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yandere-daydreams · 9 months

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Title: Loving Suffocation.

A Continuation Of This Piece.

Written for a very lovely, very indulgent anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Loid x Reader x Yandere!Yor (SxF).

Word Count: 4k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Slight Somnophilia, Spanking, Sex Toys, Breeding, Mentions of Pregnancy, Medical Malpractice, Oral Sex, Obsessive Behavior, Slight Gaslighting, Bruising/Marking, and Overstimulation.

You never did get to see your opera. A lack of oxygen turned your cramped world blurry and abstract, and you faded in and out of consciousness while Yor fussed over your ruined dress and gathered you up in her arms, the strip of fabric she’d tied around your neck and stuffed in your mouth – not quite a gag, but enough to convince your uncooperative vocal cords that calling for help wouldn’t be worth the effort. Sometime between being pulled against Yor’s chest and slipping out of that sex-saturated storage closet, you blinked and by the time you could find the strength to open your eyes again, you were in your apartment, in your own bed, your makeshift gag gone and your wrists bound behind your back with a generous amount of duct tape. You briefly considered calling for help, but you were past the point of screaming. Even if you tried, the Forgers were your only neighbors close enough to hear, and you’d seen enough of enough of that family for a lifetime.

Just as exhaustion began to overwhelm your better judgement, you caught stifled footsteps in the near distance, heard the door to your bedroom creak open and shut with enough force to shake the drywall. This time, when you closed your eyes, it was in a deliberate effort to will yourself to sleep. An effort that was, of course, rendered futile by Yor’s hand on your forehead, a soft hum too tender to be purposefully deceptive. “I think they might be asleep. The poor thing could barely hold their eyes open.”

“That’s fine.” Instantly, your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach. He spoke quietly, keeping his voice low and airy, but even in worst dreams, Loid seemed to be able to carve out a place for himself. It made sense for him to make an appearance in this nightmare, too. “Can you show me where the damage is?”

You held your breath as Yor’s hand drifted from your face to your thigh. After a moment of hesitation, she nudged you onto your back, pulling the ragged remains of your skirt up to your waist. You fought not to bolt up as cold air washed over your exposed, abused cunt – not to ball your fists as you felt Loid’s narrowed eyes pry into you the way they always seemed to when you passed each other in the hall, when he got home before you could find a reason to get out of the Forgers’ suffocating apartment. You managed to hold yourself still as he clicked his tongue, edging that much closer to the foot of your bed. You could picture him leaning over you, perfectly styled blonde hair falling ever so slightly out of place as he took long, agonizing seconds to evaluate the bruises lining the inside of your thighs, the crescent-shaped marks Yor’s nails had left pressed in your hips, your waist. Calloused fingertips brushed over your ankle, but further restraint was deemed unnecessary as his attention shifted back to his wife. “And you said you found them…?”

“Unconscious,” she filled in. You could hear her shifting her weight, feigning concern as her husband evaluated you. “In front of our building. I tried to wake them up, but they panicked, and I remembered the treatment you told me about for—for hysteria.” She paused, swallowed. “I thought I could help, but I’m afraid I might’ve just made things worse…”

Loid’s response was delayed, put off in favor of inching that much closer to you. The mattress dipped as he rested a knee on the foot of your bed. Don’t move, you repeated to yourself, despite the ever-growing urge to get up and run gnawing violently at the back of your mind. If you pretended to be asleep, you’d only have to tolerate a few minutes of his attention before he got tired of leering at your conscious body. If you pretended to be asleep, they’d leave and you could start to forget this ever happened.

It got harder to be so rational as he reached out, running two fingers over your slit and splitting apart the lips of your pussy, giving himself a better view of your abused clit, your entrance – still pitifully drooling slick. You tried to remember what kind of doctor he was, but any specialties that might’ve come to mind were immediately forgotten as his gloved fingers slipped inside of you. You had to bite back a quiet hiss as he scissored open the sore walls of your cunt, his touch probing and experimental. At least Yor had the decency not to draw it out. “You reacted swiftly and efficiently. Even trained paramedics leave residual damage.” He drew back suddenly, and you fought not to jolt at his callousness. “Can you show me what exactly your…” He trailed off. You could practically hear the curiosity in his voice. “…your treatment entailed?”

Yor made a noise you couldn’t decipher. Loid moved away from you entirely, but Yor was quick to take his place. She settled into the space between your legs, her hands – shaking ever so slightly – taking up your hips, her fingertips near-perfectly aligned with the dark bruises pressed into your skin. You felt her breath ghost over the inside of your thighs, the flat of her tongue run gingerly over your slit, and you bolted upward on instinct, mouth open and ready to—

—ready to have your scream stifled and suffocated by Loid’s palm as he forced his hand over your mouth and shoved you back into the mattress. Unable to claw at his arm, to pry him off of you, you thrashed under his steadfast hold, but he didn’t seem to pay you any mind. Rather, his eyes met yours for all of half a second before flickering to his wife, sparing her a slight nod. “Patients usually react with some level of resistance. You can go on.”

Yor’s eyes widened, but any shock she might’ve felt seemed to melt away at her husband’s assurance. She was more nervous, now that she was performing for an audience rather than assaulting you in the privacy of her chosen hideaway, but the little, tentative movements of her tongue got braver over time, her eyes closing as her hands drifted from your waist to your thighs. She nudged your legs onto her shoulders and latched onto your clit, suckling with just enough force to draw a reaction out of your burnt-out nerves, to leave you trembling and struggling to swallow back pained moans and pathetic whimpers. It hurt – more than anything, it hurt – but she had your body trained, knew just what points to hit to get what she wanted out of you. More than that, your body knew that it wasn’t going to end until she reached her goal, until she had you cumming on her tongue for the— god, how many times would this make? You’d lost track after the first dozen, but even if you hadn’t, it would’ve been impossible to tell, impossible to know what she’d accomplished the first time reality started to blur and consciousness was rendered more of revokable privilege than something you’d ever be capable of holding on to without help. In less than a minute, you were grinding against her tongue involuntarily, the movement of your hips stilted and jerky. You couldn’t have called it a real orgasm, not when any pleasure you could’ve felt was so overshadowed by a searing sort of ache, but Yor seemed satisfied – drawing the back of her hand over her chin as she lifted her head, sending Loid a sheepish smile.

“I just, uh,” she started, drumming her fingers over your thigh. “I just did that until they calmed down. I’m not sure if it helped.”

“I see.” Loid, for his part, failed to let his air of stoic professionalism so much as waver. “And how many times did the patient reach climax?”

“…thirty?” Yor let out an airy, nervous laugh. “Maybe more. It… It was a little hard to keep track, in the moment.”

“And they’re still so unruly.” He was kind enough to feign concern, to let his tone soften and purse his lips into a thin frown. For a second, you let yourself believe that you’d just stumbled into a bad situation – that he and his wife were under some shared delusion and genuinely thought they might’ve been helping you, but then you caught a spec of crimson on the collar of Yor’s dress out of the corner of your eye and thought better of trying to humanize them. “Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

The question was posed to Yor, not you. “Please do, you’re the doctor here,” she spouted, hurrying to get out of Loid’s way. Loid was more hesitant, his palm lingering over your mouth as his eyes found yours. He was cold at the best of times – his expression often hollow when he thought your attention was elsewhere, his touch enough to send a chill down your spine on the rare occasion he found an excuse to put his hands on you – but the look he sent you as he uncovered your mouth was nothing short of frigid. The threat was clear, albeit ambiguous. You had no idea what Loid was capable of, let alone what extremes he was willing to go to.

But, you knew what Yor could do – you’d caught her in the act.

And you weren’t eager to find out what’d she’d do to you at her husband’s request.

When his hand finally fell away from your mouth, you didn’t make a sound. Rather, you dug your teeth into the inside of your cheek as Loid wrapped an arm around your waist and hauled you onto his lap – his thighs cutting harshly into your stomach. The position was enough to leave your cheeks burning and humiliation tying knots in the back of your throat, but whatever embarrassment you might’ve felt was multiplied ten-fold as his hand ghosted over the buttons lining the back of your dress and your only remaining protective barrier fell away – mutilated fabric now limp and useless beneath you. You started to writhe, but the heel of Loid’s palm found the small of your back, pressing into the base of your spine with just enough force a pained whimper past your lips. Reflectively, Yor moved to reach towards you, but Loid shook his head. “It’s important to test for reactiveness,” he explained, tone flat and steely. “I can take care of bruises and cuts, but lasting nerve damage will make things—” He paused, clicked his tongue. “—difficult.”

“Oh!” Yor clapped her hands together. At least she seemed to sincerely believe that, even if she wasn’t helping you, her husband might be. You couldn’t tell what Loid was thinking, but it couldn’t have been so benevolent. “Is that what you’re doing now? Testing for reactiveness?”

“Exactly.” Loid flashed her a smile. You felt him shift, fish something out of the pocket of his suit jacket. Aching numbness had put you at a distance from his invasive touch before, but Yor’s mouth had done away with that – resurrecting the buzzing sort of hyper-sensitivity that meant you weren’t able to hide the way your hips bucked against his thigh as he slid something sleek and metallic into your drenched pussy. It was oddly shaped – one end tapered and the other flat, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand but still big enough to leave you squirming uncomfortably as Loid pulled back. “Normally, I’d use more intricate equipment, but there are a few experiments I can run on my own.”

You heard nails against metal, a soft click muffled by stiff machinery. After a second of delay, the object inside of you let out an abrupt pulse of pure vibration – harsh and sudden and awful. Your reaction was reflexive, undisguisable. You threw your head forward as you bit back a bubbling, broken moan; waves of intense reverberation beating at the walls of your cunt. There was no time to brace yourself, to grow into the piercing sting – it was already too much. The walls of your pussy clenched around the source of your agony, and before you could think to stifle your reactions, to give them as little as you possibly could, tears were blurring your vision, dripping down your cheeks. Yor cooed, kneeling in front of you and cupping your cheeks. “Poor thing…” she mumbled, before looking up towards Loid. “I don’t think they’re enjoying it.”

Another wave of pulsing reverberation, a jagged cry forced past your lips. “P-please, turn it off, take it out, I can’t—”

It took you a second to process the sound of a palm against flesh, how it might’ve been connected to the bright flash of pain just below the curve of your ass. When you could bring yourself to glance over your shoulder, his hand was raised, his expression stern. The sight was enough to make your heart ache in your chest – a sensitivity which surprised you. You hadn’t thought there was anything the Forgers could do to hurt you more than they already had.

“We’re going out of our way to help you.” It was the same tone he used with Anya when she refused to do her homework or threatened to drop out of her upper-crust academy. Whatever genuine sympathy he might’ve had for you was buried beneath a heavy layer of practiced stoicism and nearly totalitarian authority, turning the words cold where they should’ve been comforting. “It’s unfair to be so ungrateful when Yor’s already sacrificed so much of her time for the sake of your health. Why don’t you apologize to her?”

Again, you heard that same soft click, and the vibrations pulsing out of the object in your cunt doubled in intensity. You let your head fall forward, clenching your eyes shut as you struggled to spit something out. “I… I’m sorry, Yor, I didn’t mean to—”

You were cut off by a sharp moan, the feeling of Loid’s fingers tracing over your slit. Soon, the pad of his thumb found your clit, pushing dull circles into the sensitive bundle of nerves. He let out an airy chuckle as you withered into yourself, your legs spreading involuntarily as your feet struggled to find purchase on carpeting that seemed to be just an inch too far, to ground yourself on something that Loid didn’t even have to try to keep just out of your grasp. “Don’t strain yourself,” he muttered, your unwanted reward for your easy compliance. “How does this—” He pushed a rough pattern into your clit, drawing out a wavering cry. “—feel?”

Miserable. Torturous. The worst thing that’d ever been inflected onto your poor, spent body. You deflated, your chest flattening against Loid’s thighs. “…it hurts.”

This time, he let you finish before pulling back, his palm striking your ass with twice the force he’d used before. You cried out, the noise uneven and anguished, but your pain didn’t seem to rank very high on his nebulous list of concerns. “I’ve already told you not to be so ungrateful,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you know what would’ve happened if we weren’t here to help you?” Another strike, another ragged sob. “You’d be suffering on your own, in excruciating pain and spiraling into your own delusions. If we hadn’t been there to correct you so quickly, you would’ve been unrecoverable.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You were babbling, now, your apologies clumped together and nearly unintelligible. Loid cut in, pointed as ever.

“You’ve already apologized.” Two digits slipped into you, splitting your pussy open. Somehow, the added stimulation only seemed to make his device’s vibration more unbearable. “Now, it’s time to tell Yor how thankful you are.”

“Thank you—” There was no hesitation, no resistance. If you’d been able to, if you hands hadn’t been bound, you would’ve clung to her, dug your nails into her shoulder and your teeth into Loid’s thigh, anything to feel like you weren’t about to fall apart altogether. “Thank you, I’m so— I can’t— Thank you—”

It was Yor, this time – her mouth crashing against yours as her hand found the back of your head. Her tongue slipped past your lips, raking over yours with a ginger sort of tenderness and raking her fingers through your hair, drinking down every little moan and whimper her husband forced out of you with enthusiasm. She lingered there, lips moving gently against yours, as you reached your next climax – the number completely lost on you, now. When she pulled away, eyes glazed over and a dark blush painted over her cheeks, Loid hummed approvingly, fishing his bullet-shaped device out of your pussy and switching it off. Slick dripped down the inside of your thighs, your chest heaving stiltedly against his lap, and you noticed, for the first time, something large and stiff pressing into your stomach. For your own sake, you decided you weren’t going to think about it.

But, like always, Loid was quick to tear even the comfort you found in your own mind away from you.

“You did what you could,” Loid started, with heavy sigh. “But their condition is worse than I thought. It might take more than the usual treatment to set them back on the right path.” A lengthy pause, an arm looped underneath you. With more care than he’d seen fit to show you all night, Loid repositioned you on your back in the center of your bed. You were too exhausted to so much as try to protest. “For cases like this, insemination is the only known cure.”

Yor blinked up at him, more curious than confused. “Insemination?”

“Pregnancy,” Loid filled in. “It can be done artificially, but for cases this severe…”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. Weakly, you tried to sit up, but it was Yor that stopped you, this time, pressing her hand flat against your shoulder and pinning you down effortlessly. “If that’s what’s best,” she chimed, her smile wide and brilliant. “Can I help?”

For the first time, Loid’s expression seemed to warm. “Of course.”

Less than a full minute later, you were slotted against Yor, your head resting on her chest and her arms loosely wrapped around your midriff. Loid had reclaimed his position in the space between your open legs, one hand on your hip and the other toying with his clothes, shifting the waist of his now-wrinkled dress pants down just far enough to free his flush cock – already hard, already leaking pearls of arousal. The sight, paired with the breathy sigh he let out as he wrapped his fist around his shaft, was enough to dash any hopes you might’ve had of a last-minute change of heart.

You squirmed in Yor’s hold, your fists balling around your own near ruined sheets as Loid aligned himself with your entrance. You didn’t realize you were talking until you heard your own voice, fragile and desperate, nearly too broken to be comprehensible. “Please don’t, I—I’m not sick, please don’t—”

It was Yor who hushed you, this time, smiling as she pressed a fleeting kiss into your cheek. “He’s going to help you,” she whispered, tone simpering where you wished it would be sterile. “You can just sit back and relax while we—” She paused, squeezed you against her playfully. “—make sure you’re alright.”

There was a beat of silence, of stillness. Eventually, you managed to stutter out, “I don’t want your help.”

Loid let out an airy chuckle, tracing the flushed tipped of his cock over your slit. “You don’t have to want anything.” He bowed his head, leaning down far enough to rest his lips against the top of your head. “You’ll need all the help you can get, in a few weeks.”

