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rorylovesangst · 2 months ago

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A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Motion Sickness by Phoebe Bridgers

tws: trauma, child abuse, blue getting tipsy

previous chapter → chapter 6

word count: 6.4k

You’re already late to Friendsgiving.

The stuffing burned. You’d been in the shower, washing away the sweat and things you wish to forget, the scalding water pelting the burn on your chest. It had started to look better—less red, less bitter. It had begun to forgive you—but it still throbbed, a dull ache that flared with every fiery drop and unpredicted movement. The acrid smell of smoke didn’t hit you until it clawed its way under the bathroom door.

Dripping wet and wrapped in a threadbare towel, you bolted to the kitchen, your feet thwacking against the floor. Smoke slithered from the oven’s withered edges, curling upward with a mind of its own, eager to consume everything in its path.

It wasn’t the first time smoke had chased you.

Once, when you were young, your father burned a pizza in the oven. He’d left you alone in the house, small and helpless, while he wandered off somewhere. When the smoke crept through the screen door, you stumbled outside, coughing, your tiny lungs unable to fight the gray fingers curling through the trees and clinging to the sky. You called for him, begged him to save you with fragmented warbles and a quivering chin.

When he found you, grimy and gasping, he didn’t hold you or brush the soot from your cheeks. He smacked you. Open-palmed. Swift. Stinging.

You wanted to cry then, to let the tears fall so maybe he’d feel guilty, maybe he’d see you as something fragile and worth protecting. But you couldn’t. You didn’t. And he didn’t.

He waved at the smoke pouring from the house and made you sleep outside that night, the sky vast and cold above you, its stars nothing but indifferent pinpricks in the dark. You tried praying to a God above, looking up at the stars with whispers you hoped would travel far enough to reach someone, something. No answer.

Now, standing in front of your smoking oven, it’s hard to tell if the smell filling your nose is coming from the burning food or memories that are embedded in your bones, licking at the marrow and sucking off the meat. The darkness of that smoke feels like it never really let go. It's stuck in your hair and the creases of your palms, stuck in your throat and everywhere you’ve tried to belong.

You yank open the oven door, coughing as the heat prickles your face, and pull the tray out with jittery hands. The stuffing is ruined, blackened and crumbled. Its harsh scent stings your eyes.

So, you start over.

By the time the stuffing is in the oven again, you’re in front of your bathroom mirror, your chest heaving from the effort. The burn on your chest screams at you with every breath, though it’s quieter now than it was. It looks less like a wound and more like a reminder, its edges faded but still aching.

Your neck, however, refuses to be quiet, refuses to let you forget it's there. Deep bruises bloom across your skin, sickly hues of green and purple that bleed through makeup no matter how many layers you cake on. Each attempt to cover them is a losing battle that leaves you frustrated. Finally, you give up and scrub your neck clean, throwing the foundation-streaked cloth into the sink.

You dig through your drawer, pulling out an old, itchy turtleneck. It’s a hay-colored sweater, rough and coarse against your skin. The threads scratch at the raw patches on your chest and cling to your neck You pull at the collar, desperate for it to give you some air. It doesn’t help. It never does.

Now, you’re at Olive’s door. Voices hum through the walls, muffled but warm, and her laugh rings out above them. Lively. Ludic. Your stomach churns, nerves buzzing as your fingers twitch in your mittens. A tic builds in your throat—a compulsive hum you can’t quite swallow. Your head jerks slightly to the left, the movement sending a sharp sting through your chest and neck. It almost makes you whine, but you press your lips together and try to push the pain somewhere else.

“Shit,” you whisper, pressing a hand against the sweater’s collar, the coarse fabric adding insult to injury. The tic comes again, this time with a sharp hum that escapes your lips. You glance down at the tray balancing precariously in your other hand and force yourself to breathe.

The burn on your chest throbs. Your head jerks again. You knock twice, sharp and quick, before you can change your mind.

The door swings open almost immediately, the warmth of the room spilling out into the gelid night. It's so warm that you feel like you are glowing, incandescent and hot to the touch. Olive stands there, her hair lit like a halo by the soft light of her home.

“Finally!” she sighs, her voice dreamy. Effortless. She takes one look at you and snatches the tray from your hands before you can even open your mouth. The sweat pooling in your palms is luckily shielded by your mittens, stopping the tray from slipping from your hands.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late—I burned the stuffing, and then I had to—”

“It’s fine.” She cuts you off with an airy laugh, waving away your words. You can see them dissipating in the air with your foggy breath. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

Her hand lands on your shoulder as she guides you inside, the gesture so casual and warm that it catches you off guard. The room is small but alive, people cramp themselves onto the couch, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. Glasses clink, laughter spills over the hum of conversation, and the air smells of rosemary and wine. Price is wrapped in Olives checkered apron, bent halfway in the oven with a baster in hand. He peeks over his shoulder and smiles. It’s cheeky, glinting against the darkness of his bushy mutton chops.

“Hey Blue,” He says, head back in the oven, Sylvia Plath style. That wouldn’t work though, his shoulders are too big to fit into the small thing.

The word "Hi" spills from your lips like syrup—thick, sticky, and sluggish, clinging to the air before it dissipates into the space between you and the world you’ve never quite felt part of. The house around you pulses with an unfamiliar energy, like the hum of a broken lightbulb flickering in the corner of a room that is too full of ghosts. Olive’s decorations are too much, and yet not enough, a glittering cascade of beauty that threatens to swallow you whole. Golden garlands twinkle across the dining room ceiling, casting delicate shadows that dance like ghosts on the walls, frozen sunlight trapped in a world that has already moved on.

You shrug off your coat and drape it over the hook by the door, fingers brushing the fabric as though it were a lifeline. You fold your arms around yourself, a reflex, like gathering the shards of something you didn’t know had cracked. It’s not to shield yourself from Olive or Price—they are familiar, constants in a place that doesn’t belong to you. No, it’s the strangers that linger, their laughter spilling like wine into a glass already full, unfamiliar faces that hang in the air like fog, dense and suffocating, threatening to smother you in their warmth.

Across the room, Johnny catches your eye. His mohawk juts up like a beacon, daring the world to notice. His body sprawls across the leather couch, limbs loose and easy, the fabric creaking under him like an old door about to fall off its hinges. And then, just like that, his gaze locks with yours, sharp and unrelenting, and you feel it—the weight of him—like a stone dropped into the depths of an otherwise still pond. A grin splits his face, jagged and crooked, a flash of something dark and teasing. The leather groans beneath him, and your nerves tighten, an invisible string pulling taut in your chest. You turn away, seeking refuge in the warm familiarity of Olive’s face, her smile a flicker of light in the haze of strangers.

Olive notices, of course, her eyes finding yours as she slices through the conversation like a breath of fresh air. "Okay, Blue," she says, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the knot in your throat. "You’re helping me with the mac and cheese."

You exhale, a sigh that feels like a storm passing. You nod, grateful for the distraction, the simple task of grating cheese a small act of survival, of doing something normal in a room full of things that make you feel like you don’t belong. Your hand aches with the motion, but it’s a welcome pain, the rhythm of it grounding you in a way that nothing else can.

"Doesn’t he look so snazzy in my apron?" Olive teases, and you glance up just in time to see Price flitting around the kitchen, his movements fluid, almost unrecognizable in the apron that clings to him like a strange second skin.

A laugh slips out of you, jagged and raw, a sound that feels foreign in your throat. It cracks as it leaves your lips, a brief, fragile thing that vanishes before it can settle. You hate how it sounds—forced, brittle—but it’s all you can offer.

Price grins, his deep, rumbling laugh shaking the walls, filling the room with its warmth. "It’s making me a better cook than you."

"Oh, you wish," Olive retorts, her voice light, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth that clings to her words like the memory of summer rain. As she leans past him to stir the pot, Price brushes a hand over her shoulder, a touch that is almost absent, but meaningful nonetheless.

Their banter fills the room, a background hum that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t quite reach. And then, Olive’s eyes flicker toward you, a mischievous gleam in them.

"What?" you mumble, the grater scraping against the block of cheese, the sound steady and metered like a clock ticking in the silence.

"Here comes Johnny," she murmurs, her half-smile betraying the amusement that you don’t quite share.

You glance over your shoulder. There he is—Johnny—moving toward you with the lazy confidence of a predator, eyes narrowing as he inches closer. His grin is wide, calculated, a mask he wears like armor to disarm. He’s too close now, his presence heavy, pressing against the air like a stormfront moving in. You feel the heat of his breath as it ghosts along the side of your neck, and your stomach churns, a cold knot tightening as he leans in, his voice a velvet slither.

"Hey, bonnie," he drawls, the words curling around you, soft and dangerous, like smoke that seeps into your lungs and lingers.

You want to shrink away, to vanish into the shadows of the kitchen, but you don’t. You stand there, waiting, caught in the pull of something you can’t name, your heart pounding like the beat of a drum you didn’t choose to hear.

"Hi," you manage, the word barely a whisper, fragile as a breath lost in the turbulent hum of the kitchen. It fades almost immediately, swallowed by the clatter of plates and pots, the heat of the stove, the sizzle of oil in the pan. Your fingers, slick with tension, glide the grater down the block of cheese with an intensity that almost betrays you. The blade kisses the surface too close to your skin, a faint, electric reminder of how easily things can go wrong.

“Get out of the kitchen,” Olive commands sharply, her brow lifted in a maternal arch, the kind of look that says she knows everything—what you’re thinking, what you’re hiding. “I know you’re trying to sneak a bite of something.”

“I’m not sneakin’ anything!” Johnny protests, his voice rising, honeyed and teasing, a mock offense that falls like a soft sigh through the air. The sound crawls along your spine, a warm shiver igniting across your shoulders, goosebumps blooming like stars across the expanse of your skin.

“Don’t give in, ‘Liv,” Price calls from the pantry, his voice low, thick with amusement, muffled by the rustle of cans and spices. “He’s a scavenger. He’s not getting shit.”

Johnny laughs—a light, airy scoff that slips through the room like smoke, dissolving into the space, leaving behind only the echo of something faint, elusive. He steps closer, his presence a gravity you can’t escape, pulling the air tight around you. “I jest wanted to introduce meself,” he says, his voice now lower, darker, like a velvet cloud pressing down on your chest. It lingers, suffocating, until his gaze settles on you—a quiet, insistent weight. His eyes lock with yours, a slow, searing pressure that promises to pin you in place, hold you until you can no longer move, speak, or breathe.

"Name’s Johnny."

You force a smile, one that barely skims the surface of your lips, like a cracked porcelain mask. It’s more a reflex than anything else—automatic, stiff, lacking any trace of warmth. “Blue,” you murmur, stealing a glance at him, just long enough to see the sharp edge of his gaze cut through the air, the flicker of something sharp—dangerous—in the depths of his eyes. Your attention snaps back to the cheese, the task of grating a flimsy excuse to escape the magnetic pull of his stare.

“From the diner. I remember.” His voice, smooth as silk, slides around you, weaving through the quiet spaces like a thread binding your senses to him. The weight of his gaze on you is almost tactile, like a slow burn against your skin. It presses through the veil of your peripheral vision, making your pulse stutter, each throb loud in your ears as it rushes to your throat.

“Olive!” Price calls from the pantry again, his voice an abrupt slice through the thick tension, breaking the spell. “Y’got any idea where the oregano is?”

Olive mutters something unintelligible under her breath, stomping toward the pantry, leaving you alone with Johnny. The silence left in her wake is heavy, like a storm about to break. The distance between you both shrinks, as if the air itself tightens, presses in.

“How’s the burn, lass?” His question is a sudden gust of wind, sharp and biting, cutting through the heat and making the hairs on your neck stand at attention. It stirs something deep inside you, makes your chest tighten and your breath catch, though you can’t quite place why. You grip the grater harder, your palm slick with sweat that betrays you, a signal of just how much he rattles you.

“Uh—it’s better. Fine, really,” you answer, your voice smaller than you want it to be, swallowed by the weight of his unwavering gaze. You wish you could control the way your heart starts to race, the way the air feels thicker, harder to breathe the longer he stands there. His gaze doesn’t waver, though it remains casual, deceptively so, like a predator pretending indifference while waiting for the slightest movement, the smallest crack in your composure.

“Good.” He draws the word out, savoring it, letting it linger between you like the softest of threats. And even though his tone remains deceptively easy, you know—without a doubt—that his eyes are waiting for you to falter. To show him something you’ve kept hidden, something you can’t afford to let slip.

Before he can speak again, the door creaks open, the sound slicing through the stillness like a knife cutting through velvet. You don’t raise your eyes, but the chill that rushes in steals the warmth from the room, biting at your skin like an unwelcome guest. It lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the world beyond this little sanctuary of soft conversation and heat.

“I brought gifts,” Simon’s voice rolls in, smooth but carrying weight, the kind that demands attention like thunder rolling in the distance before the storm. You flinch—not outwardly, not enough for anyone to catch—but your hand stills mid-motion, hovering above the cheese as if his very presence has sent ripples through the calm.

When you finally glance up, he’s placing a bottle of red wine and a foil-wrapped dish onto the counter. The deep red of the wine catches the light, as if it holds the evening’s secrets within it. He’s dressed in dark jeans, sharp and unscathed, with a navy wool sweater that clings just enough to outline the muscle beneath, the shoulders broad like the horizon at dusk. Tattoos snake down his arms, curling like dark tendrils around his wrists, hidden art that only seems to emerge when he’s close, as though parts of him were always kept at bay.

His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, the room feels too small to contain the weight of it. He smiles, his lips pulling back to reveal white teeth, the slight chapping of them speaking of cold nights and long drives. “You’re late,” Olive’s voice rings out with playful reproach, as she reaches for the tray with hands that know the rhythm of shared meals.

“I know, I know. Had to stop for wine. Long line,” Simon answers, the shrug of his shoulders dismissing the lateness like it’s nothing at all. His jacket slips off, revealing the familiar scabbed knuckles, each wound telling a story deeper than words. They’re raw, angry against the soft fabric of his shirt, as though they belong to someone who’s lived in the spaces between calm and chaos.

“Well, it’s a good brand, so I’ll forgive you,” Price chimes in, his voice warm and familiar as he uncorks the bottle, the sound sharp and final, like a sentence passed in a court of good taste.

