#and now the well is dry so hopefully i can focus

[silvercap]

for the drabble game, can I get a 12? any whumpee any scenario :D

- @seth-whumps

Absolutely!

12. "Everything's okay, go back to sleep."

Leon rises back to consciousness to finds himself floating in a cold, dark ocean of agony, every bone in his body throbbing despite the soft surface gently cradling him. He can feel varying pressures across his skin, as if he's encased in heavy boulders in some spots and draped in delicate cloth in others. His head pulses with aching pain that radiates all the way down to his hips and back, paralyzing him and forcing him to breathe shallowly through his mouth. The air is dry and stale, sharp against his throat, as if ragged claws have torn through the soft flesh when he wasn't looking and left him gasping.

Faint sounds filter in as Leon slowly grows closer to the membrane between sleep and waking, distant voices speaking in hushed, sombre tones like the kind Leon would expect to find at a funeral. The thought bothers him, makes worry flicker through his chest, a faint frown pulling at Leon's brows as he forces himself to focus on the sound. The voices come in snatches, disjointed and lost at times under random beeps and clicks from the room around him.

"How is he?" Leon hears, the person's voice soft and familiar.

"Stable." That's Piers, the epiphany providing sudden clarity. Leon knows that voice like the back of his hand. Piers sounds upset, almost hollow with emotion, prompting Leon to try and pry open his gluey eyelids---only to be met with a dull, staticky gray expanse that takes a long moment to be recognizable in the shadows. A ceiling? "The surgeries went well, but they're worried about his lungs. Right now they just want to let him rest and get ahead of the pain."

Who are they talking about? A wave of exhaustion distracts Leon from the conversation, an attempt to shift his body again making him aware of the weights and random tendrils wrapped around him to keep him immobile. There's a pull in his elbow that reminds him of being in the hospital, another valiant attempt to flicker open his eyelids stopped by the fuzzy heaviness pulsing through his arteries. He's practically swimming in it, held aloft from the soupy pull of sleep only by the pillow beneath his head.

"---sorry," the first voice is saying when Leon tunes in again, wracked with guilt. "If only I had---"

"Don't, Chris." That's a third voice, also one of Leon's friends---or at least he thinks so. This time, his eyes allow themselves to stay partially opened when he pushes past the bleariness, revealing the dim ceiling of whatever room he's in, dappled in spots with faint pools of fluorescent white. Leon frowns. Why are his friends gathered in this strange, quiet room together? More importantly, why can't he seem to figure out what he's doing here?

"Jill---"

"You can't blame yourself." Piers again, this time tinged with anger. "He's so.... so stubborn, you never could have changed his mind. Retreat wasn't an option with civilians in harm's way."

He sounds worried, Leon thinks, fighting the insistent droop of his eyelids to glance to the left. Moving his head even slightly makes something shift on his face, keenly aware of the edge of whatever it is digging into his cheek. He tries to make a sound, call out and ask what's going on, but his voice comes out as nothing more than a whisper.

"Do they know how long it'll take for him to wake up?"

"Not really. He's been sedated pretty good, from what they've told me, at least until they reassess tomorrow. Hopefully soon, but with the---the head trauma, it's hard to say how coherent---"

Leon coughs, the sound hoarse, and the voices cut off in an instant. He tries to sit up, see where they've gone, but he can't move his arms at all, a faint sound of choked pain slipping from his mouth even though he can't really feel anything anymore. Something is slowly dragging him away from reality, and it's all Leon can do to struggle against the increasing strength of the current. A shadow appears in front of him, the vague shape of a person.

"Leon?" Piers murmurs softly, the ridged expanse of his scarred face cast in chiaroscuro by the glow of something beside Leon's bed. He looks concerned, scared, and Leon makes a faint sound of distress. What's going on? "Leon, can you hear me?"

"P---iers," he rasps, little more than a soft exhale. "Piers?"

"Shh," Piers sits quickly at Leon's side, reaching out his flesh hand to gently guide Leon's head back to centre and readjust whatever had shifted on his face. "Shh, it's alright, baby. You shouldn't be awake yet."

"Wh---'s---" Leon tries, suddenly breathless, " 's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Piers soothes, a thumb smoothing over Leon's cheek. "Everything's okay, go back to sleep. I promise everyone is alright."

Leon's breath catches, his hand moving sluggishly to paw at Piers' arm in confusion. He doesn't think it actually gets there.

"Sleep," Piers says again, tenderness lacing his voice. "It's okay, Leon, just close your eyes. Just rest."

Leon's surprised to find that his eyelids have already fallen shut while he wasn't looking, his body relaxing back into the soft mattress as a gentle hand strokes his skin with the delicate brush of a butterfly's wing. Piers is warm, his body close and solid, and Leon sighs. He is tired.

The last thing he hears before slipping under entirely is Piers' soft voice, humming what Leon's pretty sure is a lullaby.

[bipolbur]

if i can actually follow a writing schedule, by the end of 2025 i could have there is something in the water finished (by march), ignite the light finished (by december), s1 of washed up finished (by november), and part 1 of the sun was sinking finished (by july). so let's pray

[seiwas]

might be less active for a bit (but will be on perpetual queue) bc am focusing on finishing col 4!!

[caturdwy]

ok, i don't know why i wrote this, i'm not even a ford girl, i'm a stanley girlie all the way. but this image came to me yesterday and i had to write it down, so i spent my entire class working on this. it's not finished but i don't now if i'm gonna write more. here goes nothing

pairing: stanford pines x reader

warnings: smut (?), definitely sexual. 18+, mdni

word count: 1.5k

"Is that why Stanley calls you Sixer?" You ask, breaking the silence.

Your voice gets him out of his trance, but not early enough for him to actually hear what you asked. "Huh?"

"Is that why Stanley calls you Sixer?" You repeat yourself, pointing one finger at his hands.

He lets out a laugh and nods. "Yeah, he's so creative with the nicknames." He answers, voice full of sarcasm.

"Can I touch it?" You ask, finger still pointing at his left hand, the closest to you. "Your hand, can I touch it?"

He blushes and tugs at the collar of his sweater, voice faint. "Uh, yes."

You take your hand off your thighs and touch the back of his, feather light touch as to not scare him off. You observe attentively his reaction, checking if he will wince or take it away from you. Since he stays still, you take it as a sign to continue.

You grip his hand firmly, not harshly, and pull it closer to you. His gaze follows your every move, cheeks still a bit flushed, and he swallows dry. You start to touch just his fingers, pinching his phalanxes and moving them around before pressing on them and hearing them pop. His eyes grow a bit when you do it, not expecting you to do that.

You linger a bit more on his extra pinky, still fascinated. You touch it a bit differently, and wonder if you should ask anything about it.

"May I ask you a question?" You say out loud. Well, it doesn't hurt to try.

"Yes, go on." He speaks, still watching you closely.

"Is it ever a hindrance? Like, does it work like every other finger?" You ask, still with your hands focused on popping said finger.

"No, it's never a hindrance. It works just like the rest of my hand." He replies, pulling his hand away from your touch. He wiggles his fingers, moving every phalanx to show you, and then he lifts only his extra little finger and does the same thing. "See? Full control."

You let out a smile, finding it fascinating. It's at the very least interesting. Unusual. You like it. But you also can't help how your mind goes straight to the gutter.

You can't jump on this too fast, or you'll startle him. So you put your hands back on his and pull it closer to you, like it was before.

Stanford smiles back at you, a little awkward, sure, but you can see his flattery.

"Very interesting. Must be useful." You utter.

Meanwhile, your grip on his hand gets stronger, and you use both your thumbs to squeeze his skin, pressing on spots that are usually stiff.

"It doesn't make that much of a difference. My niece, however, always says it's friendlier than a regular handshake."

You let out a little laugh while pressing your thumbs on the back of his hands, paying attention to the tendons. You hear Ford suck in a breath once you hit what is apparently the right spot. "That's adorable."

"Yeah." He agrees mindlessly, but he's not really here. He's a bit distracted, hopefully enjoying the massage. "Yeah, she's adorable."

You change your focus from the back of his hand to the palm, going straight to the spot where his thumb meets the rest, the thenar area. He hisses a bit and you stop for a second, looking at his face to check if this was still okay. You can confidently say he was more than okay, because he has his eyes closed and the face of someone who was enjoying the situation. His back was not as stiff now and had a little arch to it as his shoulders leaned in towards your touch.

You do this to the entirety of his palm, running your thumbs on the soft spot on the middle of it, pressing on the flesh of his fingers, the side of his hand, dragging all the way to to the area of his carpals. The more you press and massage, the more he relaxes. Depending on what you do you even get an approvingly hum, almost a little moan. Of course these are the things you do again and again, just to hear him make any noise.

At last, you move his wrist in little circles, improving the circulation on the area before pressing both the dorsal and ventral areas. You give the back of his hand a little kiss before placing it on his thigh again, and point to his right, the farthest away from you.

It takes him a moment to register, his brain wrapped around a fog of calmness and relaxation. He's never felt like this before, he's never gotten a massage in his life, much less in his hand. And oh boy, how bad did he need it. He didn't even know his muscles could get that stiff, hold on to that much stress. A lifetime of stress, really. With just simple strokes of your own hands, that was all gone, vaporized. He's so out of it he doesn't even blush when you kiss his hand.

He lifts his right hand and shifts on the bed, figuring out a position that would be more comfortable to stretch his arm out, but still manageable for you to keep doing the sorcery you were doing. You keep following the same procedure, pop the phalanxes first, run your thumbs on the back of his hand, then go the palm, rub the thenar area out, press on the soft spot on the middle, massage the muscles on his fingers, the works.

The more you touch him, the more he relaxes, the more he lets himself go. He's feeling so light he can almost lift off the ground. If he lays on the bed he is sure he'll never be able to leave, the mattress and him becoming one. You think about saying something, but nothing comes out, not when he looks so good like this, all relaxed. Possibly the first time he's actually relaxed in his entire life.

After you are almost done you decide it's time to speak up. "Hey, Ford."

"Hmmmm." He purrs, not bothering looking up at you.

"Do you know what this makes me think?" You ask right after giving a kiss on the same spot you did the other hand. However, you don't let it go. You keep holding it, rubbing little circles on his skin.

"Hmmmm?" He hums again, but this time tries to voice the end like a question. This prompts a tiny laugh from you.

Now's the moment, he has his guard down. You move your body carefully closer to him, placing your face near his ear. Ford can feel his warm breath on the side of his face, the skin almost burning from the sudden heat. You pull out the sexiest voice you can make and whisper lowly, like a secret and he's the only person meant to hear.

"It makes me think of how good this extra finger would feel grabbing my ass."

He nearly chokes out, being pulled from his half-dreaming state and slammed back into reality, the blood split between rushing to his face or his lower belly, straight to his dick. He takes in a sharp breath, eyes opening and growing twice the size they usually are. You give him a little giggle from the reaction, finding it a bit funnier than it should be.

With all of his attention on you now, you place yourself a bit farther from him and bring the hand you're holding to your eye view, right in front of you face. You wait for him to look you in the eyes and put his thumb on your hot tongue. He jolts at the movement, but doesn't push back. You close your lips around it and suck it all the way to the back of your mouth. When you swallow everything, you circle your tongue around his skin while dragging it out of your mouth, little by little.

Stanford feels like his body is burning. Someone might as well have drowned him in gas and set fire to it. Once your tongue leaves his finger, he feels the cooling sensation the of the air coming in contact with your saliva and his dick gets incredibly harder.

He didn't want to react this way, he really didn't. Stanley hired you as a bad joke and he was not pleased about it, but hell. He can't not be turned on when you look at him like that, lips shiny and wet, breath hot on the skin of his hand, fingers still holding him by the wrists.

When he opens his mouth to say something, you catch him off guard again by kissing his index finger. Then his middle finger, all the way to his extra pinky, which you also suck while looking at him straight in the eyes. But he's weak, so while you're still halfway done putting the thing in your mouth he closes his eyes, trying to calm down the turmoil of feelings raging inside him.

You take his finger out of your mouth and it makes a wet, loud 'pop'. You give yourself a proud smile and lick the extra saliva off your own lips, bringing your body closer to his again. In the sultriest voice you can pull off, you whisper on his ear again. "How does that sound, Mr. Pines?"

[ashomodeus]

I have officially pushed myself into an overthinking fit about how none of my ideas are good enough. What the hell. Also, I am still working long days, and I caught something that made me feel like crap all week. What the freak. Here’s some basic crap ;-; while I recover and hopefully work eases up.

Kinky things the brothers do or just want to do

Let me know if you want a pt2 with the others.

These are my personal takes. Take em or leave em. (Jk ily pls don’t leave)

Thank you, Beyonce.

Cw: Gn!Mc, bad grammar, kinks

Part 2 ft. The Dateables, Raphael, Mephisto, and Thirteen

Lucifer

♡ Exibitionism

~ Pounding into Mc while an audience watches. Mc trying to hide their face but Lucifer holding their arms back.

~ Probably makes a lot of sex tapes with Mc. If a demon looks at Mc for even a second too long Lucifer might set that demon aside and play one of those videos. “You would never be able to make them feel like this. Pathetic for even thinking that.”

~ There isn’t a place Lucifer wouldn’t fuck Mc. If Mc is more of a shy person, he would find other ways to make sure people knew how well he treats Mc. Hickies. Marking. Vibrating toys.

~ After Mc and him hooked up the first time. It’s an addiction. He’s the type of demon to show not tell. Actions are louder than words… but not as loud as Mc. He needs them to be vocal.

Mammon

♡ Edging / Overstimulation.

~It’s both parties not just him. He’s the avatar of greed he wants everything he wants the moment to last.

~At first, he was insecure with how quickly he came but he realized it could have its benefits. The way he NEEDS more. The adrenaline. The strokes that have him close to just spilling.

~When it was Mc’s turn, he loved how red their faced turned. How desperate they are. How their hips tried to rock to be able to cum. How Mammon holds their hips down to make sure he was in full control. He was infatuated with how badly Mc wanted him.

~There’s the other side to things where overstimulation comes into play. Where he wants to make sure they are both dry. Where their bodies shake with how intense they feel.

~Mammon feels so accomplished if Mc turns into this empty-headed mess so close to finishing for a second, third, fourth, fifth, ect…

Levi

♡ Cucking

~ Now hear him out. He would love to watch Mc get pleased by other people. To see them get railed by others. It’s mental torture for him. As his pants get tight watch Mc get filled, he wishes he was the one making Mc feel that good.

~ Oh wait he can. It’s more of a warm up for Mc. When he watches someone else, please Mc he takes notes. Once the two are alone he does everything that was done but better.

~ This let’s Mc knows they could be with anyone but the only one they would truly be thinking about is him.

~ He will always make Mc tell him about how much better he is even if all Mc can do is moan. Cucking makes his insecurities vanish. No one can be good as him. He will always be there to finish the job.

Asmo

♡ Experimentalism

~ This demon has done everything under the sun but not with Mc. He wants to experience everything with Mc.

~ Everyday there’s something new.

~ Asmo would love to combine new and old things. He just loves the beauty of “If this one doesn’t work these two definitely will.

~He loves to pull Mc aside and tell them what they are doing tonight. What to bring, what to wear, what they should and shouldn’t do.

~ He loves making Mc explain their fantasy just so he can surprise them with the exact situation the same night.

Satan

♡ Bondage

~ He would love to tie Mc up and just have his way with them.

~ He always have something for Mc to be bound by. His favorite is actually a ball gag. The drool that come out of Mc’s mouth as they moan through the gag.

~ Satan always looks at new ways to restraint Mc. He doesn’t like bondage for the torture aspects. He enjoys being able to please Mc as many times as he likes. He likes being able to focus on parts of Mc intently.

~ He wants Mc as his personal fuck toy.

Beel

♡ Food play- SIKE Cunnilingus(I mean ofc)- SIKE Play fighting

~ He loves to play fight with Mc. He goes easy on them but he loves the sweat that builds up. The breathlessness that it causes.

~ Beel loves to pin Mc’s arms over their head. He admires all of their body so he can devour it once he wins. He loves all the positions he can put Mc before they even take their clothes off.

~ He loves how close he is to them. The first time he play fought with Mc. He had to hide his massive erection due to Mc moaning while fighting.

~ Sometimes he “accidentally” lifts up clothing of Mc or even his own. The more contact the better.

Belphie

♡ Starfish

~ On days Belphie feels extremely tired he would love for Mc to get on top of him and fuck him.

~ He just lays there in bed as Mc uses him. He loves to feel them bounce on his hard cock. The only active thing about him is the blood rushing towards his cock.

~ It’s surprising but he would reciprocate the exact same thing if Mc were in his position. Having someone else in control while he relaxes just feels amazing.

~ He would love to surprise Mc after a long day of classes. Them just lying down and Belphie making sure they are taken care of. Making sure they don’t move a muscle. Only the muscles that will help them cum.

