and doesn't know how to articulate anything involving such. Also, obligatory gorilla conga line: 🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍🦍

It's safe to say, it isn't Russell's traditional way to spend a Saturday. But, he lets the tiny hand in his lead him over to the bear enclosure with a smile because Phil's little legs are moving so quickly that he expects them to spark soon.

It's busy, as to be expected on a sunny Saturday but he manages to secure them a place by the glass so that the four-year-old can see the bear. A couple of well-thrown elbows can get him anywhere he damn pleases.

It's almost comical how close Phil is willing to get to the glass just to look at the bear inside of its enclosure, offering it a wave with his free hand as the bear peers back at them, not a care in the world as it lounges about on the grass.

"Is he grizzly?"

He looks away from the bear, eyes drawn back to the little boy in front of him as Phil squeezes his hand. He shakes his head, glancing over at the sign detailing the animal's information.

"I don't think so, kid. Says she's an Andean bear."

"Huh."

It doesn't seem to deter Phil, his enthusiasm doesn't falter in the slightest as he admires the beautiful creature in front of them. The markings on the bear's face give it a distinct kind of regality over the other animals in the park.

A soft mutter reaches his ears as his son gazes wide-eyed at the bear. "She looks fluffy."

At that moment he knows that when they reach the gift shop he'll be looking for stuffed bears to see if he can hunt down an Andean bear plushie for Phil to keep at his house. His wallet be damned, his boy is getting a bear.

He peers over at the sign, listing every common fact about the bear from her age to her weight to her average lifespan in captivity. "Says she's only seven, her name is Beatrice."

Phil tugs on his hand again, this time with the force that demands Russell meet his eyes. He doesn't even try to pretend that the shit-eating grin on the four-year-old's face doesn't make him smile.

"Beartrice."

And with that, the famed Russell Adler is broken into a fit of laughter by a four-year-old in a Tom and Jerry t-shirt.

He ruffles Phillip's hair with his hand much to his displeasure, messing up the neat blonde style that his mother had insisted he leave the house with. Informing her that they were going to the zoo and not a gala only resulted in her rolling her eyes.

Others start to crowd around them, all desperate to get a look at the "spectacled" bear in all her glory as the animal starts to approach the glass. He briefly considers staying but being boxed in by around twenty or so people is less than ideal, so, he leans down and carefully picks Phil up, planting the boy on his hip.

He hears his son's quiet protest as he walks away from the bear enclosure and he's met with a pout when he spares him a glance, he'd feel bad if it weren't a tactical decision.

"Well, kiddo, how about I make you a deal? We can go look at Daddy's favourite animal and then get some food before we go and look at the rest of the animals. Maybe, if she's still awake we can come back and see Beatrice later."

Phillip doesn't seem convinced, crossing his arms and looking up at him with such a serious glare that it almost feels like looking in a mirror. It'd take less effort to convince Woods to drink lighter fluid.

"What animal?"

He pinches the boy's nose, grinning at his grumble as tiny hands try to pry his own away.

"Well, I was gonna take us to go see the lynxes. They're like a big version of Mrs Petrillo's cat."

The description seems to help convince Phil that the new animal would be worth leaving the bear for. "A kitty?"

"Kind of, yeah. A big kitty."

After maybe twenty seconds of deliberation, Phillip nods and looks at him expectantly.

"Let's go see the kitty."

So, maybe he could convince Woods to drink lighter fluid.

#phillip graves #russell adler #dadler #sorry they only saw one animal but i didnt know about andean bears until i wrote this and they're beautiful #hope you enjoy

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saphronethaleph · 2 days ago

Text

Eyes Wide Shut

The demon fox’s paws crashed down on the stone, outside Konoha, and Obito’s Mangekyo spun as he prepared to place the fox under a genjutsu.

It was a necessary part of his plan. A vital part of his plan. To send the fox rampaging into Konoha to cause widespread devastation, devastation that would weaken the strongest of the villages and plant discord against the Uchiha… and, incidentally, make sure that that village wasn’t focused on trying to find a way through his potent technique to keep himself safe.

Then-

Obito’s thoughts skidded to a halt.

The fox’s eyes were closed.

“Hey!” he called. “Look over here, you dumb-”

“Not. A. Chance,” the fox replied, voice loud and booming. “I’m free for the first time in ninety years and I was paying attention, you think I’m going to look into the eye of another fucking Uchiha and let myself get caught right away?”

His tails slammed down on where Obito was, but fortunately intangibility meant that the tails didn’t actually mash him into jelly.

“Damn it!” the fox bellowed, then growled. “This is like dealing with Dad all over again… speaking of which, what the hell, humans? How grateful is it that you keep stuffing me into my distant relatives?”

Obito blinked, and barely remembered to stay incorporeal as the massive tails swept through his space again.

“I mean, seriously!” the demon shouted, in a voice which shook the Hokage monument, and ignored the explosion of a high-powered fire jutsu against his flank with a snort. “Dad stops Grandmother, preventing her from eating all the chakra in the world, leaves her body on the moon and splits her chakra into the nine of us… and what kind of thanks do we get? We get called demons! I remember when Kokuo told me, Kurama, they’re not that bad… not that bad? What do you call hunting down every single remaining Otsutsuki and shoving them into human containers?”

Apparently the fox had gone insane? Obito wasn’t even sure at this point. But it seemed as though the repeated multi-tail thrashings that… Kurama?… was giving the space around him were serving some form of catharsis, and that Kurama was more venting than anything, giving voice to nine decades of pent-up frustration.

“And if you’re listening, humans, think about how little you would like it!” Kurama added. “Having to listen to ninety years of someone else’s banal concerns, being completely involved with everything they ever do, and you’re pinned in place unable to look away! AND you feel all the emotions that they do, or all the horrible ones anyway… I even had to pay attention during those therapy sessions the Hatake brat had for killing that teammate of his! And that’s how I find out that she had Isobu in her as some kind of bomb?”

Obito felt a sharp spike of hatred for how that must have been Rin he was talking about – then that was immediately overwhelmed by confusion.

Sheer, total confusion.

Isobu?

“I thought Isobu was sealed into that twink of a Mizukage, but maybe I missed something,” Kurama added, thoughtfully.

No.

It couldn’t be.

He couldn’t mean that Rin had had the three-tails sealed into her?

But she’d been – she’d been trying to escape from Kiri-

Kiri had been under Madara’s thumb, and now it was under his thumb, they never could have-

he had to fulfil the plan-

Rin was-

the plan-

Then Obito realized he’d forgotten to stay intangible, when a tailtip the size of an apartment block smashed him into the side of the nearest cliff.

He certainly felt like he’d lost most of his torso, but that was fixable given his unique biology. He’d just have to do with not having a heart for a few seconds, until it got regenerated.

“FINALLY!” Kurama bellowed. “All right, now I’m fucking OFF. I hope to see Konoha never.”

The ground trembled as three hundred feet of giant fox went bounding off in the vague direction of north, and Obito shook his head slightly as his torso recovered.

Then frowned.

...why the hell had he been listening to a crazy, senile old man’s plan to hypnotize the entire planet, anyway?

It somehow seemed a lot easier to ask that question now.