“Nice apron, boss,” Simon says, his tone light but weighted with something more, something sharp that cuts through the air between you like a thread pulled taut.

“Pleasure of my wife,” Price quips, his hand steady as he pours the wine with a flourish, each gesture so practiced it feels like a performance. Every motion has purpose, as if he’s acting out a play where every guest is a character, and each gesture holds meaning.

Johnny grabs a fistful of cheese, stuffing it into his mouth before anyone can stop him, his grin wide and unrepentant.

“Hey! No dirty fingers in the food!” Olive snaps, swatting at him with a swift, playful flick. He laughs, stepping back in exaggerated shock, as if the moment were made for an audience only he can see.

The air shifts again, thickening with Simon’s presence as he leans in, his voice low and measured, a hum that vibrates against the very walls of the room. “Hi, Blue,” he murmurs, his head tilting just enough to catch your gaze, like a wolf who knows the hunt is close but won’t rush it.

“Hi,” you whisper, your grip tightening on the bowl as though it could hold the moment still, anchoring you to the room, to the space between you.

Olive reappears, her wine glass gleaming like a polished ruby in the dim light, the liquid inside swirling like blood in a vein. She steps into the room with the effortless grace of someone who’s long mastered the art of disappearing into the spaces they occupy. Her eyes flick between you and Simon, measuring the air between you two with the clinical precision of a seasoned chemist, knowing exactly when to introduce a new element, when to let it simmer.

Price greets her with a kiss to the crown of her head, a gesture that lands soft as rain on a tired roof. His hand gives her rear a playful tap, a reminder of old routines, of moments that don’t need words to linger. She rolls her eyes, the motion habitual, but even in that, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or just the quiet contentment of a life too familiar to be anything else. She swallows down the wine, her throat moving with the smooth, deliberate motion of a cat licking its wounds in the sun.

“Thanks, sweetpea,” Olive purrs, tugging at the apron strings knotted at Price’s hips. There’s something intimate in the way her fingers dance around the fabric, a tether binding them together in this small, circumscribed world. As if their world, this little kitchen where time seems to pause, is the only one that matters.

Simon’s gaze sharpens when he asks, “Olive’s got you cooking?” His voice, calm and composed, lingers in the air, like a stone sinking slowly into still water. There’s weight in his presence, a subtle pressure that presses on the ribs, a quiet pull like the tide, always there, always moving beneath the surface.

“I want to,” you reply, shrugging as the words slip from your mouth, slippery and unformed, before you can weigh their cost. They feel like something you might have said years ago, when you still believed in the power of wanting. The truth, like a cold shadow, stirs quietly in the background.

Simon’s brow arches, and the pause between you thickens. His gaze lingers, a soft dissection, like the way sunlight pulls at the edges of things, revealing the cracks you’d rather keep hidden. You feel as if he's peeling back layers, layer by layer, until there's nothing left but the parts of you you'd prefer to forget.

When you finally meet his eyes, there’s a flicker of amusement—a quiet, knowing glint—as though he’s caught the lie you didn’t even know you were telling. A shadow of something darker flits across his expression, like a stormcloud crossing the moon. His eyes gleam with something unreadable, but you know—he sees right through it.

“Well, I’m surprised you’re not working,” he comments, his voice curling around the words with a softness that betrays a hidden edge, something faint but sharp, like the quiet hum of a cello in a room too silent to bear the sound.

“Olive made me take off,” you admit, eyes dropping to the counter, where your fingers twirl around the cold, unforgiving edges of the cheese grater. It’s a small gesture, but in it, the tension in your hands speaks louder than any words could.

“Probably for your own good,” Simon teases, the sip of wine punctuating his words like the final note of a suspended chord. The sound of it lingers in the air, thick and heavy, as though the room is holding its breath, waiting.

“I don’t mind.” Another lie. The words feel sharp against your throat, like broken glass. You push them out anyway, not letting them falter, though the weight of them feels like lead in your stomach. The thought of returning to your father’s house—his voice like a whip and his hands like steel—tightens your chest.

Simon’s eyes remain on you, his gaze quiet and unwavering. He doesn’t press, just holds the silence with you, giving you room to breathe in a space that feels smaller by the second. His lack of words is a concession, a gift of sorts, the kind of offer you can’t return.

Olive interrupts the moment, her voice light as a summer breeze. She holds up two glasses of wine, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, and doesn’t wait for your response. The glass she presses into your hand is cold, smooth against your palm, and the liquid inside feels like something forbidden as it slips past your lips—rich, tart, like a balm to the wound you’re too tired to care for.

“Good, right?” Olive teases, her voice like a bell, sharp and light, as she tilts her glass toward yours in an exaggerated mock-toast.

You hum in agreement, focusing on the way the wine dances down your throat, its warmth settling in your chest like a fire too low to burn. It's smooth, numbing, the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask too many questions, just offers its presence—an unspoken agreement between you and the night.

And for a moment, the room feels just a little bit smaller, the edges a little more forgiving.

“Surprised Price didn’t pick this out,” Simon jokes, his eyes flicking toward the other man, who’s engrossed in the turkey carving ritual, every movement deliberate and reverent, like a priest at the altar, cleaving into the flesh of the bird with devotion.

“Price would pick boxed wine if I let him,” Olive quips back, a playful fire in her glare aimed at her husband, but softened by the warmth of affection.

The kitchen hums around you, the voices and laughter flowing like honey, sweet but thick, and somehow sticky. Yet, you feel distant from it all, your focus slipping through the cracks of the moment like sand slipping from your clenched fist. Johnny’s laugh, loud and brash, rips through the air, filling the space like a storm cloud bursting with rain. Simon’s presence beside you is a weight—heavy, suffocating—as if gravity itself has chosen to rest on your bones, a force that tugs at your very center. You wish you could sink into the floorboards, disappear into the seams of the house like a whisper that no one remembers.

Ten minutes pass, though time feels as though it’s dragging its feet, unwilling to hurry. The turkey emerges from the oven, golden skin shimmering like a prize, gleaming in the artificial light. It’s a spectacle, untouched by the hands of real life, a thing that could only exist in the pages of a catalog—perfect, polished, out of reach. It sits there, a symbol of a life you could never own, no matter how many hours you spent chasing the illusion of it.

Olive tugs you into your seat, pulling you closer with a gentleness that feels foreign. Johnny takes the place beside you, as though slotted in place, a man-sized puzzle piece. Across the table, Simon settles into his chair, leaning back, drink in hand, his fingers tracing patterns along the glass’s rim as if the table itself were an ancient artifact—something he’s studying, examining, perhaps deciding whether it’s worth his attention.

The conversation swirls around you like wind through a field of tall grass, all clinking glasses and overlapping voices. The golden garland above seems to glow with a light that is too perfect, like halos that should belong to angels but somehow rest on mortal heads. It makes the room feel unreal, as though the whole thing could dissolve like mist if you looked away too long. You chew your food with the precision of someone on autopilot—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes—filling the empty spaces with tasteless bites. You nod along, but the words are like echoes, bouncing off your skull and fading before they can register.

Johnny’s voice cuts through, jagged and loud, like a knife scraping the edge of a stone. “So, Blue,” he says, the name falling from his lips with the sharpness of a saw’s edge. “How d’you know Olive?”

You don’t want to look up. You don’t want to see the expectant faces around you. So, you keep your gaze fixed on your plate, hoping the food might swallow you whole or at least offer some kind of refuge from the scrutiny, the weight of their attention pressing in from all sides, suffocating.

“Coworkers, huh?” Johnny’s grin splits like a crack in ice, his voice a low hum as he leans in closer, the scent of beer pushing you back in your seat like a tide. “Never heard her mention you.”

“I keep to myself,” you reply, your voice calm, though you can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your skin.

“Clearly,” he teases, fingers brushing against yours, a casual touch that feels far too intimate as he reaches for his glass.

Across the table, Simon clears his throat. It’s subtle, a soft rumble like distant thunder, just enough to make Johnny pause. Simon’s eyes are locked on him, unreadable, but there's a charge in his gaze, a quiet warning, sharp as a blade beneath calm water.

Johnny shrugs, muttering something under his breath, his grin slipping as he turns back to his plate.

You glance at Simon, and find him already watching you. His eyes are darker than you remember, the shadows beneath them deepening, the hollows of his face making his stare heavier, like gravity itself is pulling you in. The inflamed scabs on his knuckles catch your eye again, and the urge to ask about them rises, but you swallow it down, unsure if you want to know the answer.

After dinner, the house spins into a blur of motion. People scatter—some to the living room, others toward the kitchen for more wine—but you slip away unnoticed, the weight in your chest too much to carry. The bathroom is cool and quiet, a refuge where the soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound as you lock the door behind you, isolating yourself from the rest of the world.

You catch your reflection in the mirror, but quickly look away. Your sweater is hiked up, revealing the tight bandages weaving around your ribs, crisscrossing away from your one-size-too-big bra, and continuing its journey around your sternum. The burn throbs in defiance, swollen and achy, the pain sharper now than it was this morning.

You rummage through Olive’s medicine cabinet, fingers grazing over the cool bottles until one catches your eye—a prescription bottle. Antidepressants. You blink at the label, too dazed to focus on the name beneath it. Setting it aside, your fingers fumble as you search for something more…immediate. You find a bottle of Advil, pop a few pills, and swallow them with a handful of water from the tap, some dribbling down your chin. You wipe it away with your sleeve, the fabric damp but scratchy against your skin, a quiet reminder of the tension coiling around you.

A knock at the door startles you.

“Blue—” Simon’s voice filters through, low and calm, threading into the space. “It’s Riley. You alrigh’? Y’been in there a while. Jus’ worried.”

You’re moving before thought has time to settle, unlocking the door and swinging it open. His eyes widen in surprise, disbelief flashing across his face as you grasp the soft fabric of his sweater, tugging him inside. The wool is buttery under your fingers, a sensation both foreign and familiar, and for a brief, stolen moment, you pause—suspended in the unexpected warmth of him.

Simon doesn’t resist. He lets you pull him in, his presence filling the small space, the air thickening as you shut the door behind him. The bathroom seems impossibly smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders brushing the tiled walls like a storm cloud settling into the room. You gesture for him to sit on the toilet, and he does, his long legs folding awkwardly, pressed against yours in the tight space.

“My burn hurts,” you mumble, slumping back against the cool tiles, your voice heavy with exhaustion, each word thick as though the weight of everything pressing on you has turned your tongue to lead.

“It’s gonna do that,” Simon replies, his tone steady, firm, but not unkind—like a reminder of what you’ve neglected. “You neglected it.”

“No, like—like it really hurts,” you insist, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your sweater, as if searching for something to anchor you in a world that refuses to stand still. The words slip from your mouth, stuttering, as if they’re afraid to be spoken. “Just—just look.”

“Blue—” His voice softens, threading through the air like a fragile thread, one that could snap at the slightest tug. There’s something unspoken between you, an understanding so thin it could be made of mist, too delicate to be held in the light of day.

“Look!” The command escapes your lips with a desperation that feels almost primal, the kind of desperation that births from the deepest wells of need. You tug at the fabric of your sweater, intent on exposing the wound beneath, but Simon’s hand is there in an instant, a sudden force, wrapping around your wrist with the quiet strength of someone who’s borne witness to things that bleed in silence.

“What are you doin’?” His voice is soft now, but there’s an edge—a warning, like a hand hovering over the broken glass of a dream. His grip is firm, but there’s a tenderness to it, as if he knows the fragility of what you’re offering him.

“I’m showing you,” you say, the words tumbling out, raw and unpolished, as if they could never be anything but the exposed parts of you—the parts that were never meant to be shown. Your voice quivers, breaking open at the edges, offering him something you weren’t even sure was real.

“I don’t need to see it,” he says, his voice low, a quiet conviction wrapped around every syllable. “I believe you.”

His eyes, dark and unreadable, seem to understand more than you ever could say. You stand there, caught between the sharp breath that claws at your lungs and the steady rhythm of his hand, still holding your wrist, his thumb tracing circles along your skin. It’s a touch that holds you together, but threatens to tear you apart.

You don’t want to pull away. You can’t. The connection is a thin thread, fragile and necessary, like the last stitch holding a broken heart in place.

“You’re drunk,” he murmurs, and you feel his gaze soften, though it carries the weight of something deeper, something harder. There’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes, something you can’t place, but it settles in the air between you like dust on a forgotten shelf.

“No, I’m not,” you slur, but the words feel like ghosts slipping through your fingers, no more substantial than the fog that clings to your mind. You can’t even make your body obey you. You press your forehead to the cold tile wall, and sigh. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He exhales, the sound heavy in the room, a sigh that’s both worn and weary. There’s a quiet compassion in it, as if he understands the quiet wars you’re fighting, even if they’re wars you can’t speak aloud. “C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”

Before you can protest, he’s guiding you out of the bathroom, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. The touch is fleeting but steady, grounding you as the hallway spins, the walls bending and swaying in your peripheral vision. His hand at your back is light, but it grounds you—just enough to stop you from crumbling completely, though it feels like everything inside you might just shatter if you let it.

In the guest bedroom, Simon helps you sit on the edge of the bed, his touch gentle as he kneels, movements precise and measured, like someone accustomed to tending to broken things. His fingers work deftly to untie your shoes, each motion a small act of tenderness, as though he’s learned the quiet language of care for the tired and lost.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, but he silences you with a soft murmur, the sound barely more than a breath.

“Hush,” he says, his voice a low, insistent hum. A command wrapped in compassion. “Jus’ lay back.”

The room tilts, the world around you spinning slowly as the alcohol buzzes in your veins, a lullaby played by the distant hum of the night. Your head sinks into the pillow’s softness, as if gravity itself is pulling you down, coaxing you to surrender to the darkness. The blanket clings to your body like a last defense against the cold, a fragile shield against the gnawing chill of an empty room. But Simon tucks it higher, drawing it gently beneath your chin, his movements deliberate, as if wrapping you in something more than fabric—something almost sacred, something that feels like care.