[natashashill]

tell me you love me

pairing: agatha harkness x reader

word count: 3.1k

warnings: 18+ angst, hurt/comfort, cunnilingus, thigh riding, happy ending

a/n: this was my first time writing smut so tell me if it sucks so i can improve lowk but i have some more reqs to get to so hopefully it’s only up from here!!!

summary: based on this req

Opening up the text, you couldn’t focus on anything else for the rest of the day. Agatha’s text was vague, asking you to meet by the campus cafe once you were done with your classes. Her text lacked its usual warmness, something that was reserved for you alone. You turned your phone off immediately after shooting off a quick confirmation, trying to focus on your upcoming meeting with Professor Maximoff, who never tolerated distractions. You were so close to finishing your senior project, and her guidance is crucial to helping you finish.

The meeting flies by, with the two of you reviewing source material necessary for the finishing touches on this presentation. Soon enough, you were packing up your things and getting ready to head to the cafe. You check your phone for any other messages from Agatha, but there were none. You make your way to class with a slight frown, a funny feeling in your stomach deeping with every step made.

You see her sitting at a corner table, eyebrows furrowed as she stares at her phone. You take a few hesistant steps towards her, until she can see you. Her head slowly raises, a small smile gracing her face but it fails to meet her eyes. She gets up to meet you in a hug and waits until you both place your orders before saying anything.

“Y/N, I know that you’re about to graduate and I just need to say this now and get this out of the way. You’re such a smart girl with such a bright future ahead of you and my precious girl, I cannot be the one to hold you back. I’ve seen the way you worked so hard for this degree and I refuse to hold you back. I love you so much sweetheart, but you have your entire life ahead of you. You have all this time to explore the world and meet new people, and I know it will be a matter of time before this comes to the end. I don’t want this to end bitterly, I love you so much and I have only love for you. I will always cherish you and be rooting for you, but I can’t keep seeing you anymore, I need to let you go.”

You stare blankly at her while your brain starts to process what she just said. Almost at perfect timing, your server comes back with your orders, and she drops eye contact to focus on her drink. Your eyes start to well up with tears and suddenly your throat feels extremely dry.

“Agatha, I don’t want to break up with you. I love you, I only love you. I don’t want anyone else in my life, but you. I couldn’t have made it through this year without you, I can’t imagine my life without you now.”

She looks up at you with a watery smile, but you can tell she’s made up her mind. Your heart plummets at the thought of the situation. You start to replay all your moments in the head.

The movie nights at her place after she came back from work and picked you up from college along the way. Your head on her shoulder as you both giggled through another cheesy romcom and shared a pint of ice cream.

Your birthday, where she pulled out all the stops to make you feel cherished. Inviting all your friends and planning a special party, where you ended up going to a beautiful dinner before returning to a surprise party with all your closest friends. You knew she was behind the entire thing especially when she came up to you with a small box at the end of the night containing a small necklace with a heart pendant that you haven’t taken off since.

You slowly go to grasp the necklace when you realize what she’s doing, paying the bill. You hear her say that she knows you won’t understand right now but she loves you and is looking out for you. You face the window as she exits, not willing to believe that she’s truly walking out on you right now, six weeks before you were graduating.

You blew up her phone for the next week when you realized what she had actually meant but you received nothing from her. No texts, no calls, and not a single voicemail. Two weeks later, she sends you single text stating how much she loves you yet she cannot continue to be with you when you have your whole life ahead of you. At that, you cry. You cry and cry and cry and mourn all the good times you have had that she seemingly gave up on.

—------

Three months have passed, and you still can’t get her out of your mind. You graduated, she sent you a bouquet of flowers with a congratulations note you couldn’t bear to throw away. It sat tucked away in a small corner of your bedroom until it died, where you could throw it away without another hesitation, although you did save the card, not that you would ever admit it. You started your first job, now stuck in a cycle of long days, before mustering the last of your energy into making something to eat and passing out until the next morning at 6am sharp. You mourn the love you used to have with Agatha, how lively everything was with her, and her encouragement that would set you ready for whatever you needed to face.

Agatha wasn’t doing any better. Her days became increasingly longer since she decided to end things with you. She couldn’t stomach her thoughts, wondering if you replaced her yet, someone new and younger who was more worthy of your affection. She knew deep down that she made the worst decision of her life by ending things with you but she couldn’t escape the thoughts that made her feel that maybe she was saving herself from the heartbreak that would have occurred if she waited until you met someone else. She avoided everything that had anything to do with you, too afraid that she could run into you while you’re with someone else, not even eating the same ice cream brand anymore. Her work days became increasingly longer, hoping that she could avoid the outside world, and hopefully you.

Her co-workers drag her out one Friday, deeming that she works to hard and needs to get out more. They drag her to a local karaoke bar where she immediately beelines to the bar, ordering a double shot of tequila and a lime. She started to loosen up for the first time in three months, starting to forget about you. Her time came next, choosing to sing Shallow. Just as she finishes wrapping up the song, she sees someone enter, someone who just happens to be you. She hurriedly exits off the stage, hoping you wouldn’t notice her. She orders another drink and nurses it, hoping you wouldn’t recognize her there. Unexpectedly, she hears your voice next to her as you order out a martini, and she hesitantly lifts her head up.

Interestingly, your friends decided that evening would have been the perfect time to reconnect through all of their busy schedules. You dressed up for the first time since graduation, hoping that you would finally be able to focus on anything but her.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

Your head whips around faster than it ever has, and all of your pre-gaming efforts went out the window as you lock eyes with her. You’re unable to speak, but you notice her. The subtle differences, how dimmed her eyes look now, how her eyebags grew. You manage to slip out a simple hello when you realize you’ve been staring at her for quite a bit now.

She reaches out towards your hand on the bar, stopping her hand right before yours, hesitant knowing she doesn’t have the right to reach out to you anymore.

“How are you sweetheart?”

“I’ve missed you”

Oh.

You shouldn’t have said that, but you couldn’t help but blurt it out. Her eyes have always been hypnotizing to you, and you couldn’t help but be putty around her. Your gaze quickly drops to where your hands are before slowly returning to her face, catching the way she’s looking at you hungrily. You have just a second before she leans in closer and kisses you. You kiss her back, arms wrapping around her and moving closer, you hope you never have to break apart.

Her arms wrap around your waist as she stands up and tugs you closer. Her lips capturing your bottom lip before leaving your mouth entirely.

“I’ve missed you too sweetheart, so much my darling.���

That’s all it takes for you to bring your lips back to hers. She kisses back for a second before slowly pulling back and leaving you with a small pout. She chuckles but takes a long look around making sure her co workers are thoroughly distracted, before gently moving towards your ear.

“Come home with me baby, even if it’s just for tonight, let me make you mine again.”

You let out a small gasp before whispering a small yes. You see the smile return to her face, the same way it always used to be. She covers both of your tabs before ushering you to her car, focused on getting you both home as soon as possible.

She just barely gets the front door open before you’re on her again. Lips desperately meeting hers and she kisses you back just as desperate. Her hands meet your waist again and she guides you both towards the couch. She lays you down before breaking the kiss, hands making their way towards the hem of your shirt, making a single tug, eyes meeting yours in a silent question. You nod and she starts unbuttoning your shirt, leaving small kisses and praises as she goes. After eagerly throwing your shirt somewhere you’d have to search for tomorrow, she goes straight to unhooking your bra. You look down at her with your eyes half-liddled, practically keening in anticipation with what she’s doing but to your temporary disappointment, she makes her way back up to your lips.

She meets you in a harsh kiss before making her way down to your neck. She starts sucking harshly and you let out a breathy moan, letting your hands get tangled in her hair. She makes her way down to your tits, lightly teasing one of your nipples with her tongue, before wrapping her lips around it and gently sucking. Your hands tighten around her hair and press her closer. She brings one hand to twirl and twist around your other nipple while bringing the other closer to your pant zipper. She takes your nipple out of her mouth with a small pop. She quickly unzips your pants before bringing them down leaving you bare with just your panties. You lock eyes with her as your hands untangle from her hair and move along her back until the reach the zipper of her dress. She gives you a small nod before you quickly unzip the dress. She busies herself back in your neck in the meanwhile, leaving marks that you’ll have a hard time justifying to your friends when they see it the next day. Leaning back to step out of the dress, she slowly removes her own bra for your enjoyment, savoring the look on your face as her tits come into your view. She leans eye level with your crotch, lightly rubbing your clit through your soaked panties.

Another moan escapes you and your hips involuntarily buck upwards, desperate for more. She softly slides your panties to the side, before slowly licking a stripe up your core. The first taste of you makes her desperate and suddenly she’s harsher than before. She places one arm at your hips to prevent you from moving, while they other goes to keep your thighs apart. Her tongue swirls around your clit before bringing her lips down and harshly sucking a few times. You can’t stop the moans that leave you and you bring your hands back into her hair, lightly pushing her head closer to where you need it. She doesn’t relent, lips harshly suckking your clit before slipping her tongue inside your core. Your fingers tighten around her hair and you feel the vibrations from her moan against you. She focuses back on your clit, sucking and teasing before slipping a finger into your core. She starts to pump her finger in and out, and your moans grow increasingly louder. Your fingers tighten in her hair, your thighs start to shake, and she knows your close. She adds in a second finger, sucks extremely hard on your clit, and suddenly you’re falling apart for her. She works you through the aftershocks, lightly pumping in and out while whispering sweet praise, before removing her fingers and bringing them up to her lips to taste. She catches the look in your eye and she sends you a small wink while gently rubbing her other hand against your thigh soothingly.

As she stands up, you let out a soft whine of displeasure to which she shushes you softly. She gently leads you upstairs to her bed, settling you in the center and slipping out of her panties before making her way to join you. Your lips meet once again in a passionate embrace and her hands hold your face as if you could slip away any second. Every moan that leaks through only spurs her more as she straddles one of your legs. She starts rocking her hips and your hands attempt to guide them, before she pulls them away and pins them over your head. The new angle gives her a better angle as she rocks her hips and her hair drapes over her face. The sight is too much for you to handle and you wish you could frame how she looks in this moment. Spurred on by your eager gaze, it doesn’t take long for Agatha to call you her desperate slut and push her leg closer to your center. Her degradation only turns you on more and you eagerly buck your hips against her thigh, desperately seeking whatever friction she allows you. Agatha watches you desperately hump her, the sight only pushing her closer to her climax. Pressing her knee right at your core, she eagerly watches as your face twists in please and it only takes another second for you to reach your peak. Watching you come undone, sends her over the edge as well and she breathes out a desperate I love you while she comes. She drops slightly next to you, out of breath but refusing to take her eyes off of you. She looks up at you with a soft smile and sweetly asks you to stay, and you knew you couldn’t resist her. You settled against her chest with the covers wrapped around you both and when your eyes started to droop, you didn’t resist.

Everything came crashing the next morning when you woke up to an empty bed. You look around desperately, hoping that there’s still a chance she may be in the bathroom or the kitchen. When you hear nothing, tears start cascading down your cheeks rapidly. You check for a note but there’s nothing and you can’t wrap your head around the fact that she just left you alone. Wrapping the covers around you, you start to sob and bring back all the hurt and pain that you felt when she first broke up with you. Suddenly, you hear keys rattling in the door and you rush downstairs as she’s entering the door. She drops her bags at the sight of your tear-streaked face and engulfs you in a hug as you reach her. Your sobs turn into wails as you bury your face in her neck. She rocks you both gently while whispering sweet nothings hoping to soothe you slightly. She gently pulls you away before reaching to wipe your tears.

“My darling girl, what happened? What’s gotten you so upset this early in the morning?”

You take a deep breath as you attempt to answer and she gently rubs your back encouraging you to speak.

“I thought you left me again. I woke up and you weren’t there and there wasn’t a note or anything saying you would come back and I thought you wanted me gone. I don’t want to be gone, I wanted to wake up in your arms again. I missed having you with me, I hate every day that I don’t get to be with you, and I wanted you back. I assumed that you thought this was going to be a mistake and that we can’t see each other again anymore. I love you so much and I want you to love me back.”

You look up to see tears glistening in Agatha’s eyes as she takes in your words. She gently cradles your face in her hands before speaking.

“My love, I’m sorry I haven’t made things clearer for you. I love you so much, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you the entire time we were apart. It was my own insecurities that lead me to break things off with you. I refused to believe that you would still want me after you graduated, that you would see past this infatuation and find someone who’s more your age. I didn’t realize the extent to which I woud hurt you and for that I can’t even begin to apologize. As for last night, I have to admit, I was worried about where to go from here, but I don’t think I can leave you again. You mean too much to me for me to walk away again and I want you to stay with me for as long as you wish. My intention this morning was never to leave you alone, I went on a quick grocery run to get ingredients for breakfast in case you were willing to stay. I’m so sorry you woke up alone my love but I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

You don’t respond but you fall right into her arms again, allowing yourself to fall and trusting her to take care of you. She knows that you love her just as much and that you will talk more on this later, but she focuses on making sure you’re alright and letting the future deal with itself. She guides you back to bed, bringing you back under the covers and wrapped safely in her arms as you start to drift asleep. She presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before letting sleep claim her as well.

notes: i absolutely adored this prompt so thank you to whoever sent it in. i hope this is okay and everything you could hope for!

[unlosts]

hi !!

i'm pretty sure it was me w the perfume request! (my brain is so scattered i barely remember what i asked for but!! i'm so so excited to read it when you're done <33) (btw i'm loving the spencer fics and i'm psyched for more, your writing is so beautiful 🥹🫶🏼)

A/N: Thank you so much for your request! It was exactly the one I lost. Hope you like it, I had a lot of fun with it 🫶🏼.

Also no one asked but I'm a firm believer that Hotch is a Grey Vetiver by Tom Ford guy, or he should be!

At exactly 9:18 the sound of the elevator opening interrupts the quiet morning, Aaron Hochner walks out heading briskly towards his office, coat over his shoulders and briefcase in hand, nodding in greeting to the rest of the team who collectively turn to stare at him with various degrees of confusion plastered on their faces. 

“I was about to call a S.W.A.T team,” Says Emily, stopping him in his tracks “again.” 

At that Hotch finally turns to face them, his usually pristine white shirt wrinkled like he had picked it off the floor that morning. 

“Excuse he?” He asks, brow arched. 

Derek lets out a laugh at this, languidly spinning his chair from side to side but before he can say anything JJ, ever the mediator, interrupts “You’re just not usually this late, we were starting to worry.”

“Yeah, cuz y’know you have a bad track record” Says Penelope with a grimace, she’s perched by Morgan's desk toying with a feathery pink pen while she talks.  

“They were worried, I just knew you were maybe having some fun for once” Derek chimes in with a smile, letting out a huff when Pen pokes his side with her pen. 

“There’s no need to make a scene out of it, I’m sure I've been late plenty of times before” He tries to say in a stern enough tone that they’ll hopefully drop the subject. 

It would be easy to classify it as merely teasing but Hotch knew the entire team worried about him, namely about his lack of a social life outside of work. And usually he would entertain their banter for longer but he really is late today and he can already feel the beginning of a headache forming. 

“Actually," Spencer adds without looking up from his paper“this year, you were only late three times, the last one being about two and a half months ago on July when you had a flat tire and had to wait for triple A”.

“Thank you for that, Spencer” Hotch says, shooting him a look.

“No problem”   

“Nothing happened, I just got stuck in a bad pile up on my way there and I was already cutting it close beforehand, so if you all could focus back on your files that would be great, we have to present our consults before 5 today” He says trying, and failing to regain a modicum of authority. 

Just when he thought that they had tired themselves out, the elevator opens up again and you spill out of it, carrying with you the floral scent of your perfume and a dazzling smile that spells nothing but trouble for him. The kind that makes him stay up until 2am in the middle of the week and turns what was meant to be a quick shower into a half hour delay. 

“Hello hello, sorry for being so late, there was a bad bad pile up on my way here” You speak without pausing once for breath, your heels click clacking on your way to your desk where you unceremoniously dump your coat and purse on top of your desk. Heading for the kitchen to brew a new pot of coffee. 

On your way there you playfully ruffle Spencer’s hair and wink at Pen, who can’t help but comment on your good mood “Well aren’t you happy this morning missy” 

You make eye contact with him for a split second and Hotch can feel his throat dry up, he always felt like you breathed life into any room you walked in, the sun patterns following your steps whenever you went. So it makes sense that even now in the middle of fall he feels something warm settle over him even with such a brief look. 

He thinks he’s been staring at you for hours when it couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds, by the time he snaps out of it he finds Emily regarding him with a quizzical eye and a smile that does nothing for his brewing headache. 

“Well, I’ve just been having a very nice week” You reply pointedly “even went and got myself a new perfume” He did, actually, but it’s not like you can say that. 

Seeing an out in the conversation he starts once more to go towards his office before he’s interrupted, once again, by one Emily Prentiss. 

“Huh” She says, pinning him down with a perfectly arched eyebrow

“What?” He asks exasperated, quickly losing his patience. 

“Aren’t you testy today?” She teases “I was just thinking about the fact that you both got stuck in traffic, despite coming from opposite sides of the city, that’s all” And with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders that’s anything but, she turns to work on her files. 

You pop out of the kitchen carrying with you two expertly done mugs of coffee, and even better timing, hastily sitting by Emily’s desk and leaving one mug in front of her. 

