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nanamiskentos · 3 months ago

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SCORCHED EARTH ✤ (五条悟, gojo satoru)

── NO GOD, THE ONLY MAN IN THE SKY IS ME. Gojo Satoru is the nation's treasure, and its most dangerous asset. In a world where Supes are lauded as celebrities and heroes, there's only a select few that sees superheroes for what they really are ─ cogs in the propaganda machine, corrupt and lecherous. You're determined to hunt down the golden boy that leads them, to find Gojo Satoru and bring him down. But he's just as obsessed with you, and he gets to you first.

➤ 𝐉𝐉𝐊, gojo satoru & afab!reader, wc ─ 5k

cw ─ MDNI. enemies to lovers, THE BOYS AU, love/hate sex, HOMELANDER GOJO 😁, superhero au, cat & mouse dynamics, vigilante!reader, evil!gojo to some extent, mentions of a plane crash to be safe, kitchen sèx, breaking n' entering but they're into that, súb!gojo if u squint, fíngèring, òral (f), usage of powers, 3x01 homelander/butcher inspired, BIG DÍCK GOJO!!

呪術廻戦 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ( author says ) s/o to the evil man who inspired the gojo in this fic. and these scenes: 1/2 ofc (i'd rec watching to understand who reader/gojo is also inspired by). art, gojouify.

A ballpoint cap balances between your teeth as you scribble furiously, blue ink streaking across a spare napkin. The address is way too far out, a shipping container, two hours away and tucked into the skeletal maze of the port.

"This is a long drive for a maybe." You press the phone tighter against your ear, frowning at the scrawled numbers and letters, "You're sure I'll find something?"

On the other end, Nanami exhales sharply, the sound of a clock ticking faintly over the static. He's still in the office, no doubt hunched over a desk lit by the sickly glow of a desk lamp.

"Well," he hedges, ever the careful one, "I wouldn't go alone."

You tip your chair back, gaze drifting to the chaotic sprawl of files pinned to the red-string board by the wall. Photographs, names, offshore accounts that all lead back to the same festering rot. Lawmakers, politicians and billionaires.

The smiling, all-powerful titans who owned the system that was supposed to hold them accountable.

At the centre of it all? Gojo Satoru. The strongest superhero that the world had ever seen, barely held in check by Vought and international courts.

You chew at the soft inside of your cheek, "And you're sure this is the best lead we have?"

"After that shitshow at Congress?" Nanami sounds tired, stretched far too thin, "This is the only lead we have, or the only thing that I can find right now."

Ah, yes. The hearing.

The day you almost had them — Gojo, Vought and every polished, pre-packaged lie they peddled. A smoking gun to set the set the system ablaze.

And then, you could only watch the live television stream as every key witness's head popped like a balloon. Blood spraying against mahagony desks, gray matter splattered across the Capitol.

And not many had managed to escape that room unscathed. Save for a select few politicians and reporters, dealing out breathless, shaken interviews alongside an unshaken Gojo Satoru and Congressmen Geto.

You exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around the napkin, "Yeah, I'll check it out. See if I can find somethin' to nail that cunt."

"Let me know what you find," Nanami intones, a pause. And then, in a far more cautious tone, like he already knows you won't take heed, "Stay safe. And if you do come across Gojo, do not engage with him. In any way."

The line clicks dead.

You toss the streaky pen aside, reaching instead for the amber bottle on the cluttered table, the burn of whisky that's begging to be made familiar once more.

Regardless, it's far too late now to head out and check the address, for night has fallen and you doubt you'll manage to get far.

Beyond the murky glass of your balcony doors, the city pulses with sleepless energy. Neon signs flickering like dying embers, billboards — no doubt plastered with the airbrushed faces of the Supes who run this nation.

Sirens wail in the distance, and somewhere, far beyond the skyline you swear you see it.

A streak of white and blue, fast as lightning, splitting the sky for a fraction of a second. You blink, gummy and dry, nothing. Just the tired hallucinations of an exhausted, paranoid mind.

Pretending that there isn't a ghost in the sky watching you right back.

Your apartment is dying.