You didn’t have time to protest, not before he thrust into you – sheathing himself to the hilt in a single stroke.

You tried to scream, but Yor’s mouth found yours in a moment, swallowing any fractured noises you might’ve been able to make. Loid didn’t seem interested in giving you time to adjust; immediately falling into a rhythm just as forceful and just as cruel as anything else he’d done to you. It wasn’t a question of if it would hurt, anymore, but how badly. The feeling of his not inconsiderably length splitting open your aching pussy alone was enough to bring tears to your eyes, and his rough thrusts, his shattering pace – all of it only working to agitate the few parts of you that hadn’t already gone numb to his assult. You clenched your eyes shut, willing yourself to go completely numb, but Yor cooed, one of her hands falling away from you only to find its way to the curve of your stomach, her palm soon pressed flat against your skin. “Miss Anya did mention wanting a younger sister,” she muttered, nuzzling into the dip of your shoulder. “It’ll be difficult to hide, ‘till it’s over with. There used to be a single mother working at city hall, but the State Security Service paid her a visit and…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “But I’m sure that won’t be an issue for you!”

“Of course not.” Loid’s voice was breathy, his attention mostly elsewhere. He did his best to stay composed, to maintain that painstakingly professionally air, but you could feel him twitch inside of you, feel his hips stutter as his pace grew that much more brutal. “We’ll be taking care of you. When you start to show, you’ll move in with us, and—” A groan, a pair of tired eyes allowed to close. “—and if you cooperate, we’ll make it so you don’t have to worry about anything aside from the baby. Any added stress will only make the pregnancy more difficult.”

Loid’s hips pressed against yours, Yor’s mouth on the curve of your neck. “Our little family is growing so quickly.” You could feel her grin against your throat, fangs ready to clamp down at the first sign of resistance. “I can’t wait until you’re better. You’ll be so happy, when you’re in your right mind again.”

Your mouth fell open, but anything you might’ve said died in your throat long before it could ever reach your tongue. There was no pleasure to it, no stimulation other than the same grating sensation and the pinpoints of pressure where Loid’s fingertips dug into your waist, but if your comfort mattered to Loid, he would’ve stopped as soon as he saw what his wife did to you. He cursed under his breath, throwing his hand forward and hauling your rigid body that much closer to his. You didn’t have a chance to brace yourself, to trick your pain-addled mind into believing there was anything you could possibly do to get away from him before he went still, something thick and searing flooding into your unprotected cunt. He lingered there, his cum leaking out of you despite your pussy’s futile attempts to cling to his cock, and for the first time, you let yourself think about what they were taking about – insemination, pregnancy, growing families and new siblings. You let yourself acknowledge the weight of Yor’s hand against your stomach, Loid’s hips against yours. You let yourself breath in, holding the air in your lungs for a moment before exhaling and going limp against Yor.

Fuck.

If you never saw the Forgers again, it’d still be a day too soon.

Yor started to pull away from you, but Loid stopped her. “Conception can be fickle,” he started, fighting not to pant audibly. “It’d be for the best if we were…” His eyes dropped to you. “…thorough.”

“Do you hear that?” Her hold grew that much tighter, her smile that much brighter. Her lips ghosted over the shell of your ear. The feeling might’ve sent a chill down your spine, if you still had the strength to be afraid of them.

“Loid’s going to take very good care of you.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #spy x family #spy x family imagines #yandere spy x family #yandere loid forger #loid forger x reader #twilight x reader #yor forger x reader #yor x reader #yandere yor #yanderecore #yancore

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n0ts0surel0ck · 4 months

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Some autistic Sherlock headcanons!!

Based on my own autism

Sherlock hates getting his hair cut. He can’t wear ear defenders and he despises the small talk and how loud the clippers and blow dryers are. So, he generally wears his hair long and/or cuts it himself. Mariana eventually starts cutting it for him, since it equally bothers him when his hair touches his ears or neck. She’s just… not very good at it.

John finds a salon for Sherlock that does sensory appointments. It’s a silent appointment, so he doesn’t have to talk, and John gets him some earplugs to help with the noise. They’re not as good as his ear defenders but they do for the short time it takes to get his hair done. He mostly gets a dry scissor cut so he doesn’t have to be wet and so the clippers don’t touch him. He doesn’t like the vibration. He finds that he actually enjoys the sensation of a blow dryer when the sound isn’t overwhelming him. The heat and the air pressure are soothing.

Sherlock is very particular about fabrics. He despises polyester and other scratchy, synthetic fabrics. Everything he wears has to be 100% cotton. If he got his way, he’d wear an old pair of holey, decade old pajama pants and a jumper everywhere, but he doesn’t. He understands that he has to be presentable. He likes linen, the material doesn’t touch him as much, doesn’t stick to sweat, and allows for plenty of airflow. During spring and summer, and often stretching into fall and winter, he wears a pair of grey linen trousers. When it finally gets too cold, he switches to a pair of cotton ones that have an elastic waist band. He hates when there’s a lot of pressure below his diaphragm, so he keeps it loose. Shirts are mostly tees in the summer, a bit too big so they don’t touch him much. In the winter, he wears big sweatshirts, a half-peacoat, and a green scarf.

He’s been buying men’s high-top converse since he was in middle school and refuses to wear any other shoe. They’re comfortable, allow him to move without being heard, and don’t add to his height. He hates breaking in new ones, and so holds on to the ones he’s wearing for dear life. John has seen him wrap duct tape all the way around his shoe to keep the sole from falling out before.

His bedroom is kept perfectly organized by absolutely agonizing effort. He is particular about that space, since it’s where he rests. He doesn’t work in there. His chemistry equipment is in the living room and he never goes into the room on cases unless John forces him to change clothes. His room is a sensory heaven that he works tirelessly to keep so. Cleaning is difficult for him, but he resets the space every time he leaves it, even when he’s in a rush.

The rest of the apartment is a bust. His executive dysfunction takes over as soon as he crosses the threshold into the hallway. He leaves toothpaste uncapped, cups and plates everywhere, clothes wherever they fall. It drives John insane and he tries to clean up after himself, but it feels like an insurmountable task.

His hyper fixations overtake conversation constantly. Sometimes he and John will engage in conversation that is just… incomprehensible to those around them. John’s talking about the weather and Sherlock’s talking about Pendolino trains. Neither is acknowledging the other’s topic of conversation, but they’re responding to each other in turn and seemingly having a lovely time.

He likes to stim “with” John when something exciting happens. He grabs both of John’s hands so they’re facing each other and has John pull him back and forth quickly. He likes it when John and Mariana mimic a stim back to him, especially vocal ones. When the three of them are in the office together, it’s just an echo chamber of mouth pops and buzzes.

Sherlock respects the fuck out of routine. His in unconventional, but he follows it almost religiously. This means he respects other’s routines just as aggressively. He never moves John’s items, and if he borrows anything, he puts it back exactly where it was, position and all. He noticed John folding laundry in a certain way and now, if he steals one of John’s shirts and washes it after, he folds it in that certain way.

#sherlock & co #sherlock and co #sherlock holmes #john watson #mariana ametxazurra

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fantasticsandwich · 1 month

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yandere influencer x fem! reader (pt 4)

The aroma of freshly ground coffee wafted through the air, encasing your senses as you and Cillian stepped into the threshold of the cafe. A buzz of chatter from the crowded space filled your ears, punctuated by the clinking of porcelain and the hiss of steam frothing milk. The cafe's modern decor, a blend of industrial chic and cozy warmth, seemed to draw in half the city, leaving you and Cillian at the end of a winding line of impatient patrons.

You fidgeted with the hem of your sweater, an eclectic pattern of colors that you had chosen to appear both sophisticated and approachable. Entering the queue, you the weight of the many eyes skimming over both you and Cillian—some curious, others envious. He stood beside at your side, the epitome of effortless elegance, his dark hair catching the soft glow of the pendant lights above.

“Looks like we’ll be here for a while,” he remarked. “I hate when something I like becomes popular.”

“Seems so,” you replied, your tone light but your mind elsewhere. You slipped your phone out of your pocket, thumb flicking across the screen with swift, practiced motions. Emails, job listings, opportunities—they cascaded down the display as you filtered through them with a sense of urgency that belied the calm front you tried to project.

“Are you looking at anything interesting?” Cillian asked, peering over at your screen with a curiosity that felt too close, too keen.

“Just looking at some job postings,” you said, minimizing the list of applications before he could glimpse the titles. You knew he didn’t truly understand your need to earn your keep, to build something for yourself without the crutch of connections or favors. “It’s difficult to find something with flexible hours and decent pay. I want to find something that fits, you know?”

“I figure it’d be,” he said with a shrug.

Once he retreated out of your personal bubble, you scrolled through one listing after another, occasionally pausing to submit your resume into the void of potential employment. Each tap on the 'apply' button was a tiny leap of faith—a hope that somewhere out there was a chance for you to prove yourself capable, independent.

The cafe was stifling. You removed your cardigan and settled it over your arm, only for Cillian to sweep it into his arms. You glared as he draped the sleeves over his shoulders, tying them into a knot. It was an eyesore against his monochromatic ensemble, but as always, he wore it well.

You shuffled forward in the line, your eyes trailing over the scuffed tile floor of the bustling cafe. Cillian loomed beside you, his body heat seeping through the thin fabric of your blouse as he leaned a little too close for comfort, arms pressing into your side.

“I love this,” Cillian whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “Our weekly meet-ups are all that get me through the week.”

You nodded, a quick jerk of your head, wishing your frazzled hair would shield you from the intimacy of his gaze. Your attention shifted to the chalkboard menu above the counter, where playful script offered promises of bold new flavors and exotic blends. You considered ordering a raspberry mocha or the spiced chai latte, something to break the monotony of your usual orders.

“Hey, Lee, what do you think about those new items> Do they look—”

“No. You know how particular your stomach is,” Cillian cut in, his tone laced with feigned concern as he placed a hand on your shoulder. "You should stick with the usual, and I’ll get the new stuff so you can still try it." Before you could protest, Cillian turned to the barista, his charismatic smile in place. “Two of the usual, please. And could you grab one of those pre packaged blueberry muffins?”

Whatever. I’m eating on his dime, you thought as he swiped his card.

With a sigh trapped behind you lips, you smiled and watched as he paid for the order, his flamboyant duct-tape wallet—the same one you made for him during a particularly boring summer—flashing briefly before being tucked away. The idea of eating another stiff, cellophane-wrapped muffin seemed ridiculous when there were trays of fresh pastries just a few feet away. But he was paying, and arguing seemed like it would cost more than you were willing to spend.

“Come, let’s find our table. Did you know the owner started reserving the one in the back for us? It’s nice when loyalty is rewarded.” Cillian steered you gently by the elbow toward an empty table in the corner. Releasing you, his fingers curled around the back of the chair, sliding it out with a graceful swoop that seemed practiced, almost theatrical.

No sooner than you sat, a broad-shoulder man rushed over with their drinks. “Here you go,” he said, gently placing them down. “I knew what to make as soon as you walked in.”

You settled into the seat, your eyes drifting to the cup placed before you—a frothy concoction topped with swirls of caramel and a mountain of whipped cream. You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, feeling its smoothness against your palms, the heat barely penetrating the barrier between them.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, more out of habit than genuine gratitude. Bringing the cup to your lips, you took a tentative sip, the sugary liquid flooding your mouth with an intensity that made you wince. It was cloying, too much, like the heavy-handed perfume of someone trying to mask their insecurities. With each visit, the sweetness seemed to grow, or perhaps it was just your weariness of this routine that soured the taste.

“Say 'ah',” said Cillian, tilting his drink to you. “I asked you to open your mouth. I'm giving you the first sip.” He tilted his head, curved lashes rising and falling with each blink. “Or do you want me to make you? Would you like that?”

“I want none of that. It's embarrassing.”

“Fine.” Cillian snatched his drink back, his lips curling into a contented smile as he savored a flavor that you could no longer stomach. His phone appeared in his hand—sleek, the latest model—as if by magic, and he began to fuss over their table setting, rearranging the silverware and napkins with meticulous care.

“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand to halt your movements as you reached for a muffin. “Let me get a picture first.”

Sighing, you withdrew your hand. You should’ve just shut up and drank from his cup. He was probably punishing you now.

You were forced to watch as he positioned his phone just so, angling it to capture the perfect composition of their prepackaged desserts. The shutter clicked repeatedly, a staccato rhythm that echoed the tapping of your foot beneath the table. With a sense of dettachment, you observed the scene through the screen’s glow, detached, as if viewing it all from a great distance.

The cafe buzzed around them, a hive of activity and chatter, but in their little corner, only the soft light of Cillian’s phone display and the artificial sound of captured moments filled the space.

“Perfect,” Cillian finally declared, his voice threaded with satisfaction as he admired the digital gallery of confections and cream. “I can make even cellophane wrap look appetizing.”

“So talented,” you replied, tone flat, the single word falling short of enthusiasm. You watched him now, as he edited and filtered reality into something palatable for public consumption, something that would garner admiration and envy in equal measure.

Finally allowed your beverage, you eagerly dug in, first savoring the whipped cream before it could’ve further melted into the beverage. Scooping some into your mouth, a dollop of whipped cream perched precariously on the edge of your straw.

It was then that the inevitable happened. The whipped cream betrayed you, a small glob landing with a soft plop on your nose. You froze, a flicker of annoyance crossing your face as you reached for a napkin. But Cillian’s hand was quicker, his fingers skimming your cheek, then swiping the cream off your nose. He lingered a second too long.

“Got it,” he murmured, tongue slithering out to lick his fingers. He wiped his saliva on the sleeve of your cardigan, which was still settled around his shoulders.

Your breath hitched. Although a more sensible part of yourself fought the urge to scream at him for the act, a quieter, darker corner of your mind began to race.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, drawing back slightly. You eyed your portion of the desserts, the artificial brightness of the strawberry topping almost mocking in its vibrancy. You scooped up a small bite, the saccharine taste doing little to satisfy the craving you couldn't quite name.

Cillian watched you, his dark eyes gleaming. He seemed oblivious to the fact that your routine outings had become a suffocating ritual, a showcase for the curated life he projected onto his Instagram feed.

“Isn’t it delicious?” he asked, his tone expectant, a hint of coercion nestled between the words.

“The same as always,” you echoed, though the flavor was as hollow as the affirmation. The consequences of defying Cillian’s vision for your friendship loomed large and his approval was a drug you had been conditioned to crave.

Your spoon clinked against the plastic container, a soft sound. You ate mechanically, your thoughts drifting away from the table, away from Cillian and his veiled demands. You imagined stepping out of this scene, leaving behind the cloying sweetness and the confines of expectations. In your mind's eye, you pictured yourself tasting something real and complex, something that didn't leave you longing for more.

Your eyes wandered from the busy baristas steaming milk to perfection, to the patrons hunched over their laptops or lost in murmured conversations. The clinking of cutlery on porcelain provided a rhythmic backdrop to the muffled chatter around them. You inhaled deeply, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling your senses, yet you found no comfort in the familiar scent. Instead, it underscored a sense of monotony that had been creeping into your days, a desire for something more than these meticulously staged outings.

“Y/N?” Cillian's voice threaded through your thoughts, smooth and commanding. His eyes were fixed on her, expectant, as he leaned forward slightly, his posture perfect, his smile practiced. “You seem distant today. You know you can share anything with me, right?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you assured him, pressing your lips into a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. “Just thinking about a paper I have due.”

“Your dedication is admirable,” he replied, his tone laced with an affection that felt like a velvet glove masking a steel grip. “Admirable, but irritating. You need to learn to relax a bit. Don’t worry, I’m here to take care of you.”

You nodded. You watched him as he adjusted his phone on the table, the screen alight with notifications—likes, comments, a digital chorus singing his praises. It seemed that he had already uploaded the images, a new record. Cillian seemed to exist in two worlds simultaneously: the one before you and the one inside his phone, each moment curated for maximum effect.