His hand pauses, fingertips brushing the stray strand of hair from your forehead, the gesture small, almost imperceptible, but it lingers in the air between you, a silent vow. He looks at you, studying the fragile curve of your face, as though trying to capture it, memorize the way you’ve finally found stillness. You, who are never still, who wear your restlessness like a second skin.

Your breathing evens out, the soft rise and fall of your chest now a steady rhythm in the quiet room. It is the only sound, and it’s enough. Simon watches you, his gaze heavy with a quiet sadness, as if you’ve unraveled something in him that he can’t quite name. His silence speaks volumes, his stillness matching your own.

With a soft clink, he unbuckles his boots, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty room. The weight of his presence settles beside you, as though his body is a tether, pulling the world a little closer, a little heavier. The mattress creaks under his weight, a sound almost apologetic, as though it’s trying to make room for the tension in the air. His movements are slow, deliberate—every inch of him cautious, as if each breath he takes might shatter the fragile peace that exists in the space between you.

The moonlight spills through the window, soft and silvery, like the touch of a lover long gone. It paints your face in shadows, tracing the lines of your quiet surrender. Your lashes flutter, a delicate ripple beneath the stillness of sleep, as if the world outside doesn’t know you anymore. And for a moment, neither does Simon. You are nothing but a shape in the dim glow of the night, a broken melody that has yet to find rest.

He leans back against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on the ceiling as if it might hold some kind of answer. The silence stretches between you, thick and impenetrable, each of you trapped in your own quiet despair. But Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare to break the fragile bond you’ve silently shared. The night grows longer, each passing minute a weight, a quiet void that neither of you can escape.

But sleep doesn’t come to him. It hovers just out of reach, a specter he can’t outrun, just like the darkness that lingers in the corners of the room. His gaze stays fixed, his body unmoving, as if he’s waiting for something to change—or perhaps just for the night to finally end.

some fluff if you squint since I made u wait so long for this

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yandere-sins · 6 months ago

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this is v dark, oops! but i was thinking about an apologetic sadist. like they rlly fucking love you, but they can’t help themselves! they’re obsessed with the sight of you battered, bruised, bleeding. needing 2 have you despite your protests, begging you 2 be quiet for them, to stop struggling, apologising 4 having 2 gag you because they love the sounds you make, but they just need 2 let off a bit of steam, by fucking you, cutting you, whatever. is this too specific? if you can’t make a fic out of it, i’d at least love 2 hear your thoughts on it ^^ take care! — sending my love 2 your kind soul, mwah!

Oooh, that's fun! Thanks for requesting!

Warning: Yandere, Violence, Sexual Content

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

♡ Imagine being kidnapped and waking up to an absolute psycho standing above you. They are almost ripping off their own skin as they watch you stir on the chair, infatuation driving them mad. "You're so beautiful," they groan as they reach out. You flinch as they plant their palm on your cheek and caress you, and you are appalled at their touch, but when you open your mouth to argue, they pinch your cheek hard. Not like your grandparents would, but to the point it feels like they are trying to rip out a part of your face.

♡ At this point, you don't know that it's just the beginning. That they are testing out how your skin feels underneath their fingertips. How it stretches and bends. How hard they have to squeeze to make you bruise. Your first bruise is special. It's so beautiful they start crying, sinking to the ground and weeping into your legs, their grip crass as they squeeze your thighs, dig their nails until you jerk and whine, unable to stop feeling you and making you squirm even as they beg for forgiveness, explain they couldn't help themselves from hurting you.

♡ You still think you can reason with the yan, tell them you'll forgive them but they need to let you go. Something is clearly wrong in their head, and you begin to panic when they tug away your shirt, exposing your belly. They lap at the softer skin, bring it between their teeth, and bite down as if you were a dish served to them rather than a living being. You scream and kick, but still, they only release you when they want. "Sorry, did that hurt?" they ask, and you think they are mocking you, but there is genuine concern in their expression as they reach up to wipe away your tears, blood staining their lips red.

♡ You fight for a long time and endure so many "love" bites and scratches. As long as your kidnapper feels you up like a bendable piece of meat, and you make it clear you don't like it. They get angry when you ask them to let you go than when you scream and curse at the pain they are inflicting, but when they take out the knife for the first time, you become eerily quiet. "Talk to me," they demand, prying your mouth open by forcing their thumb inside. Your voice cracks as you plead with them not to kill you, and they chuckle, responding that it "depends on you."

♡ The blade is sharp, yet they drag it over your skin like a paintbrush. It burns, and you sob harder after every cut as they keep painting obscure patterns into your skin. All the while, the yan is smiling from ear to ear like a child on their birthday, and when you finally cried yourself to exhaustion, they reach up, praising you for being so good for them. You think they are finally done as they throw the knife aside, but before you know it, their mouth crashes into yours, their lips and tongue completely overtaking every autonomy you have. When you try to turn your head away, they bite down on your tongue, dragging it out from your lips and catching it between their fingers, playing with it while you whimper. You want them to stop, so when they kiss you again you let them, reciprocrating their kiss in the hopes it will finally satisfy them.

♡ Satisfy it did, and you are finally released. You are so exhausted and bloody, the fear and shock slowly make you pass out. But with the ropes gone that bound you to the chair, there is also hope as the psycho picks you up and carries you to a dirty bed. Hope that you can fight them and escape. Hope that you will live. Your palm hits them square in the face before you can think of a plan, and your captor grows stiff as a board before their eyes pin you down, angry, mad. And then they grin as if you had just challenged them to a friendly duel. You endure a dozen slaps, feeling the swelling around your face as you apologize, pleading for them to stop.

♡ Suddenly, they do, and you both stare at each other. Their expression contorts as they start crying, their tears dripping onto you, and you're not sure if what you're seeing is real. "I'm so sorry, baby! You made me do this! It must have hurt so bad, I'm so sorry!" It's hard to keep eye contact, but you do your best as they weep bitterly, their body crashing down onto your chest as they plead for forgiveness, hugging you tightly. You feel no such thing. How could you forgive the torture they are putting you through? "Is that what you want? A punching bag?"

♡ "Oh, no. No, no, no, baby," they reply. "I only want you. I love you. You are so beautiful." They kiss you again, and you don't get to argue with them before you finally pass out.

♡ You awake to a hot, wet feeling between your legs, the discomfort of the pain all over your body, and a pleasurable tingle giving you very different signals. Even if you don't remember them tying you to the bed, you find it hard to move, forcing your neck upwards far enough to look down your body, seeing the bloody hands gripping you as your captor cheekily grins from between your legs.

♡ Reality hits hard with the first orgasm. You shamefully cry out in pleasure, moan as they push you over the edge, and enjoy your writhing and fluids to the fullest. "Stop!" you scream as they keep tormenting you with more and more pleasure, their lust and hunger seemingly endless. You feel them grin against your privates, and you are so angry that it is all a game to them. "Your body begs to differ," they mumble smugly, and your anger grows. "I said stop!" you yell, trying to kick them when they keep ignoring you.

♡ Unfortunately, you do little harm to them, but their brows furrow in annoyance as they finally let off you. They click their tongue and wipe their chin before getting off, roughly throwing your leg out of the way so they can pass without getting kicked again. Your body is forced to move in ways you've been too restricted for, and it hurts, but you clench your teeth and endure it. But your eyes go wide as your captor returns with a ball on a leather band, and you know exactly what they want to do.

♡ "Stop resisting! I've got enough of your complaining! I'm being so good to you!" they argue as they try to put the gag in your mouth. You try so hard to avoid it, but when they grab your nose and slam the gag between your lips the moment you gasp for air, you're done for. You can only cry as they tie it tightly around your skull before heaving a big sigh, a gentle smile returning to the yandere's lips as they wipe the tears away, telling you that it's "only for the best" and that they "need a break from your brattiness."

♡ You're turned over, barely able to breathe as the yandere forces your head into the pillow. You startle and shriek as you feel their fingers reaching down to your hole, inevitably preparing you for what they arranged. You cry some more as you feel them getting ready themselves. Still, both of you moan pathetically as they push past your entrance, sliding in so easily after all the foreplay they did. "That's it," they coo, "you feel so good, darling. You're so pretty when you shut the fuck up. I know you're scared, but you're doing so well."

♡ "You don't know how much I wanted this. I've been craving this moment for so long." With a handful of your hair in their grip, you're forced to arch your back, making them groan as you tighten around them. "That's it, look at you taking it like a champ. As if you were made for me."

♡ Tears keep spilling even when the yan licks them off your face. They bury their mouth at the soft spot between your neck and shoulder, biting down to the point your voice is nothing more than a gurgle as they plow into you, stretching you beyond recovery. They are rough and uncaring, but whenever they speak, they tell you about how great you are and how well you're doing. As if they knew you for a long time. "Finally!" they rejoice as the relentless hammering of their hips becomes erratic. "You don't know how much I needed this. Needed you. I've been thinking about it so long, ah... Fuck, I'm going to come so hard, darling! I'll make you so happy!"

♡ You should have been happy it was over as the yan collapses, spent and giddy. Kissing your face and playing with your abused hole as you feel your soul break. They peel off the gag, lapping up the drool dripping from your lips as they kiss you gently, their hands cupping your cheeks so lovingly. "I know it hurts," they whisper as they rub your back, burying your face in their body. "But you did so well! You behaved so good, my love!"

♡ When you don't react, their voice becomes more desperate, their hand clawing into your back. You hiss in pain as they yank your head back, forcing you to face them. "Are you ignoring me on purpose? Did I hurt you so much? Didn't you feel good? Was I too rough? Are you mad at me?" The rapid fire of questions doesn't cease, giving you no way to respond. Their panic gets worse and worse as they switch between accusing you of hating them and sobbing about how sorry they are that they let it come to this, that all they ever wanted was to love you.

♡ Once again, you are surprised by your own actions as you shut them up with a kiss. Immediately, they melt into you, their hands softening on top of your bruised and cut body, the yan moaning into the kiss as they hump their hips against you. You figure there is no satisfying them, but their voice started tearing at your nerves. "I love you," the moan into the kiss. "I love you, I love you so much! You're so pretty, I love you! I'm so sorry for hurting you, but I love you! You're all mine! Mine! Forever! I'll take so good care of you! So love me too, okay?"

#yandere #yandere talk #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #Yandere TW

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vivwritesfics · 10 months ago

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Bleeding From The Storm

Chapter One - Death

After the death of his son, the head of the Dupont family wants his daughter protected. He moved her to Monaco, the safe zone, and has her protected by Charles Leclerc. Max Verstappen was never supposed to meet her. He didn't even know who she was. But he knew she was beautiful, and he knew he wanted to know more, much to the horror of Charles Leclerc.

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10 Years Ago:

When you're a part of a crime family, death is all one usually thinks about. Every time they're sent out on a job, the members of these crime families think about the ways in which the job could kill them. Even when they're not working, they're thinking about all the ways they might die and what their family would be left with.

They expect to be kidnapped and killed, beaten to death, shot and stabbed by a member of a rival family.

Never murdered on neutral grounds.

He was in the safe zone. You're not supposed to die in the safe zone. He wasn't even doing any work, living on his father's yacht in a spell of twenty-four year old rebellion.

His sister had been in contact with him will be at been on the yacht in Monaco. When she one day stopped getting messages back from him, she knew that something was wrong.

His dead body was only discovered because of her. Because she ran to Charles, who wasn't that much older than her, and begged him to help her search through the yacht.

Charles had been the one to find the body. He'd held her back, stopping her from running in and seeing the bloodied mess on the bed. He was barely recognisable, the only indicator of who he was being the Dupont family ring on his finger.

They couldn't call the police, not or something like this. Charles had her return home to France while he and his brother recovered the body. That was the harsh reality of their lives.

The funeral was held at the Dupont family manor. The heads of family gathered around as the casket was lowered.

It was a rare moment of peace between then. The silence as his casket was covered with dirt. From the edge of the property, she was there, crying and screaming until her lungs ached.

They weren't meant to be there. The funeral was for the heads of families and a few right hand men. But Charles and Lorenzo, his older brother, stood with her as she sobbed. If the heads of families head, they didn't give any indication.

When the heads of families went into the house to conduct their meeting, the three of them crept closer. Her cried had quietened as they pressed themselves against the bricks, ducking beneath the window of the meeting room.

"This is no coincidence!" Bellowed Dupont as he looked at the rest of the heads. His right hand man, Leclerc, stood beside him, noting all of the reactions around the room.

"How dare you throw these accusations at us!" Webber shouted back. "How dare you insinuate that one of us violated the rules of the safe zone to murder your son!"

"The suggestion that my son was murdered by somebody who doesn't want to send a message to me and my family is preposterous!"

And suddenly they were all shouting over each other, making it impossible for the three below the windows to listen in. Lorenzo pressed his fingers to his lips as he stoop up slightly and peered into the window.

The calmest one was Hamilton. He was the youngest, didn't yet have any people behind him. But he was growing, and at a rapid rate. He stood and placed his hand flat on the table, silencing everybody around the room. "Dupont, what happened to your son is a tragedy, one that will not soon be forgotten. It was a crime committed by a sick individual. But it wasn't a member of any family. The way they killed him, that isn't how we do things. Our men are taught to kill quietly, efficiently. To leave no mess."

There was nothing but mess in the way that he was killed.

He was right. Every head of family knew he was right. Even if it was a tough pill for Dupont to swallow.

"But," Hamilton continued, "I am open for my operations to be investigated. As is everyone in this room." He looked from side to side. "Unless there is something anybody wants to share."

Silence fell across the room.

Suddenly, Dupont's right hand man stepped forward. "The proposal from here is to review the laws we have around the safe zone. It has always been free of weapons, but we will tighten security, have multiple check points set up."

Dupont looked towards Leclerc and then addressed the rest of the room. "Leclerc grew up in Monaco. It is where he is raising his family. To me, it makes the most sense that he heads up this operation."

The rest of the heads of family agreed. The conversation continued calmly, with the rest of the meeting headed up by Hamilton. From his place between Rosberg and Webber, Verstappen stayed quiet. But that wasn't unusual for a man this cold and calculating.

Just two days after the funeral, Dupont moved his wife and daughter to Monaco. The Dupont Manor was emptied, used only for business. Nobody knew that Dupont had moved his family, nobody but the Leclercs.