The walls peel like old skin, flaking onto the floors that were never properly finished. The overhead light's flickering, buzzing with a weak and dying hum. And the power outlets sputter like they resent being used. It's not a home, it never really was. Just another hideout, another temporary grave you haven't had to lie down in yet.

You press your knuckles into your eyes, willing the exhaustion away, but it sits heavy in your bones. Haven't you been running long enough? But even now, even here, you know it's not enough.

Because he knows. Gojo Satoru must have caught onto your trail months ago, and you can feel it in the way that the law often seems to let you go, and nation-wide manhunts culminate in no harm done. Like Gojo's toying with you.

Your fingers skim over the mess of papers on the table, stopping beneath a stack of unpaid bills and flyers. A small USB drive, wrapped in blue and silver.

Ah. Flight 37, a transatlantic flight carrying 123 passangers that never managed to land safely. But a goldmine had been fished out the torn wreckage, a shaky video clip that held proof of what Gojo Satoru truly was.

Not a saviour, not a hero. Not the golden boy that was worshipped on screens, talk shows and the international stage of diplomacy.

There's a prickling sensation under your skin, a slow burn that crawls up your arms. Then, it sinks deeper, heat. Your stomach clenches, cramping up as nausea slams into you like a freight train, your head spinning, your vision pulsing black at the edges.

You stumble, dropping the USB on the table as desparate fingers gripping the kitchen counter to stay upright. But you recognise the blisters blooming on the pads of your fingers, slow and ugly welts that bloom like flowers of rot.

This is no wayward sickness, for you would recognise the familiar decay of radioactive exposure. Something that's not quite human, or mortal.

Your blood turns to ice. Hold tightening around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the cheap laminate. Slowly, carefully, you approach the balcony.

The terracotta curtains are coarse under your fingers as you pull them aside. The city beyond is still alive, cars streaking through wet pavements and lights beaming in the smog. But it all feels muted.

Standing on the ledge, hands folded neatly behind his back, Gojo Satoru.

Your breath stutters as you force yourself to inhale, exhale. Slow and steady, through your nose. Whatever sick ploy he's radiating, you know it's simply meant to shake you. A twisted power play on his end.

So you hold your ground, and after a moment, the nausea ebbs. The blisters on your fingertips sealing over, cells stitching the edges of your frayed flesh back together.

You've never seen Gojo out of that deep blue suit, never without the brass eagles that pin the ridiculous cape over his broad back. Most heroes at least pretend to be human, some charade that they cling to for the chance of a secret life, away from the eyes of the press and the authorities. Supes often put on disguises, and casual clothes, something to blend in with the mortals that they claim to protect.

But Gojo?

There's no separation, no mask nor pretense. He doesn't walk among mortal men, he hovers above them. There's no separating him from the brutal power he wields — capable of striking a laser through a man's skull, or razing a city to rubble. Just a god with a PR-approved script, and the power to carve regimes into ribbons.

And yet, aren't you still standing?

If the strongest wanted you dead, he would have made a spectacle of it. Blood and fireworks for the evening news, another death used as collateral propaganda so the masses can thank him. That's the only mercy that Gojo knows.

You school your features, masking the instinct to flee. Or toss a plastic chair at his face. Gojo is akin to a hungry shark, and fear is blood in the water. You know that the safest way to deal with him is sheer indifference. If you give him nothing, he has nothing to bite or feast on.

You tilt your head, resting your weight against the large window as you pry it open. Letting the night air seep in, cold pricking at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the chill that Gojo's already dragged in with him.

He's staring. The blindfold is gone, and those impossible blue eyes fix on you, as though they're trying carve a jagged cut straight your ribcage — his handsome features stilled to stone.

You arch a brow, "If you're here to watch me get off, it'll cost you a tenner."

A beat of silence. And then, the smallest flicker of something that isn't amusement, but not quite irritation. Gojo doesn't rise to the bait, but his brow ticks up. The barest movement, as though he's debating whether or not to indulge you.

Jaw twitching as though Gojo seems to chew his words, slow and measured, "May I come in?"