#naruto #kurama #obito uchiha

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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 2 days ago

Text

What remains of us

Summary: Y/N's intern year comes to an abrupt end when she enters a school during an active shooter lockdown. Understanding what happened to her, maneuvering this new reality is impossible - but she might have someone willing to guide her through it all.

Warnings: death, descriptions of a dead body, injuries and blood, SCHOOL SHOOTING, swearing

Word count: 2.3k

Lips trembling, her eyes opened slowly. Clutching her chest with shaky hands, Y/N struggles to sit up, gasping for air. Every breath she draws is held, unable to exhale from the shock. Her fingers press against her shirt, feeling…nothing. No torn fabric, no sticky warmth of blood…No searing pain she felt before the fall. Her heart is hammering, yet there’s no ache, no wound. But she remembers it…The explosion of agony, the sharp, suffocating burn of a bullet ripping through flesh – the way the world blurred as she fell. Blinking away tears, she scrambles to her feet. The tremor in her limbs betrays her, knees buckling beneath her. She grits her teeth, steadying herself. If she stays out in the open, she won’t be as lucky next time. The shooter will not miss twice.

A strangled breath escapes her as she slaps a hand over her mouth. Her pulse pounds in her ears as she takes off down the hall, her footsteps echoing against the linoleum floor. The world around her is wrong—too quiet, too still, as if holding its breath with her.

She dives into an empty classroom, shoving desks against the door with what little strength she has left. But it’s not enough. The flimsy wood and metal legs scrape loudly, barely a deterrent. It won’t hold. If someone wants in, they’ll get in.

Her hands dig into her hair as she paces, eyes darting around. This isn’t what they trained her for – med school never said what to do when you’re the one being shot at! She was supposed to save lives, not run for her own. They never should have let an intern go inside in the first place! She knew it wasn’t safe, that they couldn’t guarantee she’d walk out alive. They didn’t even know if there was anyone hurt!

There has to be a way to get out of the school. Her breath shudders as she pats her pockets. Phone. Phone. Her fingers find nothing but fabric. “Shit.” It must have slipped out when she fell. She didn’t even grab her supply bag.

“Fuck”, she grumbles under her breath. Running a hand through her hair, she looks out the window. The stadium isn’t far. If she could get down safely, she could make a run for it. Staying put is a terrible idea, especially when the classroom isn’t barricaded properly.

Her heart pounds as she pushes the window open. Cold air rushes in, biting against her flushed skin. Her eyes land on the flagpole just outside. Her mother would kill her if she knew.

"MY daughter on a pole? I’d disown you!"

A shaky chuckle escapes her lips, raw and humorless. “Not sure you’d appreciate the irony, Mom.”

A single tear slips down her cheek, but she doesn’t wipe it away.

Taking deep breaths, she grips the pole with both hands, her knuckles whitening. The wind howls around her as she steps onto the windowsill, her stomach lurching.

“Don’t look down!”

Frowning, her eyes lock onto a figure - a guy bellow, standing a few feet away from her landing spot, beckoning her to hurry.

“You can do this!” he calls out

Nodding nervously, she holds her breath as her descent begins.

“You’re doing great!” The man continues cheering, but she can’t bring herself to say a single word in response. Besides, if he keeps being so loud, the shooter might hear them.

The world blurs around her as she slides, her breath hitching with every inch downward. The pole burns against her palms, but she doesn’t let go—not until her feet hit solid ground.

She barely has time to process the relief before she feels him beside her.

“We can’t stay here”, she states quietly. “The stadium isn’t far. We can make it if we run.”

His eyes widen, looking behind in confusion. Locking his eyes with hers once again, his lips part. Pointing a finger to his chest, he raises his eyebrows.

“We can’t waste time,” Y/N doesn’t wait for him to argue. She grabs his elbow, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, and pulls him forward.

They run.

The stadium is like a beacon, a promise of safety. She can’t know for sure, but something tells her it’s a lot safer than the school. From there she can find a way to contact police, inform them of the shooter’s last location, and get extracted. And get the guy extracted too.

The guy, whoever he is, runs beside her, his pace matching hers. She barely had time to see his face, too desperate to escape and save him, as well as herself. All she remembers is the blue varsity jacket, realizing he’s likely a jock at the school. Ugh, she hated jocks when she was in high school.

He didn’t say a word when she grabbed him, nor now as he caught her by the wrist when she nearly lost her grip, steadying her as they continued running.

“Faster”, she mutters, voice rough, urgent.

Her lungs burn, legs scream, but she doesn’t stop. The stadium is right there, just a little farther.

Then she hears a voice – no, voices – shouting from ahead. The guy pushes her hard, yanking her into the shadows of the bleachers. They crouch low, listening.

“Are we sure?” A man’s voice, gruff, serious.

“We found her body.”

“FUCK!”

Frowning, she moves closer to the men speaking, realizing they’re policemen. Letting out a sigh of relief, she smiles at the jock beside her.

“Thank God!” She turns to the guy beside her, a smile breaking through the fear. “C’mon!”

She grabs his sleeve, pulling him onto the field.

“Hey, officers!” she calls, brushing her scrubs nervously as she approaches the policemen. “I…I just got out of there. The shooter was on the 2nd floor! I had a really close call”, she lets out a breathy, nervous laugh.

Nothing.

Not even a single head turns.

Her brows knit together. She waves a hand, stepping closer. “Hello?”

Silence.

Her forehead creases as she reaches out, fingertips grazing the shoulder of the nearest officer.

And meeting nothing. Just air.

Y/N blinks, her hand hovering where the officer’s shoulder should be. But it’s like he isn’t there…like she isn’t.

No.

No, no, no.

Her breath catches in her throat. Slowly, she tries again, pressing her palm forward. It slips right through the thick fabric of his uniform, through solid muscle, through him. A cold shiver crawls up her spine.

“No”, she mutters. Her knees nearly buckle.

“They’ve already done the necessary forensics,” one officer mutters. “Her body will be brought through here, away from the press. It’s going to be a media shit show.”

Y/N staggers back. The words claw at her mind, but they don’t make sense. She’s here. She’s standing. She’s breathing…

Isn’t she?

Her heart slams against her ribs, but there’s no answering thud in her ears. No pulse pounding in her wrists. She whirls toward the guy beside her, this stranger who’s been with her since the flagpole, since the escape. He’s watching her, quiet, unreadable.

“What’s happening?” Her voice shakes. “Why can’t they see me?”

His expression softens.

“Because,” he says gently, “we’re already dead.”

Her body tenses, the weight of his words sinking in like lead.

“That’s impossible,” she grimaces. “I’m being pranked!” she decides. “This is some sort of intern hazing that you’re all taking too far!” Cackling, she tries to touch the officer again only to meet air instead of flesh.

Swallowing thickly, she presses her lips in a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” the guy sighs. “I didn’t realize it until you spoke to me after climbing down.”

Rubbing her forehead, she turns to look at him – properly look at him, for the first time. There’s no denying he’s handsome – the kind of handsome that sneaks up on you, not in the obvious ‘in your face’ way Henry Cavil is, but in a way that lingers… and holds your breath hostage.