“I was hoping you could look over one of my cases with me? I’ve been stuck for ages and I could use a fresh set of eyes?” 

“So this is bribery coffee?”

“No, the bribe is the very nice bottle of red I have back at my place that’s all yours next girls night, the coffee is just because I’m a delight to be around” You reply grinning at her. 

Emily huffs a laugh and with everyone distracted Hotch finally makes his escape, shutting his office door and basking in the blissful quiet of his office. 

He spends the next hour and a half failing to fill expense reports, his mind wandering to your hair splayed on the pillows this morning; you staring up at him in the shower, a droplet of water running from the bridge of your nose to rest on your lip being kissed away by him. The exact dazzling smile from this morning but all his to keep.

The lost twenty minutes after dressing he spend with you pressed against the entrance door, your hands running over his back.  

With an hour left to go before lunch and a creek in his neck from leaning his head on his palm all morning he gives up and goes to get himself his second coffee of the day.

In the kitchenette right by the vending machine is his headache personified, getting herself a bag of skittles. 

While he makes his coffee Emily pauses next to him and extends the bag of candy in a silent offer that he declines with a shake of his head, right before leaving she says “I do love the new cologne, very summery fresh, but just a heads up, I do think she wears it better than you” 

[hiddenlife-manager]

Hello can I request dry humping with law x fem!reader ?

Trafalgar D. Law x Fem Reader

cw... dry humping, uninterested Law, clit mention, pussy mention, orgasming, covered up, sub reader, etc...

notepad... SECOND FIC OF THE DAY. I am currently making a blanket so it is taking my focus but do not worry. I only have 14 more stories and if I write two a day hopefully I will get it done before July.

You were on his thigh, sitting there. Law was clearly engrossed in his work; having you on his lap was no distraction from your constant attachment to him. Over time, he noticed your gentle rubbing against his thigh. 

“What are you doing?” He was extremely monotone when he said that, finally looking down to see your flushed face rubbing against his thigh. “You know I’m working.” He placed his tattooed hand on your chin, looking at your flushed face and desperate-looking eyes. He wasn’t going to simply let you stop. 

“I know but-“ 

“I didn’t say stop; you know the rules. Don’t distract me; do it quietly.” Your eyes opened wide as you looked at him, nodding. He moved only a bit, allowing you to continue rubbing against his leg. 

Your hips began to move up and down, feeling your clit rub against your pants. You held a hand up to your lips, muffling the moans of the amazing feeling. You slowly went down to his knees, feeling the pressure build. It was amazing. 

“Mhm.” You moaned into your hand. Law was too busy to please you, and he enjoyed watching your desperate body rub against him. You were humping him like a dog in heat. He was well aware of how busy he gets, and if you could relieve yourself on him, he wouldn't complain. 

Your hands gripped at his thighs, going back and forth, and your lips pressed tight, hiding the clear moans you wished to let out. You shook your head, knowing Law was busy. With one hand, Law grabbed your waist and held you stable, your pace quickening. 

“Go on, cum on my leg.” He bluntly stated this to you, making you nod like a puppy. Your speed quickened, and you humped his leg with the right movement. Your clit felt overwhelmed by the immense pleasure of simple, dry humping. That was until you felt your pussy clench and you hunched over a loud moan escaping your lips. 

“Ah~” you sang out, and he made sure you didn’t fall over orgasming on his leg; your legs twitched at the feeling.

“Good girl, now go back to being quiet.” He leaned down, giving you a fast peck before focusing back on his work. Your body was still hunched over, breathing heavily.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drabble Roulette: Cole Turner - Age Gap

Hey hey! This weekend (July 6 -7) I’m going to be playing drabble roulette! I’ve curated a list of characters, tropes, AUs, and kinks and I’m spinning the wheel! Hopefully I can do this once a month as a little writing exercise.

Character: Cole Turner

Warnings: this drabble includes groping, age gap. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+. Please reblog and leave some feedback.

“Mary Ann,” you call out to your errant friend. It’s just like her to get distracted. “Eh, where’ve you gone off to?” 

You put down the lemon husk and dry your hands of the acidic juice. It was her idea to make the lemonade and now’s she’s gone off. You sigh as you hang the hand towel and tenuously make your way to the door. 

As peaceful as the old farmhouse is, you’re still a bit icked out by the crittering bucks and the creaks and squeaks of the floorboards. It’s a nice respite but you find yourself eager for your drive back to the city. Still, you can’t complain for anything. It’s good to have friends and at your age, harder to make new ones. 

There hadn’t been any other takers in the book club. Just her. She’s friendly and about your age. Sixty’s come and gone. She seems a perfect counterweight to yourself; bubbly and bright to your introspective introversion; rural practicality to your urban convenience; the sugar to your spice. 

As you step into the hallway, you cry out at the near collision with another. You thought the creaking floorboards were under your own feet. Cole, Mary Ann’s son lets out a ‘woah’ as he catches you by your shoulders. His hands are strong and large. They make you feel frail. 

“So sorry,” he smiles in his puppy dog way, “I was just lookin’ for ma.” 

“Me too,” you shrug him off and he lifts his hands, splaying his fingers wide. 

“Oh, uh, sorry,” he apologises again, “you okay?” 

“Yeah, uh, your mom just ran off. I’m sure she’ll come back.” 

You retreat and go back to the counter. You clean up the stray seeds on the counter top and the gutted peels. He slowly enters as you focus on the task. 

“Toss those in that canister,” he says as he pulls open the fridge, “I’ll take it out to the compost after when you two are done.” 

“Right,” you do as he says and close the lid. 

You rinse your hands in the sink and shut it off. You once more dry off and hang the hand towel. He lingers as he peruses the shelves. You don’t know what to say. Cole’s nice, like his mother, talkative. But he’s young and you feel that disconnect of years. Talking to him just makes you feel old. 

“If you’re thirsty--” You begin but stop as he speaks at the same time. 

“How’s work?” He asks. That’s better. Standard. A general nicety. 

“It’s work. Couple more years...” 

“One day, if I’m lucky,” he chuckles and approaches the counter next to you, “lemonade?” 

“Uh, yeah,” you confirm, “your mom wanted to make some so... yeah.” 

“Nice, I love lemonade, especially home made,” he comes close as he reaches up into a cupboard, “you can taste the love.” 

He’s cheesy. You want to snort at him but it feels mean. He’s a bit happy-go-lucky but he means well. Mary Ann tells you all about his romantic antics. He’s yet to be successful. You’ve been there. You’re still there, even this far into life. 

It isn’t his fault you never had the optimism built-in. Age has done little for your cynicism. You bite down on it and smile. 

“Want some?” He asks. 

“No thanks. I already smell like lemons,” you say. 

He takes down a glass and you fill it for him. He smiles as he watches the pour. He looks into the glass, some pulp floating within. He takes a gulp and lets out a hum as he pops his lips and swallows. 

“Mm-mm-mm,” he raises it slightly as he licks his lips, “I can definitely taste the love.” he winks and slaps your ass, groping as you let out a yelp. “Delicious.” 

He digs his nails in as you grip the counter with one hand. He has you right against it with the force of his violation. He rips his hand away and turns on his heel, strutting away as he whistles. You gap after him, reaching back to touch your rear in horror. 

That didn’t happen. 

[covenha]

Woo's Brews

Synopsis: Seonghwa, Wooyoung's black cat familiar, decides to help him out with his dry spell. Pairings: witch!Wooyoung x reader; familiar!Seonghwa genre: crack, fluff?? i guess it's a smidge bit suggestive but i think it's completely innocent, witch warnings: talks of sex but nothing too suggestive, oc's land is cursed for the plot WC: 762 words a/n: sorry i just fell off the face of the earth, midterms is kicking my ass and my body decided to get sick if that was not enough. again, this work is fictional so this does not portray any of the characters in actual life. another small HIMYM reference in there iykyk. hope you guys enjoy this baby drabble. and as always, reblogs and feedback is deeply appreciated. happy reading!

As the small pot at the back of the shop was boiling away, Wooyoung was dusting some shelves at the front. Just then, a ring of a bell signals a customer walking into the shop. 

“Hello?” You walk in, black cat in hand. It’s sharp eyes looking around the shop, looking around for its owner. 

“Hi! What brings you to Woo’s Brews?” Wooyoung asks with a smile. 

“Oh, well, your cat was playing in my garden and it was getting late so I thought to bring him here to make sure he was safe.” You smile back. The cat in question hops down from your hands, tail swishing from side to side. It stares back at its owner, as if waiting for its owner to do something. 

“Sorry you had to bother with Seonghwa. He usually doesn’t go around making pretty girls return him home. But thanks for making sure he got home safe…”

“y/n” you say your name. 

“Thank you, y/n.” Wooyoung says. 

“Well, since I’m here. I heard this place had something that could help me with my garden?” You ask. 

“Oh yeah, sure. We have some charms and some potions here that could help. What did you have in mind?” Wooyoung motions to the cabinet to his right and guides the both of you over to it. But, not before giving Seonghwa a look. 

“There’s this area in my garden that just refuses to grow anything! It’s like somebody put some sort of hex on it. It’s so odd.” You explain your gardening predicament to Wooyung, but he can barely focus on your troubles. Not when you have the cutest look in your eyes when you recall the horrific scene of your dead tomatoes, or your wilted daisies. 

“Well, this may just do the trick. Sprinkle some of this liquid on the ground in 3 circles. Then wait for the next full moon before planting something in the area. If that doesn’t work though, you know where to find me.” Wooyoung winks at you.

A soft meow is heard behind the both of you. Wooyoung scoffs at this, and you look back to see Seonghwa perched on the counter, grooming himself. 

“Thanks for this!” you motion to the brown paper bag filled with the goodies you bought that would hopefully help you in your cottage core dreams. 

“Just doing my duties as the friendly neighborhood witch.” Wooyoung waves goodbye as you walk out the shop’s store. 

He watches as you walk away from his store, and winces and facepalms just as you are out of sight. 

“Friendly neighborhood witch?” Seonghwa repeats, now in his human form. He looks unimpressed, raising an eyebrow at Wooyoung. 

“I panicked, okay? Hwa, you know how I get.” Wooyoung winces as he thinks back at what he said to you. 

“She seems to like you though. Don’t screw it up this time.” Seonghwa says, sharp eyes staring at Wooyoung. 

“Dude, you really need to put yourself out there! It’s been ages since you’ve even been on a date.” Yunho, one of Wooyoung’s witch friends who was visiting to stock up on some lizard’s tail from the shop. 

“I guess you could say he’s in a… dry spell.” Jongho, Yunho’s golden shepherd retriever familiar pipes in. 

“Ha Ha. I’m glad my misery is entertaining to you, Jjong.” Wooyoung deadpans at him. 

“8 months, 2 weeks.” Seonghwa suddenly cuts the banter. 

“Hwa?” Yunho asks him. 

“8 months, and 2 weeks. That’s how long Jongho has been…. How do I say this in a classy way…. Gotten laid.”  Seonghwa blinks at the three of their confused faces. Jongho’s face goes red as he sputters out an excuse. 

“Okay, let’s not get into the nitty gritty with this one.” Yunho tries to calm the situation. 

“5 months 3 days.” Seonghwa motions at Yunho who scrunches his eyebrows together in horror, but also a little bit of amazement.

“You should work at a carnival.” Jongho says. 

As they calm down from their conversation, Yunho and Jongho pack up to head back to their cottage to make it before dark. All the while Wooyoung is nervously looking around, trying not to make eye contact with Seonghwa. 

“10 months, 1 week.” Seonghwa says. 

“Dammit.” Wooyoung sighs. 

“I can help you. Just leave it to me.” Seonghwa shrugs at him.

“Seonghwa, I don’t know if I like the idea of that.” Wooyoung shakes his head at the black cat.

“Trust me. You’re gonna like this one.” Seonghwa smirks to himself. 

“Jesus, you’re like some kind of occult Tinder.” Wooyoung shudders as he goes back to tend to his brewing potion.

[gideonisms]

modern au meet-cute where gideon calls harrow her nicknames because she doesn't know harrow's name and is too afraid to ask

all right so I struggled to come up with nicknames, but hopefully the meet-cute bit makes up for it. This one also got kind of long

The girl is sitting cross-legged on Gideon’s favorite dryer in the laundry room when Gideon first sees her. Her first thought is: what the hell, now how am I supposed to dry my clothing? It’s not that they don’t have other dryers here. It’s just that the others either leave her clothing too damp, or smell extensively of wet dog. And Gideon has things to do.

Her next thought is: what the hell, she’s perfect.

Because the girl is perfect. Before this, Gideon couldn’t say she had one particular type, but as she looks at the miniature thrift-store goth in front of her, with her five different layers of black clothing, huge fuckoff boots, and grown-out buzz cut, she has to admit that the effect is both intimidating and extremely cool. That it’s working for the girl in a way it never worked for Gideon back when she’d had a brief goth phase.

The girl’s eyes are closed, body still. As though she’s waiting for something. Her lashes are dark against her cheeks.

“Um,” Gideon says eloquently. The girl does not respond. “Hello?” Nothing. Does she have earbuds in?

Gideon steps closer, and that’s when the girl’s body sways forwards, right into Gideon’s waiting chest. She smells kind of sweaty, and she’s warm as a fever. Gideon’s heart starts pounding. Is the girl dying? Gideon doesn’t know how to fix that.

“Hello, Morticia? Can you wake up for me?”

The girl’s eyes blink open. They’re extremely large and dark, and that’s probably why Gideon just stares down at her stupidly. But then they focus on Gideon. The girl’s eyebrows draw down immediately, and she shoves Gideon back, almost toppling off the dryer in her haste to get down on her own.

“Leave me alone!” she says.

“Okay. Sorry, it just seemed like you were having some kind of cri—”

“I am fine,” the girl says very definitely. She grabs her phone, which is lying on the table in the middle of the room, and hastily exits before Gideon can even ask her name. She leaves a bunch of cheap, badly-dyed black jeans in Gideon’s favorite dryer, too. Well, damp clothing it is.

At the coffee shop where Gideon works, she’s having a normal one. She greets the usual crowd from the university—there’s a twinge of pain in her knee whenever she thinks about the soccer scholarship she’ll never get there now. Anyway, the girls from the university are always very nice to Gideon. They ask her about herself, how long she’s worked here, what she likes to do on the weekends. Sometimes they look at her askance but later slide their numbers to her on a napkin. One even tried to get Gideon to come to a church function; Gideon thinks she would have killed it at the potluck, but she had a workout scheduled with Cam that afternoon. The guys either call her “dude” or don’t speak to her except to order.

This is the type of day Gideon has come to expect, and everything runs along the same well-worn track, with a brief appearance from Pyrrha, who turns on cheesy love songs on the store radio and shamelessly flirts with every mom who comes in until Gideon can only roll her eyes and tell her to stop stealing all the tips.

Even then, Gideon’s heart isn’t really in it. She has the vague sense that she’s running through the motions, living the life of the person named Gideon Nav because that’s the one she knows how to live.

Until around six PM, when The Girl walks in. Gideon had been starting to wonder if she’d dreamed the whole encounter, if her mind had conjured a beautiful goth girl out of sheer boredom. But no, there she is in the flesh.

She doesn’t look like she’s doing any better than last time, if Gideon’s being honest. Her boots are caked in mud, and she struggles to open the door. As she approaches the counter, she shivers even though the day is barely chilly. This time she is wearing headphones, big boxy ones with a visible wire that she keeps twisting through her fingers. She takes them off when she steps up in front of Gideon, distracted.

“Oh hey! You’re that goth bitch from before! The one on my dryer.”

The girl’s gaze immediately sharpens. Gideon could swear that she flushes darker.

“What are you doing here?” she snaps.

“Uh.” Gideon looks around. “I work here?”

“It’s not your dryer. It belongs to the complex.”

“Yes it is! It’s the one I always use. It’s my dryer.”

Gideon is beginning to think this whole conversation was a mistake.

“Well,” says the girl slowly. She’s staring Gideon down like she might kill and eat her, which is kind of doing it for Gideon. “When I’m sitting on it, it is in fact, my dryer. You can find your own.”

“Whatever you say, dryer despot.”

“Do you normally talk to customers like this?”

“Lord of the laundry.”

At that, the girl gives her one more withering glare, which suggests that not only is Gideon beneath her, but that she can’t even deign to continue a conversation with such an imbecile, then sweeps away. But not out the door, as Gideon expects. Instead, she sits down at a table.

For about ten minutes, she glares at the table like she wants it dead too. Or maybe she’s spacing out?

Gideon starts to ask her if she’s going to order anything, because at this point, she’s a bit worried the girl might pass out again, but then the girl pulls out her phone and starts typing rapidly. After about thirty minutes of this mysterious typing, she stands up and exits the building without fanfare.

Gideon doesn’t know what her problem is. But more importantly, she still doesn’t know her name.

“No, hang on,” Gideon says. “You’ve lost me again. I’m seeing an ashwaganda and I’m seeing a thething, but I’m not seeing them both together.”