You stare at him, gaze sweeping up and down, almost against your will. The way his suit hugs his body, emphasising the unfair curve of his chest, the sharp lines of Gojo's muscles, the tensions in the fabric as it stretches taut over skin. Eyes falling to the strand of white hair that flutters across his face, swaying in the night's breeze. Absurdly perfect, as if he's crafted from some celestial ideal.

But you refuse to indulge him, pressing your lips together tightly, not even a flicker of acknowledgement to the fact that he's standing on your balcony like he owns the damn place. Slowly, you step aside from the window, taking the invitation. Gojo doesn't need permission, but you give it anyway.

As Gojo sweeps past, your eyes linger on the sharp strands of his undercut, the delicate sweep of his hair, so pale it almost looks unreal. But you can see his nose wrinkle, disgust painted across his fine features as electric eyes skim the clutter of your apartment. The peeling walls, the cracked appliances, the mess of papers strewn across your table.

Gojo stops at the red string board, his gaze lingering on the photos and notes that have been painstakingly pinned up, and you see his mouth twitch. As though he's amused by your conspiracy, your obsession, your silent war.

"It's really always about me, isn't it?" Gojo's tone carries the faintest edge of mockery, that damn entertained smile curling the corners of his petal-pink lips.

Your jaw tightens, a flash of anger rearing up inside you. You tear your gaze away from him, "Why are you here? Got no-one to fuckin' torture over at Vought?"

Gojo sighs, almost theatrically, and he's puffing his cheeks out. As though he's bored, like this is a mild inconvenience for him, "So, you're going on a trip tomorrow, huh?"

You track his gaze to the napkin still resting on the table, the address scribbled carelessly across its surface, "What's it to you?" Hoping that your voice is level, and as neutral as it can get.

Gojo Satoru doesn't quite answer immediately. Instead, he pulls off those thick blue gloves, one finger at a time. His hands are oddly elegant, but you know just how capable they are of ending a life in a second, how capable they are of tearing a throat out without breaking a sweat. The very same hands now tuck the gloves into the bronze-metal band of his belt with an almost unsettling level of care.

"Well, I'm just hurt you're going somewhere without me," Gojo quips slyly, "We could have had ourselves a little road trip, sweetheart. Thelma and Louise on the open road, eh?"

You don't say anything, although you're dying to mention how Thelma & Louise ends. Gojo just rolls his searing-blue eyes skywards dramatically, as though he's used to your stubborn attitude.

"Y'know, I could jus' pull you apart, limb by limb," Gojo tacks on casually, "Make you tell me where you're going."

You can feel the tension in your gut tighten, but you refuse to let the Supe catch onto it, although you have no doubt that his superhuman senses can hear the beat of your heart pumping, every hitch in your breath.

"Nah," you bite back, "That'd be worthless. Victim always goes into shock. You gotta' start small. Fingers, nails, ears..." Your voice trails off, calling Gojo's bluff, forcing your words out as if the prospect doesn't shake you.

Gojo's vibrant, jewel-tone stare doesn't break, but the amusement in his eyes sharpens like iron against a whetstone. "It could be a matter of national security, you know," he murmurs, "I have a duty to protect his nation, to weed out any enemies of the state."

You huff in weary, mock exasperation, dragging a hand over your chin in faux-contemplation, "Look, uh, I don't mean to be rude, but can we just skip to the part where you laser my fuckin' brains out?"

Gojo just swears under his breath, "Oh, for fuck's sake," he's muttering, side-stepping around your rickety table, stepping closer as an almost fond smile tugs at his lips, "Where's the fun in that? Come on, look at ya'. It'd be like putting down a wounded dog?"

You don't flinch, you refuse the possibility. But there's that pulse of heat, low in your spine, when Gojo leans into your space. An electric storm about to crack wide as he studies you, eyes falling to the table where your cards are laid out blatantly, and you jolt. Remembering the innocuous little thing, that USB. The one that could very well be his undoing.

"What do you have on me, doll?" Gojo drawls, his voice smooth and untempered, towering over you like an impossibly magnetic force. You hold your ground as his eyes widen, "You do have something, I presume?"