His hair is a little messy, framing a face that looks like it belongs in an old school yearbook – classic, effortlessly cool. With a sharp jawline and a kind smile on his lips, his features are boyish in a way that makes her stomach ache.

The letterman jacket clings to his broad shoulders, the fabric worn in the best way, like it’s seen years of games, of wins, of effortless charm. He’s got that all-American, football-star thing going on, but somehow, it doesn’t feel cocky. It just feels him.

And right now, he’s looking at her. Smiling at her.

“How…how are you so sure?” she clears her throat, “I mean, I felt your touch! I felt –“

“Because I died,” he takes a step closer. “I died at the homecoming game in my senior year…it was the fall of 1983. I celebrated my 18th birthday just a week before.”

Closing her eyes, she licks her lips. “I’m dreaming. Or I hit my head hard when I fell and now I’m hallucinating a hot jock who supposedly died before I was even born!” Laughing maniacally, she nods erratically. “Yeah! That’s what happened!”

“Except, it’s not.” Taking a step closer, he gives her a sympathetic look. “I’m Wally. You’re kinda standing where I died.”

Jumping from the spot, she narrows her eyes at him. “And what? Huh? You’re just haunting the school because you can’t get over your glory days?” Shaking her head, she looks up at the grey skies. “I could have at least imagined something more believable. No excuse for slacking in my sleep!”

“It’s hard to accept, but it’s the truth.” Wally steps beside her, pointing to a few more officers coming closer, wheeling a gurney. There’s a body bag, one even Y/N can ignore.

“That’s….that’s supposed to be a body?”

Wally nods.

“My body?”

His fingers graze her wrist and she pulls away immediately. Rushing to the huddle of officers, she walks through them.

The zipper slides down with a slow, mechanical rasp, and Y/N swears the world tilts beneath her feet.

She stares.

That’s her face. Her body.

Her eyes are closed, lashes resting peacefully against pale skin, but there’s nothing peaceful about this. Her scrubs—light blue, still wrinkled from her morning shift—are soaked through with blood. The fabric clings to her chest in a grotesque, darkened bloom, right over her heart.

“Close-range shot,” one of the officers mutters, pulling back the bag further. “Went straight through. No exit wound.”

“Christ,” another says. “Poor girl. Didn’t stand a chance.”

Y/N’s breath stutters, but she doesn’t feel it. Her hands curl into fists as something hot and electric builds in her chest.

“No,” she whispers, stepping closer. “No, this isn’t—this can’t be right.”

Her fingers twitch at her sides, the urge to shake them, to scream in their faces overwhelming. But what would it matter? They can’t hear her. Can’t see her.

A laugh, bitter, sharp, bubbles out of her throat. “I’m right here!” she shouts, throwing her hands up. “I just ran across the damn field! I—” Her voice cracks, rage colliding with something raw and suffocating. “I can’t be dead!”

A hand brushes her shoulder. Solid. Gentle.

She turns, eyes burning, and finds Wally watching her, his face filled with understanding. Like he’s seen this before. Like he knows.

“It’s messed up,” he murmurs, his voice steady in a way that almost anchors her. Almost. “But you have to breathe.”

She lets out a shaky, breathless laugh. “I don’t think I can anymore.”

Wally gives a small, sad smile. “Yeah,” he says. “I remember that part.”

She looks at him, at his letterman jacket, his stupidly kind face…this boy who’s been dead for decades—and for the first time, the weight of it all crashes into her.

She really, truly is dead.

“I barely even lived,” she shakes her head lightly. “I’ve spent my life trying to become a doctor. My twenties slipped through hospital shifts.” Holding back tears, she looks at Wally. “I’m twenty-six and I’ve never been in love.” Her voice cracks. “No one’s ever loved me.��

Slowly, he reaches for her hand. His touch is light, careful, letting her decide, waiting patiently as she erases the distance between them. A choked sob escapes her as she buries her face in his chest. For a moment, he’s still. Then he lets out a heavy sigh before wrapping his arms around her small form tightly.

“It’s okay to fall apart,” he murmurs. But he won’t let her lose the pieces that fall now…She’s going to put them back together in time…and he will help her. When she needs a shoulder to cry on, he’ll anchor her, and when she needs strength to keep going, he’ll let her borrow his own.

She grips the fabric of his jacket, holding onto him like he’s the only thing keeping her tethered.

“You’re not alone,” he whispers in her hair. “I may not have all the answers, but I’m pretty fluent in showing up for people.”

She presses her face deeper into his shoulder, breathing him in. Her arms snake around him too, reciprocating the tightness of his hold on her. He knows he can’t always fix people, but he can sit with them in the dark…and sometimes that’s enough. Even when his hands shake, they still hold steady when someone needs them, and if Wally learned anything from his time with Maddie it’s how the weight of their goodbye made him cherish every hello.

And this hello might be the only certainty in a world full of lonely uncertainties.

#wally clark #wally clark x reader #school spirits #school spirits fanfiction #wally clark fanfic #wally clark fic #wally clark fanfiction

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 3 days ago

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Venomous cravings||Vampire Oscar x Human!lando

Summary— Lando develops an addiction to vampire venom and Oscar can’t have that so he gives Lando what he craves in a safe and controlled way what he didn’t mean to do was ruin Lando…or did he?

A/n this is just a one shot of the larger fic Im writing for @adventuringblind and it’s dark and smutty.

Lando didn’t mean for it to get this bad. It had started as one stupid, adrenaline-fueled night with his friends. They’d snuck into an underground club—dark, loud, and tingling with danger. It was the kind of place his mother warned him about, but Lando had never been good at listening.

He didn’t remember the vampire’s name. Just the cold press of their hand against his neck, the sharp sting of their bite, and the warmth that flooded him afterward. It was euphoric—electric, addictive in a way that scared him. He woke up the next day with a faint scar and an ache, but he also felt empty, like something vital was missing.

And then he wanted more. He started seeking it out, throwing himself into riskier situations, letting strangers sink their fangs into his skin. Each bite made him feel alive, buzzing with that venomous high. But it was never enough. The hunger grew sharper, the bites left him paler, weaker, until even his closest friends noticed.

That’s when Oscar stepped in. Oscar wasn’t supposed to care. Lando was reckless, a mess of bad decisions and worse ideas, but Oscar had a soft spot for him—a crush that bordered on pathetic, though he’d never admit it. When he caught Lando in the aftermath of yet another dangerous encounter, faint bite marks decorating his neck and arms, Oscar couldn’t keep quiet.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Oscar said flatly, arms crossed as he stared Lando down.

Lando just shrugged, his grin sharp and careless. “It’s fine. I know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t,” Oscar snapped. “You look like death. What are you even chasing?”

Lando hesitated, his bravado faltering for a moment. “It’s… it feels good, okay? It’s not just the bite. It’s—something about it. The venom. You wouldn’t get it.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. He did get it—better than Lando realized. He’d been a vampire for decades, careful and restrained, avoiding the chaotic mess humans like Lando brought with them. But hearing the desperation in Lando’s voice, seeing the way his hands trembled like an addict in withdrawal, something in Oscar snapped.

“I could help you,” Oscar said, quieter this time

Lando blinked. “Help me?”

