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diejager · 2 years ago

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BEGGING I WAS LEFT ON A CLIFFHANGER FOT THE MONSTER AU 141 😭😭😭😭😭

pretty pretty please 🙏🙏

Only Human pt.2

Pairing: Monster Task Force 141 + König & Horangi x reader

Cw: canon-typical violence, hate, xenophobia, mention of racism, blood and violence, injury, fighting, protective 141, trauma?, anxiety, tell me if I missed any. wc: 6.3k

Only Human Masterlist

You still wonder, to this day, why you were needed on the Task Force. It worked like a well-oiled machine when put to the task, nearly unstoppable in the face of enemies. Although you were prideful to call it your home, you felt lacking compared to them, all much stronger, fiercer, and nimbler than you in every aspect, separated by miles of distance. One thing, however, that you could wield with an iron fist was your human nature and people’s fear of newly implemented hybrids. The public expression from governments about welcoming them into their ranks and their society without staying hidden under the pretence of being sick or behind a veil of secrecy.

You, after seeing how many Joint Task Forces and other Teams treated the 141, decided to deal with the introductions, the medium, the pacifier, between every team. Humans tended to react differently to another human than to a hybrid, they were nicer, less brutal and honest (a kind that held little spite). Laswell seemed more agreeable to your idea when you first came up to her with it, having seen the hate sent to hybrids she worked with. She encouraged you to be the first to interact or stand beside Price when he greeted human soldiers. Price, unlike Laswell, was reluctant at first. His instinct of protection and possession of his hoard made him less open to such ideas, especially if it brought you some, if any, backlash from other humans (humans are cruel, they shun what they don’t understand, they fear it and push to control it, if not, they destroy it. The need to control every aspect of their life made humans ruthlessly unremorseful and unsympathetic to other causes.).

As a tight-knit TF, some decisions are taken in votes, by hearing what the others thought of the idea or plan and his one was harsh. Ghost was hard-pressed on keeping you between them, the little, fleshy human of their Task Force (the youngest) and to let them deal with xenophobic glares while keeping you protected. Alejandro was similarly worried, but he knew the outcome of letting you speak first or accompany Price. He was torn. The others, Soap, Gaz and Rudy, seemed onboard, with the kind of why the fuck not? kind of look on their faces. Soap especially, he’d be able to stick close to you without having to hover over you like a protective guard dog.

Seeing the votes in your favour, he let it pass, and no sooner had they needed to meet a second team - human soldiers - for the next deployment. You stood beside Price when he strutted down the walkway, shoulders broad and back straight, an image of a strong and fearless leader with his draconic tail flailing lowly. He, as intended, greeted them first, rank and name before he presented you, his little human helper with humans. They’d taken better to speaking to you, being spoken by one of their own rather than a hybrid. He saluted you more amicably and more sincerely:

“Pleasure meeting you, Hunter.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Captain.”

Although it wasn't without its setbacks, the operation went well, you had been able to come out mostly unscathed, leaving a few enemies on the brink of death for Ghost to savour. He was most thankful, a part of his body dissolving into the finest mist as they washed over the living bodies sprawled on the ground. You watched on, mesmerised by the uncanny way Ghost’s body absorbed the bodies of others, flooding the area with his shadow while you stayed unbothered, in the same condition as he first started. His darkness reached your neck, covering you in a soft cover of warmth as he ground the bodies to ash and dust. His skin was cold, but his powers were darkly hot, burning with the embers of hell, of a dead soul coming back for revenge and evilness.

Beyond the fact that your idea worked, you liked feeling useful to them, having a semblance of usefulness in a team of extremely competent beings. You felt with first greetings from then on, smiling and saluting to the leading figures of the groups you’d work alongside. It lessened the weight on Price to appease and pacify the new additions, he’d be able to fare better with the operators now that they had a different welcome, a different kind of greeting. It played into the minds of wary men that a human was the one to greet them, that one of theirs was leading the hybrids for them. You played the perfect example of a soldier for any xenophobic bastard.

Ghost, while still feared, received fewer glares than he usually would, occasional ones from daring or bold soldiers holding a lower rank than him, but he appreciated your attempts at making them more comfortable. He’s used to the negative reactions, had been since his childhood, but you seemed to make him feel like he deserved better, like he shouldn’t be glared, spat and scoffed at.

Soap, Rudy and Alejandro looked like human men in peak condition, if only for Soap and Alejandro’s glowing eyes and heightened strength and agility. Rudy was somewhat human, he looked and acted like one, down to the DNA, but with the title of cadejos vessel came powers. Perhaps not as strongly affecting as the rest of the hybrids, but he had subtle changes in his molecular making.

Gaz had stares coming left and right, daggers sent his way for having wings and talons he couldn’t will them to disappear, to recess under his skin and wear the appearance of a human man. He felt the heaviest blow by both not being able to cover his gifts and the colour of his skin. Although you wanted to proclaim that your new age came with more open-minded people, you knew that it simply couldn’t fix hundreds of years of standards in a few decades. People would still judge others by the tone and colour of your skin, they’d still hate the different and the strange; just like they hated hybrids. So you kept to his side most often after your introductions, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close, letting him embrace you with a protective wing and a grateful smile.

You mostly worked hand in hand with human-filled teams and spear-headed human-led operations. So you were shocked, frozen to your core, when you saw a tiger haetae hybrid beside a tall, veiled operator walking down the cargo ramp. The hybrid, a tiger variant from the black-striped, orange tail that flickered slowly in a warning to any approaching beings. Dark glasses and a mask covered his face, his jacket and vest riding to the edge of his jaw, covering any skin from showing, though his lower back was left uncovered for the comfort of his swaying tail. He was neither short nor tall, he was tall enough to be slightly over the average height, but his teammate dwarfed him.

Perhaps his enormous height was an aspect of his monster half, or maybe he had the perfect genes to hold such a frame. He too, like his haetae operator, hid his face under a veil with maroon tears painted under his eyes. Like Ghost, he was covered head to toe in equipment and clothes, a jacket, a vest, gloves and black paint around his eyes. Whoever this was had both height and mass, burly arms and broad shoulders eclipsed by a slim waist and equally, disastrously thick thighs. On their left arm were flags, one from South Korea and the other from Austria.

They were the only ones to walk out, the only ones to approach you. Then your TF only had two new faces to work with rather than a whole team. You were tempted to say it would be easier, you waited until they stopped for Price - Price only - to greet them since they wouldn’t need a human to negate any aggressiveness between human and hybrid - or so you thought. They moved in synchrony, Price stepping forward to cover you with his body, his back facing you as he crossed his arms. Ghost and Alejandro had moved next to the captain, covering your sides. Alejandro had crossed his arm in a similarly menacing way, and Ghost stood still, body rigid but ready to strike at a moment’s notice; both were glaring ahead. Soap and Rudy took their places behind the colonel and the lieutenant, arms glued on their sides, weapons within reach with menacing stares towards the Korean and the Austrian. Gaz’s wings grazed you, soft feathers wrapping themselves around you and pulling you into his chest, acting as a protective cocoon for you.

“What-?”

They moved so quickly and efficiently that they seemed to suddenly appear in place, back straight and protective. Protective of you. Hybrids, from what you’d heard from couples and families, were possessive of their own, caring and extremely wary of other hybrids they hadn’t formed a bond with. Your TF was your pack, they were all tethered to each other through the familial bond they formed over the years. Then you came in, small and weak with your human self into a den of lions, thrown to be subjugated to their loving mercy and sinfully strong personalities.

The team of six hybrids encased you, barring the KorTac specialists from seeing you. Monsters and hybrids could sense one another - from what you heard - and they reacted instinctively. You saw their bodies tense as the two approached your team, muscles strained under the compacting anxiety and possessiveness. You could neither see over their shoulders nor feel what was happening, they stopped farther from you than you’d expected and you couldn’t see their feet.

The only sign you had was your captain’s gravelly voice welcoming them, his tail swaying like a cat’s tail, a slow, cautious motion. It - knowingly or unknowingly, seeing as Price acted on a mix of instincts and worry - wrapped around your ankle, clinging tightly to your boot-clad leg while a rumble rattled his chest. Steam rolled from his lips, billowing over the top of his hat in a show of power and warning. You hoped they wouldn’t take this negatively. They worked hard to curb the harmful rumours of 141 being beasts in human skin, acting like blood-thirsty and ravaging monsters that cared for nothing but themselves.

Although you couldn’t see them, the Austrian could, his towering height assured that he could see over almost any human, monster and hybrid alike. He was curious about the way they protected one of theirs as if you were weak. He cocked his head, green eyes gleaming red as he stared silently at the small mop of hair between them. What made you so important? What made you such a protected soldier? He couldn’t sense you like he could the others, their scent and magic masking yours in a violent torrent.

Unlike him, his friend couldn’t be bothered with the show of protection, he’d enrolled for the money and wouldn’t be deterred by much. He was a tiger haetae, honourable to a certain extent and proud. He might be shorter than the hybrids around him, but he was as vicious and talented as the next. He, however, was slightly curious, but he wasn’t paid enough to inquire or worry about the doings of 141’s pack.

It went as well as anyone would expect for the 141 with the added help of two military, hybrid operators from an elite PMC. As the combat medic of the TF, you followed them from behind and moved to the middle when you entered the building. You’d usually be at the back, being a medic, but you were a combat medic, having seen and participated in complete ops dealing with infiltrations and hostage rescue. You were an integral part of every mission. Now that they had a medic on hand, the wounds the men suffered could be treated in place rather than wait for the long ride home with the possibility of letting infection take root in the gash and watching it fester during hours in the carrier.

They had a habit of getting shot and slashed, a tad bit reckless in their ways but still effective. The stress of risking infection or the impossibility of reaching a medic after a mission was lessened, Price would still be able to live a few more centuries before his hair turned grey with nerves and his face wrinkled with frowns. You were a treasure beyond the fact that you were extremely helpful and insightful on your own. Your hands were steady and your demeanour calm and collected (albeit fidgety when put under too much pressure and fiery when someone looked at them differently.), you were a beauty, someone they needed to nurse and protect.

“I warned you about standing so close to the explosion!” They watched you berate Soap, cheeks puffed and lips pulled in an adorable pout. You went on a list of things he could’ve done better and safer than the decision he made, hands pulling the bandage around his arm, your bag set beside you.

“How was I supposed ta know?” The werewolf grumbled, giving you his best version of his “puppy dog eyes'' while he slouched back, trying to sit as comfortably as possible on the hard seats of the aircraft carrier.

“You’re a demolition expert, you’re supposed to know, Soap.” You hissed, tightening the wrap and smoothing it over so that it would hold. Your hand dipped into your bag, pulling out a few alcohol wipes for his face. With a jerky motion of your hands, you broke the seal and started patting his bleeding cuts from shrapnel and grazes from bullets. He winces with every dab, fidgeting in his seat while you disinfected his wounds, wiping away the dirt and blood before deeming it clean enough to move to the next one. “You also have a habit of setting things on fire.”

Although you mumbled it so quietly, the others heard you clearly, laughter rumbling out of the others while they watched Soap being scolded by the youngest. You never feared reprimanding them for an idiotic act that would result in having you tending to them, it was something they appreciated, the familiarity and comfort you had with them. They weren’t monsters, hybrids or anything with you, they were your family.

Seeing you so at ease with them had König and Horangi curious, most would cower or segregate themselves from other hybrids. You especially, seeing as you were the only human with them, they thought it’d be normal to see you shrink onto yourself and ignore the world around you while you waited to return home. Yet here you were, berating a werewolf for cuts and bruises that would heal in the following days, his metabolism prevented infection and permanent scarring unless it was too deep or deadly. They’d simply add to his rugged handsomeness.

König wondered if you’d show him the same amount of compassion and ease when you tended to his wounds - if he ended up having any at all. Would your hands be soft like his mother’s when cradling his arm? Would you whisper soft nothings to him while you cleaned his gashes with antiseptics? Would you also scold him for being reckless? He doubted that. Granted, he was extremely reckless and lost himself to the adrenaline pumping through his system when he entered the field, but he always came out unscathed. As a percht hybrid, his extreme enhancements made him practically numb to pain and sensations, with the small exceptions of a few primarily driven emotions or natural reactions to certain stimuli.

Perhaps, if your efforts were thwarted by his immense height, you’d hold and tend to him as softly as you did with the others, running your fingers through his hair and cradling him against your chest. He thirsted for something mundane, something so human-like that he would be reminded that he wasn’t completely a monster. He missed the softness in people’s gazes or the carefree way they spoke to and with him. He missed being reminded that he - too - was a living being with their rights. You could be the start of a regular life - as regular as a mercenary could have.

Even Horangi, who had vehemently stated to König that he could care less about the small, weak human in the operation, gave you the merit of being strong-willed and confident enough to stand beside them. He, the ever prideful and strong hybrid he was, deemed you competent for a human. Your usefulness started with your quick reactions and impeccable skills in your field and stopped when you couldn’t save someone, which had yet to happen. He was intrigued by the workings of your TF, how they managed to score a single human and an amicable one at that, strong and fierce, yet gentle and compassionate. If he’d grown up with someone like you, would he have turned out the way he did?

He simply watched from his corner beside König, through tinted glasses his eyes followed your movement, memorising everything you did for your brothers. They felt like imposters in your small, seven-men group, seemingly standing awkwardly in their little corner. 141 had shown a bit of aggression towards them in warning words and deadly glares when they assumed you didn’t see them, hissing out threats to ensure your safety among them. Not only were they confused by the dynamic, but they weren’t told anything besides “Back off” and growls.

After patting Gaz’s knee, giving him an oscar winning smile with gleaming eyes that were received with enthusiasm, you packed your things in your bag and moved to the next patient. You skipped Price, Ghost and Rudy, crouching in front of Alejandro. Rummaging through your bag and handing him a clean wipe for his dust-covered face, the soot clinging to his cheeks. He expected you to sit by your locked rifle after checking them, but you continued walking. You were heading towards them.

He knew König left the ground unscathed, clean of anything but dirt and blood, which meant he was the one you were heading towards. Hand on your pouch and a steady step backed up by a determined expression, you stopped before him. He tilted his head, a silent question. You blinked dumbly, holding out your hand to him, your small fingers backing him to give you something.

“Can I see your hand?”

His hand? He hadn’t thought much of it as he rested it on yours, palm upwards and gloveless. He saw it then, the small cut that bled red, small enough to be neglectable, but long enough to still be bleeding. He hadn’t felt anything from it before or after boarding the aircraft, he must’ve still been riding the adrenaline rush from the fight. He wondered how you knew he hurt himself.

Your fingers curled around his palm, holding it firmly as you lightly dabbed the inflamed skin with a sterilised tissue, being careful of the flared sides of his torn flesh. Under the blood and dirt, his skin was pale and swollen, the area having demanded his body to react to the potential bacteria that would worm its way into his system. You threw the bloody tissue aside and got an antiseptic wipe, being careful to not irritate his wound. Your care was gentle and patient. To a being like him, a hybrid and KorTac op, gentle and patient were foreign words to him. None were gentle to hybrids and none were patient with mercenaries.

Even as you wrapped the gauze and bandage around his hand, you gave him all your attention, sweetly cradling his hand between yours and nursing his gash with utmost care. It felt alien, the soothingly soft care of a medic. Other medics would’ve stared at him with disgust or hate if he walked near the infirmary, or they were rough and uncaring towards his needs.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, the sudden realisation of his silence in the face of a benevolent angel and the rush of embarrassment that flushed his neck hotly. He stared dumbly at his hand when you left, placed on his thigh with the white bandage staring right at him. The warmth of your hand had sunk into his skin, the feather-light tenderness of your fingers painted in his memory and your smile and determined expression stuck to him.