With slow precision (and trembling fingers), you lift the USB, dangling it between your nails as Gojo's eyes flicker for a split second. Amused smile slipping just enough to show something that's less calculated. As though he knows what you grasp, what you're capable of.

Gojo's expression hardens for a split moment, blush-pink lips parted as he watches you, drinks in the sight of you gredily. All before cold steels locks into place once more, his demeanour laced with something far more callous, like a man cornered who knows exactly how to strike back.

"Go ahead. Release it," Gojo steps closer, until you can feel his breath against your skin, and you catch the tang of iron and clean, expensive leather. "Let's light this candle, huh? I mean, sure, I'll lose everything, doll. But then, I'll have nothin' to lose." His voice is quiet, but there's unmistakable malice beneath it.

"First, I'll take out the nerve centres. The seat of the government, the High Courts. Then, any domestic defense capabilities. Critical infrastructure, cellular, Internet, all of it. And then?" Gojo pauses, teeth catching onto the plush flesh of his lower lip.

"Then, I'll just wipe this city right off the fuckin' map, for fun," Gojo adds, a dark smile curling at the edges of his lips, "Hell, I'll throw in that little town your friend's from. Kento, right? Nanami, from the office? Because, why not?"

Gojo's lips brush the shell of your ear, and you resist the urge to shiver, locking your eyes with his own defiantly, venomously as he continues, "See, sweetheart, I'd prefer to be loved. Y'know, as the strongest, I really would. But if you take that away from me? Well, being feared is A-one, okey-doke by me."

Gojo wants you to challenge him, to hear you break the silence with something other than terror, "So, doll," he murmurs, practically cooing, "Go ahead. Do it." His lips curl, sharp fangs poking out from his glossy, red mouth, "No? You don't wanna? Well, then, I'd say you have absolutely no fuckin' leverage. Because I am the strongest, and I can really do whatever the fuck I want."

You blink angrily, breath catching as Gojo watches you with an almost affection gleam in his eyes. As though he's enjoying this, this sparring match where he's got you pinned. So you swallow thickly, and deep down, you know he's right.

Gojo Satoru is unstoppable. He could easily turn on the world that worships him, props him up, and there's nothing anyone could do about it. No nuclear treaty, no tank nor fighter jet could stand a chance against Unlimited Void or Hollow Purple.

There's no undoing the seams and stitches that hold Gojo together. None, apart from...

Your eyes flicker downwards, instinctively, to the thick curve that bulges through the tight suit he dons. That mouth-watering, delicious bulge that's packed, and if Gojo steps any closer, it would jostle against your thigh.

You inch closer, smoothly, grasping at the stray strand of ice-white hair to tuck it behind Gojo's ears. His expression widening, raw and open for a split second as he shivers, purrs.

"Say I call your bluff, Gojo," you say coolly, "What are you gonna' do, right here, right now?" Your hand trails away from his ear, brushing the high, stiff collar of his suit. Fingers gently pressing into the warm flesh of his neck. You feel his pulse jump under your touch, staccato beats that hiccup along.

And you could have sworn that Gojo breathes out a gentle sigh, lips parting around the words, "Finally."

But his cerulean eyes are narrowed, jaw still clenched, as though he's trying to figure out your angle. Now, he truly does push closer to you so that packed curve brushes against your thigh. And it's big, larger-than-life, like everything about Gojo Satoru is.

Fuck this, you shake your head, as though you're tossing away your rationality. Reaching up to thread your fingers through soft, white hair. Pulling Gojo closer as he groans, closing the distance. Lips crashing against your own, forceful and desperate.

You can feel Gojo freeze, stutter as he seems to work through his shock. But then, something irrevocably shifts in him. Ocean-blue eyes fluttering close, so white lashes kiss his creamy skin. A large hand gripping at your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

It's rough, and messy — and your tongue lingers on the taste of something like espresso, and sweet, sugar syrup to boot. The creamy taste of Gojo Satoru that lingers on your tongue and makes your mouth water.

