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yeoningz · 20 days ago

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𝓑US𝓣 𝓨𝓞UR 𝓚N𝓔𝓔 𝓒A𝓟S 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 방찬

you can't seem to get away from your ex husband, no matter how hard you try.

⧼ 🩹 ⧽ 一 𝓹a𝓲r𝓲n𝓰 ⸝⸝⸝ ex husband!bang chan 𝓍 fem!reader 𝓲nc𝓵u𝓭e𝓼 ⚬ ⚬ ⚬ unnamed oc daughter

𝓰e𝓷𝓻e ⚬ ⚬ ⚬ non-idol au, smut, angst, porn with plot

𝔀arn𝓲n𝓰𝓼 ⸝⸝⸝ dubcon, street fighter and underground boxer!chan, criminal!chan, mentions of jail and gangs, graphic descriptions of blood and injury, toxic and possessive behavior, toxic ex!chan, manipulation, explicit language and sexual content, soft dom!chan, degredation and praise kink, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampies, dirty talk, breeding kink, impregnation mentions, clit slapping, daddy kink, squirting 𝔀𝓸r𝓭 c𝓸un𝓽. 6. 2 k | ⧼ 🥊 ⧽ 一 𝓽𝓸 𝓵i𝓫rar𝔂.

♫ 𝓫u𝓼𝓽 𝔂𝓸ur 𝓴nee ca𝓹𝓼 ❪ 𝓳o𝓱nn𝔂 𝓭on'𝓽 𝓵eave 𝓶e ❫ 一 𝓹𝓸m𝓹��am𝓸𝓸𝓼e

[n𝓸𝓽e𝓼.] my first fic on my new blog! something shorter to start out with <3 this took me a little too long to write i'm afraid since it's my first go at angst themes but i'm pretty proud of how this turned out! this isn't proofread, so please lmk if there are any mistakes! feedback is greatly appreciated <3

THE KNOCK ON THE door makes your heart fall to the pit of your stomach, cutting through the peaceful quiet of your kitchen like a knife. You drop the pot you were scrubbing in shock, clanging loudly as you grip the edges of the sink in a futile attempt to calm the pounding of your heart. At first you think— hope— that you were simply just hearing things, your little skyline apartment falling back into an uncertain silence sprinkled with the pouring rain outside, an atmosphere that no longer felt comfortable. But the knocking starts again, loud enough to be mistaken as thunder, ringing in your ears like alarm bells. You nearly jump out of your skin, your hands shaking as they reach out to turn off the water faucet. There’s only one person who would ever show up at your door this late at night, and you’ve done everything you possibly could to avoid him for the past four months.

It couldn’t possibly be him. It had to be someone else, your landlord or a neighbor or a maintenance man or anyone. You hadn’t told him your new address, hadn’t spoken to him since the day you packed up your daughter and what little you had and left him, never looking back. But you hadn’t called for maintenance, and you hadn’t heard from your landlord, and the way that his fist beat on the door as if it had somehow offended him was unmistakable.

You consider, for a split, mindless moment, that you could simply ignore him. He’s just a man, after all— a weak, spineless one at that, underneath that intimidating façade he loves to hide behind. He’ll give up and leave eventually, you try to convince yourself, but you know him far too well to fall into that blind hope. The knocking only gets louder and more aggressive to the point that you begin to worry that he’ll wake the baby.

The thought alone is enough to get your blood boiling, a red-hot anger overtaking any amount of fear or trepidation that kept you back. You refused to let this coward affect your daughter, wake her up without a single thought or care when you had just spent hours gently rocking her to sleep. Not after everything you’ve went through to keep him away from her.

You hurl the sponge into the sink with a scowl before spinning around and storming to the door. You wrench it open mid-knock, leaving the man on the other side of it standing there with his fist outstretched and blinking at you owlishly.

The sight of him shocks you to your core, despite how much you had tried to prepare yourself— blood drips into his bruised, swollen eye from a large cut on his forehead, just barely visible behind his wet hair sticking to his skin. The rain washes it away, down his chin to drip onto your welcome mat, staining it a faded red in the outline of his scuffed sneakers. He’s drenched down to the bone, the sharp ridges of his pecs and abs visible through his white tee shirt, the thin dark jacket he had draped across his shoulders doing little to protect him from the ever-worsening downpour. His dominant hand he curls protectively against his bloody abdomen; the knuckles are busted, and his pinky finger is twisted unnaturally to the side.

You look back up to his face just in time for him to flash you a weak, wobbly smile, a wounded ghost of the ones that used to send your heart soaring and fill your stomach with butterflies. His plump bottom lip is split down the middle, a jagged crater that threatens to open even further with every movement he made.

“Hey.” he croons, dropping his fist to his side, pained little smile dropping into more of a wince.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” you hiss venomously, praying to any god that would listen that he couldn’t tell how badly you were shaking. “How the fuck did you get my address? Go away before I call the cops. I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.”

“Come on, baby, wait—” you try to slam the door shut, but he catches it with ease, and even one-handed he’s stronger than you could ever hope to be.

“Don’t fucking call me that, Christopher. Answer my question.” You sneer, biting back hot, painful tears.

If any of your words hurt him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he extends his wounded hand, prying open his fingers with some effort to present you a bloody, crumpled wad of bills.

“For her.” He says simply.

Your eyes rake over the bills as if they were alien, hardly able to muster up the breath needed to scoff at him incredulously. “I don’t want your dirty money.”

You had a sneaking suspicion of just exactly where he had gotten that money from, it was written all over his busted, bleeding face— under no circumstances would you line your pockets with the bettings from street fights, feed and clothe your daughter with money that people had shed blood for. You had told him this when you had left him, given him the choice to leave it all behind or lose everything.

He chose the streets, and you kept your promise.

Yet you don’t have the strength to slam the door in his face, no matter how much you ached with the desire. Chan keeps the bills outstretched, the blood-smeared faces printed on them winking up at you, taunting you.

“Who told you where I live.”

“…A friend. Please, just take it.” He whispers, just short of begging. “I know how badly you need it. He told me you were struggling.”

“You don’t know anything.” you spit, but there’s no fire behind your words anymore. The rain has put it out, left you defeated, feeling betrayed, admiring how the streaks of lightning illuminate Chan’s hunched over silhouette. Your mind wracks itself for whichever one of his goons could have possibly caught sight of you, but you come up empty. You fear he may have found you through an inside source.

Thunder booms in the distance, much like your heart. The helpless, desperate look in Chan’s big brown eyes sends the rest of your defenses crumbling to dust.

he tries to shuffle his way inside, and you let him— everything inside of you yells at you to stop him, shove him away and close the door, never to look at him again. But you don’t. You slide submissively to the side, open the creaking door open further for him to step into your living room. No matter how hard you try to convince your muscles to move or your mouth to open and retort, all you can do is stand frozen by the door, watching with wide eyes as he drips blood onto the carpet.

He tosses the stack of cash onto the coffee table, the bills unfurling and flying everywhere. You count six, maybe seven million won, all those zeroes staring up at you as your mouth goes agape.

You had been losing sleep for days over having to tell your landlord that you would be late on rent for the third time this year. Somehow, you feel like Chris knows that, though it was impossible to tell how— it brought you back to all the times before where you swore that he could read your mind.

It seems that he still could, even out in those dark alleyways, on the other side of the city. Tethered to him. Just what you were afraid of.

“You’re getting blood everywhere,” you finally manage to say, your usually strong voice timid and weak. “at least let me clean you up.”

Mindlessly, you scamper back to your kitchen, bending down to rummage through the cabinet beneath the sink. your first aid kit was still in there somewhere, hidden behind a mountain of cleaning supplies and spare bottles, something from your old life that you had held on to just in case. It was as if you were moving in a trance, just sheer muscle memory, the situation all too familiar; you couldn’t count the amount of times Chan had come home just like this before, back when you were still together, beaten and staggering but grinning victoriously as you carefully clean and bandage him up. It used to excite you, even, in some sick, dark way. He never lost a fight.

But that was before you had gotten pregnant. Before the danger that lurked beneath the surface of your husband’s lifestyle creeped up on you and became all too real.

“I’m fine.” Chan replies gruffly, though the pain in his voice suggests otherwise. “I just want to see my baby girl.”

Your fingers freeze around the first aid kit, all the heat and color draining from your face. “You’re not seeing her.”

“You can’t keep me from her.” Chan replies coldly. “She’s my daughter, too.”

You jump to your feet so fast that your vision goes fuzzy, spinning around to watch with wild eyes as he balances his good hand on the wall and limps his way to the nursery. You hate how he still remembers where it is.

He smears a trail of blood across your tattered wallpaper. The sight of it shocks you into action.

“You get away from her!” You snarl, nearly leaping across the dining table to grab onto the sleeve of Chan’s jacket. “Don’t you dare go anywhere near her!”

He shoves you off effortlessly, his sheer strength nearly sending you flying back against the wall. “Stop acting like I’m going to hurt her.” He growls, making it to the nursery door in the time it takes for you to regain your senses. “You know I’d never let anyone lay a single fucking finger on her.”

He quietly cracks the door open and steps inside, leaving you to follow him biting your tongue— you can’t bear the thought of her waking up, especially now with Chan in the room. She hasn’t seen her father since she was born, and that was only because he had forced his way inside of the delivery room. He was essentially a stranger to her.