As soon as he turned eighteen, Charles Leclerc was welcomed into the Dupont family. He was insanely proud to be working alongside his father and brother, even if his job was a little different.

Where Hervé was Dupont's right hand man, effectively running the family with him, and Lorenzo did 'enforcement' for the family, Charles had a different job. Charles was assigned to guard her. She was fifteen, turning sixteen, and full of teenaged... feelings. She wasn't rebellious, not after what happened to her brother.

But she wanted to go out, wanted to make friends and have fun. Charles could let her do that. He couldn't let her put herself in danger like that.

When Charles was nineteen, about to turn twenty, he lost his father. He had been at her place, listening to her ramble about getting a job. Because, maybe if she she had a dog, Charles would let her go and have fun.

She told Charles what dog she wanted. A sweet doberman or a scary rottweiler with a silly name. One she could walk with a spiked collar and a black leather leash.

"That way, you don't have to keep being my guard dog," she had said as she sat on the sofa, her feet on his lap.

Charles had rolled his eyes at her. "You say that like I don't like guarding you, Lapinette."

He'd gotten the call after that, interrupting their conversation. The phone had fallen out of Charles's hands, but he didn’t react much beyond that.

He'd been prepared for this, just like every child who grew up in a family (well, everyone but her, but Bunny). But it was still a shock, still stung.

"Cha," she said as she sat up. "What's the matter?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Nothing, Bunny." His eyes stung but he held back the tears. "Uh, I'm gonna send Arthur to come here. Lock the door after me and don't let anybody in until he knocks."

Fear suddenly filled her. But Charles brushed her hair behind her ears and kissed her forehead. "I promise, everything is fine."

She always did what Charles said. They had pretty much become roommates, him living in her apartment, the one her dad bought for her the moment she turned eighteen.

But being eighteen brought out her first moment of rebellion.

The first time she snuck out, Charles caught her. The second time she snuck out, Charles caught her.

But, with each time that he caught her, she got better. She got better and better. She got so good that Charles had to chase her down the street when he found the apartment empty.

She got good enough to not get caught. She learnt Charles's patterns well enough to sneak out like an expect. Well, if you could be an expert at something like that.

At twenty-four, she decided that her favourite place to go when she snuck out. The café that served all the different teas and the fruity smoothies. They had the seats outside with the plush seat cushions and wide umbrellas that protected her from the sun.

That was where Max first saw her. It was rare that he got to use the Verstappen apartment inside of the safe zone. But, the last job his father had sent him on had turned into a bloodbath.

His week long visit was to try and cool him off. Verstappen wasn't one to care about death, but if Max continued the way he was going, it was going to destroy Verstappens operation.

He thought he had seen an angel.

There she sat, wearing that white sundress with the little blue flowers. She sipped her fruity drink as she looked across the street. Not at him, not where he sat in his car. No, she looked to the right of him, at the view of the tree in front of the harbour. He could see her as her pencil moved against her notebook, no doubt drawing the scene.

Max watched her until the person driving behind him beeped their horn. He quickly drove away, but he wouldn't be forgetting the angel any time soon.

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cybsoo2 · 11 months ago

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a bleeding bruise

╰┈➤ synopsis — Two failures have unfolded tonight. A failed escape attempt on your part, and a punishment that leaves more lasting damage then the boys had expected.

╰┈➤ pairing — yandere!vminkook x reader

╰┈➤ word count — 4.2k

╰┈➤ content warning — yandere behavior, violence, assault, verbal abuse, injury, strong language, angst, jk’s a bit of a jerk :(

ੈ♡��˚｡ over to ⇢ pt.2

“NO! NO! PLEASE STOP! I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY!” Shrill screams suffocate the silence. Your useless pleas are ignored as three men carry you back to where you belong. “I WON’T DO IT AGAIN, PLE-”

“BE QUIET!” Jungkook muffles your crying with the palm of his hand. He masks his words with anger to hide his anguish. Your tears create a hole in his heart.

Three sets of hands grasp you tightly. Their rough grip leaves raw imprints onto your wrists and waist. You try to squirm under their hold, and it works for a second when you free your legs to try and kick at them. In the end the struggling creates more problems when Taehyung tears you apart from the others and throws you over his shoulder.

You pound your fists against his back and continue begging to be let go. Pathetic pleas of ‘Please let me go,’ ‘I’ll be good now,’ or ‘I’m sorry, I love you,’ fall down to the forest floor. Your punches grow more panicked and as you fight through your fury, Jimin grabs your wrists to stop you.

“Stop hurting him.” He pleads with you in a gentle tone. He’s two seconds away from bursting into tears, but he chokes his cries back by begging. “I love you, I love you, why can’t you make this easy.” His hushes are spoken as they continue to walk.

Small crystals begin to fall from the sky. Your own crying is muted by Taehyung’s sweater. Your sadness leaves stains that he’ll have to worry about later.

While Jungkook leads the way back to the house, Jimin mutters pretty prayers that you won’t hate them after this punishment. He strokes your hanging head and says, “This is for the better, you’ll understand once it’s over.”

Jungkook successfully navigates your way through the forest and the backyard of your home peeks out of the treeline. Once you step out under the protection of the bristles and branches, the rain begins to leave you drenched. It’s an uncomfortably cold wetness that makes you shift atop Taehyung’s shoulder. Jimin and Taehyung lead you to the middle of the backyard and you’re lifted off Tae’s shoulder to stand on two feet.

You shiver against Taehyung’s chest. He holds you tightly to him with his gentle hands holding your hips. His touch doesn’t hurt, but it’s strong enough to let you know you won’t be able to get away again. He stares straight ahead to where Jungkook walks away back into the house. An anxious feeling buries its way into your bones once you pick up on his nervous ticks. He shifts his weight and tugs you tighter against him. His jaw is clenched, keeping secrets stored about what sort of punishment you’ll be subject to. Despite being so close, he keeps his distance. Usually so affectionate, now he doesn’t make a move to melt into you. He keeps his head up against the rain and doesn’t spare you a single look.

Jimin can barely contain the nervous jitters that jostle him. His uneasy eyes switch between you and Jungkook’s figure now emerging from the house. He carries cold chains that hang over his shoulders and wrap around his wrists. They’re so long that the excess drags down behind him.

The sight of the chains instills an instant panic. You tremble against Taehyung’s touch and forget how to breathe when Jungkook’s footsteps get closer. Shocked by a sudden rush of adrenaline, you strike Taehyung in the gut and turn to run. You only make it a few steps before you’re forced to the ground. Jimin slams into you and you fall face-first into the cement. He catches your arms as they thrash about and holds them in a vice-grip. Taking your wrists with one hand, he reaches down to your waist and flips you over.

The next thing you see is Taehyung in front of your face. He straddles over you with his knees restraining your legs. His hands slide up to your shoulders, staring at you with dead eyes.

You’re forced away from Taehyung’s gaze when Jungkook tugs at your hair, turning your eyes up to focus on him.

“If you want to act like an ungrateful bitch, then we’ll treat you like one.” The venom he spits strikes your heart. It stings to be subject to his twisted tongue. Cruel words collide with their punches. The cold chain wrapped around your leg is the only thing keeping you connected with the world. You’re so sure that if you didn’t have this steel tether, you’d be beaten down to hell by the heat of their attacks.

You’re struck with kicks and punches from one while another assaults you with rotten words. Someone else is settled at your side, holding down your body despite your stillness.

You blocked out most of their beating. Seeing those loveless eyes sent you into isolation. The bleeding and bruising so overwhelming that you ended up running away from your mind. Yet, you remember the rain. It cried alongside you, relentless and cruel. Your focus found the sky and stayed there until they were done.

A semi-silence wraps itself around the four of you. Only small pants for breathe and soft sobbing are audible. The rain blends into the background as you focus on the three men that now stand above you. It’s so dark out you can hardly see their faces. Black borders surround your shaking body and stare. You now realize that this midnight madness has come to an end.

You now sit as a sobbing mess under the crying sky. The rain ricochets off your beaten body. Rain and tears fall forever; all sorrow is soaked back into the earth. The cold air kisses all the skin you have to spare. The metal chain wrapped around your leg clanks together due to your violent shaking.

No matter how much the cold bites at your back, your heart feels more frostbitten. You can barely even feel the phantom kicks and punches anymore. Your mind only replays the memories of them turning their backs as you beg.

Did you really go too far? Did you fuck up so badly that life will be even more tortuous than before? Even if you hated them for stealing your freedom and feelings away, at least they loved you. They showed you kindness and empathy. Such curious killers that haven’t shown you any animosity since they stole you away.

Each raindrop that falls rips into your heart even further. This punishment is proof of your wrongdoing. You don’t even care about the beating at this point, you only yearn to be loved. To be caressed and cradled with care. Do they still love you? Can you prove to them that you can be better than this, that you will be better. Even a hopeless situation can feel the opposite when love turns your attention the other way.

You hadn’t even felt scared when they began to cut and kick you. You deserved it didn’t you? How selfish of you to keep denying these soulmates your love. They’ve given everything they have to make you happy and you went and threw it in the trash.

You don’t want to suffer any more. Maybe making the best out of this broken life will bring better days.

As you lay lifeless on the pavement, scarlet sorrows spill out of you. It covers the concrete and coats every inch of your existence. As you fall under sleeps spell, you dream of three men. You imagine a man with black hair holding you close. The second fights off the rain with an air of annoyance. And the final illusion soothes away your sadness.

Taehyung finds himself trying to fight off the darkness that suffocates him. The house is too silent and still. It makes him anxious. He wants to peek out the window to check the damage they’ve done, but Jimin grabs his shoulder and guides him upstairs. A dark despair stains the cream carpet as he slowly makes his way upstairs. Jimin and Jungkook drag themselves ahead of him. A heavy weight holds them down. Their shoulders slump and their smiles sag.

So slowly, they remove their shoes as they continue their steps and throw them every which way. Soaked shirts and wet pants are quickly taken off.

“We’ll just leave her like that for a little bit.” Jungkook mumbles with an exhausted expression. “Once we warm up and clean off we can go back and get her.”

“Isn’t that too long?” Jimin holds hesitance between two lips. His eyebrows frown and he purses his lips in pain. Everything about Jimin shows he’s doubting his decisions. He already began to regret his actions once the rain relapsed.

“She has to realize there’s consequences for her dumb decisions.” Jungkook stares into Jimin and his tired teary eyes give away everything. “I love her too and I don’t like hurting her. But we can’t let her think she can try running away whenever she wants.”

“But what if she just ends up hating us even more.” Jimins words tremble with terror. Shining streaks start to fall off his face as he fails to hold back his tears.

Taehyung turns Jimin towards him and rubs his shoulder as an attempt to soothe him. “She just has to learn her lesson. Then we’ll rush right back out and fix everything. We’ll clean her cuts and warm her up,” Taehyung tilts his head to look Jimin in the eyes. “It’ll be okay.”

No one says anything about the lie that leaves Taehyung’s lips. Hopeless words slide down a throat better when they’re coated in honey. Three men tell each other little lies to keep themselves from collapsing. However, they can only float in a fool’s paradise for so long before they come crashing down.

As the three men take turns in the shower, a sick sense of guilt begins to smother them. A cold chill creeps into their bones that not even a sweltering shower can wash away.

An hour has passed by before they decide your punishment has reached its end. The clock strikes 2 and three sets of feet stumble over each other. Everyone trying to be the first to erase their terrible torment. The boys scramble down the stairs, only tripping two times in the restless race.

They pick you up off the pavement and you welcome their warmth in the rain.

You cling to Jimin like an extra layer of clothes; he holds you in his arms with a warm welcome. He tugs you closer to his chest, small squeezes and sniffles fill in the silence. In an awkward position, Jimin shuffles the both of you into the house and upstairs with Taehyung leading the way. Jungkook trails closely behind, shushing your cries and smoothing down your hair.

They don’t speak about the pain and punishment other than the consistent mumbles of ‘I’m sorry.’

Your silence scares them. Somehow, it feels easier to be faced with your hatred and indifference than nothing at all. Although, they still hang on to a small sliver of hope that they haven’t lost you yet. They can see the subtle way you grasp onto Jimin’s jacket; holding on with white knuckles as if it’s a lifeline. There’s a shimmer of sadness in your eyes, bordering on bittersweet emotions. They can tell you’re hanging onto the same fated string as them. The four of you have nothing but hope.

These three men don’t know how to be gentle. They’re love is rough and full of risks. And you don’t know how to be docile. You’d weren’t made to shrink down smaller just so they can control you. But when you reach the bathroom and they tell you to sit, you obey so easily. This change is for the better. The first step to an easier life. Four fated fools that all long for love. Stripping away the pieces of singularity to forcibly fit the puzzle.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter. Taehyung sat at your side to keep you company. Jungkook and Jimin have wandered off to wherever they went. Most likely getting stacks of medical supplies. Taehyung takes your hand and rests his head on your shoulder. You lean back against the mirror, screwing your eyes closed when another sharp sting of pain presses into your side. Taehyung gives a squeeze to the hand he’s holding, silently begging the boys to hurry up. As if they heard his prayers, Jungkook and Jimin reach the bathroom in record time. Jimin takes a seat on the toilet while Jungkook rummages through the first aid kit.

The small boy at your side lays his head down on your leg. His tears sink into your soaked blue jeans. Anxieties taste like acid on his tongue. And when he leaves lingering kisses to the cuts that litter your legs, that tainted taste is now blurred with blood. He wears your crimson carnage like lipstick. The blood smeared all across his face. Attempting to drown out your pain with passion. His kisses then crawl upwards. Coming close to the cuts on your stomach that Jungkook is stitching up. Every time you wince from the needle stabbing into your skin, Tae and Jimin take turns trying to distract you.

While Jungkook cleans up your cuts, he asks the others to tend to your bruises. Taehyung takes the ointment from Jungkook’s open hands. He takes a generous amount and mixes it around, efficiently warming it up. Heartbroken bruises burn against his tender touch. The tiniest of touches burns through your bones. A small gasp that stumbles out of your lips causes him to still. He stares at you with wide eyes, waiting for you to tell him to continue.

