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nsharks · 14 days ago

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

A hand grips your shoulder. "We'll take care of them. Keep low and find a place for all of you to hide. Do not come out until we say."

His words blur together, but you manage to act accordingly, ignoring the pit in your stomach when he disappears around the truck. The concrete is covered in glass and rusted debris, so you keep low without letting your knees touch the ground and motion for the others to follow.

The closest place is an old café, the door closed with chains but the glass window shattered enough for you to crawl through. You pull the knife from your ankle as you move everyone behind the cash register, gripping the handle tight once you lean your back against it. The café is quiet. Still. No one else is here. You steady your breath. Staring at you are the double doors to the kitchen in the back, a thick waft of mold radiating, and behind you are tipped-over chairs and tables.

The noise outside has drifted. When you take a quick peek, you don't see anyone near the truck anymore. It is as if the three of them have followed whoever was shooting.

"Twix, I—"

You look back. Blue is holding her hand out, a shard of glass thrust in her palm.

Blood oozes.

You have no supplies on you, but you carefully pinch the glass between your thumb and forefinger. She bites her lip as it wriggles free, releasing another gush of blood. As if on cue, the kitchen doors burst open with ear-splintering screeches, and three Greys surge toward you.

Blue's bloodied hand reaches for her ankle knife as one tackles you, grinding your spine into the counter's edge. Two gunshots ring out over the snarling in your face. You thrust your arm against its throat, keeping the chomping jaws at bay, and with your other hand, stab the knife into its skull three times, until it whines like a dying animal.

When you shove the corpse to the tile floor, you see the two others on the ground. Blue is pulling her knife from one skull, and Ari has a gun in his hand.

"I only have one more bullet," he pants, double-checking the barrel.

"Someone could've heard the gunshots," Nereida whispers frantically.

"Then we find somewhere else to hide. Come on." Your eyes land on a graffitied door on the side wall. It leads into an alleyway that smells putrid. You motion for Ari to give you the gun as you lead the way, sandwiched between brick walls. You can still hear rounds firing from the street. They stutter in sync with your heartbeat.

You shove a rusted crate that blocks the path. You catch sight of movement, and something scurries between your boots. Blue squeaks and grips Ari's arm, your hand tightening on the gun—but it's only a raccoon.

"There."

You spot a sizable dumpster around the corner, where the narrow alley widens enough for cars to pass behind the buildings. Nereida helps you shove off the debris on top and heave open the lid. A thick waft of rot rises, along with a buzz of fruit flies. The dumpster is half-filled with blackened garbage and charred bones, but no Greys. You don't have time to find another spot as two male voices echo from down the alley.

"I heard it over here!"

"Let's check, come on."

Shit.

You lace your fingers for Blue to step on them. "Quick, get in."

Once the kids are inside, Nereida grabs the edge and hoists herself up. You glance back, stomach coiling as two shadows approach the corner. Quickly, you close the lid after her, scatter the debris back on top, and scurry behind a nearby crate, palm sweaty around the gun.

A fevered study of the shadows reveals two healthy, fit men. One bullet. Something in the second one's gait seems slightly off. You make a split-second decision, peek over the crate, and aim for the first man's chest, doubting your ability to land a headshot.

He falls dead with a thud and then you are launching blindly at the second man with your knife, but you fail to pierce flesh when a strong grip snatches your wrist. The man's rifle skids across the ground and your back is slammed against the wall, your skull colliding with the brick hard enough to make stars dance across your vision. A muscled forearm presses into your neck, effectively cutting off your air.

"Fucking bitch."

Even through the blood rushing between your ears, the growl in your face is—familiar.

You blink up at a man swallowed by a massive burn scar.

The tip of his nose is gone, with eyelashes and scalp burnt away, revealing poorly healed ripples of flesh.

One eyelid fails to open properly, the skin too scarred.

The recognition unfurls your eyes.

He presses harder. "I know you, don't I?" Anger cuts through his gaze. "Ah. That's right—a thief and a killer. You're full of surprises, sweetheart." The curl on his burnt lips makes you flinch, but there is nowhere to go. "I guess you found new friends."

"I guess—I guess you did... too..." Short gasps leave your mouth.

"Shut up," he growls. "I don't want to hear a word from a stuck-up bitch like you who thinks her tits and her cunt are worth more than my goddam face." He is yelling now, spit flying in your eyes. "Don't you dare look away from it! What, not proud of your handiwork?" He breathes hard and looks you over with a snigger. "Finding you is just my luck. I was going to go easy the first time, but now I think I'll kill you then enjoy you. How's that sound? Your corpse being passed around? Hope your cunt is as good when you're dead—"

White-hot anger ripples through your veins and you snarl before hurling a wad of saliva in his face, using the brief distraction to drive your knee into his groin. His staggers back enough for you to escape his hold and push away from the wall.

Gulps of air feel painful down your throat. You back away, readjusting the hold on your knife while he rubs his eyes furiously.

"You're sick," you growl, voice hoarse and low.

"And you're not, princess?"

"I'm not a goddamn rapist."

"You ruined my fucking face," he retorts, stalking you down the alley. At least you are drawing him away from their hiding place—you make an unnoticed glance at the dumpster to ensure no one else has approached, relieved to see the lid unmoved. When your eyes flick back to him, a sick curl twitches on his lips. "You're not innocent here. You're damned like everyone else. That ride of yours now has a shot tire, and that boat—" he chuckles, "—what? Thought you were gonna get out of this hell? We made sure to put a hole in that, too."

His words sink in.

For a moment, horror grips you.

But you channel it through your veins as something useful—rage—and launch at him without abandon. He anticipates an attempt to stab his side again, so he blocks there, but instead, you reach for his marred face and claw the unhealed wounds, reopening them. He howls like an animal, stumbling back and cradling his cheek as blood seeps between his fingers.

"I'm going to kill you, bitch—"

He blindly reaches for the rifle on the ground but you are quick to kick it away. You jump on him, this time bringing him to the concrete, which scrapes against your exposed skin as you wrestle to come out on top. But he is stronger. Heavier. For the second time you become pinned, he tries to dig his hands into your throat. The lack of oxygen threatens to turn the world black, but you slap a hand back on his face and rip off his scarred eyelid before it can.

He roars.

You spit in his face.

Your knife—you lost it in the midst.

As blood pours from his eye, you outstretch an arm and feel for the handle.

The leather is in your palm.

You stab his side.

You shove at his shoulder to get him off.

Then you pin him down, and plunge the knife over and over into every piece of him you find. Neck, chest, cheek, shoulder.

Again and again.

A slashed jugular. Ripped arteries.

Your vision is consumed by blood. You let yourself drown in it. Hot, thick—

Arms grab you by the waist and lift you into the air.

You attempt to wriggle free and dig your knife in them, but the person is quick to disarm you.

"Twix."

A skull face stares down at you. Your bloodied fingers wrap around Ghost's shirt as you pant heavily. It's him. He's here.

"Where are they?" he shouts over the ringing in your ears.

He sets you down, gripping your shoulders to steady you. It takes a moment to gather your senses, to comprehend his words. Your hands, shirt, and face are drenched in blood. Your head throbs with weight. Slowly, the world snaps back into focus. You glance around, spotting Kyle and Price standing behind him.

"There," you finally breathe out. "The dumpster. They're...they're in there. Safe. They're safe."

His eyes flick over the length of you, perhaps to ensure all of the blood is not yours, before the three of them thrash off the debris and lift the lid to the dumpster around the corner. They help out Nereida, Ari, and Blue.

"Ghost." You try to swallow, but the pain hums with each attempt. His eyes snap to yours just as he checks over Blue. "He... They've shot a tire."

"I know. I've got a spare."

"The kayak, too. How are we—"

"We figure that out later. We need to leave." Price slings the rifle over his shoulder and grabs his wife by the arm. "Those fucks are going to be drawn straight to us now."

Blood. Right.

You push through the ache in your head and run after them back to the truck. The absence of gunfire signifies everyone else has been taken care of, but just as predicted, a chorus of moans begins to filter through the buildings. From windows, underneath cars, and benches—Greys begin to crawl out. The faster ones are quickly shot by either Kyle's handgun or Ghost's rifle. Price helps everyone into the car and slams the door shut as Ghost and Kyle continue firing.

"Wipe yourself, quick. And change inside." Price throws a rag at you. Your backpack.

You get into the passenger seat, wiping your face and hair with a splash of water from Blue's canteen, then toss the stained rag out onto the street.

You don't care if anyone can see as you slip off your shirt, throwing it out the window, and slipping on a clean one.

Outside, Price and Kyle shoot away any Greys that approach as you suspect Ghost is changing the blown out tire, because you can't see him even in the side mirror.

Within ten minutes, he flings open the door and takes seat behind the wheel. This time Price and Kyle hop in the truck bed with their guns as Ghost starts the ignition with a loud rumble, veering sharply back onto the road.

Time has been stolen. It is high afternoon, the sky a clear blue even though the streets you leave behind in Halstead are tainted red.

Now the map is in your hands, but Ghost seems to know the way from here.

"How long can the spare go for?"

"Long enough." His words are clipped. "But the kayak we need to figure out."

"It can't be fixed, can it?"

His silence is your response.

Your mind races.

Minutes blur. Behind you, Nereida quietly helps wrap Blue's hand.

Colchester whirls by without obstructions, but you keep looking out the window and squinting, paranoid. You make it to the coast within an hour. The buildings turn into colorful, seafaring cottages and the streets turn to uneven cobblestone. Seashell chimes dance in store fronts that are plastered with old signs reading KEEP OUT IF INFECTED. Ghost makes a sharp right down a narrow street and parks the truck in front of a lone, blue cottage that seems remote enough to be safe. Even if the kayak was fine, you'd have to stop for the night in order to get out on the water at the start of morning.

A flock of oystercatchers scatters as the truck doors slam open and close. The air, thick with salt and spume, is cooler here, the breeze tugging at your tangled hair, where bits of dried blood still clings. The view of the sandy shore and rocky pier would be beautiful, if your mind weren't elsewhere, if the day hadn't been marked by panic.

Ghost circles around to look at the kayak. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," Price mutters.

He helps him pull it out.

Blue and Ari sit on the steps to of the cottage's porch and listen in silence.

Nereida watches from beside you, tucking a sweater on against the chill.

Ghost flips the kayak, revealing a bullet hole that goes through one end and out the other. Anger radiates from his tense shoulders. "Christ."

"We can't patch it like we did the raft, can we?" Kyle asks, bending on his knees to look at the damage.

Price raps his knuckles against the hollow sides. "No, it's hard plastic. It would need welding to fix holes like that."

The understanding lingers in the air as you cross arms over your chest. "I'll stay behind, then," you speak up. Nails cutting your palms. You're damned like everyone else. Nereida looks at you with wide eyes, touching your arm. "If we can't fix it, then all we have is the raft and it only fits six. You guys take it in the morning and I will stay behind here—"

"No one is staying behind," Ghost grits fiercely. He gestures at the truck bed. "It doesn't even matter if we got rid of a person. The supplies have to fit, too. Even if we make it across, we're dead without the ammo and food."

Price trails his thumb over the hole in the plastic. "Two would have to stay behind in order for us to fit all the supplies." Your breath hitches as you watch him calmly stand up. "Or... two would have to swim."

"Swim?" you repeat, shaking your head with a disbelieving chuff. "You can't just swim it. I mean—it's open water ."

"Nothing we haven't swam in before." Kyle leans against the side of the truck, crossing his arms. "But it's further across than the strait. Jesus, what is it? A 40, 50 kilometer swim?"

"Then we take turns," Price says. "Two of us at a time."

"I can take a turn," Nereida offers. "I used to swim in college. I mean, it can't be so bad if we go in intervals, and hold onto the raft."

You breathe deep, looking at the water that crashes upon the shore in the distance and then at Ghost, who is already staring at you. "I can take a turn, too."

"The three of us will start it off. If we need you two to cover, then you'll be ready to go. The kids stay in the raft."

You swallow. "It's not just about getting tired, we need plenty of water to drink. You can still get quickly dehydrated, and the temperature of the water—I mean, hypothermia can set in fast even it is warm."

"We load up on clean water tonight and have blankets and towels ready to go," Kyle says.

You glance back at Ghost. The rise and fall of his chest turns more steady as he nods his head in resignation.

"That's our only choice, then."

The evening is thick with silence.

No one has the energy for conversation, only exchanging brief requests or simple instructions. Starting a fire is risky even here, but you need clean water. A freshwater creek lies a few kilometers back, so Price and Ghost take the truck while the rest of you work on inflating the raft for tomorrow. Whatever happened between you and Kyle goes unspoken, both of you focused on the task at hand, taking turns pumping and checking the seams for anymore holes. When the two return, you help boil the water over a small wood-burning stove in the cottage, praying the smoke rising from the chimney isn’t too noticeable in the growing breeze as the sun sets.

The cottage is mostly bare, with only a dining table, a knocked-over chair, and a stripped bed frame in one of the rooms. The bathroom is quaint, its sea star wallpaper faded, and a warped mirror hangs above the sink. You stare at your reflection while the others lay out sleeping bags on the dusty floor, turning in early to conserve energy for the new plan to cross the channel. Ghost has taken first watch, sitting out on the porch with a rifle.

You listen to their soft murmurs outside the bathroom door as you work on getting out the rest of the blood in your hair. There is a red mark on your throat that is sore to the touch, and the back of your head still feels like someone has taken a hammer to it. Your eyes seem darker than the last time you saw them. You take another rag, wet it, and wipe it all over your skin. Then, you pad back out where the last lamp has been turned off and only moonlight through the boarded windows is left.

You slip into the empty sleeping bag next to Blue and stare at the ceiling. It is impossible to sleep—to even close your eyes for longer than a few seconds. Your heart refuses to even its pace, furiously pumping blood through your veins.

After an hour of lying still, the itch becomes intolerable. You slip silently from the sleeping bag, grab your backpack, and creep to the back door by the kitchen. It opens to a patch of overgrown grass. The cold air raises gooseflesh on your arms, but after emptying your bag, saving only the clothes, and tying it up on a branch, your blood runs hotter. Teeth gritted, you pound your fists into the makeshift punching bag, breathing hard through your nose to keep the noise to a minimum.

You hit it until your lungs burn cold, and take a pause only to grab the backpack, close your eyes, and lean your forehead against it while breathing deeply.

"I would say you can't sleep because you're excited for a swim tomorrow, but I know better."

His voice is just behind you, a rough murmur over the distant lapping sea.

You don't turn around. "I'm thrilled for it, actually."

A pause. Then, "Quite heroic of you. Offering to stay behind."

"I wasn't trying to be a hero. It just made the most sense."

You let out one last huff and then settle back into your stance, reopening your eyes to take another swing, but a hand on your wrist wretches you away. You glare up at him as he holds both of your closed fists, peering down at the raw, reddened knuckles.

You’re ready to argue—to tell him to leave you alone and let you hurt your own hands if you want to—but instead, he surprises you by letting go and stepping back. He chucks off his jacket and tosses it to the ground, unrivaled strength evident in the width of his bare, inked biceps. His feet widen, and his fists rise, silently beckoning you.

It’s been over a week since your last sparring session, but as soon as your fists are raised, the familiar rhythm takes over. He doesn’t hold back—not here, not ever. You abandon strategy, driven by the primal satisfaction of ramming your knuckles into his ribs. The adrenaline surge becomes the perfect distraction, each punch feeding your hunger for more. Your breath quickens, harsh and ragged, as you throw punch after punch. Most of your hits are deflected with effortless grace. He mirrors your every step, matching your intensity with his own.

He sweeps his leg out, sending you to your hands and knees. A growl escapes your lips as you spring back up.

He circles you like a vulture.

"I saw his face."

Cold sweat trickles down your bruised neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It was burned. Well, what was left of it. You fucked him up more than necessary." He lowers his fists, eyes locking onto yours with an intense scrutiny. Your nostrils flare as you aim a swipe at his jaw, but he catches your forearm, yanking you close until your chest is pressed against his. With a firm grip on your chin, he tilts your face upward, forcing your narrowed gaze to meet his."You can't hide, Twix. Not from me."

"He was the one who almost raped me, is that what you want to hear?" You dig your free hand into his chest. "And I killed him."

The shade of his irises darkens. "You did what you had to do—what I knew you could do when I left you. You protected yourself and the others."

"I enjoyed it. I wanted to kill him, and I have never wanted that before." You swallow through your sore throat and feel a subtle tremor up your spine as the fresh images brandish your mind. "I wanted to feel his blood on my hands, and if you hadn't stopped me, I would've kept going."

"He deserved it ten times over. I would've done the same."

"And what do I deserve?"

His voice is harsh. "You deserve to cross the channel tomorrow, and keep going. It was life or death. He got death, and you got life."

"And how much longer do I get it? Until the next time people start attacking us? The next horde of Greys? Even if we make it there alive, it will never be a normal life. I can never be a normal person again. Never. I feel like...like there is something broken and rotten inside of me, a-and maybe it was always there, like you said. But only now can I truly feel it."

By the last word, your voice has quieted to a harsh whisper. You avoid the stare bearing down at you by turning your chin. You failed to realize how close your faces have become. Your gaze drifts to the arm still holding you, prominent veins trailing beneath the inked skin, and you swear you can see a pulse in them as fast as your own. Heated breaths pass between your bodies in silence before you look back up at him.

"You murdered someone, didn't you?" you breathe out. "Before shit happened. Outside of the military. Actual murder."

His jaw ticks. "Yes. I did."

The blunt admission doesn't surprise you, nor does it frighten you.

He lowers his face a bit, enough for his exhalation to leave gooseflesh across your cheeks. "Ask me if I enjoyed it. Go on."

"Did you?"

"Very much so."

You swallow hard. "I guess you haven't been normal for a long time."

"No. I guess not," he murmurs.

The air feels thick between you. He studies you intently, fingers uncomfortably tight around your wrist, when the tip of his masked nose nudges tentatively—experimentally—against yours. Your breath hitches at the top of your throat. Your fingers absentmindedly slip under the hem of his mask on their own accord, peeling it up his neck to reveal a stubbled, scarred chin and full, pink mouth.

He doesn't move to stop you.

You study the sight before you—one you didn't see so close up even when he broke his nose.

Then—the last thin thread of sanity within you snaps. With a surge of abandon, you firmly close your lips over his.

Heat instantly spreads through your mouth, through your limbs, and down to your socked toes. It is enough to flood you with the raw need to taste more of it. Your hands lower to twist tightly in the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer, and for a moment, those warm lips move slowly against yours. Then, he firmly presses on your shoulder and breaks away with a thin thread of saliva joining your mouths.

"Ghost." You pant raggedly, eyes darting across his face. Humiliation is ready to sink in at his rejection, but he growls under his breath and kisses you again—harder this time, drawing you in with a hand to your jaw.

It quickly turns into a clumsy, greedy mess of clanking teeth. One of your hands curls around the short hair at the nape of his neck. It is difficult to comprehend that it is his tongue, hot and demanding at the seam of your mouth, pushing in once you part it open. It is his hand moving from your jaw to your hair, fisting it to the point of pain, while his other grips your hip and backs you into the tree.

Your spine presses roughly against the bark. The heat and solidity of his chest against your breasts makes your mind go numb. You can't think about anything, not the day behind you or the one ahead, only feel. Blood courses through your veins with the same heat as when you fight him, but instead of growling in anger, you release a throaty sound of desperation, moving your hands to the backs of his shoulders and digging your nails into the flexed muscle. It encourages him to grind his hips against yours with a low groan, striking an unfamiliar wave of warmth between your legs.

You try to recreate the satisfying friction, greedily bucking into him, but it's difficult with the standing position. The mess of emotions inside you is impossible to sift through, but one certainty stands out: you need more of this, whatever it is.

You attempt to lift your legs and lock your ankles around him, biting his lip as a demand for him to help you, but his hand suddenly releases its hold on your hip and he rips away from your mouth, breathing hard through his bitten lips.

"That's enough," he says roughly, stepping away.

What?

It doesn't feel like even close to enough.

Before you can reach for him, he gives you his back and leaves you there, trying to regain your breath.

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley #cod #zombie apocolypse au

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blckbrrybasket · 5 months ago

Text

𓆩 𓉸 𓆪 Kinktober 2024

• MDNI! porn with little plot

• all of these are x reader with no use of y/n

• both female and gender neutral readers featured

꒰33k+ words total꒱

1st. — “Hotter than a Burning Fire”

-> Face sitting + Inexperience, Robin Buckley

2nd. — “Give and Take”

-> Squirting + Edging, Steve Harrington

3rd. — “Bite her Hip”

-> Caught + Hate Sex, Nancy Wheeler

4th. — “Yer Killin’ Me”

-> Boot Worship, Arthur Morgan

5th. — “Girls on Film”

-> Being Filmed, Mickey Altieri

6th. — “Heaven in Your Mouth”

-> Throat Fucking + Breath Play, Rafe Cameron

7th. — “Closer”

-> Mutual Masturbation + Forbidden, Robin Buckley

8th. — “Oh Honey”

-> First Time + Domination, Kurt Kunkle

9th. — “Hearts a Mess”

-> Public Sex + Gag, Art Donaldson

10th. — “Ghosting”

-> Under the table, Javier Peña

11th. — “Burning For You”

-> Sleepy Sex + Cockwarming, Sejanus Plinth

12th. — “She’s in Parties”

-> High sex, Rafe Cameron

13th. — “Melting With You”

-> Double Penetration, Stu and Mickey

14th. — “As You Are”

-> 69, Ellie Williams

15th. — “Of Love For Love”

-> Cream Pie + Cum Play, John ‘Soap’ MacTavish

16th. — “Maneater”

-> Dacryphilia + Masochism, Kurt Kunkle

17th. — “What I Need”

-> Degradation + Cum Eating, Ethan Landry

18th. — “I was made for loving you”

-> Praise Kink + Body Worship, Steve Harrington

19th. — “Takin’ Time”

-> Spanking + Orgasm Denial, Joel Miller

20th. — “Sweet As Whiskey”

-> Blood Kink + Period, Vampire!Eddie Munson

21st. — “Wind You Up”

-> Hair Pulling + Rough Sex, Trevor (Hellraiser)

22nd. — “Eyes On Me”

-> Bondage + Femdom, Agent Whiskey

23th. — “Show and I’ll Learn”

-> Sex Toys, Robin Buckley

24th. — “If You Knew”

-> Overstimulation + Wet Dream, Joel Miller

25th. — “Hell And You”

-> Mask Kink + Knife Kink, Stu Macher

26th. — “You’ve Got Me Now”

-> Dry Humping + Tipsy Sex, Eddie Munson

27th. — “Happy Birthday, Baby”

-> Lingerie + On The Counter, Walter ‘Keys’ McKey

28th. — “Quit While Ahead”

-> Pussy slapping, Rafe Cameron

29th. — “Love My Way”

-> Scissoring, Tara Carpenter

30th. — “Suck It Up”

-> Marking + Possessiveness, Love Quinn

31st. — “Body Electric”

-> Cucking + Breeding Kink, Eddie Munson and Steve Harrington

taglist closed!