Even as he let his mind wander and body thirst for another taste of your gentleness, he could feel the burning stares of the other men. König with his curious and envious gaze, wanting to feel the snippet you offered Horangi, wanting your hands and stare at his giant figure. The 141 with their protective and warning glare, resenting him for taking a few minutes of your attention from them. You’d moved on your own, making your decision to help him with his small wounds as you did with them, he hadn’t forced you or compelled you to treat him.

Perhaps there was more than money and experience that was worth in this joint operation.

When the success of their first mission reached the prying ears of the General, he’d given them a few more joint ops - paid by the United States pockets, of course. Horangi and König were given temporary rooms in the barracks, in the same corner as the other hybrids and you, but far enough to show that they were excluded from them. Fortunately, they wouldn’t share the room, tigers were protective of one’s territory, and a percht hybrid - as rare as it may be - was documented to be hyper-possessive of their things, especially so for someone like König.

Horangi didn’t ignore you anymore, wanting to start a conversation when he passed you or staring at you from the other side of the room until you waved at him, letting him know he could approach you. He worked relentlessly to close the gap he had made between you, wanting to attach himself to the one good thing he had. Yet he had to be cautious, any indication of him being a threat to you would make your team act out in unison, pushing him back and covering you like they did the second he descended the ramp.

Ghost would hover over you, his body moving the darkness around him to seem more menacing. Ghost always glared at him when you turned your back to the Brit, his brown eyes swirling with the promise of death and devastation. Ghost wasn’t a physical hybrid, as Horangi had learned, but he had no qualms about keeping a hand on your hip or over your shoulder, acting as an imposing being that showcased his claim on you so publicly. It filled the Korean with envy and anger, he wanted to touch you as easily as the wraith did, he wanted a claim on you like the Lieutenant did, and he wanted to hold you close.

If not Ghost, it’d be Rudy or Gaz crowding you. If you were in the rec room, Gaz would usually be there with you. His arm thrown over your shoulders, pulling you into his side while his wings curled around you two, dark brown feathers ruffled to look menacing but comfortable to your touch. With the way he sat, slouching and legs spread across the sofa, he took all the available seats on the cheap, brown couch. When Gaz caught sight of him, he’d purposefully moved to take up more space, showing just how much one of the nicest of the 141 ostracised him. Although when someone from his TF, he’d move aside, giving space to the man to join them.

If you were walking around the base, Rudy - or Rudolfo as Horangi was forced to call him - would be by your side. Rudy had an arm wrapped around yours, seemingly like a military couple out on a casual walk, or he had his hand on your back, acting as the protective lover. Rudolfo’s smile was always wide and adoring when Horangi saw him walk you, exchanging words and making you laugh. It stung Horangi in an inexplicable way as if someone was knowingly sentencing him to death without any proof of his accountability. Rudy, the second nicest guy, also made glaring passes his way, pulling you closer to his side, directing you away and staring coldly at Horangi.

It rubbed him wrong, all the silent glares and insults at him to push him farther from you, but he was Horangi the Tiger haetae. He made his calculations, he was as smart and as resourceful as he was patient. Give it a few more missions together and they would loosen enough to let him swoop you off your feet. You were his source of comfort, of love and gentleness, he had to protect it.

Unlike Horangi, König actively sought you out on the base, following the trail of your scent and the soft noises of your voice and heartbeat. He was like a dog on your trail, nose sniffing every bit of air for you and ears strained for any noise you’d make. His senses were stretched thin to find a moment with you. He was as animalistic as a hybrid could get, leaning towards his monster to help him with his ops and trials.

You piqued König’s curiosity, making him wander the halls like a lumbering monster in a dark veil and glaring, red eyes. He saw how you treated big and dangerous monsters like the dragon hybrid you had as a captain, a respectable man, as soft as you treated the rowdy and rough werewolf and gracefully dangerous nagual. König wanted to feel your softness on him, your small hand grasping the tight muscles of his shoulders and back, kneading the tension away with grounding massages and stretches. You were their doctor, you cared enough to join them in the field, so you’d naturally be willing to mass the pain out of his body, no?

He wanted moments alone, where he could speak his mind without fear of being interrupted or pushed away for his imposing stature and aura. He wanted to place a hand on your waist, to feel the plush roundness of your stomach and the firm contour of muscle on your thighs. He wanted his voice to carry easily in the void of silence, where his voice could be heard by you from a small whisper. He wanted your eyes to focus on him, solely, as if he was your world.

He found it rather irritatingly difficult to find such moments. When he followed your scent through the halls and down to the medic's office, he’d find Captain Price crowding the room with his powerful musk of Ashe and fire - of metal and iron. Although Price was much shorter and lesser ranked than König was, he held the power of age and wisdom, an unfathomable strength that lay solely in draconic beings. This eternal power that none could rival apart from Eldritch beings, most cower, whimper and hide from dragons. He wore his power and wisdom on his sleeves, a warning for everyone, him and his KorTac operators included. König might’ve been reckless, but he wasn’t a fool, fighting headfirst with dragon seamed chaos and devastation. So, as any hybrid did, he backed away, an old dragon was dangerous, but a crippled one made it even more perilous.

When König tried to find you in the rec room, you were held in the tight embrace of a possessive wolf. Soap had you straddling his lap, facing him as he nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck. He purred and kissed your skin, making you squirm and giggle, but then Soap’s eyes gazed upwards and grew cold and unruly at König’s appearance. A proud - dare he say, cruel - smirk curled the corners of his lips. That was when he realised what the sergeant was doing. Soap, in the open, was scenting you, rubbing his musk over your neck, where - if you were another sifting hybrid like him and Alejandro - would’ve been your scent gland. It was a blatant show of possession. He nipped at your throat, drinking in your yelp and hiss, your back arching and moving to push him from biting too much. It filled him with rage.

If you weren’t with either dragon or werewolf, you were with Alejandro, the Hispanic scenting you as much as Soap did, but he did it with more finesse and subtlety. He would draw your hair back, the gland on his wrist grazing your neck and ears, imprinting you with him. Alejandro would hold your hand, fingers neatly intertwined with yours, his face laying on your shoulder as he spooned you in his lap. He purred and whispered sweet promises that had you nodding and smiling like a child on Christmas. He oosed of pheromones, filling the area with his scent and in turn, covering you completely in him. König watched with envy as Alejandro read to you, cradled between his thighs and falling asleep, his, Soap and everyone else’s musk laying a possession over you.

König’s a determined person when he put his mind to it, willing his beaten and bloodied self back to camp, or his sleep-deprived and insomniac-ridden mind to concentrate on the enemy. He was a battering ram, he pushed forward forcefully, however hard he had to, all to reach the end goal. This time, it wouldn’t be the head of his target, or the capture of an asset, this time, it would be you.

They both wondered, with how close your TF was, what was the dynamic. Was it a pack that shared the same lover? Was it a pack that had formed such a close connection to a human that you were deemed an integral part of the pack? Or were you the child they watched over and protected?

The next few missions 141 and the two from KorTac went on were as successful as the first, the cooperation of two ruthless mercenaries and a hybrid, specialist group made these tasks easy, near child’s play for them. Along with the aspect of having a medic on hand, it let them run wild, play along the edge and act more recklessly than they normally would. Having Horangi and König for so long, made them become a standard in the base, seeing them walk among the shorter and weaker humans. That also meant they had seen their fair share of xenophobic soldiers with balls bigger than a dragon’s and an ego the size of an Eldritch creature.

Every hybrid and monster was used to their hateful glares and sneering venom-dripping words. Ignoring them had become easier after the first year of enrolment. Horangi and König were, however, not used to someone defending them with their most honest heart of gold with earth-shattering words.

The first time they’d seen you defend your team was right after a mission, haunches, lumbering bodies descending the carrier’s ramp with their bags slung over their shoulders and addled with fatigue after a week of deployment. Young, power-hungry sergeants who’d let their ranks get to their heads had slid before them, head held high and shoulders held wide. Every single one of them knew that the moment the sergeant’s mouth opened, nothing good would come out of it. Perhaps degrading insults or back-handed sneers.

When the first sentence slipped from the man’s tongue, you pushed your way between them, barrelling into the man who’d insulted them. A deep frown was etched into your lips, brows creased so darkly into you that it cast a dark shroud of anger over your face. If König hadn’t known that you were a human, he would’ve thought that you were a being of darkness.

“You dim-witted bastards-!” Was the first word you let out, your usually soft-spoken self with gentle hands spewed acid at them, threatening to burn their skin.

Dim-witted, indeed. Old, conservative assholes who thought they were better than the rest with their pro-human propaganda and xenophobic acts against hybrids. Horangi had expected you to continue your scolding, wringing the sergeant dry with your words, not your hands. You used your hands, fingers curled inward, thumb over the curves of your bones and decked the man. It shocked them both, you were smaller, shorter, human and seemed weaker than the men, yet here you were, sending him toppling on the floor, his friend gaping and pouncing on you. Only to be met with your foot to his crotch.

“You bet your ass you won’t get any medical attention after this,” you hissed.

Although your words sounded improbable since you weren’t the only medic on base, you had built a connection through the system, every medic knew you and heeded your words. If one didn’t want a man healed, you and the rest wouldn’t help him. If you wanted a man to suffer, the rest would watch on with you. Medics were themselves, a tight-knit couple that helped one another. So your words were more than a threat, it was a promise.

“Until I see your sorry asses on your deathbed or grovelling, none of us will lift a finger for you. Bleed and beg all you want, but you aren’t getting help.”

You acted with an iron hand, sending the rest to the ground, moaning and groaning, cradling whatever part of their body you’d hit. They wondered why Ghost hadn’t moved, and neither did Gaz or Rudy, the most protective ones. When König glanced down at Ghost, he saw pride in his eyes, dark curled on sadistic pleasure swirling in his brown eyes. When Horangi gazed at Gaz and Rudy, he saw simple amusement, their mouths threatening to curl in a smirk.

All of them had known you’d act this way, erratic and violent rather than calmly scold them and stomp over their ego. You were strong-headed and blunt to them, making them bow to you, like lesser men to a lady, a queen, a goddess.

Horangi had experienced his own protection from you. After the men had loosened enough to trust him and König, he could walk beside you and hold a simple banter, albeit awkward at the start. You were much more violent this time, reaching for the downed man while hissing and screeching after you sent him to the floor with well-aimed kicks. You were like a gremlin, small and lively. He understood your anger, they’d called him racist things, calling out his Asian roots and hybrid characteristics.

Horangi had to hold you from going off on him following your promise of neglecting his medical needs. It worked, though. The first group had searched to plead, to apologise and beg for medical attention. You’d sent them away with a small note lifting the ban for medical help. You were as ruthless with people as they were to enemies.

Any other encounters with hot-headed men and women that glanced at them weirdly were met with a varying amount of anger and disgust from you. Horangi understood why 141 held you so carefully, so tightly in their hold. Why they worshipped you like a priest would do with his goddess. It was a sense of camaraderie that had evolved into love, affection dripping from their pores.

König received a bit more attention for his size, the threatening nature of his ouster coupled with his brute figure, made him a subject of fear and rejection. That hadn’t stopped you from wanting to approach him, had it? Going as far as calling him cute when he stuttered while broaching the subject of him liking certain things. For a burly man with the height of a giant, he was nice to sit next to, his quiet but anxious stature when he wasn’t deployed made it easy to talk to. He might sometimes let his instincts drive him, but they were all well-meaning, wanting nothing but goodness for you.

His turn came in quick succession, he was shunned and ridiculed left and right. It never helped that he would shy from others, preferring his little corner that made the room look stranger and claustrophobic (not that he let them walk all over him, he growled and glared, standing tall with the promise of lashing out or eating them. Even when humans feared König, they still attempted to rile his anger.). But with you, he wasn’t by his lonesome, he had someone to rattle on about the things he liked to do, or the things he wanted to do. His shoulders were relaxed and mind calm, free to speak his mind about the goriest and the sweetest dreams he had, his speech unperturbed by his anxiety.

Unlike the others, König stood before you as an impenetrable wall of muscle and fat when you raised your hand at an insignificant pig. Why would he let someone so disgusting touch you (even though it was to hit and kick the man, he would do it for you instead)? He guarded you as if they were insulting you rather than him - though it was the reverse - and glared down at anyone with dreadfully scary eyes. Like the devil that had risen, he sent them running with their tails tucked between their legs. Although he was the one that had gotten rid of them, he was always so proud of you, holding you close to him and gushing about your brave and inspiring actions.

He saw how the men in 141 looked at you, he wanted to be a part of it, to be able to freely nuzzle your face and hold you like Soap would, to cradle you in his arms and carry you around the base. König wanted a piece of your heart, to be able to show the world he held it in his hands, caring for it between his big, calloused fingers and soft affection. He might be dangerous, he might be deadly, he might be reckless, but if you let him, you would be his world like you were to the others (Horangi would agree, they spoke about it on their own.).

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marvelstoriesepic · 7 months ago

Text

Angstober (day 10)

Pairing: College!Bucky x College!Reader

Prompt: Humiliation

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Bucky is a jerk (he does have a sense of regret); reader is humiliated; mentions of self-doubt and insecurities; toxic and strict parents; hurt!reader; sad!reader; ending is quite open but not really happy

Angstober Masterlist

This is bad.

This is really, really bad.

You stare at the sheet of paper in front of you - the exam your professor just handed back, corrected. And it seems like there were quite a few things needing to be corrected.

82%

The number burns behind your eyes, but you don’t get your gaze to turn away. It sits there so innocently as if it doesn’t matter. As if there isn’t something at stake here. As if you could be satisfied with it.

Your mouth goes dry. You had studied days and nights for this exam, as you always do, buried yourself in textbooks, flashcards, anything to cram more information into your already overloaded brain. All for 82%.

Heat creeps up the back of your neck, your skin prickling with it, like embarrassment and dread decided to team up against you, merging into something gruesome, something you can’t escape.

Around you, students already started to pack up their bags, laughing, chattering, moving on. But you can’t move. You’re frozen on this bench, apprehension sinking into your bones and making them too heavy to lift your body.

Thinking that way over a grade - with it being objectively even a decent one - would perhaps be considered dramatic. Some fellow students had cheered at much lower numbers when the professor handed out the results earlier. And perhaps, you would have even been okay with this. Perhaps you could even allow yourself a tiny flicker of satisfaction if this were about you. But it’s not. It never is.

It’s about your parents.

It’s basically ingrained in them to scrutinize every part of you, every grade, every decision. They keep close tabs on everything you do, everything that may be a hazard for the path they laid out for you a long time ago. But you don’t walk this path voluntarily. You’re being pushed, forced to take steps closer to a dream you never claimed as your own. And that can only weigh a person down.

So maybe you’re not even that surprised about the grade. Pressure is a bitch. Especially when it’s boiling, simmering under the surface, until your mind can’t comprehend the simplest of information anymore. But they won’t consider anything like that when they find out. And they will find out. They always do. It’s like they have eyes everywhere, monitoring you, waiting for you to slip.

And 82%? You may as well have flunked the entire thing.

The last time you fell short of their expectations had been 86%. Funnily enough, it was the exam before this one, so that makes things even worse. Your parents had acted like you dragged the family name through the mud and intentionally smeared it all over just to spite them.

And every word they threw at you was laced with that cutting edge that usually ends up making you feel small, insignificant, stupid. Really, it doesn’t stop there.

You don’t live with them anymore. You took the chance and moved away for college the second you could, hoping for an escape, carte blanche, freedom, whatever the hell people like to call it.

But the distance wasn’t able to cut the ties. They’re still there. Their expectations, their rules, fighting for dominance in the back of your head and hanging over you like a dark cloud. And you know with chilling certainty that this 82% is going to rain hell on your head.