"Tch', you –" Gojo murmurs, as though all the air in the world has been stolen from his lungs, "You jus' don't k-know how long I've wanted this. Ever since you, heh, fired that bullet at me when we first met."

His tone is erratic, large hands splayed against the small of your back, pushing you further against the kitchen counter.

"That shit went right through ya' head," you breathe, struggling to stay steady against the hard plane of Gojo's form, the muscles curling into you, "Didn't do a fuckin' thing."

Gojo's giggling, giggling as though he's already drunk on your touch, so utterly dangerous. Tugging at your top, fingers spread wide over the curve of your chest. Flicking at the sharp peaks of your nipples, "Waste of a perfectly good round, eh, doll?"

The tips of Gojo's ears are a searing shade of crimson, as he's pulling and toying with your clothes. You have never, ever in your wildest and most illicit fantasies imagined Gojo Satoru like this.

You've never pictured him so obedient, so desperate to meld into your hold. Bright blue eyes glazed over, filmy and hazy as his cheeks are mottled pink.

The most dangerous man in the entire world (or so you'd wager) has you firm against the cracking plastic of your counter, with his lips finding home on whatever skin he can find. Kissing, bruising, sucking at the tender flesh in a way that you know will leave blooming marks.

"C-can I?" Gojo pleads, as though he hasn't spent a lifetime whispering quiet threats into your ear, but now his large hand is softly pressed against the back of your neck.

Slick-strands falling from his lips as he sips at your taste, sucking gently on your tongue.

He kisses you firmly with such force that it leaves you dizzy, and the way he strokes at your cheek with a bruised knuckle is far too tender for a man who's practically a walking, ticking bomb.

He's roughly cupping your tits, kneading at the soft fat and flesh, "Hah, pretty, aren'tcha?" Strands of snow-white hair tickling at your neck as Gojo leans his head down, wrapping his lips around your nipple, lickin' and sucking wherever he can reach.

You arch your spine, pulling Gojo even closer. Grinding your clothed core right up against the hard length taut in that damned suit. Feeling every inch brush up against you.

"F-fuck," Gojo murmurs, slurring out babble and praise out through his kiss-swollen lips. You're slowly rocking your hips back and forth, unintentionally honestly, but you're desperate for some friction to relieve the ache that's blooming within your searing groin.

The pads of his fingers are tilting your jaw at the perfect angle, swollen lips sticky against yours, "Just like that," Gojo grunts, running his pink tongue over the kiss-bitten flesh of your own mouth, "N-not so mouthy now, are we?"

But then, because you think Gojo Satoru is unable to go even a second without antagonising you, the white-haired man is lifting his head. Glossy eyes tearing over your apartment as he pulls an unimpressed face, "Damn, this place is kinda' a dump. You really live like this?"

Your fingers latch onto the stray strands on his head, bucking your hips into his bulge harsher, "Says the cunt who made me a fugitive."

Gojo shakes his head, making a faint pshh, dismissive sound as he scoops you up, biceps not even curling to strain as he roughly stomps towards your meagre, thin bed. Laying you flat on the flat mattress as he rumples the waistband of your pants, hooking his thumb underneath the fabric.

You don't even realise it at first, but you're admiring those razor-sharp, strikingly handsome features. Watching as Gojo tugs at his cape, rough and coarse until the fabric tears away from his shoulder plates — until the azure stars and stripes end up on the wooden floor discarded.

"So, doll, how exactly do ya' want me? " Gojo titters, gently pulling a finger into the flimsy cotton of your panties. You can see his nose twitch, eyes flutter shut for a split second as he visibly reels from the messy, filthy slick pooling under his nails. You can only groan, arching at the sudden stimulation as he begins to crook his fingers faster against your folds.

You suddenly pull your thighs taut together, clenching the flesh to trap his hand, "Taste me, Gojo." Breath shuddering as Gojo's fingers suddenly still, ice-blue eyes blown wide at your gall to give him a command.

But he's always been an excellent soldier, hasn't he? Because he seems to be moving on autopilot, pulling his dripping fingers away and gently lolling his tongue on your translucent sheen, "Hah, I can't believe you're g-giving me orders." Gojo almost whimpers at your sweet tang, desperate to have your pussy drool into his waiting mouth.