“Let’s take a selfie,” he suggested suddenly, his voice light but insistent. “We haven’t updated our cafe chronicles in a while.”

Before you could respond, he had positioned his phone, the lens aimed at capturing the dessert and you smile. You obliged, tilting your head just so. You braced yourself for a barrage, but he merely snapped one image.

Your stomach curdled. Was it alright? How could he be satisfied by only one picture? Were you ugly and was offering to take a picture with you merely a way to maintain the farce of friendship? He was always buying you things, and you had never stopped to wonder what he was getting in return. Was it a sick sense of charity?

“You’re so pretty here,” Cillian declared, reviewing the photo with a nod of approval. "Our followers will love this."

“Our?”

“They’re mine, but they like seeing you, too. I guess I should share you, sometimes.”

“Right. Yeah, guess that makes enough sense.”

You couldn't help but wonder if there was anyone out there who saw past the facade, who understood the reality of the smiles and the sweetness that left a bitter aftertaste. You longed for the authenticity that no filter could provide, a life where moments were lived and not merely documented for the hollow validation of strangers. You wondered what kind of person Cillian was without that glassy shield.

“Your turn,” he said, pushing the phone toward you. “You should post something too. Keep up appearances, you know?”

“Right,” you murmured, your fingers hovering over the device. You glanced at Cillian and then back at the bustling cafe, the world spinning around you in a blur of motion and sound. You glanced up at Cillian, who was animatedly discussing his latest social media strategy, his features alight with enthusiasm.

“Imagine the likes we’d get if we posted every weekend.”

“What’s your goal with this?” you abruptly asked. “Why do you post so much?”

He paused, his gaze lifting from the screen to meet hers, a half-smile playing on his lips. “I have dreams, Y/N,” he said softly, almost tenderly. His dark eyes held a glimmer of something fierce, something hungry. “I want to be more than just a face in the crowd. Modeling—that’s what I see myself doing. My face on billboards, in magazines…”

Your heart skipped a beat, not from surprise but from the sudden realization that he had been serious about his ambitions all along.

“Then I support you,” you murmured. The words felt hollow, even to your own ears, as if they were being swallowed by the grandeur of his dream.

But as Cillian spoke, detailing his strategies for building a portfolio and networking within the industry, your attention waned. You nodded mechanically, your mind drifting. Your could hear the passion in his voice, see the fire in his eyes, but it was like watching a play through a thick pane of glass. You couldn't reach him; you couldn't touch the world he was so vividly painting with his words.

The conversation began to feel like a soliloquy, his voice the only sound in the room, resonating with aspirations that soared high above your understanding. Your gaze settled on the phone still clutched in his hand, the screen alive with notifications—each one a confirmation of his allure, each one pulling him further away from her. The light from his phone cast a glow on his sharp features, throwing shadows that danced across his high cheekbones. He was talking about headshots now, about finding the right angle to accentuate the stark lines of his jaw. You tried to listen, tried to be present, but a storm brewed within her, dark and relentless.

Cillian was sensitive, his heart an exposed nerve, and the world he so desperately wanted to conquer was unforgiving, ravenous. The beauty industry would devour his gentle spirit; you could almost hear the snap of its jaws in the distance. Your stomach churned at the thought of him, caught in the maelstrom of criticism and rejection, those princely features twisted in pain.

A shiver ran down your spine upon drawing a cruel conclusion. You wanted to see him crying, but you wanted to reserve the sight for yourself. He would look pretty even when crying—you had seen it before, the way tears clung to his lashes like morning dew, the way his blue eyes deepened into stormy seas.

Your lips parted, breath catching. It was a troubling realization, one that made your cheeks flush with heat. You didn't want the world to witness that vulnerability, to see him stripped bare of the confidence he wore like armor.

“You’re beautiful. The world will love you," you managed to say. “It will devour you whole.”

He paused, his eyes locking onto your, and for a moment, there was silence. “You really think so?” he asked, tentative hope threading through his words.

You nodded, your throat tight. “It’s impossible not to,” you said, and it was the truth. But buried beneath that truth was a coil of scales and green, that dreaded jealousy snaking around your heart. It was a silent plea that begged him not to share his beauty with anyone else. In a world where you often felt mismatched and uncertain, his adoration was the anchor that kept you from drifting too far into the sea of your own insecurities. The only thing you had was him, and the thought of losing even a sliver of that connection was more than you could bear.

“Y/N?” Cillian's voice sliced through your reverie, laced with a hint of suspicion. “Really, what’s wrong? You seem spacey today.”

“Sorry,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “Only tired, that’s still all.”

As you finished eating the desserts, youur restlessness clawed its way up your throat, desperate for release. With each bite of the overly sweet cake, you tasted the blandness of repetition. The same cafes, the same dynamic, the same Cillian — it was a pattern woven into the fabric of your daily life, one that now chafed and constricted.

You pushed the plate away, the remnants of frosting clinging stubbornly to the porcelain.

“Next time, let’s try somewhere new,” you ventured, your voice steadier than you felt. “Maybe something less curated? We could take a stroll around town and see where we wind up.”

“New?” Cillian laughed. “Why fix something that isn’t broken? This place is us. It’s our spot.”

Your gaze fell to the empty plate, the hollow echo of ‘our’ ringing in your ears. No, you thought, a slow-burning defiance taking root. This isn’t us; it’s you, and I’m just along for the ride because you pay for everything.

“Guess so,” you murmured, the word sticking in your throat like the last taste of artificial sweeteners. Cillian continued talking, oblivious to the seismic shift occurring within.

You bit your lip, gaze lingering on your phone before shifting to your bag, the dog-eared textbook inside. Reluctantly, you retrieved the device and opened your emails, sifting through the job listings yet again.

“Applying to jobs? You can do that anytime.” Cillian’s lips curled into a half-smile, though his eyes narrowed slightly—a fleeting shadow crossing his otherwise immaculate features. “Why are you worrying about that, though? If you need money, I can talk to my father. He’s always looking for competent people at the company.”

The offer hung in the air between you, a gilded temptation laced with implications. Your fingers paused on the page, the words 'cognitive dissonance' blurring before your eyes. You took a deep breath, trying to steady the fluttering in your chest.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you replied, more to yourself than to him. “I want to earn my way, not just land a job because I know someone who knows someone.”

Cillian leaned back, his expression unreadable as he regarded you through half-lidded eyes. “As you wish,” he murmured, the phrase an echo of acquiescence that seemed to dance on the edge of something darker, something you couldn't quite place.

Turning back to the textbook, you tried to lose yourself in the psychological complexities it held, your mind tracing the intricate pathways of human behavior and motivation. Yet, a part of you remained acutely aware of his presence, the weight of his gaze, and the unspoken challenges that brewed like the coffee behind the counter—bitter and potent.

“Really, Y/N,” Cillian said, his voice smooth like velvet but edged with something colder. You could feel his eyes on you, burning with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “You don’t have to do this. I can make things easier for you. You’re not just anyone to me. But you aren't family either.”

“You’re not getting it. You’re just a friend, and connections can be so easily severed. I’ve done it since secondary school, and now that we’re entering adulthood, I don’t want to keep relying on you. I want to feel like I’m doing something for myself for once.”

“Fine,” Cillian’s voice dropped, a shadow passing over his face that matched the darkening sky outside. “But remember, my offer to take care of you is always there. It would be much simpler than all this.”

You felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cafe’s air conditioning. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, hands trembling slightly. Your ambition battled with the gnawing doubt that his words left in their wake.

“Simple isn’t always better,” your murmured, your attention ostensibly back on your phone, but your senses were hyper-aware of the man sitting across from you.

Your fingers paused over the screen, the list of job postings blurred by a growing resolve. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you met Cillian’s gaze with an icy detachment.

“What do you even want?”

“I need to contribute to my brother's school fees. He deserves that chance.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the cafe's buzz dimmed under the weight of his scrutiny. “Which school is he at?”

“Some snooty international boarding school,” you replied, your protective instincts flaring. You didn’t know why, but you didn’t want him to know.

“A prestigious place. Must be expensive.”

“Very.”

“A good education is vital yet costly. Surely, for people of your financial status, there are scholarships, grants…”

“None that cover everything,” you interjected, your tone laced with the fatigue of countless hours spent searching for financial aid.

“Then work harder,” Cillian suggested, his words wrapped in a honeyed tone that did little to sweeten their bite. “Or not. You could always reconsider my proposal.”

“I already said no to the job.”

“Not that one.”

You recoiled, as if the words were a physical blow. “Stop joking about that,” you stated, your voice quiet but fierce. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

An unreadable expression crossed Cillian's face before he masked it with a charming smile. “As you wish. But the world isn’t kind to dreamers who walk alone.”

Your heartbeat quickened, not from flattery but from the veiled warning in his tone.

“Excuse me,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper as you clammbered out of your seat, sidestepped away from Cillian. Your fingers trailed the cool, marbled countertop of the cafe as you headed towards the sanctuary of the restroom. Inside, the air was perfumed with lavender and vanilla, an artificial calm that did little to soothe your troubled thoughts.

Standing at the sink, you turned the cold tap and splashed water onto your face, watching as droplets clung stubbornly to your glasses before tumbling down. You looked up, meeting your own gaze in the mirror. The girl reflected back at you had eyes wide with determination, yet shadowed by doubt. With a trembling hand, you pushed the glasses up the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath, trying to wash away the worry etched into your forehead.

“Can you believe we happened to come here at the same time as them?”

“As who?”

“That’s Y/N L/N,” a hushed voice pierced through the quiet, followed by the sound of stifled giggles.

You stilled, your heart skipping a beat. You recognized the voices of fellow students, their words weaving through the space between the stalls and sink, ensnaring your attention.

“The one who's always with Cillian?” another whispered, a note of envy threading through her tone.

“Exactly! I thought they were just friends, but seeing them here together, they must be dating. She’s so lucky; he looks like he walked out of a fashion magazine… Vogue, who?”

Your hands paused, water dripping from your fingertips. Their words wrapped around you like a velvet robe, heavy with implications you’d never dared to consider. To them, you were no longer invisible, no longer just a friend clinging to the edges of Cillian’s spotlight. You were the object of speculation, the center of a narrative spun from half-truths and assumptions.

Your reflection in the mirror now seemed different, caught in the crossfire of jealousy and admiration. It was unsettling, this new role you hadn’t auditioned for. And yet, part of you reveled in the novelty, the taste of a life where you weren’t just surviving but thriving in the eyes of others.

“Seriously, what does he see in her, though?” the first voice added with a scoff, the sound sharp enough to cut through your fleeting fantasy. “She’s not even that pretty, and she doesn’t even dress well.”

“Who knows? Maybe she's not as plain as she looks. Or maybe it's her brain. Isn't she a biomed major?”

“Whatever it is, I wish I had it.”

You exhaled slowly, the air leaving your lungs like the deflating of a balloon. With one last glance at your uncertain reflection, you adjusted your clothes and stepped out of the restroom. Your eyes scanned the café until they settled on Cillian. He sat at a corner table, his princely features bathed in the soft glow of your laptop screen.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” you said tentatively, approaching him.

“For you, I’ve got all the time in the world,” Cillian replied without looking up, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.

You leaned over his shoulder, watching as paragraphs morphed under his command. You noted how he supplemented your notes with additional information, his edits weaving through the essay like intricate lacework. A warmth spread through your chest at his helpfulness.

“Your argument here is strong, but you’ve missed some spelling errors, and the grammar is wonky in some bits,” Cillian pointed out, highlighting the words with a click. “You need to pay more attention to detail.”

The feelings of admiration died.

“Thanks for catching those,” you murmured, trying to match his attentiveness with an appreciative smile. Yet, as Cillian continued to point out every tiny mistake, you felt the weight of his scrutiny. It was as if he were peeling away layers, exposing the flaws you had worked so hard to hide beneath vibrant colors and earnest smiles.

“Here, another one,” he said sharply, almost triumphantly, correcting a misspelled term with a swift stroke.

“Right. I’ll remember that.”

For a moment, you stood motionless, observing Cillian's meticulous grooming mirrored in his meticulous editing.

“Your words are comprehensive,” he commented, finally meeting your gaze. “But sometimes, it feels like you're not quite sure of yourself. You could be more assertive.”

“Maybe,” you conceded, tugging at the hem of your blouse. “I don’t know how to write well. I just want it to be perfect, you know?”

“Just rest up and let me worry about perfection,” Cillian said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

You closed your eyes for a moment, the screen’s glow imprinting on your eyelids. The day replayed itself behind your closed eyes: all of it now seemed trivial compared to Cillian's insistent editing, his fingers deftly correcting your words as if they were errant children straying from the path.

Opening your eyes, you glanced at the computer screen. His changes were precise, the document almost gleaming with perfection under the cursor's blinking supervision. But it was your essay, your thoughts—your voice, now polished by someone else's hand. You felt a pang of something akin to betrayal, though no promise had been broken.

"Is it better now?”

“Better,” you replied, your voice lacking conviction. You noticed then how the light caught on the angles of his face, a visage crafted to be admired, to be envied. It struck you—how many others had been captivated by that same light, only to find themselves lost in the dark?

“Thanks,” you added, a necessary courtesy.

“Anything for you.”

You turned back to the screen, retreating to your essay to calm yourself. But even there, doubt crept in, whispering that perhaps you were losing yourself in the pursuit of an image—a place beside Cillian, envied by strangers and shrouded in false admiration.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere oc #yandere male #cillian

31 notes · View notes

juanarc-thethird · 1 year

Text

Don't leave your MILFs unattended. Part #2

Weiss: *Moving boxes*

Willow: Weiss, what are you doing?

Weiss: Just moving old stuff from when I was at Beacon.

Willow: That's great. Do you need a hand?

Weiss: I'm fine. Anyway, I'm going out in a while to buy more boxes. Maybe when I come back.

Willow: Sure

Weiss: *takes her wallet* Ok, I'm leaving. Bye mom.

Willow: Bye sweetie. *Looks between the boxes* She has a lot of things here. Hmm…. Is that her school uniform?

She picks it up and observes its details such as the buttons, type of fabric, etc. After a few moments, an idea comes to her head.

Willow: Maybe I can…

She takes the uniform and heads to the bathroom. After a moment she comes out wearing her daughter's uniform, and it is very tight on her, especially in her chest area. She walks towards a mirror and looks at herself for a while.

Willow: Wow, that is a very short skirt. *giggles* Just looking at me like this, I feel like I'm doing something naughty.

Unbeknownst to her, Jaune enters the room.

Jaune: Wow!

Willow: Jaune! *Embarrassed, she tries to cover herself with her arms*

Jaune: *Looking away* I'm sorry! I just came to drop off some duct tape that Weiss asked me to!

Willow: It's okay, I was just playing with my daughter's stuff. How embarrassing.

Jaune: *Blushing* If I may, I... I think you look good in that uniform.

Willow: Really?

Jaune: Y-Yes.

She lets go of her arms and shows the uniform once more to Jaune while she is blushing.

Willow: D-Do you want to take a closer look?

Jaune: Um....

A couple of minutes later

Willow was against the wall still wearing Weiss's uniform, with her legs were up in the air supported by Jaune, while he was fucking her vigorously.

Willow: Oh yes!! You are fucking me so good! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!!!

Jaune: Willow!!

He pressed her against the wall more, pushing his cock deeper into her.

Willow: So big!!! I'm gonna cum again! My pussy is cumming again!!!! My pussy is gonna- OOOH FUUUCK!!!~💕

An hour later

Weiss: *Opens the door* What are you two doing here?

Jaune: *Sweating* We were just chatting, right?

Willow: *Also sweating* Y-Yes! Just chatting.

Weiss: Ok? Can you go talk somewhere else? I need to work here.

Jaune/Willow: Sure!