Your hands feel heavy, too heavy to lift, too heavy to even pack up your things like everyone else. You just sit, paralyzed by the weight of their disappointment that hasn’t even happened yet, but you know is coming.

“Y/n!”

Wanda’s voice reaches you through the haze, your thoughts had blurred into. Her voice carries hints of that teasing tone she loves to use on you.

“Pack up, slowpoke! I gotta catch my bus!”

“Yeah, right, sorry,” you mutter, blinking yourself out of that numbness that had been creeping in. You snatch up that exam paper and shove it into your bag, crumbling it in the process but not at all caring. It’s better out of sight. You throw the rest of your stuff into the bag as well and rush to the door of the lecture hall, meeting Wanda there.

You two take different buses to get home every day but always walk to the bus station together after the classes of the day are over. And thank god this was the last one of the day, the last one of the week.

A weekend to drown yourself in your sorrows is what you need.

“Soo…” Wanda sing-songs, a hint of something in her voice. “There’s this party tonight…” she trails off, giving you a sideways glance, eyes wide with expectation and a bright grin on her face.

You sigh. Heavily. Deeply. “Wan-” you start, already shaking your head without turning to her, but she doesn’t let you get far.

“Come on, Y/n,” she practically begs, drawing out the words. “You’ve been working yourself to death for weeks. And now that the exams are over, we don’t have anything due for ages! We’ve got time. And, well, don’t punch me for this, but you need to come out, let off some steam.”

You don’t give her much of a reaction as you carry on with your steps, head turned forward, watching the bus station in the distance grow bigger. This isn’t the first time she’s asked you this and it certainly won’t be the last.

“I’m not-” you start your usual rejection, but she is relentless, already prepared for your banter.

“I’ll make sure you have a good time. It’ll be fun, you’ll meet some new people, let loose a little,” she nudges you lightly, “forget about the dragons for a while.”

At that, a huff of laughter escapes your lips and you make out the triumph in Wanda’s eyes even though you’re still not looking at her directly. At some point, Wanda had resigned to calling your parents the dragons. You took offense at that for them for a while. Or you tried to at least but, honestly, it actually made your situation with them humorous to some twisted extent.

You want to argue. You want to dig your heels in and tell her no like you usually do. But you’re tired. Tired of this conversation, tired of the accusations of your parents - the dragons - you will have to prepare for, tired of that weight that never really moves off your shoulders.

So you really can’t be mad at yourself for this.

“Alright, fine, whatever. But just this once.”

Wanda squeals.

****

Yeah, this was a mistake.

The moment you and Wanda put foot into the room, vibrating with music that leaves you stumbling, eyes move over to you.

Actually, perhaps, it aren’t even many. But receiving attention from a whole bunch of people isn’t something that happens to you on a daily basis, so having those few students turn in your direction, ogling your form as you walk into the life of the party, overwhelms you with an intensity that forces you to halt.

You had hoped you could use this night to finally forget, to get an escape where no one would notice you. That doesn’t seem to happen. Wanda also doesn’t let you retreat back into the night, and find solace in a bottle somewhere far from here - somewhere quiet.

“Hey!”

You know that voice. You hate that voice and everything that belongs to its owner.

“Took a wrong turn there, sweetheart. Library’s the other way!”

There’s a laugh in his voice, the exaggerated mocking he always uses to taunt you, perfectly edged into it and you pretend not to hear him, only gripping Wanda’s arm tighter. His friends sharp laughter isn’t ignored that easily though, and you feel that well-known shame boil over far too easily.

“Oh, how would you know, Barnes?” Wanda shoots back, her voice mocking, but lacking that same playfulness she used with you earlier. A few more snorts from Bucky’s group follow but you don’t turn around as Wanda pulls you passed them.

You hate this. Already.

Bucky is at every party, so you knew he would be here. And you had tried to mentally prepare for his presence, steeled yourself against the jibes and insults he usually throws at you. Well, at least you had thought you were ready. But no amount of preparation could ever arm you against the venom sneaking into your thoughts at every word of his. How they latch onto the darkest corners of your mind, feeding the doubts already planted there.

It’s always been this way with him. He has always been this way. Since the first semester, it’s as if he has a vendetta against you, and you’ve become his favorite target. It started with him noticing you sitting over a textbook in the library, in the mensa, in study halls, all over campus really, and he made sure to always point it out. To make fun of it. To make fun of you.

Perhaps there is some warped entertainment in your discomfort that he savors. You’re an easy mark - soft-spoken, non-confrontational. You don’t fight back. Instead, you bury your hurt, swallowing the insecurities he rises in you, without showing a soul. Your parents were good at teaching you how to do that.

He doesn’t see how deeply his jokes cut, because you never let him see it. But you don’t think he’d care if he did.

“Does this not ever get boring to you?”

“It’s not like anyone’s going to remember you if you stay holed up in your books all the time”

“At some point, you gotta focus on the right things in life, sugar.”

Once they’re said, they never leave your head, always coming to the forefront of your mind in times you can’t handle them.

Now is one of those times.

“Wanda, I’m leaving,” you say, words holding the determination you needed all day, yanking your arm free from her grip, harsher than intended.

You need to get out of here, need to take a fucking breath, and get a taste of the cool air outside since the heat flooding your blood and skin makes it feel like you’re burning from the inside out.

You make for the door, but his voice finds you again.

“Now, hold on, where you goin'? Can’t leave yet, L/n. You just got here.”

You don’t stop at his bullshit, willing yourself to ignore him. But your fingers start trembling, growing slick with sweat.

“And hey, since I get the chance to talk to you… 82%?”

You freeze.

Your heart stutters, a cold shock icing your veins. It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room leaving you to search for oxygen. You don’t want to turn around, don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing your reaction, but you’re stuck. Glued to the spot, giving him and his words the power to anchor you in place.

“Really?” Bucky continues, voice still dripping with teasing mockery, unaware of your struggle. “With all those all-nighters at the library? I gotta say, Y/n, that’s actually impressive.”

The rushing sound in your ears devours everything else - the way Wanda jumps in to your defense, as always; the same menacing laughter of his friends - it’s all drowned out by the pounding in your skull.

Your hands ball into fists, nails digging into your palms. You feel the burn of tears, that familiar sting in the corners of your eyes, and you fight it. You fight it because the last thing you want is to cry in front of him, in front of all these people, all these damn prying eyes.

You turn around without even thinking, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s. He’s grinning that satisfied smirk, a gleam in his eyes but then, in a space of a heartbeat, his expression changes, falters. His smile is wiped off his face in seconds as his eyes widen. Shock enters his features, easing the lines and sucking out the color on his face as his lips part slightly, slowly.

You can’t place his reaction, but you figure it out when your body betrays you. Lips trembling, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth but you can’t do anything for the tears blurring your vision rapidly.

Bucky is still staring at you, frozen, gaping; his face a mix of something you don’t want to concentrate on. He’s not the one allowed to be in pain right now. He’s not the one allowed to feel the rising load of agony. So why the hell does he look like it?

You turn on your heel as the hot tears start gliding down your cheeks and your body doesn’t feel like your own as you hastily make your way to the door. Your hand flies to your mouth, hoping it will stifle the sound of the sob that emerges from deep within, trying to hold onto the last shred of control and dignity you have left as you bolt from the room.

You’ve never left a place this fast before.

Not even your parent's house.

🍁 October Writing Challenges Masterlist 🍁

#angstober 2024 #angstober2024 #day 10 #marvel mcu #marvel bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky Barnes x reader angst #bucky angst #college!reader #college!bucky #bucky barnes angst #bucky x reader

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georgeweasleyslostearhq · 2 months ago

Text

A KISS MEANT FOR ME

Pairings: Eddie munson x fem!reader Summary: Graduation us supposed to be an exciting day, and it is for Eddie, but not when something he wants so desperately gets taken away from him. Warnings: kissing (one is forced), fighting, punches, Jason, hints to a jerking off, mentions of sex (referred to as 'banging'), jizz, or cum, but no actual sex

This is short, shit and melodramatic, but it prompts for the future chapters, so it's kind of a filler- I guess.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Prev < > Next

Series masterlist

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Graduation.

Oh, how Eddie has longed for this day.

His third attempt had finally made the cut, and it was all because of you.

You.

Oh, how Eddie has longed for you.

Ever since that first 'date' at the fair, it's always been about you, and where you are, and what you're doing.

He thought that kiss in his van at Prom was finally going to do it.

He was finally able to have you.

But that all went down the drain when the next school day, you acted as if nothing ever happened.

So, he did too.

But this. This was graduation he was currently getting ready for; he had to go out with a bang, literally.

Because how good does a nice bang in the back of his van sound? he'd do it rough, soft, hard, passionate, slow or fast- whatever you wanted he'd do it to please so-

Eddie took his hand out of his pants, looking down at the jizz that covered his palm, dropping the oh-so-explicit magazine from his other hand.

He was trying to find his graduation cap that he had been given his first senior year- before being told he wasn't going to graduate- that is.

But, instead of throwing it out, or burning it in spite of this shitty hell hole called Hawkins, Wayne made him keep it, saying he would need it when he graduated next year.

So, when Eddie was told he wouldn't graduate again, Wayne almost let him burn it.

Almost.

But alas, he kept it once again.

He pulled out an old box from under his bed, having a distant memory of him kicking it under there those two years ago.

That's when he got distracted of what was in those boxes.

It was unlike him to say he almost forgot about his precious beauties.

All those worn-down pages, he picked and chose when he bought them, ripping out the once he didn't care about when he first flicked through them, because if he wanted to ease his relief, he'd want to have a quick and easy access to what he licked, not bullshitting and wasting time actually trying to find it.

But they just didn't work, he figured out pretty quickly how his mind kept driving back to you, that was when he pictured his favourite photo as well... you.

That's how Eddie's fastest and best wank he's ever had happened.

But alas, he wiped his hand on a tissue he reached over and grabbed from the wooden milk crate he used as a bedside table.

Then he threw the now useless magazine away in its box once more, probably not to be touched in a while now that he's learnt he can picture you.

But now he can't get you out of his head again, he can't wait to see you today. All dolled up and looking pretty for the pictures of you shaking Principal Higgins hand.

He can't wait to kiss you stupid when you throw your caps in the air.

Then.

Maybe then you'll act like something happened between you two, because Eddie's been losing himself over the frustration of you ignoring him.

Well- not ignoring.

You've just been finding opportunities to leave every time you're alone together, excusing yourself from the table when Eddie starts directly talking to you. Taking a different way in the hallway so you could get away from walking with him.

Yeah.

You were ignoring him.

But You didn't mean it in a mean way.

It wasn't like you regretted the kiss, or thought it was bad.

You liked it, you wanted to do it again, actually.

But you couldn't do it to yourself.

How do you tell him he's all you want? that he's all you can think about and that you want so much more than just a kiss?

What if he regretted it? thought you were a bad kisser?

You'd probably crawl up into a ball and cry.

That's why you didn't want to talk to him, fearing you'd blurt all your feelings out and embarrass yourself.

But you didn't need to worry about that anymore, Prom was two weeks ago, and today, today is your last day.

Your last day of school, last day of worry.

Of seeing Eddie.

He's talked about this day so many times, how he'd snatch the diploma and run the fuck out of here.

That's also why you couldn't tell him.

Because while you were fine with staying in the shitty hell hole, he was basically already leaving, on his way to be the hottest rockstar of the decade.

You were fine with that, at least in a few years, you could say that you're first kiss was 'Eddie Munson, the heartthrob of metal'

But if you had it your way, you'd make him stay.

But you knew you couldn't do that, one kiss doesn't mean he'd drop his dreams for a maybe-future

You couldn't do that.

No matter how much you wanted.

So, you got ready with a smile on your face.

Maybe you'd get a kiss goodbye.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie’s smile never wavered as he climbed the few stairs of the stage, each step a small victory in his own chaotic way. At the top, he found Higgins standing by a makeshift podium, a single sheet of paper clutched in his hand. His ticket to get the fuck out of here.

Higgins extended his hand in a congratulatory gesture, expecting the usual boisterous handshake from the metalhead who had defied every odd that had been stacked against him.

But Eddie didn’t immediately take it. He stared down at his calloused hand, as if weighing the significance of this offer, the promise of escape written in that flimsy piece of paper.

For a long, suspended moment, he seemed to be lost in thought, the bustling room around him fading into a blur.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he slowly raised his hand and allowed Higgins’s hand to meet his. Their grip was firm, charged with unspoken meaning. In that handshake lay a silent agreement- Eddie was stepping forward, even if his mind was still tangled in all his choices.

And you watched from your seat as Eddie looked out the crowd, looking out to you and Jeff, and out to Wayne in the family section, a camera in his hand, filming Eddie with tears brimming his eyes.

You weren't there for the start in Eddie's world, and nor do you think you'll be there for the end, but at least you got to see this.

The sun dipped, casting a warm, golden hue over the school football field, now transformed into a sea of folding chairs and proud families. The air buzzed with excitement and the faint scent of blooming flowers, a perfect backdrop for the culmination of years of hard work.

Eddie stood among his fellow graduates, the weight of the moment pressing on him. His fingers nervously traced the edges of his cap, a symbol of triumph over the struggles that had once seemed insurmountable. The murmurs of the crowd faded into a dull hum as his thoughts drifted to you. You, who had been his anchor, his confidant, the spark that ignited his determination.

Across the field, you sat with your classmates, stealing glances at Eddie.

Your heart raced, each beat a reminder of the unspoken words and lingering glances that had defined your relationship friendship. The memory of your prom night kiss played on a loop in your mind, a bittersweet melody of hope and hesitation.

As the ceremony progressed, names were called, diplomas handed out, and applause erupted in waves.

Eddie stood between you and Jeff, laughing silently as teachers made announcements, giving a final farewell to the students, bidding them a good life- given they were leaving this town.

Eddie stood between you and Jeff, sharing silent laughter as teachers delivered their final farewells, wishing students well in their future endeavors beyond Hawkins. The atmosphere was a blend of nostalgia and anticipation, each word a reminder of the chapter closing behind them.

Turning your head, your gaze settled on Eddie. The soft evening light accentuated his features, casting gentle shadows that highlighted the sharp lines of his jaw and the sparkle in his eyes. His unruly dark brown hair framed his face, the curls catching the light in a way that made him look effortlessly captivating. He wore his signature Hellfire Club t-shirt beneath his graduation gown, a testament to his unapologetic individuality. The silver chains around his neck glinted subtly, adding to his distinctive charm. In that moment, he looked so effortlessly handsome, a sight that made your heart flutter.

As the ceremony progressed, names were called, diplomas handed out, and applause erupted in waves. Each cheer brought the graduates closer to the moment they'd toss their caps skyward, symbolizing the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

Eddie's name echoed through the speakers, and he stepped forward with a confident stride, his signature grin plastered across his face. The crowd's applause seemed louder, a testament to the challenges he'd overcome to reach this point. You couldn't help but join in, your claps fueled by genuine pride and affection.

Returning to his spot beside you, Eddie's excitement was palpable. He nudged you playfully, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Can you believe it? We actually made it," he whispered, leaning closer so only you could hear.

You smiled, warmth spreading through you at his proximity. "I never doubted it for a second," you replied, your voice soft yet sincere.

The principal's voice rose above the murmurs, announcing the final moments of the ceremony. "Graduates, please rise." Chairs scraped against the ground as everyone stood, caps in hand, ready for the traditional toss.

"On the count of three," the principal began, "one... two... three!"

Caps soared into the air, a flurry of colors and jubilant shouts filling the space. Laughter and cheers echoed, the collective joy of accomplishment resonating among the graduates.