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petermorwood · 5 months ago

Note

I have a sword question, if I may. Or more of a sword confusion Im seeking clarification on.

In my mind a fantasy european standard sword (that obviously doesnt really exist, but like, when a knight or someone in a story has an unspecified sword), I always imaged a straight blade with a triangular tip, both edges sharp cutting edges.

Then at some point I learned about eg scimitars that have a cutting edge and a ...blunt edge?

I was looking at your recent addition to the post about the Turkish sword, where you distinguish between an inner cutting edge on a sword v an outer cutting edge.

And then Im thinking of those enormous zweihander types that are all about momentum and do those even need a particularly sharp edge? They seem in dnd parlance to be a bludgeoning weapon not for slashing.

And while Im asking, like. Rapiers are very stabby weapons, do they have sharp edges at all or judt a sharp point?

I guess my overall question culminates something like "what parts of swords are designed for what damage and why? Is there anything all swords have other than blade and handle like can they all be used for stabbing or do some have very blunt points etc? Is it a big deal for a sword to be double-edged, does that necessitate specific training? Whats up with different sword blades?"

I realise thats a pretty enormous question that might be unreasonable to ask. Im happy with whstever response you are or arent willing to give. Hope you have a good day :)

Sharp edge / blunt edge is the setup on any kitchen or table knife you've ever encountered, and being able to put a hand on the blunt "edge" - usually called the back of the blade - not only helps when mincing herbs or garlic, but also features in some techniques of swordplay.

Other techniques employed non-blade parts of the weapon, using the pommel like a mace and the crossguard like a pick-axe.

*****

Whether swords should be straight or curved, single- or double-edged, was an argument which continued as recently as the early 1900s.

The last swords issued to cavalry for combat use (modern parade swords don't count) were both remarkably similar designs, straight-bladed for thrusting, adopted by the UK in 1908...

...and the US in 1913.

There was, of course, strong opposition from those who insisted cavalry swords should be sabres curve-bladed for cutting instead.

Equally of course, both sides failed to notice - or ignored, since a certain kind of cavalry officer was only bright as regards boots, buckles and buttons - the uncomfortable fact that machine-guns and repeating rifles had made the whole ta-ran-ta-rah "cut them down with your swords, men!" cavalry charge an exercise in futility.

*****

D&D, unless they've considerably upped their accuracy game, isn't much of a reference for weapon realism.

"Enormous Zweihanders" and other big swords such as the Montante were a lot lighter and more nimble than they'd seem from reading an encumbrance chart.

They had their own techniques to take best advantage of length, leverage and momentum and were indeed sharp. Given a choice between a sharp combat weapon and a blunt one, sharp makes far more sense.

In addition, a sharp blade is lighter than a blunt one simply through having less metal. It may only be a few grams of difference, but it IS a difference.

That's also the reason behind a fuller, the groove(s) along a blade.

They're not "blood gutters", tough and cool though that may sound, but a way to reduce a sword's weight while preventing its blade from getting excessively flexible.

Finally...

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The re-enactor is wearing half-armour, but these big swords were also meant for use against unarmoured opponents. Bodyguards often carried them (they looked impressive) and those sweeping strokes could block an entire street while The Boss got away.

That's when an ability to cut rather than merely bludgeon makes all the difference. Determined assassins might try to rush a blunt sword, but a sharp one would give anyone second thoughts...

*****

Double-edged swords versus single-edged ones seem to vary depending on cultural preference - also on period of history and intended function.

Bronze Age European swords had straight or leaf-shaped blades with double edges...

...while Ancient Egypt had the curved, single-edged khopesh, a shape which also turned up in Ancient Assyria (this one's in the Metropolitan Museum, New York USA).

It's listed as a "sickle sword", an incorrect term which I wish would go away because sickles are sharp on the inside of the curve while swords like this - their grip-shape shows how they're meant to be held and swung - are sharp on the outside.

And just when "the Ancient Middle East used curved single-edge swords" looks like a handy generalisation, along come straight swords, one from Ancient Egypt...

...another from Luristan, now part of modern Iran.

This next one comes from Ancient Iberia (Spain), right at the other side of the Mediterranean. Evidence of trading links? Your guess is as good as mine.

Iberia went on to use the falcata, a short single-edged forward-curved sword.

Those extra bits round the blade are scabbard metalwork; the wood and leather scabbard is long gone. This repro shows how they would have looked when in place.

Iberia also used a straight double-edged sword which so impressed the Romans that they adopted it, refined it and used it for several centuries. Here's one of the several Roman versions of that gladius Hispaniensis (Spanish sword), double-edged, mostly meant for stabbing but capable of very effective cuts as well.

Here's my repro of a similar sword, the elegant "Mainz" pattern with its long point and waisted blade. Very pretty, and pretty wicked.

*****

"Curved single-edged swords are Eastern, straight double-edged swords are Western", is another generalisation that won't work.

Here are Eastern straight swords...

...and Western curved ones.

*****

Viking swords were all double-edged...

...except when they weren't.

*****

Many rapiers could cut. Smallswords, which came later, couldn't.

Earlier rapiers with broader blades cut better than later ones with narrow blades, but IIRC even the later Italian and Spanish rapier styles include cuts directed at the opponent's face and sword-arm.

I have a notion that the modern thing about cutting with rapiers is based (like back-carry) on seeing it done in movies. IMO - more about it here - that's actually more a modern stage-combat safety thing than a period real-combat move. A fumbled cut is bruising and unpleasant even with a "safe" prop sword, but a fumbled thrust into the eye-socket or throat with that same "safe" sword can be fatal.

Even those early rapiers wouldn't sever a head or limb - a finger maybe, hence the elaborate hand-protection of swept and cup hilts - but blood from a forehead wound running into the eyes was, and in boxing still is, an efficient way to finish a fight by ensuring the opponent can't continue. One of the duels in "The Duellists" ends this way.

This example is a bit optimistic, IMO...

...but a longsword (double-edged)...

...or a messer (single-edged)...

...was quite capable of disarming an opponent in a very literal way.

*****

Some swords had minimal points, being intended mostly for cutting. One example of this is the Indian khanda broadsword. The second example is also very clearly single-edged.

Another cut-only sword without a point (but with double edges) is the Richtschwert (justice sword)...

...though this was a single-function (and hopefully single-cut) tool rather than weapon, neither balanced for nor intended for combat.

Hope this has helped answer the questions!

#arms and armour #swords #sword types #double-edged vs single-edged #straight vs curved

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samaraxmorgan · 4 months ago

Text

Your Roommate Sukuna

“That Time We Got High And Almost Kissed”

Modern no curse AU, Sukuna X Reader

Synopsis: This housing crisis sure is no joke huh? Rent is just too expensive to live alone, so you put out a listing for a roommate and ended up living with none other than the tattooed bad boy Ryomen Sukuna! This is part of a series of drabbles and oneshots showing glimpses into you and Sukuna’s living situation!!

Contains: brothers au, fluff, frenemies dynamic, use of illegal substances (cannabis)

Word Count: 2.63k

Series Masterlist - My Full Masterlist

Sukuna always finds a way to surprise you, he’s definitely got that going for him. However, that’s not exactly a good thing the vast majority of the time, and today is no exception.

You turn the corner as you come up the stairs and find his bedroom door wide open. He’s hunched over on his bed using his pocket knife to slice open a cheap gas station cigar, spilling the tobacco onto a paper plate. He pulls a small plastic bag out of his back pocket and carefully pinches its contents out, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger before sprinkling it inside of the shell of the cigar. His eyes glance over into the hallway and he immediately does a double take after spotting you watching him, for a brief moment he looked like a deer in headlights.

You squint your eyes, your brows furrowing questionably, “Is that weed?”

He lets out a dry scoff, looking back down towards the blunt in his fingers and continuing to fill it up, “Creep.”

“You’re the one with the door wide open!” You exclaim, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

You step into his bedroom, walls littered with posters leaving no clear space in sight; even the ceilings are covered in black tapestries. You crawl onto the foot of his bed, your knees sinking into the red comforter. Sukuna’s hair is disheveled, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in focus, tired eyes narrowed down as he stuffs the flower into the dark brown paper.

“Isn’t that illegal?” You question, a little more snarky than you intended.

“What’re you, a cop?” His crimson eyes shoot a glare up at you, fingers rolling the blunt closed and his pierced tongue licking a stripe up the incision he cut into the wrapper to seal it back shut.

Did he really have to do that without breaking eye contact? He’s gonna be the death of me.

A tiny smirk creeps onto the corner of his lips, “You should try it, could really use something t’ get that stick out your ass.”

You give him an exaggerated eye roll, “I hate you so much, you know that?”

“Yeah yeah, not like y’tell me every day,” A spark flashes in his eyes, his sheepish grin turning more mischievous, “Hey tell you what, split this with me and I’ll show you my spot.”

Your head tilts in confusion, eyeing him up curiously, “Your spot?”

He leans back against the headrest of his bed, shrugging nonchalantly, “Didn’t think I smoked in the house, did you?”

It does never smell like cigarettes in the apartment, or weed, or whatever the hell else he’s smoking. You could smell it on his clothes all the time, but now that you think about it you’ve never actually seen him smoke before.

“You leave the house to smoke?”

“You could call it that, sure.” He hops off the bed, pulling on a pair of black combat boots from his closet and not bothering to tie them. He turns around to face you, looking down at you expectantly, “Gonna join me or not?”

He’s such a bad influence, you’re so aware of that. But you’re also so morbidly curious, and he’s a hard man to say no to, so you cautiously nod your head and stand up from his bed.

“Knew you had it in you.” He smirks, placing the blunt between his lips to hold it in place and snatching a disposable lighter off his nightstand, stuffing it into his pocket.

Sukuna walks across his room to the window, his back facing the glass as he slides it open behind him, and then leaning back to stick his torso outside. His strong tattooed arms reach up over his head as he grabs the edge of the roof and lifts his legs into a crouch, promptly pulling his whole body out the window, doing one hell of a pull up to lift himself up onto the roof in one fluid motion.

Your jaw nearly drops to the floor. There’s no fucking way he’s seriously expecting you to be able to do that.

You see strands of his pink hair first as he pops his head upside down to peer down into the window, reaching his arm inside and outstretching his open palm to you, “C’mon, you won’t fall.” He pauses for a moment, flashing you a mischievous grin, “… Probably.”

You give him a weary and unconfident smile, “How reassuring.”

Taking tentative steps towards the window, you see his grin grow wider. You gently place your hand in his palm and he doesn’t waste a second, wrapping his fingers around your knuckles and squeezing tight, yanking his arm towards him to pull you closer. For just a mere second, the two of you were eye level as he hung his head upside down, your surprised eyes locking with his confident ones and his breathy laughter ghosting onto your forehead.

But just as quickly, his head dipped out of view. His low voice calls down to you from the roof as his impatient hand pulls you closer, “Put your foot up on the windowsill.”

You tentatively place your foot on the ledge, squeezing his hand tight to steady yourself as you shift your weight onto your other leg and pull yourself up to stand on the windowsill. His free hand quickly wraps under your arm, pulling you up and towards him, his arms wrapping tightly around your chest and waist as he pulls you into his lap with your back flush against him.

He leans his chin down on your shoulder, his breath fanning the side of your neck as he sarcastically whispers, “Almost dropped you there.”

A deep blush paints your face red. His legs are spread with your own planted in between them, his arms wrapped protectively around you and squeezing your body against his chest as he keeps you locked in place directly on his lap. You squirm under his hold and it only makes his breathy chuckle tickle your skin, his lips just barely brushing against your neck.

He loosens his hold on you for only a moment to pick the blunt off of the shingles, placing it between your lips while mumbling “Hold this” before his arms are tight around you again. He plants his feet against the roof and slides backwards, shimmying you both up to a flat section to sit more comfortably.

As he releases you from his grasp, you’re reluctant to leave. Lifting your hips from their home on his lap, you plop down onto the flat section of the roof next to him. He wasn’t kidding about this being his spot, there’s already an ashtray up here with cigarette butts sprinkled in the bowl. And you can’t really blame him for coming up here, the sky is orange and pink with clouds stretching thinly across the horizon, the city’s silhouette faintly in the distance, tall trees forming a barrier around the back of the apartment that feels safe and protected, it’s honestly really nice, peaceful.

Sukuna pulls his lighter out of his pocket, sparks sprinkling with each flick of the wheel until it holds a steady flame. He leans in close, holding the light against the end of the blunt that you held between your teeth.

“Breathe in.” His gaze is dropped to your lips, free hand reaching up to gently hold the blunt steady against your mouth with his thumb and forefinger.

As you inhale you see orange embers form at the end of the blunt, smoke rapidly filling your lungs and stinging the back of your throat. You can’t keep the smoke down, immediately hacking up a painful burning cough that only makes him snicker.

“Hm, you’ll get it eventually.” He brings the blunt to his lips and inhales a long hit, holding his breath for a few seconds before teasingly blowing the smoke into your face.

“Ugh,” You fan your hand in front of your face to clear the smoke, “That’s terrible. It tastes so gross.”

He smirks and rolls his eyes, flicking the ash into the small tray, “So dramatic, ‘ts not that bad.”

Your eyes are glued to his fingers, holding the blunt with his pointer finger and thumb and tapping ash away with his middle, the veins on the back of his hand gently protruding out and then settling back into place with each tap of his finger. As your eyes drift to the ashtray and you realize that there are only orange cigarette butts in the bowl, no snuffed out roaches from him smoking anything else.

You pull your knees up to your chest, tilting your head to rest your cheek on your legs when you look up at him, “How come you’re getting high?”

“Needed it tonight.” His answer was quicker than you expected, his eyes locked on the city lights shining in the distance.

“How come?”

His head doesn’t move, but his eyes flick to you. Wordlessly he holds the blunt towards you, the expectant look in his eyes and quirk in his brow telling you that he’s not planning to give you an answer until you take another hit.

You let out a small huff, taking the blunt from his fingers and taking a short drag, trying to hold the smoke in your lungs and keeping your lips sealed shut to try not to cough. Your attempt was futile though, your cheeks puffing out and smoke blowing out of your nose as your throat burned again.

He let out a small snicker at your misery, letting one of his legs lay outstretched across the slant of the roof while he bent his knee on his other leg to rest his chin on, “Brat’s working his first day at his new job tonight.”

Your brows furrow in confusion, your lips dragging down into a frown, “Brat being… who?”

He scoffs, like the answer to that should be so obvious, “My brother, the one you met.”

You hum in acknowledgment, but you’re still confused what that has to do with Sukuna wanting to get high, “What’s the new job?”

He blows a raspberry, tilting his head up towards the sky while he takes another drag, smoke echoing off his lips as he speaks, “Firefighter, been his dream job since we were kids.”

Realization clicks in your brain, making a smile creep onto your lips, “You big softie, you’re worried about him!”

“Tch.” He glares down at you, but his frustrated look only makes you giggle. The look in his eyes quickly softens, shifting to a look of amusement as he leans in closer to you and peers into your eyes. You let out a little laugh, opening your eyes wide to stare goofily at him and causing a smile to crack on his face, “Are you high already?”

“No!” You counter defensively, “You’re just… cute.”

Oh fuck, I’m totally high.

He gives you a lopsided grin, “You’re a terrible fuckin’ liar.”

You giggle and flop onto your back, lying flat on the roof, “Stop changing the topic! We’re talking about you!” You reach your arm out to point in his face, “You’re worried about him! You love him!”

“Ugh,” He gives you an exaggerated eye roll, wrapping his long fingers around your wrist and pulling it down out of his face, “I absolutely do not.”

You give him a toothy smile, poorly mimicking his deep voice, “Terrible fuckin’ liar.”

A deep laugh bubbles up from his chest, his gravelly voice sounding so breathy and happy, creases forming at the outer corners of his tired eyes. He releases your wrist from his grasp, planting his open palm next to your head and resting his weight on his arm to lean the slightest bit closer to you, his free hand bringing the blunt up to his lips as he tilts his head down to look at you with an uncharacteristically sweet smile, “So stupid.”

You can’t help but giggle under his gaze, the warm orange glow of the sunset reflecting in his heavy lidded eyes, a thin ring of crimson around his blown out pupils. His lips wrapping around the dwindling blunt and taking a long hit as the embers come alight. He leans down and gently blows the smoke into your face, making you squeeze your eyes shut.

He gently knocks his knuckle against your cheek to get you to open your eyes, gesturing the blunt to you, “Give me one more.”

You let out an over dramatic groan, covering your face with your hands, “No I’ll choke! I need you to baby bird it to me.”

He quirks his brow, a mischievous smirk curling on the corners of his lips, “Baby bird? Like spit it in your mouth?” He lets out a small chuckle. You part your hands away from your face to peer up at him as he takes another drag, holding the smoke in his mouth as he cups your chin to tilt your head towards him and leans down close to your face, smoke on his breath fanning your lips as he whispers, “Like this?”

Your mouth opens slightly in surprise as his lips are mere millimeters away from yours, gently exhaling smoke into your parted lips. Your cheeks burn red and your wide eyes stare up into his lazily lidded ones, already trained on you. You slowly breathe in the smoke, feeling him lean closer towards you, his gaze dropping down as his lips just barely brush against yours. Your eyes flutter shut, heart pounding in your chest as you feel his fingers trace their way from your chin along your jaw, tilting your head slightly to perfectly slot your lips with his-

But the moment abruptly comes to a halt as Sukuna’s phone loudly rings in his pocket, the ring tone blaring “I like big butts and I cannot lie!” as he freezes in place and both of your eyes shoot open.

“Pfft!” You throw your head back in laughter, your chin clocking Sukuna in the jaw as he shoots up straight and mutters curses under his breath, frantically fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

The obnoxious music quickly stops as he answers the phone, rubbing the sore spot on his jaw as he spoke with a hint of panic in his voice, “Yuuji?”

Even though he wasn’t on speaker phone, you could hear Yuuji loud and clear, emphasis on loud as Sukuna flinched the phone away from his ear as Yuuji yelled out the small speakers, “Guess who saved a cat at work today!”

You could see a look of relief wash over Sukuna’s face, but he didn’t let it translate into his voice, speaking in a low and annoyed tone, “I was hoping you’d die in a fire.”

Yuuji belted out a loud laugh on the other line, “Not yet! But don’t take it off your bingo card!”

A wide smile spreads across your face, yelling loud enough for Yuuji to hear, “You had him worried sic- mmph!”

Sukuna shoved his palm over your mouth, shooting a glare down at you as he spoke to Yuuji, “Ignore them.”

You tried to bite his hand over your mouth and he whispered “Fucking brat” down to you as Yuuji rambled about his first day at work, something about a cat being stuck in a tree and how he thought that was a myth but it’s totally a real thing. It quickly became clear that the moment between you and Sukuna had fizzled out, but he was probably just teasing you anyway right? It definitely meant nothing, surely. If Yuuji hadn’t called he would have just backed away and laughed at you or something.

He wasn’t actually gonna kiss you… right?

A/N: DONT KILL ME WE’LL GET THERE EVENTUALLY!! Anyway y’all like Yuuji’s ring tone I thought it suited him askakaka Dividers by @adornedwithlight

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!!

#little did yall know that last drabble was the prelude for this part #I’ve had that planned for like over a MONTH #I was giggling maniacally when I posted that drabble like ‘they don’t know what’s coming’#my writing #nav ryomen sukuna #roommate Sukuna au #brothers au #jjk #jujustu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #Sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna fluff #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #jjk modern au

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merxcywritesthings · 28 days ago

Text

𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑇𝑖𝑒𝑠

A/N: Here is Part 2 of ‘I Love You, I’m Sorry’ for all my lovelies that requested it! I tried to write it to where it has even more angst, and I hope you all enjoy! :)

Word Count: 2.3k

TW: Mentions of Suicide (If you or a loved one is suffering, I urge you to reach out for help, you are loved even if you cannot see it), Aruging, Toxic ex-relationship.

The city of Piltover always hummed with life, its streets alive with industry and ambition. Tonight, however, it felt subdued, as though the city itself shared your unease. You walked aimlessly, boots scuffing against cobblestones worn smooth by countless steps. The festival lanterns glowed faintly in the distance, their light flickering like dying embers.

Your mind refused to quiet. It circled back again and again to Vi—to her laughter, her fire, the way she’d make even the darkest corners of Zaun feel like home. But those memories now carried an edge, cutting deep whenever they surfaced. You’d spent so many nights hoping she’d return, only to realize that hope could be a double-edged sword. Sometimes, it kept you alive. Other times, it made the fall so much worse.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You thought about the first time you’d met her. It had been at a Zaunite rally, a chaotic clash of voices demanding justice. You had been there to observe, to report back to your Piltover contacts about the growing unrest below. But then she’d stepped onto a crate in the center of the crowd, her pink hair catching the faint light as she spoke with raw, unyielding passion. Her words had seared into your soul, leaving you questioning everything you thought you believed.

“If we’re going to survive,” she’d said, her voice ringing clear above the noise, “we have to stop begging for scraps. We’re not the broken pieces of Piltover’s machine. We’re the ones who’ll tear it down and build something better.”

Even now, you could feel the electricity of that moment, the way her conviction had drawn you in like a moth to a flame. You hadn’t known it then, but that was the night your life had begun to split in two. There was the you that belonged to Piltover, its orderly streets and gilded towers. And then there was the you that longed for something more—for her.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The sound of footsteps pulled you back to the present. You looked up and saw someone walking toward you. For a brief, gut-wrenching moment, you thought it might be Vi. But as the figure drew closer, you saw that it was a man, hunched and shrouded in a heavy coat. He gave you a passing glance before disappearing into the shadows, leaving you alone once more.

You sighed and turned down a narrow alley, the noise of the festival fading behind you. This part of the city was quieter, almost eerily so. The buildings here were older, their facades cracked and weathered by time. It reminded you of Zaun in a way, though the air was cleaner and the streets more stable underfoot.

Your thoughts drifted to Caitlyn Kiramman, Piltover’s golden enforcer. She’d always been an enigma to you, with her poised demeanor and piercing gaze. Vi had spoken of her often, always with a mixture of admiration and frustration. “She’s too good for this city,” Vi had once said. “Too good for me, too. But she’s got this… way of seeing things, you know? Like she’s already ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

You hadn’t known what to say to that. The jealousy that prickled at the edges of your thoughts was ugly, but undeniable. You had wondered, even then, if Caitlyn was the reason Vi’s heart always felt just out of reach. And now, after what you’d seen tonight, you couldn’t help but feel you’d been right.

The kiss between them had been so… certain. So unguarded. It had felt like the final nail in the coffin of everything you and Vi had built together. You tried to remind yourself that she deserved happiness, that Caitlyn’s steady presence might be what Vi needed. But the thought only twisted the knife deeper.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You stopped walking and leaned against a lamppost, the cool metal grounding you. The city stretched out below, a labyrinth of light and shadow. Somewhere out there, Vi was laughing, living, moving on. And you? You were stuck here, caught in the liminal space between what was and what could never be.