And, quite frankly, how she might react if she lays eyes on him again scares the shit out of you.

Chan staggers to the crib, quiet as a mouse, his large frame bending over the railings to look down into it. Your daughter lay on the mattress peacefully asleep, her little chest rising and falling with her soft, steady breaths. You’ve stared at her for hours before, studying every freckle, every wispy eyelash that brushed against her rosy, round cheeks. The way her nose is already starting to look like her father’s, his dimples forming around the upturned corners of her dainty little lips, always giving the impression that she was enjoying her dreams. Whatever they were, you took some comfort in knowing that they were, they’re better than what waits for her when she opens her eyes.

Chan is nothing short of entranced, grabbing ahold of the crib’s railings with both hands, so tightly that his cracked knuckles were threatening to split back open. He gazes at her sleeping little form with a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before— a fire burning, but not one that hurt or destroyed. Not anything like the fire in his eyes you were used to. It was one that warmed and protected, the watchful, dutiful stare of a weathered knight in armor.

Something warm and heady swirls in your gut, unwelcome but in no way unpleasant. You fixate on his face, unable to look away, and watch awe-stricken as your ex-husband refamiliarizes himself with his daughter’s face.

“She’s grown.” He whispers, undoubtedly able to feel you breathing over his shoulder. His voice is flat and lifeless, but it starts to break at the end— he blinks hard, and you swear for a second that you saw his eyes shiny with tears.

“Oh, she’s a monster.” You reply easily, the rampant emotions swirling around in your head calming down at the sight of your baby peacefully sleeping. Talking about her is soothing, almost therapeutic. “Always hungry. The doctor says she’ll be nearly nine kilograms by the time she’s six months.”

“My little girl… she was so tiny in my arms…” Chan laments, lowering his eyes to look down at his hands. It was like he was looking at someone else’s, shocked by the dirty, bloodied state of them. He suddenly wrenches them from the railings and shoves them in his soaked jacket pockets, the act causing him to grimace with pain. In the peripherals of your vision, you see faint bloody fingerprints smeared across the white wood.

You struggle to keep your voice calm. “She’s gotten so big so fast… it feels like that day was just yesterday.”

Chan’s gaze hardens and grows cold again, his head spinning to stare you down with an ironclad sharpness. “Not to me!” he spits, gritting his jaw. “Not when you wouldn’t let me ever fucking see her, wouldn’t tell me where you were, how you were doing. I’ve been looking for you two for months. How am I supposed to keep you safe, my baby safe? I had to track my family down like dogs. What kind of mother keeps a father away from their child?”

Your shoddy mask of calmness cracks, red hot anger flaring back up again and rising to the surface. Your voice trembles terribly, but the disgust in your words is palpable. “She’s not your fucking baby, Chris! That’s my baby. Mine. You made that call before she was even born. You’re not her family, you’re hardly even her father— you’re nothing to her.”

The last comment strikes a chord within him. He stalks towards you, his dark eyes boring into yours, all that stormy emotion churning in them focusing directly onto you. Chan isn’t exceptionally tall, but you feel so incredibly small underneath him; he looms over you like some kind of predator, his lip curling back into a nasty snarl. “I’m nothing to her because you made it that way.” He seethes, his deep voice growing louder and louder. “Don’t you ever try to put it in my baby’s head that I don’t love her. Stop trying to convince yourself, for fuck’s sake— you both are absolutely everything to me, you know that. Everything that I do is for our future.”

You scoff. “If you really care that much about “our future”, you would have stopped this. Fighting for these clubs. The racing, the gangs. You would have listened to me and left it all behind, gotten a real job. Show me that you actually give a shit and aren’t just blowing smoke up my ass. You’re addicted to this, all of it. It’s sick.”

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” Chan sneers, shoving his face up against yours. “You just can’t get it into your dumb, pretty little head. What kind of “real job” is gonna take an ex-con? Even if they do, I wouldn’t make nearly as much money as I can out on the streets. All I want to do is provide for you and our daughter; can’t you see that? I’m doing what I have to do to survive. My own future is fucking ruined. You two are all I have left.”

“And you’ll ruin ours too!” you laugh incredulously, directly in his face. “With all your blood money and all the enemies you make. You’re going to get arrested and locked up again, destroy mine and my daughter’s lives— fuck, you’ll get us all fucking killed! What if someone you beat wants revenge?! These are dangerous people, Chris!”

“That’s what I’m trying to protect you from!!” Chan roars, slamming his fist against the crib’s guardrail. His voice and the loud thump startles you, all three of you— you and Chan both peer down into the crib to see your daughter’s peaceful sleeping face screw up, her mouth opening to let out a shrill wail as she kicks out her little chubby legs.

Chan’s face falls, all the bitterness and anger leaving his body in a rush, like he had a bucket of cold water poured over the head. He looks the part, anyway, still dripping wet from the rain, tearing his eyes away from your own to stare down at your daughter as if she were a ghost. Your rage overtakes you to the point it can no longer contain it, your entire body shaking as you manage to grit out two icy words;

“Get out.”

Surprisingly, he does. He takes one last long look at your fussing daughter before slowly turning and shuffling out of the nursery. Your eyes bore holes into his back as he retreats, expecting him to turn around at any moment with some more nasty words to sling your way… but he never does. He stays completely silent as he shoulders open the door, doesn’t even turn to look back at you as it clicks shut behind him.

Part of you wants to follow him, chase him out snarling and snapping like some guard dog, but your daughter’s frightened little cries tug painfully at your heart strings. Tears of your own pool in your eyes as you carefully lift her out of her cot and snuggle her against your chest, soothing your hand down her quivering back as she hiccups into your sweater. “Shhh, it’s okay… you’re safe, Mommy’s got you…”

You rock her until she falls asleep again, fighting the entire time not to break out into sobs yourself, and when you finally place her back down into her crib and slip out of the nursery, you’re not at all surprised to see Chan still in your apartment, hunched over on the couch with his head in his hands.

Your apartment looks like a fucking crime scene. For the first time tonight you’re able to take everything in, all the blood dripped on the floor and smeared on the walls. All the muddy shoeprints and puddles of rainwater. The cabinets under the sink are still swung open, your first aid kit left forgotten on the kitchen floor.

You don’t have the energy to be mad at Chan anymore, your gaze lingering back on his weathered frame. You don’t have the energy to feel anything except empty. Depleted.

Wordlessly, you pick the first aid kit off the floor and make your way to Chan. He lets you cup his face without a fight, raise it out of his hands so you can dab an alcohol pad against the cut on his forehead. The sting makes him wince, but he doesn’t try to move away, looking up at you with eyes full of stars as you wipe away the dried blood from his skin. The dim lamp by the couch cast dark shadows across his handsome face, bathing him in a sensual, intimate light. You can’t bear to look back into them, the way they make your heart twist painfully in your chest, deep chocolate brown so effortless to get lost in. You busy yourself with bandaging up his forehead, and then his lip, and then his busted hand.

“Why are you doing this?” Chan whispers softly, the question making you stop in your tracks.

“I… don’t know.” You admit after a long pause. You do it without thinking, just like when he first stepped inside. Your natural response after seeing him hurt so many times before, playing nurse while he boasts to you about his triumphs, fills you with empty promises and proclamations of love. Your hero, swearing to you that you were his savior. Everything in you still aches to soothe him, heal his wounds and numb his pain, be his guardian angel like you used to be before his suffering became your own.

If he were addicted to the fighting, you would be addicted to what came after.

“I know you still love me.” Chan professes boldly, a wild spark in his eye. “I know you do, baby— you know I love you too. More than anything. Why won’t you let this— us—work? Why are you trying to run away from me?”

Your fingers pause in the middle of wrapping up his knuckles in gauze, quivering slightly as you let out an agonized sigh. “It’s not about whenever or not I love you, Chris. I have to put our daughter first. I have to make sure she’ll be safe and happy.”

You barely manage to finish bandaging up his hand, your knotting work far from the best. The minute you let go of him he pulls you right back, his big hands enveloping yours and squeezing tightly. “She will be, I promise. I’ll keep both of you safe, never let anything happen to either of you— I’ve got the means to keep you protected no matter what happens. You’re my everything… I’m so lost without you.”

His bandaged hand slides up to caress your cheek, his skin so bitterly cold. “Channie…” you warn, but you’re the weakest you’ve been all night. Chan can see it in your eyes.

“I was so fucking worried about you.” He continues softly, hushed like he was kneeling for confession. “I’ve missed you so bad… please, baby, don’t ever leave me like that again.”

Breaking feels a lot like letting go. Dropping all your fear and worry, any semblance of rational thought to finally allow yourself to nuzzle into Chan’s touch. He knows you too well, always knows exactly what to say to get your walls to come crashing down, what to do to when the smoke clears and you’re left defenseless amongst the rubble. Because, underneath all the piling resentment and hatred, the divorce, the distance you’ve been fighting for, you truly do still love him. You fear you always will.

Your eyes flutter closed as you bask in Chan’s affection, preen under his loving gaze and delight in the way he cradles you as if you were made of glass— you feel so precious yet so fragile, yielding to a man strong enough to shatter you completely, leave you nothing but a pile of dust and broken shards.

You’ve never felt safer.