Amidst the celebration, Eddie turned to you, his expression softening. Time seemed to slow as he reached out, his hand brushing against yours. The world around you faded, leaving just the two of you in that fleeting moment.

But before either of you could speak, a familiar voice interrupted.

"Well, if it isn't the freak and his little admirer," Jason Carver sneered, his tone dripping with disdain.

Eddie's jaw tightened, his hand instinctively moving to shield you from Jason's presence. "Back off, Carver. Today's not the day."

Jason chuckled, a malicious glint in his eyes. "What? Do you like her or something?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. You turned to Eddie, hope and uncertainty swirling within you, waiting for his response.

But Eddie remained silent, his eyes avoiding yours, the words caught in his throat.

Jason looked between the two of you, a smirk on his lips "I guess that's a no, right?"

Eddie slowly looked at you, his eyes hung low with doubt in his eyes, he frowned, looking back to Jason

Carver shrugged, stepping closer to you "well I guess you won't mid if I do this-"

Eddie watched as Jason gripped your arm, moving quickly before you moved away to smash his lips on yours.

All Eddie could hear was the word 'mine' over and over again in his head as he tried to process what was happening.

He saw you struggling to get the athlete off of you, and that's when Eddie finally snapped out of it.

Pushing Jason off of you, he punched him, not noticing the way you wiped your lips and panted for air, hiding behind him as Jason laughed at the two of you

"oohoo, guess I pressed the wrong button, she liked it, didn't you?" the blonde looked over at you and you frowned, holding Eddie's arm "cute, two freaks together, it's perfect"

Eddie pulled you off his arm, pushing Jason away, taking him by the robe, muttering him something you couldn't hear.

You assumed it was a threat because the Carver boy scoffed, rolling his eyes "yeah, right"

"You don't want to test me right now, Jason, leave my girl alone"

Now it was your turn to scoff, his girl?

Nuh uh, he can't get away with saying shit like that. you kissed him one time and he hasn't mentioned it since.

"I'm not your girl" you butted in.

Eddie's grip on Jason falters as he looks back at you, noticing your furrowed eyebrows as he frowns.

Just because you wouldn't give him the chance to ask doesn't mean you're not his girl, you are, and he'd be damned if you would refuse that now.

"sweetheart-" He started before you walked away.

Eddie was confused, you're the one that kissed him- but now you don't want to be his girl, what type of bullshit what that?

So, he reluctantly let go of Jason with a shove, following after you as he called your name.

He dodged students who flooded the field, saying goodbye to classmates and leaving the school one last time.

"sweets, please" he spoke in a rush, his feet fast in pace as he trailed after you.

but you didn't want him to catch you.

Because it might be the last time.

He can't call you his girl when he's about to leave, that's just not fair.

But he caught up to you anyway, making you hold your breath as he stood in front of you, the gentle hold he has on you burns your arm.

"Are you upset at me or somethin'?" he asked in a hushed voice

You shook your head "no"

"Mad?"

You shook your head again "no"

He dropped your arm "then what's going on? what did I do? it seems like every time something happens between us, it's always my fault, and then you ignore me without a reason. I don't enjoy you pretending I don't exist when you kissed me just 2 weeks ago! so tell me why I'm at fault, because at this point, I feel like you're just messing with me"

You looked up at him, shaking your head, your mouth agape as you find the words "nothing...it's just- nothing..."

"It can't be nothing... if it'd bothering you then tell me...all I said was that you're my girl"

That made something inside of you snap, you were not his girl, you would never be his girl, as much as you wanted to be.

He hasn't even asked you, let alone talk about what happened that night, yet he says something now? right when he's about to leave?

"I am not your girl! I will never be your girl and that's completely your fault"

He stood still for a moment, letting your words sink in.

how is it my fault? Eddie asked himself

"How? I mean I'm calling you my girl, so how is my fault that you're not?"

You sighed "b-because-"

He stepped forward, cutting you off "how is it my fault when I've been trying to talk to you, only for you to ignore me every time I got one word out?"

You stepped back, almost tripping on your heel of your shoe before he caught you, stepping forward, his grip on your elbow was harsh but oh so gentle at the same time.

It almost reflects what he's feeling right now, frustration, but with a tang of...hurt.

And you could sense that in his eyes, the way they bored into yours, the way his nostrils flared, and his lips pursed.

"How is it my fault, sweetheart, please tell me. I think I'm being very clear with my feelings, and I'm done with you pretending you don't have them yourself"

He was right, but so wrong at the same time.

You weren't pretending, you'd never pretend like you didn't like him, that you didn't want to kiss him stupid until you were drunk of his lips, you never denied it.

You've just never said it.

"I'm not pretending. But you're pretending like it's going to go somewhere"

"what's going anywhere?" he furrowed

It was no surprise how he failed his classes for 3 years, especially with his struggle to understand this situation.

What would be the point of all of this if he wouldn't be here?

What would it do? what would it achieve? nothing.

Absolutely nothing, only desperation and pleads to stay on your end.

But you couldn't change his mind, no matter what you could say, he was leaving Hawkins, and that was that he'd find some pretty goth girl to fall in love with in the city and you'd probably settle for some boring douche here, where you'll aways be, years down the line, waiting for the day he comes back.

He had his heart set on leaving, saying it almost every day. Even when you weren't friends, you'd hear him boast about leaving in the hallways, fading away as an echo before you could think twice, before you could even comprehend that in the future, in the near future, it would affect you in so many ways, how his mere being would affect you.

Why would he give you this opportunity to tell your secret right when he was about to leave, why would he give you this chance and then take it away from you without a second glance.

He couldn't be so cruel

"Well for starters, you're leaving Hawkins, are you not?" you stared at him intently, watching as he licked his lips, letting go of you once more.

He tapped his foot on the freshly mowed grass. biting the inside of his cheek, he nodded once, then silence, then he nodded again

"Do you want me to?" He asked, almost selfishly, but the way he looked at you said something entirely different

You frowned "what?"

He spoke in a rush "do you want me to leave"

You were silent, looking away, your eyes wandering around the almost empty field, following the figures of classmates you hope to never see again.

"It's your life, why would I-" he shook his head at the beginning of your sentence, stepping away

"Do you..want me... to stay" he spoke carefully, slowly, repeating himself yet again as if you didn't understand him before.

"Do what you want! it's your fucking life, you can make your own decisions, why do you need my opinion?" you spat, growing tired. You've had a long day, to start, all the way to now, silently wishing him not to go.

The rise and fall of his chest did little to make you feel better about what you said, the clench of his fist by his side, his wild hair that blew in the light wind. You just wanted him to leave.

Make it easier, because God anything would be easier than this. You'd finally be able to breathe again, that you'd be able to go a day without finding him so incredibly perfect.

He was such an asshole. But my, oh my, did you love him.

"Go! be a rockstar for all I care, go to LA, New York, Boston, I don't give a shit, not about that and not about you!"

Eddie wanted to hear 5 simple words, 14 basic letters.

Or even better, 1 word, 4 letters

He wanted to hear you say 'stay'

He's never understood the feeling in which you give him.

Why you make him feel this way.

He'd never understand it, because just as he thinks he's got you figured you out, just when he thinks you like him like how he likes you, you tell him to go.

So he will, He'd do anything for you, if you wanted him to stay, he'd stay. if you told him to leave, he'd leave and never come back, leaving the pain of knowing he'd never see that sweet face of yours again.

So, with a nod to his head, he stepped away, and away, and away. mumbling.

"ok..." he said simply, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue "fine"

You stood still, immediately regretting your choice of words, he was right, you pretended like you didn't have feelings for him. But it was easier this way, right?

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, feeling foolish, he shouldn't have said anything, she should have let you be, ignoring him, anything would be less painful than hearing the one he loves to tell him she didn't give a shit about him.

He's never experienced this before, and hell if he'd go through that shit again, you're so fucking confusing and it's giving him a headache.

"See you then" he whispered, turning on his heels.

He shouldn't have turned when everyone tossed their caps in the air, he should have thought about kissing you in that moment, and he definitely shouldn't have thought about how Carver stole that kiss. It was supposed to be meant for him, Eddie and you.

Because ever since you kissed him in his van, all he's been able to talk about is how good your lips felt against his, moving perfectly together, they were so smooth, the perfect amount of lip-gloss applied to your pink lips.

Eddie might have been foolish to think how your lips were made for each other, how the tint of the gloss smudged onto him, and you had to wipe it off with a giggle.

He had fixed yours too, dragging his thumb along your bottom lip before kissing you again, feeling you squirm but lean closer.

Eddie must have been foolish to think the look in your eyes when you pulled away was drunk in love, and that it was for him.

But hey, congrats to you, right? Eddie thought.

What a perfect little minx to play with his feelings.

But he didn't care, he was going to leave this town and you behind. He's going to show you what you were missing, make you miss him.

God, you already missed him, and he was only 5 meters away, giving Wayne a half hug as he congratulated his nephew.

You'd take it all back right now, but the damage is done, you didn't only protect yourself, but him too.

You'd only bring him down, all while he was trying to reach the top.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Taglist:

@exploding-bonbon @xlostitx @pupwrites @carolineesnell @foreveranexpatsposts @itsmadamehydra @thedoubleexposurephotography @g3n3zshack @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @emxxblog @nubedeoctubreval @bimboshaggy @sheneedsrocknroll92 @callmytherapistplease-blog @ifeelbadbutimhot @littlemissholy @sammybrrr @alastorssimp @e-c-a-r-l-a-t-e

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

#x fem!reader #imagines #angst #eddie munson #joseph quinn #stranger things #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x fem!reader #ami's new series!#eddie stranger things #stranger things fic #kiss you series #eddie munson x reader #thank you for reading

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bloodycassian · 1 year ago

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Reborn - Reader x Azriel. AN - thank you anon for this great prompt!

Requested - I don't know if your requests are open but I wanted to throw something in just in case.

An Azriel x reader, where AZ and reader have never met before, reader has been tortured and experimented on by the court of nightmares ( Keir ) she could be a shadowsinger, and they're mates, when the reader is in the verge of death for refusing to work with Keir, AZ feels it and begins to grow hectic without knowing the reason, everyone in the inner court is confused until elain comes out of nowhere and tells everyone that his mate is in danger. ( Vision )

I have this on the back of my mind since reading some of your amazing work and couldn't stop thinking about it.

No amount of masturbation, drinking, or sparring helps the agitation under Azriel’s skin. It’s a constant, burning, itching thing that’s like a fucking disease upon his being.

Sleep is his only relief, but even then he’s plagued with pain and darkness. It reminds him too much of the dank basement he’d been forced into when he was young, so he stays up. He’s exhausted and brooding and quick to snap at anyone who questions him. He knows he’s being a dick but according to the five healers he’d seen, there was nothing wrong.

Nothing wrong, just like how his shadows weren’t some kind of magic, according to them.

He’d refused to believe in healers all that much since the explanation Madja had given him about his diseased pets. The writhing, tentacles of night were a ‘bodily mutation of the highest level, tainted with fae magic’. Tainted. The word felt right for what they were, but that didn’t mean it stung any less.

“We’ll invade here, and be able to plant our…” There was a beat of silence in Amren’s quick words, then her voice cut through his busybodied task like a knife “Azriel, are you even listening?”

Truthfully, he hadn’t been. He’d been consumed by the ache again, the broiling sickness beneath his skin that had every muscle flexed in tension. His mind had other battles to fight.

“What does it matter? You’ll carry out your plan with or without me. Keep talking, make yourself feel important, Amren.” His ill-tempered response came quick and laced with venom. One glance towards the small not-quite-fae female and his mind gave a twinge of regret.

A lick of her power radiated, filling the room with something vibrant and undeniable. Cassian sucked in a breath, and a word from Rhys had her firey gaze snapping to him instead. “Take your dog from the important business then, High Lord.” Her words were precise, hissed.

Azriel straightened. The insult didn’t land as well as Amren had wanted, in part because he couldn’t care less, another because the fire under his skin was reaching a peak that he had no idea how he survived every time it came around. He glanced to Rhys, who gave him a nod. Good. Let him free of this cage.

He flung open the balcony doors with his cursed gift and sprinted off the ledge, launching himself into the summer air.

Rats nibbled at your toes when you slept, scurrying away before you could catch them. Your senses weren’t even close to what they had been months ago. Before, you’d been able to catch at least two a week for extra sustenance.

You told yourself that they’d learned, that they’d gotten quicker at their biting and fleeing. Truthfully, you could feel your strength waning every day.

Living was no longer hope, and more of an inconvenience.

But it was an inconvenience to Kier as well. And that meant you’d keep on living out of spite.

The next female would appreciate it.

“Arms up, legs together.” The order came with unnatural casualness that you’d grown used to. If you didn’t follow the orders, you were beaten until you either complied or were unconscious, so complying was really the only option. Especially when you were attempting to stay alive for as long as you could.

It’s for the next girl. You chanted to yourself when the keeper made the injection. It stung like hundreds of bees attacking the same place, but the pain was familiar. A friend you welcomed before everything went sideways and the nausea rolled in.

The drug Kier’s men gave was like none you’d experienced outside this cell. An incredible high, with a disastrous low.

You convulsed on the floor moments later, your body still barely able to take the amount they dosed you with. You’d seen the liquid inside the damn thing grow each week, they were marking your progress with every one of them. So, with each dosing you made sure to put on some dramatics for them.

The clawing at the throat was false, the sound of your screams only half-forced. The real, unforced reaction though, was always the shade of pallor your skin turned after every injection. The darkness that radiated from you like a bubble, the pain made physical.

It hovered over your skin like an aura, tendrils of it washing over your forehead when the sweating started. It always started like this, for the first few hours - or possibly minutes, you weren’t sure once you were lost to the pain - they’d observe, and sometimes Kier himself would join, looking like a disappointed mother. Then, once the shaking subsided, and you were able to breathe normally, they’d release a rabbit into your cell.

The same rabbit almost every damn time. After the first two weeks, you’d grabbed the first one and snapped it’s neck, hoping that Kier would be happy with the accomplishment and you’d earn something. You’d felt awful as it died in your hands, but the pain… if it stopped the pain, you’d kill anything.

But time after time, they’d send in another rabbit, and though you begged for some kind of explanation of what they wished with the damn thing, they’d only observe. After a few hours of investigating, it’d eventually be removed and you’d wake up alone again.

Kier did not make an appearance today, and after your shaking stopped, neither did a rabbit.

“Where’s dinner?” You croaked, the tears stinging small cuts on your cheeks. Your friend never laughed or spoke, hardly even moved when he was in the vicinity of your cell. It was odd, even for a freak who enjoyed drugging and torturing others.

The male only stared, writing in his little notebook. He could at least humor you and tell you what he was so keenly logging. Some friend.

He opened the door, but instead of the rabbit jumping inside, he stepped forward, past the barrier and wards keeping you from breaking through. Your breathing halted.

“Your reluctance to learn your gifts has given us no other option.”

“Did you lose a fight?”

Nesta’s words normally bounced and slid right off Azriel, but with how volatile he was feeling, it took all his restraint not to snarl at her.

“Come on Az, where’s that quick wit?” She chided, crossing her legs at the knee beside her sister.

His eyes drifted to Elain, the warm blush of her cheeks. Her lavender nightshirt made her seem so much more vulnerable than she was. He knew just how lethal the female could be, and admired her for it. His eyes drifted to the soft hair and round features that he’d once dreamt of. How foolish he’d been, how full of hope and bitterness. Now here he was, merely a ghost. A shell for pain to be housed in and nothing more.

And here he stared at a garden of hope and light. The female who’d haunted his dreams for years. The opposite of the steel bitch that sat beside her.