"M-more, can you – oh, fuck," You inhale sharply, feeling Gojo's fingers imprint on your thighs, firmly spreading your legs apart so he can shuffle further back, his breath moist against your wet cunt, "Heh, never thought you'd ever be like this."

Gojo gives you a flat look, the underside of his eyes crinkling as he stares at you, "Don't get used to t-this." He's grumbling, but his eyes are blown wide, tongue darting out of his mouth to catch a stray drop of your precious arousal dribbling down your inner thigh, "It's just 'cause –"

You don't give his smart-alec mouth time to formulate any words, groaning as you pull at the thick, soft and tousled strands of white hair. Letting the tip of his sharp nose nudge against your clit as Gojo suddenly muffles a desparate, thirst-laden whine, "Mhm, mhm, fuck!"

"Yeah, y-yeah," You breathe, sighing in relief as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, laving thickly at the glossy folds that he's desperate to munch at, "That's what I thought."

Stifled sounds prick at your ears, a mantra of words falling from Gojo's mouth, something that sounds suspiciously like "Thank you, t-thank you, thank —." The strongest man in the entire world losing his mind, so grateful to wrap his lips against your swollen bud, your throbbing clit as he sucks. Hard.

Your walls clench suddenly, and you can feel the tip of Gojo's tongue prod at your entrance. That length somehow managing to render you gummy, dazed and speechless as he pushes the wet muscle into your cunt, "Ah, ahh, 'Toru, please."

Nothing prepares you for how Gojo's long, slender fingers come to slap at your pussy. Lengthy digits pistoning right into your tender, sensitive walls as he's eager to curve and search for that sweet spot that will make you scream, "What'dya call me, sweets? 'Toru?"

Gojo's looking up at you, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his expression was almost shy. Those eyes, blue like the core of a searing star, like something inhuman was barely contained and desperate to break free. There's something eerie about how bright they are, how they seem to glow even in the dim, murky light of your apartment.

There's glossy, snapping strands of Gojo's new favourite thirst-quencher falling from his lips as he laps at you. Long lashes fluttering against high cheekbones as there's a slight sheen of exertion beading at his temple, "If, if I had known that all I had to do to shut ya' up was eat you out, then —" Gojo whistles low, the vibrations echoing through your cunt, "Woulda' drank this pussy a longgg time ago."

You buck your hips against his nose, canting against his shapely nose bridge, "Don't get c-cocky." Seems that Gojo's just that desperate for you to boss him around, because he's already turning his attention and bratty mouth back to your cunt, licking you right up until he's certain you're seeing stars.

He's still got his suit on, broad-shoulders snugly wrapped in the textured fabric. Sculpting over his bicep even as he draws you even closer, until he's face to face with his new, second favourite girl. With you being his number #1, of course, Gojo isn't afraid to admit that you plotting to kill him has turned him on immensely over the years.

The idea of you planting your thighs around his head 'til he's devoid of air has had him pulling and jerking at his cock, whimpering until he was shooting blanks.

"Come on," and Gojo's snickering at his own play on words, "Or s-should I say c-cum on." Smacking his lips filthily against your folds, fingers pushing at your clit and rubbing furious circles over and over again until you feel the world go blank, and you're star-struck.

Gojo's whispering sweet nothings, adoring praise into your cunt as you ride out your high against his face, "Pretty girl, s-so good for me, heh. Think 'm fuckin' addicted."

You're already lazily pulling yourself up, propping yourself back on your elbows as you take in the sight of a teary-eyed Gojo Satoru. You watch as he pulls himself up, frame towering over you in the flimsy bed as he tugs and paws at the thick, firm bulge in his suit. Now darkened with a translucent patch of his release.

Gojo's fisting his hand over his cock in some ineffective form of relief, "Wanna' show you, g-gorgeous, wanna' show you how the strongest fucks."

But then, his eyes are looking up, wide and superhuman. Searing blue that lights up the dim room like a torch, and it's only then you notice that the lightbulb that once precariously teetered from your ceiling has shattered, and there's a crack in the large window that you swore you've never seen before.