“God, you’re so pretty…” he whispers awestruck, under his breath almost as if he were talking to himself. His thumb maps out the curve of your cheekbone, down, down, down to your pliant, pouting lips. The pad of it is hardened and calloused, rough against the soft skin of your bottom lip, but the sensation leaves you aching for more; you open your eyes to bat your eyelashes up at him, open your mouth to invite his thumb to creep inside.

The flash of carnal, animalistic lust in his eyes sends a wave of liquid fire coursing through you, down your spine to where it pools heavy in your belly. You purse your lips around his thumb and suck it in deeper, hollowing your cheeks as if you were sucking on something else entirely. Chan groans deep in his chest, his other fingers curling tight around your chin to pull you towards him. “Fuck. Come here, babygirl.”

You surge forward to capture your lips with his, and he meets you halfway; the pillow softness of his lips are hauntingly familiar against yours, yet somehow they feel completely brand new, like uncharted territory in a land you’ve ventured in countless times before. Any chastity is quickly tossed to the side with the heady sensation of his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, the warmth in your belly heightening into a wild swirl. You’re shocked by your own eager response, opening up immediately to let him ravish your mouth with a forceful domination that left you weak. He pulls you effortlessly onto his lap, your legs spreading to wrap instinctively around his waist, the closeness of your bodies maddening. Your blood pounded in your ears, leapt from your heart with a scalding fire, and made your body tremble, senses reeling as if you had short-circuited. Clashing emotions whirled around in your head, but your consciousness had left you the minute your lips made contact with his. All you can think of is how passionately Chan devoured you, the force of his kiss almost punishing, like a soldering heat that bonds metal. Yet it felt like anything but a punishment, doused in a honeyed sweetness that called to you like a drug, dragged you under the waves of dreamy tenderness, filled your head with thoughts of how good it would feel to let yourself drown.

You kiss him back with reckless abandon, hands reaching out to hold him, anywhere you possibly can— the wispy hairs at the base of his neck, the worn leather of his jacket, the grooves of his defined muscles through the fabric of his wet tee shirt. He crushes you against him, swallows you within his big beefy arms, one of his hands running down the small of your waist to grab a fat handful of your ass. You gasp against his mouth as his touches grow bolder, massaging the globes of your ass and guiding your hips to glide against his. The outline of his half-hard cock pokes at you through his jeans, growing thicker and stiffer with every passing second, pressed perfectly against the curve of your cunt. Your sleep pants are thin enough to where it feels like you’re wearing nothing at all, and when Chan cants his hips up his bulge grinds right against your clit. He does it again, and again, until you’re squirming helplessly against him, panting and moaning into his mouth.

“Chan, we can’t do this…” you manage to stutter out between kisses, the reality of the situation finally beginning to dawn on you again. But Chan ignores your plea, his lips leaving yours to sear a path down your neck and shoulders. He nibbles at your skin, kisses the pulsing hollow at the base of your throat, distracting you enough to slide one of his hands to cup your pussy.

“Yes we can.” He croons against your heated skin, hot tongue escaping between his lips to lick a tantalizing stripe up your neck. “I can feel how wet this pussy is, baby, how needy you are for me. Just let me in, princess, let me take care of you…”

He slides his fingers down your covered slit, your clothes sticking to your mound with your sopping juices, drenched to the point you can’t possibly hide your arousal. Your engorged clit aches, empty hole clenches around nothing… you whimper pathetically in defeat.

“Come on, say it. Say you want me.”

You really were nothing but an addict. Addicted to the power he holds over you.

“fuck, oh f-fuck— right there!”

Chan knows every single spot inside of you to make you scream, his thick cock hitting each one expertly with each of his powerful thrusts. The angle he has you bent in makes you see stars, his big rough hands clasped tight around your ankles to push your legs up against your chest and spread you wide open— he’s never fucked you this roughly before, his feet planted on the mattress to pound into you animalistically, but even then there’s still a bitter tenderness to the way he holds you up against him, gazes down at you in rapture as you fall apart beneath him.

“Yeah? Right there?” He coos, deep Aussie accent dripping with poisoned honey, “Feel me all the way in your tummy, baby? Feel this fat cock splitting you open? Fuck, you’re so tight, sucking me in. Greedy little cunt.” He lets go of one of your ankles to press down on the bulge he’s made in your belly, your trembling leg curling over his shoulder in ecstasy as the pressure in your core increases.

“So deep!” you hiccup stupidly in reply, fisting the sheets as your world explodes and shatters behind your eyelids. His bulbous cockhead slams repeatedly against your cervix in a punishing rhythm, so deep inside of you that you mindlessly fear that he’s pushed through and was fucking your womb. “Deep! S-so fucking big!”

Chan growls like a beast, his efforts doubling in speed and intensity, “Missed this cock, didn’t you, princess? God, listen to how fucking wet you are. Hear how badly this cunt needed me?”

He emphasizes his claim with a particularly harsh thrust, your pussy squelching obscenely around him and filling your dark, quiet bedroom with loud, filthy noises. “C’mon, tell Daddy how badly you missed this.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you worry that you’ll wake up the baby again. Chan fucks you loudly and shamelessly, like he doesn’t care that your daughter sleeps in the room just across the hall... the thought reignites your anger. You want to accost him, defy him, tell him that you didn’t miss him at all. That you weren’t desperate for him to make you cum and finally leave you satisfied after months of frustration. That you didn’t think of him at night when you played with yourself, or when you took another man to your bed, because as much as it agonizes you no other man has ever made you feel as good as he does. But you couldn’t string the words together, could hardly even think with how pleasure coursed through every fiber of your being. Besides, Chan knows when you’re lying.

“M-missed your c-cock,” you admit between whimpers and moans, your face burning with shame and arousal. “M-missed Daddy’s cock so fucking much, needed it so bad— oh, fuck, Chris, Daddy, please—!”

Chan snatches your hips and tugs you roughly towards him, lifting your bottom half up off the bed to fuck into you impossibly deeper. Your mouth falls open in a gasp of sweet agony, arching your back and tossing your head against the pillows. The show of sheer strength gets you impossibly wetter, your juices coating his heavy balls as they clap wetly against your ass. “Good pussy.” He grunts, his fingers digging bruising indents into the flesh of your waist. “Love this pretty little pussy— gonna fuck it ‘til it’s molded to my cock. Gonna ruin you for anyone except for me. This cunt belongs to me, doesn’t it, baby? God, look at you… taking it like such a good girl.”

His words make your head spin, a searing need building in your core, molten lava beneath your skin heating your thighs and groin. It feels divine, better than you ever remember… but it’s not enough to send you over the edge, give you that release you crave so desperately. “Need more,” you keen, “More, Daddy, please!”

“Greedy girl.” Chan chuckles darkly, the sound going straight to your cunt. “Tell me what you need, baby, and I’ll give it to you.”

You can’t respond, fucked so stupid you don’t know what you’re begging for— Chan tsks like he’s disappointed, letting go of your hips with one hand to grab a rough fistful of your hair. He tugs your head up to look at him, dark eyes dripping with lust and delicious dominance; you struggle to keep your eyes open, your vision swimming and your eyelids drooping from the onslaught of pleasure Chan continues to pound into you. “Too dumb on cock to speak? C’mon, pretty girl, tell Daddy what you want him to do to you.”

He tugs on your hair again, pain erupting across your scalp. It blends with your pleasure to create a heady, dizzying cocktail of ecstasy. You cry out in delight, letting go of the bedsheets to scramble for something sturdier to hold on to, ground you— your hands find purchase on your own tits, bouncing with Chan’s thrusts, and you knead the plump flesh with a wanton sob, your fingers twisting and pinching at your nipples hard enough to make you shake.

“My clit!” you finally manage to whimper out, broken and pathetic. “My clit, my clit— touch me, touch my clit, please!”

He does as he promised, leaning back to spit messily on your clit before letting go of your hair to circle the bud with his thumb. Your head falls back limply onto the pillows, hazy eyes rolling back in your head as you sob and hiccup in uncontrollable pleasure.

“Gettin’ close, babygirl? I can feel it, pussy squeezing me so tight— I’m close too, fuck, gonna cum so fucking deep inside of you!” Chan’s thrusts grow sloppy, his chest heaving as he pants open-mouthed like a dog. “How about that, hm? Want me to put another baby inside of you? So everyone knows not to touch what’s mine? I’ll breed this pussy so fucking full you’ll be dripping my cum for days…”

His words should scare you, should break whatever spell he’s put you under and have you begging him to pull out. But you’ve slipped away from reality, floating mindlessly in an erotic fantasy you’ve convinced yourself is too good to be true. You don’t want to wake up, don’t want to think about what lies ahead of you once Chan leaves your bed once again. You babble and beg for his cum, for him to bring you to your own climax, scratching deep red marks into his chest. They look at home amongst all the bruises.

“Tell me you love me.” Chan grunts abruptly, the rhythm of his thrusts slowing down to barely moving, his cock dragging along your gummy walls deliciously buy far too slowly.

You blink up at him in shock and confusion. “H-huh?”

“Tell me you love me and I’ll make you cum.” He repeats, his eyes boring into yours, a knowing look in his eyes like he can see into your soul. “I love you so much, and I’m gonna show it with all this cum I’m gonna pump into this sweet cunt… don’t you love me too? Just say it and I’ll give you what you want, what you need…”

You’re just on the precipice of orgasm, teetering on the edge but unable to push yourself over, and your poor heart feels so exposed and raw… you can’t help but relent to him, succumb to his desires like you always do.