“Just enough to stop you from doing… this,” Oscar gestured at Lando’s pale complexion and fading bruises. “If that’s what you need.”

It was supposed to be temporary. A bite to keep Lando from spiraling, to ease the craving and keep him safe. But Lando came back. Again. And again.

At first, Oscar indulged him carefully, with soft touches and gentle reassurances, tending to the marks he left behind. Lando melted under the care, the warmth of Oscar’s presence more addictive than the venom itself. But Oscar wasn’t blind. He saw how Lando clung to him, how he craved the way Oscar’s bites left him trembling, gasping, and undone.

Oscar thought he could handle it, but the more he gave, the more Lando needed. And as much as Oscar tried to stay in control, the dynamic between them began to shift.

“Don’t give me that look,” Oscar said one night, his voice low and sharp as Lando squirmed under his weight. “You’re the one who wanted this.”

Lando whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t think—”

“Of course you didn’t.” Oscar’s smirk was wicked, his hands firm as he pinned Lando in place. “But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To make sure you don’t ruin yourself completely.”

Lando couldn’t argue. Not when Oscar’s voice was dripping with control, his teeth grazing Lando’s neck in a way that sent shivers down his spine.

Oscar hadn’t meant for it to go this far. He’d started as the soft, careful one, but somewhere along the way, he realized Lando was ruined—for anyone else, for anything else. And Oscar liked it that way.

“You’re mine now,” Oscar murmured, sinking his teeth into Lando’s skin once more. Lando arched against him, lost in the bliss of it all, and Oscar couldn’t help but smile. Accident or not, he had Lando exactly where he wanted him.

#f1 #f1 rpf fic #f1 rpf #f1 rpf fanfic #landoscar #lando norris x oscar piastri #oscar piastri x lando norris #landoscar fanfic

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enchaentingly · 2 days ago

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relief flutters weakly at his answer, but it doesn’t help to make her world any more vibrant, sharp, and clear. it’s still fuzzy. at least if he wanted to hurt her, it would’ve made sense. she knows she deserves it. there’s enough time for her to protest his claim, surely, not at all plagued by the confusion he keeps trying to tell her about. she is confused, but not about this. she’s confused, and heartbroken as to why he feels unwelcome. why he feels rejected and cast out, unwanted. she’s the only one to deserve feeling that way. “ n- no, i do. i do want you here. you’ve been so kind, you have to let me thank you, i … there has to be something … ” she needs him to understand, but allie can’t find any more words.

she’s not as strong as she thinks. still sitting up, she presses her hands into the soft feeling of her covers, only finding sensation on one side. it’s not very grounding at all, the plushness sh underneath the searching pads. she squeezes her eyes shut, tries to keep from ruminating on the cycles of pain, and guilt soaked regret. the reality of the gore that stains her neck, and traveling down. it comes to the closure of half magic, half ruin. allie doesn’t have to comprehend the rapid signals her body sends her to know what she needs. her eyes open, cloudy with tears, falling in between one blink and the next. still, her gaze pulls to the sight of him, again. he looks so uncomfortable, grounding himself into the wood of the floor instead of anything else. her insides shred with the panic that something is wrong, and she can’t figure it out. there’s too much to go through. and he hasn’t given her anything besides the truth that he knew her mother and the urge to get home, and to be safe, without him. she watches his face, and can’t place anything but bravery and resolve. she remembers, when she had been closer to him, after the fall, she hadn’t heard his heart. she remembers seeing him flinch away from the open wound, bending. allie makes a desperate guess that would hush her prickling senses.

everything after that feels like it could be happening all at the same time. he’s feeding her instructions with a stern voice that makes her feel just as small as he seems to remember, he turns, he’s going to leave. he’s going to leave. and he’s not going to come back, and neither will she, and now that the bleeding stopped, the pain turns bone dry and unsolved. every bit of her screams, even while allie knows she can’t. she can’t, but she does cry, and pours, all the same. frustration piles high in her so deep that she burns. she might even be angry, the ugliest feeling of all. “ just- just, wait, please! ” she does him the simple favor of not trying to stand again, but she shakes, ceaselessly, even without the movement of her limbs. “ please. please, i haven’t seen her in- in seven years and i haven’t even come looking for her, this time. and you’re- you’re here. i don’t know anyone else that knows her, i’ve followed her everywhere i could, and- and her stories but none of it’s ever done anything and i … ” her sob turns choked up, mangled. she doesn’t want it to leave, anyway. “ i just want my mom. ” in the leave of her grief, silence comes, and she can’t look at him any more. allie’s eyes, filled with tears, fall to her bare knees. somehow, she hadn’t skinned those. it doesn’t take long at all for the worry that he’ll go, anyway, take over the sadness, the emptiness. she has to do something. “ i can close the wound, i can- so you can stay or- or you could come back, i just … i can’t lose you, i only just found you. ” the flower flower, unlike the root, is stored on the other side of the bed. allie shoves this, too down her throat, anticipating the sour burn despite the sweetpea exterior, protests from something meant to be used on the outside, gone on the inside of something alive. it doesn’t matter, she knows she won’t mend fast enough for it to be worth it. “ can you- can you come back? or … or leave something? so i can find you again? ” again, her body’s greedy, sagging at the edge of her bed at the smallest notion of rest.

Frowning, Reid recognises the spike in her heartbeat. "I didn't get you all the way back here, to hurt you," Damn, he hopes he doesn't at the end of all this. She's putting ideas in his head, and he's squeezing his eyes shut, shunning the depraved imagery. It's been overwhelming enough without her fears dousing her with cortisol; it's a feral trait to know that like it's syrup in a coffee.

She barely understands what she's asking him. "You don't want me here," Statement. Fact. Her friend is supposed to be here, so it's not him burdened with responsibility. Reid finds he's in the gravity of too many witches. Some are familiar with dragging him through the rocky plains of hell and back. Even more than that like to see him squirm under the weight of his desperation.

He's close to crossing the room and stopping the young witch's movements. But he fixes himself still, feet rooted to the floor — almost like the magic in the house has curled around his boots and crawled inside his bones; claimed him as a piece in Allie's little realm.

It's odd, watching her magic at work. He's seen so much of it, years of it, in the futile search for a cure. But it's all very different from the next; no black-and-white law. No mantra that Reid's used to in which he's clear on everything. Once it has been as easy as right and wrong had once been. Witchcraft just a mess of energy that prickles against him; Allie's ingredients aren't like power that envelops the room. He's felt that too, from some. The monster chasing answers in the darker practices; grimoires in stacks at the apartment; frantic hunts for an answer to his affliction. All he's got from it is nightmares and memories of agony.

"Allie." He uses it again, so she might listen this time. The violence at her throat stops its weak trickle as the root and flower do its work but she's vulnerable. She's been that, this whole time.

His instructions are clearer, the second time: "Lay back down. Call your friend. Rest."

And then, he rips his boots up from the invisible binds that had him there for far too long. The cavern in his chest tells him it's wrong to leave her exposed, but he doesn't have another option. He can't stay.

Reid pivots, nodding towards the bed expectantly, as he turns to leave. "Take care."