“What am I even doing?” you muttered to no one in particular. The words dissipated into the night, unanswered.

Your gaze drifted upward, toward the towering skyline of Piltover. You’d spent years climbing its social ladder, trying to carve out a space where you could make a difference. You’d believed in its promise of progress, in the idea that change could come from within. But now, all you could see were the cracks—the lies and corruption that seeped through the city’s polished exterior. Vi had seen them too, but she’d never shared your faith that they could be repaired.

“Piltover doesn’t change,” she’d told you once, her voice heavy with resignation. “It just finds new ways to keep people in their place.”

At the time, you’d argued with her, insisting that things could be different. But now, in the aftermath of her absence, you weren’t so sure. Maybe she’d been right all along. Maybe your efforts were nothing more than a fool’s errand.

The sound of distant laughter reached your ears, and you turned instinctively toward it. A group of festival-goers passed by, their faces bright with joy. You watched them for a moment, feeling like an outsider looking in. Once, you might have been among them, caught up in the revelry. But tonight, it felt impossible. The weight of your grief was too heavy to set aside, even for a moment.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You pushed off the lamppost and kept walking, the streets growing quieter as you moved further from the festival. Your feet carried you toward the border between Piltover and Zaun, a place you’d avoided for months. It was a strange sort of no-man’s-land, a place where the two cities bled into each other without ever truly meeting. Here, the air was thicker, the lights dimmer. It felt like a fitting backdrop for your mood.

You stopped at the edge of a rusted bridge, the same one Vi had once described in her dreams of a wedding. She’d envisioned it covered in lights, filled with people from both cities coming together to celebrate something real. But now, it stood empty and decayed, a monument to everything that had gone wrong.

The thought crept in quietly, unbidden but persistent. What if you just… let go? The bridge loomed over the murky depths of the water below, its surface reflecting the faint glow of distant lanterns. You stepped closer to the edge, the wind tugging at your coat. For a moment, you imagined the release—the quiet, the stillness. No more pain. No more longing.

But as you gripped the railing, a voice cut through the fog of your thoughts. “Hey!”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You froze, your heart lurching as you turned to see Vi standing at the other end of the bridge. Her pink hair caught the faint glow of the city lights, her broad shoulders framed against the night sky. She looked different—tired, older somehow—but the fire in her eyes was unmistakable.

“Vi,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. The air between you felt charged, heavy with everything that had been left unsaid.

She stepped closer, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Funny,” you replied bitterly, stepping away from the edge. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight either. Especially not with her.”

Vi’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. “So that’s what this is about? You spying on me now?”

“I wasn’t spying,” you snapped. “I was just… there. And I saw enough.”

She crossed her arms, her posture defensive. “You don’t get to judge me. You don’t know what it’s been like these past few months.”

“Don’t I?” you shot back, the anger you’d been holding back finally boiling over. “You think you’re the only one who’s been hurting? I’ve been trying to hold everything together, Vi. For you. For us. And all this time, you were—” Your voice broke, the words catching in your throat. “You were moving on.”

“Moving on?” she echoed, her voice sharp. “You think that’s what this is? You think I wanted any of this? You don’t understand what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning, to grab onto anything just to keep your head above water.”

Your chest ached, her words cutting deeper than you thought possible. “I was there for you, Vi. I would’ve done anything for you. But you left. You left, and now you’re standing here acting like I’m the one who doesn’t understand?”

Her gaze softened for a moment, but then she shook her head, her expression hardening again. “I didn’t leave. I fought for what I believed in. And if you couldn’t handle that—if you couldn’t handle me—then maybe this was doomed from the start.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. You stared at her, tears blurring your vision, but you refused to let them fall. “Maybe it was,” you said quietly, the weight of your grief settling over you like a shroud. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

Vi looked away, her jaw clenching as though she was holding back words she couldn’t bring herself to say. Her fists tightened at her sides, the leather of her gloves creaking under the pressure. For a moment, it seemed as if she might walk away again, leaving you with nothing but silence and the weight of her absence. But instead, she let out a ragged breath and turned back to you, her eyes shadowed with a pain that mirrored your own.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” she said, her voice cracking. “But what do you want me to say? That I didn’t screw up? That I didn’t let you down? I did. And I hate myself for it.”

Her admission hit you like a punch to the gut. You’d dreamed of hearing her say those words, of having her acknowledge the chasm that had opened between you. But now that she had, it didn’t feel like the closure you’d hoped for. It felt like another wound, raw and bleeding.

“You don’t get to hate yourself,” you said bitterly. “You don’t get to take the easy way out. You don’t get to kiss someone else and then come here acting like you’re the victim.”

Vi flinched, her eyes narrowing. “You think it’s easy? Being with Caitlyn, pretending I’m okay when every part of me feels like it’s falling apart? She’s safe. She doesn’t make me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.”

The words stung, and you took an involuntary step back. “So that’s what I was to you? A risk? Something dangerous you needed to escape from?”

“No,” Vi said quickly, her voice desperate. “You were everything. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I couldn’t handle it. You saw me as something more than I could be—as someone better than I am.”

“I saw you as someone worth fighting for,” you countered, your voice rising. “But you couldn’t do the same for me. You couldn’t even stay.”

Vi ran a hand through her hair, her frustration palpable. “It wasn’t about not wanting to stay. It was about surviving. Every time I looked at you, I saw everything I couldn’t have—everything I wanted but couldn’t hold onto. And it killed me.”

“Then why are you here now?” you demanded, your voice breaking under the weight of your emotions. “Why did you stop me if you’ve already moved on? What do you want from me, Vi?”

She stared at you, her lips parted as though she had an answer but couldn’t bring herself to say it. The silence between you stretched, heavy and suffocating. Finally, she whispered, “I don’t know.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound devoid of humor. “That’s just like you, isn’t it? Always running, always unsure. You’re so afraid of being vulnerable that you’d rather destroy everything than risk getting hurt.”

Vi’s eyes flashed with anger, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she took a step closer, her voice low and trembling. “And what about you? Huh? You think standing on the edge of that bridge is brave? You think giving up is some kind of statement?”

“It’s not about bravery,” you shot back. “It’s about not knowing how to keep going when everything feels so goddamn empty.”

Her face crumpled, and for a moment, she looked like she might break. But then she straightened, her shoulders squared. “You keep going because you’re stronger than this. Because you’re better than this.”

“Am I?” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. “I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel better. I feel broken, Vi. And you’re part of the reason why.”

The words hung between you like a dagger, sharp and unrelenting. Vi reached out as if to touch you, but her hand faltered, hovering in the air before falling back to her side. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “For everything.”

But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You took a step back, shaking your head. “Sorry doesn’t fix this. It doesn’t bring us back. It doesn’t make me whole again.”

Vi nodded, her expression hollow. “I know.”

And with that, the distance between you felt insurmountable. She stood there, framed by the faint glow of Piltover’s lights, and you realized that this was the end. There would be no mending, no reconciliation. The chasm between you had grown too wide, and neither of you had the strength to bridge it.

Without another word, you turned and walked away, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the stillness. Vi didn’t call after you, and you didn’t look back. The weight of everything you’d lost pressed down on you, but for the first time, you knew it was a burden you’d have to carry alone.

Above you, the stars shone cold and distant, offering no comfort.

𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 ��𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢! ❤️

𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑒𝑟.

#arcane x reader #vi arcane #vi x reader #vi x you #angst

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fangdokja · 22 days ago

Text

🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

❤︎ Synopsis. Caught in a web of lies, a spy's double life unravels when her mafia husband discovers her betrayal—turning their love into a merciless game of dominance, vengeance, and obsession. She was his wife, his possession, and now, his prisoner.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss x Fem. Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 -The Enemy in His Bed

♡ Word Count. 8,853

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, rape, blood play, forced oral, fear play, knife play, needle play, heavy bodily injury, slut shaming, objectification, psychological torment, actual torture methods, mature language, humiliation, degradation, forced orgasms, sadism, BDSM, groping, biting, bondage, nudity, fire play, gagging, physical assault and violence, choking / breath play

You are in a room that reeks of blood and mildew, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your lungs. The faint hum of a fluorescent bulb flickering above casts the space in a sickly yellow light, illuminating the cold, concrete walls streaked with rust-colored stains. You’re tied to a chair—no, anchored. The ropes around your wrists and ankles are so tight you can feel the pulse of your blood struggling beneath them, the fibers cutting deep into your flesh. Your breathing is shallow, ragged, your chest rising and falling as if every breath might be your last.

He stands in front of you, a towering figure cloaked in shadow. His silhouette is broad and unyielding, the kind of presence that fills every corner of the room with an oppressive weight. This man—the man who used to call you lyubov moya—is no longer the husband you once knew. The ruthless Russian mafia boss whose name is whispered like a curse. His eyes, dark as pitch, are fixed on you with a predator’s focus, glinting with something primal, something vile. He’s not here to forgive. He’s here to destroy.

“Do you feel it?” His voice is low, gravelly, but it carries the force of an earthquake. He steps closer, the sound of his boots hitting the floor like a countdown. “That crawling under your skin? That’s fear. That’s regret. And yet, you still sit there,” he hisses, his tone sharp enough to flay skin, “with that fucking look in your eyes.”

His hand shoots out, grabbing your chin with bruising force. His thumb digs into the soft flesh just below your cheekbone, forcing your face upward. The light catches his features, and for a moment, you see the rage carved into every hard line of his face. But it’s his eyes that terrify you most. They’re dead things, black holes where love once flickered.

“You betrayed me,” he snarls, the words laced with venom. His grip tightens, and you hear the faint crackle of cartilage in your jaw. “My wife. My fucking wife. And all this time, you were a spy. An actress in my bed, a liar in my world.” He releases you with a violent shove, and your head snaps back, the base of your skull colliding with the chair’s hard frame. Pain blooms, hot and electric, as blood trickles from your nose, the metallic tang filling your mouth.

The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing, heavy and deliberate, like a beast stalking its prey. He circles you now, each step echoing like the tolling of a bell. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, his voice quieter but infinitely more dangerous. He crouches down beside you, the leather of his gloves creaking as he pulls a blade from his belt. It’s thin, surgical, the kind of tool meant for precision rather than brute force. “Did you think I wouldn’t break you?”

The blade glides along your collarbone, its edge so sharp it almost feels cold. He presses just enough for the skin to part, a shallow cut that wells with blood and sends a sharp sting radiating through your nerves. “This is just the beginning,” he whispers, his lips so close to your ear you can feel the heat of his breath. “You don’t get to die yet. Not until I’ve carved every secret out of you. Not until you understand what betrayal costs.”

Your pulse is erratic, hammering in your chest as he stands again, looming over you like some ancient lord of vengeance. His fist connects with your cheek, and the world spins, your vision blurring as pain explodes across your face. Blood spatters across the floor in a violent arc, warm and sticky as it drips from the corner of your mouth.

“Where’s your defiance now?” he growls, his voice shaking with fury. He grabs a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head back so your gaze meets his. “You want to look brave, milaya, but I know better. I can see it in your eyes. You’re already breaking.”

His lips curl into a cruel smile as he lets go, letting your head drop forward. The room seems to tilt, the edges of your vision darkening, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of your surrender. Not yet. Not while there’s still air in your lungs.

But he’s not done. He won’t be until every inch of you is stripped raw, every nerve exposed and screaming. He reaches for a switch on the wall, and with a flick, the room is bathed in red light. It casts his shadow on the walls, grotesque and distorted, like a demon looming over the damned.

────────────

The door creaks open, and a figure, one of his subordinates, enters the room, dragging a metal tray laden with an assortment of cruel instruments. Your heart races as the cold steel glints under the flickering lights, each tool designed for a specific kind of torment.

The Russian mafia boss nods curtly, his eyes never leaving yours as the man sets the tray down with a clatter. "You're going to tell me everything," he says, his voice low and deadly.

"And then, I'm going to show you what it means to betray the one who gave you everything." He leans in, his hot breath on your neck, his grip on your chin painful.

"But first, I want you to remember what you used to be to me," he murmurs, the words a dark caress that sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand travels down, cupping your bruised cheek before sliding down to grasp your throat. You swallow hard, the fear rising like bile in your throat, but you refuse to show it. He squeezes, the pressure increasing until your eyes water, but you don't make a sound, not even a whimper.

His eyes narrow in frustration before he releases you, the hand moving to grip your jaw instead, forcing your mouth open.

With a sneer, he brings his face closer, his stubble scraping against your skin as he whispers, "You were once my sweet little bird, singing only for me. Now, you're a caged whore for the highest bidder." He slams his mouth down on yours, his kiss bruising and possessive.

You taste the rage and desperation in him, and for a fleeting moment, you feel a pang of pity.

But it's quickly replaced with a fiery resolve to survive, to somehow escape his clutches.

His tongue forces its way into your mouth, and you bite down, hard. He pulls back with a growl of annoyance, but instead of releasing you, he laughs, a dark, chilling sound. "Good girl," he says, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

"You still have some fight left in you." His eyes scan the tray, and he selects a pair of pliers. "Let's see how much you can take."

He reaches for your shirt, his fingers deftly unbuttoning it despite your struggling. The fabric tears away from your body, exposing your bruised and bound breasts. He squeezes them, watching the pain flicker in your eyes with a twisted pleasure. "These used to be mine," he says, his voice filled with a sadistic glee. He leans in again, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "But now, I'll make sure no one else ever touches them again."

The air in the dimly lit room reeked of sweat and copper, a metallic tang that coated your tongue as you gasped for breath. His shadow loomed large, an oppressive specter that seemed to drink in your pain. The pliers in his hand gleamed under the flickering light—a surgeon’s precision wrapped in a sadist’s grip.

His voice slithered through the silence, low and venomous. “Tell me,” he hissed, his words thick with cruelty, “whose touch you’ve dared to crave besides mine.”

Your chest rose and fell, trembling under his gaze. You held your tongue, the taste of defiance as bitter as bile. His jaw tightened. Then, without hesitation, he snapped the cold steel jaws of the pliers onto your right nipple.

The first twist came like lightning, sharp and blinding, a searing current that jolted through your body. The delicate tissues twisted under the unyielding bite of the metal, the nerve endings igniting like fireworks. You clenched your teeth so hard your jaw ached, your scream lodged in your throat like a jagged stone.

He leaned in closer, his breath an unwanted warmth against your cheek. “Still stubborn, aren’t we?” he murmured, his tone laced with mockery and dark amusement. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

The second twist was slower, deliberate—a calculated cruelty that made your skin crawl. He pulled, the pliers dragging the sensitive flesh in directions it was never meant to go. You could feel the tissue straining, tearing, fibers unraveling like the threads of a fragile tapestry.

Your vision swam, black spots blooming like ink blots against the edges of your sight. He laughed softly, the sound of a predator savoring its kill. “Beautiful,” he said, almost reverent. “Even in pain, you’re mine. Always mine.”

The climax of his sadistic art came with a grotesque pop, the sound of tissue surrendering to force. The pain was an inferno, all-consuming, burning through every nerve as he wrenched the nipple free from your body. Warm blood spilled in rivulets, pooling on the filthy floor beneath you. The ruined flesh hung like a torn petal before he carelessly tossed it aside, letting it hit the ground with a wet slap.

He stepped back, his gaze fixed on your bloodied chest—a grotesque canvas of raw meat and trembling sinew. The shredded skin wept crimson tears, each droplet sliding down to trace the curve of your ribs. The room tilted; your body screamed for reprieve, but there was none to be had.

“You’re breathtaking like this,” he said softly, running a gloved hand over your mutilated breast. His touch was clinical, detached, as if admiring the precision of his own handiwork. “But we’re far from finished.”

The metal tray clattered as he reached for his next tool—a scalpel, gleaming with sterile menace. But before he could wield it, he paused, considering. With a dark smile, he reached instead for the salt.

The coarse grains glittered like tiny shards of glass as he grabbed a fistful. “Let’s ensure you remember this moment,” he whispered, and then he scattered the salt into the gaping wound.

It was as if the salt detonated on contact, each granule a fresh explosion of agony. Your body bucked involuntarily, the ropes digging into your wrists as you thrashed against your bindings. The scream that tore from your throat was raw and primal, reverberating off the walls like a wounded animal’s last cry.

His smile widened, a cruel crescent etched into his face. “Much better,” he said, almost soothingly. “Now we’re making progress.”

The pliers returned, their jaws still slick with blood as they moved to your remaining nipple. This time, you could see the shadow of his intent, the cold malice in his eyes as he clamped down. The pain came like a tidal wave, drowning you in its depths as he twisted, pulled, and twisted again.

The nipple tore loose with a sickening crunch, cartilage snapping, blood spurting in a violent arc. Your chest was no longer your own—it was a ravaged landscape of gore, a grotesque testament to his control. The raw, exposed tissue oozed and quivered, a mockery of what it once was.

He stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes drinking in the destruction he’d wrought. “You’re exquisite when you break,” he murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “But don’t worry, little wife. There’s so much more of you left to ruin.”

You hung limp in the chair, your body trembling, every nerve ablaze. Your silence persisted, but his words lingered, curling around you like smoke, a promise of horrors yet to come.

────────────

The mafia boss steps back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes never leaving the destruction he's wrought upon your body. His hand reaches down to adjust his crotch, where a noticeable bulge has formed.

He's enjoying this, the sadist, getting off on your suffering.

"You're going to scream for me," he says, his voice low and filled with a primal hunger. "You're going to beg for me to stop. And when you do, I'll make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He moves to stand in front of you, his pants tenting obscenely. He unbuckles his belt, the leather making a harsh sound as it's pulled from the loops, the anticipation in the air thick and suffocating. He unbuttons his pants, and his cock springs free, hard and angry. He strokes it, the motion taunting you, a silent challenge to see how much more you can endure.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a whip crack that slices through the pain.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction, keeping your eyes cast down, focusing on the puddle of blood forming around your chair.

He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Look at what you've done to me," he snarls. "You've turned me into a monster."

He steps closer, pressing his cock against your bruised and bleeding chest, the heat from his arousal a stark contrast to the cold steel of the pliers still digging into your skin. He grinds against you, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"You're going to take this," he says, his voice a mix of anger and lust. "You're going to take every inch of me until you remember who you are."

With a brutal yank, he twists the pliers on your nipples even more so, and you feel your body convulse in a silent scream.

He takes the opportunity to force himself inside your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. "Suck it," he orders, his hand fisted in your hair, pushing your face closer to his crotch.

With a burst of defiance, you clamp down on his cock with your teeth, biting as hard as you can, feeling the warm flesh between your teeth, the taste of his pre-cum mixing with the coppery tang of your own blood.

He roars in a mix of pain and pleasure, his grip on your hair tightening as he thrusts deeper into your mouth.

The mafia boss’s eyes widen in shock, but the arousal in them doesn't waver. Instead, it seems to intensify, his pupils dilating with a dark excitement.

"Fuck, you little bitch," he growls, his voice a mix of anger and desire. "You're going to regret that." His hand moves from your hair to the back of your head, pushing down harder, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a sickening rhythm.

You refuse to give in, biting down again, the pain in your breasts and the metallic taste of blood only fueling your resolve to fight back.

He responds by slamming your head into the chair, stars exploding across your vision, but you don't let go. The pain radiates through your skull, but you hold on, biting even harder.

The Russian's hand trembles with a mix of rage and arousal as he pours an unmerciful amount of salt into the gaping wounds on your chest.

The agony is instant and overwhelming, your body arching off the chair as the salt sears into your flesh, setting every nerve ending alight with pain.

The scream that rips from your throat is muffled by his thick cock, still lodged in your mouth. His grip on the back of your head tightens even more, his hips jerking as your teeth graze his shaft, the scream vibrating along his length.

He watches your face contort in torment, his own expression a twisted blend of love and hatred. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Scream for me."

He pours more salt, the grains falling like a sadistic rain upon your ravaged breasts. Your teeth clench around his cock as you fight back the urge to pass out from the pain. Your eyes squeeze shut, and tears stream down your face, mixing with the blood and saliva that coats your chin. He seems to revel in your suffering, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his breaths more ragged.

The henchman, his eyes wide and slightly horrified, watches from the corner, unsure of what to do. The Russian mafia boss, noticing his employee's discomfort, turns to him with a wicked smile. "You want a taste?" he asks, his voice a dark promise.

The man shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze away from the macabre scene unfolding before him. The mafia boss laughs, a low, chilling sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Then get the fuck out," he snaps. "I'll handle this one."

The henchman nods hastily, retreating from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You're alone with the monster you once called your husband.

The salt has stopped falling, but the pain remains, a constant reminder of your betrayal and his wrath.

He pulls back a bit, panting heavily, his cock still hard and slick with your saliva. He looks at your destroyed breasts with a twisted kind of fascination, the blood and salt creating a gruesome tableau. "You're so beautiful when you scream," he murmurs, his voice almost tender.

His hand reaches out to trace the edge of one of the wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos.

You flinch away, the slightest of movements, but it's enough to snap him out of his daze.

The mafia boss’s hand clamps down on the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him again. His eyes are dark with lust and anger, a storm brewing in their depths. "You're going to pay for every lie," he says, his voice a promise of unspeakable torment.

He then pulls his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, the sound echoing through the room. You gasp for air, your throat raw from his rough treatment. He steps back, his gaze traveling down your body, taking in every bruise and tear. "But not before I make you feel everything I felt when I found out you were whoring around."

He grabs you by the hair, yanking you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles making you stumble. He pulls you to the tray of instruments, his eyes lingering on a long, thin knife.

The blade glitters in the light, a silent threat of the pain to come. He picks it up, his hand steady, his movements deliberate. "You're going to tell me who else has had you," he says, the knife hovering just above your skin. "Every name, every touch, every time you spread your legs for someone who wasn't me."

His grip tightens, his thumb tracing a line along your jaw. "And for every lie, I'll make sure you feel it here," he says, pressing the knife against your throat, the cold steel a stark reminder of the power he holds over you.

You stand before him, your body shaking with pain and fear, but you refuse to speak.

The Russian's eyes narrow, and he presses the knife harder, a thin line of blood welling up. "Tell me," he demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

But you remain silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes locked on his.

He sighs, a sound filled with disappointment and resentment. "Very well," he says, moving the knife to your chest.

He slices through your shredded shirt, the fabric giving way easily to reveal your bruised and bloodied skin. "If you won't tell me willingly, I'll make you confess."

He starts to cut, the blade digging into your flesh, tracing patterns of agony across your stomach and ribs. You bite your lip, the pain a living entity consuming you, but you refuse to break.

He pauses, looking up at you with a mix of admiration and anger. "You're so stubborn," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I used to love that about you."

His hand moves lower, the knife grazing your navel, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You can feel your body responding despite the pain, a traitorous arousal building within you. He notices and smirks, the knife moving lower, hovering just above the fabric of your pants. "But now, it's just another reason to make you suffer."