“I love you! I-I love you, Channie, Daddy, love you s-so much— ah!!”

His hips pick up to a speed that seems nearly superhuman, rutting into you wildly like an animal in heat as he grunts and groans, pinches your clit hard between his thumb and forefinger to make you scream. It feels so good, too good, and big watery tears roll down your cheeks as your body begins to vibrate with your orgasm. You’ve never cried during sex before.

“Let go, my love.” Chan croons, slapping your clit lightly. “Let it all out…”

Your orgasm hits you like a tsunami, a tidal wave of explosive hysteria— with a shriek you squirt everywhere, all over Chan’s hand, belly, thighs, creamy droplets flying with every nasty wet thrust. Your gummy walls spasm around his cock, sucking him in deeper as if to ensure you milk him dry. “That’s it, babygirl, cum for daddy!” Chan howls, intent on talking you through it even as he creeps closer and closer to climax himself. “Fuck yes, such a good girl, making a mess for me— gonna cum now, too, gonna breed this pussy! Ready for it? Gonna take it all, right princess?”

“Yes! Yesyesyes, please, please! Give it to me, daddy!”

He shoots his load deep inside of you with an animalistic growl, hot and thick painting your walls creamy white. It feels never ending, fat cock twitching with every spurt of seed he dumps into your womb, filling you up so much that thick globs of it spills out around him and drips down his balls to mix with the puddle forming on the soaked bedsheets. His legs give out and he collapses against you, gasping for breath with his face buried in your chest; you wrap your weak, trembling arms around his neck, and the two of you dissolve into breathless giggles as you slowly grind against each other ride out your highs. When Chan finally pulls out you see a foamy white ring around the base of his softening cock, sticking in his pubes.

You can feel your spent cunt leak his seed, dripping down your ass— Chan stares at in in awe, his fingers sliding up your sensitive folds to collect it and push it back inside.

“So beautiful…” he whispers, grinning as he admires your creamy bred pussy. His fingers at your hole makes you whimper in overstimulation, and you try to close your legs and squirm away, making him laugh. His eyes crinkle in that adorable way you hate to love so much. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t have the heart to make him leave, not when he runs you a warm bath and cleans you up so nicely. Not when he strips the bed and changes the sheets for you so you can lay comfortably, holding you close and whispering sweet nothings into your hair. Not as he promises to you that he’ll change, that he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you in his arms, that white picket fences are just over the horizon. You feel weightless, floating, satisfied… and that makes you feel sick.

S𝒯RA𝒴 K𝒾DS 𝒯A𝒢L𝒾S𝒯 ⪼ @enigmaticaphrodite , @jellymochii , @dwaekkicidal , @11vr1 , @yunverie, @arcturus444, @love-ning

to join my taglist, please fill out my google form here, or send me an ask!

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felassan · 3 months ago

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Lucanis and Crows snippets, under a cut due to spoilers.

How would Viago and Teia react to a Crow Rook being romantically involved with Lucanis? "Teia is going to plan the wedding, and insist that Viago give Rook away at the ceremony. Viago will sigh dramatically, lecture Rook about it, and then spend a week picking out the right gloves to wear." [source]

If Illario wasn't locked away, how would he react? "Under any circumstances, Illario would be upset since it's a whole lot of attention that's STILL not on him. He would definitely get drunk at the reception and tell the same two most embarrassing stories about Lucanis over and over until Viago knocked him out and put him upstairs." [source]

With Rook romancing Lucanis, is it possible that Spite could become affection or benevolence? "Spite's basic aspect is defiance. He can be more or less difficult depending on influence (rebellion vs. vindictiveness, etc), but at his core he's always going to be a spirit of "NOPE"" [source]

Lucanis' mother was the heir apparent to House Dellamorte [source]

Does Spite have any kind of feeling about Rook? "Spite is fond of Rook in his own Spite-like way. He and Lucanis agree on the point of trusting Rook over and above other people or themselves. He does go to Rook for help with Lucanis, after all." [source]

For the Lion King reference in Murder of Crows, Mary Kirby went to the cinematic animators and described it as Illario's "Scar at Pride Rock" scene [source]

User: "I cut Lucanis' hair and shaved his beard and I almost feel like I should apologise to him" / Mary Kirby: "Now he can't tell himself from Illario, and you've given them both a complex." [source]

Teia and Viago were half-written by Mary Kirby and half-written by Luke Kristjanson [source]

Lucanis likes his coffee black [source]

Would he judge your coffee order? "As long as it's not boiled, or instant coffee, or whatever that stuff from a can is, he's fine with it. Or at least, he will only judge you silently for it." [source]

What kind of treats does Lucanis like? "Sweet, because it goes better with his coffee. Savory, if somehow he is NOT drinking coffee at that moment." [source]

Lucanis grew his beard and long hair while in the Ossuary. "He hasn't exactly had a haircut in a while." [source, two].

Would Lucanis make Powerpoint presentations about jobs or to talk? "No, he doesn't want to talk to anyone, let alone explain things and present them. That's 300% an Illario thing. That man has a powerpoint to introduce his powerpoint about why you should listen to his powerpoint." [source]

"Lucanis would never be on social media. He'd be on YouTube watching videos of people restoring rusty cutlery with no dialogue until four in the morning." [source] Could he tell when content is manufactured? "Yes. And he gets upset and finds Bellara or Neve (whichever is unluckier) to rant about it." [source]

Lucanis' favorite stove burner? Right front [source]

"Spite doesn't have any concept of physical appearances. It looks the way Lucanis sees himself. Lucanis is never relaxed, even in casual wear." [source]

Along with Lucanis Mary Kirby also wrote Spite [source]

Mary Kirby wrote Illario, Luke Kristjanson wrote the Crow faction quests [source]

Lucanis' perfect date night? "I'm gonna be honest: There is a non-zero chance it would involve assassinating somebody and getting coffee, and I'm not entirely certain which would come first." [source]

Lucanis "has so much [trauma] to sort through, and he could really use some help. Like, a Marie Kondo level of help with that." [source]

What sparks joy for Lucanis? "Coffee, paella, wyverns, knives, REDACTED, book club, REDACTED, revenge..." [source]

Lucanis is older than Illario by a few months [source]

How did Spite feel watching Lucanis fumble after the near-kiss moment with Rook? "Confused. Spite, like most demons, doesn't really get emotions outside its domain. Not doing something that someone clearly wants you to do should make you happy! I mean, honestly, what's better than that, except maybe revenge?" [source]

Did Spite interact much with Manfred? "We wrote a bunch of interactions between them, though I have no idea how many made it in." [source]

Update:

What are the names of Lucanis' parents? / "I didn't give them names, and in the event that Lucanis comes back in a later game, I don't want to hand out info that might just get contradicted by his next writer. (If I don't answer a lore question for him, this is probably why. I don't want to write checks someone else has to cash.)" [source]

What is Mary's take on Spite's possible involvement or lack thereof in Rook and Lucanis' relationship? / "Honestly, I don't know, and that's a question his next writer might explore? Where do your pent-up feelings of frustration go when you're happy? What does an emotion like defiance even understand about love? (I think that's fun to think about, but your mileage may vary.)" [source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #<- this is my spoiler tag #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #alcohol cw #dragon age 5

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louiseolivier · 3 months ago

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08x06 Delulu

Tevan are at the Italian restaurant. The Hot Waiter flirts with Buck. Buck's kinda oblivious. He unintentionally flirts back. Buck pays this time, and inside the folder with his card and receipt is Hot Waiter's phone number. Buck is a little weirded out because he feels like it's obvious he and Tommy are on a date.

For the most part, Tommy watches Buck and Hot Waiter's interaction in amusement. He jokes whether Buck is he's going to call him, and Buck is taken aback. Then Tommy gets serious.

"We haven't really talked about the kind of relationship you want."

Buck's confused. "What does that mean?"

"Just that there's more than one way to be in a relationship. I've been in a couple that were open."

"Open?"

"We were allowed to sleep with other people."

"I know what it means, Tommy. Is that what you want?"

"I want you to be happy. I want you to know I'm amenable to that if you're interested. Truth be told, Evan, the most important thing is that you're in my life, whether we’re together or not.

Suddenly, the Ironside siren goes off in Buck’s head, and he’s spiraling.

Tommy clasps his hand and looks at him like he’s the goddamn sun, moon, and stars. “Think about it. It’s not like it’s something you have to decide today.”

Cue Buck, going to Bobby. “I don’t know what to tell you, Buck, but I’ve seen you two together. I don’t think breaking up is something Tommy is even thinking about. The other stuff...you should talk to Tommy. Be upfront. Be honest.

Cue Buck, going to Maddie. “Buck, he kissed you while you were still covered in boils. I saw that with my own eyes and wished I hadn’t. I don’t want to put words in his mouth, but he does seem very committed to you. And to be perfectly honest, the open relationship doesn’t sound like something he’d suggest out of thin air. Maybe you said something...”