Through clenched teeth you mumble a weak, “Keep going.” He hesitates but abides by your words. He traces your bruises with the tips of his fingers, leaving behind hearts that beg for forgiveness. He stares at your scarlet stained features while he trails shapes up your hips and along your arms. A look of pain is plastered on your face. He shares your sadness, taking each tear that escapes your eyes as another stab of torment.

Jungkook stands between your legs. He works with a deep set determination. Diligent and dangerous with how he handles the needle. He’s quick with every stitch, cursing under his breath every time you pull back in pain. And every so often, when a scarce cry escapes you, he lets his hand slip. Stabbing his skin ever so slightly to feel even an inkling of the pain he’s caused you. Putting pressure on the cut and combining your blood with his.

Jungkook tries to keep you as steady as possible while he puts together the pieces of their destruction. He lets you lean into Taehyung’s chest and be tainted with touches by Jimin. He doesn’t have time to envy their affections. So, he keeps on stitching, doing the dirty work when the others can’t bear the burden.

Taehyung and Jimin wrap you in white bandages. You lay limply against Jungkook. Breathing shallow breaths and whispering into his ear, “Do you still love me?”

Jungkook could cry right there. Break down in the bathroom under the weight of his wrongdoing. He can’t hide his emotions when it comes to you. He struggles to stay strong. Hot tears trail down his face and he squeezes his eyes shut, hoping the teardrops will come to a stop.

“How could you ever think that?” His voice shakes under ultimate sadness. “I love you more than you can imagine. So much so that it makes me sick, and I can’t stand the thought of you ever leaving me. Leaving us.” He raises his hand to run through your hair. Gently pushing your face down to sit on his shoulder. Away from his face and naive to the sobs he tries to stifle.

When they finish fixing you up, you’re held together by silver string and rotten, red kisses. Taehyung pulls you off the counter and cradles you close to his heart. He carries you to the bedroom and doesn’t let go even when you’ve already reached the bed. He sits you on his lap and watches as the other two rush around him. In a frantic frenzy, they rush to turn off the lights (leaving on the bedside lamp), bundle you in blankets, and grab a dry change of clothes.

When Jungkook can’t seem to find your clothes fast enough, Taehyung takes matters into his own hands. Sliding off his shirt and slipping it over your shoulders. He then works to slide off your drenched jeans. He leaves your legs bare but covers you in a burden of blankets. Tucking in the corners and tying you up tight.

Jimin enters the room with water and what seems to be small pills. He kneels down in front of you, his hand resting on your knee and holding out a remedy.

“Take these,” he drops the pills into your empty palm, “and drink some water to wash them down.” You pop the pills into your mouth one by one, washing them down with the water.

Once everything starts to settle, silence shushes the room and darkness bleeds in through the blinds. You all begin to feel the remnants of your adrenaline-rush. An uneasy exhaustion sticks to your skin. You crawl under the covers and seek solace in their embrace.

Taehyung drags his fingertips over the skin of your spine. A gentle touch that attempts to settle your shivers and sooth your sadness. The movements are slow, and he distracts himself by counting each indent his fingers reach. He’s cautious to avoid the cuts and bruises, still fresh and fragile. He repeats this motion for many minutes as a way to take both your minds off everything.

Taehyung doesn’t like to think back on the events that unfolded only hours ago. Your betrayal and beating are tucked away behind blinds in the darkest parts of him. Taehyung tucks away his turmoil and sinks into the sheets. He shimmies down deeper into the mass of blankets and bodies. He hopes tomorrow won’t turn out as terrible as today; wishing on a star that you’ll begin to settle into your new life with new lovers. If you never love them like they want, then you’ll just have to learn how. Playing pretend in a dollhouse made for demons.

The silence is split by Jungkook’s concern, “Baby? Are you sure you’re okay?” After the damage they’ve done he feels the need to double check everything.

Your mouth is sealed shut. The words you want to speak stick to your insides. You settle for a small nod against Taehyung’s shoulder. The youngest man outstretches his hand to stroke your hair. With such softness, he presses your head into the pillow. He then makes himself more comfortable, sliding into the sheets and slotting himself in between Taehyung’s touch, and the wall. He does so without lifting the hand that holds your head.

“You’re tired aren’t you? Just try to fall asleep. We’ll be watching over you, don’t worry.” You give a grunt in response. Taehyung’s silent strokes are sending you to sleep, and Jungkook’s fingers running through your hair finally set your heart at ease. Your tiredness takes over and dizzy dreams dance in the distance.

Before you fall asleep, Taehyung tells you one last thing, “I’m sorry we hurt you… I’m sorry we’re so selfish… But we can’t let you go.”

You wake during a wilted sunrise. Pink clouds are beaten bloody leaving bloodstains to soak the sky. The red tint of the light lingers above you. The blinds allow just the slightest sliver of sunshine into the room.

Your tired eyes struggle to see in the dark. Fighting off the fatigue only takes a minute or two before clarity can calm you. You drag your head up higher on Taehyung's chest, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. He sleeps soundly under the scarlet sunrise. Short puffs of air tickle your nose whenever he takes a breath.

You look over to your left and see that Jungkook is also a slave to slumber. His youthful features appear worn and weary even in his sleep.

Even if you can’t check behind you to see, you can only assume that Jimin hasn’t woken up from your movement. As his body had sunken into soft slumber, his weight seemed to have doubled. Heavy limbs are draped over you with a possessive person that lags behind. This burden begins to grow painful as your fresh bruises blossom in irritation. You shift closer to Tae, trying to escape the pressure that piles on top of you. When you move only a millimeter to the left, you’re stuck with a sudden pain that leaves you paralyzed. Shot with an icy wave of shock, you struggle to suck in a single breath. A crippling pain swarms in your stomach. It stirs up a sickness that threatens to spill out of you. You slap a hand to your mouth, forcing the feeling back down.

Once the nausea wanes away, the ache in your abdomen appears to triple. You attempt to stifle a sob, but you should have known that any slight discomfort from you is bound to be discovered. Jungkook begins to stir from the subtle noise.

He can feel you trembling under his touch. Your name falls from his lips in pure panic. His eyes search your body for any signs of harm. His hands ghost over the bruises that are turning blue. A frown forms when looking at the white bandages that cover the cuts he caused. When he can’t find anything out of the ordinary, he switches his sight to stare right into your eyes. “Is it hurting again? Is it the bruises or the cuts?” Concern chokes him. Sin and shame sting like a venom in his veins.

You’re still struggling to take control of your tears. Hiding them with your hands and biting back your cries. Jungkook grows more anxious with each second that wastes away. “What do you need? Anything, anything at all. How can I help?” He reaches out to remove your hands in front of your face.

A fit of coughing chokes you. Jungkook acts fast, sitting up to steady you. His hands almost hover, afraid to cause you anymore harm. But when a second round of coughing and crying starts up, he takes you in his arms. The rapid movements rouse Taehyung from his slumber. His words are slurred with sleep when he asks “Are you okay?” and “What’s happening?” Neither you nor Jungkook answer him.

Your agony is over spilt and you start coughing all over again. A silver taste mixes with your saliva. “Jungkook,” A tremor takes over your tone. “Jungkook, it hurts.”

“I know, baby. I know. But where does it hurt?” He runs his rough hands along your back. Settling the shivers that trail up your spine. He shushes your cries and tilts your head up to him. He stares into the saddest sight he’s ever seen. Red-rimmed eyes, pathetic whimpers of pain, and a bottom lip so bitten it’s bleeding. He feels an ache in his chest at your pitiful appearance. He uses his thumb to pull your lip from in between your teeth.

It’s at this time when Taehyung starts to shake off the effects of a deep sleep. He sits up and leans against your back. One arm is used to steady himself while the other wraps around your waist. His fingers are tied up with the bottom of your (his) shirt. He fidgets with the fabric, trying to focus his mind on anything other than the sounds of your sobbing. He tucks his head over your shoulder and squeezes you a little tighter.

“It’s my stomach that hurts. I think I might throw up.” At your words, Taehyung loosens up his grip. Instead, he sticks his hand under your shirt to soothe your stomach. He draws circles with his thumb and follows Jungkook’s lead.

“Come on, let’s get you to the bathroom then.” Jungkook pulls you up, letting you lean on him as he prepares to take you to the bathroom. Taehyung trails behind, struggling with the sheets tied around his legs.

“Jimin,” Tae shakes the man rather roughly. “Wake up. Sweethearts not feeling well.” He doesn’t wait for his friend to wake, too restless at the thought of you injured and too far for comfort. He rushes out of the room and stumbles upon a sight he wishes he didn’t have to see.

Blood burns through your throat and the next thing you know scarlet is being spilt onto the tile. You share a shaky look with both boys, tears lining all your eyes. Red runs down your lips and stains your shirt. As you stare at Taehyung, scared out of your skin, he can’t help but think that his selfish, lovesick soul will be the cause of your demise.

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pastorpresent · 5 months ago

Text

Major TW for sui/sui thoughts, SH and alcoholism.

Thinking about if Logan had opted to go back to his own universe at the end of dp3.

Him and Wade had been through a lot, sure, but he still doesn't want to impose. Looks around at this family Wade's built. The girl he's in love with, their hands atop of each other, and he knows he definitely can't do all that again. Had done it for far too long with Jean and Scott, and it had irrevocably destroyed a part of his heart forever. He couldn't do that again, didn't have enough heart to risk on Wade Wilson and his kind eyes but ultimate obliviousness.

He couldn't just be a spare part in Wade's life. An intruder. So he leaves after a few days. Thanks Wade, pretends he can't tell the merc is crying under the mask as he throws him one last hug.

As if it was for Wade. No, Logan was just weak. Couldn't leave him forever without just a miniscule taste, especially because he knows when he goes 'home', he won't feel the gentle touch of another person... ever, probably.

He steps through the portal. He's back in his world. His shitty apartment. It might be objectively better than Wade's- but it's so, so much worse, because it's just him and the fucking bare walls. There's blood dried into the carpet from when lashing out at inanimate objects isn't enough. Empty bottles are piled in the trash, and everywhere else.

He thinks about the hello kitty posters plastered on the walls of Wade and Al's apartment. The fading stickers of that pony show Wade watched in the mornings stuck on the TV stand. The curse words and crude drawings carved into the coffee table with Wade's baby knife.

(Logan's initials are carved in there now. He hadn't seen Wade do it, but when he'd noticed it his vision had blurred with tears.)

He'd mocked all of those things aloud. Childish. Fucking stupid, was he five?

His wallpaper was peeling and slashed with three identical cuts here and there. His TV was settled on a cardboard box. There was nothing carved into the wood of his coffee table, and even if there had been the cluster of beer bottles would've hid it from view.

He leaves. Goes and drinks himself to death in a bar. Not the nearest bar, because that's where Wade found him, and he'd sooner gut himself on the pavement that step foot in there ever again.

He stumbled home shit faced. He doesn't know what time it is. Skips the shower, collapses into his bed with a manic chuckle, a bottle of whiskey replacing where Wade was supposed to be. He cuddles up to it pathetically. It's cold and hard against his chest. It's not Wade, as much as he wants it to be, and he clutches it too hard, as if that'll change that basic fact.

It shatters. The glass cuts open his skin as quickly as his body stitches it closed. The dredges of alcohol soak into the mattress and his shirt.

He passes out shortly after, and when he finally finds sleep he sees him.

Wade's lying next to him, smiling softly, the golden glow of the sunrise floating over his scarred skin.

"Morning peanut," he says, eyes shining.

Logan almost chokes on the sob that builds in his chest, swelling up and suffocating him, "Wade."

"I'm here."

Logan reaches out to touch, hand shaking, and Wade cries out, impaled on claws he doesn't remember unsheathing.

Bloods going everywhere, and he's panicking, because Wade isn't healing. He's going pale, and he's still bleeding, and his eyes already look dead.

He wakes up screaming his name, in a sticky patch of drying whiskey. He adds vomit into the mix for good measure, still gasping and trying to catch his breath as he throws up onto the sheets.

He decides sleeping is the issue, so he will just not do that. He drinks, and drinks, and lives in bars and on his couch. He doesn't sleep, even if his body begs for it. Goes as far as filling the bath and holding himself under for a few seconds to wake himself up.

The ptsd-esque flashback it triggers from the tank, his procedure, makes him destroy his bathroom entirely. The shower curtain is slashed into ribbons. The mirror is shattered in the sink. The tiles are literally hanging off the walls.

Somehow he'd still rather be drowning repeatedly as metal gets grafted to his skeleton through what felt like a million needles than back on that bed with Wade smiling over at him. Even before he... that scene alone had been the sickest form of torture he could conjure up. Wade, mere inches away, happy, his. A big fucking lie.

He used to have similiar dreams about Scott and Jean. Lying between them as they stroked his hair and told him they loved him, only for them to laugh at him when he tried to touch. Call him deluded and sick and all the other words Logan felt like he needed etched onto his bones as some form of repentance.

Of course, because his brain fucking hates him, he starts seeing Wade when he's awake. It's like it clicked on to his plan and tutted down at him, scolding him for avoiding a clearly deserved punishment.

Or he's just dangerously sleep deprived. Thinking your brain was conspiring against you probably also fit nicely into that narrative.

He sees Wade sat on a barstool a few feet away out the corner of his eye. Walking the streets from his window. In the line at the fucking liquor store.

He'd gotten his drunk ass beat on more than one occasion for grabbing strangers, calling them his name only to be met with a face he'd never seen before, absent of scars and that painfully soft smile.

He's losing his mind. He's going entirely insane.

An adamantium bullet to the skull doesn't sound too bad. It might not kill him, but it would rid him of the memories. He sits with the barrel of the gun pressed to his forehead sometimes, pictures it being Wade holding it there, and his finger itches for the trigger but he can't quite do it. He hears Wade's voice whispering to him when he has the cool metal against his skin, "no, peanut. Put it down please."

His thoughts of Wade hurt, but he wasn't ready to erase them entirely because he was a fucking coward. He's too fucking weak to get rid of those eyes, the memories of that touch, even as all of it tortures his brain onto the brink of fully fledged insanity.

It's three weeks into his destructive routine. The only sleep he's had is that of which he's been forced into when his body shuts down from too much alcohol. Wade's always there. On the bed. Smiling.