A pang of guilt pinched at him. “You’re ridiculous.” Was all he could muster at her. Nesta was trying to help, in her own way, he supposed. She was testing his limits and temper, even while balancing comforting words and attempting to heal her little sister’s mental wounds. Not to mention navigating the strange, untrained gift of Elain’s.

It wasn’t often that Azriel came to the house of wind proper. When he did, he usually confined himself to the dining area and the war room, where the formal dinners and meetings were held. He hadn’t walked the halls into the large internal library in a long, long while. No wonder they both had turned their chairs to face him when he’d cracked the door to find them both here.

The large windows seemed crowded with the amount of books that surrounded them. The only source of light, aside from the twinkling magic fueled ones above. The room had always made Azriel feel claustrophobic, and now it set him on edge in a way different than it had before.

Especially when Elain’s eyes bored into his own. His skin felt like it was shifting, pulling and pushing from just beneath. He was beginning to wonder if the healers had somehow missed a parasite of some kind. Something new perhaps, something they’d never seen before.

Elain’s eyes widened, her cheeks going from the pink blush to sickly pale in an instant. Her expression was unfocused, hazy - as if she were drunk. Azriel suddenly felt like he was intruding, like seeing her so vulnerable was something reserved for only those close to her.

Nesta placed a hand on her shoulder and rubbed her sister’s back comfortingly. It was about as tender as Azriel had ever seen her, even with Cassian. He watched the hands that rubbed the Seer, recalling the intense desire he’d once felt for her. Embarrassment coated his cheeks, distracting him from the physical pain for a moment.

He’d wanted to be that support for her, once. Nesta’s hand seemed to grow in his vision, the embroidered collar of Elain’s nightshirt with it. He blinked rapidly, trying to refocus. The blackness around his eyes did not recede though. His bones ached, and his headache stabbed at him like a branding iron. He rubbed his temple, squeezing his eyes shut.

“She needs help.” Elain gasped, coughing on a breath. Azriel wavered on his heels, something hard hitting his back, crushing his wings.

He could barely hear the high strung sound of Elain’s voice. “She needs help, Azriel!”

He tore though the court, dragging Kier kicking and frothing with him. He’d received a few severe wounds from the cruel male, but nothing that a few patches of his siphons couldn’t hold together.

The gushing stab wounds could wait. He had something far more important to tend to.

“You’re a bastard, a low-born inconsequential bastard, Shadowsinger.” Kier coughed as Azriel dragged his broken body with him. The crowd pushed and writhed around them, but his outstretched dagger kept any of the patrons from advancing. Several dark looks, hisses of death closed in around him, but he plowed through them all, working his way to the catacombs behind the stone chair that served as Rhys’s dark throne.

“I may be a bastard-” Azriel grunted through his pain, now more fevored and intense than before. It was a wonder he’d even been able to make it here, but it did explain his sloppy handling of Kier once he’d found the male.

“But at least I didn’t sell a daughter off as stock.” He tossed the would-be-king to the locked door of the catacombs, a part of him enjoyed the thunk his head made against the stone floor, even through the intense agony that ripped through him.

This was not the place to show weakness. If he let his shadows drop, let the air of anything but a cold hearted killer go for even a moment he’d be trampled by the crowd.

Kier rose slowly, muttering curses while he pulled out a key and slid the door to the side. He sketched a bow, waving Azriel in. Spit landed at Azriels feet as he crossed the threshold, and he hesitated in his step. A hiss rang out behind him, shuffling feet a song as the crowd quickly scooted back. He held his stance there for a moment, collecting the wrath that built in him. It writhed and twisted in his mind, his guts, his teeth throbbing with the urge to tare out Kier’s throat.

The blistering heat flared again, this time in his jaw and he moved down the hall, towards the cells that an unfortunate assistant to Kier had described.

He’d made their death quick, painless.

You couldn’t scream, could hardly breathe with the weight that seemed to be growing in your chest.

Not weight exactly, more like pressure. Internal pressure, like there was lava built up inside you with nowhere to go. And every rattling breath seemed to give it more life. You wheezed, weak with the exhaustion of fighting it.

Your friend had given you three more of the injections, and promptly left when you began struggling against the binds at your hands and feet. One of them had ripped, you only knew because that was the hand that you’d used to claw at your chest with.

The blood made going any further too slippery and exhausting.

There were far away sounds, but it all seemed too strange, so disjointed to be real. Screams and sharp clangs of metal, breaking glass and thudding.

Your eyes slipped closed, and relief washed over you. The pressure eased, and the squeaky hinges of the door opened. Had death finally come? Was this the end of your cycle, and now they were bringing in a new victim to Kier’s experiments?

There wasn’t much of a goodbye to the world, though. As sad as it was to not be able to see your family again, you were just grateful that the pain was receding. That finally there’d be no injections, no innocent rabbit and certainly no Kier around.

The sounds were strange, a choking, strangled sound like the first time you’d killed the rabbit. Your eyes cracked open almost involuntarily to see what had happened.

Outside your cell in a glow of blue light was a winged male, his hand wrist deep inside your friend’s chest.

Blood is hotter than most people think it is. Azriel takes joy in it though, when it’s the blood of the truly vile ones. The male with the syringes and log book reeked of something spiced and foreign, something Azriel’d never encountered before. He would have asked, would have talked to the male if he’d not pulled a knife and threatened to ‘kill her’ as he backed away.

There were no thoughts after that. And as he fell to the floor, Azriel reveled in the male’s labored breathing. Relief and heat flooded him, prickling him with a soaring joy he’d thought abandoned him long ago. He could laugh, if it weren’t for the absurdity of how it sounded to laugh at this moment.

He plucked the book from his hands and shoved it into his belt behind him, his chest thrumming with joy.

He’d never been so filled with glee before, so overwhelmed with it after killing… Had he become broken in a sick way? Was he no better than the male he’d just killed? He looked to his hand, twisting it in the low light of his siphons.

A wet, weak cough echoed off the walls and he spun, knife ready.

Then the blade was on the floor as he rushed to the bars of the cell door, ripping it free of the rusted hinges.

The female was gaunt, and frail. Yet his chest sang and though she looked moments from death, he couldn’t imagine more beauty.

She clutched her chest, the blood there crusted and dry. “Thanks.” She croaked, voice barely a whisper. Shadows mounted around him, enclosing them in complete black. He would have thought he was winnowing if it weren't for the sorry excuse for a bed that stayed beneath her.

Azriel’s lips were moving, but he couldn’t tell what he was saying, even to his own ears. His mind, his body was a rushing river of every emotion at once, all cascading through his mind, to his chest and thrumming in his blood. Her eyes went wide and wild, searching his for a moment. His heart thundered in his ears.

What had his life been until now? Why was this moment such a climax to him so suddenly? All of it, the pain the agony, the stark moments of joy against it all - the brief moments of shared happiness that made it all worth it tore through his body like a flash floor.

Tears pricked his eyes, and it was a curious thing to see them fall onto her neck and wash away the blood there.

Then, a wet sigh from her lips, and her eyes stopped searching his. The rush of joy and sense of sanctuary ceased. His blood went quiet in his ears, and the room felt suddenly cold. The room silent around him, not even his shadows dared whisper.

His fingers hesitated over her cheek. When her next breath did not come, he shook her gently. Her eyes remained, staring blankly at the ceiling.

This was truly a tomb now.

“No…” He heard his own words that time. The word clattered through the cell like a bell tolling, echoing.

“Take her back.” A shadow hissed over his ear, caressing.

He shook her again, the tears boiling over now, panic gripping him.

“We know how.” another said. This voice was different, the same whispered tone and suggestion, but this was not one of his pets. He sent his own shadows skittering away, and a group of them stayed, unbound to him and unmoving from the cell. His heart skipped, fear upon fear pulling him into the icy abyss of despair.

His own shadows returned, a broken syringe floating to him on their behest. They mingled with the others, reveling and dancing together though Azriel felt that he was slowly sinking.

“What am I supposed to do with this?!” He shouted at them, at nothing. He had truly lost his mind, hadn’t he?

“Save her.” The strange shadows told him. Just like Elain had said, overtaken by her visions.

A tendril of the foreign shadow wrapped around his hand, locking the glass pieces there and slicing into his palm. The needle aimed directly to her chest, between the ribs, only a few inches from the heart.

And what did he have to lose? The silence that surrounded him now was almost worse than the pain had been. Wouldn't pain at least be better than complete nothingness? To feel completely blank and unwritten as a being?

With a breath, and a part of his siphon’s power to support the broken syringe, he pushed into her skin. His own blood dribbled down the sides, mixing with hers. Through and through - until he knew that he’d met the same depth of a killing blow to an opponent’s heart.

“Side, block, strike.” Cassian’s orders came out in demanding, practiced tones. Each step, each swipe of your blade met with one of Azriel’s shadows as a shield.

His were still much, much stronger than yours, even after months of practice with them. Even with him showing you very intimately just how much they were capable of. Your cheeks blushed at the reminder of that.

“No distractions, keep that shadow talk in the bedroom, Az.” Cassian scolded.

A smirk played at your mate’s face, and he hit you with a surprise swipe at your feet, left unprotected by your own shadows.

You fell on your ass, cursing.

Azriel offered a hand, panting at the exertion the sparring had taken. You were proud of that, at least.

The first six months of training had been dedicated to building stamina, gaining back weight and muscle while balancing training your shadows to obey you. Six months ago, being able to spar with your mate had seemed like a far off dream that you’d never be capable of doing.

But with his training, and Cassian’s encouragement, you were almost able to take him on stride for stride. Almost.

So, you took his hand and pulled him towards you for a kiss. Then knocked his knees out from behind with a wave of your own shadows.

You smirked, and offered him a hand while Cassian boomed with laughter.

He allowed you to help him up, but cleaned in close, pecking a kiss on your cheek.

“You’ll pay for that later.” He said in an intimate tone. A lick of his shadow wrapped around your thigh, snaking upwards.

“Promise?” Your eyes sparkled at him, and the pain all those months ago had been worth it for this.

#azriel x reader #reader x azriel #acotar fic #azriel shadowsinger #shadowsinger #reader insert

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carmensbrain · 5 months ago

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Heyy can you do angst like really really angst of reader dying in season 2 or 1 with Jayce x reader

This is so evil… of course I’ll do it ദ്ദ�� ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧🎀

Contains- Jayce Talis x councilor! Reader

Rating- T for brains above 13!

Warnings- mentions and descriptions of death and gore(?)

Authors note- I’m currently coping with season 2 act 2 , I miss my soft lover boy Jayce so bad it’s insane ( • ᴖ • ｡)

Fic starts below the cut!

You had met Jayce in the academy days, keeping him company while he did his piles of research on hex tech. You loved to watch him work, seeing him finding that final piece of the puzzle and celebrating with you made your heart flutter. So after weeks of brushing hands, stares from across the classroom, and complements that were a bit too flirty he finally got the courage to ask you out.

Since then he’s been glued to you, fingers laced with yours while he rehearses his progress day speech for the 50th time, head resting in your lap as you work out some councilor paperwork late in the night.

One afternoon he walks into your office, face sewn with an emotion you couldn’t place.

“You’re needed in the council room, it’s important” his tone is flat but wavers at the end, after the attack on the bridge you could tell he was struggling, grappling with the weight of duties he never agreed to uphold.

You followed him into the room, dim with the sun setting just outside the large window. As he speaks to you and the rest of the council his voice is confident but the look in his eyes while he introduces the idea of a separation of piltover and zaun is full of worry.

The idea of zaun raised eyebrows but as the time to vote came the council, including you, agreed. Maybe once zaun is free the zaunites can finally find peace and piltover can focus on hex tech’s development. The final light flickers on as councilor Kiramman agreed to the proposition and a wave of relief washed over Jayce’s face, the looming dread leaving his face.

A moment later a distant explosion causes you to turn your head, momentarily blinded by the blue flash of a rocket barreling for the council building. Without time for anyone to react the room is practically reduced to rubble, a searing heat biting your skin as rubble pins you on the ground.

Everything sounds muffled as the remaining members of the council stumble to help each other, Jayce’s voice booming through the room as he searches for you. He’s able to pull a majority of the rubble off you you but the damage was already done, blood pooling on your dress as Jayce’s hand comes to cover the gash ripped in your side.

Tears fill his eyes as he tries to get help, screaming for help from the stunned councilors staring at the scene unfolding in front of them.

“Jayce…” you call out, hand reaching up to touch his face in spite of the shooting pain every movement caused. His skin is hot, stubble on his jaw pricking at your hand. His cheeks are covered in ash and dust, only broken up by tear tracks.

“I’m sorry- I- I can fix this I’m gonna get you help” He reassures, the words consoling himself more than you. His hands shake as he holds you, panic setting in while your skin grows paler and colder by the second. You guide his face to yours, lips colliding with his for the last time.

“Please… don’t blame yourself” you plead as you fight to stay conscious, every second passing increasing the pain ripping from you abdomen while the adrenaline fades. The finality in the way you spoke broke Jayce, a strangled cry leaving his lips as he felt you go limp in his arms.

Your mind brought you to a safer place, memories of the early mornings, date nights, and soft moments shared between you two playing as the sound around you fades and you can feel yourself slipping away. The pain fades and for a brief moment there is peace, no aching in your heart as you watch the man you love work himself to the bone to fix problems born centuries before him, no more constant stress about how to uphold the approval of the council while fulfilling your promise to your people in the undercity, no more fear of what tomorrow may bring.

As he finally lets your body go, lying you down as comfortably as he could so your final rest could be a good one, his gaze falls on victor.

He is in a similar position to you but there’s no visible bleeding and he’s still breathing, though shallow. A flash of panic courses through him as he rushes him to the lab, chest heaving while his thoughts cloud all of the other voices around.

I can’t lose them both tonight.

#carmen’s brain🎀#writers on tumblr #fanfic #fanfic requests #writeblr #arcane #arcane league of legends #jayce talis #jayce talis x reader #Jayce talis league of legends #arcane jayce

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chaggie4ever · 9 months ago

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Ok I need to get this off my chest: people need to stop hating on my girl for her final performance against Lute. Vaggie has been out of practice for 3.5 YEARS (42 months), during which she lost her depth perception and wings and hid her identity, which definitely limited her ability to train (not even accounting for the psychological torment and phantom pains). Meanwhile Lute has been living her best life in heaven, likely training every day to keep her position and fully intact.

She has one month to prepare and learn some basic self defense. Now mind you, training montages are hilarious because after the first week if you’re doing it right you probably can barely move out of soreness XD (the ONLY accurate portrayal I’ve seen was on Galavant, which everyone should watch - it’s a medieval musical with a similar tone to HH). I’ll cover more on her and Carmilla separately.

Then Lute proceeds to watch the entire final battle while Vaggie is busy killing at least four angels by my count. When they fly up to Adam and Lute, she immediately sucker stabs Dazzle, dropping them hundreds of feet and disarming Vaggie in the process.

Despite all of this, Vaggie is able to stop a full force sword charge directly at her eye bare handed. She deflects several more vicious blows, using tools in her environment to help (shard of glass, radio). Yes she is losing. She is unarmed and see above… also unused to fighting with long hair even pulled up XD (as an aside, I absolutely LOVE how Carmilla pulls her hair down the moment Vaggie complains when training lol).

She gets a few more face cuts while we watch Charlie stab Adam, and ends up on the ground reaching for her weapon, which Lute uses to stab her hand before stupidly leaving it while gloating. Yes, Lute could (and should) have ended her here. I have a few separate theories on why that did not happen (later post). But regardless of the reasoning, Lute’s hubris left Vaggie alive enough to goad her second wind by mentioning Charlie. And Vaggie was SMARTER (and ultimately more spirited).