“L-Theanine,” Palamedes says over the phone. “It’s a supplement meant to improve focus. Your grocery store might not have it, I just thought I’d ask.”

“No, I’ll keep looking,” Gideon says, although it’s late enough the people at the store might kick her out soon. “How is Dulcie doing, anyway? Does she need some soup too? Some chicken nuggets? I don’t know what people like when they’re sick.”

Palamedes might be laughing. “Perks of being Gideon Nav,” he says drily. “Anyway, it’s just the flu this time. She had it all checked. But you know how she is. She’ll want to keep working on the dissertation through it. Says she knows what being at death’s door feels like, and it isn’t this.”

Gideon hums sympathetically. She doesn’t really know what to say. She doesn’t have a lot of experience either being sick, dying, or caring for people who are sick. Recent events notwithstanding.

Gideon did almost die once, as a baby, but she hardly thinks that counts. What’s a little carbon monoxide poisoning when faced with a future strong, handsome lesbian? Although sometimes, she thinks it might be the reason she wakes sad for no reason in the early hours of the morning, as though her body is remembering the time everything almost ended.

“Oh, Cam wants me to relay a message. She says she’s going to, and I quote ‘kick your ass at Scrabble this weekend.’”

“I have work,” Gideon says absently. “I switched shifts with the new girl. She had to take off to take her weird dog to the vet.”

Palamedes is saying something about future plans, a topic Gideon has always struggled with, and Gideon gets this feeling again, like she’s gone missing in her own life.

And there in front of her, like an omen, The Girl appears. She just rounds the corner with a boxcutter in hand, running her finger along the catch over and over rhythmically. Her eyes are huge and dark and unfocused. Somehow, she looks more real than everything around her, like a dark ink blot over an aging photo.

In her other hand is a small box of cosmetics. They’re not in the aisle for cosmetics.

“Oh,” Gideon says, “It’s you.”

And then she stares stupidly. The girl seriously doesn’t look good—she’s had an air of malnourishment any time Gideon has seen her, but today, she’s practically swaying on her feet. On one side, her eyeliner is jagged. Gideon can’t tell if it was intentional.

“Yes,” Palamedes says on the other end of the line, baffled. “It’s still me. Does Thursday work, because Cam has clinicals on—”

“Look, I’m going to have to call you back, Sex Pal,” she says, and hangs up.

“Sex Pal?” the girl says in apparent disgust. “Is that really what you call your hookups?”

“Hang on—it’s not like that!” But Gideon’s protests are futile. In front of her, the strangest person Gideon knows, this unlikely bit of theatre in a world that has largely abandoned the stage, tips gently into a shelf of protein powders—and then she passes out.

When the girl comes to, it hasn’t been more than ten seconds. Gideon caught her before she could do any real damage. She wonders if she should call an ambulance. She’s halfway to shifting the girl’s weight so she can reach for her phone again, looking around for any other employees, when she feels a surprisingly strong grip on her arm.

The girl’s gaze snaps up to Gideon’s face, then to her arms, then to the tank top she’s wearing, which says #shredicated underneath the slogan for Gideon’s gym.

She narrows her eyes in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

“I’m dedicated to shredding. Why else would you keep passing out in my arms?”

The girl immediately tries to sit up, but loses her battle with gravity.

“Okay, seriously,” Gideon says. “I’m calling the ambulance. You don’t seem okay.”

The girl’s grip tightens, her short, black-painted nails digging into Gideon’s forearm.

“You will not call the ambulance, moron. Why do you think I’m working here? Does it look like I can afford to miss the rest of my shift?”

“Not really,” Gideon admits. “But it kind of seems like you’re about to miss the rest of your life, so.”

She digs the phone out of the pocket of her shorts. On her lap, the girl twitches in a futile attempt to grab it from her. Gideon puts her hand around the girl’s wrist to hold her back, and holy shit, it’s so easy to wrap her fingers around the whole thing. The girl’s pulse pounds. Her wrist is way too warm. But she stops struggling. She just looks up at Gideon.

“All right, my discount duchess. We’re gonna get you taken care of.”

For a second, Gideon thinks the girl is going to protest again. But she just says, nonsensically,

“Harrow.”

“What?” Gideon pauses in the act of dialing.

“That’s my name. Harrow.” She points to her nametag, which actually says Harrowhark in a slanting, hurried script.

Gideon forgets to dial. She forgets everything about their surroundings. Because now the girl, Harrow, is blinking up at her with something like trust. It makes Gideon stupid. She feels like she’s holding the life of some very small, very helpless baby bird in her hands, and she’s terrified she’s going to fuck it all up.

“Don’t call the ambulance. Please. Just—I know what this is. I need—” She looks away to glare at the side of a protein powder cannister as though it’s personally offended her. Gideon falls a little bit in love. “I need sleep,” she finally says. “And water. Probably food.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Gideon says.

The girl sits up slowly and glares at Gideon too. “Well? Are you going to bring me water? Please,” she tacks on again reluctantly at the end.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Gideon brings Harrow water. She brings her a box of saltine crackers. And she brings her a protein shake which she doubts Harrow will actually drink, but she can hope. As Harrow nibbles on the crackers, she seems to gain vitality. At least, she goes from looking like roadkill to looking like someone who would take roadkill home and examine the skeleton.

Finally, Harrow looks up at Gideon in sincerity. “Thank you,” she says, only once.

“Gideon,” Gideon blurts out.

“What?”

“My name is Gideon.”

Harrow blinks slowly. “Thank you, Gideon.”

Gideon’s whole chest constricts like she’s in some kind of melodrama. She feels like she’d go slay dragons if Harrow wanted her to. Maybe it is just her need to be useful to someone, like Cam once said when they were both drunk, but Gideon thinks she wants to maybe pledge herself to Harrow forever.

“Mhmm,” she says.

“Now,” says Harrow, “I need you to help me up. I’m going to take an early lunch. We’re avoiding a nondescript man in a grey button-up, by the way,” she informs Gideon as Gideon helps her to her feet and walks with her to the back. “He’ll only start telling me stories about his troubled youth as a struggling freelancer. I don’t have the time. I need to study.”

“Noted. Avoiding guys who look like freelancers.”

When they reach the double doors to the back room, Gideon almost follows Harrow in, but Harrow stops her with a hand.

“You. Stay here,” she commands, which does funny things to Gideon’s stomach? Oh hell, Gideon might as well find out some more new things about herself tonight.

“Like, until you’re done with lunch break?”

“No.” Harrow looks at her as though she’s an idiot. “I mean, I am going to go about my evening. And you should go back home. I’ve troubled you enough.”

“It’s no trouble. I mean, gotta make sure you don’t faint on me again. It doesn’t really seem like your coworkers give a shit. Harrow, are you studying during the day and working here at night?”

Harrow’s expression tightens. “It is none of your business.”

“It’s my business when you faint into my arms.”

At this, Harrow does actually blush, Gideon is sure of it. She gets all annoyed about it too, scrunching her face up in outrage. “I didn’t purposefully faint into your arms! Yours were just the arms that were there at the times I fainted.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Harrow makes to turn around and leave Gideon behind.

“Wait, I—look.” She holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

To Gideon’s astonishment, Harrow gives her the phone. Gideon quickly opens up the contacts app and types her number in.

“I’m going to leave now. But you’re gonna text me when you get back home safe.”

Harrow raises an eyebrow. “Why should I text you? We live at the same complex. Come see for yourself. Building nine, number nine. Nine AM.”

“Are you inviting me over?”

Harrow looks her up and down. The look is brief, but comprehensive. Gideon can feel it in her spine.

“Your choice,” Harrow says.

Later, when Gideon is lying awake in bed, she’ll wonder about choice, about coincidence, about the unlikeliness of anyone ever meeting anyone, about why she lived long enough to become herself instead of dying before she could ever keep beautiful girls from hitting their heads.

But in the earliest hours of the morning, she receives a text from an unknown number. The text is a single word.

Home.

Yeah, Gideon thinks. Maybe she is, after all.

[eph3merall]

18+ content, smut, stalker!matt / don't proceed to read if stalking is a triggering concept to you.

☆ . . . matt knew it was wrong. gaining your trust was just so easy, though, he couldn't help himself. really. you were sweet and naïve, and how could he not take advantage of that when you were just the prettiest thing ever as well?

it's why he finds his tongue prodding his cheek as a big ringed hand slides one of your drawers open to reveal the pretty laid out panties. cute pastels, neutrals, some flashy, lace reds as well. he's biting down on his tongue to stop the groan suddenly clawing up his throat.

matt wasn't in a rush, no. he'd driven you to a party earlier with your girlfriends, albeit a little reluctant since there would be guys there. worse comes to worse, he can track your phone anyways.

sliding the black backpack off his shoulders and letting it drop to your carpeted floor, he unzips a smaller pocket to fumble for the pairs of panties he bought a few days back. two pink and white pairs in the exact brand and style, because he couldn't have you finding out what he was doing, right? that'd be such a shame.

sure, it's freaky and creepy and some people would call him psychotic.

swapping out the neatly lines up pairs in your drawer with the ones he bought just a few days ago, he stashes them in the pocket of his backpack—not before bringing a pair up to his face to sniff them though.

his teeth dig into his bottom lip to stifle the groan building up, even though he's alone in your room. taking a few steps towards your bed, matt sits himself onto the edge of it.

soon enough though, his cock is straining hard against his boxers and sweatpants just from the smell of your sheets and pillows. once his junk is free, a tortured groan leaves his lips once he's starting to pump at it—pre cum already leaking from his slit.

he can't help his free hand reaching for a pair of your panties, pressing them up to his face to sniff at them. his hand works in fruition for the release he's suddenly craving so badly.

god, he's crazy.

yeah, it's wrong and all but fuck matt feels so good. without a second thought in his head he's bringing your panties down to shoot his load into the crotch area of the fabric. chest heaving and tongue swiping over now dry lips, he's sighing heavily.

blue eyes come into focus some more, and he's quick to clean his hand up. washing them and making sure he didn't get any of his cum on your carpeted floors or his own clothes—then stuffing the messy scrap of fabric back into a pocket of his backpack.

slinging both straps over his shoulders, his hood finds placement back on the mess of brunette curls on his head. he's leaning over your bed to fix it—replicating the wrinkles and messy corners. fluffing up your pillows and making sure everything is in place and all perfect.

even if you wouldn't notice, he shouldn't risk it. after how far matt's come? yeah, no. blue eyes take a sweep over your room to make sure nothing is in the wrong place or order, nodding to himself and running a hand through his hair as he slips out of your room.

walking to his car he parked in your driveway, he slides his phone from his pocket once he's in the drivers seat of his car. he just couldn't help but scroll through the album of photos he had saved of you, a slow smile spreading on his face with each scroll. you were so pretty, it made him sick. and also a little hard again.

starting his car out of your driveway, matt pulls up your number.

"hey. y'ready for me to come pick you up yet or nah?"

fun fact. this wasnt gonna be the og writing, draft ended up not saving the first time and i was SO mad. bc the first draft (in my own opinion bc no one else has read it) was so good and UGH am i horribly upset it didnt save. this vers is a lil shorter i remember but hopefully its enjoyable!! after that vers not saving i wanted to give up on writing this but.

stalker!matt prompt/idea (?) lowkey from @sturnioz (pretty girl please lmk if you dont want me tagging you <33)!!! sort of? maybe??? idk. its 3 am im really tired :/

do we fw stalker!matt bcs im thinking of writing him a fic lols.

not proofread as always... i wrote this while listening to faye webster, mac demarco, n the smiths n idk how to feel about that bc this was filthy

—

©eph3merall 2024

[imagine-darksiders]

Eden's Heir, chapter 4 - The Jump.

I can't believe it's been almost a year since I updated this. A lot has happened recently, not all of it good, but I'm still here, and will continue to be by hook or by crook! I've had to cut it into two chapters because the final fight between the Slag Demon and the Horsemen is taking way too long to write. Good news though, there'll be two chapters in [hopefully] quick succession. Hooray! Hope you like this one, guys, thank you all so much for standing by me and waiting so patiently.. I don't know where I'd be without your support. <3 <3 <3

Summary:

As you grapple with the horrifying, new reality you've found yourself in, Strife continues to torment you in the misguided hope that somehow, you'll spontaneously start to like him. His jokes are terrible. It's just a shame you have a weakness for terrible jokes. War, meanwhile, can't stop his eyes from wandering to your fresh, undeserved scar...

You suppose that when Strife said this would be ‘fun,’ he was only factoring himself into the equation. Because for you, there’s nothing very fun about having your particles ripped apart and rocketed through a portal which, according to modern science, should not and does not exist.

Well, modern science owes you a formal apology.

As it turns out, portals very much do exist, and they’re a lot less fun than the media has led you to believe.

The experience - though you hesitate to give it such a mundane moniker - isn’t… painful, per se, mostly because the whole process is over and done with so quickly that your brain and body aren’t given the time to notice that they’ve been squished through one end of a worm hole, reassembled atom by atom, and then spat out on the other side.

Perhaps more disconcertingly than the feeling itself is the fact that when you’re hanging for that split-second moment in a space outside of existence itself, you notice that the temperature around you inexplicably skyrockets.

And frankly, you’re not sure which is worse… The stale, unwelcoming chill of the Void, or the absolute blistering inferno that greets you within less than a second of leaving it.

Before you can even open your mouth to scream at the unnatural process your very human body is being subjected to, the space around you solidifies and stabilises again, and an unexpected jolt shoots straight through you when Strife’s metal boots collide with a hard, stone surface, jarring your stomach painfully against his shoulder pauldron.

At the same time, a wave of hot, dry air sweeps over you from head to toe, cloaking you in uncomfortable and immediate warmth that’s downright oppressive, thick and inescapable, as if you’ve just been tossed onto the fiery surface of the sun and left to sizzle.

Actually, now that you’ve experienced both extremes, perhaps you are sure which is worse. At least that sinister demon’s Void didn’t make you want to peel yourself out of your own skin.

Groaning miserably, you pick your hazy head up and suck in a breath that goes down about as well as spoiled meat, and then nearly retch at the unpleasant texture of heat sliding down the walls of your oesophagus like something squirming and alive.

Even the metal chain on your bag begins to grow warm against the skin of your neck, dangling down below your head near the Horseman’s holsters.

“Hot damn,” Strife announces, concisely putting a voice to your thoughts.

Your lashes are sticky from leftover tears, clumping together when you squeeze your eyes shut and attempt to pry them apart again. It takes a few arduous blinks before your blurry surroundings bleed into focus.

You rather wish you’d just kept your head down and your eyes firmly shut.

If there were any doubts left in your mind that teleportation really is possible, they swiftly fly out of the proverbial window when you catch your first, proper glimpse of the surroundings.

Wherever you are, it definitely isn’t the same place you were in barely ten seconds ago.

Bracing a palm against Strife’s solidly armoured back, you lever your torso up slightly to give yourself a better view of the world around you.

It seems that the portal – your brain starts to ache as it tries to accept the existence of those – has spat you out underneath the roof of an absolutely gargantuan cavern.

Roving your gaze back and forth, mouth ajar, you notice the walls, floor and ceiling are made entirely of dark, igneous rock, and yet all around you, you start to spot signs of… Well, perhaps not civilisation exactly, but definitely an external presence that gives you the impression that this is a keep of some kind, dug by hand rather than time or nature.

Two, immense pillars stand proudly at the far corners of the enormous chamber, large enough to prop up the roof of a veritable mountain.

Craning your neck back until it twinges, you squint through a haze of simmering air at the ceiling far above you, feeling a trickle of dread creep down into the pit of your stomach.

Bolted into the rock between the stalactites, there are numerous, gigantic chains hanging like eerie sentinel over your heads, so large and heavy that it doesn’t look as though anything short of gale-force winds could cause them to sway. You don’t dare to imagine what purpose they might serve.

Pale, unreachable light trickles lazily down from above, dappling little patches of the grey stone underneath Strife’s boots.

With your heart wedged in your throat, you swallow another curl of heat and let your gaze wander over to the side of the keep to where the ground falls away in a sheer drop several feet from the walls. It’s from the resulting pit that a vivid, orange glow rises, carrying with it the distinct sound of cracking, like glass windows slowly splintering apart, or a lake of ice breaking under a heavily placed boot. And below that sound, a deep, subterranean rumble serves as the background noise to this stifling place, constant and oozing.

Coupled with the acrid stench permeating your nostrils and the sweltering heat, you’re suddenly struck by the very disconcerting but plausible notion that you might have found yourself in the heart a volcano.

As if your day wasn’t horrendous enough.

All of a sudden, your ears are pricked by a low grunt from somewhere just a little too close to you, reminding you of your larger tormentor’s presence with a nauseating pang to the stomach. Consequentially, the unsightly welt on your forearm gives an insistent twinge.

Twisting your head to the left, you nearly jump out of your skin to find War has appeared out of thin air beside you, straightening to his full domineering height that easily clears his brother, and subsequently, you. The hooded behemoth only spares you a disinterested glance before his pale, blue eyes dart away again just as quickly and he stomps around to Strife’s front, out of view.

A breath you didn’t know you were keeping behind your teeth shakes itself loose.