With a quick movement, he slices through the fabric, exposing your nakedness to the cold room. He traces the edge of the knife along the line of your underwear, the threat of what's to come clear in his eyes. "You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a seductive whisper. "Or I'll start peeling you like a damn orange."

You force yourself to remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

He leans in, his breath hot on your skin as he presses the knife against your inner thigh, the tip just barely breaking the surface. "Who else has been here?" he asks, his voice a dark caress.

You bite down on your tongue, tasting blood, but still you don't speak. The mafia boss’s eyes flash with anger, and he presses harder, the blade cutting through your skin. You grit your teeth, willing yourself not to scream, not to give in.

With a snarl of frustration, he slices through your underwear, the fabric falling away to reveal your most vulnerable areas. His hand moves to cup your pussy, his grip bruising. "So wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust.

"Do you get off on the pain I give you?" He strokes you roughly, the knife still pressing against your thigh, a constant reminder of the power he holds. "Or is it the fear?"

His thumb brushes against your clit, and despite the horror of the situation, you feel yourself respond. It's a traitorous betrayal of your own body, but you can't help it; his touch has always had this effect on you.

"You're mine," he says, his voice a low growl. "You'll always be mine." His hand moves from your pussy to your throat, squeezing tightly. You gasp for air, your eyes watering as he forces you to look at him.

"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."

You refuse, the word 'no' lodged in your throat, unspoken but clear.

His grip tightens, your vision swimming, but you stand firm, your resolve unbroken. He laughs, the sound a chilling echo in the room. "Fine," he says, his voice a harsh whisper. "We'll do this the hard way."

The mafias boss’s patience is at an end, his rage and lust boiling over. He yanks the knife away from your throat, the sharp tip of the blade leaving a trail of fire across your skin as he moves it downward.

With a quick, violent thrust, he pushes the knife into your pussy, the cold steel parting your wet folds with ease.

You scream, the sound a mix of agony and despair, your body trembling as he uses the knife to fuck you.

He's merciless, his strokes deep and hard, the blade sliding in and out of your tight hole, the edges scraping against your inner walls with each brutal thrust. You can feel the warmth of your blood mingling with your arousal, the sensation making you want to gag.

"You like that, don't you?" he whispers, his breath hot on your ear. "You like it when I hurt you. Fucking masochist." His free hand snakes around your throat, squeezing just enough to keep you on the edge of consciousness.

"You're such a good little slut, taking it all." He continues to use the knife, his knife thrusts growing more erratic as he gets closer to climax.

"Tell me," he grunts, his voice strained. "Tell me who you've been fucking." But you remain silent, your teeth clenched in a silent snarl of defiance.

The room spins around you, the pain in your breasts and the invasion of the knife in your pussy making it difficult to think straight.

Yet, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

The Russian's grip on the knife tightens, his strokes growing faster, harder. "I'll make you talk," he says, his voice a dark promise. "You can't hide from me forever."

The knife twists, hitting a particularly sensitive spot, and you can't help the scream that tears from your throat. He smiles, the sight of your pain seemingly pushing him closer to the edge.

As you feel the world fading around you, the older man’s grip on your throat tightens, his eyes wild with a mix of anger and arousal.

He slams the knife into your pussy one final time, the pain so intense you think you might actually pass out.

But just as the darkness begins to claim you, he pulls the knife out, the absence of the cold steel leaving you feeling violated and empty.

He throws the knife aside, his own breaths ragged and desperate, his cock pulsing with need.

"Fine," he snarls, his voice a harsh rasp. "We'll do it the old-fashioned way."

With a quick movement, he unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down, his cock springing free, thick and hard. He grabs your hips, spinning you around so that you face the chair, your destroyed breasts pressed against the cold metal. He kicks your legs apart, and you feel the tip of his cock nudge against your bruised and bloodied entrance.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his breath hot against your neck. "You're going to tell me every name, every face, every cock that's been inside you."

His hand moves to the back of your head, pushing down until you're bent over the chair, your ass in the air. "And when you do, I'll make it all better. I'll make you forget them all."

His cock slams into you without warning, the pain so intense you can't help but cry out.

He's rough, his movements punishing, his anger and pain manifesting in every thrust. You can feel him stretching you, filling you completely, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

The Russian's cock slams into you with the force of a battering ram, the pain so intense it steals your breath away. He's not gentle; every thrust is a declaration of his dominance, a punishment for your silence.

Your body shakes with the impact, your bruised breasts smacking against the cold metal chair, the pain from the fresh wounds sending jolts of agony through your system. His hands are like iron bars, holding your hips in place as he uses you, his grip bruising your skin.

Each time he pulls out, you feel the warm gush of your blood and arousal, mixing with the sticky mess he's creating inside you.

"Who else?" he snarls, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your shoulder. The pain is a white-hot brand, but you refuse to give him what he wants.

Instead, you spit in his face, the saliva mixing with the sweat and blood that coats his skin.

He rears back, his eyes flashing with fury, and then he slams into you again, his hips moving like pistons, his cock a weapon of torment. "You think you can resist me?" he growls, his voice a dark whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "I'll make you beg for mercy, cunt."

You bite back a scream as he hits your g-spot, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses your body for his own sadistic pleasure. You can feel him thickening inside you, his orgasm building with every punishing thrust. "Tell me!" he roars, his hand reaching around to squeeze your throat again, cutting off your air supply.

"Tell me who you've been fucking, and maybe I'll let you live." Your eyes bulge, your nails clawing at the chair as you fight the urge to pass out.

After a particularly brutal thrust, the mafia boss releases your throat, and you gasp for air, your lungs burning. "You're going to tell me," he whispers, his voice a promise of more pain to come. "You're going to tell me, or I'll make sure you never feel anything but pain again."

His grip on your hips tightens, and he starts to move faster, his cock pistoning in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound. You feel your body betraying you, your walls clenching around his shaft despite the pain, the traitorous orgasm building within you.

"Never," you croak out, your voice barely a whisper.

It's all you can manage, but it's enough to fuel his rage. He slams into you again, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see white. "You're mine," he says, his voice a harsh rasp. "You've always been mine."

His hand moves from your hip to your clit, and he starts to rub it roughly, the friction sending sparks of pain through your body. "You're going to come for me," he says, his voice a dark command. "And then you're going to tell me everything."

Your body is pushed to its limits as the Russian's relentless assault continues. Each thrust feels like a hot iron rod being driven into your soul, the pain unbearable as your body is stretched and filled with his monstrous cock.

The sound of your flesh slapping against his is like a grim symphony of agony, echoing through the cold, sterile room. You can feel your insides tearing, the warmth of your blood mixing with his seed, a grim reminder of his ownership over you. His hand on your clit is a sadistic maestro's touch, forcing pleasure from your bruised and abused body despite the pain.

"Tell me!" he roars, his grip on your hips like vice. "Tell me who's been inside you, and maybe I'll stop." His voice is desperate now, a mix of anger and love warring within him, his need for control overshadowing any shred of humanity he might have once had.

But you remain silent, your eyes squeezed shut, your mind a haze of torment. The only sound in the room is the harsh grunts of his exertion and your muffled whimpers.

The mafia boss’s sadistic stroking of your clit reaches a crescendo, and despite the agony of your injuries, your body responds to his command. You cum around his cock, your muscles clenching tightly, trying to push him out even as they pull him deeper.

He groans in victory, feeling your pussy pulse and spasm around him, his own orgasm building. He fucks you harder, his hand moving faster, his thumb pressing down mercilessly on your clit, forcing wave after wave of unwanted pleasure through your trembling form. You scream, the sound a mix of pain and climax, your body shaking as you cum for the second time, blood and fluids painting the chair beneath you.

"Fuck," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so fucking beautiful when you're in pain."

He doesn't stop, his thrusts growing more frantic as he chases his own release. You feel his cock thicken, his grip on your hips tightening until it's almost painful. "Again," he says, his voice a dark whisper. "Cum for me again." And despite yourself, you do, your body responding to the twisted game he's playing with your emotions and your pain.

The mafia man’s orgasm hits like a freight train, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his seed. You feel the warmth of his cum mixing with your blood, the sensation making you want to retch.

But you stay silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing your despair.

He pulls out, his cock slick with your blood and his cum, and you collapse onto the chair, your legs giving out beneath you. You're sobbing now, the pain and humiliation too much to hold in.

He stands over you, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening. "Look at what you've done to yourself," he says, his voice a mix of anger and pity.

"This is what happens when you betray me." He grabs a handful of your hair, forcing your head up so you have to meet his gaze.

His eyes are wild, the love and hurt swirling together in a toxic brew. "But I can fix you," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I can make you mine again." He releases you, and you slump back down, your head hanging limply.

The mafia boss stares down at you, his chest heaving with his own release. The rage in his eyes hasn't dimmed, but there's something else there now. Something that looks almost like hope.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a mix of disgust and admiration. "You're still fighting." He steps closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of your jaw, his touch gentle despite the bruises he's left there.

"But you can't win, my love."

You spit in his face again, the defiance burning in your eyes like a dying ember.

It's all you have left, and you cling to it with everything you have.

He wipes the spit away with the back of his hand, his smile twisted. "Oh, how I've missed your fire," he says, his voice a low growl. He grabs you by the shoulders, spinning you around to face him. "But it's time to put it out."

With a swift movement, he pulls you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles cutting into your skin as you stand. He yanks your torn shirt up, the fabric sticking to your blood-covered breasts.

His eyes travel over your body, a mix of hunger and disgust. "You're a mess," he says, his voice filled with contempt. "But I'll make you clean again."

He pulls you closer, his cock still hard against your stomach. "You're going to tell me," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "And when you do, I'll make you forget all about them."

The Russian's eyes gleam with a dark excitement as he takes in your bruised and bloodied form. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat.

His free hand reaches down to a specific part of his belt, unbuckling it with a sharp click that echoes through the room. He then pulls out a set of keys from it and unlocks a drawer in the desk, revealing an assortment of whips, chains, and other tools of torture. His hand lingers over them, a sadistic smile playing on his lips as he selects a particularly vicious-looking whip.

The mafia boss selects the spiked whip, the leather crackling with anticipation. He takes a moment to appreciate the gleaming metal spikes, the sight of them making your stomach churn. He grabs a bottle of vodka from the same drawer, the clear liquid sloshing in the bottle as he brings it to your blood-soaked crotch.

You try to jerk away, but his grip on your hair is unyielding. With a cruel smirk, he pours the alcohol over your wounds, the stinging pain making your vision swim.

You scream as the liquid seeps into your freshly torn flesh, the coldness of the vodka a stark contrast to the heat of your blood.

He doesn't give you a chance to recover, instead bringing the whip down in a vicious arc that connects with your bruised and abused pussy with a wet slap.

The pain is a white-hot brand, searing through you as the spikes tear into your sensitive flesh.

You can feel the alcohol burning into your wounds, a fresh agony added to the symphony of pain already playing in your body.

He doesn't stop there, though; he brings the whip down again and again, each strike more precise and brutal than the last.

You thrash in his grip, trying to escape the torment, but he's too strong, too determined to break you. His strikes are methodical, a twisted dance of pain and power, the whip's spikes digging deeper with every hit.

The mafia boss then wraps the end of the whip around your throat, the spikes biting into your tender flesh as he squeezes, cutting off your air supply. You claw at his wrist, your nails leaving bloody furrows in his skin, but he only tightens his grip.

Your eyes bulge, your chest heaving for air that won't come, your vision swimming with stars.

He leans in, his breath hot against your face, his eyes gleaming with a sick satisfaction as he watches the life drain from you. "Tell me," he whispers, his voice a dark promise of more pain if you don't.

But you refuse to give in, even as your lungs burn and your chest feels like it's going to explode.

Your hands fall to your sides, your body going limp in his grip, the only sound in the room the wet, gurgling noise of your struggles. He holds you there for a moment longer, watching you with a twisted fascination before finally letting go.

You gasp for air, your throat raw and burning, the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth. He smiles, a twisted parody of affection, and pulls out another tool from the drawer.

It's a metal rod, the end shaped into a cruel hook.

"This," he says, his voice a dark purr, "Is for when you decide to be more… cooperative."

He steps closer, the rod in his hand glinting in the harsh light of the room.

You can see your reflection in the gleaming surface, a broken doll covered in blood and sweat. He runs the hook over your skin, tracing the curves of your body with a featherlight touch that's somehow more terrifying than the pain of the whip.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that's more unsettling than his previous roars. "And when you do, I'll make it all better."

You spit blood in his face again, your voice a harsh whisper. "Never."

The word is a declaration of war, a challenge he seems to relish.

He laughs, a sound devoid of humor, and brings the hook closer to your pussy.

"We'll see about that," he murmurs, the hook pressing against your bruised and swollen flesh.

You tense, expecting the worst, but he surprises you by sliding it along your slit, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your pain. The mafia boss uses the hook to spread your labia, exposing the raw, bloody mess he's made of your most intimate parts.

"Look at this," he says, his voice filled with a twisted admiration. "You're so beautiful when you're broken."

He leans in, his breath hot against your skin as he runs the tip of the hook along your clit. The sensation is so intense, you almost pass out from the pain.

"But you're going to be even more beautiful when you're mine again."

He pushes the hook inside you, the spikes scraping along the inside of your pussy, and you scream hysterically, your body arching in agony.

The mafia boss’s smile widens as he watches you writhe in pain, the hook still embedded in your pussy. He takes a step back, admiring his handiwork, and then reaches for a small, black case on the desk.

Inside, you see a collection of needles, glinting in the cold light of the room.

His eyes never leave yours as he selects one, long and thin, with a wicked curve at the end. You can feel your body tightening around the hook, your muscles spasming in a futile attempt to push it out.

"This is for when you're feeling particularly uncooperative," he says, his voice a dark purr. He takes the needle between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently.

"But I suspect you're going to be feeling quite cooperative very soon." He brings the needle closer to your pussy, the curve lining up with your clit.

You can feel the sharpness of the tip against your swollen flesh, and you fight the urge to beg him to stop.

But you won't give him that power.

With a swift, precise movement, he inserts the needle, the point piercing your clit and sliding deep into your pussy.

The pain is like nothing you've ever felt before, a searing agony that makes you want to pass out.

You scream, your body jerking against the chair, but he holds you steady, his grip unyielding. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal.

"Take it like the good little whore you are." He starts to move the needle, twisting it inside you, the curve scraping along your inner walls.

Each twist sends a fresh wave of pain through you, making you want to vomit.

The mafia boss steps back, admiring his work, as you sob and whimper in pain. "You see," he says, his voice almost gentle, "It doesn't have to be this way. Tell me what I want to know, and I can make this all stop."

But you stay silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes squeezed shut.

He sighs, the sound filled with disappointment. "Very well," he says, his voice cold again. "But you're going to wish you had talked sooner."

He selects another needle from the case, his eyes never leaving yours.

He brings it to your pussy, the tip hovering just above your clit. "I'll give you one more chance," he says, his voice a deadly whisper. "Tell me who's been fucking you, and maybe I'll go easy on you."

You remain silent, your chest heaving with the effort of holding back your screams.

With a shrug, he pushes the second needle in alongside the first, the sensation of the sharp points tearing through your tender flesh making you want to pass out.

The Russian's eyes darken as he watches your silent defiance.

He starts to play with the needles, twisting and moving them with a precision that speaks of practice and skill. You bite down on your lip so hard you taste blood, trying not to give him the satisfaction of hearing your pain.

"So stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a mix of admiration and anger. "But you'll break eventually." He grabs another handful of needles, his eyes traveling over your body, considering where to insert them next. You can feel the cold sweat trickling down your back, the pain making your vision blur.

The mafia boss’s hand moves with the precision of a surgeon, inserting needle after needle into your pussy. Each one sinks into your flesh with a sickening pop, the pain so intense you feel like you're being torn apart from the inside.

You're a pincushion of pain, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body.

The needles are inserted at different angles, some going deep while others skim the surface, the varying depths creating a tapestry of torment that makes you want to scream.

Then the Russian's hand moves with a newfound fervor, the needles sliding into your flesh with an eerie grace.

The hook remains lodged deep inside you, the spikes scraping along your swollen walls as he twists it in a sickening rhythm that matches the insertion of the needles.

The pain is so intense, it feels like your entire body is on fire, your pussy a focal point of agony that threatens to consume you.

You feel the wetness of your blood mixing with the lubricant he's used, creating a macabre dance of red and clear fluids that dribble down your thighs.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "You're mine," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "You've always been mine, and you always will be."

His words are a knife, twisting in the wound of your soul, as he adds another needle, the metal scraping against the hook with an almost musical sound. You can feel the sharp points digging in deeper, the pain an almost tangible presence in the room. "Tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that makes your skin crawl. "Tell me who's been fucking my wife."

The mafia boss slightly smirks, stepping back from you, as his eyes gleaming with a twisted excitement.

He reaches for a small, red canister on the desk, the label written in a language you don't recognize.

You know what it is, though; you've seen it used in interrogations before. It's a can of lighter fluid, and you know what he's planning.

He douses the needles and the hook with the fluid, the harsh smell of the gasoline-like substance filling the room.

Your heart races, fear mixing with the pain as he takes a step back and flicks open a lighter.

The flame dances in the air, the light flickering over the needles embedded in your pussy, making the metal glint ominously.

"This is your last chance," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me, and I'll make it quick."

The flame hovers near the needles, the heat making your skin crawl. You clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the unimaginable agony that's about to come. "Who have you been fucking?" he demands again.

But you stay silent, your resolve unbroken despite the hell you're enduring.

With a snarl of frustration, he brings the flame closer, the heat growing more intense until it's almost unbearable.

You can feel your skin blistering around the base of the needles, the smell of burning flesh making you gag.

The mafia boss’s hand hovers over the needles, the flame reflecting in his eyes. "Fine," he says, his voice cold. "You want to play the martyr, I'll give you a performance to remember."

In one swift motion, he presses the lighter to the needles.

The fluid catches fire, the heat searing through your pussy in an explosion of agony that makes you arch off the chair.

You scream, the sound echoing through the room as the flames dance along the metal, the heat spreading through your insides like molten lava. The mafia boss watches you burn, his expression a twisted mix of anger and fascination.

The needles glow red-hot, the heat so intense it feels like your soul is being torn from your body. You can feel the flesh around the hook contracting, the spikes and needles digging deeper with each spasm of pain.

The flames lick at your tender flesh, the pain so intense that it's all you can focus on.

Your screams fill the room, a cacophony of agony and despair that seems to echo off the walls.

The mafia boss watches, his eyes alight with a perverse excitement as he sees you finally break.

Your body jerks and spasms against the chair, the ropes cutting into your skin as you struggle to escape the fire.

The needles are embedded so deeply now, the metal searing your insides as the flames dance around them.

The smell of your burning flesh fills the room, a sickeningly sweet aroma that makes your stomach churn.

────────────

The flames from the needles flicker and die out, leaving behind smoking metal embedded in your burnt flesh. The hook remains lodged deep inside you, a constant reminder of his dominance.

Your body is a wreck, a canvas of bruises, cuts, and burns, a testament to the extreme lengths he's willing to go to break you. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, each inhale a battle against the pain that threatens to swallow you whole.

The mafia boss’s smile fades as he watches you slip into unconsciousness, your body a broken doll in the chair.

He sighs, his frustration clear as he puts out the last of the flames with a damp cloth. He's impressed by your endurance, by the sheer force of your will to survive and not give him what he wants.

But he's not done with you yet.

He can't be.

You're his, and he won't let you die until you're his again.

The mafia boss leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, as he presses a soft, almost tender kiss to your bruised and bloody lips.

The contrast between his gentle touch and the agony of your burnt flesh sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand moves to the hook, gripping it firmly as he slowly pulls it out of you, the spikes tearing through your raw, swollen pussy with a wet, squelching sound that makes you whimper despite being unconscious.

The hook comes out with a final, sickening pop, leaving a gaping wound in its place.

"You're so stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a soft caress that seems to mock the pain he's inflicted on you. He carefully removes the needles one by one, his movements efficient and precise despite the anger that still lingers in his eyes.

Each removal sends a fresh wave of pain through your body, making you jerk and gasp even in your unconscious state. "But that's what I love about you," he says, his voice a mix of admiration and frustration.

The mafia boss sets aside the bloody needles and hook, reaching for a first aid kit that seems out of place in the room of torture.

He cleans your wounds with a gentle touch, his fingers deftly applying ointment and bandages to the burns and cuts. You can feel the coolness of the medical supplies against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the flames that had just been there.

He seems almost disappointed that you're not awake to see his 'care' for you, his eyes lingering on your bruised and broken form with a disturbing mix of love and anger.

"You're going to be okay," he whispers, his voice a strange blend of sweetness and malice. "I'll make sure of it."

He tapes the last bandage into place, his eyes lingering on the gaping hole where the hook had been. His thumb traces the edge of the wound, the pad of his finger coming away sticky with your blood.

He brings it to his lips, tasting you, his eyes closing for a brief moment before he opens them again, the anger in them burning like the embers of a dying fire.

You're vaguely aware of the pain as he tends to you, the fog of unconsciousness lifting slightly.

Each touch feels like a brand, a reminder of your submission to his will.

He wraps you in a blanket, lifting you with surprising gentleness from the chair, and carries you to a cot in the corner of the room.

He lays you down, his hand brushing through your hair, his touch surprisingly tender. "Rest," he says, his voice a command wrapped in a velvet glove. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."

The mafia boss locks the door behind him with a final click, leaving you alone in the cold, sterile room.

The cot is hard and uncomfortable, but it's the closest thing to relief you've felt in what seems like an eternity.

Your eyes fully drift shut, the darkness behind your lids offering a temporary reprieve from the horrors you've endured.

But sleep doesn't come easy.

The pain keeps you on the edge of consciousness, a constant reminder of the hell you're in.

386 notes · View notes

lipglossanon · 3 months ago

Text

Day 28

Kink: Blood

Pairing: Ghostface!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, blood, killer!Leon, stalking, noncon, humiliation, dirty talk, blood, violence, bodily harm (Leon takes a knife to readers body in a very unsexy way), unprotected sex, creampie; Leon is not a nice guy in this 👌

not proofread

Your mom calls you up and talks you into taking your cousin out trick or treating.

It’d be so nice and little Lucy would be over the moon to see you! No one’s able due to other commitments, and wouldn’t it be nice to come home and visit for a while?

Rolling your eyes, you pull into the driveway of your childhood home and out of your own reverie. There’s only a few plastic pumpkins sitting on the porch near the front door.

“Way to get into the spirit,” you mutter, boot nudging a grinning gourd until it nearly tips over.

“Oh, you’re here!”

The front door swings open and your mom pulls you into a hug.

“Told you I would be,” you pat her back before stepping away.

“I know,” she wrings her hands, eyes darting around nervously. “Let’s get inside.”