The two walk out of the room, leaving Weiss alone.

Willow: See you later in my room.

Jaune: Ok, I'll bring my uniform. I'm excited about my tutoring, Professor Schnee~💕

Willow: *Giggles* I can't wait~💕

Weiss: *Inside the room* What happen to my uniform?!!!

383 notes · View notes

cowgurrrl · 1 year

Text

Pine Point

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader

Author’s note: 😮‍💨 (ps fic is named after this song)

Summary: You and Joel deal with the aftermath of your accident [4.7k!!]

Warnings: hospital settings, a very quick mention of a miscarriage not experienced by the reader, questionable Hollywood motives once again, quick mention of Ellie’s foster home situation, kinda angsty actually, arguing (oops), language, not a super cohesive ending

Joel stays with you all night and into the morning. You're not sure if he got any rest while sitting in the uncomfortable chair next to your bed, but you know that he never let go of your hand. Every time you woke up from a bad dream or because a nurse was prodding at you, the callouses on his hands helped remind you that you were safe. He asked questions about your injuries and what recovery would look like for you. He listened, watched, and even recorded the nurse's voice (with her permission, of course) so he could reference it later. You wonder if he did the same thing when Sarah was born. You imagine him, eighteen years younger, furiously scribbling down notes on the best way to swaddle his newborn daughter. The image makes you smile, and when Joel asks what you're smiling about, you shake your head and mumble, "Nothing."

Carolina, being the goddess that she is, stops by your house to get you a clean change of clothes before stopping by her own house for Ryan. Joel helps you change into sweatpants and a flannel button-up from your house. He recognizes it but doesn't say anything or try to take it back; he actually smiles when he pulls it out of the bag. "Looks better on you," he mumbles as he kisses you and tugs the fabric over your shoulders, shaky fingers buttoning the shirt closed for you. The air seems lighter, and the hospital less stuffy in the morning light. Your body is still sore and aching as you sit on the edge of the hospital bed, but you're in better spirits. You're ready to go home and put this all behind you.

"Hey there, stranger," a gravelly voice says, and you turn to see Carolina wheeling Ryan into your room in a wheelchair. Your tear ducts betray your better mood, and you immediately burst into tears at the sight of him. He's bruised and swollen and stitched up, but he's alive. You step off the bed with Joel's help and bend to hug him, sobbing into his shoulder. You think Carolina and Joel exchange hugs and cheek kisses, too, but you can't see through bleary eyes. Ryan reaches up and smooths your hair down like he does and has done every single time he's ever held you while you cried. For some reason, the gesture makes you even more emotional. "I knew I looked bad, but I didn't think it'd be enough to make you cry." He says, and you laugh.

"Shut up," you sniffle as you step back to look at him, carefully wiping tears from your puffy face. Ryan grabs your hand and kisses the top of it. "Besides, I look like shit, too."

"Never." He smiles, and you take a deep breath. You look up at Carolina and swallow thickly. She looks exhausted, her hazel eyes more brown than anything under the hospital lights, and her lips are cracked from pulling at the skin all night. You stare at her, and she stares back, and something unspoken passes between you. Joel keeps you upright, and Ryan holds your hand in his as you hug her as tight as you can and fight more tears. She rubs your back and gently rocks you back and forth like a baby. You've always said Ryan and Carolina were your Mom and Dad friends because they are so parental and nurturing, but it feels especially true now.

"I'm so sorry." Your voice catches in your throat, and you feel her shake her head.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. You're not the one who ran the red light." She says.

"But, I should've been paying attention. I should've seen him coming. I should've,"

"You're both safe. You protected Ryan the best you could and brought him home to me. There is nothing more I could've asked of you, okay? "

"He could've died," you say. Carolina says your name quietly, like she's scolding you, and pulls your face out of her neck, her hands framing your face. Ryan squeezes your hand, and you pinch your thigh with your other hand to stop crying.

"This was an accident. You didn't get in the car thinking someone was gonna hit you, right?" She asks, and you shake your head. "But when you did get hit, the first thing you did was check on him. You did everything possible to make sure he was taken care of because you are a good fucking friend. Maybe one of the best. So, I don't want to hear you apologizing because I should be thanking you." She hugs you again, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you feel like she's pressing all your broken pieces together again.

You could probably count on one hand the number of times she's hugged you like this. Once when she and Ryan got married, and you managed to keep her divorced parents from fighting the whole night with copious amounts of liquor and strategic pulls to the dance floor. Once when she had a miscarriage about a year before they had Elizabeth, and you flew home early from shooting in Maine to be with them. You weren't supposed to see them for another two months, and she broke down the second you stepped into their bedroom. And once, when your childhood dog died, and you couldn't make it home in time to say goodbye. Pieces of each of you that you never thought would ever come close to resembling what they used to have been meticulously pulled back together by each other. You can't go back and stop the accident from happening, but slowly, you can let yourself be put back together.

"I love you," you whisper, and she kisses your temple.

"I love you, too."

After a few more minutes of crying and hugging, Carolina and Ryan go home. You promise to come over and see them once you feel a little stronger, but they don't rush you. Joel hands you a tissue once they're down the hallway, and you smile before taking and wiping it under your eyes and nose.

"Feel better?" He asks, and you nod. You step into him and rest your head on his chest. It's partially so you can be close to him and partially because your body hurts too much to stay upright anymore.

"Thank you," you say. He kisses the top of your head and tucks your hair behind your ears so he can see you clearly.

"You don't have to thank me."

"I want to," you look up at him, and he smiles. Your phone buzzes on the side table, and you reach for it, but Joel stops you. His smile has dropped, and he suddenly looks worried. You furrow your brows and glance between him and your phone. "Joel, what's up?"

"Mel called this morning," he says, and your heart immediately sinks. "Um, she asked if you and Ryan would be ready to do reshoots in two weeks." You nod and bite the inside of your cheek before laughing. You feel crazy standing there, laughing so hard that the ache in your chest blossoms into sharp pain. Joel says your name softly, and you shake your head.

"I just had the scariest experience of my life, and the only thing she called to ask about was my fucking reshoot schedule?"

"I told her to wait."

"No, that's not how it works with her. She needs an answer immediately, or she doesn't get auditions, and if she doesn't get auditions, then I don't work, and she drops me," you scrub a hand down your face and take a deep breath. "I'll call her when I get home."

"What're you gonna say?"

"I'm gonna say yes."

"What?" He asks. "You just said this was the scariest experience you've ever had, and you wanna just go back to work?"

"I don't have a choice. The entire schedule gets thrown off if we don't go in and do whatever they need us to do. Thousands of people are relying on us so they can make money to feed their families. If I say no, production gets halted, it takes longer to get the movie to screens, and we lose money," you shrug. "And they'll put makeup on the bruises and stuff. It'll be like it never even happened. Just how they want it."

"You don't have to go through with this. I'm sure Mel would understand." He insists.

"You don't know Mel, then," you say. "I'll message her later. It's easier to just shut up and do it than fight about it."

"But-"

"It's fine, Joel. Please, just drop it." You blame your brain pulsing against your skull and the searing pain in your knees for snapping at him. It's not what you wanted to say, but you're so tired. And angry. And in pain. You pull away from him and sit back down on your hospital bed as a nurse comes in with your discharge paperwork. She's incredibly cheerful for ten in the morning. It almost hurts your head having to listen to her describe different types of infection and how to prevent it. Joel nods as she speaks, obviously taking in every piece of information he can and clutching the paperwork to his chest.

"Other than that, I think you guys are good to go. Do you have a way of getting home?" The nurse asks you.

"I'm takin' her back to my house," Joel answers, and you have to bite your tongue before you say something about him speaking on your behalf. The nurse leaves you with a wheelchair so you don't have to walk all the way to the car, and you look at Joel.

"I can take care of myself,"

"I know you can," he says as he begins gathering your things around the room. "I just wanna take care of you, too." He's being incredibly kind and helpful, you realize that, but that does nothing to stop your frustration with the whole situation.

Mel will always be Mel, this much you concluded years ago. But Joel butting into your professional life feels like a step too far. You know this business like the back of your hand. He doesn't. It's unfair for him to try to tell you how to deal with your agent when he doesn't know the repercussions. He doesn't understand just how many people are relying on you and Ryan to come back to set for a few reshoots. It would literally waste hundreds of thousands of dollars in studio money to push this back. Answering the nurse's question without consulting you first did nothing to make you feel better.

Joel seems to notice the silence filling the space between you at the same time as you because he turns and leans down so he can look you in the eye. All your things are stuffed into the huge bag Carolina fished from your closet, and the hospital room looks identical to when you arrived. Joel takes a deep breath and grinds his teeth as he thinks.

"Please, let me take care of you." He says quietly, his tone gentle and borderline begging. Nobody's taken care of you during a sickness or an injury since you left your parent's house. Especially after you started becoming more famous, you didn't want anyone to see you in that vulnerable state and exploit it. People like you are expected to suck it up, keep going and hope it'll go away in a week or two.

This is different. This is letting Joel assume responsibility for you for at least a few days, something you're sure you'll feel horrible about after the fact. This is staying at his house, eating his food, and sleeping in his bed because you're too wobbly to do those things alone. This is trusting him way more than you ever have. But he wants to. He told you he does. He took notes on how to change the bandages on your fucking stitches. He obviously cares. So, why does this feel so hard? You sigh and swallow your pride, and nod.

"Okay."

Joel's house is not what you expected it to look like. Most musicians you know stick to a very sleek, very boring black and white theme for their homes. White couch, black coffee table, white rug, black piano, white walls, black art. It's typical and almost a running joke between you and your friends each time you end up in a musician's house, but Joel's is different. His house looks lived in with scattered shoes by the door, backpacks slung over chairs, and colorful art on the walls. Some frames depict vast Texas landscapes or longhorns mean mugging the camera, while others are just abstract, bright paint splashes. There are smaller ones, too, with Ellie's loopy signature at the bottom. The couch is oversized and plush, with pillows and blankets nearby for movie nights. Report cards and family pictures hang on the fridge via silly magnets from different states and countries. You realize it feels like a real home after your first night.

You've gotten into a routine by the third day at Joel's house. Joel will wake up before you, sneak out of bed to make breakfast, and gather the pills you need to take to get through the day. Sometimes, he brings it to you, and other times, he helps you down the stairs and into the kitchen. You'll drink coffee and eat breakfast together as the sun slowly peeks over the Los Angeles skyscrapers. After you eat, he'll check your stitches and change the bandage to ensure they're healing correctly. Then, you'll just sit together and hold hands until one of the girls stirs awake, and you get to watch Joel be a dad.

Sarah is the next one up every morning, but especially this morning, walking down the stairs a full hour and a half before school starts and giving Joel the rundown of her schedule for the day as he makes her breakfast. She asks how you're feeling and then makes sure her dad gave you your medication. You really can take it yourself, but watching them work together to make sure you're alright is sweet. They tease each other for a while before Joel checks his watch and curses under his breath, making his way to the stairs after kissing your and Sarah's foreheads.

"I'm surprised he doesn't just yell up the stairs for her. That's what my dad used to do." You say as you sip what's left of your coffee, and Sarah shrugs.

"He doesn't yell very often. It scares Ellie. Besides, she wouldn't wake up even if he did." She says nonchalantly, and you immediately want to stuff the words back down your throat.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? You didn't know," she shrugs, and you shake your head. "In the wise words of Hank Miller," she says before assuming a slouched posture and putting a hand on your wrist. "You're too hard on yourself, darlin'." You laugh at her Texas accent but still can't shake the feeling that you keep getting this— your relationship with the girls— wrong.

"Well, your grandfather sounds like a very smart man."

"And he's right, y'know," she says, looking at you with those beautiful brown eyes. You wonder if she can see right through you like Joel can. "The whole time you've been here, you keep apologizing."

"I only apologized once this morning."

"Yeah, to me. How many times have you apologized to my dad?" She asks, raising her eyebrows, and you sigh. "It was a family decision to have you come stay with us. Three out of three Millers voted yes. I promise it's really okay."

"It's not that."

"Then, what is it?"

"I don't... I've never..." You struggle with the words. "I've never dated someone with kids, and I don't want to overstep or make you guys feel like I'm taking your dad away from you. I don't know how to do this, so I keep saying things and then just feeling stupid or like I messed up. Like I should've remembered the thing about Ellie's foster homes." You don't know why you're disclosing all the information to an eighteen-year-old, but she seems receptive.

"Ellie doesn't want any of us to treat her differently because of her past, and I'm pretty sure if you tried, she'd rip you a new one. The fact that you're even trying makes such a difference. My dad has dated... some really not great people he never even told about us. But not only do you know about us, you care about us enough to freak out about us, which is totally unnecessary, by the way," she says. "My dad, Ellie, and I are a team, and we have been for a really long time, so we were a little worried when he told us he was dating again. But he's so happy. Like annoyingly happy." You both laugh at that and feel the weight on your shoulders ease off.

"And Ellie and I kinda agreed that as long as you made my dad happy, we'd find a way to be happy for him, but you make it pretty easy. I like having you around. We both do."

"Yeah?" You ask, and she hums with a big smile on her face. You bump her shoulder with your own and smile too. "I like having you around, too."

"So, no more worrying about us, okay?"

"I can't guarantee anything, but thank you. I really appreciate you saying all that."

"You're welcome." She says as you wrap an arm around her shoulder and kiss her temple. Joel walks back into the kitchen with a knowing look but doesn't say anything, and you wonder how much he heard. A groggy Ellie, still in her pajamas, trails behind him and blindly reaches for the orange juice in the fridge.

"Oh, motherfucker," Ellie mutters as she sloshes around the last inch of orange juice. She holds up the mostly empty container and gives Joel a deadly serious look. "This is child abuse."

"That ain't child abuse," Joel says, already halfway to the garage. Ellie rolls her eyes before landing on you and softening.

"How're you feeling?" She asks, and you laugh.

"Better after watching you fuck with your dad."

"He's easy to fuck with," she says as the garage door opens again and Joel's footsteps get closer. "Watch this."

"Here you go," Joel says, handing Ellie a new container of orange juice. She furrows her eyebrows and looks at him.

"I didn't ask for this."

"What? Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Oh, my God, Dad's losing it." Sarah chimes in. Joel looks confused and like he's genuinely trying to remember if Ellie asked for it, and you can't stop the snort from leaving you.

"You little shit," Joel says, making Ellie laugh. Then, in the blink of an eye, Joel tickles Ellie, and her screeching laughter fills the kitchen. You and Sarah laugh, too, especially when the laughter turns into squeaks. Ellie tries to slip out of his grip, but he picks her up, hauls her over his shoulder, and makes for the backdoor.

"Joel Miller, do not throw your daughter in the pool!" You yell, and he groans before turning back around and dumping a still giggling Ellie on the couch.

"You win this round, kid," Joel points in her face before kissing her cheek. "Alright, we're gonna have to leave for school soon. Can you be ready in thirty minutes?"

"Yes, I'm not Sarah."

"Hey!" Sarah shouts as Ellie runs back up the stairs to get dressed, giggling the whole way to her room.

As you and Sarah talk about school, Joel puts eggs, bacon, and toast on a plastic plate for Ellie to eat in the car, forever worried about her missing meals. He takes a little longer than he needs to so he can watch how you two interact, his eyes twinkling in the sunshine. You and Sarah have been friends from the jump, but you have to admit that there's something a little more sacred about her letting you into her space. You and Sarah do your best to ignore his puppy dog eyes, but when Ellie comes downstairs with her backpack slung over her shoulder, she makes a face.

"Why do you look like that?" She asks, making Joel quickly snap out of it.

"Why do you look like that?"

"That's so funny. Did you come up with that yourself?" She rolls her eyes. Joel does a squeaky, high-pitched voice to mock her as he grabs his keys from the counter. He walks over and pecks your lips before walking to the front door.