You have to peel your tongue from the roof of your bone-dry mouth like a strip of velcro before you’re able to form a small, hesitant question in a voice baked hoarse and thin. “What is this place?”

No sooner has your meek question faded below the rumble of the cavern’s ambiance than an entirely new and harrowing sound punctures the otherwise quiet air.

Howling along the cavern walls comes a piercing, anguished scream, stemming from a place much deeper than you’ve already seen. It’s a raw sound, broken and terrified and primal, like a man with his humanity stripped and skewed just enough that he can’t quite be called human any longer. It prompts a sharp gasp out of you as the sound ricochets off the rocks, curdling your blood and raising the finer hairs on the back of your neck.

As if he’s entirely unconcerned with such a horrifying occurrence, Strife plants his free hand squarely on a hip and draws in a deep, obnoxious breath through his nose before he sighs it all out again, casting a casual glance around with all the air of a man surveying a pleasant sunrise.

“Ahh~ Screams of suffering, chains hanging from the ceiling, no sign of an exit…” he sighs wistfully, clapping the back of your thigh with his palm and announcing, “Yep! We’re definitely in a dungeon.”

He seems oblivious to your apprehension as you dart your eyes to every darkened corner of the cavern as if you might find the source of the tormented scream, curling your legs up under your dress until your knees bump against the Horseman’s chest. “A-a dungeon!?” you gulp, kneading your fingers between the gaps of Strife’s armoured spine, “A dungeon for what?”

Distracted for a fleeting moment by the foreign sensation of fingertips pressing against his leather under-armour, the Horseman almost forgets to respond.

It isn’t until he notices War’s expectant glare burning a hole into the side of his visor that he gives his head a shake and promptly shrugs his massive shoulders, swinging himself around to face away from his brother, and in doing do, bringing you almost nose to chest with the surly giant.

“Beats me,” he hums, utterly heedless of the fearsome stare-down currently happening just behind his head, “Probably for the poor bastard we just heard screaming... And a few others, to boot.”

Angling your head up, you have to gulp past a rather thick lump in your throat as you peer meekly up at War, who in turn, glares right back down at you, his eyes glinting ominously from within the shadow of his hood.

Reluctant to drop your gaze or even breathe for fear of provoking him by committing some unknowable slight, you shrink against Strife and duck your head, peeping up at him through your lashes as you tap your forefinger against one of the silver armour pieces interlocking across your captor’s back.

“Um,” you start, hearing Strife’s helm brush against your dress when he turns to listen, “C-can you, uh, put me down now…” Then, following a notable stretch of deafening silence, you squeakily tack on a hurried, “Please?”

There’s no guarantee that being on the ground will be any better for you than dangling over an uncomfortable, metal shoulder, but you’re at least willing to entertain the illusion that you’ll be safer on your feet without Strife dictating your every move. A modicum of control is better than none at all.

And truthfully, you’d just like to end the humiliation of being carried around like a sack of distraught potatoes.

Yet for some, inane reason, the armour-clad Horseman doesn’t seem as eager to relinquish you as you are to be relinquished.

“Aw, what’s the matter?” he drawls, bumping his shoulder up and down playfully, no doubt to pull a rise out of you which you frustratingly give him in the form of a gasp before he continues, “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

Still glaring down at you, unimpressed, War gives an exasperated huff, blasting a jet of warm air onto the crown of your head.

“Put her down,” he states firmly, lifting his gaze from you at last, “You will need both hands free if we run into trouble.”

Knocking his head back over a shoulder to address you, Strife grins beneath his helm and murmurs, “Ha. You’d be amazed what I can pull off one-handed.”

Trying your best to ignore his boast, you roll your eyes and start to squirm, wriggling around under the weight of his arm. “Ugh,” you complain, “Will you please just put me down?”

“Mmm…” Humming obnoxiously, Strife sucks his teeth and replies, “Depends. You gonna try and run away again?”

That, at least, gives you something to consider. Are you going to try and run again? They certainly haven’t given you much of a reason not to.

The scar War gave you still burns when you bend your arm a certain way and the flesh pulls and stretches beyond the limits of the tissue.

More to the point, how do you really know any of what they’ve told you is true?

How do you know you’re not on Earth right now, somewhere remote, yes, but escapable. Because they told you you’re not?

You don’t know these giants from Adam.

You can’t trust anything they say. You don’t trust anything they say. And while you’ve undeniably found yourself smack-dab in the middle of some seriously unnatural goings on, that doesn’t mean you have to accept everything at face value.

Reality might be breaking apart around you, but you don’t have to join it, tempting though it may be to curl up into a ball and sob until the problem sorts itself out.

Desperate, your brain falls into a tailspin as it tries to rationalise such irrational circumstances.

Outwardly however, you’re aware he’s waiting for a response, so, sweeping your tongue nervously over your bottom lip, you finally croak out a hesitant, “No?”

The silence that follows is damn near chilling.

Twisting your neck up and back over your shoulder, you catch the shine in one of Strife’s luminous eyes peering at you, narrow and thin with obvious scepticism.

 “Huh,” he says, clicking his tongue, “That didn’t sound very convincing. I’m not very convinced.” Casting a look over at his brother, he adds, “War, are you very convinced?”

Predictably, War’s only response is to glower down at the shorter Horseman and grumble impatiently at the back of his throat.

Nonplussed, Strife returns his attention to you. “I don’t think he’s very convinced.”

You have to press your lips into a firm, immoveable line and swallow back the vulgar words you’d just love to spew all over his shoulder…. Instead, you heave in a hot, arduous breath and slowly reiterate, “No. I won’t try to run away.” Then for added measure… “Again.”

You loathe that you can feel the scrutiny of not one, but two apocalyptic beings boring into the side of your head with suspicious, calculating glares.

Just as you’re beginning to consider whether pulling his hair will get him to drop you or kill you, Strife suddenly perks up, his sinister doubt disappearing as he raises his chin to pipe, “A’right. Good enough for me.”

Taken wildly aback, you let your mouth hang open whilst Strife simply raises his arms and lays two oversized hands on your hips, causing your jaw to snap shut before you can emit an embarrassing squeak of fright.

With far too much ease, the Horseman lifts you up and off his shoulder.

The moment you lose the stability of his armour under your stomach, you begin to tilt forwards. Choking on a gasp, you throw your hands up and brace them on each of his forearms.

“Don’t worry, I gotcha,” he chuckles brightly, to your immense dismay.

It’s a disconcerting sight. From the tips of your fingers to the heels of your palms, your hands don’t even wrap halfway around his armoured wrists.

Gawking down at your appendages, they seem so lost against the enormity of the arms that lower you gently to the ground.

As soon as the soles of your shoes touch a solid surface again, you waste no time in ripping your hands away from him and staggering backwards, trying but failing to extract yourself from his sturdy grasp.

Before you can get very far at all, fingers of solid steel bury themselves into your dress at the hip and you jerk to an immediate halt for fear of tearing the fabric by struggling. Arms held aloft to avoid touching his own again, you throw a wary look up at Strife’s visor, reluctantly meeting those sharp, alien eyes and finding they’ve narrowed to thin lines of gold, gleaming brightly against the shadows cast by his helm.

“You’re gonna have to get used to sticking close to one of us, kid,” he warns, his tone brooking no argument and devoid of any previous jocularity, “Cause as nasty as you think we are, I guarantee there’re things in here that are a thousand times worse.”

The well you typically draw your courage from ran dry long ago, long before you came here, long before you quietly agreed to marry Cain. So, you aren’t sure where you find the nerve to jut out your chin and bitterly remark, “Worse than trying to slice off my limbs?”

Sudden movement freezes you in your shoes as War emerges from behind his brother, moving to stand at his side and swallowing you up in the egregious shadow he casts across the ground.

Ignoring his approach, the gunslinger continues to hold you still.

“Yeah,” he replies simply, “A lot worse.”

Squeezing your lips into a tight, anxious pout, you swallow, unnerved by the way his gaze instantly dips to watch your throat bob around the undulating motion.

Gradually, you lower your head, losing the defiance of a jutting chin to instead tuck it timidly away against your chest, consumed by the sudden and unwarranted ideas that start to flash in your mind’s eye, showing you gruesome fates that could await you just around the corner.

If two gigantic maniacs wielding guns and a sword aren’t the worst you could face…

Just what the Hell have you walked into?

Regarding you closely for a few more moments, Strife eventually gives his head a satisfied bob, deeming that you’ve read him loud and clear.

Gingerly, he starts to peel his fingers from your dress, wincing when the gaps in his gauntlets pinch the delicate fabric as he returns his hands to his sides. Regardless, all of his muscles remain bunched, ready to spring into action at the first sign that you might go back on your word and attempt to flee after all.

He’s almost more caught off guard when you don’t move.

Instead, you murmur a soft, “Thank you,” which just about smacks the jaw clean off his face. Staring down at you, his lips parted by a fraction, he watches you fiddle with a jewelled band of gold sitting at the base of one of your fingers for several seconds before he remembers to blink.

Indifferent, and admittedly ignorant of his sudden bout of silence, you try to distract yourself by absently brushing the palms of your hands over your dress, tutting softly at the creases and rumples in the tulle.

It’s all you can think to do now that you’ve got a little freedom back.

Nearby, War shifts his immense weight to stand even closer to Strife’s flank, and together, the brothers share a sidelong glance before returning their attention to the fussy, little human in front of them.

Even with the helm obscuring most of Strife’s angular features, War only needs to take one glance at his profile to catch the distinct and unmistakable gleam of fascination bleeding through the cracks in his armour.

Typical Strife, he scoffs to himself. The minute something new and shiny comes along, it’s all he seems to be able to think about. And there are very few things newer and shinier than a lost human dressed from head to toe in sparkling, white garb.

Hauling his eyes up towards the cavernous ceiling, War lets out an exasperated sigh and brusquely elbows Strife aside, sweeping him backwards with the palm of his prosthetic gauntlet, much to his brother’s belligerence.

“Hey!” he barks, though he goes entirely ignored.

Stepping sideways into the spot Strife had once occupied, War places his back to the smaller Nephilim and clears his throat, curious at the way you quickly stiffen like a prey animal and gradually lift your head.

He stands so close that you have to tip it all the way back before you’re even able to meet his eye, reminding him of how much smaller humans are. Smaller, and weaker…

The colossal Horseman almost can’t quite believe that for a member of a species so vulnerable, you don’t seem to possess any weapons. Natural or otherwise.

His eyes drift down to the long, pink line he’d marked you with. You hadn’t tried to claw or bite or do much of anything to stop him, not that it would have made an iota of difference. You were helpless… And he…

A pair of snowy white brows twitch microscopically inwards.

“Do you know how to fight?” he utters at last, lifting his gaze to meet your otherworldly stare. He doesn’t miss how you seem to be fixated on something behind his crimson hood, and if he has to hazard a guess, you’re staring directly at Chaoseater’s hilt.

Pulling a face, you look back at him and croak, “I… I-I’m sorry?”

Briefly wondering why in the nine Hells you’re apologising, he presses, “Have you any weapons training?” When all he receives it a blank stare, he casts his mind about for something primitive you’ll have heard of and adds, “Swords? Axes…? Bows?”

“Guns?” Strife eagerly pipes up from somewhere behind him.

Heaving an irritated sigh, War half turns his head over a shoulder and snaps, “She is a human. She doesn’t know what guns are.”

“I… What?” you peep, wrenched from your stupor by the absurdity of his declaration, “Uh… Yes, I do.”

Bemused, War raises his brow at you and retorts, “No, you do not.”

For a moment, you’re so dumbstruck by his apparent ignorance that you forget how much larger and more dangerous he is, enough that you pluck up the gall to scoff at him and insist, “Uh. I’m pretty sure I do? Humans have been using guns for centuries.”

Raising your hands, you start to knock a list off your fingers, unaware of the behemoth’s eyes growing wide.

“Shotguns, rifles, pistols-“ you state, pausing to throw a hand out and gesture at the guns in Strife’s leather holsters.  “Revolvers-!”

You’re unprepared for War to suddenly move forwards, instantly cutting off your rambling list and sending your glimmer of nerve scurrying back down your throat as he leans towards you, filling your field of view with his indomitable, ferocious scowl.

On a reflex, you tilt backwards with a hand on your chest, blinking owlishly up into the depths of his hood.

“How could you possibly know about firearms?” he demands, the sigil on his forehead burning with fiery heat as his temper flares.

Shaking your head rapidly, you stammer out, “I.. I don’t, I’m not-“

“-Hey,” Strife tries to interject, “C’mon, War. You’re scarin’ her.”

Disregarding his brother, the Horseman raises his voice and growls, “Who has been supplying you?! Speak!”

Your hands wring together as you try to form an answer, struggling in the face of someone who has proven they have no qualms about hurting you. But all you can produce is another pitiable whimper. “Nobody! We just-“

Before you can utter another sound, a large, silver hand suddenly appears over War’s shoulder, grabbing the metal pauldron that’s been forged in the likeness of a snarling face and tugging him away from you.

“War!” Strife barks, trying to wrench his brother around to face him, “I said back off.”

Savagely tearing his arm out of his grasp, War rounds on him, nostrils flaring like a raging bull. Flinging his arm out towards you indicatively, he bellows, “If humans are being supplied with weapons-!”

“-Then why’re you takin’ it out on her, and not the asshole trying to arm her species?”

War’s teeth click shut, his shoulders heaving with every breath he pulls into his train carriage chest.

Letting out a sigh, Strife sends a sideways glance at you, lowering his voice to add, “Come on. Look at who you’re trying to intimidate.”

Begrudgingly, War follows his brother’s line of sight.

You’re well aware you aren’t exactly giving humanity a good name right now, shivering like a wet leaf and holding your injured arm guardedly against your chest, all the while stifling a sob and eyeing War as if he’ll draw his sword and run you through at any moment.

For several, terrible seconds, the Horseman’s sneer remains locked in place, rigid and threatening, but as he watches you cower away from him, something in War’s almighty resolve shudders…

And yields.

Slowly, at a pace that would make a glacier yawn, his hard snarl recedes.

“See,” Strife points out, “You just look like a dick.”

The furious expression is back on War’s face in the blink of an eye, but at least this time, he aims it at his brother, opening his mouth to suck down a sharp breath, ready to berate him…

Rocks skitter across the ground somewhere too close for comfort, snatching the attention of your unlikely troop.

As one unit, Strife and War spin towards the far end of the chamber where the noise had come from, reaching for their weapons and placing their broad, armoured backs to you.

It would be the perfect opportunity to make a break for it, if you weren’t frozen solid by the prospect of running into whatever made these juggernauts so jumpy.

The former Horseman draws both of his guns from their holsters so quickly, your eyes can barely keep track of the movement. War, in the meantime, takes a gigantic step backwards as he swings his accursed sword over his shoulder, crowding you into a clumsy retreat to avoid having your toes stepped on.

Frantic, you try to peer through the gap between the titans, scanning the chamber walls for any sign of life.

“What the hell was that?” you can’t help but whisper-shout, hardly daring to breathe.

Neither of them replies for a time, not even Strife, who has his revolvers aimed out at the room, his arms still as statues as if he isn’t even vaguely affected by the weight of his guns.

Seconds tick by at an agonising pace, and the three of you wait, and wait, straining your ears to try and pick up another sound. But aside from the crackle of lava cooling as it hits the air, everything remains perfectly still and silent once more.  

After another minute, War grunts, lowering his sword and casting a dark look up at the ceiling. “We’ve lingered here for too long,” he remarks, half turning to peer down at you again, his eyes skimming over you from head to toe.

“So,” he starts, “You’ve handled guns?”

Shaking your head, you hold your hands out helplessly and say, “No, I mean, I know about them, but I-I’ve never actually shot one.”

“I could teach you,” Strife pipes up, thrusting the revolvers back into their holsters with casual ease.

“Now is hardly the time, brother,” War snaps, still eyeing you pensively.

Something very strange has been hovering about you like a miasma ever since you crashed into his brother in the Void. Something unplaceable that he can’t quite put his finger on. You are human, that much is confirmed, but you’re not like any human he’s ever heard of. It’s a troubling notion, that some unseen force might be trying to arm your species. If that’s the case, they’ll need to figure out who. Then why.

But in the meantime, he and Strife have a job to do, here and now.

First thing’s first…

“… Never handled a weapon,” he murmurs aloud.

It makes sense, he concedes. Humans aren’t a war-faring species, so it’s little wonder that you don’t know how to use weapons… For War, however, a Nephilim who has been holding a blade since the day he was risen from dust, the concept seems so alien, not to mention disconcerting.

Inclining his head, he gives you another once-over before turning away, stating matter-of-factly, “You will be a liability.”

It’s such a blasé statement, accusing, as if you’re culpable of something you’ve had no control over thus far. It actually makes you recoil as you draw your head back to fix him with an incredulous frown, lips parted, and your brows furrowed heavily above your eyes.

Despite every fibre of your being telling you that there’s a terrible idea forming at the back of your mind, you take a step away, lean your weight on your heel, and start to size him up.