She tugs your bicep and once you’ve stepped over the threshold, she locks the door.

“Can’t be too careful,” she gives you a wan smile. “Let’s talk in the living room.”

Her nervous energy carries over with her, leg bouncing after she sits on the couch with the tv playing low in the background. She points at the screen with the remote as you sit down, the volume blaring to life.

“As reported by RCLN, the police have confirmed the death of four citizens. Sources say this could be the work of a killer much like authorities saw in Woodbridge years prior. Local county officials have issued a city wide curfew beginning at 10:00 PM—“

The blonde news reporter goes mute as your mom silences the TV.

“There’s been a lot of worry, so if you don’t feel comfortable taking Lucy out, we would all understand,” she says, eyes serious.

“She has to be dropped off by eight tonight, right? That’s plenty of time for me to take her and then be back home before curfew,” you assure her. “Besides, I’ll stick to the streets closest to the police station.”

Relief and worry flitter over her features, “If you’re sure.”

“I am. And I’ll turn my phone tracking on as well as share my location,” you wiggle your phone at her. “And I’ll text you as soon as I’m home.”

Sighing, she looks like she ages ten years before wiping her face and reverting back to her usual self.

“Right, okay,” she claps her hands. “Well, I need to head off, got the late shift tonight.”

As she stands, she glances down at her watch, “You should probably head over and pick up Lucy. Get an early start.”

“Alright, mom,” you follow her back outside, parting ways once you climb into your car.

You guys wave goodbye to each other and you back out of the drive, heading to your aunt’s house. It’s pleasant and extremely nostalgic, being able to see all the usual faces out and about—although, when you look closer, you can tell everyone seems to be on edge.

You’re going to keep your head on a swivel, especially when out later with Lucy, but you feel fairly confident you’ll be safe. You’ll stick to heavily populated areas near the sheriffs office and make sure to lock up once you’re back home. Honestly, it should be a pretty chill night.

Tapping your phone to double check the time, you park on the last street of the night—the one right across from the RPD. There’s dozens of people out with their families, all dressed up for the holiday. A group of kids rush past you as you open your door, shrieking and laughing, costumes streaming behind them. Smiling, you open your backseat and help Lucy out.

“This is our last call, little miss,” you take her hand in yours. “But this street has the full sized candy bars, so I don’t think you’ll be too disappointed.”

She smiles up at you, a couple of baby teeth missing, “Okay!”

“Okay!” You parrot back, smile breaking out a cross your face.

She swings your clasped hands together until you reach the first house; she then drops it in favor of skipping up to the door and pressing the doorbell.

Rinse and repeat.

By the time you’ve circled the block and started heading back up to your car, you’re carrying her little pumpkin bucket filled to the brim with sweets. Your attention is on her, listening as your cousin tells you why she hates circus peanuts (which she’s completely correct about) when you bump into someone in front of you.

Her plastic jack-o-lantern spills out a few pieces of candy as you rock back on your heels.

“Oh, shi—I mean, shoot,” you cringe at the near slip up. “Sorry about that, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“It’s okay,” the policeman you ran into smiles.

Your first thought is he’s a walking cliche: a blonde hair, blue eyed cop. Even if he is cute. The blue of his uniform looks so bright in the waning twilight, you kinda feel like a dumbass for running into him. He adjusts his walkie where it’s clasped onto his belt.

“And where are you two lovely ladies headed to this evening?”

Your cousin giggles, “Home. We went trick or treating!”

“You did?” He crouches down to be more at eye level with her. “And you’re dressed up like a princess?”

Lucy shakes her head no, “Uh uh.”

She points to the tiara on her head, “I’m the queen of hearts. See? Oh! And this too!”

She brings up her plastic scepter with a little pink heart on the end.

“Ahh, of course!” He smiles and it makes your chest flutter.

“Are you a real police officer?” She frowns at him.

“Yep, I’m Officer Kennedy, but you can call me Leon,” he stands back up, hand fishing out a couple of caramels from his pocket. “Sorry I don’t have any of the good stuff.”

“Thank you!” Lucy chirps, holding out her palm face up.

Officer Kennedy drops the candy into her hand then offers the second out to you.

“Oh,” you feel flustered, “uh, sure. Thanks, Officer.”

“Leon,” he affirms, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “You must be new in town?”

You laugh awkwardly, “Um, not really. I mean, I grew up here but moved away. I’m back to help take her trick or treating.” You face Lucy and gently squeeze her hand with a smile, “Isn’t that right, kiddo?”

“Yep!” She smiles back.

“Okay, well I’ll let you two get back to it,” he steps away to let you both pass on the sidewalk. “There’s a curfew so don’t be out too late.”

“Thanks, but we’re just going straight home,” you nod. “Goodnight, officer—Leon.”

He grins at your slip, “Goodnight.” He nods his head at Lucy, “Your majesty.”

She giggles and tugs your hand forward, shouting goodnight back to him. You let her lead you back to your car, helping her buckle in and placing her candy in the floorboard. She pouts and tries to grab for it.

“But—“

“This way, if something happens, we don’t spill it everywhere.”

“Oh, okay,” she sighs.

Smiling to yourself, you raise up and make your way over into the driver’s seat. Pulling away from the curb, you head back to your aunt’s house to drop Lucy off. Being occupied with making sure she’s comfortable, you miss the police car tailing your vehicle.

It follows you as you drop off Lucy with your Uncle, who just got off work. He tries to convince you to stay, but you beg off, telling him you promised your mom you’d stay home. Waving goodbye to them, you drive back to your mom’s place, still totally oblivious to the cruiser following you. You park in the same spot you did earlier in the evening, humming when you get out of the car.

Reaching into your pocket, you pull out your keys, chapstick, and a caramel candy. You stick the key in the lock and pocket the chapstick, but grin down at the candy in your hand. Unwrapping it, you pop the treat into your mouth and finish unlocking the door.

Stepping into the house, you shut and lock the door behind you. Pulling up your phone, you shoot your mom a quick text to let her know you’ve made it back safe and sound. The police car sits idling across the street before pulling away, slowly driving down the rest of the block before turning onto a separate lane.

You’ve changed into a comfy shirt three times too big and opted out of pajama pants, so you can curl up and watch horror movies. Finishing off your drink, you climb out of bed and head downstairs to get more.

As you’re passing through the dark living room, you hear the front door rattle. Freezing in place, you stay stock still, ears straining for any other sound. You hear the door knob rattle again and creep closer to peer around the wall. Watching the handle, you see it jiggle but it doesn’t turn. You curse under your breath, having forgotten your phone upstairs.

A heavy tread walks across your porch, steps creaking as whoever it is walks away from the front door. You stay in place—having seen enough movies that you know better than to go to the door. Your legs are stiff when you finally pull yourself away from the wall, slowly walking to the kitchen. Maybe it was some trick or treaters? Although it’s way too late.

Could be the killer…

That intrusive thought buzzes in your ears like an annoying gnat, even as you try to squish it down. Grabbing a water and a soda, you begin to make your way back upstairs to your room. As soon as your foot touches the bottom step, the doorbell rings loud as hell in the quiet.

“Fucking shit,” you gasp, nearly dropping everything in your hands.

Copying your earlier steps, you peek around the wall to check the door. You catch the top of a police cap through the small window and breathe a sigh of relief. Hurrying over, you unlock your door and pull it open.

“Apologies for the—oh, hello, again,” Officer Kennedy shifts on his feet, hand coming up to push his cap back.

“Hi,” you grip your drinks a little tighter, surprised to see him again.

“Do you always answer the door in such undress?” He cocks his head at you, lips pulling up into a grin.

Glancing down to see your shirt just reaches your thighs, your blood rushes hot, embarrassment making your heart race, “Oh, no! I-I didn’t mean to—look, some weirdo was testing my door earlier and I was headed upstairs when you came by and—“

He holds his hands up placatingly, “Whoa, whoa there. I was only teasing. You said someone tried to get in?”

Nodding, you continue, “I think. I mean the door handle jiggled a little before they walked off. It could just be a late trick or treater?”

“Maybe,” he looks off the porch to the side of the house. “I’ll take a quick look around.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that so much, Leon,” you effuse.

Giving you a little salute, he ducks off the porch and pulls out his flashlight, carefully checking the area. You watch him disappear around the side of the house and anxiety makes your scalp prickle. It feels like forever before his flashlight bobs back into view. He comes back to stand in front of you.

“I didn’t see anything, so maybe it was just some kids,” his eyes glance down at your bare legs before flicking back up to your face. “I’ll let you get back to your mom.”

“Oh, she’s not home,” the words spill from your mouth before you can think better of it. “And thanks for checking.”

“Not a problem,” he smiles slowly and it gives you an odd feeling of nerves. “Have a good night now, ma’am.”

He walks off down the block, presumably to the next house, as you step back inside to re-lock your door. It’s not until you’re in your room, sitting the drinks down onto your dresser when you realize he never said why he stopped by in the first place.

Well, it’s not like there isn’t some maniac on the loose. Probably just out checking on people, keeping the town secure. You push it from your mind and pick up your phone, texting your mom to let her know everything. Can never be too safe. Since she’s working, you don’t expect to hear from her so put your phone on charge and crawl back into bed.

Hours pass and you finish up a couple of movies before deciding on actually going to sleep. Not able to shake off the feeling, you decide to double check the door locks before passing out. Grabbing your phone this time, you creep downstairs and check on the front door. Passing the lock check, you then head into the kitchen to the backdoor.

Luckily, you didn’t cut on the light, but it doesn’t help the fear crawling up your throat like bile. The backdoor’s open. Not thrown open—just a sliver, just enough to have you pulling your phone up to dial 911.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a strangely robotic voice yanks the phone from your hand from behind your shoulder.

Crying out, you nearly trip over your feet trying to move towards the open door and away from the psycho in your house. However, a strong grip around your neck stops you in your tracks.

“Ah ah ah,” the weird intonation chides. “You’ve been such a good girl so far, let’s not ruin it now.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whisper, tears clogging your throat.

Your hands hesitate at your sides, fists clenching, nails biting your palms. The person behind you shifts until they’re standing in front of you. A black robe and hood cover their body while a white screaming ghost mask hides their face. They bring a knife up to tap against your sternum.

“If you’re really good,” their odd voice sounds amused. “You’ll get to live.”

Nodding, tears drip down your cheeks, “O-okay.”

“Good girl,” they purr, trailing the knife down to your shirt hem. Lifting the material with the blade, they laugh when they see your plain cotton panties.

“So good, aren’t you? Bet this cunt is just ripe for the taking,” they reach their gloved hand out to smack your mound.

Flinching, you bite your lip to keep from crying out. Everything inside you clenches, body breaking out in a cold sweat as nausea roils in your gut. Your legs shake so hard, you think you’re gonna collapse.

“I n-need to sit d-down, pl-please,” you stutter out.

“Poor thing,” the robotic reply instills no comfort. “Let’s go to your room, shall we?”

The psycho grabs your arm and forcibly leads you through your house and up the stairs; they shove you out in front of them and gesture forward with a wave of their knife.

“Your room. Now.”

You move forward, stumbling into your bedroom with the masked killer right behind you. Sitting heavily down on the edge of your mattress, they move in front of you to zip tie your wrists together. You feel yourself going numb—there’s no more room for fear.

“I think I can trust you,” the voice distorts as they start to adjust the mask. “So I’m going to leave your legs alone.”

You nod and they shake the knife at you playfully, “But, if you do anything stupid, I’ll gut you like fish and leave your pretty insides on the outside for mommy to find.”

Fresh tears spill from your eyes, “O-kuh-kay.”

They hum happily, “Good. Let’s see what we’re working with then.”

Grabbing your thighs, they shove them up and open, making you fall back against your bed. Using the knife, they slice through your panties and toss them onto the floor.

“Oh, what a pretty girl,” they laugh. “Damn. Just knew this pussy was gonna be good.”

Shivering, you twitch and squeak as they run their gloved fingers across your slit to tap the hood of your clit. Kneeling in front of you, they undo the bottom half of their mask and set it on the floor. Glancing down at it, you can see the hinged jaw holds a small voice changer over the mouth.

“Let’s have a taste of that sweet cunt,” his voice sounds familiar, but you’re unable to place it and your mind skitters away from thinking any thoughts.

He hungrily licks at your pussy lips, tongue parting your folds to lap at your hole.

You try to fight against the rising tide of arousal, but it’s a losing battle. With every press of his disgusting tongue, more slick drips from your pussy into his smug mouth. You grit your teeth, swallowing down every sound that he wrenches from you. It shouldn’t feel so good.

He moves his mouth up to your swollen clit, suckling the bud between his lips to slowly circle his tongue around it. Your hips jump up, pressing your pelvis against his mouth and he chuckles. The vibration makes you whine and the dam bursts for him—he eats you out voraciously. Holding your hips down to the bed, he sucks and lathes your sensitive bundle of nerves until he pulls an orgasm from you.

Moving his head back, slick glistens across his lips and chin.

“Taste so good, can’t wait to stuff this pussy with my cock,” he grins and you hiccup a sob.

“Please, don’t,” you sniffle, hips squirming under his palms.

Grabbing his knife from where he placed it, he uses it to push your shirt up to pool underneath your breasts.

“Time to give you something to cry about,” he murmurs before his lips tick up into a mean smile. “This will hurt.”

The tip of his blade dips down to your stomach and he makes a firm cut into your skin. When you yell in pain, he clicks his tongue and slaps his palm down over your parted lips. He continues to carve words into your stomach as you scream, sound muffled by his hand over your mouth.

By the time he finishes, you feel faint from the pain and having your mouth and nose obstructed.

“There’s my good girl,” he coos condescendingly. “Keep quiet for me, we’re almost through.”

Your head lolls to the side, silently crying as the killer ducks down to run his tongue through the cuts he made. When he raises his head, blood’s smeared across his entire lower face.

“Almost as good as that soft juicy cunt,” he makes a show of licking it off his lips. “Think I’m ready for the main course.”

You can’t see, but you can hear as he undoes his pants, the zipper extra loud amidst your harsh gasping. He shifts between your thighs and the head of his dick parts your slick pussy lips. With one snap of his hips, he’s burying his cock halfway into your cunt, walls gripping and squeezing him tightly.

“Oh, fuck,” he drops his head to watch as his cock spears you open. “Fat wet pussy’s swallowing me up. Good girl, good fucking girl.”

The breath rushes from your body with every thrust into your clenching heat. The skin of your stomach burns with the movement, blood sluggishly seeping from the cuts into your flesh. His fingers slip down to rub and pinch your clit. Writhing in place and despite the pain, you can’t stop from feeling full and so, so good.

“Nooo,” you whimper.

“Yes,” he pants, humping your pussy even faster. “God, gonna cream this chubby pussy—shoot it nice and deep.”

You hate that his words make you wet, clit throbbing under his rough fingers as he pounds away at your hole. He adjusts his angle and you nearly scream, the head of his dick knocking against your cervix. Your brain blanks out, the pain between your legs meshing with the pain of your tummy until it’s all white noise.

The only thing you can do is cling onto the feeble pleasure he’s giving you.

“That’s it, want you to feel it tomorrow, feel how deep I fucked this pretty pussy,” he grunts, sweat beading in his upper lip.

“Please,” you whimper, “oh, please, please, please.”

“Shhh, I’ll make you cum again, don’t worry,” he laughs and you notice flecks of blood on his teeth.

He reaches up to the blood pooling in your belly button and brings his fingers back down to your clit, rubbing it into your pudgy bud. You whine continuously, sickeningly grateful for the reprieve of pain when your arousal pushes through that fog of misery.

Snapping his hips harder into you, he growls and moans, cock pistoning in and out of your cunt at a dizzying pace. His fingers continue to circle and rub your clit until you’re clenching and whimpering, pussy walls milking his cock, as he stays true to his word, bringing you to climax once more.

“Good girl, fuck, gonna nut in this soft pussy, leave you with a Halloween treat,” he snarls down at you. “Say thank you.”

“T-thank you,” you weep, sinuses clogged.

“God damn,” he hisses under his breath and slams his hips into you one last time.

Disgust fills you just like his seed, warm and potent, settling deep in your body in a way that you’ll never forget. Your body feels like a limp dish rag when he pulls out, cum leaking from your pussy to stain your sheets.

“This shit is so hot sometimes,” his mouth twists in a grimace and right before your eyes, he slips off the hood before taking off the rest of his mask.

You’re too weak for anything more than a wounded sound from your throat as the officer from earlier in the night sits before you.

“Surprise,” he grins at you, blonde fringe ruffled and sweaty. “Or should I say Happy Halloween.”

#kinktober 2024 #kinktober #lipglossanon kinktober 2024 #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #ghostface!leon #Ghostface!leon s kennedy #fem!reader #ghostface!leon s kennedy x fem!reader

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olailamajnoon · 20 days ago

Text

The Gotham Zoo was being attacked by Condiment King and his sidekick Spice Girl, who sprayed ketchup and mustard, along with a secret mixture of hot sauce, onto unsuspecting people.

The air smelled overwhelmingly of a spicy tang that burned everyone’s nostrils. Civilians wandered around in various states of sticky horror, their clothes splattered with bright red and yellow. A disgruntled man waved his tie in the air like a white flag of surrender.

“This tie cost $300!” he shouted, his face as red as the condiment on his shirt.

“And this is a limited edition concert tee! You can’t buy these anymore!” another woman cried, fanning the shirt as though it might somehow un-mustard itself.

Nightwing walked and lounged beside Batman, his boots sticking faintly to the ketchup-coated pavement. “You know,” he said, “you’d think the Gotham Zoo would stop hosting ‘Free Hot Dog Day’ after last year’s pretzel riots.”

Batman’s mouth was set in a grim line. His eyes tracked Condiment King, who was being shoved into the back of a police car.

“HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT YOURSELF NOW, GOTHAM?” Condiment King bellowed. His triumphant scream echoed through the chaos as the officers shut the car door on him.

Nightwing crossed his arms and shook his head. “That guy’s really committed to his brand, huh?”

“Don’t encourage him with your jokes,” Batman muttered.

“Batman! Nightwing!” Spice Girl’s sultry voice cut through the commotion like a knife. She sauntered toward them, ignoring the two police officers flanking her. Her ketchup-streaked outfit—a mix of spicy reds and yellows—seemed designed to withstand condiment warfare.

“I just want you to know,” she purred, looking Batman up and down before sliding her gaze to Nightwing, “the thing with Condiment isn't the exclusive kind of thing.” She winked at them both, her lips curling into a suggestive smile. “I’m open to other arrangements.”

Nightwing gave her a Look. “Yeah, baby, you make me so hot!” he purred.

Batman was silently shaking.

Spice Girl tittered and tilted her head. “You too, Batty. Think about it. A life of spice...you can’t live on bland justice forever.”

Behind them was a loud snort. Catwoman was perched on the edge of a ruined hot dog cart, clutching her stomach as she doubled over, barely able to catch her breath.

Batman’s jaw tightened.

“You’re ketchup to my filet mignon,” Spice Girl called out behind her as the police dragged her away. “Batty! You and I could be...explosive together!”

“Explosive diarrhea, maybe,” said Nightwing.

Batman turned on his heel, cape swirling behind him, and stalked off. His face was covered by his cape, which was unusual, unless something unusual was happening on his face.

The sound of Condiment King yelling about “revolutionary relish” trailed off as the GCPD cruiser drove away.

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kaylopolis · 6 months ago

Text

Alastor's Shadow (18+) - Chapter Twelve

Alastor x F!Reader, Alias: Thestral

Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months earlier than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. After all, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plan brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down but also challenge your grab for power…

Tag List: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

(Let me know if you want to be added to the Tag List!)

____________________________________________

Author note: Dear Hoteliers,

SUPRISE, YOU GET TWO CHAPTERS TODAY! Chapter Thirteen is also up! Posted a bit early because I was too excited!

<3 Stay smutty

Chapter Twelve- The Kidnapping

Content Warning: MINORS DNI!!!! (let me know if I missed any!)

“It’s been twenty fuckin' minutes!” Velvette kicked at the air. “How much longer do I have to fuckin' wait!?”

The brat demon’s words echoed throughout the night. Pentagram City waited sixty floors below, V Tower being the tallest building around. The roof and top few floors were newly rebuilt, complete with a penthouse beneath Velvette’s feet and a rooftop designed for entertaining.

Alastor sat tied to a chair, surrounded by a platform that overlooked three sides of the tower. Velvette had wanted a pool, so she got one, along with a hot tub and a poolside bar. It was designed with Sinstagram in mind. Of course, the layout is aesthetically pleasing for one with a proclivity for photos and videos. It also created a great place to stage a kidnapping with numerous installed cameras - courtesy of Voxtek Technologies - that captured every angle.

The brat demon was rearing to go the moment she hit send on the video, including a live link to watch the battle about to go down, but what she didn’t expect was for you to take so damn long!

The demon groaned in his chair.

“Oh, shut it,” Velvette rolled her eyes. Cell phone in hand, the brat had stationed herself in a lounge chair, attempting to appear nonchalant while she waited. At about three minutes passed she double-checked that she actually posted the video. At about five, she was growing impatient. At ten, she could no longer sit still and took to pacing in her new boots - her outfit was meticulously designed for this fight because, of course, it was. At fifteen, she became angry. At about twenty, she was royally pissed off.

“How dare I be made to wait!!” She turned to Alastor, beaten and bruised - the demon hung his head, slipping back and forth from consciousness. “You were supposed to be fuckin' valuable! You…!”

“Angel Detected! Angel Detected! Angel Detected! Angel Detected!” Velvette’s notification screen lit up with alerts.

Voxtek’s Angelic security was now online, and its perimeter expanded out five blocks from V Tower - it was two, but after you attacked, they decided they needed a bit more warning time from incoming threats.

Quickly, Velvette typed out a text before finding her place before Alastor. The Overlord was ready.

In a cloud of black smoke, you came flying down from above, landing in an explosion of shadow. The smoke curled away from your feet, invading the freshly placed tile of the rooftop. It lopped over the edges, across the pool, even going as far as Velvette’s feet before dissipating.

The female Vee took a step back, out of reach of your dark magic. Clutching the knife, she pointed it in your direction, “About fuckin’ time! Do you know how long I have been waiting here!?”

You didn’t respond.

“Well!?”

You didn’t move, continuing to stare down the Overlord with your glowing yellow eyes.

Velvette stomped her foot, “You have nothing to say!?”

More silence.

The demon stomped forward, her arms balled into fists at her sides. With tears in her eyes, she screamed, “You murdered my best friend and destroyed my home for no fuckin' reason, and you have nothing to say to me!?”

Silence as the tension was building. Vox’s cameras zoomed in on you as if waiting for an answer. After a long moment, you held your hand up and…

… started violently coughing?

You bent over at the waist, your hands on your knees as you coughed as hard as you could.

“Holy shit. I’m… I’m… So sorry.” A voice choked out,, little puffs of black smoke escaped the hood as they talked. “I was holding my breath for as long as I could, but the smoke was… too much!”