#reidhalstead #reidhalstead : 001 .#the length genuinely has me crashing out on this one. i understand it's a lot of feelings for her but . i would just like to Not #add 300 words????

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wannabe-minion-of-chaos · 3 months ago

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May be a little less active to avoid doomscrolling for a while, sorry yall

Stay safe

#aaa sorry i dont wanna bring politics onto the blog and i dont intend to #I'm going through my put it down arc rn #/j #but yeah uh IM NOT DISAPPEARING im just trying to avoid negative posts so i dont get super stressed #again stay safe and remember to keep going #things are going to get better

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candlebel · 11 months ago

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I cared. I still do. I still think of you and I still cry over you. You were importat to me. You still are.

#I was interested. I wanted to get to know you.#I did not want validation. I only said it because you said it... I don't know why. I was susceptible.#I was blindly accepting certain things that you said about me. Judgement that you had for me.#I was under severe stress from my job at the time; while at the same time dealing with unresolved emotional trauma and very low self worth.#vent #I was burnt out. Crushed... Completely.#I didn't want attention. I did not want you to cure my depression. I though I was just letting you know me. I wasn't aware I was oversharin #I tried... SO HARD to get over the things that triggered me and hurt me but I just couldn't...#I wanted to. I did everything in my might; I took it to therapy; I looked everywhere within me; to either get over it #or completely forget about you and stop caring at all; so things were ok and normal again; but it didn't go away...#I just feel so... unsafe... at the idea of talking again #I know I wasn't the best listener and I profoundly regret that.#I was not only thinking about myself like you said and I was aware of the effort that other's put; but I was afraid/resistant to PRECISELY #that cause of past events with other people. Because in some I was the one putting that effort and ended badly for me. Looking back #that was inappropiate of you because you felt too comfortable generalizing my past relationships and why in your head they failed.#“I cant help but feel you are looking down on people who” Stay away from me if you ever make a stretch like this again.#By “experiment” I meant that you don't know how a relatioship with somebody is gonna turn out until you go and try. That's all I meant.#I didn't want things to turn out this way. I'm sorry they did.#The effort I put for you may have been shit to you. But to me it was a lot. And I'm done taking judgement.#Altho I love my friends I still keep distance. I still can't completely help that. I can go months not talking to my BF.#You were my BF during my teenage years. I remembered you fondly. I still do.#I don't feel ready to talk again having to keep to myself interest that I might have. Related to trauma. I do not feel comfortable with tha #No I do not look at your blogs.#The day I said I was abused I had a panic attack right after that. That's mainly why I had to cut contact: I didn't want another one.#I didn't tell you because I didn't trust you to not say “talk to the void” again. I didn't trust you to want to hear about it. I didnt feel #safe with you anymore. Event tho we ressumed contact I felt that way the entire time.#I wanted to answer all the questions you had; I really did; until I couldn't stand it anymore.#And the day I removed you from discord... I know you probably had an awful day that day... I'm so; so sorry...#I'd like to one day be completely unbothered by assumptions and stuff cuz I know it's not your fault... You went through stuff too...#stuff

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facelessfractal · 7 months ago

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. Nsfw vent in tag sorry

#i just remember him on me and i remember his hand on my throat and it was so dark and i couldnt breathe #and i was crying and he didnt care and it was dark and i heard him openning up his pocket knife and i couldn't breathe and i was crying and #i was scared to move i couldnt breathe and he put it against my throat and he kept going and i thought he was going to kill me #and he laughed at me and i was barely conscious and he said i felt better when i was scared and i believed him and i let him keep going #and when he was done he laughed at me for being scared and for crying and he laughed at me for not using the safe word and my brain gasped #for air and colors ran through my eyes and he left me there still crying but he knew i wasnt going to go anywhere #and he was right. i moved in with him. i couldnt leave him. i was there for 3 years before finally leaving.#i let him do terrible things to me and he put me in so many terrible places #he let me get hurt and used constantly and he said it was my fault and it probably was my fault #i stayed with him and i let it happen to me #its hard to breathe #and im scared he will find me again and hurt me #why do i have to have these memories and the sensations and why am i the one who has to remember #i dont want to be touched right now #i want to curl up into a ball and hide in the closet again where he cant find me #why did i let him hurt me

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thundersoothers · 1 month ago

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john price, his wife, and... the dog (derogatory)

who: John Price x wife!reader

what: inspired by this thought about john price being an absolutely softie for his wife. continued here!

word count: 2.4k

warnings: mentions of cheating but it’s NOT TRUE! you’ll see… just fluff that reallyyyyy makes me want to marry this man.

It’s 2AM on a Saturday in the summer when John Price thinks he hears his wife cheating on him.

“Shhh!! You have to be quiet, you’ll wake up my husband.”

He opens his heavy eyes to see the TV paused at the end credits of some movie he can’t even remember the name of. The screen reflects in the crystal of the empty rocks glass on the coffee table next to his feet, holding only a warm whiskey stone.

He groans and stretches, his old t-shirt riding up to show a dark happy trail disappearing into low-waisted flannel pajama pants. He has one sock on with a hole in the toe. You told him to get rid of them and got him a pack of 20 of the same sock (he’s very particular about his socks), but he still wears these ones, anyway.

“Stop moving, I’m trying to concentrate here. Damn lock… can never— oh, shit. Heh. Wrong key.”

He can hear you muttering and giggling and the scratch of the key against the lock as you struggle to get it in.

It’s your girls’ night and he likes to wait up for you to make sure you get in safely. He saw you off around 8PM, pouring himself a glass of whiskey as you took a shot of tequila. You planted a big kiss on his cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark that he didn’t bother to fully wipe off.

“Sorry, I know you’re eager to get inside. I bet you’re so cold, all naked. Here, you can go in my dress, is that better? Fu—ow! Don’t bite my tit, Jesus! Sharp teeth…”

Price suddenly feels much more awake. He pushes himself up from the couch and starts to walk to the foyer.

“This damn door… ah! There we go.”

The door creaks open and he hears you tiptoe inside in your heels (wearing heels and tiptoeing—are two actions that are mutually exclusive, especially when you’re plastered).

“Remember, we have to be quiet. My husband waits for me to get home, we don’t want to wake him up. He’s very nice, you see, but he can’t know you’re here.”

Apparently, you have gotten home safely—with an extra guest who just bit at your tit. And you’re being louder than your guest, who you keep telling to be quiet.

“My husband is gonna be soooo mad. He’s gonna be so mad at me, but once he sees how cute you are, I think he’ll forgive me. He’ll understand. I had to. I just had to!”

He hears rustling as he gets closer to the foyer, you fumbling around in the dark.

“Stay there, don’t move, okay? Stay, yeah? You know that, don’t you? Mummy will teach you if not. Just stay right there. Lemme get these damn heels off…”

There’s an odd sound of something quickly clicking on hardwood floor that makes his eyebrows furrow, and then you gasp—

“Wait, don’t run—“

Bang!

You groan loudly.

Price flicks on the lights.

You’re lying face down on the rug. You have one heel on. The second heel is twisted around your other foot—what you fell over. Your little dress is flipped up over your ass and your arms are outstretched.

“You okay there, love?” John asks, torn between amusement and concern. You just groan. “Sounded like you fell pretty hard.”