Now, you’ve picked some battles before, tried to stand up to people you had no business standing up to. Cain and Delilah nipped that streak in the bud back when you thought asserting your opinion on matters of marriage should make a difference. Those battles were wildly different from this one, and you lost, every time, worn down and beaten back from the woman you used to be by wills stronger and more tempered than yours. You used to think you could face the world bravely, and all it took were a few people to show you that you weren’t as strong as you liked to think you were. It humbled you, and over time, you learned an easier life was synonymous with a passive life.

But you’ve been passive a lot lately.

Maybe you’ve been running on cold feet for too long. Maybe this whole, nightmarish interruption to your routine is finally catching up to you and numbing you to sense and logic, but truth be told?

You really don’t like hearing that this is somehow your fault.

Balling your hands into fists, you swallow thickly, and steady yourself with a noisy breath, wondering if this will be the moment you get to learn if there’s a Heaven as well as a Hell.

“Hey! I didn’t ask you to bring me with you, okay?” you say in a wobbly voice, staring at a spot just past his left arm to avoid his glare lest your words fail you completely, “Maybe, if I’m such a liability, you should just leave me to find my own way home!”

His head snaps properly in your direction with such velocity, you let out a gasp, flinching backwards and shrinking in on yourself again, your eyes darting to his lips that curl just the slightest in one corner, and the little bit of gall sitting on your tongue shrivels up and dies at the back of your throat.

Oh well. It was nice to have your guts back while it lasted. Just a pity they’re probably about to get ripped out of you for raising your voice.

For a number of unpleasant seconds, War merely regards you like you’ve just completely thrown him for a loop, neither raising his sword nor his fist to send you spinning off your mortal coil into the aether.

Finally, just as you’re beginning to fidget under his inspection, he quirks his brow at you and slowly states, “If you leave… you will die.”

You were expecting him to lose his temper again, to shout you down or put you down, not remark on your chances of survival.

“Oh, as if you give a shit about that,” you huff guardedly, curling a palm over your marred forearm and eyeing the Horseman like he’ll tear you in half for daring to call attention to the injury he caused.

War’s stance and expression don’t change in the slightest. He only continues to observe you coolly from inside his hood, ignoring the frequent looks Strife keeps flicking between the pair of you.

After a further spell of silence in which you seem to grow impossibly smaller, he at last gives an appraising hum and straightens his shoulders, jerking his head towards his brother and declaring, “You will stay close to Strife.”

Wait… You will?

“I will?” you say aloud, sending the other Horseman a distrustful glance. Strife, for his part, looks conversely pleased with the verdict, his head tipping coltishly to one side as he gives you a little wave.

… Well, you suppose if you have to choose between the two, the less time you spend near War the better. You assume he feels the same about having to be close to you, at least until he adds, “If we run into trouble, his guns allow him range. He will not let anything to get close to you.”

“They’re welcome to try,” his brother says cheerfully, thumbing the stock of a revolver.

Wilting like a helpless flower plucked from its patch of earth, you weakly ask, “Do I have a choice?”

Giving a hearty chuckle, Strife takes an exaggerated step closer to your side and pivots on his heel to face the same direction, cheerfully replying, “Ah, c’mon. Don’t be like that. I thought you humans were social. Safety in numbers, and all that?”

Disconcerted by his proximity, you lean away from him, cupping your elbows. “That’s not true for all of us,” you mumble.

You hear his intake of breath and prepare yourself for yet more inane chatter, but at that moment, you jump as another howl – distant but hair-raising – comes drifting into the chamber from some unknown offshoot deeper in the keep’s depths.

“Fucking hell,” you quake, your voice shaking like glass on the verge of shattering.

At your side, Strife mutters, “My sentiments exactly.”

Raising his head to catch War’s eye, he swings his chin towards the only visible exit; the apex of a wide, stone staircase that winds down away from the chamber, disappearing into a tunnel below. “You wanna take point?”

War’s response is a rich, throaty hum, accompanied by a decisive nod. “Indeed, we have wasted more than enough time here. Let us find Vulgrim’s troubling demon and pry the artifact from its cold, dead hands.”

“Ohho-okay!” Strife grins, suddenly gleeful as he claps his hands together, “Now you’re getting me excited.”

Rolling his eyes, War turns away and makes for the stairs, swinging his arm up to clip Chaoseater into its usual place on his back. Blankly watching him leave, you give a start when something metal and solid nudges at the small of your back, prodding you to stumble forwards awkwardly until Strife’s knuckles drop and he falls into step beside you, one stride for every two and a half of yours.

 “I love it when he gets like this,” he remarks.

 Begrudgingly, you resign yourself to trail after his brother and ask, “What? Murderous?”

“Oh yeah. Even he can be fun.” Tilting his head to the side in thought, he adds, “On occasion.”

Sweat has been steadily gathering on your forehead, and as you finally begin to move, a tiny droplet breaks free of your brow and trickles slowly down the side of your face. Of all the days to get swept up in a Universe-spanning caper, it would be the day you elected to wear one of the most awkward and cumbersome dresses known to man.

“So far none of this has been fun,” you huff, reaching up to flick the sweat drop away with a finger.

Strife’s boots hit the top step and he twists his helm sideways to shoot you a mock-offended smirk, “Not even me?”

You don’t bother to respond to that, instead throwing nervous glances around the room as you lift the front of your skirts and start to descend the staircase, your heels clacking noisily against the hard stone underfoot and echoing off the high walls. Somewhere nearby, you can hear liquid lava squeaking and splintering as it hits the marginally cooler air, though the heat only seems to grow more stifling the further you venture.

Absently, you wonder if you remembered to put your setting spray in the bag.

The staircase spirals down into the depths of a tunnel, twisting out of view and giving you no concept of what might lay ahead. To your left, you note the presence of tall, metal spikes jutting from a pit that runs alongside the stairs, like a wrought-iron fence whose purpose has been retrofitted into an inefficient and hostile railing. From the corner of an eye, you spot something round and ivory impaled halfway down one of those spikes. A single glimpse is all you need before you immediately avert your gaze to the stairs ahead, heart thumping in your chest. Behind you, a pair of dark, unseeing eye sockets seem to sear into your back as you continue your descent.

As you move lower, more signs start to appear that you aren’t the only visitors to this keep. Sconces line the wall, roaring with open flames that cast the path ahead in an orange glow. Two, iron firepits stand on either side of the staircase at its base, and it’s here that War has paused. It strikes you that in spite of his size, he’s slightly more camouflaged in this place than he was in the void, his scarlet cloak and dark grey armour blending well with the rock and heat around him.

As you and Strife come to a stop behind War, you lean sideways and find yourself peering tentatively into the space beyond his bulk.

The tunnel has opened up into another spacious chamber, and the path beyond the stairs has opened up too, into a vast, circular area with no walls or boundaries, nothing but another deep pit that sweeps around it, carrying a river of flowing, basaltic lava to somewhere further into the - as Strife had called it -‘dungeon.’

Maybe you really are in some kind of volcano. The urge to find a way out of here increases dramatically, but with Strife watching your back a little too closely and War cutting off an escape from the front, your options, at the moment, are quite limited.

At last, War takes a step out onto the level ground, then another and another, stalking forwards with his head on a constant swivel, vigilant. Strife, in the meantime, walks out with a confident swagger, ensuring to walk slightly behind you to keep you moving up in front.

Tearing your eyes off the pit, you focus instead on the behemoth stomping ahead of you. He’s already on the other side by the time you and Strife make it halfway across. For a split second, you almost let yourself feel a pinch of guilt for wearing such inappropriate shoes and slowing the Horsemen down, but you’re just as quick to take the feeling and grind it up under said heels, curling your lip distastefully. You weren’t exactly given a chance to pack for this ‘excursion.’

“Y’know,” Strife says abruptly, breaking you from your thoughts, and just in time too. You glance down and see the lip of the platform’s edge rise up to meet you. It likely would have tripped you if you’d remained lost in your head. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Death will be pleased to hear it,” War remarks from up ahead.

The back of his hood receives a simmering glare, but Strife is quick to brush the dig aside and continue, “If Lucifer is as dangerous as the Council says he is, why’d they send just the two of us?”

If the uneven ground didn’t manage to trip you up, his comment definitely does. Stumbling on the heel of your foot, you hurriedly try to right yourself, swatting irritably at Strife’s hand that reaches out to steady you. There’s that name again. Lucifer. Would it be naïve of you to hope that their ‘mission’ doesn’t somehow involve the Biblical Devil? You’ve managed to survive for the better part of an hour, but you don’t like how the odds are quickly stacking up against you with every step you take.

“Death and Fury attend to other matters,” War responds simply, “It is not our place to question the will of the Council.”

Apparently unable to let his brother’s earlier tease slide after all, Strife rolls his eyes and quips, “It’s not my place to question your wardrobe, but I still think your armour could use some more creepy faces on it.”

You’re not sure how much you like trailing in between the sizeable men, especially when the more sizeable of the two slows his gait to aim a vicious snarl over his shoulder. “Must everything be a joke to you?” War snaps, “The Council-!”

“-Ugh!” Cutting his brother off with a pompous groan, Strife throws his helm back. “You really need to lighten up.” Then, lowering his voice to a deeper pitch, apparently for the sole purpose of mocking the far scarier Horseman, he taunts, “The Council this, and The Council that! You wanna hear an actual joke?”

Facing forwards again, War responds with a firm, flat, “No.”

Strife, of course, doesn’t seem to have the same reservations as you do about antagonising someone with the name ‘War.’

In fact, you carry yourself so rigidly in fear of being caught in the middle of a scrap that you almost have the wind knocked out of you quite literally when Strife chimes in with a phrase so familiar to you, you just about choke on your own spit.

“Knock knock…”

The classic setup, so universally understood that you almost wonder if humans are born with an inbuilt recognition system designed to identify two simple, unassuming words.

The three of you pass beneath an open portcullis, but you barely notice the jagged bars of iron looming above you because you’re so busy trying to pick your jaw up off the ground.

You can’t see Strife’s face, and you don’t dare turn around to gape at him in case you end up taking a painful tumble. Instead, numbly, you continue to stare ahead with unblinking eyes, vaguely taking in the narrow path ahead of you, and the apparent end of it fast approaching.

War makes a dismissive sound, an irked mutter of something too low for you to make out.

Clearing his throat when he doesn’t receive a response, Strife prompts, “You’re supposed to say, ‘who’s there?”

You can’t quite believe you’re hearing this. Perhaps the idea that you’ve been drugged isn’t so unlikely after all because this isn’t something you could ever come up with sober.

Ahead of you, the stone pathway falls away in an abrupt drop, and the ceiling of the tunnel disappears, both opening out into yet another cavern, this one more spacious than the first two.

Or, you continue to muse to yourself, maybe you really did die in that church graveyard, and the chemicals released in your brain have conjured a hallucination of this pair of giants to serve as some unconvincing reapers who will guide you into the afterlife.

War comes to a stop at the edge of the escarpment, and unseen by you or Strife, his expression scrunches up in confusion and he asks, “Why would I give away my location? I would simply smash through the door and face my assailant.”

Oh. Wow. That’s…

“Ugh, you’re hopeless,” Strife complains as he draws to a halt just behind you and his brother on the rocky ledge. For a second, he’s distracted with casting his keen eye over the chamber, so he doesn’t notice you lower your face to the floor, your lips pursed like you’re trying to keep a cough in.

He does, however, notice straight away when, instead of escaping through your mouth, the sound you’re desperately trying to hold in finds its escape through your nose instead, and out jumps a sharp, unbecoming ‘snort!’

It’s unexpected. So much so that you’re just as surprised to hear it as the Horsemen. At once, you slap a palm over the lower half of your face in horror, a cold rush of dread trickling down into your stomach.

Eyes blown wide open, you stare at the ground, only too aware of the heavy silence that settles over you like a blanket, thicker than the heat pressing in all around you. You’re not even willing to raise your head because you can feel two sets of eyes watching you from above.

For too long, all you can hear is the ringing in your ears and your own pulse throbbing just beneath the skin of your temples. The silence swells, tuning up like an orchestra, deafening you to every sound save for that accursed, high-pitched ringing caused by the crushing grit of your teeth.

“Did…?” Strife’s voice cuts through the atmosphere like a headsman’s axe, “Did you just… laugh?”

Your jaw eases apart, and the ringing fades.

The telltale ‘clunk’ of War’s boots alert you to him turning from the ledge, pointing himself in your direction instead.

Suddenly and appropriately alarmed that you just snorted at someone nearly three times your size, you instantly shift from freeze to flight and throw your head up, only to find yourself blinking apprehensively into War’s face, etched with his signature frown.

“I-I wasn’t laughing at you,” you rush out, backing away from the scowling Horseman a little too far and ending up colliding right into Strife’s torso.

With a tiny yelp, you leap forwards again, tossing glances back and forth between them whilst they continue to stare you down. “It’s just-! I haven’t heard a knock-knock joke in so long, it… It just surprised me.”

A pause ensues, and then quietly – eagerly – Strife asks, “You know what knock-knock jokes are?”

Wondering why that’s his first question, you offer him a timid nod. And then you’re immediately flinching away from him when he barks out an abrupt, disbelieving laugh and straightens up, his chest swelling proudly.

“No kidding. Y’know, not to brag,” he brags, jabbing a thumb into his sternum, “But I practically invented knock-knock jokes.”

Well, who are you to argue with the man carrying two guns? “O-oh?”

“Brother,” War complains, “We do not have time for your-“

“-Here! Here, try this one,” Strife rushes out, leaning towards you a little too fast for your liking, “Knock knock.”

You start to get the impression he’s been waiting for an opportunity like this to come along for quite some time. Sparing his brother a nervous glance, you wet your lips and tentatively indulge him, “Uh, okay, who’s there?”

Taking a breath as if he means to brace himself, Strife says, “The interrupting War.”

Oh… Oh, for God’s sake...

You try to steady the muscles in your cheeks, sending another wary look over at the juggernaut clenching his fists by the ledge.

Still, with Strife waiting for an answer, you slowly and dutifully sigh, “The interrupting War wh-“

You knew it was coming. You knew the gist of the punchline if not the punchline itself, but you’re still wholly unprepared when Strife cuts you off by crossing his arms over his chest and letting out a loud, resounding growl.

 “Grr! The Council~!”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you immediately purse your lips, your cheeks aching with the effort of keeping a straight face. You wonder if this is the start of another emotional breakdown because the joke isn’t even particularly funny, but there’s just a familiarity to the formula that almost comes as a welcome relief, like Earth isn’t so far away after all.

A brother teasing his sibling… There’s something almost human about it, abating just the tiniest modicum of terror bubbling away inside your stomach.

Clearing your throat, you keep your lips puckered and inhale deeply through your nostrils in an attempt to compose yourself. Perhaps its Strife’s enthusiasm that lends itself to the humour of the situation, or perhaps it’s simply the absurdity of such a large and formidable brute doing something as innocuous as telling you a knock-knock joke at the expense of his brother, but whatever the case may be, when you open your mouth to tell him it wasn’t that funny, your lips spring up at their corners, contradicting you immediately.

“Think it needs some work,” you say, your voice wobbling.

“Needs work?” he parrots, his own mouth quirking into a grin as he clocks your expression, “Then why are you smiling?”

It takes no small amount of effort to wrestle your face back under control. “I’m not smiling,” you insist, “That isn’t how humans smile.”

Strife, naturally, isn’t fooled at all.

“Ah ha! It is! She’s smiling!” he gloats, jabbing his thumbs at his own mask, “I’m funny! And you-!” Swivelling his head up to War, he pokes a finger at his brother’s face and declares, “You were wrong.”

You make the mistake of glimpsing underneath the stoic Horseman’s hood, wincing when you find him sporting an expression of absolute thunder. He glowers down at you as if to say, ‘Now look at what you’ve started.’

Outwardly, he flattens his brows and exhales slowly through his nose, “Yes, you must be very proud that you’ve found the one, sole creature in the Universe who finds you almost as funny as you find yourself.”

Flapping a hand dismissively at his brother’s words, Strife blows a snort through his lips and tuts, “Ah, you’re just jealous she likes me better.”

You decide not to chime in with the fact that you don’t, in fact, particularly like either of them.

Besides, if War is at all concerned with his new ranking, he certainly doesn’t bother to let you know.

“If you are quite finished cheapening our reputation…” he growls, whirling away from Strife and stepping up to the very edge of the platform.

“Oh, I haven’t even gotten started.”

Before you can protest, the masked Horseman lays a hand on your back and nudges you forwards until you’re standing next to his brother, then takes up his own lookout on the escarpment to your left.

Snugly sandwiched between them, you squash your arms into your sides, grimacing at the sharp angles of their armour that threaten to snag your dress as you try to shuffle backwards, but you don’t manage to retreat further than a few inches before you happen to cast a cursory look out at the view ahead and promptly freeze in your tracks.

Eyes bulging, your jaw falls open and you let out a soft, incredulous breath, your brain racing to take stock of what it’s seeing.

“Oh god.”