“You’re blaming me? Come on, Maddie! You know damn well that’s not how I roll. I slept around, yeah, but not while I was in a relationship - and don’t you dare bring up Taylor! Besides, an agreed upon “open” means consensual. I just - how did I miss that this was something he was interested in? Why would he wait six months to bring it up?”

A sound of disgust emanates from the corner of the call center's breakroom, and the Buckley siblings' heads swivel to its location. Josh is sitting at a table, sipping his coffee and rolling his eyes. “You sweet naive baby bi.” He gets up from his chair, sidles up to Buck, and eyes the donuts he brought for Maddie. “I don’t suppose there's a Bavarian cream in there?”

“There’s a jelly,” Buck says.

“But jellies are my favorite,” Maddie complains.

“Too bad. I’m about to help your chaotic brother out, so I deserve it.” Josh bites into the donut and gives an appreciative moan. “Oh god, I haven’t had refined sugar in three days. How I missed you.”

“Back to me, please,” Buck says with a whine.

“Look, it’s pretty simple. There are only two types of guys who want to open up a relationship after the six-month mark. Assholes carrying multiple red flags or..”

“Tommy’s not an asshole,” Buck tells him firmly.

“Considering he’d whittle a rocking chair if you asked him to, I’d agree. Buck, my guess is he’s scared. He's worried that if he doesn't give you a free pass, that you'll get bored with him and leave.”

“That’s so stupid,” Buck cries in dismay.

Maddie lays a supportive hand on his bicep.

“It is,” Josh agrees. “But just because your man is a solid L.A. nine doesn’t mean he’s not carrying around a lot of insecurities. Talk to him. Tell him. And hey, if it all blows up on you, send him my way. I’d love to be that man’s shoulder to cry on.”

Buck shows up at Tommy’s door. Tommy is supposed to come to his after finishing his laundry, but Buck doesn’t want to wait that long. “Hey,” Tommy greets him with that scrunchy smile Buck loves so much.

“I don’t want to have sex with anyone else,” Buck tells him as he barges through the door.

“Oh-kay,” Tommy says, closing the door behind Buck.

“Do you want to have sex with other men?”

Tommy crosses his arms, and his head tilts towards the ground. “No. I’ve come to learn that’s not an ideal situation for me.”

Buck scoffs. “Then why suggest it?”

The buzzer on the washer goes off, and Tommy moves towards it to switch out the load. “I don’t know. I’m pretty used to you flirting with everyone.”

“You think I flirt?”

“Evan, you told the waiter you liked his chinos while eyeing his ass. Most of the time, I think it’s cute how you rile people up without realizing it, but then I have a thought like, what if Hot Waiter would be a better match for you? So I panicked and threw out that suggestion.”

“Jesus, Tommy. For the past six months, my brain has been consumed by nothing but you. Yet you think I can be swayed by some guy in a comfortable pair of pants? I only want you.”

“I know. I do. You prove that to me every day. I didn’t suggest it because I don’t trust you.” Tommy tosses one of Buck’s hoodies into the dryer and starts it. He can’t keep eye contact with Buck for more than a few seconds, and he looks paler than when Buck first arrived. Tommy’s also picking his middle fingernail with his thumb, and that’s Tommy’s tell that he’s feeling overwhelmed. “Uh, so like, I’m in this for the long haul. I think you’re it for me, Evan, and I don’t want you to ever feel like you’ve settled or...”

“I love you,” Buck tells him with a certainty he doesn’t think he felt even eight hours ago, but it’s the god’s honest truth. “Just seeing you makes me feel so full I could combust. ”

Tommy’s eyes are glossy and he blinks rapidly to keep the tears at bay. He finally locks eyes with Buck. “Loving you has been living in the back of my mind since...I honestly don’t know how long. I’ve been trying to temper my expectations because I haven’t been super successful in relationships. But then you started leaving clothes here, and suddenly you’ve infiltrated my life like no one else has been willing to. Next thing I know, I’m at a funeral for a long dead cowboy. I watched you embrace the memory of a forgotten man, and I realized I couldn’t love you more, Evan. Boils and all.”

Aaaaand that’s it. I’m tapped out.

#tevan #tevan fic #bucktommy #bucktommy fanfic #kinley #buck x tommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley

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dawntized · 3 months ago

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warnings: somewhat brat tamer!josh, he uses the name “slut”, edging, p in v sex, umm yeah

a/n: first post on here !!!! hope you all enjoy my sick lil thoughts about joshy <3

“do i look like i’m fucking messing around? hm? do i look like i won’t punish you?” josh spat as he grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “flirting with mike.. right in my face.” josh shook his head disapprovingly.

you had a smirk on your face, knowing you had josh right where you wanted him. you purposefully pissed him off just so he’d fuck you good to remind you of who you belonged to.

“i should treat you like a little slut since you wanna act like one, huh?” josh asked as he leaned down, his eyes boring into yours. his pupils were blown and his eyes were wide as he watched you.

josh stood up straight, letting your jaw go. “get on the bed.” he ordered. josh felt his blood boil when you didn’t move an inch, still watching him with hooded eyes. “i said, get on the fucking bed, now!” he yelled, his deep voice startled you, causing you to scramble up onto the bed.

josh wasted no time, pushing you back onto the bed and turning you on your stomach. arousal pooled in your panties with the way josh was manhandling you into the position he desired.

he pulled your hips up, creating an arch in your back. "this is what you wanted? for me to fuck you like a little slut? is that it?“ josh pressed his clothed bulge to your heat, “want me to remind you who this pussy belongs to?" he asked, delivering a sharp smack to your ass.

josh smiled sadistically when you cried out. he quickly unbuttoned your jeans, pulled them off of you before doing the same with your panties. “look at that… little slut’s turned on cause i’m punishing her.” josh chuckled, running his fingers through your slick before he pulled them away.

josh stepped away from the bed, leaving you spread out for him, “beg for it.” he demanded. you turned your head, peering over your shoulder at josh, who was standing with his arms crossed. “c’mon, better start begging if you want my cock.” he began to take off his flannel, tossing it across the room. “cause right now.. doesn’t seem like you deserve my cock.” he shrugged.

you glared at him, “i’ll just get mike to fuck me.” josh felt his blood boil at the mention of mike’s name. he swiftly moved over to the bed, his eye twitching with anger. “you’re on thin ice, slut.” he seethed, “you must not want to cum tonight.” josh pressed two of his fingers to your entrance before thrusting them in roughly.

he smirked as he saw your mouth go agape at the pleasure. he quickly pistoned his fingers in and out of your cunt as you cried out, your hands gripping at the sheets below you. “already falling apart just from my fingers.” josh tutted.

before you could get close, josh pulled his fingers out of you, laughing mockingly at your whines. “you thought i was gonna let you get away that easily?” he asked, “you’re gonna have to work for it, princess.”

josh unbuttoned his pants, shoving them down along with his boxers. his wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, pressing it against your hole.

he slowly pushed the tip of his cock in before pulling out. “are you gonna be a good girl, now? gonna stop being a brat so i can fuck you good?” he asked while teasing your cunt more, pushing in further before pulling out.

“mmph fuck, josh! i’ll be good, ‘m sorry.” you whined, trying to move your hips against his cock. “fucking pathetic,” he huffed, giving in to your pleas as he fully thrusted in.

josh gave you no time to adjust before he began to rock his hip, setting a deep and fast pace. "you're gonna learn your place," josh panted, "gonna ruin this cunt for anyone else." josh’s hips never faltered, his cock pistoning in and out of her soaked heat.

loud moans erupted from your chest as your walls fluttered around his cock, your orgasm building up with every thrust. “g-gonna cum, josh-!” you cried.

josh’s hips slowed, he leaned over you, his lips near your ear, “so tell me, who does this pussy belong to?” his hand slid around to your clit, lightly drawing circles on the bud. “no, josh, please! belongs to you!” you whined, your hands grasping at his arms around your waist.

“good girl,” he purred, “say it louder. i want everyone to know that this cunt is mine. that you’re mine. my good little girl." josh began thrusting his hips once again, the tip of his cock reached deep inside of you as you moaned loudly.

“you’re clenching me so- tight! cum on my cock, baby.” josh panted, feeling himself nearing the edge. “let everyone know who’s fucking you this good.” with a few more deep thrusts, your vision went white as your orgasm hit, your walls fluttering around josh’s length.

josh’s name left your mouth in a scream, his hips not slowing as he chased his own high. “fuck, i’m cumming, princess-!” josh grunted. he pressed his hips flush against yours as he released his seed deep inside of you.

josh pulled out, collapsing beside you on the bed. “no more flirting with mike,” he panted, a smile forming on his face as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your spent body closer to his <3

#kinnie ♡ josh #dawntized.ud #josh washington smut #until dawn #until dawn x reader #until dawn smut #josh washington #josh washington x reader #josh x reader

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trashmouth-richie · 4 months ago

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ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum to heaven or hell, i am with you

the final part [4.6k] geta x reader summary: death, smut, GORE

🥀dulcis ut rosa 🥀dulex 🥀vitiosis + deliciosus 🥀frangere me

s/o to my beta @rxqueenotd , and anyone else i’ve screamed at with over this fic 🤎

Blue skies could never compare to the icy hatred that filled Caracalla’s eyes as he stood above you, flanked by soldiers on either shoulder. “Perhaps the dungeon will help you remember which Emperor you are to be serving? Hm?”