Now the tables have turned but Vaggie spared Lute, more out of spite than kindness but ultimately because of Charlie. Lute only has her left arm pinned; she should have stopped the spear but basically asked for death. This is also deserving of it’s own analysis but I think all angels hate themselves :(

Vaggie leaves and when she no longer has her undivided attention, Lute is irate enough to rip off her arm and pin her. Vaggie isn’t fighting at this point, she’s trying to get to Charlie but was sucker punched/tackled. Pretty understandable imho… interesting theories that Lute may have ironically saved Vaggie’s life here. I love her but she’s not stronger than Adam :( I’ll keep these Yuri headcannons to myself for now XD

Ironically, I think this may end very badly for Vaggie and Chaggie (if Lute kills anyone I will kill everyone and then myself), especially after Adam’s death. We haven’t even seen Vaggie cry but Lute now has. The same girl who just pulled her own arm off in sheer rage (seriously what’s up with her brute strength XD).

But ultimately, while I don’t feel comfortable saying Vaggie properly won this fight, she did a damn good job with what she had available and people need to stop hating on this character! Lute definitely did not win. And I’m REALLY hoping for a proper rematch because given Lute’s HATRED, she clearly feels at least challenged by Vaggie, one of Adam’s “best girls” who likely had at least Lute’s 275 kills annually… AND/OR she was dumped right before Vaggie’s last extermination and all the yuri 😍🥰😘😇🤣

#hazbin hotel #vaggie #lute #chaggie

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gorgeys · 2 months ago

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I would love a continuation of thirty minutes!!

I didn’t think it would make my heart hurt so much but I did…truly beautiful

crawling back to you ★ santana lopez x fem!cheerio!reader

like clockwork, you come crawling back to santana

part 1

word count: 1700 warnings: SMUT - fingering, kinda angsty again

a/n: thank you anon! i so needed an excuse to keep writing abt my baby

the three knocks on her window are unmistakable and familiar. santana rolls over and lugs herself off the bed toward the source of the sound. although she can only see the outline of a shadowy figure behind the glass, santana pushes opens her window without hesitation.

"hey," you say casually, climbing in santana's room before she's even stepped back and made space for you.

"hey. i thought you were going on a date tonight."

"yeah, we went to breadstix again. he just dropped me home," you say, plopping onto her bed with a sigh, like you've just come home after a long day of work. you inhabit her space like it belongs to you.

santana glances over at the digital clock on her nightstand which already reads eleven. she could've sworn it was seven just a moment ago.

"oh."

she turns and finally notices the blue mini dress you're wearing: tight at the top, but flowy at the bottom. it pools naturally around your thighs, reminding santana of the robe of an angel.

when you carelessly lean back on your hands, the strap slides down your shoulder and the hem rises higher. per usual, you're oblivious to santana's attentive and conflicted gaze. she wants to admire you in all your beauty, but she hesitates.

you're obviously disheveled. obvious to her at least.

your dress is ruffled in a way that's caused by more than the wind. your hair is tangled and partially hiding your face. even behind it, santana can see that the lip gloss you religiously apply is faded and barely smudged at the corner of your lips.

"how was it?" she tries to ask neutrally, but it's loaded with something spiteful.

you shrug, watching as santana slinks toward you. she walks around the bed and lies down on the other side. you follow suit, kicking your shoes off and throwing your legs over her comforter.

"it was fine, i guess," you say, both of you lying on your sides and facing each other. "he was...nice."

santana fights the urge to roll her eyes.

that's what you always said, like it was the only word you could think of to describe him.

finn's a nice guy.

two people in love didn't describe each other as just nice. how would you describe her? because she knows how she'd describe you.

"we ate at breadstix. he paid, of course. and then we were...going to go back to his place, but his mom was home. so was mine. so," you say, absentmindedly playing with messy strands of your hair as if santana wasn't hanging on your every word. "he just parked his car somewhere, and we climbed in the backseat."

santana's breath hitches and her lips turn downward before she knows what she's doing.

how could you climb into his backseat without thinking of her? without thinking of her backseat, your safe haven from the outside world? the place where she had claimed you as hers with three fingers and her lips. it was the one place that belonged to just the two of you and where finn hudson couldn't reach you.

well, not anymore. that all must have meant nothing to you. or at least it didn't mean nearly as much to you as it meant to her. did you even feel the difference when you were climbing onto finn's lap instead of hers and letting his stiff hands replace her thoughtful ones?

it's even worse that santana can smell the notes of his cologne lingering on your skin now that she's inches away from you. if you looked deep enough, maybe you'd see the betrayal buried in santana's eyes. not that you'd even know to look for it.

"but it was just so...awkward. he didn't know what to do with his hands and i'm pretty sure he hit his head, like, three different times. so we just gave up and he drove me home."

in an instant, pride masks santana's pain. maybe he was the one who could parade you around school like a trophy and take you out on romantic dinner dates, but he would never be able to have you in the way she did. he would never be able to recreate the moments she shared with you in her backseat, whatever they meant. he would never be able to make you feel the way she did. that part of you was reserved for her only.

santana hums, as if she's sympathetic.

"it just felt so...wrong," you say, a little disappointed.

wrong because it wasn't me, she thinks.

"i bet," she says instead, fingers impatiently dancing over her comforter.

she watches your lips purse like there's something more on your mind.

"what?" she asks, fingers creeping closer. she can't deny the desire brewing inside her now that you've all but confessed that she's better than finn. she'll prove it to you, no words necessary. the talking is the hardest part after all.

"it's just..."

santana is immediately overwhelmed when you simultaneously reach out to fist the side of her loose shirt, exhale sharply, and rub your thighs together beneath your skirt. she internally thanks whatever higher being has brought you both to this moment.

"he didn't even...touch me, really," you say, pout playing on your lips.

"yeah?" she asks breathlessly. she doesn't move yet, curious to see what you're willing to take from her in your distressed state.

"yeah," you say, fingers curling tighter around her shirt, anchoring yourself to her. you have that wanting look in your eye and santana knows exactly what it is that you want.

"poor baby," she sighs, nails enticingly grazing the skin right above your knee. "all dressed up and can't even get what she wants."

her eyes flicker down to the hem of your dress, and you suppress a groan. you've never felt this way with finn. a part of you knows you never will. you probably won't feel this way with anyone but her.

"santana," you whisper, a quiet plea.

your hips shift intentionally beneath your dress. it's an invitation santana has been waiting her whole damn life to accept. she curses under her breath, hand tracing your skin to the back of your knee.

"he tried, but...he doesn't know what he's doing."

"well, i could'a told you that," she says, the corner of her lip curling up in a smile.

now her entire palm is around your leg, grabbing and pulling your closer. you lean into her like it's all you've ever wanted. she can feel your nails through her shirt, digging into the skin of her side.

"you need," she starts, hand inching up the back of your thigh and forehead nearly touching yours. "someone who knows exactly what they're doing."

she would've kept this game up for even longer, but you break quicker than she'd imagined. you surge forward, hand leaving her shirt to grab the side of her neck as you finally kiss her. she responds immediately, kissing you back with confidence finn could only dream of having.

it's different than the times in her car, when everything was rushed and frantic. now, in the comfort of her own room, free from distractions and interruptions, she can take her time with you. each kiss is deliberate and slow, like you're trying to consume each other bit by bit.

her fingers press into your thigh, pulling you closer only to push her weight onto you. you easily let her roll you onto your back and keep you pinned to the mattress with a firm hand on your shoulder. a whine escapes your lips when her other hand finds it's way under your skirt, pressing your clit over your underwear. she groans when she realizes what she's feeling: wet, lace panties.

"did he do this to you?" she asks, massaging you over the soaked lace and lips ghosting over yours. "or did i?"

santana nearly melts at the way your hips stutter against her hand. she's barely touching you but you're still so responsive.

"you already know," you mumble, hand tangling itself in her hair and bringing her lips back down to yours.

"yeah, but i wanna hear you say it," she says in between kisses. maybe she's teasing you, but it's more than that. she needs to hear it. she needs to know finn can't beat her in every way. she needs to know this part of you is hers and only hers.

when you don't respond right away, she slows her hand and pulls her lips from yours. she looks down at you expectantly and you crumble, already missing the feeling of her.

suddenly "you" rolls of your tongue like a mantra. "always you."

"that's my girl," she whispers, heart fluttering in her chest.

she rewards you by dipping her fingers beneath the lace and rubbing your bare clit. she keeps her lips against your jaw as you moan and arch into her, legs spreading instinctively wider for her. she takes her time rubbing gentle circles, working you up until you're bucking into her hand and whispering soft "pleases" against her lips. she has you right where she wants you.

"see," she mumbles, lips pressed to your cheek. "this is what it's supposed to feel like."

then she slips two fingers inside you with ease. she thinks she might come undone herself from the moan you release in return.

"jesus christ," she whispers when she feels you clench around her fingers and whine her name like it's the only one you know.

she repeatedly curls her fingers inside you, stretching you a little more with each teasingly slow thrust. your head falls against the pillow, your lips permanently parted in bliss. this is perfect.

actually, there's only one thing missing.

"say you're mine," she says, voice low and confidence cracking in favor of desperation. you'd notice if you weren't so fucked out.

"mmph, fuck," you groan. she knows you're close from the way your nails dig into her neck, the same way they always would in the backseat.

"tell me you want me." her face hovers above yours, watching you at your most beautiful.

you look up at her, eyes locking onto hers, and for a moment, there's no world outside the walls of her room. there's no finn, no stupid date, no judgmental eyes or whispers.

"i'm yours," you say, never looking away. "i need you. always."

for the seconds that you come on her fingers, back arching off the mattress and thighs trembling and squeezing her hand, she lets herself believe you.

#santana lopez #santana lopez x reader #santana lopez x fem!reader #santana lopez x you #glee #glee x reader #glee santana #wlw #wlw smut #x fem!reader #lesbian

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ficnation · 2 months ago

Text

Dead Girl Walkin'#2

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female! Reader

Warnings: sickness, usual the walking dead themes

Word count: 1k+

A/n: Let's get into those flashbacks! Hope you enjoy it!

Main Masterlist || Daryl Dixon Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

Your sickness got worse. So much worse.

And you were all alone with it—until Daryl and Merle showed up.

At first, Daryl didn’t know why Merle bothered. He wasn’t the kind of guy to play nursemaid, and he sure as hell wasn’t the type to stick around when things got tough. But for some reason, he kept dragging Daryl back to that rundown trailer in the middle of nowhere, like it was just another stop on their endless list of bad decisions.

Being there for you was probably the best decision the two of them had ever made.

But it wasn’t.

And you let them in—not just into your house but into your life and heart.

Daryl didn’t get that either. You should’ve known better, should’ve realized they would only bring trouble and heartbreak. It never ended well with him and Merle around. Then again, Daryl figured you didn’t have much left to lose anyway.

You were getting worse by the day, skin paler than it had any right to be, bones jutting out where they hadn’t before. Every time he saw you, it was like looking at a ghost that hadn’t figured out it was dead yet.

And still, you smiled.

Even now, coughing up blood into a tissue, you grinned at them from your spot on the couch like it was just another Tuesday.

“At this point, the Grim Reaper must be scared of me,” you wheezed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Just doesn’t wanna show the fuck up.”

Merle let out one of those wild, barking laughs of his, shaking his head. “Shit, girl, I don’t blame him. You’re stubborn as hell.”

“Damn right.” You stretched, wincing, but you didn’t let it show too much. “I oughta start charging him rent if he’s just gonna keep circling and never really move in.”

Daryl didn’t laugh. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching you like you might disappear between one breath and the next.

Because you might.

Merle, either oblivious or just refusing to acknowledge reality, sprawled out in the recliner across from you, kicking his boots up on the coffee table. “So, what? You gonna outlive all of us just to spite that bony bastard?”

“That’s the plan.”

You and Merle grinned at each other like it was all some big joke.

Daryl didn’t think it was funny.

You were wrapped in that same old blanket you always had, the one with holes in it, the one you swore was perfectly fine even though Daryl had half a mind to steal it and replace it with something that wasn’t falling apart.

That night, when Merle was outside smoking and talking shit on the phone to some guy Daryl didn’t care about, he sat on the couch beside you. Not too close—just close enough to remind himself you were still here.

Your hands trembled when you reached for the glass of water on the coffee table. Daryl saw it before you could pretend otherwise and handed it to you instead.

You nodded in thanks, taking a slow sip before leaning your head back against the couch. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Daryl huffed, staring at a crack in the wall. “Ain’t got nothin’ to say.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He glanced at you, scowling. “No, I don’t.”

You smirked like you knew some big secret. “You get all quiet when you’re mad about something.”

Daryl looked away. He didn’t want to admit you were right. Didn’t want to admit that his heart skipped a beat because you noticed that little fact about him.

You sighed, running your fingers over the rim of the glass. “You don’t gotta be mad for me, y’know.”

He clenched his jaw. “Ain’t mad.”

You gave him a look, all sharp and knowing. “Bullshit.”

Daryl inhaled through his nose, tapping his fingers against his knee. His hands felt restless, like they should be doing something—fixing something, fighting something. But there wasn’t shit to fight. Nothing he could win anyway.

“I don’t like seein’ you like this.” The words came out rougher than he meant, but they were the truth.

You exhaled slowly. “I know.”

“Feels like…” He trailed off, frowning.

“Like what?”

Daryl shook his head, restless energy thrumming under his skin. “Like you’re just sittin’ here waitin’ to die.”

You didn’t look surprised by that. Maybe you’d already thought the same thing yourself. Maybe you’d been thinking it longer than he had.

After a long pause, you said, “I don’t think I’m waiting to die. I think I’m just trying to live while I still can.”

Daryl swallowed hard, shifting in his seat. “That ain’t much better.”

You shrugged. “It’s all I got.”

And maybe that was what pissed him off the most.

That you’d accepted it. That you weren’t fighting. That you were making jokes about the damn Grim Reaper instead of doing something.

He knew it wasn’t fair. Knew this wasn’t something you could punch your way out of. But that didn’t stop the anger from curling hot and sharp in his chest.

Didn’t stop him from wanting to do something.

You must’ve seen it written all over his face because you sighed and nudged his arm with your knee. “C’mere, Dixon.”

He frowned. “For what?”

You patted the couch beside you. “Just come here.”

Daryl hesitated, then shifted closer. You tugged the edge of your blanket over his lap and leaned your head against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Daryl froze, shoulders tense. “The hell you doin’?”

“Relax, would you?” You sighed, closing your eyes. “You feel like a damn rock.”

He let out a breath through his nose but didn’t move away.

“You ever just let yourself be still?” you murmured.

He didn’t answer.

You hummed, like you already knew. “You should try it sometime.”

Daryl stayed stiff for a long moment before slowly letting himself relax.

Just a little.

Your breathing was steady, soft—like maybe, for the first time in a while, you weren’t in pain. Like his presence was better than any painkiller you’d ever taken.

And for the first time in a while, Daryl let himself believe—for just a second—that maybe you’d still be here tomorrow.

If not for yourself, then for him.

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon #the walking dead daryl #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #the walking dead fic #the walking dead series #dead girl walkin'

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chantiying · 1 year ago

Text

Why do I love you?

How to choose? Take a deep breath, close your eyes, open them and then choose the image that drawn your attention

1 2 3

Before to start, sorry for any mistakes or grammar error. English is not my first language

Remember tarot is not set on stone and you can change your path whenever you want. This is for entertainment purposes

This reading is general so if it doesn't resonate with you just let it go

Pile 1

Hey! Do I really have to give you reasons to understand how much you mean to me? Every conversation we have, from the deepest to the stupidest, through those silences that have never been uncomfortable between us. You keep me grounded, we've been through so much together. Every part of you is beautiful. I know that sometimes you doubt yourself, your body, even your luck, but I love you because despite everything you have lived and you are still here, and you're still fighting. We can do anything as long as we're together, forget those who let you down, forget those who betrayed you, forget all that, because now I'm here for you. Please let me know more about you, please let me help you. Don't be afraid, I do value all the effort you have made to be here, to stay here. I love you, because in spite of all the secrets, all the problems, all the things you've never said, you're still kind, considerate, still smiling and you keep bringing happiness to others.