"Alright, Miller bus is leavin'! Let's roll out!" He yells. The girls bid you a quick goodbye before chasing after him, leaving you completely alone in the house.

After putting your dirty dishes away, you venture through the house now that you feel a little stronger. You start at the fridge, looking through all the little pictures and magnets deemed worthy of being seen daily. You decide that your favorite is the one of Joel, Tommy, and the girls at the Grand Canyon. It looks like it was taken a few years ago based on the babyish plumpness of Ellie's face and the braces on Sarah's teeth as she smiles. Joel is squinting in the sun, but he's so completely in his element in the desert with his family, hands on the girls' shoulders. It's pinned to the fridge with a Washington, D.C. magnet depicting the Lincoln Memorial.

As you glide through the house, you keep finding new favorites. Many other celebrities you've met either don't hang up their family photos because they run the risk of ruining the aesthetic of their home or because they don't want people to see them. Joel, however, has massive frames holding multiple pictures of his family throughout the years. A picture of a much younger Joel with a baby strapped to his chest sets you back on your heels because of just how little he looks. He can't be older than twenty-three as he poses, one hand on baby Sarah's back and the other holding a diaper bag. You watch them grow alongside each other as you move down the wall.

You see pictures from an elementary school career day where Joel and Sarah pose with different tools. Pictures of Tommy, Joel, and Sarah lined up for what looks like a Fourth of July parade when Sarah was a toddler, her chubby hands latched to her dad's as she sat on his shoulders. Then, suddenly and without warning, a round little face framed with wavy brown hair enters the pictures, but it feels like she was always meant to be there. There's a framed photo strip of the three of them making goofy faces at the camera and pretending their dad isn't cool as he kisses their cheeks and rests his head on Ellie's shoulder. You feel almost emotional looking at the worn photos and seeing their love for each other transcend a camera lens. Though, a buzzing in your pocket stops you from thinking any more about it, and you roll your eyes as you read a text from Melanie.

Heard what happened. I'm so sorry :( I got all those pictures from the crash taken down 👍 Still good for reshoots in two weeks?

You sigh and type out a response as the front door opens and Joel walks back in.

"What're you doin'? I thought you'd be in bed." He says, and you shake your head.

"I wanted to snoop, and I'm responding to Melanie about scheduling."

"Oh, good. When are you gonna move reshoots to?" He asks as he walks over, his keys still jingling in his hands from dropping off the girls.

"I'm not moving them."

"What? I thought you were gonna try and change it." He says as you press send on your message confirming the dates and look up at him, confused.

"I never said that."

"We talked about it at the hospital."

"Yeah, but I never said I'd change the time just because you didn't agree." You say, and he scoffs. You tuck your phone away and cross your arms over your chest while he searches your face like he's waiting for the punchline to a joke he's never heard. When it doesn't come, he shakes his head.

"Wow." He breathes, and you furrow your brows.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Something."

"I just can't believe you didn't even try to fight her on it." He says in a frustrated tone, and you give him three beats of silence to rethink what he just said.

"Melanie can be a bitch, but she's also responsible for my career. If I fuck her over, I fuck myself over." You say when he doesn't backtrack.

"Is that what she told you?"

"Joel," you warn, but he doesn't stop.

"If you keep goin' like this, it's gonna kill you. Do you realize that?" He asks incredulously, and you throw your arms up.

"We are in entirely different worlds when it comes to our careers, so can you please stop telling me how to run mine? I don't get on you this much about your job."

"Because I don't work myself to the bone like you do."

"You're right. You don't," you snap, and he takes a deep breath. You're not quite sure where to go from here. You don't know if this counts as a fight, but you know you feel bad. "I already confirmed. I can't change it now." You say softer than the harshness that took over your voice moments ago.

"Okay," he nods. "Then, 'm comin' to set with you because we both know that if somethin' goes wrong, Mel isn't gonna do shit to help you." He says, all of his frustration pointed at your manager now, and you want to argue that what he said isn't true but can't find the words. You think it's because, deep down, you know he's right, but you won't say it. Not now. So, instead, you just nod and unclench your jaw.

"Fine." You say as you pull out your phone to add an addendum to your previous confirmation. Joel walks into the kitchen and puts his keys on the counter before leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. Once you're done typing, you look up and stare at him, watching the gears in his head shift.

"I really thought the car accident would've made you wanna slow down or, at least, take the time to recover. Make you see there's more to life than just work." He scoffs, and you bite your tongue so hard you taste blood. You move from your place by the photos and reach the bottom of the stairs, fighting tears, before you turn to him. He hasn't moved, but he's watching you.

"I hope you know that was a really fucking shitty thing to say to me. I would never take something like this and spin it against you because I care about you."

"I do care about you."

"Then, let me do my fucking job and stay out of my way." You walk up the stairs with a little stomp in your step. It feels very juvenile and petulant, but you're pissed and embarrassed. Who is he to dictate what you do and when? It's none of his fucking business how you run your own career. Who is he to make you feel bad for working? To fight with you about something that doesn't concern him?

Still, even as these angry thoughts spiral in your mind, you cry the second you close the bedroom door behind you. The physical pain, nightmares, arguments, and guilt eat you from the inside out. And as you sit in that big house overflowing with love so real you can feel it in the floorboards and the man who showed up at the hospital for you downstairs, you feel completely and utterly alone for the first time since you signed your name on that stupid contract.

#one for the money two for the show #rockstar!joel miller #the last of us #joel miller #joel and ellie #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #the last of us x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fluff #the last of us au #tlou au #joel and sarah #joel miller drabble #joel miller x female reader #joel miller angst

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durkeeglobal · 5 months

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Durkee Flexible Air Ducting System Integrated Solution for New Energy Battery Industry

On April 9, CATL Energy released a new energy storage product - the Tianheng standard 20-foot container-type energy storage system. The system features in the 4-dimensional true safety, 5 years 0 attenuation, with the total capacity of 6MWh, the energy density per unit improved by 30% while covering area decreased by 20%.

With the increasing growth of the new energy vehicle market, the new energy battery industry is also developing rapidly. Durkee foresees the future trends of the new energy battery industry and has innovated the flexible air duct system solution to meet the needs of different manufacturing scenarios. This has earned us high recognition from leading customers in the domestic and global new energy industry, including CATL, Svolt Energy, CALB Lithium Battery, BYD, and Tesla.

In the manufacturing workshop of lithium battery raw materials, the traditional setup of stainless steel air ducts system is commonly used. However, some obvious disadvantages should be noted, including air supply dead zones, uneven airflow, installation difficulty, and high costs.

In high space ranging from 10m-20m, Durkduct pre-insulated air ducts are applied as the transmission ducts, and the fabric nozzles are connected to supply the air. The precise design of the nozzle structure and taper enables the air delivered to the targeting area at high velocity.

As for lithium battery cell manufacturing, traditional solutions commonly possess the following cons: complex installation, long construction period, high costs, and zinc pollution caused by GI ducts.

Nanosox Fabric Air Duct Systems are designed to fulfill the uniform air supply for the Setup & Module PACK workshop. Through axially uniform perforations, and radially linear, forming a fan-shaped three-dimensional airflow, is even and comfortable, bringing an excellent airflow effect for the production lines or working spots. Meanwhile, Durkduct Air Ducting System is ultra-lightweight, has low construction costs, a short installation period, and easy cleaning & maintenance.

Part of our clients

#tesla #byd #catl #svolt #fabric air duct #flexibleairducting #textileductwork #textileventilation

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biteme-gum · 3 months

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Perfect Pictures

Mickey Altieri x Reader

All content that you consume on your media is your thing, I don't care what you do.

"Guess what, Beautiful?"

the echo of his foot steps surrounded your isolation, banging in your ear drums as your head lulls to the side.

"You made the front cover! Again!" You could hear his excitement, if not in his voice, you could hear it in the way he moved, the wrinkling of the news papers waving in his over enthusiastic hand gestures.

Your arm ached as he leaned over your chair, the feeling of his breath hitting the side of your face made you want to gag.

"I always knew you could do it, You're Picture perfect." His whispers blow around your left ear, you could feel his jeans crinkle against your arm, his zipper scraping into your skin as he bends down, breathing heavily into the side of your neck.

the pitch black fabric wrapped around your eyes insured little comfort, your head felt like a balloon being lifted into the air, a stabbing spike hitting the side of your brain.

a small. wet. kiss hit the side of your neck, a pit wanted to swallow you whole. your eyebrows furrowed as small dark patches seep into the fabric, an uncomfortable chill running down your spine.

His forehead rests in the crook of your neck, a slight groan crawled its way up your throat as he moves his left arm to rest in front of him. with a slight tilt on his wrist, you could hear the waves of paper balancing through the air.

"They used the wrong photo." He mumbled, a sigh escaping his nose as he sits up, a small whish cut through the air as the sheets flopped on the floor, discarded in disgust. "Your school photos always looked so... forced." his hand lightly touches your head, a small stroke from his thumb. "Amateurs."

"The pictures we take are masterpieces. Don't you think so?" He lifted himself off of your arm, moving around to only god knows where.

"I wonder if I gave your parents those photos we took at the end of last term. Do you think they would use them? That smile you had while you presented your year end project. You looked so nervous, so shy..." click

a heavy weight hits the side of your head as your head falls forward, parts of your hair falling over your face, sticking to your forehead.

click, click

"You must be one of the descendants of Aphrodite, and I'm your fierce lover. Aphrodite and Ares, Love of the ages. Passionate," click "Secretive" click click "Complex." he sighs, all you could hear was fabric moving around, until hurried footsteps come to a stop in front of you.

His hands reach up, steady on the sides of your head, cupping your face, lifting your soaked face towards his prying eyes. Piercing even shrouded in silence.

His thumbs, caressing your cheeks. Cold hands burning against your heated cheeks. His left hand sliding up to catch against the fabric boundary, the smallest protection you have, being able to pretend like its all a dream, just a bad dream.

Then just like that, a piercing white stabs your eyes, your head shooting to the right, rolling on your shoulders.

You could hear Mickey tutting as his right hand caresses your jaw, this thumb following the outline of the duct tape glued onto your damp skin.

"Your eyes were always so sensitive, That's what makes them so beautiful." He leans towards your face, his thumb stroking your cheek in false comfort. "You're perfect."

His hand gliding to take a hold of your chin, slowly tilting your head back, eyes slowly fluttering open to the beaming square stage lights in all directions.

Beyond the dark glow of his silhouette, a bold flashing red light, the reflective surface mocking you, a sick memory to relive.

It felt like hours before he decided to step back, releasing all contact, allowing gravity to pull your head to sag in front of you.

"Now, princess.. we have to look at the camera to capture your beauty." His hand grabbing a handful of your hair. pulling your head into the position he felt was natural. "Now stay still."

A big, winning smile grows on his face, moving backwards towards his camera, set perfectly in front of you.

"Now say cheese." click, and flash.

"Beautiful." flash.

"Perfect." click.

white flooring. flash.

wooden chair. click.

bare legs. flash.

"Its like your beauty grows every day." He lifted the camera, moving it to a separate table near the wall, "I'll show you the photos later, Processing them by hand, all for me."

"Watching your body... slowly burn into the paper." His mumbling traveling across the solid walls.

You watch him, eyes following him as he walks towards you. one. final. time.

"My model, my goddess, Mine. Forever."

He bends down, a puff of cold air hits your forehead before his lips. His hand taking the now visible black fabric, thick, with a singular knot.

A small cry escapes the barrier blocking your face, shaking your head, eyes pleading.

"I can't have you flashing those beautiful eyes at anyone else. These are all mine."

His hands take the blind fold and slowly move it over your eyes, a burnt in traced of the room where it once was.

"I'll see you in a few hours."

A small peck touched your covered eye, a final deep breath, the thick air, following his receding steps and the lock of a door.

#mickey altieri #mickey altieri x reader #mickey altieri x you #possesive love #horror #tw stalking #tw kidnapping #scream #scream 2 #ghostface

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vantedaes · 1 year

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When i get down I'm bonita

Author: @vantedaes Editor: @141s-chewtoy Pairing: Captain John Price x fem! Reader Word count: 2.2k Warnings: MDNI (+18) smut with a lil background story?? mostly smut tho. slightly daddy dynamics, Price is a stepfather, not related! stepfather/stepdaughter, unprotected sex, blowjob, kind of a breeding kink, age gap (not mention of it tho), rough sex.

Summary: You can't just miss the opportunity to show Price how much you've missed him.

n/a: English is not my first language! Be nice if there are any mistake, please, also thank you to the one and only Diana (@141s-chewtoy) love you girl you're my cult leader.

He was stressed.

You knew it as you leaned against the doorframe of his office, your eyes locked on his every movement, his fingers gripping his cigar almost denting it, being so focused on the papers on his desk that he didn’t even notice you watching him closely.

You felt like you were seventeen again when you observed him in secret not wanting him to notice you, cause back then it was inappropriate for a girl your age to have those kinds of feelings for your stepfather and it was unrequited and you knew that, Price took his role seriously to even entertain such thoughts with an underage. But that didn't stop you from sneak glances at him, it certainly didn’t stop you to find the perfect duct to his studio so you could star at him shamelessly sighing every time he smoked, eyes narrowed over his papers or military laptop, the way his arms flexed over the desk allowing your virginal eyes to admire his muscles tighten under the fabric of the shirt, his serious expression, his frowned eyebrows, and his tight jaw, all these things making you squirm and so fucking wet…You left thinking of him when you were alone in your bed, imagining him sitting you on his lap —on those huge, strong thighs— and having those hands all over your body being completely at his mercy, begging him to strip you from your innocence.

But you weren’t a teenager anymore and you knew now firsthand that he couldn’t resist you, and how sweet it was to take your time observing him freely pressing your legs together feeling how damped you were just by looking at him, you could hardly blame yourself for this, that man was simply too handsome for his own good and, god, you had missed him deeply.

Fuck you for falling not only for your stepfather but a fucking military captain. But as your mother used to say, you always wanted what doesn’t belong to you.

“Sweetheart…” He finally noticed you, his eyes flickering in the gloomy room “Did I wake you?” his voice sent shivers down your spine, you blinked at him innocently and gave him a full smile, your nipples already hardening rubbing against your dress, his gaze glancing over them for a second.

You made your way into his office, and he drew a breath at the sight of your dress, a white lace dress. It was a sinful sight you were giving him and you could clearly see how much you were affecting him by his expression even though he tried to hold it together (Which he usually did) You knew better, he wasn’t as collected as he was trying to seem.

“You’re stressed.” You replied, simply, seductive, the air in the room already shifting as you stepped closer to the desk.

Price looked at you with hunger in his eyes, “Don’t worry about it sweetheart, it’s just work.”

It was almost funny that after all this time he still tried to tame his desire for you, it was especially amusing when you could see his restrained erection awakening, caged in his pants. Your mouth watered instantly, and a strangled sigh came out from him, his eyes glimpsed at you like adverting, it wasn’t necessary for you to say anything else, you’ve danced this dance many times before. You were now standing in front of him, he was sitting in his leather chair, looking as enthralling as ever, the smell of cigars and cologne reaching your nostrils made your hole clench around nothing. Holy shit, you were dripping like a whore.

“Sweetheart..”

It was almost like a beg, his expression almost pained as he realized putting up a fight was futile if he was already defeated.

You drop to your knees in front of him.

The way he groaned your name was so delicious your skin goosebumped because of how weak were you for his low fucking voice, you bit your lower lip feeling so heated, and locked your eyes on him, a shiver running down your spine as you knew he was suffering for his principles but mostly for how fucking hard he was.

“I'll make you feel good daddy.”

You purred against his crotch. You didn’t care how needy you were for him, to have his cock in your mouth, you crawled forward and your hands began to unzip his pants, he didn’t stop you, of course not, you know how much he loved having you on your knees for him.