Velvette took a step back, thoroughly confused- that was not the voice she remembered you having. She grabbed her phone and scanned you using the Soul Scanner app Vox downloaded onto it.

“Lucifer Morningstar,” the lady’s voice read out.

“What!?” She shrieked, taking a step back. The demon flipped to another app and pushed a button.

There was a shriek from behind her.

Velvette spun to find you collapsed on the ground, nearly out of reach of Alastor’s chair. In your leather gear, your silver hair braided back into a twist that reached halfway down your back, the watch Vox had given you morphed. The metal bit into the flesh of your wrist, hooks preventing it from being removed. The metal contraption had delivered an electric shock so powerful, it dropped you where you stood.

Velvette’s gaze shot between you and Lucifer, who had since thrown his hood back so he could breathe.

“Oh, sorry…” Lucifer cringed, eyes red from the smoke.

____________________________________________

(20 minutes earlier)

You resisted the urge to smack your face. “Okay, let’s try this one more time. Fire.” You summoned your flame.

“Fire.” Lucifer did the same.

“Smother.” You clapped your hands together, the flames extinguishing, allowing smoke to pool from between your fingers.

“Smother.” Lucifer did the same, but instead of a wave of smoke, the King produced merely a trickle. “Hey, I got it!” The Angel beamed, jumping up and down like a proud child.

It had only taken like fifty fucking tries but sure… He did it.

“Okay,” you huffed. “Now, do that while you're flying and while you’re standing there. I usually always have a little bit milling about for aesthetic purposes, so if you don’t do it, it'll be weird.”

“Right, and no talking?” He frowned a little.

“No talking.”

“But I have such good comebacks prepared,” the King pouted.

“No.” You handed him your cloak. “Keep the hood up; she doesn’t know it’s you, so she won’t be able to see under the cloak at any point in time.”

Lucifer threw the black fabric around his neck, tying the strings together. “You don’t ever suffocate in this?”

You looked at him dumb. “Smoke is heavy. It naturally wants to flow down and away. Let it do its thing, and you’ll be fine.”

The King pulled the hood up, “And no talking?” He prodded again.

“The second you open your mouth, Velvette will know it’s not me. Just stay quiet till I can get to Alastor, okay?”

“Fine!” The King whined.

God, you did not miss his childlike attitude. Okay, moving on, “Angel, what ya’ got for me?”

____________________________________________

(Now)

Move!

You forced yourself to your feet, scrambling for Alastor. While Lucifer distracted Velvette, you were to sneak in from the other direction and attempt to untie Alastor before she noticed. You tried, before you left the safety of your hiding place, to use the connection you fostered with Alastor to somehow send him some of your energy - if that's even how this connection worked. The demon tried something similar with you the day you couldn't eat anything. He came scrambling home and used his magic to calm the bubbles in your chest and infuse your blood with life. It worked then, but it wasn't working now.

Alastor remained slumped forward in the chair, his face unreadable as you tried to reach out. You released a tentacle of magic from your core, but when it slithered over to the Radio Demon, it couldn't feel him. He was still breathing, still moving, but his magic felt absent.

Which terrified you.

If you could just get to him, maybe you could forcefully push some of your magic into him. Actually, you didn’t even need to get that far, you just needed to reach Rolf, you just needed to reach his shadow.

Mere steps from Alastor, Velvette hit the button on her phone, sending a wave of electricity rocking through your body. You dropped like a stone, hitting the tile with a smack, your cheek cracking open on impact.

The female Vee spun, preparing to take on Lucifer, but the Angel had fled, leaving your black cloak in a pile on the ground where he once stood. You were on your own.

“There you are!” She cackled. The female Vee kneeled beside you, your body refusing to move as the electricity slowly ran its course.

Goddammit, the wound on your torso burned.

“Awww,” She pouted. “Little Thestral finally came out to play.”

Fuck.

“What? Didn’t think we’d figure it out? Ha!” She cackled. “Remember this?” The demon scanned your face with her camera.

The woman’s voice rang out, “Unknown.”

A memory surfaced of you and the remaining Vees battling it out at the base of V Tower. Vox scanned you during the fight, just as he had during your date. Both times, the woman called you “Unknown.”

Vox and Velvette have known it was you for weeks. Vox knew it was you today when he came to visit the Hotel and even when he was getting updates from Charlie. That’s why he wasn’t mad about you disappearing. That’s why he approached you again. He wasn’t apologizing. He was tricking you to get the watch on your wrist.

The Vees knew and were probably stalking you for weeks. Hence why they’ve been so quiet. They’ve been lying in wait, watching, waiting to see where your weaknesses lie.

And they found it: Alastor.

You knew the Radio Demon wasn’t sloppy. He didn’t make mistakes, and he didn’t miss any of the bystanders who saw the fight go down that day. What he wasn’t expecting - what neither of you was expecting - was Velvette and Vox being smart.

“Fuck you,” you gritted, your jaw stiff and tongue heavy. You spat, temporarily blinding Velvette with spit, and then punched her right in the nose. The demon fell back, blood spraying from her face, as you clumsily attempted to go for Alastor once more.

If you could just touch him…

“AH!” You jumped as another wave of electricity ran up your arm. Your body went stiff as you collapsed and landed THROUGH Alastor.

And then the demon DISAPPEARED.

“Ha, ha!” Velvette cackled, her finger still on the button as you convulsed at her feet. Fuck, your jaw clenched so tightly that a molar cracked. Your eyes threatened to roll back into your head before Velvette finally let you go.

What the fuck was going on?

“Did you like that? My idea, actually.” She clicked a button, and the image of Alastor reappeared next to you.

The demon was in the same position - his head slumped forward, his hair covering his face. He barely moved save for a moan here and there and the occasional rise of his chest to show he was breathing.

“You can’t capture Alastor’s image. He’s made that bloody impossible. So why not re-create him?”

You noticed the twitch in Alastor’s form then - it was a hologram. No wonder your magic didn't connect with anything. Nothing was there but light manipulated to look like Alastor.

If he wasn't here, then...

“Where is he?” You demanded, your words slurring with the effort it took to move your mouth. The last hit was harder than the one before, compounding on top of the other to create greater damage than one shock could do alone.

Velvette checked her phone screen, “Dead.”

You didn’t even humor her with a fake laugh or a dumb look. “Don’t give me the bullshit, Velvette. Where is he?” Life came back to your fingers, their movement stiff and constrained. You forced them to move, hoping it would speed up the process somehow.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” Velvette stood.

“Aww, do you really think I’m pretty?” You gritted.

Velvette considered the thought. “Well, the black dress didn't make me want to barf..."

You rolled your eyes. "Thanks..."

Spinning, Velvette called out, “Crim!"

Wait, Crim?

No one answered.

Velvette looked confused. “Crim!” She called out again, but nothing happened.

“Where the fuck did he…”

“Change of plans. Sweetheart,” Angel appeared at the edge of the landing above you, a giant piece of metal in hand. It kind of looked like a futuristic looking… bazooka? The spider demon kicked a tied and gagged Crim to the edge of the railing.

Hell, yes.

Velvette jumped back, putting ample space between you. You took the opportunity to force life into your body, attempting to push yourself into a seated position.

“The bad boys are tied up,” Nifty poked her head out from behind the bar, dragging a shark demon out into the open by his fin.

“Sorry!” Charlie and Vaggie appeared from behind the hot tub. Characteristically, the Princess apologized as a shark demon fell over, smacking his face against the tile.

DING! Husk and Pentious appeared in the elevator, kicking three sharks to their knees, guns aimed at the back of their heads - Carmilla Carmine weapons.

____________________________________________

(15 minutes ago)

“Angel, what ya’ got for me?” You trudged over to the spider demon, who had a hodgepodge of handwritten notes before him.

“Confirmed with Odette, Velvette ain’t just using Crim as a third party to buy the weapons, she hired ‘em, like you suspected.” Angel ran his hands over his notes as he talked. “But get this, she ain’t just buying guns, she’s goin’ afta big stuff.”

Angel handed you a paper. “An electric bazooka?” You scrunched your nose in confusion.

Carmilla never told you about anything like this.

“Vox apparently hired some of their engineers, been workin' on it for a while.” Angel crossed his arms and leaned back against the bar. "We’re walkin' into a trap."

“So, we just bluff,” Husk appeared behind the bar, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

“What?” You ask, grabbing the whiskey in his hand and trading it for water.

Husk stares you down but ultimately accepts the change without a fight. “Bluff, like in Poker,” He takes a swig. “Play like you got a good hand, even when you got a shit one. Make the other person fold before you lose and take the pot. It’s basic card skills.”

“Huh,” you thought, “that actually might work.”

“Hmm,” Angel pondered. “Ambush the ambush. Sounds kinda hot!”

Husk rolled his eyes.

“Lucifer!” You yelled. The King jumped, clearly in deep conversation with Vaggie. “I have another idea.”

____________________________________________

(Now)

“Fuck yeah!” Lucifer flew over the edge of the building and dropped a pile of gang members onto the tile roof. “You just got fucked!”

“Dad!” Charlie groaned. “It’s ‘fucked up.”

“Oh…” He cringed.

Velvette’s team was surrounded.

You knew it was only a matter of time before Velvette figured out it wasn’t you beneath the cloak. So, if you somehow got caught while Lucifer was distracting Velvette, he was to sneak away and help Husk fly the rest of the team to the top few floors. Quietly and quickly, they’d take out the Crimson Mafia gang - thus ambushing the ambushers. All while you made it seem like Velvette had you right where she wanted you.

Ignoring the pain in your torso, you pushed yourself to your feet. Your newly healed muscles screamed.

“It was over before it even started, Velvette. Now, where’s Alastor?” You demanded.

“No!” She screamed. “It isn’t over.” She swiped something on her phone. “I had wanted to take my time killing you, but this will have to do.”

Fuck, she was going to electrocute you to death.

“No!” Charlie screamed.

BOOM!

In a panic, Angel did what anyone in his position would have done: he aimed the cannon and fired. A ball of electricity, larger than yourself, erupted from the barrel and was headed straight for Velvette.

BEEP! BUZZ! BEEP! BUZZ!

The watch around your wrist vibrated. And, because Vox had accounted for this, the projectile changed direction and headed straight for you. You had moments to dodge before it exploded beneath your feet, flinging you backward into the bar. Bottles of alcohol exploded, glass dug into your skin, and wood splintered around you as you smashed through the structure and went rolling toward the edge of the building.

The rooftop plunged into chaos as the Crimson mafia gang took the opportunity to fight back. The world was a blur as you came to a stop, your mind spinning, your body stiff and immovable as your muscles convulsed. You must have bit your tongue because your mouth tasted of iron.

“Ah!” Velvette screamed. The demon jumped atop you as the sound of bullets filled the air. “Fuckin’ bitch!” She pulled out the knife, preparing to slash your throat.

But Nifty was faster. The small demon jumped atop Velvette’s hair and pulled. “Bad girl!” She screamed.

The demon fell off you as the two of them tossled.

Move! You need to move! You flooded your veins with magic but the fire did not burn life back into your body.

Fuck.

Think. Think. Think! If not fire, then… Wait!

"…shut down the whole grid!" Angel's words echoed in your mind. "All of Pentagram City was plunged into fuckin' darkness!"

If this technology was partially developed by Vox, maybe it had some similarities to his magic system?

An idea popped into your head. One that smelled of rain after a storm. One that felt humid like the deep bayou under a sky of stars. One that tasted of jambalaya and sounded of dirty jazz in a busy dance club…

Digging down deep, you grabbed that connection and pulled. Green static erupted over your skin, loosening your muscles and lessening the convulsions overtaking your body.

It was working!

You pulled harder, allowing the magic to explode from within you. The static breathed new life into your body, even going as far as stitching your healing muscles into strong fiber throughout your torso. You soon found yourself able to move, your body in even better health than before Velvette gutted you weeks ago. Moving onto your hands and knees, you sucked down a mouthful of air, your body finally your own again.

Jesus H. Christ, do not get hit by another one of those!

Nifty managed to get ahold of Velvette’s phone and tossed it over the side.

“No!” The demon crawled to the edge, screaming in vain as the cell phone plunged to the streets below.

You grabbed the Overlord by the collar of her shirt and lugged her to her feet. Your yellow eyes shined as the green magic enveloped your form. You could see the confusion in Velvette’s eyes, confusion at the control you now had over the magic which didn’t belong to you.

“Tell me or the next thing that drops sixty stories is you,” you could feel the power boiling, Alastor’s magic festering.

His magic was angry and so were you.

“You wouldn’t dare, bitch,” Velvette dug her nails into your forearm, her nails piercing your skin where the leather was thinnest.

“Try me,” the magic surged, pulsed as if fueled by the anger.

At the other end of the line you felt something push back, like a surge of magic calling out to you. While Velvette considered her options, you pushed back and felt something similar to a door open.

A heart beat. A breath. It was Alastor calling out to you in the same way you had tried to do before you left the Hotel for V Tower.

He was alive and he was angry. You might not know where he was, but he felt okay physically. Just extremely pissed off.

Good.

The static boiled, growing in power as a green aura emanated from you. You felt the shadows beneath your feet move, swirling about your ankles in anticipation of the murder you were about to commit.

“Velvette,” you garnered her attention, your voice almost sounding static-y, “last chance,” you swung her body over the edge, her feet dangling off the roof.

The fight behind her eyes shifted, “No.” she smiled.

CLICK!

You didn’t have to turn around to know the barrel end of a gun was pressed to the back of your head. You didn’t have to look to know it was Crim who wielded it.

“Put the boss lady down, gently,” the Mafia Boss commanded.

The static sizzled across your skin as you felt your demon form break through. Horns grew from your head, a sharp tail uncurled from your backside, and the sclera of your eyes turned red.

The fangs in your mouth sharpened as you smiled. You had a better idea.

You tackled Velvette around the middle and jumped.

You summoned your wings as you fell, but unlike the last time you found yourself falling from this building, you didn’t aim for the cement. Instead, you pulled up at the last second - much to Velvette’s terror - and threw the Overlord onto the ground. Not enough to break anything, but enough to rough her up a bit.

You needed Velvette alive and put together long enough to give you the information you needed - for now.

Spinning, you prepared to ascend the Tower to solve your little Crim problem when two large booms echoed throughout the streets.

Someone had fired two shots, honed in for your bracelet. If you were a gambling Angel you’d put your money on Crim.

Velvette cackled as you took flight, aiming for Heaven’s Clocktower. You watched the two balls of electricity bank as you turned, following you in circles about the plaza.

Shit, these things could maneuver… but how well?

You got an idea.

The Entertainment District had the largest buildings in town and as such you often found yourself flying through what felt like a maze night after night. It was the perfect place to lose the two missiles on your tail.

The first one was easy to lose. Heading from the Clocktower, you aimed for the first large building you came across. Banking hard right, you cut the turn so sharp your wing brushed the glass of the building. Taking a complete 180• turn, you headed right back for the Clocktower as the first ball exploded into the side of the glass building.

Shards rained down like acid behind you, showering the streets below.

The second one wasn’t so easily deterred, almost as if it had learned from the first. It didn’t sit as closely on your tail, and thus had more time to maneuver as you took the turns.

Soon it became obvious, the thing wasn’t going to quit. Fuck. You were hyperventilating, your face drenched in sweat, your wings cramping with the effort. You hadn’t flown in battle in what…? Since before the Age of Man? Your skit with the Leviathans maybe… at least your torso was holding up. Whatever Alastor’s static had done, it healed you, leaving behind nothing but a scar.

Fuck, what to do what to do!?

You craned your neck over your wing to catch a glimpse of the ball of blue electricity and that’s when you noticed the trail of green static following you across the sky. The sparks danced over your feathers and dissipated as they fell, like the trail on a shooting star. It was beautiful.

Alastor’s magic: the one person Vox’s electricity couldn’t take down.

Shit. Okay. Flight wasn’t working, so maybe it was time for fight.

You dug across the connection, throwing open the door to find an entire well of magic you didn’t know was there. Yet this magic was warm - familiar. It tasted of rye in your mouth, wrapped you in a cocoon of protection like a small babe… You took hold of this magic and used it to fuel the static drifting off your wings.

You had one shot at this, better make it count.

You soared skyward, till you were higher than V Tower. Then you fell. You spun so the ball of electricity was in front of you, your back to Pentagram City below. Grabbing hold of Alastor’s magic, you created a ball of magic of your own, composed entirely of Alastor’s static.

Then you threw it forward. It collided with the ball of blue energy and exploded in the sky, raining down blue and green sparks across Pentagram City below.

“Yes!” You cheered, safely making your way to the ground. You landed on the edge of Cannibal Town and the Entertainment District.

“Holy shit, that actually worked!” You laughed in disbelief. “Now for this piece of shit.” You concentrated the magic in your wrist and fried the watch. “Fuck you, Vox!” You ripped the watch off, gritting in pain as the hooks sliced through your skin.

The metal fell to the ground with a thud. Alastor’s static concentrated on your wrist, the green dancing across your wound. You watched the skin restitch itself and settle into a set of fresh scars.

Was this Alastor’s doing or some sort of acceleration of your blood’s natural healing abilities? Did Alastor’s magic amplify it somehow?

So many questions… Hopefully Alastor had answers because you didn’t even know where to begin. Sharing his magic…? What did that mean?

“Oh - !” There was a tug behind your navel so strong it knocked you back a step.

What the fuck was that?

Another tug, this one even stronger. You braced yourself as orange and mint flooded your nostrils.

The third tug knocked you onto your ass, but it was the feeling the card gave you that finally helped you to understand - Alastor was using his obsidian calling card to summon you and he had used his own blood.

Which meant two things: 1. Alastor was desperate and 2. You knew where to find him.

Without so much a second thought you took off heading for the Entertainment District.

You landed at the base of V Tower the same moment a blur of black and blue went whizzing past you. Briefly, you registered the flying blurb as Vox - no, wait, he wasn’t flying. Vox had been thrown.

The media demon slammed into a bloodied Velvette, the two of them flying across the cement before coming to a stop in a pile of blood, broken bones, and wire.

Before you had a chance to register what was happening, a portal opened up about twenty feet away from you. The Hotel team came flooding out, weapons raised, prepared for a fight, but paused at the sight behind you.

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Alastor?” You breathed, your entire body going rigid as you turned and…

A body slammed into you, warm and familiar. Alastor threaded his fingers through your hair, the other coming to rest at your back as he pulled you into him. His lips came crashing down on yours before you got a proper look at the demon.

It took your mind a moment to register that Alastor was kissing you, a moment before you were up on your toes, your arms around his neck, your body melting into him.

God, he tasted like blood and rye. His scent woeing you in a sea of iron and rain. Alastor was a wall of steel, holding you so fiercely - as if you might disappear in his arms.

The shadows about his feet danced - Rolf was okay too.

The demon came up for air, but he didn’t back away. Alastor kept his forehead on yours, his grip tightening around you, as he spoke, “Mon couer.”

My heart.

He didn’t have to say anything more. You understood. You were a perfect mirror image to the things he had been feeling and to the relief you both now expressed.

He was okay. Alastor was okay.

“What happened?” Was all you could manage to say before your voice broke and the ugly tears fell. “I thought they had you. I thought…”

“Shhhh,” Alastor shushed, using his thumb to wipe away the water from your cheek. “I know.”

“Velvette was going to…”

“I understand,” he kissed your forehead.

“I didn’t know what else to do...” You choked. You grabbed onto the lapels of his now destroyed jacket. “Please, Alastor… Don’t leave me.”

The demon smiled softly, your face in his hands, “Never again.”

He embraced you, his chin resting on the top of your head as he held you.

Charlie approached you slowly, hesitant to ruin the moment but also so, so worried. “Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“Perfectly fine, Princess. Seems Vox found it pertinent to occupy my time in the Doomsday District.”

A memory flashed in your mind…

“Well hello there little pet, where’s your master?”

“Like Hell I would tell you anything!”

“So he’s still making chaos in the Doomsday District then? That answers that question…”

Fucking Vox.

“Is she okay?” Charlie asked. You could hear the emotion in her voice.

The demon smiled into your hair.

Then, Alastor did something that would shock you for years to come, he opened an arm and invited her in. The Princess wrapped her arms around the two of you and soon, so did the rest of the Hotel Natives - minus Lucifer. The King had been standing there dumbfounded the moment Alastor kissed you.

Wow, he really did not like him.

“This isn’t over!” Vox yelled. He was bloodied and bruised, as was Velvette who was helping him limp over to your little cuddle fest.

Alastor had some fun while you were fighting the electricity across Pentagram City.

“Hmmm,” Alastor hummed. The group disbanded, taking a step behind you and the Overlord. “That is where you are wrong, old pal.”

The Radio Demon persona slammed back into place. He summoned his cane and twirled, before resting his hands atop it. Although he was in complete disarray, there was still an elegance which he held that Vox did not.

You made a mental note of the lack of shark demons coming to the Overlords’ rescue. Crim probably realized they were losing and hightailed it out of there. No worries, you’d pay the imp a visit later…

“Kill them?” You asked Alastor.

Alastor’s eyes lit up in amusement. “Oh, no! No, death is too good for them. The punishment is far more fun if they have to live with their humiliation.” The demon smiled, his lips curling at the edge.

“So then,” You looked to Alastor for permission. You wanted to show off for him, if he’d let you. “Unplug him?”

The demon tipped his head back and laughed, “After you, mon couer.”

You took a step forward and summoned Alastor’s magic. Green waves of static licked your form as you dug deep into that well.

“Hey, Vox,” you smiled.

The demon stopped, his eyes bouncing from yours to Alastor’s. The demon’s screen glitched. “You're dating him now!?”

You rolled your eyes, “Vox, we never dated. We went on one date and it was horrible.”

Another glitch. “What!?”

“Are you two seriously going to talk about this now?” Velvette groaned.

“I was miserable. You’re a lousy date.” He was buffering, his screen going staticy as you felt Alastor’s magic reacting to Vox’s weaknesses.

“And, you’re a terrible kisser,” you smiled.

Vox shoved off Velvette and took a few wobbly steps forward. You were pretty sure his ankle was broken. “Now listen here, you little…”

“Uh-ah-ah!” You tutted. “I wasn’t done.” You closed the gap, and leaned in to whisper something in Vox’s ear.

The media demon exploded, his screen shifting from lost signal to his face to static to random colors. He fell backward into Velvette, who barely managed to catch him.

The cameras around you exploded, light bulbs popped, and storefront windows cracked.

And soon, the entirety of Pentagram City was plunged into darkness.

“Rolf,” you summoned the shadow. “Will you please take out the trash?”

The shadow smiled at you, his horns curling, before he whisked Velvette and a short-circuiting Vox off into the night.

And it was finally over.

Alastor came up behind you and ran his hand through the static - it tickled, actually. The demon was absolutely mesmerized. “You are beautiful in red, mon couer,” He cupped your chin, his thumb running across your lower lip. “But green suits you far better than I could have ever imagined.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“I told him…”

Alastor used his thumb to stop your lips, his eyes darkening. “I know what you said.”