I want to be with you, to give you my hand, to do crazy things together, I want you to believe in yourself again, and be in the process. I love you because you are my moonlight. Don't let your thoughts destroy you, we'll find our way, we two we'll fight all the monsters and dragons that torment you

I think this pile have a special connection with the moon

Talking to the moon by Bruno Mars

Maybe it's a friend, your crush, or someone who doesn't talk to you anymore or who you lost touch with because of distance. It can also be a spiritual guide. Anyway, it seems to be someone who misses you so much and talk to the moon about you

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Pile 2

I like spending time with you. I love you for all the witticisms you can have, for how free you seem to be, because in you I find a place to call home. I love you simply because that's what I came here for, to spend time with you, to love you, to take care of you, to help you, to fight together. You are a part of me, my fears, my insecurities, the difficult moments. The times you have seen me sad or crying, all those times you have been there for me, make me grateful for how lucky I am. Everything we've been through has only helped strengthen our relationship. I love you because you understand me even with my mood swings, because you could have left, but you've never done it. I want to have you always by my side, like my treasure. I know that you are always there for me, to advise me, to make me laugh, to go out, to forget everything, but I want you to know that I also want to be your shoulder on which you can rest, you are my hope, and I want you to find it in me too. I know you've been busy, but could we go out? Let's forget the worries even for a day, okay?

This connection feels like an old movie, like autumn season, or even like the last day of school

Indie rock music

Imperfect for you by Ariana Grande

It could be a friend, lover or relative

"And in that moment I swear we were infinite"

🎻࿔*:🍂⋆🎻࿔*:🍂

Pile 3

Why do I love you? Easy. You arrived just in time to reach out to me. Maybe I haven't told you this, but before you, I was afraid that no one would really love me, I asked so much for your arrival, I think I manifested you. I know that sometimes I can be absent, that it may seem like I don't care about anything or anyone, but you're the only exception. I love you because you have made me believe in destiny, because if it weren't for you, I don't know where I would be. You are my family, the person who calms me down when my fears seem to win. Remember that I'm there for you, even if sometimes I can't even handle my problems. I love you because you don't judge me, because my problems seem lighter when I'm with you. You make me feel strong. I love you because you take care of me, because you care about me, because I was lost until you found me.

It seems to be someone who is struggling with depression or someone who doesn't know how to externalize their emotions

It's a relief for them to have you

Pop music, maybe social gatherings?

I think it's someone who looks up to you. It may be younger than you or older, but you play the role of "mom" because of how you care about that person

🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Thank you for the support in my last (first) post. you guys are awesome

Alic (Chanty) 🪽

#tarot #tarot reading #tarot asks #tarot cards #tarot tumblr #tarotblr #tarotcommunity #tarot and astrology #pick a card

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rookinthecrownest · 5 months ago

Text

Bedtime Stories For a Demon: The Day The World Disappeared, Part III (Lucanis x Rook Fanfic)

Rook is trapped in the Fade. Spite is determined to get her out.

Word Count: ~ 3.7 k

Part I

Part II

Spite Dellamorte is in the raw Fade once again.

He had followed the journal’s essence back to the ruins of her village the moment Lucanis finally fell asleep earlier that evening.

Lucanis had taken to planning the approach of Rook’s rescue with Emmrich and Bellara. They spent hours agonizing over the logistics of getting to Rook’s village in rural Tevinter. Whether they’d sail from Antiva with the Crows or travel inland with the Veil Jumpers. How many mages they’d need, how much Lyrium to bring, whether or not the plan with the Resonance Amplifiers would even work.

Spite didn’t have the patience for any of it. He wouldn’t wait until they were in Tevinter to get her out.

So, he comes to her corner of the Fade while Lucanis dreams, and stares at the void.

The prison that holds Rook captive floats in the ruins of her family home. Harsh waves of magical energy ripple out, causing distortions in the surrounding environment. It reminds him of the Ossuary that Lucanis had kept them both a prisoner of, even after their escape. A little pocket of the Fade, within the Fade. Inescapable – without the right key.

Reminds him of Rook, the key to every lock that was keeping them trapped.

He would not let her suffer the same fate. If he wasn’t going to get her out for his own sake – that he enjoyed Rook’s antics, then he would do it to keep Lucanis from being paralyzed again. Better yet, he would do it to spite the Dread Wolf, that he may wrench victory from the God’s grasp by freeing the lynch pin to his downfall. The thought made him positively giddy with excitement.

Spite feels the journal tugging him towards her, bringing him closer the black hole’s orbit. So dense, so powerful, he thinks he’ll be split apart if he enters its gravitational pull.

And yet he must. So, he will.

Spite hesitantly unfurls spectral black-and-purple wings to give him more stability against the force of the prison’s magic. The demon braces himself and takes a few hesitant steps towards the black hole. The strength of the pull is enough to tear him to pieces, even at this distance. It feels like being shred apart from the inside and the outside at the same time – pushed and pulled into infinite directions. This prison was not going to make it easy to enter.

It’s a good thing he is as stubborn as Rook.

The essence of the journal thrums loudly in his chest, resonating with the pull of the prison. It was calling to her, and she, knowingly or not, was calling back.

She. Wants. Out. Dread Wolf. Wants Her In.

And that was all the motivation he needed to take another step forward.

But the closer he got to the prison, the more difficult it became to even think straight. He was being crushed under the weight of raw power. It was bearing down on him from every direction. He holds a gloved hand out in front of him, and it distorts like it’s been put under water. The demon growls in frustration and inches closer.

He’s near enough to reach out and touch the void, but the air around it is so heavy he can barely lift his arm. It’s like moving through molasses. He clenches his teeth. With a beat of his wings, and a low snarl of frustration, Spite does manage to touch it. Spite’s hand distorts such that his fingers are stretched out like the … what was it called – spaghetti, that Lucanis is so fond of? Searing pain shoots up his arm, like something he’s never experienced before. He grits his teeth. The deep pit of black ripples at his touch but it doesn’t open.

Spite, not one to be bested by some strange magical thing he doesn’t quite understand, beats his wing and launches himself closer, attempting to put his whole hand through. The prison both pulls and repulses him, the pressure nearly buckling his legs.

When it doesn’t budge, Spite fights gravity to raise his free arm to his chest and instead, focuses on the journal.

He grips his chest, and pulls at its essence, drawing as much power from it as he can.

The familiar blue light erupts from his chest and mixes with the void, two magics entwining and repulsing like oil and water. The waves of energy are just powerful enough to create a small opening, tiny enough that he can see the Fade within the Fade. It looks like another replica of the current Arvanitum – but this one is not in ruins. It looks perfectly preserved, as if frozen in time.

Spite clenches his jaw and with no small effort, brings his other hand to try and pull the prison apart. His attempts falter as the prison continues to reject him, but through the small opening the demon spies Rook’s childhood home, standing on the hill with soft orange candlelight flickering through the windows.

The journal reacts more strongly now, acting like a tether between him and the girl inside. The tugging in his chest becomes more uncomfortable, almost painful. The opening gets marginally larger, but not enough for him to pass through.

Finally, he feels the weight of futility falling on his shoulders, as his strength gives out and the opening collapses before him. Spite retreats back several steps, until he’s out of range of the prison’s gravitational pull. The demon lets out a frustrated growl.

Mierda.

He doesn’t like failure. But if he’s learned anything from watching Rook, failure is a teacher.

And the failed attempt does give him an idea.

It’s not something he’s ever tried, but instinctually knows he should be able to do. After all, he chose this form – chose to look like his host. He should be able to choose something else. And they are in the raw Fade - it’s much easier for him to be what he is here.

He thinks with a smaller form, and more speed, he can use the journal to force his way into the prison.

Spite pictures his and Lucanis’ namesake.

A Crow. I will send. My regards.

The demon flutters his wings, imagines them smaller, more compact. Shrinks himself down to the size of a small bird. The process is painful and uncomfortable, like bones breaking and reforming. When the process is done, Spite takes a moment to consider his new form. The feathers, claws, and sharp beaks – he likes. But at this size, he was hardly menacing. Thankfully, he doesn’t need menacing for this particular job.

With a beat of his wings and launches into the air. Spite, although smaller, can still feel the journal’s essence pulsating behind a plume of black and purple feathers.

Drawing on the power of the journal, he circles the air above the prison.

He flies a little higher, folds his wings against his back, and dives towards the prison. As Spite draws closer to the gravitational pull, that familiar feeling of being crushed under the weight of unimaginable pressure starts building, but he won’t let it slow him down. He pushes through the pain and keeps falling.

Falling, falling, and falling.

And the magic keeps ripping, tearing, and crushing.

Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, that he’ll be torn to pieces, he manages to push through the walls of the prison.

Spite lands on the dirt ground in front of her family home. The lights are on, and he can see movement from one of the upstairs windows. A small, lone shadow, moving about. The journal flickers brightly, and there’s that familiar tugging sensation in his chest.

Rook.

~*~

Madeleina Mercar mills about her room while her father sleeps, and her mother tends to the shop downstairs. She has lavender-scented candles filling the room with their sweet, heady, aroma. It smells like mother, like home.

And she is so very happy to be home.

She hums an old lullaby her father used to play on the lyre when she was smaller. She’s outgrown lullabies, but not stories. Never stories. She wonders which one he’ll tell tonight. He regaled her with the story of the Sleeping Princess, her favourite, last night.

And the night before that.

Madeleina shakes her head.

There was a long time between now and story time. There were chores to be done, and after, she would go down and help her mother with the shop.

As she did the day before.

And the day before that.

Her mother had come in earlier and asked her to organize her books and clothes. Although her work is inherently messy, she despises mess. A contradiction the young Madeleina finds both endearing and frustrating in equal measure.

So, she shuffles back and forth, carting books into the small bookshelf in the corner, and haphazardly folded clothes into wooden drawers.

She’s about to start making her bed, when a rhythmic tapping noise gets her attention first. Madeleina, mid-step, turns towards the sound. She spies a small crow, one with unusual glowing purple eyes and brilliant black-and-violet plumage, sitting on her windowsill. Familiar purple eyes that turn her stomach.

She thinks it strange but decides to continue with her chores. She’s seeing things. It was just a trick of the light. Stop staying up so late, her mother’s phantom voice chides in the back of her mind.

The blanket is barely in her hands when the tapping, more aggressive now, resumes.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The crow fluffs its feathers and tilts its head innocently. Clearly not going anywhere. By now, she’s willing to consider the possibility she may not be seeing things.

“Rook”

The blanket drops from her hands. Her mouth hangs open stupidly.

The crow was speaking? To her?

“Let. Me. In” The crow demands, in a low, gravelly voice. Familiar. Like it’s eyes.

She doesn’t know what to do but stand there, still as a tree.

Animals don’t usually speak. Or have glowing purple eyes. It must be a demon of some sorts, come to possess her. Madeleina wants to run to her father’s bedroom, wake him and tell him to make it go away, but her feet stay planted in place. She wants to scream but only a soft breath escapes her lips. She wants her heart to start beating with fear and adrenaline.

But it doesn’t. It’s perfectly calm.

If this thing is a demon, then it’s one her body doesn’t feel uneasy around. And that frightens her.

“Let. Me. In.” The crow repeats and taps on the window again for good measure.

This was a terrible idea.

It’s going to possess me, it’s going to possess me. Madeleina repeats the sentence like a mantra as her feet carry her to the window. She wants to say they’re doing so against her will, but a small part of her knows that would be a lie.

The latch clicks as the window swings open, and the crow wastes no time flitting about her room in a daze of black and violet, before settling on the back of her chair. The young girl merely folds her hands in front of her and regards it wearily.

“Are you a demon?” She asks quietly, after a moment.

The bird nods. “I. Am. Spite.”

“Have you … have you come to possess me?”

It tilts his head, and almost looks offended at the question. “Come. To bring. You home. Rook.”

Madeleina mirrors the bird and tilts her head too. “I am home” She replies firmly.

“Not here. Not. Your home.” Spite says, “Come. With me. Rook.”

The young girl’s small fingers make fists at her side. What a stubborn little demon.

“You keep calling me Rook. Why? I don’t know that name”

“You. Are. Rook” The bird answers.

Madeleina shakes her head, and her thick ropey braid swings over her shoulder. “No, I’m not. I’m … I’m …”

I am … I’m … My name is …

It ruffles its feathers and looks like it’s about to peck her eyes out of her skull.

“You. Are. Rook.” The bird’s unnaturally deep voice says firmly, “Smell. Like Lavender and Rosewater. Chocolate and Cinnamon and Thunderstorms.”

It points a long, sharp beak towards the window.

“Lucanis. Waiting for you. And Your Stories”

Madeleina takes a few steps back and sits on the edge of her bed. She slowly ponders the name, turns it over in her mind like a stone she’s about to whip across a lake.

Lucanis.

Why is that name so familiar? The smell of chocolate and coffee fills her nostrils again. The warmth of a fire lingers on her skin. Then, the taste of something she’s never had on her tongue. It’s sweet, doughy, and powdered with cinnamon. She doesn’t have a name for it, but she knows it.

Madeleina closes her eyes and focuses on the new sensations – smell, touch, taste. All that is missing is sight. Why can’t she see, in her mind’s eye, what the crow is talking about? It was like trying to recall a dream right when you wake. A memory that slips through her fingers like trying to hold water.

“I …” She starts slowly, not quite sure what she wants to say. A sentence half-forms on her lips, then quickly unspools at the seams. Her lips press into a hard line, as she finds her confidence, “I don’t know that name. You must be mistaking me for someone else”

The bird flutters its tail feathers, irate at her rebuttal.

“You. Are. Rook” It repeats the same line with a surety that frightens her.

She doesn’t want there to be truth to it.

“You. Don’t remember.” The bird continues, “I. Will make. You remember.”

Madeleina wraps her arms around her knees, drawing in close to herself. She regards the crow carefully. “How do you even know me?”

“Freed us from. The Ossuary. Lucanis knows you. Lucanis and I. Are one. You made it so”

The Ossuary. That name should mean nothing to her. But the scent of brine and sulphur fill her nostrils, despite being hundreds of miles from the Nocen sea. The faint sensation of something horrible happening, in some place far, far, away.

“I’ve… done no such thing. And as I said before, I don’t know this ‘Lucanis’ you keep mentioning” Madeleina says, a touch more defensive. She points towards the window, “I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Crow – er, Spite”

The crow fluffs up and settles onto the chair. A round, black-and-purple ball of defiance. Frustratingly true to its name and nature.

“I will not.”Spite replies, “Not. Without you.”

Madeleina huffs. She has half a mind to pick the bird up and throw it out the window. It is only the sharp beak that keeps her from doing it. That, and she promised her mother she wouldn’t trouble animals any further. Although, she’s certain her mother would make allowances for demons who’ve overstayed their welcome.

“Fine, then I’m going to sleep. You can stay there all day and all night. I’m not leaving” With a dramatic flourish, she turns towards the wall, throws her blanket over her, and pretends to nap. She shuts her eyes tight and hugs her blanket close. The picture of petulant, childish resistance.

The bird clicks and grinds its beak but doesn’t speak any further. Nor does she hear the fluttering of wings flying out of her window, as she hoped to.

“Once. Upon a time. In a land far. Far away” Spite begins after a few minutes of silence, in that familiar-but-not-quite patterned and disjointed speech.