The path ends abruptly, falling away just a few paces from the toes of your shoes. And waiting beyond the precipice is a rock-walled cavern of absolutely phenomenal scale, far larger than those you’ve already come through. At its centre, rising from a chasm down below, there’s a rocky platform large enough to fit your house within its dimensions several times over. From what you can see, there isn’t any conceivable way to cross over to it, save for sprouting wings and flying. You’re not even confident you could pitch a tennis ball across the gap and have it land on the other side.

Scalding heat prickles your brow, and when you glance down to see where it stems from, you give an audible gasp as you look past the toes of your shoes and over the pathway’s crumbling edge.

Far, far below you, a stomach-churning drop lays in wait.

Thirty… forty-something feet of shimmering air is all that stands between you and a vast lake of red-hot lava.

“Hey, look down there,” Strife’s voice twitches your ear.

At your side, he raises an arm to point at the platform and says, “See that grate?”

With no small effort, you wrench your eyes off the pit of death and lift it to the level of raised stone, blinking your eyes hard to moisten them again after staring at the lava.

At once, you spot what he’s indicating.

Right at the centre of the platform, set into the stone floor itself, is a large, circular grate, vaguely reminiscent of the bars of a prison cell.

From the darkness below it, you can just make out a faint, pink glow seeping through the metal gridiron.

War answers his brother with a hum that vibrates in your chest.

“What’d you think?” Strife prods, “Reckon that’s where they’ve stashed Vulgrim’s artefact?”

Studying it for a few seconds, War eventually nods. “Something is definitely down there…” he murmurs, “No doubt that grate is heavily fortified.”

Shooting him a sly look, the smaller Horseman adds, “Shouldn’t be too much of a problem for you to pick the lock though, right?”

It’s disconcerting to see War with any expression other than a scowl, so to witness him return a smirk over the top of your head sends a veritable shiver right up your spine.

Lifting his arms, he slams his fist into the palm of his gauntlet with a resounding ‘thwack.’

Amused, Strife turns to thrust his chin at the gut-wrenching gap between the path you’re standing on and the edge of the central platform.

“What about that? Think you can make that jump?”

“J-jump!?” you blurt out, whipping your head up to stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

Hell, maybe he has.

Briefly, War’s eyes flit down to you before he returns his gaze to his fellow Horseman, scoffing, “Is that a serious question?”

And without another word, he begins taking several steps backwards, away from the ledge.

“Wait,” you sputter, shooting him an incredulous look as he continues to back up along the path, “You’re not really going to-“

You don’t even get to finish your sentence.

Before you can blink, War pushes off on his back foot and lurches forwards, his boots pounding against the stone hard enough to send powerful quakes all along the path as he charges straight for the edge.

You think you let out an alarmed yelp, but there’s not much else you can do except helplessly gawk as the Horseman, laden down by his heavy, clanking armour, plants his boot centimetres from the crumbling edge of the path and unceremoniously launches himself, his sword, and all of his bulk off solid ground, soaring out over the lava-drowned chasm below.

With a comically loud gasp, you slap your palms over your eyes, yet you can’t resist peeking through splayed fingers to watch.

Why the Hell would he do that!? There’s no way he’ll make it, you tell yourself, not with all that weight dragging him down.

You wanted to get away from him, yes but… shit. You didn’t want him to get himself killed doing it!

It’s as if you’re staring at a runaway train, waiting in morbid fascination for it to derail. Something in the nature of a disaster unfolding keeps you rooted to the spot, unable to tear your attention away from it.  

There’s power and grace in the way War sails over the gap, an impossible feat, further than any Olympic gold medallist would ever hope to achieve. And then, to your utmost astonishment, he makes it.

Metal boots hit the stone platform with an almighty ‘clang’ on the other side, and he dips his knees as he lands to absorb the impact.

You’re almost certain you can see the whole structure quiver from the force.

For several moments, you merely stand there with your mouth hanging ajar whilst War rises to his full height again and turns around, tipping his face up to see you staring back at him, your eyes wide with unconcealed awe.

“How. The fuck…?” you say emphatically, blowing out a disbelieving little whistle. You might not trust the man, but even you can appreciate a good stunt when you see one. Giving your head a shake, you briefly forget you’re supposed to be their kidnappee and gush, “That was incredible!”

Your voice carries easily across the sizeable gap and reaches the Horseman’s ears, erasing the hard line between his brows. Taken aback, War blinks, pressing his lips together bashfully in lieu of a response. ‘Perhaps it was rather impressive,’ he privately concedes, ‘from a human’s perspective…’

Back on the escarpment, Strife’s keen gaze makes out the befuddled expression warping his brother’s typically impassive face, and he sends several glances between you and War, pursing his lips at the glimmer lighting up your eyes.

“Oh yeah?” he huffs, “You think that was impressive?”

A loud clap rings out across the cavern, causing you to jump as Strife smacks his palms together. “Okay, little miss,” he announces behind you, “Your turn.”

Just like that, the colour promptly drains from your face. “My what?”

You don’t have time to spin around and face him, for not a second later, a powerful arm scoops your legs out from underneath you whilst the other snakes around the back of your shoulders, hauling you clean off the floor and pressing you to a hard, armoured chest.

“Oh for-! Stop grabbing me!” you complain, planting your hands on his clavicle and shoving yourself away as best you can, “Are you insane!? I am not jumping over that!”

Cocking his helm at you, he spares you an innocent blink. “You’re not?”

You don’t like how much levity is lacing his tone.

“NO!” you squawk, aghast, “Absolutely not! Let me go!”

One of the Horseman’s eyes narrows to squint at you before he angles his helm very pointedly towards the platform. “You sure?”

Something about his question gives you pause.

Hesitating, you snap your head in the same direction and follow his line of sight. It doesn’t take you more than a second to glean the bastard’s intent.

Now you really don’t like the way he’s looking at you, his upturned eyelids the clearest indication that he’s smiling quite broadly underneath his visor.

Your stomach gives an unpleasant lurch.

“Oh, if you dare…” you hiss.

Daringly, he raises his sizeable shoulders in a shrug and chirps, “Lesson one; Don’t ever dare a Horseman, kid. You’re always bound to lose.”

He wouldn’t…

Flashing you a golden wink, Strife turns his body sideways and swings you to the right, like a rugby player readying a forward pass.

It finally occurs to you that, oh, good god, he would.

“Wait-! WA-WAIT! STRIFE!” Issuing a high-pitched, wordless scream, you start to flail, but his ironclad grip on your legs and shoulders keeps you from launching yourself out of his arms.

Somewhere across the chasm, War’s voice drifts up to you, though you hardly hear it above your undignified shrieks. “Brother?”

The muscles around you bunch up, solidifying as hard as the stone underfoot.

“See you on the other side!” is all the cheery warning you get.

“Don’t you DA---AAAAARRRGGHHH!”

He’s moving before you can think to adhere yourself to his arm.

Sidestepping into a purposeful bound, the Horseman flings his arms to the left, with you in tow, and when they get to the zenith of his reach, they disappear out from under you, letting you go hurtling spine first out over the chasm like a screaming, thrashing blimp, dress and all.

You have several phobias that you were aware of before you fell into this godforsaken place. Phobias that, for the most part, have been quite avoidable in your day-to-day life.

Finding yourself suspended in the air over a pit without a safety net underneath you… add some lava to break your fall, and you suddenly realise as you’re flying through empty space that you’ve just discovered an entirely new phobia to add to the list.

Sailing in a none-too graceful arch, you stare in disbelief back at the silver Horseman on the ledge, your dress billows out behind you and the scorching air whips your veil over your face, tugging at your hair where the grips are heroically keeping it situated. Likewise, some subconscious part of you instructs your toes to grip like vices on the insoles of your heels, valiantly trying to stop them from plummeting off your feet.

Inevitably, as is the case with the laws of physics, you reach the height of your curve, and that’s when gravity seizes you by the heart and starts to drag you back down, sending your stomach crashing up into your diaphragm.

Time seems to slow as you descend, reaching back for Strife as if he could somehow stretch across the gap and catch you. You can’t see behind yourself, and it’s all you can do to hope that you pass out on the way down, so you don’t have to feel your body melt into a puddle in the hungry maw of the lava below.

It hurts your chest something fierce to think that the last anyone will see of you is your terror-stricken face and your raised hand closing into a fist, bar one choicely extended finger.

The hot wind screams past your ears and you screw your eyes shut tight, squeezing out the last tears you’re ever going to cry. Your father’s face flashes in your mind’s eye, and you wonder what you did to set off this chain of events.

Strife said he wouldn’t hurt you…

What a joke.

‘WHAM!’

Your mouth jerks open, wheezing out a gasp as something suddenly slams into you from behind, knocking the air violently from your lungs. Or rather, you crash into something with the force of a white, ruffled meteorite and nearly lose your heart through your open mouth.

At first, you assume you must have smacked into the hard side of the platform, but then the Something you’ve collided with grunts, and you hurriedly wrench your eyes open, coming to focus on a monstrous, metal gauntlet that’s secured itself under your knees, crushing your dress between prodigious fingers whilst something equally large presses across your shoulder blades.

With a kick in the guts, you realise you’re being held aloft in much the same way Strife had been holding you mere moments ago.

He caught you… War caught you.

Finally, you remember to gulp in a noisy breath to refill your desperate lungs.

You’re not dead.

But you are, in fact, shaking.

And as the revelation that you’re still alive sets in, your limbs start to wobble in earnest.

“STRIFE!” You visibly flinch when War’s terrible, wonderful, abrasive, beautiful voice booms like a claxon right above your head. “You fool!”

Even through layers of solid metal and leather padding, the Horseman can feel you trembling under his palms. Propping your neck in the crook of his elbow, he lifts his head to level a snarl up at where Strife still stands on the escarpment whilst you unclench your fists from your lap, heaving air in and out of your lungs in hysterical little bursts.

“What were you thinking!?” he bellows.

Leaning over the side to look down at you and your unwitting saviour, Strife throws his arms out wide and argues, “She said to let her go!”

“You knew what she meant!” A deep thrum rolls around in his chest, spreading up his throat and spilling out in another growl so deep it rattles the teeth in your skull. “You could have damaged her!”

“Oh relax, I wouldn’t have tossed her if I didn’t think you’d catch her.”

War slides his lips back to reveal his inhumanly sharp canines, but at that moment, something tugs very lightly at the fabric of his cowl.

Faltering, he angles his chin down and nearly gives a start.

Tiny hands have wandered towards him, found the scarlet material hanging from around his neck and latched onto it with possessive intent, fingers twisting themselves into his cowl and getting lost amongst the folds, as if you fully expect him to toss you over the side as well. The strange, white veneer lays draped across your face, so he can’t see your expression when you unexpectedly twist about in his arms and pull yourself a little closer to his chest.

Caught off guard, War remains stock-still, seriously contemplating whether or not he should drop you right then and there to spare himself from Strife’s potential teasing.

His bulging arms give a twitch, which in turn causes you to cringe, letting out a quiet bleat and further entangling your fingers around his cowl.

This, War decides, was not in the job description when the Charred Council made him a Horseman. Still, whatever he might think of you, he can’t bring himself to drop you in a heap on the ground.

For once, he might be out of his depth.

As soon as the notion occurs to him, he brusquely flicks it away with a toss of his head.

Taking a large step back, he slowly ambles himself about until he’s facing away from Strife and the platform’s edge, then stomps several paces towards the central grate, only stopping once he hears the loud clang of metallic boots hitting the stone behind him as his fellow Horseman leaps to the lower level.

Gingerly, almost as though he expects you to shatter if he moves too quickly, War bends down until he’s almost on a knee and starts to withdraw the arm that’s wrapped around your legs, a stoic frown tugging his brows towards the centre of his forehead when you refuse to let go of his hood.

Grumbling, he lowers you until your shoes click on the stone floor, and then he slips his hand out from under your knees, moving it up and taking both of your wrists between his gauntlet’s fingertips and thumb, mindful of the delicate limbs he’s handling.

He can still recall how you’d nearly crumpled to your knees when he got a little heavy handed trying to apply the poultice to your arm. He truly thought he had been correct in gauging the pressure he needed to apply to your flesh to draw blood. He’d only meant to take a little. Just enough to prove the validity of your claim. What an idea that had turned out to be. If War were being honest with himself, he’d been outright startled when your skin peeled open so readily to admit Chaoseater’s blade.

So, if he’s a little more careful in prying your hands off his cowl than he ought to be, well, that’s his own business.

It doesn’t take much coaxing before you seem to come back into yourself.

With a sudden jolt, you wrench your hands away from his hood and start to struggle valiantly with the veil on your face, flipping it back over your head and choking on a sob as your knees start to buckle.

Planting both of his palms on your shoulders, War hauls you upright again.

“Steady,” he murmurs as if he’s addressing a wounded soldier, not a frightened human, “On your feet.”

The sound of clanking boots drifts closer, approaching from his rear.

War bristles, but he’s not the only one who heard Strife’s footsteps.

“You okay, kid?” the gunslinger’s voice drifts over to you, and War watches your jaw cinch shut, the hands at your sides curling into fists as you attempt to stop them from shaking.

Whirling around, you tear yourself from the Horseman’s gauntlets, your dress twirling gracefully around your ankles to find Strife standing a few paces behind you, paused halfway between one step and the next.

Blurting out a delirious laugh, you shoot him a bloodshot stare, half tempted to rip your bag off and lob it at his head.

“Am I okay?!” you echo, “Have you completely lost your mind!?”

Peering down at you appraisingly, War makes a sound that might be affirming, and even his brother lifts a hand to tilt it back and forth in a ‘so-so’ motion.

Breathing hard, you resist the urge to scream and instead lower your head, massaging at your throbbing temples.

Slowly, through gritted teeth, you seethe, “I am trapped… inside a volcano… with two of the scariest people I’ve ever met…”

Strife shares a look with War, the former’s frame wilting as if he’s put out, while the latter, by contrast, almost seems proud of the achievement.

“I,” you continue, a humourless grin straining at your lips, “Just found out that demons exist! I also found out that Lucifer is apparently real…! It is my fucking wedding day!” Vitriol drips from your teeth like venom, and with each passing word, your voice grows louder and louder. “And! I just got chucked! Like a…  like a fucking pigskin over a river! Of LAVA!”

All around you, the cavern echoes with the throes of your furious shout, bouncing off the rock walls and coming back to you ten times over before it fades into an uneasy silence.

Lungs heaving with the effort of raising your voice, you stop to breathe, finding, to your dismay, that tears are spilling onto your cheeks, only to start evaporating on your skin in the smouldering heat.

Clearing your throat, you sweep a few fingertips delicately beneath your eyes and wipe away the lingering evidence of moisture cutting tracks through your blusher. “So, no,” you sniffle, “For your information, I am not o-fucking-kay… I think I’m about as far from okay as it gets.”

It’s almost satisfying that the gung-ho Horseman can in fact be made to shut up.

Fidgeting idly with the gauntlet on his left hand, Strife shoots several glances at War, but finds no source of assistance in his fellow Nephilim’s cold, critical glare.

“Uh,” he starts, clenching his hands into fists and opening them again, “I mean… it was kind of funny, right?” He lets out a chuckle that falls painfully flat. “You should’ve seen your face.”

Your jaw begins to ache from grinding your teeth together like you’re trying to crush coal into diamonds.

“Knock-knock jokes are funny,” you say stiffly, turning away from him to scowl at the ground, “People don’t get hurt.”

Draping a hand over his hip, Strife lowers his voice and asks, “Come on, you really thought I’d let you get hurt?”

“OF COURSE I DID!” you suddenly bellow so loudly your voice cracks, “You threw me over a lava pit!”

“War caught you, didn’t he?”

“What if he hadn’t!?”

Strife doesn’t even hesitate before he offers his palms to the ceiling and says, “Then I wouldn’t’ve done it.”

“Why the hell would you-!? Why even take the risk!?”

“There never was any risk,” he shrugs far too nonchalantly, sending his brother a knowing look, “Besides, this is a good thing, right? Now you know you can trust War to keep you alive.”

Pulling a face, you allow a spiteful scoff to burst out of your mouth, arms folding sternly across your chest. “Oh, so that was all so you could prove some point to me, was it? Jesus, what is wrong with you?!”

“Now there’s a door best left unopened,” War chimes in.

At last recognising that there’s some, invisible line he’s crossed, Strife holds his hands up placatingly. “Look,” he concedes, scratching at the back of his head and disturbing the thick spines of ebony hair growing behind his helm, “After what happened back in the Void, I just thought, if we proved we could keep you safe, you’d… maybe start to trust us a little more, y’know?”

You have to take a moment to stare at him, waiting for his words to sink in for you, and hopefully for him as well. “So… you thought you’d show me you can keep me safe by… launching me over a lava pit, and expecting me to know your brother would catch me?”

The Horseman doesn’t speak for several seconds. When he eventually does, he crosses his arms over his chest and huffs, “I mean, if you’re only gonna focus on the first part, sure the plan had holes.”

“Well,” you say haughtily, “No offence, but I trust you two about as far as I could throw you. Which, you’ll be shocked to hear, isn’t very far at all. And unlike you-“ Here, you jab a finger up at his silver visor. “- I’m not strong enough to go around throwing people off the edge of cliffs!”