Blood trickled down your hairline, collecting in a slow drop from your chin onto the dirty floor. The cell was barely wide enough to lay down in. A piss pot stood full in one corner, its odor still more pleasant than the sickly aroma of Caracalla’s breath when he found you waiting for Geta.

You had been startled seeing him instead of the man you had spent the last many nights crying for. Trying to run you were hit hard and the rest was gone until you woke up here.

A swift kick to your legs and chest, had you doubling over, the pain boiling hot in your veins.

“How incompetent do you think I am?” Caracalla spit. “My brother doesn’t move throughout these walls without me knowing. Months! He’s been fucking your mouth raw, spilling his seed down your throat after nights spent in luxury with me!” A giggle bullies out from his lungs, “did you think I hadn’t a clue? An inkling as to why his chamber stood empty at the same moment that you left mine?”

You haven’t said a word and you refused to, he didn’t deserve an explanation.

A tear slips down his rouge painted face, “I confided in you, we were soulmates you and I. Geta is nothing! He feels nothing!”

You shook your head, unable to accept his words. “How did you do it, magae. How did you bewitch my brother to fall for your wickedness?”

Raising your chin in spiteful defiance, you glared into his disgusting putrid eyes, “You pathetic, sniveling swine— I am no such witch, but I can not wait to witness the carnage Geta will bestow upon you.”

Caracalla giggles in a high pitched tone, “oh my dear, he will be long dead before that shall ever happen,” he looks around at the moldy holed dungeon, “maybe you can charm the rats while you’re rotting away waiting for your precious Geta.”

—

Wind and insects scratched at his face as he pushed his horse faster, hooves kicking up sand and rocks in a storm as they raced for Palace Hill. Geta screamed with rage when Acacius told him of your demise, knowing exactly who was behind it. What a fool he was for leaving you unattended. Caracalla must have found out, and maybe he himself was too blind by Cupid’s lust to notice the changes within his own kingdom.

Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he imagined the perils of danger you were now in— because of him.

His reins slapped sharply against the muscled backside of his horse as he pumped every ounce of strength from the mare to get home- to get back to you.

Whatever Caracalla had done, heads would fucking roll once he got back. That was a promise.

—

How many days had it been? Four? A week? The dark had made you lose count.

At times you weren’t sure if your eyes were open or closed, the pitch black was endless, curling around you like smoke and suffocating any happiness you had tried to muster.

The dungeon was crawling with vermin, caked with disease and body fluids from decades before you had been tossed in here like a rabies riddled dog. Food had stopped coming, water was scarce except for the trickle of fresh springs that siddled down the stone wall. At least you told yourself it was a fresh spring that you were consuming, but more than likely it was tainted water that kept you alive.

You prayed to the Gods that Geta would come for you. That he wasn’t head first into a war that he agreed to when you pushed him away. You were so stupid for doing so, but you couldn’t help the racking sobs when you pictured how hurt he was… and crying harder yet when realizing, that was the last time.

Days had passed and you could feel your mind slipping from you. Exhaustion, dehydration settling in had you hallucinating images of the Emperor. It was almost comforting the way your mind was protecting itself, throwing you into an alternate reality of laying in his lavish bed instead of the hard shit-soaked stones.

You could feel his blunt nails tickling your sides, but in truth it was beetles gnawing on your bare skin. Geta kept you warm and safe in your head, even though it was apparent from the lack of food, proper sunlight, and clean water—that you were falling ill.

—

It hadn’t been that long since Geta had left, but approaching the Hill had his skin crawling. Dismounting his mare, everything seemed odd.

It was unusually quiet. The air felt sharp against his skin. Smelled of pungent rot, souring his nose. The wind seemed to howl a song he hadn’t recognized— the sickly tune of a kingdom at war with itself.

His father had trained them both on how to rule with force, how to command an army, to hold rank and battle to the blood flowing end—their enemies head on a stake.

Caracalla by himself was juvenile when it came to war tactics, knowing the basics of stationing men on watch, high in the walls on the terraces. Two men for each direction, pointing their noses North, East, South and West. A handful of guards on the entrance.

If this was a war with any other enemy— Geta would have spent a full sun tracking their movements meticulously. But never had his enemies captured something so dear to him.

Acacius landed from his own horse beside Geta’s kneeled form, knowing his thoughts before he could even act on them.

“It’s unwise, my lord…” he said carefully, placing a weathered hand on Geta’s shoulder, “we cannot risk the element of surprise when our emotions are clouding our judgment.”

Geta’s eyes twitched as he stared ahead at the palace, his mind traveling to where you were being kept, knowing in his heart it was in the deepest part of the palace, the south dungeon.

He breathed raggedly through his nose before he spoke between gritted teeth, “I will paint all of Rome with their innards for what they’ve done, and I will not stop until their bodies are drained of all their blood.”

Acacius shook is head in worry, clearing his throat, “you’re mind is unclear, you should rest before—”

Adrenaline raced through Geta’s veins as he mounted his mare, “I’m going, with or without your help. What good am I to her waiting for calculated time?”

Acacius threaded a hand through his salty peppered hair, eyeing his emperor— his friend. His voice was riddled with pain when he spoke, “what good are you to her if you’re dead?”

Geta pondered this, but his reply was simple, and he said the most truthful thing that has ever passed his lips, “I’ll be the man she makes me want to be.”

—

“Up! Get up!”

Caracalla had figured once Geta found out that his precious whore was locked away and starved that he would be on his way to come and rescue you. He waited day and night for his brother’s return. And finally— there was a spec in the distance. His brother returning in all his glory.

He skipped down to the dungeon— literally skipping and hopping on one foot in glee as he came down to the depths of the palace to retrieve you for the final act.

A hand clasped harshly in your hair, yanking you from a deep sleep, followed by a taunting giggle.

You had grown weak in your time secluded from light and clean air. Unable to stand on your own properly, Caracalla brought you to your feet like you were a doll, the flame he held showed just how manic and possessed he had become.

He was like a poisoned animal practically foaming from the mouth with insanity. Biting his lip constantly, chewing and gnawing, infesting it with sores. He wore his best robes, bangles jingling as he brought you closer to his face.

Jumping back, he lets your body slump against the bars, a hand to his chest, “Yuck— you smell like horeshit! Maybe we should have fed you more, bathed you… I’ve never been very good with keeping pets…”

Caracalla rubs his chin for a moment, then as if he is brought back from a different time, he claps twice, “oh well, time to go, your precious Geta is here and it’s time to play!”

You try to fight back feebly, trying to shove his face away from you, your filthy fingernails clutching at his doughy powder coated flesh.

“C’mon!” he pleads like a child, pushing your hands down and bringing a blade to your neck, “you’re going to be the star of the production and you simply can’t miss the show!”

When sunlight hit your skin it was like you were being burned alive. Your feet scuffed against the stone steps, and you were winded from the climb. Everything was so bright as if you were looking directly into the suns beams.

Caracalla hissed into your ear, the pungent smell of fruit and fish combining into a stomach twisting aroma as he whispered, “you’ve been such a delight to us here, I will be so upset to see you dead… I’ve been practicing my tears and cries of mourning for when you’re laid to rest with my brother.”

“You won’t be triumphant against him,” you croaked trying to wiggle free from his hold.

Caracalla giggled before winding back and slapping your cheek, “why do you have to speak such lies? You will die by his hand— squashed like the gnat you’ve become.”

—

The palace walls roared.

Thundered like a storm of bees defending their hive. Clashes of swords and weapons gleamed like lightning against a dark sky. Amongst the clouds of dust from the lack of harvest rain, blood splattered the stones like oil paint to a canvas.

Geta’s revengeful carnage had begun.

Carnage was colored with maroon and deep sets of rubies in a hilt. Specs of pinkish brain membrane laid out like flower petals at a wedding.

Carnage was the sound of teeth chipping at the root being ripped away from the gum line, the sheath of a knife embedded into a lung, an abdomen, the muscular thigh of one of Caracalla’s more prominent men.

Carnage reeked of shit and death. The humble hands of Pluto himself, stretching his claws to welcome home another victim.

Carnage was Geta, annihilating anyone who stood in his way to get to you. A force built with bared teeth and rippling muscles, sweat dripping from his honey hair. Eyes as black as coal— soulless in every sense of the word.

The men falling dead by his hands trembled in cowardice when they saw him coming, forgetting how powerful he was with a sword.

Swords drew silent, the only sound being the pooling fountains now tainted with blood from the dead. Everyone in the palace was either lying deceased or were in hiding, waiting for this hell to end. But Geta had only just begun.

“Brother!” he shouted, his voice echoing against the marble stone, deep and ragged with exertion. He was standing at his throne then, bodies laying at a heap by his feet, his body covered in their blood, “I know you’re around, Caracalla—answer me!”

Beyond the pillars behind the tapestries, Caracalla stood with a knife pressed into the meat of your neck, his breath hot against your cheek— a giggle forming in his throat like a child tucked away during a game of hide n seek.

“It’s a shame, Geta,” he announced, his voice ricocheting off the walls, “a fucking shame that you are so soft for this common whore when you’ve had so many, father would be disappointed.”

Geta’s eyes narrowed, listening for any bit of noise underneath Caracalla’s feet to give him away. He moved on nimble feet, each move more quiet than the next as he waited with trained ears for Caracalla to speak again.