And clutched within Gojo Satoru's fingers, shards of silver metal and blue chips. Fuck, that hag, that doped-up cunt must have had that USB clenched between his fingers the entire time, swiping it off the table when you pulled him in.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," Gojo scoffs, pulling out a cock that beams with an angry, red mushroom tip. Thick spurts of cum already clinging to the slit as he hisses, and your thighs clench in anticipation of the delicious split, "I got something b-better for you right here."

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk #jjk fic #gojo satoru #homelander #the boys #jujutsu kaisen #daphworks #jjk x y/n #gojo x y/n

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kedsandtubesocks · 2 months ago

Text

Born Again

Priest!Joel Miller x F!Demon Reader

summary: you want the handsome priest more than anything, he wants you gone…but what transpires between you & him is either a curse sent straight from hell (or a twisted blessing in disguise)

word count: 5.9k

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. dark themes. no outbreak/modern AU, enemies to lovers, Catholicism themes & imagery, multiple character deaths & discussion of death, heavy priest kink, blasphemy & corruption kink, morally gray!Joel, morally gray!reader, unspecific age gap (Joel is in his 50’s & older than reader), biting & blood drinking, moments of violence, manhandling, blood imagery, unprotected p in v, oral (f & m), finger sucking, major yearning & angst, protective!Joel, use of gendered language, hint of bi!reader, one use of “good girl,” reader addresses Joel as “old man”

a/n: This is my entry for @pedgito SpringFever25 [cemetery + supernatural] please be aware of the warnings - this fic I know won’t be everyone’s cup of tea & I kindly ask if it isn’t please scroll away! Divider credit & thanks goes to the wonderful @saradika-graphics

St. Jude’s church is quaint, rather simple. A coziness inside reflects its small Texas community that sits on the outskirts of Travis County. Beautiful stained glass windows line the walls illuminating the space.

The opening hymnal starts, and you sing the songs like you care. Then your eyes are drawn forward as your prey arrives.

The priest moves around the altar, readying himself for the mass. The cream and purple ecclesiastical robes paint him a holy shepherd of his flock.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…” He makes the sign of the cross deep with an accented twang, and your lips twitch.

You never would’ve expected such a rich southern voice to leave a pastor. Then again, this man doesn’t seem like an ordinary priest.

Father Joel Miller is rugged, reminding you more of an outlaw wearing a costume. The stern look on his handsome face seals a gruff nature to him. Yet you’ve seen his soft heart when the congregation flocks to him after mass finishes.

Many in the church lust after him. You can sense it. Even if it wasn’t in your nature, it’s hard to miss the multiple women during the service batting their eyes and wearing rather revealing tops that would make a nun faint.

You aren’t the only one who wants this man. But, maybe you might be the only one who wants to devour this man’s soul.

As a demon of lust, you’ve always wondered what it would taste like to indulge with a man of the cloth.

And Joel is your perfect target.

This priest has been challenging. Unlike other humans, you haven’t been able to read his desires.

You wandered into this town a few months ago and settled in effortlessly. This church called to you like a siren’s song. The amount of carnal desire seeping out begged for you to feast, made your mouth water. Then you saw the reason why.

Currently Father Joel focuses on preparing the eucharist, his brow heavily furrowed and meditative in prayer.

Distinguished in his age, scruffy beard, strong nose, gorgeous eyes - it’s unbearable witnessing a man like him waste under the holy robes. A bitter taste fills your mouth just thinking about it.

After the service, the church opens their food drive pantry for the weekly breakfast to serve those in the community who need a meal.

It’s your first time joining.

Originally, you had planned to lurk, slowly get accustomed to being around holy ground until finally working up the strength to pounce.

But of course, being a new face in a small church, you were singled out immediately.

You shared a fake sob story about how you were searching for God. Multiple parishioners immediately took you under their wing, even dragged you to bible study. Unfortunately they’ve now roped you into helping out with the event today. But, you view it as a step closer to your handsome goal.

Except the hot priest doesn’t give you a second glance.