Rolf swirled at your feet. The little snoop was eavesdropping.

Your face turned red. “Vox got a little close on our date. Not my fault that I could feel everything.”

Vox was all over you when he kissed you… It wasn’t for very long, but it was enough to know…

“Is it true?” Alastor’s eyes couldn’t leave your lips, his mind transfixed on their shape, their feel, the way they moved when you talked.

Ha! There’s the narcissist in him.

“Yes, Alastor,” you smirked. “You are much bigger.”

The static pulsed, reacting to the delight spreading across Alastor’s face, but you forced it down, forced the magic back behind its door. Now was not the time nor the place to get carried away. Especially considering you practically leveled a building the last time you and Alastor... got into it.

Actually, now was time for something else - a conversation you were dreading.

“Alastor,” you collected his hand in yours, “I need… I want to tell you everything.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up first, shall we?” Alastor smiled, holding out his elbow for you to take.

The demon wasn’t done with your previous conversation. “I want to hear more about what you think of me.” He smirked, his grin lopsided. That look always meant trouble. “And perhaps discover how you look dressed only in my static.”

Jesus… Did you - via standing up to Vox using Alastor’s magic and utterly humiliating the media demon - inadvertently turn Alastor on? You sniffed. Vanilla, Alastor smelled of warm vanilla… Your face was pink before, but now it was bright red.

This was an opportunity you were not going to let slip away. You wrapped your arm in his…

“Mikaela?” Lucifer took a step forward interrupting the moment.

Your entire body went still.

“Is that you…?” He asked. Lucifer looked as if someone had murdered a puppy in front of him.

Shit.

Vaggie did a double take, “Wait. Mikaela as in Mikaela Morningstar, the Archangel?”

You looked down. Your arm. Velvette scratched your arm - she cut the rune Stolas drew onto your arm!

Slowly, you turned to face Lucifer - your brother. The Angel took a few steps forward, his confusion turning to hurt.

“Mikaela.” He frowned. There was so much sadness reflected in those eyes it made your throat swell with emotion.

“Lulu, I’m so sorry,” your voice broke.

“Wait, hold up.” Angel raised an arm. “When yous told me ya were a head honcho in Heaven, I just figured you were an Angel manager or some shit, but the General of God’s armies? That doesn’t make any sense. I thought Michael was a dude?”

“No,” Charlie stepped in, her face one of disbelief. She’s never technically met any of her father’s family and yet here you were all along. “Humans changed it.”

“Changed it?” Angel shook his head. “How do you fuckin’ change the fact that he is a she!?”

“Humans are patriarchal assholes,” Vaggie butted in, one arm wrapped around Charlie - whether to hold her back or comfort her, you didn’t know. Either way, the Ex-Exorcist was thoroughly irritated. “Can’t handle a woman being in a position of power, not to mention a warrior - the fucking warrior.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” Angel agreed.

“What are you doing here?” Lucifer asked. The King didn’t dare step closer. If anything, he moved in front of Charlie.

Did he think you were going to hurt her? You would never!

“Dad…” Your voice broke just by saying his name. “... sent me to Earth to take care of something. It went… wrong.”

Fuck how do you explain!?

“I couldn’t - can’t - go back.” You corrected yourself. Your eyes flit between him and Charlie. “I am not here to hurt her.” Your vision blurred with silent tears. “I would never hurt her, Lulu.”

Your brother’s face changed, his eyes hardening. He stood at his full height, an arm held out to prevent Charlie from stepping forward or say anything.

“You can smell deceit.” You both could - family trait. “You know I’m not lying.”

Lucifer swallowed dryly, but he didn’t say anything. His gaze fell to his feet, the gears behind his eyes turning. He was deciding what to do about you.

“I had nowhere else to go.” You continued.

“Dad?” Charlie tested the waters.

“Don’t, Charlie,” He snapped. “Just don’t.” The Angel, unsure of how exactly to react, how to think, or how to feel about you, turned and started walking away.

Your heart broke at the sight of him walking down the street alone, abandoning you, just as you abandoned him. You took a step forward to go after him, but Charlie beat you to it.

“Dad!” She called out as she ran after him. The two of them disappeared around the corner, heading for the Hotel.

You looked to the group, but their eyes were on Alastor as he placed a hand on your shoulder. “If you’ll excuse us. I believe Mikaela and I have some catching up to do.”

Fuck.

Husk shot you a look, his eyes asking if he should say something, if he should step in - ever the protective father figure that he was. You shook your head and let Rolf shadow you away.

____________________________________________

“Are you okay?” The demon asked as you appeared in the Nothing. Pentagram City was a dot in the distance, a glowing presence on the edge of a sea of black dirt.

You wrapped your arms around your middle, attempting to metaphorically and physically keep yourself together.

Fuck, you didn’t care about how you were doing. You cared about how Lucifer was doing. The way he just walked away like that… He turned his back on you just as you did him. God, how could you live with yourself?

“Sit,” Alastor commanded, his voice oddly absent of static. He summoned a chair from the Void and forced you into it, pushing down on your shoulders.

You were numb - that was the best way to explain it. Your body and feelings were numb.

Alastor knelt before you, one hand on your knee as he attempted to catch your eye. You couldn’t help but draw a parallel to the memory you shared on the balcony after you were injured. He attempted to comfort you then just as he was now, but the difference was he held so many questions in his gaze.

No more running.

“It’s a long story,” you scoffed, still in disbelief.

Alastor’s face remained neutral, his emotions unreadable. “I have all the time in the world.”

Surprise! You get two chapters today! Go! Go! Go!

-> Link to Chapter Thirteen

Tagged Hoteliers (Let me know if you want to be added!):

@sirens-and-moonflowers @wonderlandangelsposts @saccharine-nectarine @mommymilkers0526 @goyablogsstuff

@eris-norwega @missgirlsstuff @alastor-the-radio-demons-blog @sillywormtrixareforkids @its-a-dam-blue-brick

@cloverresin20 @blue-bird251 @speedycoffeedelight @littlebluefishtail @saw1987

@mopeyghost @beelz3bub @fraugwinska @minamilinaqueen @demoarah

@diffidentphantom @divineknightmare @animecrazy76 @sleepykittycx @graunta

@reath-solia @satansdaughter123 @mysticatto

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francixoxoxo · 5 months ago

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𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟

Cooking was a lovely kind of art.

You created, to let others consume. Your creation directly filled the bellies and hearts of the people you cared for, the love sprinkled in the form of salt or sugar into the food is always evident.

Knives were no stranger. They were double-edged, not literally but in a sense; They were a tool, a clean-cut and a bit of a chef's best friend. Now, though, you'd hardly call your newly-whetted knife a friend.

Billy heard your screaming for him through the open window above the sink, Chantilly curtains blowing in the wind and framing your horrified expression as you looked down to where he could not see. He was in the yard, getting your little garden prepared for the spring so that you could skip the dirty work and go straight into planting your vegetables.

But that heartbreaking sound coming from your parted lips had him throwing the shovel onto the dirt, wiping the sweat from his brow and running inside. "What happened, what's wrong?" His voice was dripping with anxiety as his boots thumped against the hardwood. His shirt was long-discarded, the New Mexican sun too oppressive for unnecessary fabrics, his suspenders hanging around his thighs. The buckles of them clinked against the tile as he knelt next to where you sat, back against the cabinet.

A deep cut through your wrist dripped blood onto your house dress and the floor. Tears had only just begun to fill your eyes, the surprise putting them off until now. "My hand slipped, I-- I was cuttin' the eggplant, n' I just-"

"Okay, okay, yer fine. S'all fine, baby, just--" Billy cuts you off firmly, not without a poorly concealed fear behind his voice. His azure eyes are wide and buggy with a wild thing, the nerves that your pain always seem to induce in him. He snatches the dishtowel off the countertop, pressing it to your wrist where you'd sliced the skin. The side of your wrist was bleeding through the daisy yellow dish towel until the cheery color was vermillion.

It hurt terribly as he put pressure on the cut, you whined in pain. "That hurts, you're hurting me!" He winces, a deep grimace creasing his features.

"I know, I know, but you gotta put pressure," Billy cooes, one hand clutching the opposite side of your wrist to hold it still and his other holding the towel to the wound. If he wasn't already sweating outside, this whole ordeal would make him break a sweat.

Your mouth opened and closed wordlessly from the searing pain, Billy murmuring sweet words to you as the bleeding staunched enough for him to peel the towel away a bit. His free hand is both bloody and sweaty but it comes to hold the side of your hair regardless, he pulls you in for a lingering kiss to your crown. "Yer doin' so great, baby." Billy peers with drawn brows at the cut, making sure the towel is positioned so you can't see the damage. He shakes his head. "S' not that bad."

"Swear?" You sniffle, looking up at him and meeting his azure eyes. The soft smile that crosses his features soothes the nerves spiking like needles all over.

"Swear." Billy promises. "Don't even need stitches." He tells you to hold the towel down again as he stands, rummaging through the medicine cabinet for bandages and a little bottle of carbolic acid. He remembers insisting it was unnecessary, that alcohol does the trick, but you fought him down. As always, you ended up being right.

Billy isn't no medic, but he's pretty satisfied with how he wraps you up. "I ain't gonna let my woman go 'round without some good care." He'd insisted, his seriousness making a laugh bubble from your lips. A peck to your lips couldn't shut you up, but Billy didn't mind if it was at his expense; as long as he gets to hear that beautiful sound.

"I'm sorry, this is so stupid." You huff, closing your eyes as Billy cuts the end of the bandages with his teeth. He snorts, shaking his head at you and pressing a careful kiss to the material above the cut. It's a weird kind of tickle, one that wouldn't feel pleasant if your heart wasn't tricked into fluttering by the handsome man in front of you.

"Aint ever stupid when it comes t'you."

#I'm back #billy the kid #tom blyth #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid x you #billy the kid 2022 #william h bonney x reader #billy the kid imagines #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid smut #Billy bonney #william h bonney imagine #william bonney

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nyxelestia · 3 months ago

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Kinktober, Angstober, Flufftober, Whumptober, and Inktober 2024

Collecting the five biggest promptober events' prompts in one list for people who like to mix and match between challenges.

Kinktober: This year, there is no official kinktober prompt list, but multiple lists for various fandoms and individual blogs. For this post, I am using this list from Reddit, put together by u/Random_Stuff10 using past kink lists and kink generators.

Angstober: 2024 Prompt List Tumblr Post @angstober

Flufftober: 2024 Prompt List Tumblr Post @flufftober (warning: no custom theme, so you must be logged in to Tumblr to view)

Whumptober: 2024 Prompt List Tumblr Post @whumptober

Inktober: Rules and Prompt Page

Inktober not included as it is trademarked.

Prompts Organized By Day

Day 01

Day 02

Kinktober 2. Threesome | Dehumanization | Watersports Angstober 2. Countdown Flufftober 2. “Left. Other left!” Whumptober 2. TRUST ISSUES | Amusement Park | Role Reversal | “You got away with the crime while the knife's in my back.” (Charlotte Sands, Rollercoaster) Inktober 2. Discover

Day 03

Day 04

Day 05

Day 06

Day 07

Day 08

Day 09

Kinktober 9. Praise Kink | Sharing | Stuck In a Wall Angstober 9. Promise Flufftober 9. “Don’t do that!” — “But…” Whumptober 9. OBSESSION | Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.” (Fall Out Boy, Irresistible) Inktober 9. Sun

Day 10

Day 11

Kinktober 11. Dirty Talk | Blow Jobs | Uniform Angstober 11. Wake Up Flufftober 11. Ingredients & Spells Whumptober 11. SEEING DOUBLE | Convenience Store | Loneliness | “Leave no trace behind, like you don't even exist.” (Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs) Inktober 11. Snacks

Day 12

Day 13

Kinktober 13. Dom/Sub | Branding | Body Modification Angstober 13. Shaking Flufftober 13. Attic, Cellar, Hidden Room Whumptober 13. TEAM AS A FAMILY | Familial Curse | Multiple Whumpees | "Death will do us part." (Set It Off, Partner's In Crime) Inktober 13. Horizon

Day 14

Kinktober 14. Breath Play | Evil Twin | Double penetration in one hole Angstober 14. Only Around You Flufftober 14. Fantasy AU / Mundane AU Whumptober 14. LEFT FOR DEAD | Hunting Gear | Blackmail | “Because I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted” (tiLLie, kooL aiD mAn) Inktober 14. Roam

Day 15

Kinktober 15. Double Penetration | Orgasm Denial | urethra penetration Angstober 15. False Hope Flufftober 15. “What are you wearing?” — “It’s laundry day!” Whumptober 15. CHILDHOOD TRAUMA | Painful Hug | Moment of Clarity | "I did good, right?" Inktober 15. Guidebook

Day 16

Day 17

Day 18

Kinktober 18. Dub-Con | Pregnancy | Cock Warming Angstober 18. Falling Stars Flufftober 18. Bewitched Whumptober 18. REVENGE | Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.” (Panic! at the Disco, Emperor's New Clothes) Inktober 18. Drive

Day 19

Day 20

Day 21

Day 22

Day 23

Day 24

Kinktober 24. Sensory Deprivation | Immobilized | pegging Angstober 24. Dark Sunrise Flufftober 24. Comfort Food Whumptober 24. RADIATION POISONING | Collapsed Building | Equipment Failure | “I never knew daylight could be so violent.” (Florence + The Machine, No Light, No Light) Inktober 24. Expedition

Day 25

Day 26

Kinktober 26. Surrender | Forced Prostitution | Cock Rings Angstober 26. Persuasion Flufftober 26. “I can’t find it.” Whumptober 26. NIGHTMARES | Breakfast Table | Parting Words of Regret | “I'm haunted by the lies that I have loved, the actions I have hated.” (Poe, Haunted) Inktober 26. Camera

Day 27

Day 28

Day 29

Day 30

Day 31

Alternatives

Whumptober Alternatives

Body Swap

Communication Barrier

Finding Old Messages

Forgotten

Friendly Fire

Motion Sickness

No-Holds-Barred Beatdown

Regret

Secrets Revealed

Shivering

Survivor's Guilt

Time Loop

Used As Bait

Venom

Vermin

Flufftober Alternatives

Last Year's Favorites Alt 1: “I’ve got you” Alt 2: Rainy Day Alt 3: “Wait you love me?” - “I always have” Alt 4: “I hate it” - “No, you don’t” Alt 5: Porch Swing Challenge "Make it Fluffy!" Alt 6: Gravestone Alt 7: Getting Revenge Alt 8: Written but never sent Alt 9: Suddenly Severed Communication Alt 10: Rejected, Betrayed, Exiled, Left Behind

#kinktober #angstober #flufftober #whumptober #inktober #kinktober 2024 #kinktober prompts

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zet-sway · 15 days ago

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Fanfic: Girasol

Or, Shepard and Thane get frisky over a crowded nightclub

[Read on AO3] - Rated E for SPICEEEY

Pairing: Thane/FShep | Rating: 18+ | Words: ~6400

“Imagine it, Siha,” he says, his chest flat against her back as he nips her jaw. “The dancers below are none the wiser, for a time. And then one looks up,” he gestures out over the dance floor and takes a deep, long breath. “And there you are. Bent over before me, colored lights sweeping across your skin, shaking as I take my fill of you.”

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

Thane smiles when he says “I know a place.”

A place for a night out - somewhere he promises will be both free of prying eyes and luxurious in its indulgence. A fancy dinner date that demands the kind of attire Shepard seldom gets to wear.

So it is that she finds herself leaning too close to her bathroom mirror, eyeliner pen in hand and its cap in her mouth as she draws out a black, knife-edged wing over each eye with practiced ease. Like riding a bike, she thinks, before she steps back to take one last look at her appearance, making last minute adjustments.

The dress is black, form-fitting, with a high collar hugging her neck to pronounce the defined angles of her jaw. Below, a diamond of exposed skin in the center of her dress reveals the shadow between her breasts. The garment ends a little more than halfway down her thighs, and she stands a few inches taller in her heels. She smirks to herself, heels clicking on the tile floor as she steps over to the sink and tidies her makeup bag.

Thane knocks softly at the bathroom door before sliding it open. She can hear the low purr of appreciation as he moves close.

“Siha,” he murmurs, low and reverent, subvocals thrumming with excitement and desire. “You look radiant.”

Shepard dips her head, booting up her omni-tool to check their reservation. It’s something she does to deflect his attention from her blushing cheeks. “What,” she says, giving her all to sound nonchalant. “Were you expecting sweatpants and a t-shirt?” The clock in the bottom corner of the mirror ticks up by one minute and turns red - time to leave.

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

Thane turns her to face him, cupping her elbow as he slides an arm around her. As his lips ghost over hers, she clamps her hand around his bicep and pushes back. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

His dark eyes gleam at her from across the skycar cabin. They’re headed somewhere swanky, but he still hasn't told her exactly where. Shepard tugs the bunched up edge of her dress out from beneath her thigh and bites her tongue. He’s already called her impatient at least three times and she’ll be damned if she’ll give him reason to say it again. Assassins and their secrets.

Their vehicle whisks past the neon landscape of upper Tayseri Ward, the light of the nearby Widow Nebula casting facades and spires in bright lavenders and deep cobalts. The passing shadows gleam across the broad, deep V of scales at his chest, exposed between an immaculately trimmed double vest and pressed button-up with rolled sleeves.

He glances, a knowing look in his eye, looking for all the world like he’s about to make a smart remark about the way her foot taps rhythmically against the seat across from her. Whatever he’s thinking, he elects to keep it to himself as the cab finally slows.

They’re just meters from the bleeding edge of the ward, the furthest possible stretch from the Presidium. Before her, a golden glow emanates from the most expensive looking restaurant she’s ever seen in her life.

The cab VI pings softly and announces, “Now arriving at Girasol Restaurant, Tayseri Ward. Thank you for choosing Citicab.”

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They’re seated beneath an infinite panorama of stars. Ships pass overhead, and far off, they can just barely make out the Widow relay, distant flashes of light reaching their eyes with the steady churn of the relay queue. They’re served what might be the first multi-course meal she’s ever had.

This far out on the Ward, simulated rotational gravity is more comfortable than she’s used to. Heavier, but far closer to the SR2’s environment than the Presidium has ever been. The station’s rotation is actually perceptible from here, with so many ships flying in and out.

“So, when were you going to tell me you were close friends with the owner of the most expensive restaurant on the Citadel?”

Thane actually laughs, his face cracking into a wide, amused smile.

“Serana is a known ally for someone of my employ. She’s more of a trusted business partner than a close friend.”

Shepard polishes off the rest of her drink and side-eyes him. “I’m not the jealous type, Thane. You don’t have to blow smoke.”

He pulls both elbows up on the table and loosely cups his hands together. “No smoke, Siha. Only the truth. I’ve only met her on one occasion. She owns multiple establishments on Tayseri ward, and has a reputation for the kind of… discretion that assassins and their clients are looking for.”

“So, a safe meeting place, then?”

“Yes,” he nods. “Ask for the right table, and it’s all taken care of from there.”

A teal-colored asari with golden tattoos collects their empty glasses as she passes by, and a set of refills is immediately behind. There’s one other drell dressed in neutral colored leathers conversing with a salarian at a nearby table, and another two across the restaurant engrossed in deep conversation with two hanar. It strikes her that this is more drell than Shepard has ever seen in one place before.

“So you brought me to the super secret assassin speakeasy. Very cool, Thane,” she smirks, “I can cross that one off the bucket list.”

He smiles at her, enormous dark eyes gleaming with admiration. “You're quite welcome. There are few perks associated with my profession. I'm glad to share this with you.”

Shepard leans back in her chair, thinking, one wrist resting on the table. “They probably think you’re here to kill for me.”

“Siha,” he says, closing his hand over hers, “The very reason we met is because you asked me to kill for you.”

Quirking a brow, she says, “You make it sound so romantic.”

“As I recall, it was you who initiated the romance.”

She shrugs. “What can I say? I have a weakness for moody, leather-clad aliens with plunging necklines.” Shepard nods in the direction of his buttondown, the first three buttons of which are undone, perhaps more than would be tasteful in polite company. She could say she's used to seeing him like this - it's how he's dressed from the moment they met. But sometimes…

Thane’s smile turns catlike, and he squeezes her hand. “Indeed, I feel the same.”

She gives him a playful nudge with her foot. “Damn, I walked right into that one.”

“In case I haven’t mentioned it already,” he says, leaning forward, voice low, “You look ravishing in that dress. Please, give Kelly my regards.”

Not unaffected by his lower vocal registers, Shepard offers a nonchalant rebuttal. “I think Kelly’s been chomping at the bit for your ‘regards’ since she first laid eyes on you.”

Thane smiles with a wave of his hand. “I’m spoken for, as you know.”

He relaxes back then, removing the napkin from his lap and folding it neatly before setting it on the table before him. The golden light above their table gleams off the deep V of exposed scales on his chest, and Shepard feels the not-so-distant rumbling of desire in her blood. She loves him like this - laid back, cocky, with a kind of easy bombast that he only brings out for her.

“Alright, Sere Spoken For,” She grips his hand, nails touching his palm in silent excitement. "Dinner was great. Why don't we get into some trouble?”

“I'd like that,” he says with a smile.

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

Lower Tayseri ward is wreathed in neon and shadow. They make their way to a nearby taxi pavilion and Thane casually slides a credit chit across the volus caretaker’s desk.

“Right this way,” he breathes heavily, leading them to a parked cab. The doors swing open and the seats slide back as they enter, revealing a wide hatch and ladder beneath. Thane descends first, Shepard close behind him. She's slower than she would like in these shoes, her mobility not improved by the tight confines of her dress.

“I know you’re getting an eyeful down there.”

Thane catches the sole of her foot as she very nearly plants her heel on his face, and he stops his descent, almost certainly to raise his eyes to the clear shot he must have between her thighs.

“I was not, until you suggested it,” he muses. “I love that color on you.”

Leaning to peer down the ladder at him, Shepard winks. “I know you do.”

They dismount the ladder one at a time, metal grating beneath their feet. They’ve arrived in some kind of tunnel system. Distantly, Shepard can hear the pounding bass of a nightclub.

“I’m relieved to hear the club is still operating,” Thane says, as though he were the type of guy to be pressed about a nightclub being closed down. They begin to make their way down the corridor. It’s too narrow to walk comfortably side by side. Shepard settles for admiring his ass as he leads ahead of her.

“You’re taking me to a nightclub?”

“It’s called Cernunnos. Their DJs are a crowd favorite.”

A keeper crosses their path ahead, and they pause to let it pass. Shepard takes the opportunity to pull herself in close, savoring the feel of his muscled frame beneath her hands. “You have a favorite DJ?”

He doesn't answer, offering that classic little smirk-smile he only shares with her. This man, she thinks.

“Come, Siha. It isn’t far.”