Once again, Strife remains silent, rapping his fingertips on a metal bicep. Soon enough however, he lowers his head and peers up at you from beneath the lip of his helm’s sockets, prodding, “It was a pretty good throw though, huh?”

“It was a very good throw!” you agree sharply, blowing out a rough exhale as your heartbeat finally begins to ease off the throttle, “Neither of you even had a run up. You two are like something straight out of a comic book… Except without the charisma… and altruism...”

“Comic…?” War asks, frowning, “Then… you are amused?”

“No, not comic like-…” You inhale. You exhale. “Never mind. Weren’t you guys supposed to be looking for something?”

Just like that, the pair of titans straighten up with a start, and you wonder if their ‘mission’ really had slipped their minds for a while.

Rolling his shoulders back, War just grumbles something inaudible and begins moving purposefully towards the grate.

You stand back to let him pass, chewing thoughtfully on your bottom lip as you mull over what you’re about to say.

“Hey, big guy?”

At once, War stops and swivels his head sideways, silver hair spilling out from underneath his hood.

Shuffling awkwardly on your feet, you avoid the pale, unblinking eye that’s trained on your face and call, “Thanks…. For catching me.”

You won’t thank him for healing your arm when he was the one who cut it in the first place. But this? You can swallow your grudge for this. At least for a little while.

Several seconds tick by without a response, and the only sound you can hear is the heavy clanking of boots on stone as Strife ventures up behind you.

And then at last, War’s head falls and rises in an almost imperceptible nod.

When he turns away, you suddenly feel like you can breathe again.

How can one man be so intimidating just by standing still and saying nothing?

You’ve already deduced that the two Horsemen are like chalk and cheese, with one half of the duo serving as the strong, silent type, and the other, a smart-mouthed chatterbox.

… Speaking of whom.

Just as you start to trail after War towards the centre of the platform, an enormous shape sidles up next to you, easily keeping pace with your diminutive gait.

“Hey…” Strife tries, actually sounding hesitant for a change, “Knock-knock.”

Ah. There it is.

“Strife…” His name still sounds foreign on your tongue. “I’m… look, I’m not in the mood, okay?”

“…”

Scoffing quietly, you give your head a defeated shake and sigh, “Fine… Who’s there?”

“Eyes wear.”

… Okay?

“…Eyes wear who?” you venture, hesitant.

Swivelling his helm towards you, Strife bends his neck down, chasing after your face even as you try to ignore him by staring straight ahead.

“Eyes wear to… never throw you across any more chasms,” he offers, tipping his helm upright again, “Lava filled or otherwise. How’s that sound?”

Your lips quiver. “Wow,” you drawl, “I think that was even worse than the last one.”

“Oh yeah?” he replies coyly, “Then why’re you smiling?”

You jerk to a halt mid stride, taking stock of your expression.

Damnit. You are smiling.

You’re a little too slow to force the corners of your lips back down into a straight line, and of course, Strife sees it, tipping his chin back to peer at you triumphantly. You may not be able to see his mouth beneath the visor but judging by the upturned curve of his golden eyes, you just know the smug son of a bitch is grinning from ear to ear.

“I was not smiling,” you insist.

Quick as a whip, he retorts, “Well now you’re lying.”

Stuffing your teeth into your bottom lip, you kick yourself into gear and speed up, marching up to where War has stopped by the grate. “I am not lying, I’m leaving.”

The Horseman’s chuckle haunts you all the way across the platform.

[dcbbw]

Knock, Knock

Dearest Tumblrs,

I know I have been MIA for the longest of times, but I haven’t left y’all yet. My father died 46 days ago. I’m still processing that, still getting used to the presence of his absence. I have spent the majority of 2024 caring for two parents while holding down a full-time job; differentiating between sickness and illness, conditions and diseases, and watching a loved one fall into an invincible decline and eventually succumb to the inevitable.

I have never experienced profound loss before, and it is a hurt unlike any other I have ever experienced. I thought because I was there, I saw it unfolding in real time 24/7 that I would be prepared when the time came.

I was not. I never was.

I’m still grieving, still reeling from the sucker-punch that is death, still tiptoeing around a landmine of emotions, all while being a productive employee and dutiful daughter and caretaker to my remaining parent.

I don’t sleep well (and haven’t for over a year), listening for bumps and cries in the night and waiting to hear my name called because I’m needed. I don’t go out unless it’s to run errands: grocery store, car maintenance, pick up prescriptions. I spend 9 hours at a paid job (forgoing my lunch hour so I can come home and make beds, empty commodes, and fix lunch for my mom; before dad’s decline got too bad, I fed them both).

There’s laundry to wash, dry, fold; bathrooms to clean, floors to mop, rooms to sweep and vacuum, meals to cook. Mail and packages have to be both sent out and brought in. And since dad left, I have to take care of what is left of his business as well as get help with keeping the house standing. The furnace had to be replaced; there was a gas leak and piping had to be repaired and restored. The main sewer line was clogged and had to be cleared. I still need to find a reliable yard person to rake and bag the leaves.

 I’m strong because I have to be, not because I want to be.

During all of this, dealing with reality and life, all I wanted to do was write. To lose myself in worlds I create, to detach myself from transition and death and ever-mounting bills. My head is filled constantly with thoughts, ideas, and dialogue; perhaps now I may be able to find/make time and have more focus to get back to what calms me, what I feel I do well, and makes me happy.

I have so many stories to finish (my masterlist is a huge pile of incompletes) and start, but these are the stories and AUs in the works:

Babylon—Dolos: The Homeland AU dealing with international current events

Babylon—Belly of the Beast: The Homeland AU fictionalizing the 2024 election

 Watercoolers and Coffeepots—the DC AU gang’s take on the 2024 election within the workplace

Sex and the Middle-Aged Divorcee—what’s it like being a 54-year-old woman in the world of online dating

Single—UnRomance is back with a follow-up to this storyline

Tuesday’s Child—an OC-centric story about a family whose patriarch is dying (any similarities between my family (or yours) is purely coincidental

Hospital Lost—a medical drama AU drawn largely on St. Elsewhere, ER, and Grey’s Anatomy which will be a crossover cluster. Imagine Open Heart with focus on emergency room patients and a lot more staff

I feel it’s only fair to warn you that I’ve decided to give up creative writing for writing creatively; if my writing reads/feels differently, this is the reason why.

This is all I have for now, but hopefully I will be back soon. Since I have ZERO idea who’s left, tagging the few I know are still active in the TRR/TRH/TRF sub-fandom. Feel free to let me know if you want on or off the taglist.

Tagging: @angelasscribbles @kristinamae093 @kingliam2019 @indiacater @twinkleallnight @tessa-liam @bebepac

[koki-hai]

i’ve been missing nagito lately so can i request a nsfw nagito x fem reader fic with a pervy nagito and a little noncon🤭 any scenario is fine i’m desperate

You ask and I shall answer!

Now keep in mind I don't do much cc x reader only because I'm kinda bad at it but it's Nagito and I can't pass up that now can I (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Content Warning: non-con

Summary: You go into the beach house to dry your hair when you run into a horny Nagito.

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Pervy Nagito Komaeda x Reader Smut

You were playing with your friends, Chiaki, Mahiru, Ibuki and Peko in the water. You guys were slashing each other and laughing. You felt nice under the kiss of the sun and the light breeze feathering your exposed skin. You trip on the shallow water while horseplaying with Ibuki and both drop to the floor. After a bit of a laughing fit, you groan a bit, feeling your damp hair sit on your shoulders. A blood curdling scream erupted from Ibuki.

"Oh my my! Ibuki is so sorry! Please y/n! Throw me into a volcano and watch me burn!" Ibuki apologizes profusely to you while her hands are together, praying for an apology.

"Hey Ibuki it's okay don't worry! It's okay! It's just a little water" you try to calm her down as you get up, "It's no biggie! Trust me!"

"But y/n wanted to leave your hair dry! I'm truly sorry!" She insisted as she shakes your shoulders. You smile at her irrational self but try to reassure her. You grab her wrists and pull them down and look at her straight in the eyes.

"It's okay I promise! I mean I started it so it was coming! I'll just go dry my hair in the beach house and hang it up! Don't worry! I'll come back for round 2!" You say to Ibuki, comforting her. She gives you a nod and she tugs at your hair, wringing most of the water out to help you some. You smile and walk away from the group of girls and head to the beach house.

You walk inside the beach house and notice Nagito in there.

"Oh hello there y/n.." he says waving at you, "what are you doing in here? Already leaving?" He asks innocently as he was applying white sun lotion on his even paler white skin, applying it unevenly.

Weird.. you didn't see Nagito around before coming. And he somehow knew you guys just got here 10 minutes ago? You brush this aside these thoughts and just try to focus on drying your hair. "Just here to dry my hair.." you answer curtly.

You take out a towel from the towel rack to wring out your hair some more... Only that there wasn't any towels there. You could've sworn there was. None of you brought towels because you just assumed there would be towels here. No biggie. It is an island after all, not a huge deal seeing people dripping and in swim suits.

You look around and think to yourself for a moment. You see Nagito, his back facing you, applying sun lotion on his legs rather sloppily..

"Hey Nagito.. you know where the towels are..? You were here before me, right?" You ask awkwardly, playing with your damp hair.

After a few seconds of silence just watching his stange behavior, he turns a little bit in your direction, and see he had a small grinnon his face on his side profile.

"H-hey.. um.. is that a yes?" You ask "Y-you were here before me right?" You ask again, feeling way more uncomfortable than when you first arrived.

"Of course I was in here before you girls, y/n! I don't knew where the towels are but it would be a shame if there was however! It's a beach.. you're supposed to get wet right? It's no biggie.. it's an island!"

He says casually as he closes his bottle of sun lotion. His words scare you a bit. Almost as if he read your mind the moment you opened the door. "Right.. well I want to keep m-"

"Oh of course! I think there's a small hand towel in the bathroom you can use.. hopefully that'll be enough!" He says happily. Shivers crawl down your spine. Has he been listening to your guys' conversation?

By this point you were getting creeped out so you walk in to the bathroom after thanking him. Not to mention the guy had a very noticeable tent under his swim trunks. Which was probably why he was turned away from you.

As soon as you walk in you notice it was oddly darker than usual. The only hint of light being from the small window at the upper top of the room. Naturally, you try to look for a light switch. You opened the door more, letting the natural light from the main bath house in so you could look for the switch.

Once you get the light open Nagito suddenly appears, looking at you with an innocent smile. "Do you need help y/n?" He asks, "I can help you with your hair!" Nagito declares.

"Oh um.. sure.." you say, too scared to object. He snatches the small hand towel and begins to dry your hair roughly with it. "Don't go.. um too hard.." you say feeling a bit uncomfortable. He nods and rubs the towel a bit gently.

After a while it actually starts to feel nice, but you were still uncomfortable by the entire thing overall. He was being a little forceful admittedly. When you were lost in thought, you felt a hand touch your exposed right side slowly. He rubbed your side, as if you were a pet. You start to feel worse and tried to shift to the left but he grabs your waist tightly, restricted your movement. You can feel his breathe, heavy and steamy. He moves his hand down to your lower stomach. His fingers start to tease right at your bikini line. His fingers swiping up and down at the area.

You felt like such a mess. You got yourself into this. You thought you could trust nagito. Of course not. If only you weren't stubborn to just let your damn hair not get wet. You tried to move again when you feel him get close to your crotch. He drops the hand towel and uses his left hand to grab your shoulder tightly. You nearly jumped out your skin when you feel someone wet and smiley on your tongue. He started to kitten lick it and then started nibbling at it.

That's when you felt it.

His sharp teeth on your neck. You could feel everything. His heavy breath, his tongue, everything. Both his hands grab at your hips, keeping you still and lowering your posture. He begins to dry hump you.

"Ahh~... ahhh.. y-y/n... ahhh.. you feel so fresh~.. so nice~.." Nagito moans in your ear.

You tried to make one more attempt to leave when you felt the repeating motion on your backside. You make a run forward to the door. Nagito growls in anger and he runs over and pushes you down to the floor. You catch yourself on your heads and land on your knees painfully. He gets on top of you, doggy style and dry jumps you repeatedly while holding onto your hips tightly.

"D-dont fucking try to leave.. you'll only make things.. ahh.. w-worse for yourself y/n~.." he whimpers as he humps you at a faster pace, "it makes you all the more desirable.."

You feel his heavy and strong body on you. You were almost surprised by his strength despite his skinny figure. You gave up all your attempts to escape because you didn't want this to escalate any further.

"O-Oh my god! You're so soft! You're so fu-fucking soft~!" He humps you faster and faster like an animal in heat. He was going insane and you couldn't do a thing about it.

"Nagito! Please stop! Please! I've had enough!" You beg, not knowing what to do at this point. You knew your begging wouldn't do anything. You were in denial about it all. But it wasn't like you could leave.

"Yes! Y-yes~! Please beg! Please!" Nagito moans in his sick, raspy voice, "More! You sound so desperate~!"

After a few more grueling minutes of this unwanted treatment, he stops for a minute, staying still, and then twitch his whole body. He pushes your body down flat onto the ground. Your face hits the cold hard floor and feel Nagito's weight on top of you, his body going limp on yours.. He pants in your ear excessively. He was holding onto your waist with the little strength he had left.

"y-y/n.. you were so g-good~"

You feel tears stream your cheeks. You bite your lip harshly until you could've sworn it'd bleed. All you could think of was why? Why you? Why did he have to stalk all of you? Was he planning this? Was he going to do this with any other girl?

As you were lost in thought again, he hear him start to snore softly. His sweaty hair all over the side of your face. You were too afraid to move and just lie down there with him. You were scared he'd try to do something even if he were asleep. You're eyes close slowly as you try to imagine what you could've been doing right now if it weren't for Nagito.

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(Hopefully you guys liked it. I'm trying to work on my writing skills and I accept all constructive criticism! :))

[specialinterestshows]

Based on a request by @babybatlover (whose request is based on a post by @thots-and-thoughts1031 ) for an Alpha!Rhea Ripley x Omega!reader fic where the reader is in heat. I’m also putting in a song by She Wants Revenge for every section and each section title. The fic as a whole is called Eat, Sleep, Breed, because I like to think I’m clever 🖤

Warnings for this section: Omegaverse, dirty talk, breeding kink, pain

Song for this section:

-

Eat, Sleep, Breed (Part 1/?): Your Love

“No touching yourself until Mami comes back”

The message slowly came into focus as you woke up, blinking at your phone. The ache radiating from your core had woken you up and you knew Rhea must have realized you were in heat before leaving - she loved making you wait. Something about reminding you how badly you needed her - it was difficult to recall with your body screaming to be touched.

“Yes, Mami. Want you so badly”

You managed to type out in your pained haze. Though the thought of touching yourself wasn’t far from your mind, you knew the only thing that would truly ease the ache was Rhea buried deep inside you.

“Mami knows”

The reply ended with a little black heart and you whined at the message.

“When do you get back, Mami?”

You sent the question desperately hoping you didn’t have to wait long - thinking was already so difficult.

“Wouldn’t you like to know”

The little black heart at the end mocked you and you let yourself fall back from your sitting position onto the bed, groaning loudly. You knew you might as well let out your sounds of frustration while Rhea was gone - anything that could be interpreted as bratting meant you would have to wait even longer for relief.

Trying to find a relatively comfortable position - or at least as close to comfortable as you could get - you did your best to focus on the soft sheets and plush mattress, hoping you might be able to sleep through the gnawing ache inside you.

Only managing to stay still a few seconds at a time, you kicked and flailed under the sheets in bouts before finally admitting sleep was not an option and rolling out of bed. Maybe a nice, hot bath would help.

Grabbing a towel from a basket of unfolded laundry, you slowly made your way to the bathroom. Bending over the tub to turn on the water made you aware of just how empty you were and your sore muscles squeezed around nothing as you thought of Rhea.

Letting the faucet run as you wait for the water to heat up, you hang your towel nearby and take out some epsom salts - hopefully it would help you with the pain until your Alpha came back home. Pushing in the plug to let the now-warm water fill the tub made you realize nothing was going to distract you from what you craved.

Pulling off the black shirt Rhea had let you borrow, you turned on your front-facing camera and did your best to find a good pose and lighting. Snapping a picture of yourself, naked and sticking your tongue out a bit with the tub in the background, you add the caption “bath time” before sending it to Rhea. Scrolling through your music, you put on a song before pouring in the salts and lowering yourself into the tub as it fills up.

Once you turn off the faucet the lyrics become clearer:

"Your love has got me going like you couldn't imagine"

It repeated a few times before you sank your head halfway down into the water, muffling the music. You kept as much of you underwater as you could before hearing the buzz of your phone. Sitting up, you hastily grab your towel to dry off one hand and check your messages. Anything the bath may have started doing to ease your pain felt as though it had been reversed when you read what Rhea had messaged you back.

"No matter how clean you get, Mami can still smell the sweet scent of her bitch in heat. Don't take too long"

[end part one of ?]

Part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/specialinterestshows/733469226667589632/eat-sleep-breed-part-2-tear-you-apart