Pulling his hips up he allowed you to strip him from his pants and boxers, and his cock bounced free, hard, and already coated with precum you licked your lips like you were looking at your favorite candy and it was. Price's hand fell on the back of your head tugging your curls into a fist, with a pull he dragged your face to his cock.

“Look at me.” He demanded and your eyes reached for his immediately “Have at it, sweetie.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice.

Your flattened tongue toward his length stopping just at the tip where you licked like you were eating ice cream, a husky groan emerged from him and it made your whole body vibrate with need, you closed your eyes as you took him in your mouth a hand in the base as you coated him with the warmth of your mouth trying to swallow as much of him as you could.

“...Fucking hell, look at me.” He demanded with a grunt, his hand tightening in your hair and you opened your eyes to look at him again, “Ah, that’s it, love, fucking beautiful taking my cock in your mouth.”

You moaned deep into him, tears sliding down your cheeks and your free hand going to attend to your neglected clit. To say you were wet was an understatement your fingers were slippery enough from the stickiness of your cunt to make it difficult to attend to yourself,

“So fucking desperate…” He grunted with a chuckle, his eyes locking on yours to observe the mess you became. You bobbed your head down onto his cock doing your best not to break eye contact, “Fuck, sweet slut.”

And yes, you were his sweet slut.

So you swallowed him having your tongue playing with the length as you continued, the hand on the back of his dick playing now with his balls, you were doing so good for him, not breaking the eye contact as you know he likes it, and he loved, you knew because of the grunting and how hard the gripping in your hair was.

You finally let go leaving a trail of saliva connecting his cock to your lips, your breathing labored. Price's eyes were still on you, glazed with desire, his hand on the back of your neck, as he loosened the grip on your hair and caressed your scalp. You were just trying to catch your breath, closing your eyes as you leaned into the contact of his caressing hand, but his cock still throbbed with a demand for your attention.

You could feel his long stare on you, and you knew he was fapping to just the sight of you, at his feet, crying from both how violated your throat was and how needy you were rubbing your clit.

“You’re so fucking precious like this, sweetheart.”

You could only whimper at the prize, snuggling in his hand as your orgasm built in the pitch of your belly. You opened your heavy eyelids with an immense effort and watched him masturbate his eyes full of hunger and lust as they fixed to your own. You opened your mouth to suck on his fingers and he groaned, tilting his waist forward so you could hurriedly press your tongue against the tip of his cock. As you pressed one finger to your clit you moaned loudly his name when your orgasm erupted hard enough to make you fall. Price's quick hand kept you there and upright to receive his cum.

“So fucking good sweetheart…” His husky strained voice gave away how close he was, your shaky legs still feeling the waves of your orgasm. “Fuck, open that pretty mouth wider.” Obediently you complied with his request and soon you felt his cum landing in your mouth, you captured every single drop of it as you always did.

You rested your head on his thigh letting out little whimpers, his hand kept caressing your hair softly, your body still trembling.

“What a good girl,” he said with a husky voice still full of desire “You want your reward?”

You squirmed against his thighs, your pussy reacting to his words,

of course, you wanted it.

“Yes daddy!” You managed to say with the most pleading tone ever.

“And what do you want?”

He asked with a smokey voice, the room filled with smoke and your eyes went to him, he was smoking, and his cock was throbbing hard once again but he awaited your answer patiently, luckily he didn’t have to wait too long, you were desperate to have him inside you.

“I want you inside, please,” You begged.

He smirked, pleased, leaving his cigar. You knew he loved how submissive you were, you couldn’t live without his cock and you didn’t care if you looked like a beggar for it. In a quick movement, he carried you like you weighed nothing and sat you over his desk, papers flying everywhere. He leaned over you and you gasped when he took your jaw and put his mouth on yours in a filthy, aching kiss that you melted into, whimpering while his free hand caressed your cunt.

Oh fuck, fuck, it was too much.

“Don’t you dare cum now sweetheart.” He adverted abruptly separating from you, you could only picture how you looked but Price's expression let you know he was enjoying it greatly.

“Please…daddy, I want you inside.”

You almost screamed when you felt the tip of his dick teasing in the folds of your cunt.

“Pleasepleaseplease…”

“Look at me.”

You snap your eyes open and your mouth as well, traces of saliva coming out as he entered your hole, slowly, so fucking slow you were about to lose your mind. You whimpered so loud you could almost alert the neighbors, Price's expression shifted in pure pleasure pushing himself into you and staring at the way his cock expanded your walls and how much of a mess you were making of him with your dampness.

“So fucking wet,” His voice rumbled in your neck “Can’t live without my cock, eh?”

The only response you could make was a shake of your head.

“Now, now, love, use your words.” He still didn’t move buried deep into you, but you could feel the pulse in his cock caged between your walls.

“I—I can’t live—”

You tried to speak but the way his cock filled you and twitched inside you was too much, you were getting so close just by having him parked inside you. You desperately needed him to move.

“Can’t live without your cock!”

And with that, he was finally indulgent and started to move, his hand trailing to your neck and just applying enough pressure to lay you down completely on the desk, his thrusts becoming faster, so deliciously hard you could feel him hitting your very insides, his pelvis colliding in a wet nasty sound against your buttocks.

“That’s right love, take it.” His voice croaky, his eyes admiring how well you swallowed him and how your inner walls tightened around his cock.

He continued deep into you, his hand still on your neck and the other in a firm grip on your hip, you were not gonna last and his eyes appeared to be studying you as he held you down, your moaning becoming more desperate and the smirk on his lips wider.

“Gonna cum!” You cried out, meeting his thrusts and intertwining your legs in his lower back you heard him grunt pleasantly.

“Cum on my cock sweetheart, you’ve been good…”

Whit a pitched howl of his name you felt your orgasm clouding your sight and recurring all over your body like fucking lightning leaving you like a moping mess as Price continued to fuck you over the many sensations. Your pussy squeezed his cock and he moaned with his thrusts becoming more harsh, desperate, and uncoordinated.

His hands took your legs to accommodate them on his shoulders, and you whimpered at his cock going even deeper in you, your body trembling with the building of another release he continued to bury into you mercilessly, and his groaning became louder.

“Gonna—load you so good sweetie…”

And with that, his cum filled you up just with the arrival of yet another orgasm and the both of you panted incredibly overstimulated, Price crashed over you, hiding in your neck as he tried to catch his breath. You kept your legs intertwined around his back and hugged him caressing his hair, you felt him smile against your skin.

God, you loved that man.

“Will you come to bed?” You asked in a whisper, “Our bed.” You clarified and he laughed against your neck, then he moved his head to look at you, your heart melting at how sweet he looked at you.

“Of course love, let’s go to our bed.”

#cod price #john price #captain john price #john price x reader #john price x female reader #call of duty #call of duty imagine #cod modern warfare #call of duty mw2 #modern warfare #barry sloane

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ashbub · 11 months

Text

blessings

genshin impact: venti × gn!reader

contents: college au, mild cursing! [4.1k]

IN WHICH: a boy with blue haired tips suddenly appears & your life has suspiciously gotten a whole lot easier

❝ may the winds bless your travels! ❞

The first clue that something was off about him should have been on the first day you two had met.

You had been resting the edge of your elbow lazily across the surface of the scribbled-on chair in front of you, the lecture room softly buzzing as your muttering professor began pulling up his PowerPoint presentation on the projector.

Introduction to the History of Teyvat to Present Day

Not that you could really give a shit this early in the chilly winter morning, especially with how you found out last minute you had to take this class as a requirement for your major- rushing your ass to squeeze in this class for the semester before any of the remaining spots could be taken.

The crowded classroom had the hum of the bustling morning filling the air while you lazily fished out your charger from the crevices of the bag. As students filed in, there was a symphony of exchanged greetings, the rustling of book bags, and the soft murmur of back-and-forth conversation.

You had your busted-up laptop propped neatly on the warmth of your lap, a small yawn resting on your pursed lips. You had elected to sit in the back row of the lecture hall for this first day of class to gauge the atmosphere of the classroom. You nuzzled the tip of your chin deeper into the thick fabric of the chestnut brown sweater you had worn as your smooth fingertips wandered over the mousepad, carefully skimming the blaring syllabus in front of you.

"Can I borrow a pencil by any chance, friend?"

The voice was soft, almost like the beginning melody of a song into your perked ears- Your soft eyes flickered lightly over to the occupied seat beside you, a young man digging his hand vigorously into the empty pockets of his leather satchel, his pale fingers instead pulling at the fabric of the bottom of his bag pitifully.

His bright eyes were a serene teal, looking towards you with a hint of bashfulness at his situation, the tips of his braided hair sharing the same tinted resemblance of his expectant eyes. He wore a light blue hoodie and worn-out jeans to the lecture, his fair skin warmly blushing against the snug layers that hugged him.

He was ethereal.

"Yeah, it's fine-" You quietly mumbled, snapping from the sudden stare before pulling out a thin mechanical pencil you had packed with you, the edges of the clear plastic having indented faint teeth marks from your late-night study sessions with your roommate, Amber.

He lightly smiled, a warmth grazing across his thin lips before smoothly accepting the pencil from your grasp. Mouthing out a quick, "Thank you," before turning to focus on the flickering presentation, the soft rustles of his notebook paper humming through your ears.

Your teacher had finally started his presentation after fumbling with the remote of the projector, keeping his introduction short before reviewing the coursework required from your class throughout the semester.

He was a middle-aged man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetually disheveled appearance. His wrinkled, mismatched attire, featuring a misbuttoned shirt and untied shoelaces as his wiry glasses, had been frequently perched atop his rustled head, had seen better days, with duct tape barely holding them together.

Truthfully, you weren't really paying attention throughout his discussion of the syllabus. The notes you were typing were sporadic and sloppy at best, you had nearly even forgotten a whole section of notes about the future lessons till the same boy you had given your pencil leaned over, the faint scent of dandelions suddenly lingering.

Dandelions, huh.

"He's going to be discussing the seven divine seats of Celestia," The bright-eyed boy mused carefully, a curious glimmer peeking from the corner of his gaze before lightly tapping the empty section of notes presented on the screen of your dimly lit laptop, "The Archon War," His whisper was soft with the reminder, a small laugh hanging on his pursed lips with the edge of his fingertip curiously placed on the end of his chin.

The muted hum of the old heater provided a constant backdrop to the lecture. Students occasionally shifted in their stiff seats, their movement accompanied by the subtle rustling of winter jackets and scarves. The professor's voice was clear at the very least, carrying in the crisp air as they endeavored to hold the students' attention, your light laugh mingling back.

"Thanks," The tips of your fingers curiously lingered on the smooth keys in front of you- His notebook had remained unmarked, the occasional eraser mark shyly grazing the paper with a content smile tugging the edges of his coy mouth. You tilted the screen of your laptop towards him from your lap, his pale complexion rosy under the warmth of the fluorescent lighting that flickered above in the classroom, "You didn't take any notes yourself; did you want to copy mine?"

He contently tapped the side of his forehead with a light hum, a quick wink fluttering towards your direction at the sudden rise of your right eyebrow, "I have a musician's memory, I remember most of this by heart." He proclaimed teasingly with a nearly sing-songy voice, his thin hand smoothly tugging on the thick drawstrings of his light blue hoodie.

Your eyes flickered towards his satchel, mostly remaining empty- Except with the small instrument peeking out: The lyre that was tucked away was a small wonder, made to be portable yet grand in appearance. Its body was a gleaming wood, richly stained and polished to a deep, honeyed hue.

As the professor concluded the day's lecture short, the college class began to stir with anticipation for the upcoming event. Students bundled up tightly in heavy coats and thick scarves gathered their array of belongings and began shuffling out of the classroom with soft murmurs, eager to escape the biting cold from outdoors to their next class.

You usually were out the door as soon as it was fucking clear too, no reason ever to stick behind, frequently hurrying to remain in the comfort of your dorm. Much to the disappointment of your roommate, who was very much excited at the prospect of a chattering conversation.

However, you had carefully tucked your closed laptop into the main pocket of your bookbag as your teeth chewed over your plump bottom lip, your voice smoothly carrying over to the boy with the dyed braids beginning to rise from the warmth of his seat beside you, "Are you a part of the school band? My classmate, Barbara, she's part of the school choir-" Your sudden question was immediately joined with the company of the faint tilt of your head, "I just have never seen you before around here."

His excitement was nearly bursting from the seams. "I actually recently joined the band here, I'm a new transfer-" His soft teal eyes shone almost brightly, a faint pop of his lips amusingly slipping out before adjusting the strap of his leather satchel over his shoulder with a shrug, "You certainly wouldn't forget a cute face like mine, huh?"

Feeling the ends of your ears grow slightly warmer at his boldness, you choose to ignore the question with a small scoff, instead scooping up your bookbag to the safety of your bundled arms in the midst of the conversation, "Freshman?" You replied with a soft laugh, your gentle fingertips tightly wrapping around the thin handle of your school bag before examining the youthful spirit hum.

His dark eyelashes fluttered closed at the comment, "Actually, I'm a senior!~" His dainty hands dug around the back pockets of his faded jeans, quickly patting around the thick surface before a small "aha!" formed on his smooth lips, tugging out a small brochure. “I am a bit older than what I look as many say.”

The pamphlet was littered with half-completed doodles across the front page, the information barely legible at first glance as you cautiously took it from his grasp- "You should come to watch me play!" He clicked his tongue cheekily at the offer, waving a small pointer finger at you, "I'm certain you would be entertained with my songs, mm?"

Before you could muster a reply to his offer, a mysterious yet enchanting melody began playing in the air faintly, your eyes softly widening at the soothing whisper of music. You turned your head to find the source of the sweet song but saw no one there, only a few remaining students rustling up their notes into the safety of their bags, clearly preoccupied. Bewildered, you looked back at the dark-haired boy, but he, too, had nearly vanished into thin air, leaving you with the pamphlet in hand and as he had begun to open the elongated doors of the classroom with a lingering laugh.

The winter air streamed through the tall windows of the lecture hall, casting warm, elongated shadows across the worn wooden floors, "Wait-" His damp, white Converse sneakers pausing at your sudden call with a faint squeak as your voice remained thick with confusion, "I didn't catch your name-"

The ends of his braided hair swayed contently over his shoulder, loosely resting his fingertips over the handle of the lecture hall- His peeking smile was widely spread across his face at your sudden interest, a near mischievous glint emerging from the corner of his green eyes that for a brief second, you could have sworn under the swaying classroom lights were faintly glowing.

"Venti."

"The history of Teyvat is important, [y/n]!"

The dorm room was illuminated by a soft, warm glow as you and Amber huddled around your shared desks, engrossed in your studies. The room was adorned with bookshelves filled with classic novels and dented textbooks, and an array of post-it notes and highlighters were strewn about on the surface.

"I know- Which is why I'm studying this for the pop quiz, Amber."

Your roommate had puffed out her rosy cheeks, her hands smoothly closing your laptop shut with a small sigh, "Not just because of that- The history behind Teyvat is extremely part of our culture, of why our world is shaped the way it is. You are a transfer student, it is important to understand the stories and why they are so important." Amber had warmly reached over to run her fingertips over the fur of her pet bunny, dangling a bright carrot to the twitching nose that stuck out from the metal cage.

Relinquishing the snack over to the nibbling bunny, Amber briefly glanced at you with softening eyes, her warm brown eyes mingling with flecks of gold, "It is said that the seven archons were defeated in amidst the war, their remains scattered across Teyvat. Our nation was thrown into chaos, where lands were sent in disarray with the lack of guidance from our gods."

"But they managed to survive? Humanity?"

The brunette sat herself on the edge of her bed, smoothing out her bedroom sheets with her fingers, "Well, obviously, but many believe that the gods survived, regaining their strength and hiding amongst us humans for thousands of years."