Sometimes they talk. Sometimes Wade asks him to come back. It always ends the same, though - screaming and begging as the man in front of him turns into a corpse.

Three weeks. The adamantium bullet is on his nightstand, ready when he is.

He's considering tonight. He's going to shower, get dressed and get dinner from his favourite take out place. He's going to think of Wade and every word he'd ever said to him, and then he was going to do it.

There's a knock on his apartment door that morning, which is bizzare. He has no one in this universe. Absolutely no one, so who would be pounding on his door at ten in the morning?

He pushes his breakfast (vodka) aside and goes to the door, pulling it open and.

And... he needs that bullet in his skull right now, because this is just fucking cruel.

"Hey, peanut."

And Logan can't take this. He can't fucking do this anymore! It's not fucking fair, why is his own head trying to kill him?

He remembers unsheathing the claws this time, but he immediately buries them in his own torso, blood dripping all over the carpet. He's mumbling, incohesive even to his own ears as he drags the claws down, feeling them pop his lungs like balloons and slice through organs.

"Logan! Logan, what the fuck? Stop!" Wade yells, his voice reaching a panicked pitch, his eyes wide in absolute horror.

"You stop! I can't- I know I've done horrible, horrible things but stop fucking showing me this! Stop letting me fucking see him!"

He's screaming at himself, at his own goddamn psyche, and that's probably how you know you've lost it entirely, right? Screaming at thin air? Yelling at yourself?

Solid hands reach out and snap onto his wrists, pulling his claws out. Wade pushes him to the ground, landing atop of him with a thud and pinning his wrists above his head.

Logan doesn't struggle. He can't. He's too busy staring at Wade with wide eyes.

"How- you're touching me. I can feel you," he says, voice raw. He can feel Wade's fingertips pressing into his skin like burns.

Wade's staring back at him, his face twisted up in confusion, "yeah? Because I'm a person with a body and I'm touching you with it? Not like that, this is not that kind of fic-"

He wrapped his arms around the merc and pulls him in, even though he's getting blood all over him. He can smell Wade. Feel his body heat. Feel the lines of him pressed against his own body and... it had never felt this real before. Was he dead? Had his body finally given up on regenerating his stupid ass? He supposed there might be a limit on liver damage even for him.

"Logan? What's going on? Not that I'm not enjoying this, because trust me I really am, but I expected a bit more.. hostility? Because you said you wanted to go home, and I get it because I'm annoying as fuck, but I sort of really missed you and I had to bribe the TVA just to get an hour visit and then wasted ten minutes of that figuring out which apartment was yours and-"

An hour. Wade was here for an hour. He was actually here. It wasn't in his head. He was here.

"Don't... please. Please. Don't leave me here I- I can't do it anymore," he begged, clinging onto Wade ridiculously, his nails digging into his back.

"Logan..."

"I'm sorry. Shouldn't- shouldn't of left, 'm sorry. I don't want to ruin your life, wanted to stay away so you wouldn't be stuck with me, but I can't do it."

He was crying. Couldn't feel the tears but could feel the tightness in his chest. He should be pushing Wade off. He needs to push him off and let him go home, but he can't. He wants to go home, and he knows that this place, this hell, isn't home.

Wade's apartment is. Wade is.

He'd be the intruder. Be the spare part. Watch Wade fall deeper in love with Vanessa and be good, watching from the sidelines and taking whatever Wade would give him. Would never ask for more than that, because that's what brought his thing with Jean and Scott crashing to the ground.

He'd do all of it, because at least then he'd get to see Wade and hear the idiots ramblings and feel fucking alive again. He can't stay here, not when he feels like some sort of ghost, doomed to living out the same depressing day over and over until he finally feels the blissful release of death.

Wade sat them up, pulling Logan up with him, holding both his hands in his own, "is that really what you think? That's why you left?"

"It's true. You have Vanessa, and a life to start. Last thing you need is me hanging around. But just- please, Wade. I'll find my own place and- and I'll leave you alone, with her- I really will. I just... I can't breathe here. I'm fucking dying. I can't sleep, or eat, or function and I- I just can't. I need you," he was being too honest, probably. Would likely just scare Wade off and send him running back to his own universe sighing with relief at dodging that paricularly unstable bullet.

But he couldn't help it. He needed to plead his case, and it didn't help that he hadn't really had anyone to talk to about this stuff. Fuck, his human interactions since he returned were limited to the transactional ones in order to purchase more alcohol, and the ones entirely in his own head.

Wade grabs his face, "Logan Howlett, you are the biggest fucking idiot on earth. Scratch that, the whole universe, probably."

"What?"

And then Wade is kissing him, hard. Hard enough that Logan finds himself having to use his arms to brace himself on the stained carpet just to keep upright as Wade uses a hand on the back of his head to pull him ever closer.

They part. Logan is panting, pupils blown, unable to form a cohesive word nevermind a sentence or two.

"Me and Ness agreed to just be friends. She broke up with her boyfriend and asked me for another try, but it's not fair on her to do that when I'm in love with somebody else."

Logan still can't speak. His brain is short circuiting, unable to fathom what Wade is saying to him.

"Truth is, I've been miserable without you Peanut. Turns out even after just a couple of nights with you in my bed, I can't sleep without you either," he shrugged, his own eyes shining with tears, "I wasn't going to ask you to come home with me, because I really was trying to respect your decision here but... fuck. I had to see you, even if those assholes would only give me an hour. I needed to see you, peanut, or I was going to lose my shit and probably go massacre an entire town or something equally as drastic."

"Wade," Logan finally managed, the word coming out all strained and choked up, "take me home, please."

Wade beamed despite his own tears, grabbing him and pulling him in, and Logan held onto him tightly.

"Of course, baby. Never letting you out of my sight again."

#deadpool and wolverine #deadclaws #poolverine #deadclaws fic #poolverine fic #logan howlett #wade wilson #wolverine #deadpool #mywriting

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madwomansapologist · 6 months ago

Note

So I saw you were asking for kyojuro requests,

what about Kyo coming home from THAT mission alive to Gn reader who hasn’t slept for days, worried that he would die like in the movie( maybe they had a nightmare of those scenes?) and that then tooth rotting fluff ensues of kyo comforting reader with hugs and snuggles and wraps them up in his haori?

one of these nights | kyojuro rengoku x hashira!reader

waiting. you fought, protected, killed, saved. for days on end, you contined with your duties as a hashira. but all it takes is one look at you to see the truth underneath it: you were waiting for him. waiting for kyojuro to come back to you. to come back at all.

cw: canon level of violence. conversations about death. demon being tortured. reader is filled with rage and violent intent. angst to fluff. happy ending. inspired by one of these nights by red velvet.

an: thanks for your request! really i just needed an excuse to write about him. kyo is such a sunshine ray, it hurts me to know he received the nanami treatment (guess i have a type). i even made a playlist for him.

Blood burned away from your lilac nichirin. Surrounded by darkness and ashes, you gazed at the head throwing offenses at you. You grabbed it by the hair, walking back to the sleeping village.

"I dreamed of him hours ago", you ignored all the whining. "He was bleeding. A hand deep into his chest, one of his eye long gone, his sword broken in two. Can you picture someone smiling in such a moment?"

"You stupid bitch! It was mine! That girl was mine! She would give me the strenght of twenty, no, fifty humans, and you took her from me! You gonna burn! You gonna die screaming and crying and begging..."

"I can", you answered your own question. "He won't die carrying grudges and regrets, no one will forget how my Kyo is sweet. Not the ones he saved, trained or had the chance of being changed by him. He deserves that. To be remembered."

Some lovers would tell you to have more faith. Hope. To accept that justice will prevail and goodness always is rewarded. Some would judge. How can you not trust Kyojuro to come back to you? How can you talk about his death? How can you love him when you act like that?

And for them, you asnwer would be: I am jealous of you. Jealous of how some have the privilege believing that poetic justice exist. Jealous of those that never noticed how easy it is to die. Jealous of the fearless.

Tonight, all you know is that you feel something wrong is about to happen. Something wrong, cruel and unnecessary. It's one of these nights you despise.

"He would've grant you a peaceful death, weak demon", you caressed his cheek. "Kyojuro would give you what he deserves, believing it must be the standart."

With a swift motion, your nail cut through his left eye. "Once he's dead, I'll turn my grief into torment and pain for your kind", one pull, and the gelatinous pieces fell on the ground. "I'll make demons dream about a world Kyojuro Rengoku survived."

Your tsuguko reached you as your fingers ripped the demon's lips appart. The wisteria you apply daily to your sharp nails was enough to make him to beg. You dropped the head on the floor.

Hands trembling, eyes wide open. You scared him. Another tsuguko that will runnaway from you. At least he lasted more than the others. "Report", you demanded.

"I attended her wounds", he started, voice oscilating. Not a man yet, not a boy anymore. He's growing stronger, faster than anyone should need to. "She insisted on cooking you dinner, Hashira."

He wasn't afraid of you. Of what he saw you doing to that demon. You chose him as your tsuguko because of how similar to you he is. He fight to protect, but he survives to punish. "Why are you so startled?"

"I saw his crow, Hashira."

Your tsuguko ran back to your mansion. The last part of his daily routine. You walked, so far behind you couldn't even see him. A distance you could cross in the blink of an eye turned into minutes of silence.

You're not ready to hear it. Not now. It's too soon. To live as a slayer is to be aware of how easily the balance between life and death can change. But Kyojuro deserves better than that.

Kyojuro deserves all the sunrises and sunsets this world can offer. He deserves sweet treats, salty soups, succulent meats. He deserves to see his father change, his brother grow, this country heals. Kyojuro deserves more than you could ever give him.

At least, if you're about to hear the news from his crow, that means you won't be the one to tell Senjuro. Cry now, you thought to yourself. Do it now so you won't do it in front of the kid.

Blinded by heavy tears, you followed the blur lights surrounding your mansion. Sanemi would've mocked your for acting so vulnerable at night. A newborn demon could end you now, and you wouldn't notice until their fangs were deep on your skin.

How didn't you noticed? If a crow was to warn you about his death, it would've fly straight to you. It wouldn't be his crow. And the path wouldn't smell like blood and sweat.

How didn't you heard as he gasped? How didn't you felt the air changing as he stormed towards you? How didn't you knew he would come back home? Come back to you.

"Why are you crying, my jewel?" Kyojuro evicted the silence following you home. His powerful voice ecchoed throught the night. His scarred hands held your face, fingers cleaning the tears. Softly, he made you look up. "Who made you cry? Tell me and I shall punish them!"

As your tears dried, you reached for him. Trembling hands raised, stopping right before you could feel his skin. Was it a dream? Did your fears came true and you finally went insane? "Kyo..."

He was there. Right in front of you. You could feel him. The scars on his hand. The warmth of his breath. The sweet aroma of orange coming from his hair. You could feel his fire. That bright soul only Kyojuro has.

And he was hurt. Wounds across his face. Blood dripping from his shoulder. He was in pain. He never went back to you like that. Looking so fragile. So vulnerable.

Your Kyojuro, your sweet Kyojuro, was hurt. More than you could ever imagine. And still, he managed to come back to you.

"You're back", you whispered. Your head was so light, no thoughts could manage to distract you from his burning eyes. "I thought... I-I had a nightmare. And the crow..."

Kyojuro sighed. His hold tighten, forehead falling into yours. Embraced by him, the rest of the world be damned. You couldn't care less about this wretched floating rock.

"Forgive me, flame of my heart", he whispered. Kyojuro whispered. That made you hold your breath, afraid of this being a product of your tired mind. "I promised to never make you cry."

You closed your eyes, hands on his broad shoulders. "I will always forgive you", you bit back the tears. "As long as you keep coming back to me."

"It was an Upper Moon."

You stumbled back. Kyojuro grabbed you, his fingers deep into the skin of your hips, haori floating between you two. "You survived a Upper Moon."

"No", Kyojuro smiled. "I killed one."

You laughed. Loudly. Until your cheek burned. You grabbed his face, pulling Kyojuro into the longest kiss you ever shared. You couldn't let him go. You would never let him go.

How you love being wrong.

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

general taglist: @lovelyy-moonlight

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

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maybetheyredrunk · 2 months ago

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tw: angst, self-harm, suicide attempts, death.

REGULUS BLACK

Regulus is heartbroken when James and Lily starts dating.

He doesn't realise why.

And then Remus is talking about Sirius, and saying similar things to what's in his head. "He makes me feel loved, and safe, and wanted. The way he laughs, the way he talks. That's why I love him." And that's when Regulus realises. Oh shit, maybe I love him. The way he smiles, the way he laughs, the way James is the sun to his sky.

James is oblivious for a while.

But then Lily realises she doesn't love James the way she feels like she should.

James and Lily break up, stay friends, and James realises he loves Regulus. The way he smiles, when James gets his attention, or he reads a book that he loves. The quietness. The way he bursts out with his opinions if he feels strongly about something. Regulus finally loving the person who he wants to, openly.

They go up to the Astronomy tower each Sunday, just talking. Each Sunday turns into twice a week. Twice a week into every other day. Every other day into every day. And they're so happy. And Sirius is all "You're dating my baby brother!" and "Brotherfucker." and "Ugh.", but inside he's so happy to see Regulus loving someone openly and fully. And Remus supports the both of them, and so does Peter, and Lily, and Dorcas, and Marlene.

Then Walburga and Orion make Regulus get the Dark Mark.

He's screaming, crying, begging them not to. "Please Mom, please Dad, I can't lose this." Throwing himself in front of them, trying to run away.

Him eventually realising: It doesn't work.

So he gets the Mark. Stays silent as the needle punctures his flesh over and over again.

And then runs to Hogwarts.

Regulus sobbing in the common room of Slytherin, arm swollen and bleeding as he tries to rip the ink out of his skin with his nails, held by an equally sad Evan and Barty.

Sobbing because he's going to lose his brother again, going to lose his friends, his boyfriend, because of ink that he didn't want.

Him trying to grab a knife, scissors. Evan and Barty have to restrain him and watch him constantly, making sure he doesn't carve out flesh from his bones.

So the Dark Mark is permanent.

And Regulus would rather see his boyfriend, the love of his life, not know him, rather than see James hate him for what he didn't want to become.