“I tripped,” you say into the rug, sounding very sad.

“You hurt?” he asks. “Anything broken?”

You shake your head and curl up a little. “I’ll just sleep here.”

He laughs softly. “Come on, none of that.”

“It’s so comfortable. I’ll just—“

There’s that clicking sound again and he’s almost startled by the abruptness of your movement. You push yourself up with one arm, stretch the other out and fucking snatch the quick-moving little brown blob that’s moving toward you. You pull it to your chest and cradle it, shielding it from John’s view.

He blinks. “What you got there, love?” he asks after a second.

“Nothing,” you say innocently.

“Right.” He crosses his arms, looking you over. “Who were you talking to just now?”

“No one,” you say quickly. “Myself.”

“Right,” John says again slowly. “Show me what you have.”

You look over your shoulder up at him through your lashes, vision blurry. “No. You’re gonna be mad.”

“Just show me.”

“Promise you won’t be mad.”

He sighs. “I won’t be mad.” You give him a look. He sighs again. You’re wasted—he can tell by your eyes. They’re unfocused and heavy. “Promise. Now show me.”

You look down at whatever you’re holding to your chest. “Okay,” you whisper (to your tits?), “you need to be very well-behaved, okay? No biting, please. Be very nice for Daddy so he will like you, okay? Can you do that? Yes? Okay.”

You glance up at John again over your shoulder and then turn yourself around in a very clumsy movement. Then, as if presenting whatever it is like you’re Mufasa from the Lion King, you lift it up in the air toward your husband.

It’s a puppy.

It’s quiet.

The little dog wriggles in your hands, wagging his tail so hard his whole body shakes. He barks up at John, high pitched. A small pink tongue lolls out of his mouth.

It’s still quiet.

You lower the dog a little so you can look up at John. “You said you wouldn’t be mad!”

“I’m not mad,” John says, sounding mad.

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he says again. “It’s just… dirty.”

You gasp. “He’s not dirty!” you exclaim, sounding offended on behalf of the dog. You pull him to your chest. “He’s just a little mangey, you see. But that’s okay. It can be fixed. You know—they have medicine for that. Or lotion, or whatever it is. He’s very nice, John, I swear. I know he’s a little… skrunkly but he’s very cute and—ow! That’s my hair, no biting Mummy, please.”

“You’re already calling yourself his Mummy?” he asks, bemused, eyebrow raised at you. Yep. You’re fucking wasted.

“Yes, and you’re his Daddy.” You hold the dog up again, this time facing him toward you. “I think you’re very cute, puppy. You’ll grow on Daddy. Just be very good for him, you can do that, can’t you? Yes, you can.” You whisper, as if John isn’t standing right there, “We’ll wear him down. Don’t worry.”

“I thought it was something else,” Price says.

“What did you think it was?” you ask, not looking away from the dog.

“Where did you find it?” he asks instead of answering.

This is much better than what his traitorous mind momentarily supplied. You, cheating? As if.

How silly of him to even think that. For a moment, his stomach twists with the guilt of doubting you. He should have known better.

Of course it’s this. What else could it have been?

A puppy.

A puppy!

“Oh, hello, there.”

You crouch down in your dress and heels and hold out your hand to the little puppy emerging from the bushes by the side of the road.

“What are you doing here, all alone? Come here, love, I won’t hurt you. Come on, puppy, come to me. Yeahhh, there we go. Oh, look at you. You’re so cute. You’re all mangey, though. Oh,” you say pitifully, “you little baby.”

You’re drunk as fuck at 2AM on a Saturday in the summer, halfway through your walk home from the bar, squatting in the middle of a back road in England, about to cry while petting this puppy clumsily—but he doesn’t seem to mind. He wags his tail and nips at your fingers.

“Where’s your Mummy? You shouldn’t be out here all alone. No collar… oh, goodness, what should I do with you? I don’t want to leave you. I’m not sure what to do.”

He barks at you, high pitched.

You nod at him seriously. “Oh, yes, good point.” He barks again. “Mhm. Yes, yes. I thought so, too. Exactly right.”

He runs in a circle around you.

“What are you, a month? You should be with your Mum, you shouldn’t be all alone. Oh, you little baby, you must be so scared.” (He’s wagging his tail.)

“It’s so cold.” (It’s summer.)

“Maybe you can come home with me?” (Your husband would be so mad.)

“Yes,” you decide. “You’ll come home with me.” (Your husband is going to be so mad.)

That’s how you end up stumbling home with a puppy in your arms, rambling to him about yourself and your life.

“Well, puppy, my name is Mrs. Price. I’m from around here. I live in a nice three bedroom house with my husband, I think you’ll like it very much. It’s very cute. He let me decorate it. He doesn’t understand feng shui, you see. You should see his office, puppy, it’s so bland. No taste for interior design.”

“Our house is only 10 more minutes away. See that big tree there? That means we only have 10 minutes left until we’re home. I’m not great with street names, you see, so I go by landmarks.” He barks. “Yes, yes, you get it.”

“Anyway. So, I’m—stop wiggling please, Mummy’s going to drop you—I’m married to a very nice man named John. I love him very much. You’ll like him, too,” you tell him seriously, “he’s very likable. I like lots of things about him, puppy. Actually, I like everything about him.”

“He says I can’t have a dog, though. He says it’s for my own good—booooo. Boo! But maybe we can sneak you in. What do you think, puppy? Should we do that? I think we should do that. We’ll have to be very quiet, though. Very quiet.”

“John waits for me to get home safely—he’s so nice, he’s so kind to me, I love him sooooo much—but we have to make sure not to wake him up. This is one of them—uh, covert operations. He’s very well-versed in those. My husband is very talented, puppy, he’s a Captain. So we’ll have to be extra careful.”

And that’s how you end up trying to sneak into your own house and then trip over your shoe and fucking slam! your face on the rug.

“Where did you find it?” John asks you as you sit on the floor after you presented the dog to him.

“On the way home from the bar, kind of my that big tree.”

“By Notting Street?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “Notting Str—I dunno. Maybe? I just know the big tree. The one with all the branches.”

“‘The one with all the branches,’” he repeats, nodding slowly. “Right.”

“But he was there all alone so I took him home. I couldn’t leave him, John, he’s so little. And he’s very cute, look at his little ears? And his little feet? His toes are soooo small. His little teeth are sharp, though—like a shark. Fuckin’ hurt, he almost bit my tit off.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“You heard? Oh. I was trying to be quiet. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

He smiles at you. “I know.”

You smile back.

“Give me the dog.”

You frown. “No.”

“The dog, please.”

“No.” You hold him tighter. “You’ll take him from me.”

“Well,” he says, “yes.”

You sigh heavily. “Be gentle.” You hand him to John and he takes him in one hand and holds him out, frowning, as if it’s offended him.

A puppy.

“Can we keep him?” you ask hopefully.

He glances at you and then back to the puppy and then back to you and then back to the puppy. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“But…” You trail off and he looks back down at you. You’re starting to tear up.

“Oh—love, don’t cry.”

“He’s so little and soft and nice and he’s all mangey and he’s all alone and he’s just a little baby and…”

“Okay, okay, darling, we can keep him.”