Madeleina’s eyes fly open, but she doesn’t move. Only listens.

“King and Queen. They wanted. A baby. Couldn’t have one!”

Her heart beats uncomfortably quick in her chest. She tries to keep her breathing even as he continues.

“Queen goes. To a Spirit. Demon in disguise. Uses blood magic to have the baby”

It’s not the content of the story that’s making her nervous, it’s the emotions and memories they’re stirring up. The Sleeping Princess was a popular enough tale that it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for even a demon to rehash the plot, albeit clumsily. But there’s something more to it – a missing piece of this very strange puzzle.

“Lucanis. Waits for what happens next. But you stop. And take a break” The crow continues, “You stop. And his heart. Beats faster. He waits for you. Only you.”

There’s the smell of chocolate and cinnamon again. The warmth of a fire. But now she has a faint memory of a fireplace, one very different from the modest mantle in her home. It’s larger, more ornate. Made of a different kind of stone, she thinks. Madeleina is sitting on a wooden chair across from someone who’s face she can’t quite make out. The form is shadowed, but clearly that of a man’s. She couldn’t discern his features properly. She takes a sip of something warm, and he does the same.

Madeleina feels like they’ve done this many times and never at all.

“You show him. Wonders in front. Of his eyes. Stories brought to life. With magic. He measures nights. By your tales. Days. Waiting for the next.”

Madeleina covers her ears and curls up into a ball.

No, no, no.

This isn’t right. These memories are not hers. She doesn’t know this demon. The Ossuary means nothing to her. Nor does a man named Lucanis.

She is … She is a girl who lives in Arvanitum, with her parents. The baker and the bard and their daughter. Madeleina plays in the forest and learns the lyre and lute, she reads books and listens to her father’s stories every night. She’s learning to bake tartes from her mother, but always ends up burning them.

She is not what this demon says.

She is not Rook.

“Come. With me. Come. Ho- “

Spite squawks in surprise as her bedroom door flies open. The demonic crow escapes through the open window not even a moment later, as her mother enters her room.

Eurydice spies her daughter curled up on the bed, covering her ears.

“Darling, are you alright? I heard voices – “

Madeleina shoots up quickly and hugs her mother tightly the moment she’s within arm’s reach. A surprised ‘Oompf’ escapes her mother’s lips, but she circles her arms around the girl a moment later.

There’s another memory, different from the ones the crow’s story evoked. This one gave her an even stranger sense of deja-vu. An argument between them that happened on a day just like this. Something minor or silly, she thinks. Madeleina spent the rest of the day hiding out by the edge of the forest, drawing doodles in the dirt with a stick until it was dark. Orpheus had come to collect her on his way back from work, and she was still scowling the entire way home.

So much time wasted.

She hugs her mother closer, and tears are falling before any words even leave her mouth.

“I’m s-sorry” Madeleina whimpers.

Her mother is eerily silent as she starts brushing her fingers through Madeleina’s braided hair, and keeps an arm wrapped tightly around her.

A little too tightly.

~ *~

Lucanis Dellamorte awakes from slumber with a violent jolt.

Spite had come crashing back into him without warning, sending every fiber of his being on high alert.

He makes a strangled, gasping noise and shoots upright from his spot on Rook’s couch, with his heart pounding in his chest. He’s once again bathed in the familiar blue-green light of the panoramic ocean view in her room. Every time he wakes up here, there’s a small pang of fear that he’s back in the Ossuary. It quickly settles when he’s able to touch the velveteen fabric of the couch and hear the familiar clicking of her magical device in the corner. Little reminders that this was a place of comfort, of safety, and not the seat of his worst memories.

As Lucanis is busy gathering his thoughts, Spite wastes no time manifesting in front of him. The demon looks more irate than usual. He’s pacing back and forth, with gloved fingers curled into fists at his side.

Lucanis takes a deep breath, steadies himself and speaks.

“What happened, Spite?”

The demon stops his frantic pacing and scowls at its host.

“Rook. Is. A. Child.” He spits out. “Doesn’t. Listen to me! No one. Listens. To Spite!”

Lucanis’ face drops, and he��s on his feet a moment later.

“You saw her? In the Fade?” If the demon had a body, Lucanis would have a death grip on his shoulders.

Spite throws a hand in the air, “Tried. To get her. To come home. She won’t. Listen.”

Lucanis frowns. He’s so impatient he wants to leap out of his own skin.

“What did you see, Spite? I need to know” He doesn’t bother hiding the desperation in his voice. He doesn’t need to hide anything with Spite anymore.

“Dread Wolf’s prison. Made her small. A child again. Doesn’t remember us.”

His heart sinks into the pit of his stomach. The prison was making her forget Spite? Forget him? The situation was worse than he could have imagined. Fear and anxiety and horror clawed their way into his chest, putting down deep roots like he hadn’t experienced since his time in the Ossuary. This couldn’t be happening. He can’t lose her like this.

Spite touches the left side of his chest, where a heart would be if he was human.

“The journal. A little weaker.”

Lucanis runs a shaking hand through his hair and exhales nervously.

“She smells like blood and sulphur and iron. Dread Wolf’s blood magic. Using her memories. To keep her trapped.” Spite continues, before putting a spectral hand on Lucanis’ shoulder.

“Running. Out of time. Need to get. Rook out. Now.”

So, Solas used blood magic to go through her memories so as to keep her locked away. Lucanis can’t say he’s surprised the conniving Fen’Harel would pull a stunt like that. It does little to settle his temper, though. White hot rage bubbles under his skin, crackling like lightning. Spite feels it too, as he merges back with his host. Eyes burning bright violet as their spectral wings unfurled.

Lucanis doesn’t know how they were going to get her out.

But he does know that his target list went from two gods, to three.

--------------------------

A huge shoutout to @teawithshakespeare for helping me out with this chapter, it honestly wouldn't have happened without ur help. Srsly thank you so much for letting me ramble in your DM's about these two!!

Thanks again to everyone for reading, I appreciate you all!!

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the-fictive-haven · 2 months ago

Text

I'm not okay.

Society has pushed me down, calling me useless and all manner of foul things, telling me I need to be fixed.

That I need to be functional.

That I need to change myself in order to have a place in this world, because those of us who can't pull ourselves together live a life in the shadows of others that some would call barely worth living.

I can't. So what now? Even knowing how useless and bleak it seems, knowing I don't have the energy or the will to continue fighting for long and am running on fumes and spite at best, I can't resign myself to that fate.

Fuck all the motivational posters, quotes and whatnot meant for able-bodied people with a brain that doesn't actively fight them every day. It just doesn't work like that. And yet we're made to feel bad, to think ourselves lazy, when we can't motivate ourselves to even try. We beat ourselves up just as much if not more than the outsiders who couldn't even begin to understand our struggles. We can't accept that sometimes we're just not okay.

Sometimes we just can't do it.

Sometimes we need to rest more than others do.

Sometimes we need to cancel plans because the brain and body decide to rebel against us that day.

Sometimes we can't eat healthy or exercise even if we want to.

Sometimes we're just trying to survive. And surviving itself is an act of resistance.

We're not okay, and we're also not alone. There are often others right beside you, suffering their invisible struggles in silence. Wondering if today will be the day they finally lose it all.

We're not okay. And it's okay not to be okay.

It's okay to ask for help, and it's okay if you can't right now.

It's okay to accept help if it's extended to you, even if you don't feel like you deserve it.

It's okay to have days where you just can't do anything.

It's okay to have a messy living space, because you can't for the life of you bring yourself to clean up.

It's okay to have chores that go undone today because you don't have it in you to do them.

It's okay to not feel like talking to people today.

It's okay to have coping methods outside the realm of what's considered "healthy".

It's okay to cry.

It's okay to be angry.

It's okay to be afraid.

It's okay to be in pain.

It's okay to be exhausted.

It's okay to wish things were different.

It's okay to use that mobility aid, even if you feel like you "don't really need it".

It's okay to use whatever you have available for communication, for whatever reason you may be uncomfortable with or unable to speak.

It's okay if your disability makes other people uncomfortable. It's not your responsibility to cater to them. And it's also okay if you still feel like you have to hide it.

It's okay if your disability and the accomodations you need inconveniences other people. You don't need to apologize. And it's okay if you feel compelled to apologize anyway.

It's okay to advocate for yourself, and have others advocate for you. It's okay if this pisses able-bodied people off. You're not the asshole for fighting for your right to accessibility.

You're just trying to survive.

We're all just trying to survive.

And I'm proud of each and every one of you for making it this far. For surviving, even if just barely. We're here for you, if you want to keep surviving together. We're reaching out a hand, and you're invited to take it.

You're not obligated to, of course. Even if you don't, just know we see you and your struggles, and we appreciate the fact that you're alive. You're part of our community, even if you don't engage with it.

You are loved, by us if by no one else, and you are worthy of love. Yes, even you, with all your struggles and baggage. Even though you're broken. We'll be the ones to appreciate and protect all of the pieces - we won't try to force you back together, we won't try to "fix" you, because we understand that it isn't fucking helpful.

We're broken too. We've been there. People have tried to fix us and only done more damage.

We're not okay. We may never really be okay. And that's okay.

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hiskillingjar · 6 months ago

Text

Brat (Ren/MC)

sorryyyyyy i’m late i’ve been moving in and unpacking shit. stuff happens, ya know? anyway.

day 18: brat second person

"Get off me, you little BRAT!!"

*BZZT*

You yelped loudly at the painful jolt of the shock collar, searing heat radiating across the entire metal band, let alone those bastard prongs, needle sharp and hot. It was enough to instantly shock you into complete stillness on top of Ren, your hands, once clasped tightly around his neck, now static and twisting into gnarled claws against your chest.

"NGH, FUCK!" You shouted, spittle flying across his grimacing face, convulsing on top of him, your hands shrinking back against your chest. "S-STOP SHOCKING ME!"

"You're the one that started all of this!” Ren snarled, baring his teeth (his sharp cannibal teeth) at you as he turned up the voltage of the shock collar, squirming for freedom beneath your body and clutching his bruised neck with his free hand. “What did you expect me to do, play dead?!"

*BZZT*

"FUCK!" You cried out, reaching up for the thrumming metal, trying to get even of inch of distance between the prongs and your skin, and collapsing on your side, off of him, twitching and convulsing like a dying animal. "S-Stop, I can't t-take anymore, mfff-"

“Hff,” He breathed out through a tight sneer, still rubbing his neck as he stood to his feet, standing over you as you convulsed. "I could shock you for hours if I wanted to, you know."

His voice was a cold hiss as he watched you continue to twist and jerk from the painful shocks.

"Maybe I should leave these on longer, hm?” He raised a brow, taking a step closer to you, intimidating in spite of his minute stature. “Just to teach you a lesson on what happens when you try and fight me?”

*BZZT*

"Nnnno, no no," You pleaded, squeezing your eyes shut again as another painful shock warmed your spine in the worst possible way, your entire body wracked with pained spasms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't do it again-!"

"Oh, I'd be a fool to believe that one, brat." He said with a scoffed (and deeply annoyed) laugh, reaching down and grabbing you, forcefully, by the jaw, forcing you to look into his ice-cold eyes as he gave you a condescending look.

His expression was enough to make your skin crawl and your face burn from a shameful mixture of humiliation and perverse curiosity.

God, you were a fucking mess.

"You really don't know how to behave, do you? After everything I do for you, every sacrifice I make just to keep you happy, you keep trying to overpower me. Hmph," He pushed your face away with a slap and took up the shock remote again, holding it so tightly that his claw dug into the plastic.. "Have you never been worried about what'll happen when I stop being so nice?"

*BZZT*

“Nghhh-hah!”

You screamed as the collar gave you a sharper shock, more painful and hotter than it had been before, (almost like he was turning it up to spite you, as opposed to punishing you), your knees pressing up against your chest and your teeth gritting together so hard, it felt like they were going to break.

"Hmph, look at you. You're pathetic." Ren said, rolling his eyes with another little laugh, as he watched you writhe on the ground, looking at you with that same disgusted expression that made your stomach twist in a way that both sickened you and filled you with a deep, shameful heat. "You just don't know when to quit, do you? You really are a brat."

You whimpered quietly, breathing hard through your nose as the pain gradually relented, feeling the painful burn throb on your neck.

"Fuck you," You murmured, narrowing your eyes towards him.

He laughed again, unexpectedly loud, moving to cover his mouth with his palm before it got any louder.

"Oh wow. Hah! I think you're forgetting that I'm the one with the remote, sweetie," He replied through his titters with a shit eating smirk, moving in to stand over you and placing a foot at the centre of your chest, forcing you down to the ground. "Not you."

You grimaced as he pressed more weight against your chest, (imagining your ribs cracking beneath his feet), staring intently at the silver remote between his fingers.

"I wonder what would happen if I turned this allllll the way up," He drawled, an almost innocent quality to his voice despite the mischievous gleam in his eyes as he watched you, his finger hovering over the button. "You ever tried it before?” He tilted his head to the side. “I have. It's really not very pleasant."

"Don't," You said quickly, staring at him, brows knitting together with a concerned expression, any gusto you might have had before severely lacking. "...Please."

"And why shouldn't I?" He asked, raising an eyebrow with another smirk, as he pushed down on your chest. "Give me one good reason not to turn it up all the way."

"Ren, that'll kill me," You said with a wheeze, a slight amount of fear in your tone. “W-Won’t it?”

"Mm, you might have a point there…" Ren huffed through his nose, his ears tilting back. He then put a hand to his chin, rubbing it idly as if pondering the thought for a few seconds, before smirking again, fangs sharp and wet. "Lucky for you, I'm not actually trying to kill you. Maybe just make you wish you were dead~"

*BZZT*

You got another, unexpected jolt from the collar, sharper, more painful than the last few had been, and you felt your body jerk like you were possessed under his foot.

Was this him killing you? Was he actually going to go through with it?

Your wide eyes, blood shot and ringed with black, ringed with bruises, started to burn with unshed tears and the front of your jeans felt oddly warm...and damp.

Ren's gaze shifted downward almost immediately, as his foot kept you pinned you still to the now sodden carpet, eyeing you with a wicked smirk, his wide eyes glimmering with both curiosity and sadistic excitement.

"Is...that what I think it is?" Ren asked, his voice dripping with a mocking tone. "Ohmigod, did you piss yourself?" He laughed, biting his lips to quell his excitement. "That is soooooo cuuuute!~"

You sniffled a little more, your body hot with pain and humiliation, letting yourself curl up tighter on the ground.

"Awww, how adorable," He teased, staring down at you as he drank in the sight of you.

He took his foot off of your chest, moving to squat down at your side with a smug, teasing expression. He idly stroked down your side and across your back, like he was trying to comfort you, though he used the opportunity to gently push you onto your back, forcing your eyes together.

"You know, this is kind of what you get for being such a brat.” He tilted his head, his smile softening to a gentler expression. “Now you know better than to try and fight me, don't you?"

"Mmh," You sniffed, trying to hide your face against the carpet. "Y-Yes..."

"Good.” He praised, patting your shoulder. “Nice to know that I finally managed to train that defiant attitude out of you," He chuckled, his tail wagging eagerly behind him.

"C-Can I...change my pants, please?"

"Mmm, let me think about it," He paused, pretending to ponder the idea in his head for a moment before giving you another sharp smirk. "Nah. You haven't learned your lesson nearly enough yet~"

You whimpered again, curling in, somehow, even tighter.

"Maybe if you keep feeling sorry for yourself, a little longer, maybe you'll stop acting like such a brat~"

#ren hana #ren x mc #ren x reader #kinktober 2024 #g-d i've been writing ren a lot lately. switch up soon

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