They traverse the winding network of grated catwalks, narrow corridors, and dusty passageways, lit by dim red wall panels reminiscent of a submarine and lined with a concerning number of locked, unlabeled doors without handles. It would be so easy to get lost down here, spend a few hours well and truly alone - a thought that’s becoming more and more interesting as she wonders what Thane plans on doing to her when he finally has her cornered.

At last, they come upon one large door with a glowing red lock. Thane presses a panel beside it, revealing a console so well hidden it may as well have not been there at all. Seconds later, the lock turns green, the doors open, and they're swept up in the colossal sound of pounding bass and dancing bodies.

“Holy shit,” she says under her breath, the sound of her voice lost to the music.

They arrive at a horizontal catwalk stretching along the curved wall of the club from one end of the dance hall to the other. There’s maybe 12 inches of space between their heads and the ventilation ductwork, and the guardrail is trussed with lights, circling in neon patterns over the dancers far below who frolic over a mirrored floor lined with still more lights that give the space an otherworldly feel. The bass shakes her bones, settles hard over the pounding of her heart. Incredible, what freedom a bit of loud music can bring.

She takes a step up to the railing, soaking in the energy of the crowd and the beat. Thane’s arms slide around her waist. It never gets old - the way he pulls her back into him, letting his breath wash over her neck. He presses close, giving a thoughtful hum as his lips ghost over her ear.

“I once chased a target to this very spot,” he says lowly, in a haze of memory. “A human woman. Red of hair.”

Shepard leans back into him, smirking. “You brought me all this way to tell me stories? I love that about you.”

He brushes his nose against her hairline, presses his cheek close. “She was a fierce combatant. Slipped through my fingers more times than I could count as I pursued her across systems, through relays, until at last I cornered her here, on the Citadel.”

Their current arrangement is not lost on her. Leaning against a narrow metal guardrail with the galaxy’s most feared assassin at her back, she can't help the excited jump in her pulse.

“Next you’re gonna tell me you prayed for her before you dropped her over the edge,” Shepard teases.

“You mistake me, Siha.” His hands wander to her hips. “My hunt had only just begun when we reached the Citadel. After I infiltrated her ship and earned her trust.”

That gets a genuine laugh out of her. “Mixing business with pleasure, Thane?”

“As all assassins do,” he agrees without a shred of shame or discomfort. “One might argue that by the time I caught her, she openly goaded me to chase her.” His lips touch her neck. “To claim her.”

“So you cornered her here,” Shepard replies, leaning her head back against his shoulder, inviting his wandering hands, his warm mouth on the curve of her neck.

“As I have cornered you, now,” he says, voice low. Seductive.

“How'd you do it? A quick snap of the neck? A knife? An unfortunate, ‘accidental’ fall?”

“I never said I killed her, Siha,” he says, with a playful lilt to his voice. His hands smooth down over her abdomen, over her thighs, fingertips pressing close to her apex. She knows this touch to be exploratory, communicative, a subtle ask from his body to hers. What a simple thing it is to respond in kind, pressing her backside against him.

He gives a quiet laugh, kissing the spot behind her ear.

“I see how it is,” she teases, arching her spine, pushing her backside into his hips. The unmistakable warmth of his arousal pushes back, and she feels her own desire begin to smolder. “You know all of my secrets but I can't know yours?"

His arms tighten around her and he lets out a low rasp.

"You offer your secrets to me voluntarily. Perhaps you would do well to watch your mouth."

"Oh?" she says, turning to face him, setting her elbows back on the railing and arching her neck in a silent invitation. In the low light, his eyes are hungry. "Say that again, to my face."

"I said, watch your mouth, Siha." He touches her chin. "If you prefer, I will find better use for it."

He kisses her, then. Pulls her body flush with his; the way that makes his mouth and tongue feel like a full-body experience. Heat flares beneath her skin, and she only gives fleeting consideration to their location as she considers all that she wants from him, wants to give him, right here and now.

"You really think that'll shut me up?"

"An untested theory," he says, nipping her bottom lip, one hand sliding down to cup her ass. “Perhaps if we...”

She gives his belt a quick tug and pulls it free, her eyes never leaving his. The sound he makes is deep and desirous as she pushes him up against a shadow-washed bulkhead. Eyes locked, she descends to her knees before him.

"I never feel more humbled than when you offer me your mouth," he whispers as she strokes him. He’s rock hard, pulsing in her hand. In the darkness, she counts the swirling lines that sweep along his length. They flank the coronal ridge of his head, flowing along the shape of him and meeting again just past his sheath.

"This mouth is famous," she reminds him, peering up to meet his eyes as she teases along the underside. "Some might even say infamous."

"And yet none have known it as I have." He relaxes against the wall and touches the side of her face, sliding his fingers into her hair. The intention in his grip is unmistakable, but he's so pretty when he begs. Gazing up at him, she flutters her lashes, swipes her tongue across his glans and hooks her fingers around his shaft. The colored, moving lights off the club sweep across his face.

"Please, Siha,” he says sweetly, tilting his hips to nudge his tip against her mouth.

She smiles, hand tightening around his length. And then he's sliding between her lips, venom burning on her tongue, sinking as far as she can manage into her throat.

He groans. His hips tense as she pulls off him, hollowing her cheeks as she goes, sucking hard and following with a soft tongue. For all his bluster, Thane is a man like any other - spellbound and lost in the heat of her mouth. He fists his hand in her hair, nails raking along her scalp, guiding her with steady strength. The base of him tingles with his natural lubricant, envenomed and leeching into her blood as she stretches her lips around him and swallows him to the hilt. Christ. She wants him so badly it aches.

He abruptly tightens his grip on her hair, stalling her.

“Siha,” he groans. “Siha.”

Shepard releases him with a pop, and he only takes a moment to sag against the wall before hauling her up against him, pressing his tongue against hers. His hands are on her thighs, gathering her short skirt, bunching up atop her hips. He backs her up, step by step, until the railing pushes into her back.

"Turn around,” he says with a rasp as he spins her, caging her between his arms against the guardrail.

The crowd of dancers below moves like an ocean, swelling and crashing between the mirrored floor and sweeping lights, tangled limbs and bodies lost in one another. She surveys the tables and bars ringing the dance floor, at once both curious and worried to know if they've been spotted. Her search is almost enough to distract her from Thane’s hands sliding beneath her bunched-up dress, scaled palms gliding with unmistakable intent across her skin.

“I want you,” he murmurs in her ear. “Right here, just like this.”

He rocks his hips against her, slow and firm.

“I thought you'd never ask,” she says breathily.

He nudges her legs apart with a booted foot. "Do we have an audience?"

She shakes her head. “Do you want an audience?”

He kisses her again behind the ear. "Perhaps you will give them due cause. You always make the most delicious sounds when I take you from behind."

Fuck. His voice vibrates between her ears, down her spine, and settles in her throbbing cunt. She aches, her blood pounding with the bass.

Thane pulls her hips back toward him, pulling her panties to the side. She breathes out a soft moan as traces her seam with just the tips of his fingers, sliding toward the top of her mound and back again before slipping with ease into her channel.

"Wet," he murmurs. "Does the taste of me arouse you so?"

Shepard bites her lip and whines, and he continues, fingers sliding in and out of her at a slow, dragging pace. There’s no doubt that this insufferable tease is avoiding her clit on purpose, and she reaches between her legs to pleasure herself. Thane intercepts her before she can make it there.

"Mind your hands, Siha,” he warns, placing and curling her fingers back around the metal. “We wouldn't want our hosts to get the wrong idea.” The low rasp in his voice is driving her mad. The moment he lets go, she reaches back behind his neck, arching herself toward him, intent on capturing his lips.

“Or what?” She rasps. “Go on, Krios. Threaten me with a good time.”

This time, his grip is firm. Just shy of bruising. He cinches her wrists together with one strong hand, as the other reaches between them to hook a finger around the crotch of her panties. He tugs at them, aggressive, urging them down her thighs until they fall to her knees at an angle, still hooked on his finger.

Shepard steps out of the garment one leg at a time. Heaven only knows what thoughts are locked in his fathomless mind, but she loves where this is going. Loves to egg him on, deny him just enough to leave him dangling on one, fragile thread of frustration and ever more eager to ravish her. Thane is never one to disappoint.

He lifts her damp panties to her wrists, and in a series of swift movements, binds her hands to the guardrail. Perfect. An excited chill races down her spine. No one plays dirty quite like he does.

He nips at her neck, and then her ear. “Shall I pardon myself, Shepard? Leave you here for a time, with nothing but the music and your desire to drive you to madness?”

“You wouldn't,” she taunts back, testing her makeshift restraint. The fabric isn't made for any sort of strength; it wouldn't take much to tear free, but she'll wait till the right moment for that.

“No. I am nothing if not generous, as you are aware.” His cock is a hard line against the crack of her ass, his hands returning to her body, feeling the contour of her breasts, her hips. He makes a low sound when he returns to the heat between her legs and effortlessly spears her with his fused fingers.

“Generous, my ass,” she taunts. “They teach you not to play with your food in the Compact?” Her gut clenches and she moans “Fuck” against gritted teeth as he curls into her walls, hitting her exactly where she likes it. When he withdraws, he wraps his arm around her shoulders.

"Taste, Siha," he whispers, fused fingers leaving a wet trail along her cheek as he pushes them inside her mouth. Flooded with lust, she accepts without a second thought. The salty flavor of her own arousal hits her tongue and she groans around his hand, sucking his fingers just like she’d sucked his cock.

At last, he adjusts himself, nestling his velvety tip against her opening.

Thane's fingers tear free of her lips and settle on her jaw, gripping tight, forcing her head to the side, pressing his face to hers so she can feel his breath coming hot and heavy against her cheek. Bound before him, all she can think about is his cock, his head hovering just inside her folds, thick and heavy and slick, primed to penetrate and fuck her right here and now on this dusty catwalk-

"Goddess preserve me," he breathes.

And then he's sliding home, the wide head of his cock prying her open inch by inch, every one of his ridges like fire licking the ring of her opening as she stretches and pulses around him.

There's no substitute for this - the deep throbbing heat, the pressure, the incredible stretch as her body conforms around his beautiful alien cock. She wishes she could bottle this feeling, inhale and relive it during her many sleepless nights aboard her ship - fuck, she’d never want for anyone ever again. It steals her breath. White knuckles on the railing, her head pitches forward with a long moan as their hips go flush.

His voice is shaky as he mutters her name like a prayer into her skin. Hard, unyielding, and sheathed to the hilt inside her, he kisses with unfocused, desperate lust against her mouth and cheek. It feels like he could swallow her whole, pulled flush against his chest with hands trembling.

Stars - she could grind herself to oblivion on him. It’s killing her that she can’t touch him.

"You will be the death of me, Siha. The things you let me do to you-” his hips abruptly snap into hers, followed by a few short, shaky thrusts before he settles into a heavy rhythm that makes her cunt throb.

“This turn you on, Krios?” She laughs, the sound ragged. “Fucking me over the dance floor of a crowded club?”

It's a struggle to keep her voice level, but it's worth it. His forehead briefly comes to rest between her shoulder blades and he tightens his fingers on her hips, pace unfaltering. These little tells, she knows, speak volumes of his control, his desire.

“If I didn't know better, I'd say you want them to watch.” She thrusts back against him, leveraging her hands on the guardrail.

His pace stutters. He gives a sudden, sharp thrust, swallowing before he manages, “If I wanted them to watch, I’d have stripped you bare.”

Shepard lets out a breathless chuckle. “I think I struck a nerve.”

Thane makes a low, desperate sound. “You are my savior and my tormentor,” he rasps.

He rocks back slowly, stroking her walls with every ridge until he comes free. Shepard chases him with her hips, empty and aching, until his hands close over hers and he begins to thrust wetly against her seam. She can feel every single contour of his cock dragging over her sensitive, swollen pearl, bringing her closer to the brink as he backs down from his.

“Imagine it, Siha,” he says, his chest flat against her back as he nips her jaw. “The dancers below are none the wiser, for a time. And then one looks up,” he gestures out over the dance floor and takes a deep, long breath. Two steps backward. Drags her hips with him until she's almost at chin level with the guardrail.

“And there you are. Bent over before me, colored lights sweeping across your skin, shaking as I take my fill of you.” His hands drag over her curves, lingering at her breasts, squeezing, flirting with roughness. “Whether they wish to be you or be inside you, they can only watch and wonder - what must it feel like to put one's hands on such a beautiful creature?"

Her cheeks are on fire. Yeah, she's struck a nerve alright. His fingers massage her nipple through the fabric of her dress, and she can tell by his uncharacteristically clumsy grip that he’s at least thinking about tearing holes in her dress.

A hand comes to rest on her belly, holding her tight against him as he eases the tip of his cock inside her again, pushing, seeking. He’s still maddeningly restrained. All he allows her is what remains of his patience: long, slow, deep thrusts. Her skin itches, body aching for the full, unleashed strength of him. He squeezes her breast again, pushing deeper into her cunt now, and all at once, the realization hits her.

"Are you-" she chokes, "Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

She can imagine it - the hands of a stranger freeing her from this damned dress, sliding over her skin, kneading her breasts - tongue drawing circles around the taut bud of her nipple - Thane fucking her all the while -

As though he can hear her thoughts, he pulls her hips sharply back into his, and she gasps. The fantasy takes her by surprise and her eyes squeeze shut, arousal boiling beneath her skin.

"Maybe we could try that sometime," she heaves, and she can tell by the way his body shudders that she’s under his skin now, too.

He pauses, slipping out of her, and for a moment she thinks he's actually going to make good on her suggestion. Instead he adjusts his stance, pushes her hips forward until they're flush against the railing bars and thrusts back inside her at an angle that leaves her gasping.

"Siha," he groans into her neck, "The mere thought of sharing your pleasure with another…" His voice is ragged as he begins to fuck her in earnest. "To imagine them… on their knees before you… tongue devoted to your pleasure as I move inside you. Merciful gods."

He grips her waist, pounding into her at an angle that makes heat flash along her spine like lightning. Shepard struggles to keep her eyes open, as though by watching the dance floor, she could somehow keep them from watching her. They’re in too deep now - but there’s something intensely arousing about being had in this state. About knowing any wandering eyes might catch the sight of Thane taking his pleasure from her. Knowing how, despite her (frankly excessive) state of dress, it would be immediately obvious what was happening.

His hands moves between her legs, sliding against wet, warm flesh, focused where she’s spread wide around his girth. He circles her clit in frantic, jerky circles that give away just how much his control is fraying at the seams. Shepard is on the edge before she even knows what’s happening, spellbound, vividly imagining Thane fucking her into oblivion beneath a stranger's hands and mouth.

"Thane-" she chokes, a lip between her teeth. Hands lock around the cold steel railing and she struggles to breathe, lurching forward, spine bowing, until she's truly hanging on for dear life while her climax shreds her nerves from the inside out. And he doesn't stop -

It feels like heaven. Glowing, white hot, and savage jabs of ecstacy ripping through her as he braces himself against her hips and fucks her for all he's worth. The force of him makes her stumble, the binds at her wrist tearing thread by thread until they unravel, torn elastic whipping away from her hands and falling uselessly into the crowd below. Whoever they land on is the furthest thing from her mind. He's deep, so impossibly, brilliantly, earth-shatteringly deep inside her, every thrust rocketing through her on forked flashes of lightning until her eyes roll back and she chokes out half-formed words in the vague shape of his name.

Swallowing a moan, she manages only a few clear words: "Fuck me, Thane."

He makes a low noise, something between a moan and a growl. Teeth drag against the curve of her shoulder, driving spike after spike of incandescent pleasure through her body. And then he shudders, gasps, and grips her hips to the point of pain as his cock pulses hard between her legs, and fuck -

She can feel it - the wet, warming gush of his release painting her deepest reaches. The feeling conjures new, unbidden fantasies in her mind - a body on its knees before her, mouthing at the wet heat of their joining, perhaps even daring to meet her eyes as they dragged their tongue between the swollen, blushing lips of her cunt to collect their mingled essence.

Her cheeks burn.

Yeah, she admits to herself. She wants that. A third partner.

Would they fuck her through the dregs of Thane's venom? Sliding between her legs to occupy the space he vacates as he finally separates from her with their hot mouth, their fingers, their cock, anything - pushing up into her channel with barely concealed lust, drinking from her; saliva and fingers and come dragging hot against oversensitive flesh. Her whole body feels heavy - drugged with a deep, buttery heat that’s slowly cooking her from within.

Who could they…?

She's running through the possibilities in her mind. Hiring someone feels too risky because her name is so well known. Someone closer to home, maybe? Someone they trust. And all at once, it's clear. There's one person on her ship that she trusts enough to either be discreet, or let her down easy.

Shepard turns to Thane and pushes her hands into the open collar of his shirt, dragging her nails against his chest and her tongue against his throat.

Fuck-drunk and breathless, she asks, “You’d go for a threeway with me?” She squeezes her thighs together, his release threatening to flow from her at any moment.

He blinks, and she’s sure he’s having some kind of post-climax revelation about what the hell they’ve just done - but fuck it. She’s unbuttoning his shirt, his sculpted chest rising and falling rapidly in the aftermath of his exertion.

“Yes,” he says, pulling her flush against him. She bites her lip, feeling the wet drip of him between her legs. “Provided we agree on the partner.”

“Garrus,” she breathes. “What about Garrus?” and she can feel Thane’s sharp intake of breath beneath her wandering hands.

"You have bold tastes, Siha. Are you certain?"

Thane grips her ass, every mottled inch of his body pressed up against her, and raises her thigh with a guiding hand so he can slide his fingertips along her leaking seam.

"He wants me,” she says between fevered kisses. "He doesn't know how to say it, but he does."

“You've built a career on uniting the galaxy's various species,” he replies. “It's only fitting that you should do the same in your bed.”

Thane pushes his fingers up inside her and her lips rip from his as she gasps, feeling the bulk of his spend fall from her only for him to press it back into her mound, grinding his palm up against her clit. She releases a pathetic moan, buries her head in his shoulder, rolling her hips against his hand. His come feels so good, some bizarre quirk of biology giving it a warming quality when it comes in contact with her own wetness.

Blindly, she reaches for him, dragging her tongue along his neck when she finds him hard and ready.

“Is that a yes, then?”

He seems to consider her with a thoughtful hum, working his hand between her legs, infuriating in his unending patience. She tightens her palm around his cock, and his lips trace the shell of her ear.

“I'd like that, Siha.”

She moans, muffled against his neck, and sinks her teeth into the sensitive ruby flesh beneath her mouth. He growls in turn, winds his free hand into her hair to force her lips back onto his.

“We should return to the Normandy,” he murmurs, breath ragged.

He's right, of course. But she can taste the potent citric salt of his venom and she knows she's too far gone, by miles. She can't get enough of him, mind swimming in fantasies of him and Garrus taking turns with her, converging on her, filling her mouth, her cunt, her everything with brain-melting pleasure. She's sure of only one thing - they're not making it back to her ship.

“Negative, soldier,” she breathes. “How well traveled are these maintenance corridors?”

Suddenly she's in the air, legs clamping around his waist as he physically lifts her and carries her down the catwalk.

“Storage loft, on your left,” he manages. She reaches a hand blindly to the wall, releases an overloading charge from her omni-tool that singes both her palm and the lock’s control panel. There's a rush of cool air as the doors whiff open.

No sooner are they inside than she's wriggling free of his hold, pushing him down onto the nearest moderately flat surface, peeling her dress off, and mounting him. It's quieter here. She can hear the low catch of his breath as she takes him to the hilt.

He feels positively divine. Warmed from within by sex and venom, she begins to ride him. She rises until his tip rests at her entrance and plunges back down, the whole of his length rocketing through her like a thick, ridged bullet, over and over again, endless, perpetual, and fucking perfect.

Thane's eyes are fixated on her, reflecting the dim fluorescent lines that flicker above them in time with the bass of the club just outside the door. One hand splays itself over her belly as though to steady her, and then he licks his lips, fingertips sliding down, down, warm and rasping scales sliding over her slick pearl.

Wherever she's supposed to be right now, she only knows she's here, right on the edge of nonsense and drunken need, Thane rolling her again and again up the precipice of climax like Sisyphus and his stone. She falls over him, tongue wrapping around his, impaled on the burning tower of his desire, his hand curling around her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple, rutting up into her with equal vigor -

The first shock of her climax flashes like a spark between her hips. She clenches, involuntary, gasps against his mouth - tries in vain to hold back the tsunami that's already racing toward her, but it's too late. She shudders and gasps into him, and he's only seconds behind. He closes his teeth around her lower lip as he floods her, tip to root, warmth blooming along her spine.

She lays atop him, panting in the aftermath. Her forehead rests against his. His arms are trembling as they wind around her shoulders.

“Wow,” she breathes, after a long moment. Now that they're both still, she can feel how the floor - the crate - below them shakes with the club's bass.

He offers a sated “Mmm” in response, nuzzling her head, breathing hard.

“Have I ever told you that you're the best sex I've ever had?”

“You haven't, Siha,” he says, voice low. “But I inferred.”

She pushes a playful, weak palm against his arm. “Smartass.”

She moves to stand, but he seems loathe to release her. His hands trail down her shoulders and arms as she sets one shaky foot on the ground at a time, heels clanging on the dusty metal floor. Shakes the dust off her dress before sliding it back on with a wince.

“Were you serious, about Mr. Vakarian?”

Shepard wrinkles her nose. “He's going to say no if you call him that.”

Thane sits up on the edge of the crate, tucking himself back into his pants.

“You were serious, then?”

Shepard states at him, still moderately high, doing her best to seem coherent, as though his spend isn't rolling down her thigh.

“Yes,” she says, matter-of-factly.

He extends a hand, then, and pulls her by the arm to stand between his knees. With a deep inhale, he kisses her, sweet and tender. “I will approach him then, when the time is right.”

Shepard sighs with contentment, leaning against him for a moment, inhaling the clean, dry scent of him as she rests her head on his shoulder.

“Pretty sure my underwear fell onto some guy's head.”

“You'd have kept them if you had not challenged me, my Siha.”

“As though you wouldn't have torn them off me at some point,” she retorts.

“As though you wouldn't have begged me to do so,” he says with a smile.

Then he stands, removing his vest.

“A concession,” he offers, holding it out for her. “And, if you'll permit me, I will replace your lost garment. Perhaps a deep blue, if our turian friend should accept our invitation.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Shepard says as she bends gracelessly and uses the fabric to wipe the mess from between her thighs. He takes it back from her when she's finished, folding the soiled side of the material into itself and tucking it into his back pocket.

They step back onto the catwalk, the air heavy with sweat and sex and smoke. As Shepard twines her fingers with his, Thane takes a moment just to gaze at her, his enormous dark eyes catching the light of the club below. He places a soft kiss to the back of her hand.

“Come, Siha,” he smiles. “The night awaits.”

#zet writes things #shrios #thane krios #femshep #if you see any typos no you didnt lmao #i started this fic over two years ago #commander shepard #mass effect fanfiction

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