(By that, he means you’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’re sober, and by ‘talk about it’, he means, ‘no.’)

“Really?!” you gasp.

The way your face fucking lights up makes John pause. For a second, he almost feels like he lost his balance.

“Oh, John, really? Oh, thank you so much! Puppy, did you hear that? Daddy said yes! See, he’s very nice, just like I told you, remember? He’s very nice and kind and he’s very handsome and I love him very much, and I—“

“The dog can’t understand you.”

“You don’t know that,” you say defensively.

He looks down at you. “Right.”

You stare up at him, standing over you as you sit on the floor. “How are you handsome even from this angle?” You frown deeper. “Stupid face,” you mutter.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Let’s get you up.”

“I’m so comfortable.”

“Hand.” He tucks the dog under his arm and extends his other hand toward you. He crooks his long, thick fingers at you. “Now.”

You look between his hand and his face, and then slip your hand into his.

“Good girl.”

He fucking yanks you up and, in one movement that’s somehow graceful, bends down and throws you over his shoulder.

He, naturally, slaps your ass and you squeal. “Hey!!”

You kick your feet (still with only one heel on) and he laughs, resting his hand on your hip, heavy fingers digging into the plush of your butt, as he makes his way up the stairs with you on his shoulder and the dog in his hand.

Gently, he drops you onto the bed and you fall back with an oof! and stare up at him.

“Well,” Price drawls, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You grin. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He takes off your shoe (singular), your dress, and your makeup as you hold the dog, curled up, on your chest.

“You’re so good to me, John,” you say, your eyes closed. “I’m so lucky. I don’t know how I got so lucky. And, you, puppy,” you mumble, petting him slowly, “you’re so lucky, too. You’re about to have the best Daddy in the world. He’s so good to us.”

“‘Puppy’ is asleep,” John says. “And,” he adds, scooping him up in one hand, “puppy is not sleeping in the bed.”

You just groan, too tired and drunk to argue.

He holds the dog out in the air again, turning him around and upside down to examine him. He yips and wriggles in his hands, but John shushes him. “Hush now. Your Mummy is asleep.” He shakes his head and sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

He takes the dog to the bathroom and puts him down on the floor. His paws slip a little on the cold tile. John puts his hands on his hips, staring down at the dog. “I can’t believe this.”

He reaches over to turn on the heated floor (which he got installed for you) and says to the dog, “You are so, so damn lucky I love your Mummy.”

In the morning, despite John Price’s best efforts to say no to you, you end up convincing him to keep the dog. He’s a military Captain but the pleading of his wife is enough to make him crumble.

The happiness on your face when he finally says yes, makes him wonder why he ever said no in the first place.

note: thank you for reading! this is my first time posting in years–and in a totally new fandom. thank you for your patience and your support. let me know your thoughts! merry christmas!

posted 12.26.2024. revised 01.02.2025.

do not repost or modify any of my original words on any other platform.

to masterlist.

#john price #john price x reader #call of duty #call of duty imagine #cod imagine #john price smut #well wait I guess not #for once #lux.writes #lux.price #john price fic #john price drabble #call of duty fic #I haven't done tags in forever what else do I do #call of duty smut #price #price.wife #price cod

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honey-tongued-devil · 3 months ago

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[Arcane preference] reacting to someone flirting with their s/o + jealousness

I'll be honest, I had like four headcanons on jealousy (and five on pregnancy, curse on you and your baby fever), so making this headcanon became a priority. Plus, I tried to make it a bit longer. As usual, under the "read more" line, you'll find both my other project for Arcane (a series of vintage-style posters) and my other socials in case you want to follow me because you love me too much.

Jayce:

- He’s not the type to cause a scene, nor is he the aggressive kind.

- When someone flirts with you in front of him for the first time, he’s confused for a few seconds.

- The problem begins when the thought starts settling, stagnating, thickening like sediment at the bottom of a bottle. Was the person really hitting on you, or is he just being paranoid?

- Did they not realize you were together? Or did they do it on purpose?

- It doesn’t take long for him to start ignoring you, not even on purpose—he suddenly forgets he’s a scientist, a successful adult man, and spirals into a crisis.

- What if he’s not enough? What if that person realized before him that he wasn’t suited for you?

- You notice something’s off, but he doesn’t say a word. If it happens again, his fists clench, he feels like the world is collapsing on him, and if it persists, he leaves without even thinking.

- He doesn’t want to witness that scene; he’s terrified that you might accept the flirtation, that you’ll realize he’s not good enough for you.

- And if you’re going to leave him, he doesn’t want to see it with his own eyes.

- Eventually, he’ll be the one to bring up the subject, just to tell you that if you’re tired of him, he won’t hold it against you and that he understands.

- It’s not true, but he wants to seem mature. He wants to be a good partner until the end and almost breaks down when you reassure him that you don’t want to leave him, that he is enough.

Viktor:

- Pre-"Arcane s1-tamed" Viktor would snap at the person flirting with you or insult them under his breath.

- In the wrong moment, with enough alcohol in his system, his reaction could even turn violent.

- Viktor gets jealous with anger—a mix of fear of being mocked, the lack of control over the situation, and his sense of replaceability set him off.

- But he’s also an adult. He’ll try to make peace with himself before talking to you about it.

- Post-"Arcane-tamed" Viktor observes you, tries to read your signals. He’s irritated but keeps calm and even interrupts the situation, pointing out that the two of you have things to do.

- He doesn’t wait long to bring it up and is straightforward: “Do you like him?”

- His jealousy is laced with sadness. The thought of losing your warmth, intimacy, and everything he has with you makes him feel empty.

- He knows he’s often absent because of his research, that it’s hard to be with someone with “special needs” because it can be limiting at times. He’s aware of his unique personality and his background. His anger quickly shifts to resignation, becoming a quiet sorrow.

- When you try to reassure him, his response is even sadder: “I know I’m hard to love. I don’t blame you.”

- When someone hits on you, as soon as you’re alone, he holds you closer. During cuddles, he breathes in your scent deeply, as if trying to memorize you in case he will ever have to remember you.

Ekko:

- At the Tree, it’s pretty normal. They share everything, and everyone is just very friendly. If someone flirts with you at the Firelight hideout, he laughs, jokes, and stays calm.

- The problem arises outside of that safe space.

- When someone from outside flirts with you, he’s stunned for a moment, but if it continues, he leaves before you can even respond.

- He knows that if he stayed, things might escalate.

- “I didn’t like how that guy was talking to you,” he blurts out when you try to talk to him, but it’s obvious the issue cuts deeper than that. His tone and downcast eyes reveal that it’s more significant than it seems.

- Living at the Tree has taken your relationship to a deeper level. You take care of the kids together, share everything, and live as part of a big interconnected family.

- The idea of someone threatening the peace of his home, his family, makes him feel like those things he takes for granted could suddenly change.

- That tomorrow, you might no longer be his “married” partner but two strangers.

Vander:

- Vander is too old to be jealous, and has been in enough strange and ambiguous situations not to overreact.

- If someone flirts with you, maybe at the bar in front of him, he chuckles to himself, commenting only after the person leaves that you’re so attractive no one can resist you.