Her eyes looked up at you.

"One day, the gods will return."

The memory was fresh of the study session between you & Amber.

Your gloved hands warmly wrapped around the paper cup of hot chocolate that you had purchased, the shimmering golden mora smoothly justling in the room of your back pocket. With a textbook in one hand and a well-worn backpack slung over your shoulder, you balanced a steaming cup in the other. The paper cup was adorned with a seasonal design that seemed to shimmer in the morning light, a small touch of cheer in the otherwise frosty world.

The campus was a world transformed during the first snow. As the first snowfall of the season blanketed the college grounds, it cocooned the familiar landscape in a glistening white tapestry. Every building, every tree, every path, and every bench was adorned with a layer of pristine snow. The air held a crisp chill, and a sense of hushed serenity settled over the campus, broken only by the soft crunch of footsteps and the occasional delighted gasps of students.

You were only going to see Venti for a second. After all, he had seemed rather excited to perform. It wouldn't hurt to slip by for a few seconds to listen to some music.

As you navigated your way through the snow-draped campus, your steps left a trail of footprints that soon vanished in the white expanse. You took deliberate sips from your cup, relishing the warmth that spread from your fingertips to your core. The hot chocolate was a comforting blend of rich cocoa, topped with a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Amber had recommended the drink profusely, exclaiming that it was the only thing that had gotten her through her late-night shifts as campus security.

Among the snow-covered trees on the campus quad, the flushed bard had set up his performance space, seeming to have not noticed your presence while muttering to himself- a few wooden boxes messily set up across the snow for a makeshift stage that you quietly chuckled at.

Venti was a modest figure at a closer glance, his wiry frame enveloped in a weathered, woolen coat that had probably seen better days. His dark, tousled hair, and ruddy cheeks were the only bits of color in his otherwise enveloped dark green appearance. His nimble fingers danced gracefully along the strings of a weathered lyre in preparation, coaxing hauntingly beautiful melodies from the instrument.

In the midst of this snowy landscape, you found yourself leaning against the sturdy trunk of a massive oak tree. In your hands, you held a cup of hot chocolate contently, the warmth from which seeped through your soft gloves and into your chilly fingers. The swirling steam rising bashfully from your cup formed a fragrant wisp in the frosty air.

You rarely attended these sorts of events- Due to your busy schedule, you occasionally stopped by a concert or two held by the school to support Barbara and her singing- She was one of Amber's close friends who happened to be a part of the school's prestigious choir program.

You watched the scene unfold before you, a gentle smile played on the end of your lips. Your eyes were drawn to a small male bard who had set up his stage not far from yourself tucked away near the tree. You had ultimately concluded he had an unassuming charm about him, his flushed fingers deftly strumming a lyre once more, while his smooth voice wove melodies that seemed to be born from the winter winds themselves.

As the bard played, your gaze was fixed on him, and you couldn't help but admire his talent, his nose flushed and wrinkled up in the crisp air that enveloped the environment. The soft, haunting tunes resonated with the wintry landscape; each note imbued with emotion.

The audience, which now had mainly consisted of wandering college students slowly gathering around him, listened in rapt attention, their jagged breath forming misty clouds in the cold.

You would have remembered Venti if you had seen him before- How could you not? He was damn near impossible to miss.

The bard's performance had a dreamy quality, like the whispers of forgotten tales carried by the winter breeze. A chuckle escaped from behind your wool mittens, before stiffening just as quickly.

Though, you couldn't help but notice something curious.

Each time a particularly poignant note was struck, a small, subtle gust of wind seemed to dance around the strings of the lyre, rustling his thick layer of clothing and the edges of his dyed hair ever so slightly.

It was barely noticeable. Honestly, you were doubting you had even seen it happen to begin with.

But then- another gust of brisk wind had fluttered the fabric of his dark coat, his brightening eyes glinting playfully at the whispering winds.

Your lowered eyes had caught these brief moments, flickering quickly to his wooden lyre that bathed in the attention that the bard had given him. You shifted your position slightly with your worn-out snow boots crunching under the freshly packed snow, trying to get a better look at the bard as your hot chocolate cup, nearly forgotten in your hand, suddenly felt cooler, though the drink inside was still piping hot.

You watched with a soft breath lingering on your chapping lips, what could you say? Your curiosity was piqued. The hints of wind abilities you thought you had noticed must be a trick of the imagination, you reasoned to yourself. Yet, as the blissful bard continued to play, the enigmatic breezes seemed to return, as if drawn by the mournful melodies.

The audience remained captivated, warmly bundled up students turning to one another in excited whispers and raising of the warm drinks, oblivious to the subtle interplay of air around the bard.

You- However, had already turned away.

It had been a day or so since you had last spoken to Venti- You weren't avoiding him per se, but with your mind jumbled with upcoming assignments & adjusting to a semester abroad, the bard wasn't exactly easing the whole transition period either.

You briefly nuzzled your chin into the warmth of your freshly washed hoodie- You had elected to wear an ensemble of faded jeans and a pair of well-worn sneakers since you would only be heading to one class for the afternoon: Biology. Your dark backpack was stuffed to the brim with assorted textbooks and notebooks with post-it notes, boring a few coffee spills across the previous semesters, adorned with patches and pins in a measly attempt to cover them up.

From what you noted, the stairwell remained overall silent during the late afternoons, except for the occasional echoes of footsteps and distant voices from other parts of the building. The hushed tones and stillness of the stairwell were a stark contrast to the vibrant and energetic campus life just beyond its walls.

The stairs were constructed of sturdy concrete, its walls painted in a neutral shade of beige that had faded slightly over the years. It featured a broad central staircase with polished wooden steps that bore the marks of countless footsteps.

You had rounded a corner to enter the stairs, adjusting some of the notebooks you had balanced in your grasp before setting your foot to notice the worn and uneven steps ahead.

"Hey, [y/n], wait up!"

Then, it happened. A sudden, unexpected stumble sent you hurtling forward. Panic flashed in your eyes as your thick textbooks and multiple sheets of paper rustled into the air to escape from from loosening grasp. The ground seemed to rush up to meet you, and it felt like time itself had slowed.

Your eyes had flickered over to the owner of the voice- It had been Kaeya. The previous teasing smile that had usually adorned his sun kissed skin slipped- His dark hair had been messily tucked behind his round ears, his own expression stiffening at the top of the stairwell as his gloved hand raggedly reached out in an attempt to grasp for yours.

For an agonizingly long moment, you teetered on the precipice, your thumping heart lodged tightly in the back of your throat and your stiffening arms windmilling with the sudden tumble- Your cold fingertips attempted to reach for the edge of the metal railing in panic, rapidly clawing at the crisp air, grasping at anything to prevent the inevitable descent. The sudden voice had jolted you, your bright eyes suddenly widening with the impending collision with the bottom of the empty staircase.

But just as suddenly- the warmth of an adorning wind had fluttered past your skin.

Dandelions.

It lifted you gently and effortlessly at your sudden jagged breath, as though cradled by comforting invisible hands that slithered through the weight of your back. Your fall was halted for a second, only for a second, and you had hovered mid-air.

Your wide eyes met those of the boy with the smell of dandelions, the same bard with the expectant lush green eyes- His pale hands had carefully been placed on your upper back warmly in an attempt to steady your weight in his arms.

The thin ends of his braided hair nearly tickled your warm cheeks as you had frantically clutched the fabric of the thick sweater he had been wearing with your fingers with a small gasp, a single Cecilia pin adorning his chest proudly.

Venti.

He gently lowered you to the ground with his dainty hands quietly remaining on the edge of your quivering shoulders, the tips of his sneakers touching smoothly the final step with a small laugh slipping from his pink lips, you were safe- unscathed. Your scattered sheets of homework assignments decorated the floor beneath you.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, [y/n]-" Venti smiled teasingly, the curled ends of his mouth twinging upwards with a singular pointer finger waddling in the air, "Aren't ya happy to see me?"

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the narrow windows of the school, casting muted, dappled patterns on the walls, but the light felt distant as if the stairwell was a forgotten corner of the college. The soft, muted glow illuminated the dust particles hanging in the air, you had for a moment wondered if you would be able to see lingering dandelions mingling in the air.

Had time stopped?

"You shouldn't have been able to catch me if you were human. Not from there-" You finally managed out with a breath to him, your dark bookbag slumped into the corner of the stairwell before looking up at the bard with a frantic whisper melting into your seeping words, "What are you? Who are you?"

Instead, Venti had smoothly picked up one of the sheets of paper that mingled beneath the edge of his beat-up shoes with a quiet laugh in avoidance of the question or racing mind, "A thank you is usually in order, no? Sometimes even a kiss?" He lightly pinched the bridge of his nose, his words melting with a soft hum, "Never thought an interrogation as a formal way to thank someone."

Your drunken-like breaths had come out in ragged gasps before tightening on the wool fabric of his sweater tightly with the edge of your fingers. "How did you even- What was all of that-" Your bewildered eyes had quickly darted to his relaxed expression in a flicker, searching for a rapid explanation in his softening look towards you, "How did you even know my name-"

He smiled warmly before his bright green- no- now blue eyes flickered with an emerging glow emitting from them. The playful bard had allowed his parted lips to linger on the warmth of your forehead with a small hum, smoothing out some of the remaining stray strands of hair away from your heated face with the edge of his wandering thumb.

The instant the warmth of his lips touched your skin, an overwhelming wave of warmth and comfort washed you. Your bright eyes grew heavy, and, almost involuntarily, they fluttered shut with a soft sigh before slumping into the softness of his sweater, your wispy eyelashes grazing your cheeks at the final blink.

The last thing you saw was the Cecilia pin.

"Y'know," He whispered softly with a stray laugh lingering by your cheek, "Curious humans have always been my favorite,"

[y/n]!"

As you slowly stirred from your slumber with a quiet breath, your blurry vision hazily found yourself adjusting to the familiarity of the warm blankets you had nuzzled the side of your cheek on. Drool had pooled on the side of your chin before wiping it off with the edge of your thumb with a small 'tsk'.

At the heart of the dorm room were two single beds, each neatly made with sheets and comforters reflecting the recent adjustments- Posters, tapestries, or photos adorned the thin walls- Your soft eyes fluttered open to the worried face of your roommate, Amber, her dark brown locks of hair spilling over her straightening shoulders, her golden eyes began widening at your flickering glance towards her kneeling patiently at the edge of your bed.

"Oh thank Barbatos, you're awake," She exclaimed with a light gasp at you small breath, her small fingertips interwoven warmly with your other hand with eyelashes finally fluttering shut. "You had us all worried. You just passed out sitting on the staircase, and we didn't know what happened."

You rubbed the side of your face quietly, your memory gradually returning with a soft sigh encasing your small gasps. Everything that had unfolded on the staircase. You couldn't help but wonder about the Venti- no- whoever he was- who had saved you and then kissed your forehead. It felt like something out of a dream.

Against one wall, two desks sat in a row, cluttered with textbooks, laptops, and notepads, bearing the marks of countless study sessions with bookshelves crammed with textbooks and highlighted notes. Amber had placed her small hand softly on the edge of your blanket, her own lips slightly pursed.

"Where's Venti?" You finally asked, your voice tinged with curiosity and slight raspiness. Your fingertips wandered over the skin of your forehead at the lingering kiss that had crossed it, a warmth spreading across your face before turning quickly glance at Amber.

Amber's expression shifted to one of confusion, her eyebrows quietly raising, "He wasn't there- Kaeya was the one who found you, [y/n], he brought you here."

You tried to explain the situation, recounting the events with the boy who had saved you. But as you spoke, you couldn't shake the feeling that your story was so fantastical, that it might as well have been a dream.

However, the sight on your desk that caught your eye—an exquisite Cecilia flower, its petals a vibrant shade of pale blue, sat in a small vase. You curiously reached out to touch it, your fingers warmly brushing against the delicate bloom.

"Kaeya found this near you," Amber continued carefully, her usually chipper voice softening as she saw the confusion lingering on your face before smoothly adjusting the plush pillow that resided underneath your back with a light laugh. "He had no idea where it could have come from."

You couldn't help but quietly smile, despite the surreal nature of the situation. You knew that Venti was far more than he appeared. He had saved you with a touch of magic, and now, with a single flower that remained blooming on the surface of your desk contently.

Though you couldn't explain the mysteries surrounding the boy, you felt a sense of gratitude and enchantment, he had woven a bit of magic into your world, and you couldn't wait to unravel the secrets he held, one Cecilia petal at a time.

a/n: i was considering making this a series or at least a pt 2 but i dunno hehe! it's kinda sloppy but pls enjoy! reblogs are appreciated! <3

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finniestoncrane · 1 year

Note

Dano riddler with overstim/orgasm delay? I want to make him cry

On the Edge

Dano!Riddler x GN!Reader, word count: 550 aw heck yeah anon i also want to make that little bitch cry and i think denying him what he wants most is the best way to do it lol 🐀💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: dacryphilia a lil bit, edging, bondage, tape, orgasm denial

His pathetic, muffled whines tingled along your ear canals, sparking your receptors, making your stomach tense, your skin immediately covered with excited gooseflesh. Turning to the chair, you tried to focus past the edges of the eyeholes in the mask you wore to view your captive audience. Bound to the chair by his wrists and ankles with duct tape and a pair of handcuffs, you watched Eddie struggle against the makeshift restraints. His body was tense, but his chest and his stomach rolls jiggled softly, beautifully as he pulled himself off, back arching to get closer to you. Before he could reach though, you pulled the bullet vibrator back further, just out of reach of his cock, which he thrust out desperately, trying to find the pleasure again.

You almost felt a pang of guilt as your gaze drifted down to the tent at the front of his off-white pants. The head of his cocked was pressed firm against the fabric, see-through from the precum that stained them. So close, he had been several times now, and each time you had cut him off just before he could reach the climax he was desperate for.

As he realised you were waiting for him to settle down, he sat his body still, chest heaving as he tried to calm his breath, cock twitching in anticipation. The amount of preparation and thought he put into his riddles, into his plans, had suggested to you that he might be a sucker for prolonged pleasure. A glutton for punishment. Someone who might appreciate the often underutilised joys of over-stimulation and repeated orgasm denial. But, surprising to you, Edward Nashton was apparently someone who wanted his pleasure instantaneously, at least where his orgasm was concerned.

His eyes pleaded with you, pupils dilated, pathetic and weeping with frustration as he stared into yours past his own mask. A delightful surprise you had saved for him until he was tied up and waiting for your entrance into the room. Finally ready to hear him out, you tore the duct tape from his lips quickly, painfully, and watched as he hissed through the pain, procuring for himself a smile that was wicked and enticing.

"What is it, Eddie?"

"I can't... I can't take any more... please... please can I...?"

"Please can you what?"

Staring up at your through his eyelashes, a soft pout placed strategically with his mouth, he begged.

"Please, please let me cum."

It was evident he was trying to manipulate you, putting on an air of weakness that he needn't bother forcing. Eddie's cheeks were wet with tears, his eyes sparkling with them. His cheeks were flushed and his fingers had begun to scratch away at the surface layer of paint on the arms of the chair. He was already in a state of complete and pathetic desperation, entirely at your will.

Bringing the vibrator back towards him, slowly, cruelly, you let it touch the weeping tip of his cock, which bounced against the restrictive fabric as he groaned.

"We'll see if you can last a little bit longer first, Eddie."

With a wail, he threw his head back, fingers clawing at the chair once more as he let out a wailing sob.

#finnie writes #riddler smut #fanfic #the riddler fanfic #riddler fanfic #riddler x reader #riddler x you #ridler scenario #dano riddler #dano!riddler #edward nashton #the riddler fanfiction #the riddler #paul dano #danonation

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shywhumpauthor · 1 year

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The Merry Whump of May—Day 19

“Apples and oranges.”