“What is between you and I, has nothing to do with her— she is merely caught in the middle of our feud— let, her go.”

Caracalla’s laugh pierced your ear, ringing loudly like a hyena as spit flew from his manic mouth. “She is much more than a simple bystander dear Geta… otherwise you wouldn’t care so proudly.”

Geta strode towards the direction of his brother’s voice, waiting in the shadows. “You have always been less, why do you think mother and father had me? I was to make up for your shortcomings, so that Septimius Severus would have a decent heir. One who could actually keep the family name in Rome.”

“Enough!” Caracalla screamed, shoving you forward into the clearing, his blade still pressed into your neck, a line of crimson dripping from it, his frantic panicked laugh bubbling behind a shriek, “there will be no heirs for you, brother! I was going to offer her life in place of your crown, let you both be on your merry little way but you just don’t get it do you? I will rule on my own, and you will both be left to rot in the dungeons. Poetic isn’t it?! Two lovers dead by my hand.”

With the way your head was arched toward the ceiling, you couldn’t see Geta. You could only hear a hitch in his throat at the sight of you. The sodden robes you wore, the filth caked to your skin.

Geta didn’t move, knowing that Caracalla would be more likely to accidentally cut you deep enough to kill you if he tried to do anything drastic. But the look of you made his stomach curdle like cows milk left in the summer heat.

The once plump and luscious curves you had were gone. The robes you wore were next to rags. You had been locked away far longer than he had imagined. Possibly weeks before he had even got word of it. If you truly had been with child, there was no tell of it now. Tears stung behind his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them drop.

“Mother should have drowned you in the river like a litter of pups,” he nearly whispered, eyes trained on his brother, “release her or I will slaughter more of your men leaving their poor wives to be widowed.”

“Now why would I do such a thing? I’m having the time of my life orchestrating this production.” They both moved then circling like the gladiators would in the coliseum, baiting one another to strike first.

Geta’s eyebrows furrowed at Caracalla’s choice of words… production?

“Must you be so dense? So surface leveled?” Caracalla answered, “Jessaphina, that wart—terrible actress but she did the job, made this concubine believe every word.” Caracalla grinned like a opossum eating a pile of shit, dragging you with him, your hair wrapped tight in his clutch.

Geta’s eyes never leave Caracalla, his movements smooth and languid as he counts his steps, seconds.

“Pliteus, the guard who told her to meet you at ‘your spot’ another spy, made actor by yours truly, for the Theatre, of course. And all that leaves is you, Geta. You will be the widower, the brute left in tears of sorrow pleading for a whore’s life. Gods!— I shall be famous when this is through!”

“You’re demented,” you managed against the sharp blade, cutting yourself in the process, “sickenly so.”

Caracalla wretched his hand twisting your head back with a snap, causing you to yelp, ”I’m an artist you rancid cow! Can’t you see that?! This was all a form of expression— your uneducated brain would never be able to appreciate such a thing— it’s why I put this all into motion!”

“So what?” Geta spit, “you were bored? Needed an activity to keep your cogs oiled enough for you to not slit your wrists in the baleneum, again? You’re a child!”

Caracalla giggled wickedly mad, “People will write about me for the end of time and how I bested Publius Septimius Geta! You will be nothing more than a myth—erased from memory entirely!”

Geta stopped, his sword pointing toward his brother. The wind didn’t howl, silence fell between them.

“It will be a true honor to breed my empress in a bed of your blood while she wears her crown.”

With a jerk of his head, Acacius moves, causing the distraction they had planned. The arrow missing Caracalla’s foot purposefully, causing him to lose his balance and hold on your body. You fell to the ground taking advantage of his blundered state, crawling on all fours away from him.

Just as the swing of Geta’s blade was centimeters from the skin of Caracalla’s neck, it was stopped with his knife, a crude smile licked onto his lips. “I know your moves dearest brother, you forget it was you and I as children playing these games.”

Caracalla pushes the sword from him and jabs the tip of the knife into Geta’s bicep. Tearing through tendons and muscles with each twist of his hand.

“War is not a game,“ Geta gritted, tripping Caracalla with a swipe of his foot until he was on his knees before him, “…and it’s time you realize that.”

A toss of Acacius sword into Geta’s open hand, and he pressed two blades crossed beneath Caracalla’s chin.

Caracalla’s throat bobbed against the sharp steel, accepting his defeat, “make it swift precious brother, I intend to see father before the sun sleeps.”

The blades sung as they severed his head from his spine. Blood sprayed and pooled from the limp teetering body of Caracalla, swords clattered to the ground as Geta stumbled to your side, holding you to him in a bone crushing grasp.

“You’re safe now.” A tear fell onto your head as he cradled your body into his.

Your body was still weak as you clung to him practically lifeless as he lifted you from the ground. He instructed Acacius on what to do with the mess. Geta carried you to his private bath, stripped you gingerly of your clothes and bathed you with exceptional care. His lips kissing tenderly to every scrape, every bruise.

He tutted through his teeth and hissed when your tears fell as he gently wiped the dirt and infection from your cuts. His own tears flowing down his cheeks, mumbling how sorry he is how stupid he was for ever leaving.

When you tried to speak he shushed you quietly, “not now my dulcis rosa,” he soothed as he scrubbed soap into your hair, you lifted a hand to caress his cheek, coaxing a small smile from him.

Geta called to his servants— that weren’t killed—to gather fresh robes and to fix you something warm and easy to eat.

He dried your skin once you were cleansed. Rubbing oils and ointments into each ache and pain, dressing the wounds in such expertise you wondered if he had done this often, probably to his own scars.

Up those winding stairs he carried you to his quarters, never wavering, never once adjusting you in his strong arms.

The room was thrown into its usual cozy dark ambience. His bed was made with enormous feathered pillows, a tray next to the bed with a plate of porridge dressed with honey and figs.

Once Geta had set you gently onto the pillows propping you up so you could eat, he shook his head when you reached for the spoon.

“Let me,” he commanded quietly, his eyes large and wet.

More tears slipped past your lashes as he sniffed largely, blowing gently on the bite of food. “When was your last meal?”

“I’m not sure of what day we are in,” you answered quietly, “or how long I was there… I lost track.”

Geta bit back a sob as he brought the spoon to your lips, “It shouldn’t have happened, I shouldn’t have left you so vulnerable.”

“Please,” you practically begged, swallowing the warm sweetened wheat. He looked broken, his under eyes dark and his eyelid twitching uncontrollably. Weeks the two of you had been separated and you couldn’t bear the thought of him spiraling for what had happened.

“We are together again,” you whispered, “I do not want to live in past mistakes. Caracalla is gone now, we must move forward, no dwelling.”

“Forgiveness of thyself has never come easily for me,” Geta admitted wiping a dreadful sigh from his face, “but I can only hope you now know that there has never been another for me—I am so deeply in love with you, gnat.”

You reached for him pulling him into you until the weight of his body melted with yours. Feverish lips tasted the sweat from his neck as you desperately ached for more of it, pressing your own devotions into his skin, your own words of cupid's love.

Geta’s strong arms wrapped around your back, holding you tenderly as if you were glass. pressing a single searing kiss to your collarbone before leaning back, his eyes staring into yours, “In this lifetime and the one that follows, I will forever be yours— ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum.”

“Ad caelum vel ad inferos.”

—

Caracalla’s room was sealed off. His belongings burned in the coliseum along with his body, as if he were a monster that could only be considered dead by smoldering licks of flame.

Geta left the fate of the others up to you. He had wanted them dead the next day, hung from a rope by their necks as they swung with the breeze, paraded around behind his team of horses until they’re skin was pulled from their bones. But you… had other plans.

Animals from other territories were brought in by the shipload, each more vile and vicious as the next. They were hungry, trained to attack at the smell of garments worn by a certain woman with a healing broken nose.

It was maybe a bit too grotesque, maybe a bit unhinged the way you had Acacius’s best men tie Jessaphina up from her ankles and wrists one to each post in the center of the coliseum.

And maybe it was a bit over-the-top when you personally rubbed greasy fat and cow entrails all over her body to taunt the beasts on even further.

But Geta only smirked at your own impressive drive for bloodlust when you stood before your throne hollering for the men to open the gates, releasing the hungry scavengers one by one letting them sniff out their meal.

Geta watched in admiration as your eyes turned dark, black pools taking over your pretty gaze as Jesspahina’s screams rang through the air

You couldn’t get your hands off of him when her body lay ripped to shreds, her bones being tossed around between snarling teeth and sharp black claws. The sand colored in her crimsoned blood. You pulled him from his own throne by the front of his shirt, yanking him into a small private room covered by a drapery for a door.

“My little demonic empress,” Geta growled as he pushed himself further into you, groaning when you whimpered out, your lip bit between your teeth, robes rucked up to your chest, “you just might be more evil than I am, have my ways rubbed off on you?”

The passion between you two had never dulled. Each day it seemed to grow with fervorous desire. Some days Geta fucked into you until you were too sore to walk. Your bodies were both painted with stains from sucking mouths and marks from gnashing teeth. Each time better than the last.

You were soaked when Geta knelt before you, his nose pressed into your sex as you circled your hips onto it. He stood and shoved his clothing out of the way, yours already stuffed beneath your chin. and when he slammed his fat cock into you the darkness returned. Two demons fucking at the loss of life and smell of blood in the air.