- He doesn’t like it, but it often makes him smile to see others recognize what he sees in you.

- On the night when someone is particularly persistent or you seem to laugh more than usual, he taps his finger on the bar, contemplating what to do. When he catches your eye, he simply mouths, “If you want to go, don’t worry—I’ll close the bar.”

- It’s not about being open to a polyamorous relationship, don’t misunderstand. He believes that a relationship should be based on the fact that you actively choose to be with him, not on obligation. That’s why he gives you the freedom to back out if you want.

- When you shake your head, refuse the other person, and stay with him—maybe touching his hand at the bar when he has a moment of peace—he looks at you with an indescribable tenderness.

- “I’m glad you’re here with me,” he whispers when you’re finally alone, holding you tightly in his arms.

Silco:

- On one hand, he’s too old to make a scene, but when he sees someone flirting with you right in front of him, something inside him falters.

- Being able, after so many years, to form such a deep bond with someone put him in a state of comfort he hadn’t realized might one day be taken away.

- Suddenly, that possibility becomes real, vivid. Outwardly, he shows no emotion and doesn’t lose his composure for even a moment—because if he did, he might lose control. But inside, he feels like he’s dying.

- If you laugh a little too much or don’t explicitly reject the person, the turmoil inside him intensifies rapidly.

- He’s been through too much, and his mind is wired to “strike before being struck,” which is why he immediately becomes colder, seeking emotional distance to avoid being vulnerable.

- He’s not the king of good communication. If you try to ask him what’s wrong, he’ll dodge the question. It’ll take a lot of effort on your part to understand what triggered his behavior, to talk to him and reassure him gently, never too directly.

- You’ll need to show him, through actions, that you haven’t left and don’t plan to before he starts acting normal again—becoming more physically affectionate when you’re alone.

Jinx:

- Jinx is possessive and jealous, living in constant fear of being both not enough and too much at the same time—of losing everything she has and being abandoned by anyone who can still leave her.

- It’s in those rare moments when the buzzing behind her eyes quiets, when she’s at rest, that for a single second, just one fleeting instant, she allows herself to forget that fear.

- And then, when you’re together, and someone pays you a compliment that makes you laugh, something snaps in her head.

- Do you know them? Why are they so friendly? Why don’t you say something? Why did you stop walking? Walk, dammit, walk. Why are they touching your shoulder? Why don’t you stop them? Why don’t you stop them? WHY DON’T YOU STOP THEM.

- The likelihood that the person who flirted with you ends up found the next day with a broken limb in a dumpster is extremely high.

- But even that doesn’t calm her. When you get home, she isolates herself, spiraling into thoughts that maybe, if you could, you’d have gone with that person or followed them.

- She’ll need lots of affirmation and both verbal and physical reassurance before she calms down.

Vi:

- Her jealousy exists, it’s there, but she expresses it in a very straightforward way.

- Having been forced to grow up too quickly and unable to throw tantrums because she was responsible for her siblings, her emotions have always been carefully bottled up and dealt with through questionable coping mechanisms.

- Sure, having someone by her side now means she can’t go brawling in the streets, especially when the reason feels so trivial.

- Usually, she doesn’t even pay much attention to it, but this time, exhaustion, stress, or a moment of vulnerability probably made the situation unbearable.

- And as always, if you have questions no one can answer, the solution is probably at the bottom of a glass.

- She doesn’t want to burden you with how she feels; it’s not even your fault, and she knows it’s stupid to feel this way. But when she’s forced to confront the idea that you may not a constant in her life, that maybe you want something better, something more—at that moment, she needs to get out, to scream, to punch something, with enough alcohol in her system to pass out in an alleyway.

- She struggles to talk about it, hates making you responsible for her emotions, and hates that she has to make you worry when it’s not your fault.

- When you bring it up and try to approach her with an attitude that makes her feel reassured, she has moments of being emotionally fragile, more vulnerable than usual.

Caitlyn:

- This woman is a lady killer—it’s sadly very normal for people to get jealous of her.

- At work, during conferences, or noble meetings, she’s used to people flirting with her. That’s why, when she sees someone flirting with you, her first thought is that they might be making you uncomfortable.

- If she sees you’re actually uncomfortable, she’ll personally step in to ensure the other person leaves.

- If she doesn’t see you uncomfortable, she’ll observe you for a few minutes, becoming distracted and absent from her own conversations, lost in analyzing what she’s seeing. -However, she dislikes waiting to address issues, so expect her to ask if something is wrong between the two of you as soon as you’re home.

- Caitlyn’s issue is that her thoughts ferment. If she doesn’t address the matter immediately, each day will make her mood worse, leading to unnecessary tension.

- She might not shake off that strange feeling immediately and could remain distant until the next day, but it’s not punitive. Her emotions catch her off guard and make her colder unintentionally.

- She’ll make up for it completely the following day.

- She’ll also ensure she gets matching rings for both of you, so they can serve as a signal to others.

Mel:

- For Mel, jealousy is just bitterness.

- She doesn’t show it. Her training in always appearing reliable and cordial means she’s adept at masking her feelings. So, when she sees someone flirting with you at a gala, her gaze lingers for just a few moments before she returns to smiling at her conversation partner.

- A little passive-aggressive, with comments like “I saw you had fun” or “So, tell me about…”—but not meant to provoke you.

- She’s the first to acknowledge that at meetings and galas, one must be adaptable, charming, smiley, and captivating. She knows that flirting is often part of the façade or just a small piece of a larger strategy, so what may sound like provocation is usually her way of asking what was on your mind.

- Her bitter jealousy becomes stronger and more genuine when there’s no strategy, no deeper game, but the person continues attending events and spends all their time trying to flirt with you. In these cases, she won’t hesitate to interrupt with a firm, “Excuse us,” and lead you to the balcony.

- No scene, no lecture—just a curt and slightly sad, “I only ask that you don’t make a fool of me.”

- When reassured that there was never even the intention of doing so, she becomes almost an accomplice. Have fun (within limits), gather amusing or trivial information, and tell her all about it later when you’re alone under the sheets.

Sevika:

- Sorry to disappoint, but she’s the least jealous character here.

- Her most stable relationships have all been at the brothel. If someone flirts with you, she’ll wait until the person leaves to comment on how slimy they were or how you seem to attract everyone without exception.

- Zaun is precarious; her job is precarious; even staying alive is extremely precarious. She doesn’t have time for jealousy. To her, it wouldn’t make sense to get angry or even cause a scene just because someone flirts with you when she can’t be around much or offer you stability herself.

- She knows perfectly well that her mechanical arm, her boss, her boss’s daughter, the drug use, and the dangerous work she does make her someone it’s hard to stay close to. But this doesn’t make her insecure—rather, it makes her grateful.

- It’s your choice to stay by her side, and if you ever want to leave, she believes you should feel free to do so without fearing any outburst from her.

- When you reassure her that you’d never betray, replace, or leave her, she pulls you close with one arm, kisses your forehead, and gives the faintest smile.

- That said, if someone flirts too much and you complain about their persistence, Sevika will handle it diplomatically—by picking them up and slamming them against the wall in front of you, making sure the point sinks in effectively.

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