So he goes to the Astronomy tower after having ignored James for weeks. James didn't know why.

And he tells him. "I got the Mark." And shows him his arm.

And James' eyes widen.

And then - "Wait Reg-"

Regulus sobbing out one word, doubled over in pain, wishing he could go to James. One word.

"Obliviate."

And Regulus erases all of James' memories of him, he's powerful and precise enough to.

And James leaves the tower, confused as to why he went up there in the first place.

And Regulus is sobbing, tears running down his face, hair messed up, clutching at the railing of the tower, wishing he could get the mark away, would do anything. Anything to ease the pain.

He climbs onto the rail. Decides life isn't really worth living anymore, not without his sun. Evan and Barty see him, and run for him, and barely manage to catch him in time.

He makes three more attempts before realising he can't.

So he runs.

Runs so he doesn't have to see that James and Lily get back together, happy and oblivious. Lily's confused as to what happened to Regulus. Regulus who disappeared. Runs so he doesn't have to face Sirius, his disappointment and anger. Runs so Remus can't find him, his kind words and gentleness would make him unravel. Runs so none of his friends can follow. Barty and Evan search for a long time. But they never find him.

James is 18 when Regulus leaves. He's 17. Regulus dies the same year. Trying to make a difference. Regretting that he didn't earlier.

And as he lies on the cold hard ground of the island, Kreacher beside him, holding his stomach in pain from the liquid, but the Horcrux destroyed, he thinks. Of James. Of his smile. Of his laugh. Of his kisses. The way he lit up Regulus' world, because he was the sun to Regulus' sky, because Regulus needed James to be bright.

And he thinks. I'm sorry. He's left a note.

But he doesn't expect James to find it. Ever.

Regulus is 17 when he dies.

And he wishes that he had longer.

But even the brightest stars all fade.

thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics for the dividers!! Her work is amazing, please go check it out.

@into-the-jeggyverse @noblehouseofgay @my-castles-crumbling @reggie-the-starboy @ultravioletbrit @strawberrystainedfingertips7 @caiiius @iamgayforyourmom1510 @wh0re-for-w0lfstar

#dead gay wizards from the 70s #all the young dudes #regulus black #regulus deserved better #james x regulus #moonwater #platonic moonwater #jegulus #starchaser #sunseeker #wolfstar #marauders #angst #oneshot #jegulus microfic

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sweetheartssorrows · 2 months ago

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𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐈 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ★ 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖/𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃. 𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐃.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Shigaraki is a switch that leans towards submissive due to his daddy issues and mommy loneliness/desperation. He usually clings to his lover in private and acts like the dominant one in public, acting unbothered but sometimes throws a fit in public like a child (ex. when he doesn't get something he wants), and you usually punish him for it. But he likes it.

Of course, Shigaraki is kinky, he has the weirdest but most predictable fetishes and kinks that well-fit him. Some being bondage (doesn't matter who's being bonded), hand fetish, choking (which goes along with the hand fetish) and most degrading techniques— like humiliation, name calling and glory hole. He also enjoys pain. A LOT. Which, it gets a little dangerous, he or you use techniques like biting (which you also use out of sex for teasing), spanking, and, cock/pussy slapping. He does do non-consensual sex, but it's not his kink, it's just when he's drunk and is hyper-aroused so he begs to fuck you/you to fuck him. Sometimes he likes somnophilia, but he tries holding back to respect your boundaries. — Using toys is a huge turn-on for him, he likes pegging, and, vibrators (on you and him), he doesn't use that many toys, just the basics.

Yes, Tomura enjoys quirk play, like in the given examples, he'd decay your clothes off and then...well, get started on you.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀

Tomura is a (huge) 6.5 in/16.51 cm flaccid dick, and when erect, it can range between 7.5 in/19.05cm to 8.0 in/20.32 cm at most.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀

He is very snuggly afterwards, rather if it's him dicking you down so good you won't be able to walk for weeks or you riding his hard dick so good he's lost his senses, he's take a bath with you, worship you, you worship him, you guys do selfcare and then snuggle. That's how it always ends.

Tomura doesn't believe in "rounds," he/you goes until you're both satisfied and exhausted, unless, of course, one of you have to stop bc of a medical or mental emergency (ex. bleeding, crying, panic attack, uti, etc.).

He's very bratty, take that in, sexual or not. He will throw tantrums when he doesn't get his way (rather that's with you, with others or in battle), they can be tiny, him biting, whining, pouting and stomping his foot, but they can also be huge (and destructive), him screaming, knocking things over, hitting/dusting anything in sight (he tries to not hit you) and getting on the ground and letting out his aggravation until he gets too tired and then just cries for comfort— which is how all his tantrums end, him crying and grabbing at you, desperate for comfort and forgiveness for his outburst.

Tomura's favorite body part of his lover would most likely be their breasts/pecks and their waist, rather they had no/tiny chest, a huge one or the size of Wendy William's, he'd love them, kiss them, bite them, snuggle them, hell, he'd motorboat them too. Rather his lover had "rolls," a skinny waist or think they had no waist because of their weight, he'd still hold them by it as they kissed. He wouldn't care about your body weight, but when he gets on his game, he's gonna insult everyone because of their looks, accent, body weight, etc.

Speaking of your body and appearance, he'd literally pop a boner as soon as you walked in the room, rather if you were dressed in the most revealing thing ever, your casual outfit, or your literal pajamas— boner alert. 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎; He'd probably be playing on [insert device] and you'd walk in the room, he'd be too engaged in his game to notice you until he recognized your scent, he'd look up/back at you and try to cover his grin with a poker face and then get hard, then his smile would fade a bit and he'd cover it with a pillow, blanket, or his device.

♡︎ He wouldn't care for holidays like Valentine's day, Thanksgiving or Christmas...until he met you; Valentine's day, he'd likely do one or two of three things, fuck you, be all inlove and smitten or gift you with candies. Thanksgiving, he wouldn't really say anything, he'd just enjoy the food but he'd think about how happy he is to have you, and Christmas, an abundance of money would be stolen and spent to keep the love of his life happy. ♡︎

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀

That's all, people! Sorry this was kind of short, I hope you all enjoyed this first post. ★ 𝐍𝐎 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃! 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐓! 𝐌𝐘 𝐐/𝐀 𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃, 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐑 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆!

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anjelicawrites · 4 months ago

Text

Written as part of the Fan Frankentober event organized by @fandomeventcenter. Read the other works in the masterlist here!

Pairing: werewolf!Osferh x human!reader x vampire!Aemond Targaryen.

Synopsis: you just wanted to go the bookstore and buy some Halloween reads to celebrate Halloween. Now you’re running for you life, hunted down by two creatures that should only exists in stories

Warnings: DDDNE, Consensual noncon, oral (m & f receiving), facefucking, p in v sex, manhandling, mind control to force your partner to have sex, monsterfucking, biting, body horror, blood drinking, double v. penetration, squirting, slapping, dachryphilia, fighting overstimulation, demeaning language, multiple orgasms, creampie, tummy inflation.

Your breath burns in your lungs, you have been running for how long? It can’t be hours, can it?

A slim branch slaps your face as you try to power through the thick forest surrounding your home: where are you? You’ve never reached so deeply, not during a moonless night and without your dogs to guide you back on the beaten path.

Your foot catches a raised root, your body falls on the soft underbrush, your hands barely cushioning your weight as you scream in surprise.

It is a mistake. Now he knows where you are.

In this story thee people consensually decide to play out a non con fantasy. Read at your own risks. Be responsible for the fiction you consume!

NSFW and 18+ only please.

Crying you manage to stand up again, you don’t wait until your back is fully extended to start running again, half blinded by your own tears of terror now that you can hear his dark laugh reverberate through the black forest.

“I’ll find you little lamb, wherever you are. And when I do, I will bleed you dry!”

A desperate no slips from your lips, choked by your broken breathing.

You keep running, trying to look behind you in the desperate attempt to locate your assailant, feeling his cold breath down your neck.

“What do we have here?”

You feel big hands on your arms, a sturdy chest blocking your body.

You didn’t realize you have reached a clearing, too focused on running for your life to notice the tall man in front of you.

For a split second you let your mind believe you’ve found help, when the stranger smiles gently at the panicked way you try to explain yourself.

“He’s coming!” You scream, twisting your body in his hold. “He’s dangerous!”

He looks young, younger than he probably is, and far too calm for the situation.

“Please! We need to go!” You beg.

His smile turns darker at your words, only now your eyes pick the strange yellow of the irises and the vertical pupils: you could swear his eyes were baby blue, framed by the undercut of his blond hair. Through the stream of adrenaline coursing through your veins, you feel pinpricks on your arms. You gasp when you see his long nails and claw like hands around the red cotton of your hoodie.

“Little red riding hood all alone and lost in the woods. I guess you met the big, bad wolf.”

Your legs give under your weight when you see the way his face has switched: gone the elegant nose and sharp chin, now replaced by wolf-like elongated features and sharp teeth.

You’re so paralyzed with fear you can’t even scream.

“You smell delicious. I can’t wait to eat you up.” He growls, pulling your body closed to his, now, hairier one.

His scratchy tongue licks the side of your neck and smacks against his palate when he can taste you fully: your cunt must be delicious, he plans to eat it before and after he’s fucked you full of his cum.

Before he can tear your clothes to shreds, a dark shadow flies from the threes towards him, fangs ready to slice his neck apart, forcing him to throw you away like a rag doll, to defend himself.

Your body slams painfully against the trunk of an oak. For precious seconds you remain crumpled against the ancient tree, the pain cutting through you when you try to take a deeper breath, your eyes peeled open to look at the two monster fighting under the pallid light of the stars, one silver haired and armed with dangerously sharp fangs, the other more lupine than human in his rage and hunger.

Before your brain can make a plan, your body decides to escape them both, hoping they’d be too focused on killing one another, to notice you slipping away, back into the dense forest.

Snuffing moans of pain as you roll on your fours, you start crawling towards the edge of the forest, ignoring the squelching sounds of ripped flesh and animalistic groans as your hands plunge in the wet underbrush.

You’ve almost made to where the threes start to thicken, that a big hand grabs your hair, pulling you backwards with a painful tug.

“Where do you think you’re going, little red riding hood?”

The man wolf turns your head until you can meet his monstrous face, his body is a wall of muscles and fur behind you.

To your front, the other man, the one who had charmed you so easily during your monthly run to your local bookstore, who truly is something your mind refuses to name, smiles, showing fully his long fangs. How did you not notice those? How did you manage to find yourself in one of the books you usually read during the days before Halloween?

He hums, the one who had so charmingly introduced himself as Aemond, one eyebrow slightly raised to chide your silently.

“Trying to run away when we were fighting for you.” He growls. “Youth these days.”

In a vain attempt to free yourself, your hands go for the paw in your hair, your too small fingers try to pry the vice that keeps you on your knees, against his healing body.

“Please.” You cry. “Please just let me go.”

Tears stream down your cheeks: you don’t want to die.

The one named Aemond shush you gently, as if you were a child. He kneels in front of you to dry your tears with fingers as cold as death; the more he tries to calm you, the harder you cry.

“What should we do with this sweet little thing here?” The one behind you asks. “We can fight for the rest of the night and go home dissatisfied.”

You try to squirm in his hold and he simply pulls your hair harder, making you yelp in pain.

“What do you propose, wolf?” Aemond asks, eyeing the two of you with masked interest.

“We can reach an agreement that would leave us all satisfied.”

The thing that was supposed to be a man hums, his one eye roams your ruined clothes as if he’s trying to imagine the shape of your naked body.

“Do you want to go home, little lamb?” He asks you, the fake gentleness of his voice opens a new abyss of fear in your heart.

“Yes. Just let me go.” You manage to respond with a broken voice.

“You have to give us something in return, red riding hood.” The monster behind you interjects. “A little quid pro quo, I’d say.”

You try to squirm away again, your hands useless against the thick fingers curling painfully in your hair.

“Service us both, and we’ll let you go unscathed.”

You spit in Aemond’s face, angry and foolish, he backhands you, your head turning painfully, blood pouring from your split lip.

“Or as unscathed as you deserve.” The monster behind you murmurs in your ear. “The name’s Osferth, you’re going to scream it a lot.”

You’re thrown face first on the wet grass of the clearing, before you can even imagine to escape, their hands find your ruined clothes, tearing at your hoodie and leggings, until you’re left in your pretty underwear.

“Playing so hard to get.” The one named Osferth grabs the ornate silk of your panties and rips it apart. “Wearing these!”

You want to say that use pretty underwear because it makes you feel good, not because you want to be fucked, they don’t give you the time, nor do they care.

They manhandle you, uncaring of your whines of pain and your tears of absolute terror at their strength that can tear you apart in a second of carelessness.

You’re sitting on Osferth’s face, his big paws keep you keeled with your legs framing his head, he’s fucking your hole with his abnormally long tongue, moaning at your taste, his claws biting at your skin when you try to move away, too overstimulated.

Your hands are tied behind your back, since you don’t need them now; they used your pretty bra to secure them, the knot painfully tight and impossible to loosen.

Aemond is fucking your skull with abandon. His thick erection lodged in your throat pulsates with every contraction of your walls, his hips grind against your face; dizzy you try to move away, needing the oxygen he’s depriving you of. He grunts like an animal, your desperate moans arouse him even more, your trashing in his hold spurs him on in keeping your face plastered against his groin as he grinds and grinds, in tandem with Osferth’s fucking of your hole.

You want to scream, you want to get away from the pleasure possessing your body, enhanced by the lack of oxygen. Your clit fires and fires with every movement of Osferth’s nose, his paws force you to grind against him again and again, until the knot in your stomach breaks, and you come.

Aemond’s cum sprouts in your mouth at the same time, uncoordinated you choke on it, feeling the seed leaking from your lips and nose as he keeps fucking you face, despite your coughing and trashing, until he pushes you backwards and sideways, letting your spent body fall on the grass.

You try to catch your breathe, pulling oxygen in with desperate gulps, hoping they’re sated.

They’re not.

Aemond cuts your bindings and roughly turns you on your back, his hands grab your legs before you can close them. Osferth’s paws grabs your wrists to pin them over your head, stilling your body.