“Practically getting off to a hideous murder in front of my mother and the others, my my…” he hissed, wrapping a hand around your throat squeezing until your breath rattled beneath his palm, “you truly were sent to me from the Gods weren’t you?”

You nodded, moaning when he attached his lips to your neck, pinching your nipple until it purpled. “Nothing makes me happier than seeing the deserved slaughtered.”

Geta groaned as your clenching pussy gripped him as you came undone, his own release following closely behind, yelling out your name.

“I have a surprise for you,” he breathed raggedly into your neck, adjusting your robes back into place, sweat pouring from his brow.

Your smile squeaked against his ear, “it is not even my birth date, Geta, you are spoiling me.”

Leaving the room Geta kisses your palm, “no,” he agrees, “it is not, but am I not allowed to gift my wife with divine luxuries?”

“You are, but you don’t need to give me anything…” you say, holding your belly with which the healer confirmed that you were indeed with child all along. Something Geta never let you forget that he knew you better than you knew yourself.

His lips pressed to your cheek, his hand laying delicately on your stomach as you whispered, “you’ve given me enough as it is.”

He smiled wickedly pulling back to lace your fingers with his own, “come,” he commanded, pulling you back towards the palace.

—

The great stone table stood bare except for a golden cloth. Acacius proudly stood guard next to it, bowing upon the sight of you.

“My lady,” he greeted, smiling at the sight of your radiant face, then facing Geta with the same warm smile, “Emperor.”

“Thank you,” Geta said, rubbing his hands together excitedly, “hope you didn’t have any trouble getting it?”

Acacius smirked and adjusted his sword on his belt, “not at all, they were quite thrilled to be rid of it.”

Geta rippled out a laugh from his throat as he stood behind the table, his large hands pressed into it, “I can only imagine… Gnat, my love, are you ready?”

“As I will ever be,” you said cautiously, stepping up to the table.

Acacius stood back as Geta pinched a piece of the cloth between his fingers, “presented to you, my undying devotion,” he said sweetly before pulling the cloth revealing your present.

Anyone else would have ran and screamed, damning him to hell. But you were unlike everyone else, and you saw the beauty in his gift and the meaning behind it.

Blood had been drained, the smell minimal, and judging by the way the darkness that filled Geta to the brim and now poured into yourself was clouding your eyes, the mad tick of your lips as they perked up in greed: you were pleased.

“It is exquisite, amor meus,” you smiled wider, getting closer to your present.

Geta looked at you proudly, his eyes inky and shining. His gnat, his dulcis, his wife, his empress— his tainted heart content for the first time in his life, and it was all thanks to you. “Where shall we put it, the mantle?”

You picked it up, holding it high to the sky for the Gods to see, “a gift more precious than gold deserves to be seen, for all—don’t you think?”

Sat on a pedestal, his name engraved on a piece of wood, a large red rose sewn between his lips, was the severed head of Caracalla.

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niqhtlord01 · 5 months ago

Text

Humans are weird: Human cameramen are crazy

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

The greatest decision Intergalactic Wave 6 ever made was hiring Reggie Bradford.

At the time of Finch’s hiring IW6 was a relatively small news organization based in the outer worlds. Barely reaching four systems on a good day compared to the top contenders like Celestial Times which was broadcasted in inner core systems and pulled in an average of twenty to thirty systems each broadcast. The anchors for IW6 were locals, a Temrelien that needed a third grade translator unit just to be barely understood and a Myporie which couldn’t see the color green.

As the underdog’s underdog, IW6 more often fed off larger stories reported by other stations or small local stories relevant to a handful of worlds. Nothing interesting happened in their corner of the universe so as long as they broke even they were fine to never reach further than the length of their arm.

Reggie Bradford was a hired on as a cameraman to work for one of the planetary studios on Orbin VIII. You’d find him either working in the back making sure the camera bots were functioning or, more often, when they weren’t he’d be manning the forty pound cameras himself. The studio crews were always amazed how this seemingly out of shape man could heft the heavy outdated camera unit like it was as light as a pen.

They wondered what a lone human was doing so far out in the boonies as he would say, but he would always shrug and say that he felt like this is where he belonged; a notion IW6 would be most grateful for in the coming days.

When the Intherax/Coalition war broke out it was the biggest news story to hit the plasma streams since the death of Empress Karen III when she was eaten by her own corganai.

The Intherax were a militaristic society, trained from birth to kill before anything else, and spanned some fifty star systems not including client kingdoms and vassals. General galactic dealings with them often boiled down to standing aside from whatever they wanted and hoping it wasn’t you or your world, lest the invasion armadas would descend and obliterate what little civilization your people had been able to achieve and then be sold into slavery.

This time however when the Intherax made a proclamation to annex the colony worlds of Jense, Shatu’a, and New Hamburg the current occupants politely told them to bugger off and formed a Coalition for mutual defense. From there dozens of governing powers flocked to the coalition and added their strength to it in what they saw as the best chance of finally checking Intherax aggression once and for all.

Ever one for a challenge, the Interax declared war on this new found coalition and opened the conflict by orbital bombarding Jense until it was little more than a cold husk of rock trapped in the decaying orbit of its system’s sun.

What followed was best described as two sides of no holds bar warfare as the Coalition retaliated with the first ever invasion of Intherax territory against the world called Kai’de.

Naturally every news organization wanted to be seen covering the war, including IW6. Sadly they did not have anyone either brave enough to send so they settled on sending someone they believed was stupid enough and sent Reggie.

They expected to get some b-roll of soldiers marching or shots of fleet warships in formation. They never expected nor asked him to go into active combat. So when the first feed came back during their late night broadcast they were surprised to see that Reggie was onboard an assault ship breaking through atmosphere.

“Reggie,” the Temrelien spoke with every other word shifting tone from the broken translator, “where are you?”

“I’m currently with brave members of the 27th Dragoons as they head to take the fight to the surface of Kai’de.”

Reggie waved a hand at the soldiers who in turn gave a rousing cheer and slammed their feet against the metal decking.

“Orders came in late last night for a massed landing to take the enemy by surprise. From what I understand the Intherax military had not expected coalition forces to invade their territory and have not had time to establish proper defenses.”

Both news anchors looked at each other in confusion.

“If that’s the case isn’t this broadcast putting the entire attack at risk?”

To their surprise Reggie laughed as the camera shook.

“The plan was to get them by surprise, but judging from the amount of anti-air fire,” he said as the assault ship rocked back and forth, “I don’t think they were fooled.”

The camera panned right suddenly as one of the armored dragoons grabbed it and spoke directly into it.

“We want them to know we’re coming! Because we’re going to kill them all!! AHAHAHAH!!”

Another chorus of cheers and whoops came from the soldiers as the soldier let go of the camera and Reggie readjusted it. The anchors wanted to continue their questions when the leader of the dragoons shouted out and interrupted them.

“60 seconds!”

With the order given the soldiers stopped their foolery and began hefting their weapons. Reggie panned the camera over them as they slapped in fresh clips or attached power cables from their backpack generators to their more heavy weaponry.

In awestruck silence the anchors and their viewers watched as the assault shuttle slammed hard into the surface and the boarding ramp flew open.

“GO GO GO GO!!!!” the dragoon leader shouted as the soldiers poured out screaming their battle cries. Reggie waited and filmed them as they disembarked but did not join the first out the ramp. A inclination that saved him as enemy gun fire began raking the ramp striking several soldiers down in clouds of viscera and gore.

The censors barely had time to cut the feed while the horrified anchors composed themselves to resume the broadcast.

In the hours that followed IW6 confirmed that Reggie had survived the battle and had been with the unit of dragoons for the entire duration. During those hours he had recorded the entire engagement from ramp down, to storming city streets as the Intherax deployed building sized walkers, to the hoisting of the coalition flag over the central governing building at the heart of the city.

With this footage viewership numbers for IW6 skyrocketed overnight as none of the other networks had been able to capture such stunning footage. In fact, by the intake of broadcasts none of them had been able to attach an anchor or cameramen to the initial assault save for Reggie. When asked how he had been able to get approved for such a deployment he did not say which only further added to the mystery. Yet for the moment IW6 was far from ready to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Reggie’s footage was shown over and over on IW6 and was soon sublicensed to other networks and shown there. Exploits of the dragoons became known galaxy wide as Reggie followed them through battle after battle; never afraid to risk his life to capture the perfect moment.

When the Intherax fleet arrived in orbit and began to bombard the planet while also fighting the coalition fleet Reggie had forgone sheltering in nearby bunker complexes to film the orbital strikes as they hurtled down all around them.

Thick columns of pure energy shattered buildings and mountains alike as the ground quaked and there stood a lone Reggie filming it all. Even when the anchors begged him to find shelter he simply panned the camera over the city to show entire skyscrapers be reduced to molten mounds the oozed and sludged through the city streets.

By the time the battle had finally ended thanks to Reggie’s footage IW6 climbed the viewership charts to be the third most watched network galaxy wide. Much to the dismay of IW6 it also drew the attention of Reggie the cameraman to the other outlets who began showering him with ever more lavish offers for employment.

Too their surprise he denied them all and said that he was right where he belonged.

#humans are weird #humans are insane #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #cameraman #news broadcast #space news

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