Chainsaw | Surprise | Home Base

Masterlist

Cw: murder, graphic description of death, filmed torture, dehumanization, humiliation, restraints, gagging, vomiting

Hero reeled back as a fist smashed into the side of their face, sparks of white crackling across their vision. Heat radiated from their jaw, nose, cheeks, blood dripping from shallow scrapes as bruises welted deep under their skin.

A sob, raw and painful clawed from their throat, tears mingling with the blood and dirt that painted their face, but their cries were muffled by the duct tape, wound tightly over their mouth and around the back of their head. Pulled tight enough that it would undoubtedly leave an indent even after it was removed.

“Come on, Hero, smile,” the Villain taunted, shoving their phone camera close to Hero’s face, grabbing their hair when the other tried to cower away. “Show everyone how fucking pathetic you are.”

The alley was dark and deserted, lit only with the faint glow of streetlights towards the mouth, but Villain had their flashlight on, focusing its directly on them. The light sent daggers shooting back through Hero’s skull, and they squeezed their eyes shut.

Villain let out a cruel laugh, their free hand drawing back before punching Hero hard in the stomach, practically giggling as they doubled over, gagging.

Bile stung their throat, but Hero was forced to swallow it back, lest they wish to choke on their own sick. They doubted Villain would save them if they did. They’d fucking stand there and video, laughing to the livestream as Hero suffocated.

With their hands bound behind them to the rungs of a fire escape, duct tape wound dozens of times around their wrists and forearms, their legs secured at the ankles and knees, there was nothing Hero could do except tuck their chin and try to curl away to protect their face.

“And you call yourself a hero. You’re fucking pathetic, you little bitch, you hear me?” Villain stood straight, the camera swaying as they brought up their leg before stomping down hard on the hero’s bound ankle. The scream was guttural, but it was lost to the gag as Hero heaved, fighting to breathe through their nose while the air refused to enter their lungs.

They were going to suffocate. They were going to die choking on their own blood tainted saliva, while this fucking bastard streamed it for the world to see.

They were a sick, fucked up asshole, Villain. A snake. They hadn’t won shit of a victory. Hero had spent the entire day chasing and fighting OtherVillain, by the time Villain had cornered them, they were already limping and too exhausted to flee in time. It had been a fucking cheap move, lower than a villain. At least people like OtherVillain earned their own fucking success, not steal someone else’s.

“You see, guys, this is what your fucking Hero is. Nothing but a crying coward,” Villain chuckled, their hand dropping to their belt, slipping into the small sheath that laid attached to it.

They weren’t even a fucking Villain. Barely. They hadn’t done crap—Hero had ended every single poorly planned scheme of theirs before it even started. This was just a matter of luck—or the fucking opposite—how they ended up in the same alley as the injured Hero.

Villain squatted down, the blade of their knife dragging down Hero’s chest, scraping the skin. Their uniform lay in less than tatters, the shredded, torn fabric barely hanging off their shoulders, the dark bruises that mottled Hero’s abdomen standing out starkly against the camera’s light.

“I say we leave them with a reminder, how ‘bout that. So they never forget this fucking moment,”

Hero sobbed, breath coming in short gasps through their nose that didn’t seem to draw in any oxygen. They turned their face away, digging their temple against the rungs of the ladder, the cold metal doing nothing to soothe their burning skin.

Villain brought their knife to Hero’s chest, setting the camera down for a second so they could saw away the last few threads of their shirt, leaving them bare and trembling. The night was cold, even colder with their sweating, flushed skin, and Hero let out a weak cry of protest as the knife touched just below their collarbone.

“Fucking watch me, Hero,” Villain demanded, twisting the camera to focus on Hero’s face. “Watch.”

Hero had been tortured before. Whipped and starved, left to hang and bend in the worst stress positions for hours. They’d been beaten and burned, denied water for days on end. They were no stranger to pain, but this, the humiliation adding a certain acid to the edge of the blade, was worse than anything. Blood poured down their chest, a waterfall of crimson opening down their front as Villain dragged the knife down, cutting deep into their skin. Hero couldn’t even scream as they continued, slowly and crudely carving away at their chest.

Fucking letters, Hero realized, the sickening truth dawning on them. Their vision was blurred with tears, distorted enough so they couldn’t even see Villain’s face, barely a foot from theirs. Villain split two jagged curves connecting to the first line, uneven with an intentional negligence behind their movements. They quickly split a second line next to the first, dragging it down nearly to Hero’s sternum.

Everything was spinning now, sensation lost to the terrible vertigo and nausea, world clouded with agony. Villain split two lines next, one vertical and the other horizontal, crossing against each other in the center of Hero’s chest.

The next letter was curved, Hero could feel as the blade slit their skin, and they knew exactly what it was being written in blood, the recording camera carving every humiliating, dehumanizing cut.

Villain didn’t have a chance to finish the fourth letter.

Their phone clattered to the ground, smacking loudly against the asphalt as they were yanked back by the collar of their shirt, thrown against the opposite wall with enough force to crack a skull.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” A low voice seethed. Hero blinked blearily, but they couldn’t get their vision to focus enough to make out more than two clouded figures in front of them.

“Wait- wait,” Villain gasped, every bit of arrogance fled their tone. “No- no stop, I didn’t mean- no-”

A sharp thud echoed around the alley accompanied by a mangled scream, closely followed by another thud, and then another.

A body dropped to the ground, and it was all quiet, except for Hero’s choking breaths.

“Oh, Hero,” The new arrival turned towards them, but Hero could make out nothing more than an outline as they stepped forwards and quickly knelt next to them, gloved hands raising to rip the tape away from their mouth. Strands of hair were wrenched along with it, skin stinging but Hero barely noticed as they gasped, straining for the first full breath, feeling the air rush through their lungs as if for the first time.

Something churned in their stomach, and they hunched to the side, and vomited.

They felt a hand against their back, pressing softly between their shoulder blades as another grabbed Villain’s discarded knife. Hero panicked for a second as they felt the metal, hot and slick with blood pressure to their wrists, but all the stranger did was slice away their bonds in one clean, sharp flick of their wrist, not even grazing skin.

“You’re alright, it’s alright, love,” the voice soothed softly, hand moving from their back to their face, cold fingers cupping their bruised cheek. Deep and calm, it was familiar, but Hero couldn’t make out their face yet. “Breathe, Hero. Deep breaths, you’ll be alright.”

Hero wasn’t comprehending the words, but between the gentle tone and the light touch, their heaving sobs settled back into gasps, then to shaking breaths. They blinked hard, vision clearing just enough so they could recognize the stranger.

When they did, their heart nearly stopped cold in their chest.

“That’s it, that’s right, Hero, you’re alright.” Supervillain murmured, their thumb brushing over Hero’s bruised cheekbone.

They weren’t. They weren’t alright. But their voice was so soothing, so compelling.

Once they had quieted, eyes barely managing to stay open, something thick and warm was draped over them. They barely had time to register what it was—a cape, made of fine, rich material—before they were picked up, an arm hooking beneath their knees and around their back, lifting them like nothing. Before they straightened fully, Supervillain grabbed something with their hand. They turned the phone’s camera, pointing it straight at the body crumpled across the alley, zooming in and pressing the screen to focus.

Villain was dead. Clearly dead. The back of their skull smashed in and split open, blood leaking from their nose and lips, eyes bulging slightly from their sockets. Dead.

“They’re not going to hurt you again,” Supervillain whispered to Hero, before letting the phone drop from their hands, crushing the screen beneath their boot. “No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

————————————————

@themerrywhumpofmay

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usafphantom2 · 6 months

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#953 SR -71 Flying around Edwards Air Force Base California area. The cross + on the SR was used to determine speed acceleration and rate of climb through a telescope. This airplane arrived ready for duty on October 21, 1965. Unfortunately, there was an accident in December 1969. Both crewmembers escaped safely, but the aircraft was not so lucky. After weeks of investigation, the result was that a rolled-up piece of duct tape was the cause of this accident.

About seven weeks into the investigation, a significant clue came up. To install the new Optical Bar Camera on 61-7953, engineers had to make new pitot-static lines because the old ones were in the way.

Inside one of these new lines, investigators found a rolled-up piece of duct tape. Possibly, makeshift dust plugs to keep the lines clean during their fabrication and forgotten there.

This static line fed the cockpit instruments but was not responsible for the MRS data. Since the tape did not wholly obstruct the line, the ground tests, which were leak tests, were normal. However, since the tape obstructed most of the line, all the pressure instruments took a long time to catch up after ambient pressure changed due to climb/descent.

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 6 months

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Teeth: Vampire!Hanzo Shimada x Reader

It was like your entire world halted when you saw what lay in the hands of his brother.

It felt as though the planet had stopped turning and physics had started to wreak havoc on your body while the entire world stayed the same. It was like you had been run over - by a car or a train, you couldn’t tell, you were just that horrified. You felt the pain crackle at your heart as though you had been stabbed, your nerves felt like they were lit on fire and drowned in an ice bath. Your eyes burned with unspilled tears, your vision hazy and mind foggy, you felt like you had just been punched in the stomach as the air had all been knocked out of your lungs. Your tongue felt so heavy in your mouth at just the thought of speaking.

Genji stood before you, shoulders once proudly raised now were slumped. His voice was usually so joyful had been dulled and quiet, you could hear the pain he was trying to swallow down climbing back up his throat. In his hands laid Hanzo’s jacket, the zipper broken with some teeth missing, the pockets torn at, the fabric ripped up like an animal had gotten to him.

It was all they could find after his mission turned sour. Talon had ambushed him and left not a single trace of where he was.

How could something like this happen? It was just supposed to be a simple scouting mission. How could something so simple and easy end up with your husband missing with only his torn jacket remaining where he once stood?

Your wedding band felt so heavy all of a sudden, halting you from raising your hands to take the jacket from Genji for a second. You don’t know what willed you into finally taking the jacket from the cyborg before you, but you managed to.

It only made the pain even worse.

It felt as though Genji had just dropped a barbell Reinhardt couldn’t lift directly into your hands. It almost took you down to your knees when you bunched the fabric in your hands until your knuckles turned white and you felt the air snapping out from under your joints.

You tried not to cry, you really did, especially in front of your brother-in-law who was already on the verge of doing so himself. But the longer you stood there holding his jacket, the harder it became to not just drop to your knees and wail and sob in the doorway to your quarters you shared with your now missing - and possibly dead - husband.

Time had passed, Genji had left to give you space, noting that Angela would stop by soon to check up on you.

You had buried yourself in your bed, Hanzo’s tattered jacket still held in your vice-like grip as you drowned yourself in the blankets and your own tears. You wailed, not that anyone could ever blame you, for what seemed like hours. Even when your tear ducts ran dry and you were left hiccuping and sniffling into your pillow, you still whimpered and sobbed softly into your empty bedroom.

The only reprieve you had to cut off the sobs was when you would pull his jacket to your nose or when you would bury your face into his pillow, inhaling the clean scent of his cologne. It took off some of the edge, but it never lasted as you lay there miserable, rotting away in your bed.

Your eyes felt so horribly dry, it felt as though your eyelids had been replaced with sheets of sandpaper, scratching away at your poor irises whenever you blinked. Your poor eyes were so tired, your eyelids lazily opening and closing but refused to stay shut for long. You stared at the alarm clock facing the bed, the big angry red numbers told you that it was way past midnight, taunting you to get some sleep as you’ve neglected to do so for the past week you’d been moping around in bed. Staring at the numbers hurt your head but not staring at them quickly reminded you of why you were like this as Hanzo’s stuff still laid around in the quarters with his jacket still with you. The poor thing was practically worn scentless, or at least you had gone nose-blind to his scent already. Half of it was crushed underneath your weight while one of your hands was firmly wrapped around the collar. You always had a grip on the thing, refusing to let it go for long as though you were afraid it would vanish from existence if you so much as took your eyes off of it.

You watched as the seconds ticked by, watched the colons blinking, watched as the minutes ticked up. In just a few hours it would blare a nasty siren to wake you up and hurt your poor pounding head once again.

Your eyes fluttered, finally starting to feel the pull at the corners of your eyes as sleep had started to claw at the back of your head. You felt heavy all over, finally feeling your body relax into the warm bed just as you finally shut your eyes. You felt your body finally shut down as you drifted off into another dreamless slumber.

Only for your eyes to snap open as you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up. You felt a breeze but heard no sound, a chill wracking down your body hard enough to make you sit up in bed. Your exhausted eyes trailed across the room only to land on your open window with the curtains drawn and flowing in the light summer breeze. Hadn’t you closed those windows the second Angela left you alone earlier?

You felt uneasy still, even as you stood up from the bed on wobbly legs and trekked over to the window. You pulled it shut and made sure to lock it.

Before you could turn around to start back to your bed, you felt a presence behind you; Large and looming and powerful, you felt like you were being watched by a predator. An icy chill ran down your spine as the presence grew closer before stopping right behind you. You felt your blood starting to boil from fear. Was it real? Or was this some sick game your mind was playing on you? Or was it real and someone had just snuck into your room?

You balled your fist and quickly turning around, swinging your hand. Your knuckles stung as they collided with whoever it was, your hand connecting with the intruder before your eyes did. Their entire body was obscured from the darkness, but you could tell they were indeed large and looming behind you, your punch didn’t seem to phase them. Instead, they snatched at your wrists and pinned you to the wall beside the window as you fought against them. You cried, you cursed, you screamed through grit teeth before your back was pressed firmly against the wall.

“(Y/n)!” the voice snarled at you.

You froze, breath hitching in your throat as tears spilled tracks down your cheeks again. You still couldn’t make out shit from how blurry your vision was, but you could make out those two eyes staring right into you, burning a hole into your mind that you would see in your darkest nightmares.

Red.

Their eyes were red, cutting through the dark and looking right into your soul. The whites of the eyes were an even darker red, only making the irises stand out as their pupil were so small and dark.

Your vision had started to clear up, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You could make out the dark hair and the broad shoulders and-

The dual dragon tattoo running down his left arm.

“Hanzo?” your voice was but a whisper, but it reached his ears with no problem.

His grip on your wrists loosened, his shoulders lost their threatened stance, his body became less tense. He finally let go of you, stepping back slightly to allow you to move away from the wall. You just looked up at him, starstruck, eyes wide as tears prickled at the corners. His eyes were still haunting, those red orbs looking right through you as you stood there just staring at him.

“(Y/n), my love, I-”

You cut him off by wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing yourself firmly against him. It was like your world had started spinning again, your heart fluttered in your ears, you suddenly felt warm again as tears of joy dripped down your cheeks. Hanzo’s hands found your waist, wrapping tightly around as he brought his forehead down to connect with yours. Your noses brushed against each others, your breath ghosting over his lip, his beard scratching lightly at your skin before you both kissed.

Eyes fluttering closed, one of your hands climbed up to card into his messy hair. Hanzo’s strong hands snatched at your shirt, twisting the soft material around in his iron-like grip. He snarled into the kiss as you tugged at his hair only for you to jump and whimper as something sharp stung your bottom lip. You pulled away, the taste of pennies barely lingered in your mouth as you caught a glimpse of something in Hanzo’s mouth. He looked so ashamed, pulling away when your other hand came up to caress his face before he finally let you push up his top lip with your thumb, revealing was just cut at your mouth.

Fangs. His canine teeth were sharp and long and glistened in the night.

“Hanzo,” you whispered to him.

You knew what they did. You knew what they turned him into. You didn’t need it spelled out for you. He pulled away, his grip loosened on your back. He looked so ashamed of himself for even kissing you. He tried to pull away more but your grip on him didn’t falter. He hated how you looked at him with those eyes, hated how you kissed him, hated how you weren’t freaking out right now.

He was a fucking vampire and you weren’t terrified of him.

#overwatch #hanzo shimada #hanzo x reader #vampire!hanzo #vampire!hanzo shimada

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