“Please.” You cry, receiving a fast slap on your cunt.

“You’re a liar, little red riding hood. You came all over my face.” Osferth leers from your side. “You should try their cunt. It tastes delicious.”

Aemond has you legs already over his shoulders, opening the lower part of your body to his hunger; his fingers pry your lower lips apart, freeing your clit and hole.

“Little lamb, why pretend? I can see how much honey you gave Osferth. Wouldn’t it be better to enjoy yourself?”

You close your eyes, turning your head to the side in the vain attempt to ignore the pleasure still coursing through your body.

Aemond is ravenous between your legs, kissing and sucking your tender clit until you arch under him, desperate, coming when he bites the inside of your tight to pull ravenously at your blood. He alternates between playing with your bud and drinking your blood in greedy gulps, moaning at the combined taste.

Osferth is at your chest, sucking and pinching your breasts, enhancing the pleasure exploding throughout your body, keeping your still when you try to squirm away, praising the taste of your skin and the smell of your arousal.

You can feel pleasure grow again, a tight knot in your belly ready to break soon, so soon…

Aemond abandons your cunt abruptly, grinning cruelly when you whine in displeasure.

“Those first two orgasms were free. Now you have to work for them.”

He grabs his thick erection, so big you start begging him to stop, that it will not fit, please!

“We’ll make it fit.” Osferth growls, curling his paw even tighter around your trapped wrist.

“We never said you’ll go home in pristine condition.” Aemond adds, stroking his cock.

You arch when he enters you and doesn’t stop to let you adjust to his size; he simply grabs your tights and pushes in with long strokes, uncaring of your whines, drunk already on the way he has to mold your walls around his cock.

He bottoms out with a groan; because he can, he grinds against your pearl, forcing a pained moan from your lips.

“Stop lying.” Osferth’s fingers pinch your clit cruelly. “You’re dripping around Aemond’s cock.”

“Please.” You beg, desperate. “It hurts.”

“Then why do I have a ring of your come around my base? I can feel your muscles trying to pull me in even more.”

You feel so full, fuller than any other lover, or toy, had ever made you feel. As deep as he is, Aemond’s cockhead is kissing your cervix painfully, Osferth’s fingers keep pinching and slapping your clit, the sensations working havoc on your poor brain, pleasure and pain fighting as you arch and beg.

You squirt all over Aemond’s cock, and he almost comes inside of you.

“Tell us again you hate this. That you don’t want to be fucked full of our seeds until sunrise.” He groans.

He fucks you with abandon, short and fast pushes against your cervix that make you scream in pain and kick with your feet against his back. Uselessly you try to free you wrist, earning a slap that reopens the cut on your lower lip.

At the sight of your blood, Aemond folds your body under his to fuck you deeper, his cock head battering your g spot repeatedly, his pubic bone torture against your puffy clit. He sucks your blood and bites you again, hungry for you, drunk on your taste and on the way your cunt strangles his cock and doesn’t let it go, keeps him in the warmth of your hole, greedily works him for his seed.

“Going to pump you full, give you all of it.”

You squirt again with a desperate scream, and then come, the vice of your hole so tight Aemond can’t control himself and comes inside of you; he keeps fucking you, milking himself using your hole, until it hurts too much to continue.

You lay on your back, legs splayed and tummy inflated by Aemond’s seed; under you the grass is wet, the humidity makes you shiver as your unfocused eyes try to look at the vague shapes of the stars above you, your body trying to come down to the incredible high you’ve just, unwillingly, experienced.

A scared whine escapes your lips when Osferth crawls between your legs, his face an elongated muzzle not completely the one of a wolf, hovers over you, an almost kind sparkle illuminates his yellow eyes and the alien, vertical pupils.

“Shh, don’t be afraid, you were so good for Aemond. Are you going to be good for me as well?”

A small part of you wants to beg him not to take you, to simply let you go; you know perfectly he will not, you have to give him what he thinks it’s due.

Tears fall freely from your tears as you let him turn you on your front like a rag doll, your arse up in the air.

You feel the pinprick of his claws on the soft skin of your hips, the warm palms grab your arse to pull you towards his erection, his big head opening your abused cunt to yet another brutal round of fucking.

With your face on the wet grass, you scream when he pounds inside of you, Aemond’s leftover seed and your own wetness helping him in bottoming out with an animalistic grunt, the pain of it forcing a whined sob out of your lips.

Osferth’s warmth envelopes you when he lays with his front on your back to kiss your nape.

“You’re so pretty when you cry. It makes me want to never stop fucking you.” He growls in your ear.

Fear fills your senses and his nostrils. Your natural scent takes a tantalizing turn for the predator living inside of him, and for the one in Aemond, who is naked on the grass, his one eye focused on your bodies as he slowly caresses his own growing erection.

“Keep smelling like this and I will never be able to leave your holes be.”

His hands curl tighter on your skin, his talons cut deeper, long lines of blood already dripping down your skin as he prepares to take what your body is offering him.

Despite being fucked open by Aemond, your cunt envelopes his thick cock and pulls him in, your hips kick back in his hold, forcing him deeper and deeper with every movement, his cock agony and pleasure against your screaming nerves.

Your mind can’t comprehend what’s happening, torn between the part of you that still refuses this, and your body that craves every push, every scratch down your back: you let go and stop fighting, letting your instincts take control and follow Osferth wherever he wants to take you.

You come on his cock, the pleasure a backlash that courses through your body and takes even more control away from you as he fucks your cervix hard and fast, reveling in the screams pouring from your bleeding lips, only to shift and focus on your G spot with brutal efficiency.

Your strength abandons you as you feel another orgasm surge through your battered body; you can’t match his fast pushes and let yourself be moved on his cock, like a living, breathing fleshlight for his use.

He fucks you through your orgasm, grinding against your body when you squirm and cry with overstimulation, one big paw pushing on your lower belly and you’re too far gone to understand what he wants from you: all you can feel is the stretch in your cunt and how the pressure grows and grows in your lower tummy, until you squirt for him, who comes immediately, filling you with his thick cum, inflating your abdomen with it when he doesn’t slip out but stays to feel even the smallest contraction of your battered muscles.

You’re laying on him, his bigger body shielding yours from the cold earth and wet grass of the clearing; deprived as you are of any form of strength, you don’t have the willpower to stop his big hands from caressing your breasts, or move your head when he kisses your neck, almost apologetic after fucking you within an inch of your life.

Between your legs, Aemond is drinking from your again, his long canines opening the bite on your tight to pull at your essence; he’s not ravenous now, the sucking motions almost lazy, as if he needs the contact with your skin more than he does your blood.

Over the sensual and horrific tableau of your bodies entwined the silent stars shine against the dark backdrop of the night.

You whine again, in fear, when Aemond’s bloodstained face hovers over yours, the red of your essence a blotchy splash against the white of his skin and hair; your mind almost formulates the thought, that Aemond answers you with a calm voice.

“Why would we kill you? You’re servicing us so well.”

You become even more agitated at the thought he can read your mind, that you don’t have a safe space even within yourself; they try to ease you with long kisses and even slower caresses on your abused body, but you can feel how hard they still are, the hunger hiding under the gentleness they’re showing you.

You will not survive another round, you’re too sore! The mere idea of your body being at the receiving end of such brutal, violent energy makes your heart lose a beat.

Under you Osferth nuzzles your neck and licks it as a dog would: he can smell your fear, now a rancid smell that kills his desire. He wants to give you pleasure again, so much of it you’ll forget all about the way he’s met you and that will ruin you for any other male, of any other specie, you’ll ever encounter in your life.

“One last encore, little red, riding hood.” He murmurs in your ear, trying to ease you. “We were both charged by the hunt and the fighting. There’s no need for that anymore.”

Aemond kisses your lips, his tongue seeking yours to share your heady taste with you; you whine at the ferrous taste of your own blood, yet your hands grab his sides, your nails scratching his ivory skin.

When your lips part, his one lilac eye burns with hunger, and something else foreign to you. The slash of the scar cutting brutally the perfection of his face, seems to burn redder now that he’s drank from you.

Aemond’s big palm presses on your still inflated belly, forcing a moan out of your lips when their combines seeds seep out of your puffy lips.

“I wish it would take inside of you.” Aemond growls. “I would keep you filled and plugged with it until your body swells with it.”

You whine, your body already in overdrive in their combined embrace.

“It can’t happen.” Osferth nuzzles his words against your neck. “Neither of us can plant our seeds in your fertile womb.”

“Please.” You hiccup, unsure why you’re begging: the heat in both their voices scare and excite you.

“What is the phrase you mortals use? One last rodeo?” Aemond says. “Have us again and then you’ll free to go.”

“I’m so sore! Please not my cunt again!”

“Shh. Shh.” Aemond lays his forehead against yours.

In horror you feel his mind linking with yours to force you to relax; you’re a passenger in your own body who is watching in horror as your muscles follow the will of another.

You feel Osferth open your legs with his to push his cock inside of you, your cunt’s nerves protest, but it’s so far away it might as well be someone else’s hole that’s being ravaged again.

No! No! No! Screams your mind when Aemond grabs his own erection and breaches you as well. I’m going to tear! You want to scream, yet only a litany of moans spill as the two monsters fill you until they can’t push inside of you anymore.

You come back to your lungs breathing furiously, to so much pressure in your lower belly you don’t understand how your body is managing.

“See?” Aemond smiles over you, showing his long fangs. “All is good.”

He kicks his head back and moans when your muscles clench around their cocks reflexively.

“You’re so good.” Osferth whines under you, his control ready to snap.

“So full.” You whine.

“Such a perfect scabbard you are, little lamb.” Aemond adds.

If you thought you were full before, when they start moving you feel so stuffed your mind blanks at the signals your body is firing.

They try to go slow, to open you up even more, pushing and pulling in tandem, to never leave your hole empty; the more your cunt squelches with their seed and your own honey, the faster they go, fucking you like mindless beasts.

You scream in pleasure, the pressure overwhelming, yet your cunt seems to be insatiable for their cocks, your muscles desperately try to pull the two monsters in, until they fuck you at the same time, hitting all the spots that take your sanity away from you.

You lose count of your orgasms, lost in the sea of pleasure your body doesn’t belong to you anymore, it’s their plaything, their refuge. It’s theirs to fuck and pummel, spurred by the sweet honey coating both their cocks.

You whine in displeasure when they both desert your hole to manhandle you in a kneeling position, only to breach you again at the same time; you’re so lost it’s their bodies that keep yours from folding, your head lolled back on Osferth’s shoulder, your mouth agape to let animalistic sounds spill as you bounce on their erections, the pressure building inside of you like a tide that explodes when you squirt violently around them, their fingers finding your clit to prolong your pleasure, and it’s never too much, the thin line of overstimulation long gone behind you three.

“One last orgasm.” Aemond commands you.

“Come with us!” Osferth moans under you.

You whine and cry at the sky as they redouble their efforts, fucking you wildly, scratching and kissing your tired body with increased hunger, until you clench around them, forcing them to follow you into the precipice, both their cocks unloading inside your battered walls, their seeds leaking out as soon as they exit your hole and fall on the grass with you.

“Was it too much, issa mēre drēje jorrāelagon, my one true love?” Aemond asks concerned.

He knows you’re safe and warm, since Osferth is shielding you again from the rough terrain with his naked body; almost on instinct he has turned fully into his wolf man form, so that between the fur and the heighten body heath, you will not feel the bite of the cold while you come back to them.

“Nouh.” You slur, so very tired now.

You lift your hand as if to touch Aemond, and leave it hovering next to his cheek: despite the fact that he has fed fully multiple times in the past few days, in preparation for this scene, and that he has drunk from you, when you’re coming down from your high, you can’t stand how cold his undead body is. You know he needs the physical contact to be sure you’re all right, but that’s all you can offer him.

“You were perfect.” Osferth’s face is now a full wolf muzzle, his wet snout familiar and calming against your burning skin. “Did I throw you too hard against the tree trunk?” He asks, concerned of his own brutish strength against your frail body.

Tiredly you turn your head and kiss the side of his muzzle, butterfly kisses that tickle him.

“I… I don’t think so.” You answer, but you know you’ll need Ibuprofen in the next few days.

Aemond’s ivory body seems to glisten with sweat and all your combined fluids under the placid light of the stars. Slowly he unfolds his long body and heads to the tree where the backpack housing the warmest, thickest blanket of the house is hidden.

With care and love he helps Osferth bundle you in, until he can see only the small oval of your face.

“Can we do this again? Soon?” You ask, nuzzling Osferth’s neck.

“You need to recuperate, first.” He tells you. “Tonight was taxing on your body.”

“And you need to be good for us.” Aemond interjects. “Taking your time to build back your strength.”

You preen, feeling their love for you: they might not be human anymore, yet their feelings are stronger than the ones of any other person you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“It’s not a ‘no, though.” You giggle. “I really want to play the idea that you two never let me go home, and decided to keep me as your human plaything. Your shared chew toy.”

Through the mental link Aemond provides, you can feel how excited they both are by the idea of locking you in the play room until you use your safeword.

“And you have to hunt for me again.” You add. “Because I managed to escape and you want to punish me.”

Reflexively, Osferth’s paws curl around your body: you can’t say things like that when he’s still covered in your combined scents.

“You need to be extra good, if you want that little idea to pan out.” He says, trying to control the excitement in his voice.

“Or very, very naughty.” You giggle.

“I can assure you that is the best way to never live that little fantasy.” Aemond tries to warn you.

Who is he even trying to convince? One word from you and he folds like a deck chair. You know that, Osferth does as well that he lives to serve you.

“We need a nice, long bath.” He tells you. “Followed by a long napping session.”

Osferth looks at the sky.

“Sunrise is approaching.” He tells Aemond.

“I know. Take your time, I’m starting the fire and the water.” He answers.

Faster than any human ever could, he collects the shreds of all your clothes and pushes them in the old backpack. He cups your face, fancying he can feel your skin over the thick blanket, before he rushes home.

“Can we have a horror movie play as we nap? Please?”

“You can have anything you want. Do you want to hot cocoa and cinnamon cookies when you wake up?”

You don’t respond, already asleep, safe in his embrace.

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