You try everything to be in his eyesight, purposefully being extra disgustingly holy and helping out.

Even one of the deacons compliments you.

“A young woman such as yourself taking the time on a Sunday to do this? You’re a fine example.” Deacon Matthews beams at you proudly.

Yet Father Joel ignores you, not once acknowledging your presence.

It pisses you off. Annoyed, you’re sent back to the pantry at the rectory building to put away the plates. In the quiet storage room, heavy footsteps approach behind.

You turn around -

Whatever words you want to say die in your throat.

Father Joel stands in the doorway, staring furious. This is it, your chance. An unbearable excitement bubbles in you.

“Oh, Father! I’ve been meaning to-”

Your words get cut off immediately when the priest raises up a small crucifix, clutching it painfully tight in his grasp. He remains silent.

“Wait, what’s wrong?” You’re slightly confused and glad it leaks into your voice.

“I know what ya are…” his voice rumbles low and deadly.

“God damned creature of sin, I cast you out.” He spits the words seeping with venom.

A sharp pain strikes straight into your chest as if a lightning bolt just struck you. Your eyes sting. A distorted screeching noise, an internal alarm, roars in your ears while an animalistic panic claws across your skin.

You recognize this feeling.

Once after you had slept with a nun and devoured her soul, her hellbent convent quickly found you. The head mother superior, instead of a cross, raised a rosary at you. She spoke similar words to what this priest just said, invoking the same reaction you feel now.

Everything clicks.

You bark a laugh, shaking the sensation away, and look the priest dead in the eye.

“So…You’re an exorcist, huh?” You grin surprised, borderline gleeful.

This is going to be fun.

—

You show up to mass next Sunday, walking prouder than ever entering St. Jude’s church.

Joel murderously glares at you any chance he can. You get tempted to blow a mocking kiss at him during communion.

After mass, you even stay to wish him well. The priest keeps silent, doesn’t even shake your hand. Just nods politely knowing others are around watching.

“Oh what did you do to make Father Joel look at you like that?” One of the sweet grandmothers from bible study jests with you.

“Wait, I thought he always looked like that?” You joke back. The older woman laughs, swatting your arm.

“He’s quite grumpy at first.” She nods. “But after what he went through, I don’t blame him.”

That peaks your interest instantly.

You want to ask more, see what gossip she could spill. But the woman leaves too soon with her husband, and you’re left more curious than ever.

You’re about to leave and slink back into the shadows. Until a hard hand yanks at your arm, stopping you.

Stunned, you find Joel frowning with pure malice.

His touch sparks an immediate reaction. An electric chill runs up your spin. As strong as you are, you can admit, this man must be incredibly formidable to hold such blessed power. He could burn you alive.

“If you’re going to grab me this hard, at least take me to dinner first.” You scoff.

He doesn’t say anything but drags you to a secluded area alongside the shadow of the church. He’s alarmingly strong.

“How the fuck are ya even here?” The priest snarls.

The guy knows his stuff. Normally your kind doesn't last long around churches, especially when a mass is happening.

But you’re strong too. And the sins festering in this house of worship keep you strong, tarnishing the holy ground’s sanctity.

“Maybe you need to recommend more confessions, father. Your flock isn’t as holy as you think they are.” You sneer amused, yanking your arm away from his grip.

He’s closer than ever, and a caged desire rattles to pounce. It begs, aches, for you to consume him and feast.

Soon voices approach, and you slide out from his grasp.

“See you next week.” You wave, happily slipping into the shadows.

Keeping your promise, you arrive at the church the following week. Except this time you’re here for bible study. Of course you play along, the perfect curious believer wanting to learn. But you’re honestly here for the gossip.

“So what’s the deal with Father Joel?” You ask when the pastries are brought out.

Two of the women glance at each other sharing knowing looks.

“We forgot… you’re still new here and don’t know.” One of them mutters quietly.

Apparently, the priest was married before. Not only that, he had a young daughter.

Honestly you’re not entirely shocked. He’s gorgeous. Good for him for enjoying the fun before he decided to become boring and holy.

“But the three of them were in a horrible car accident, and both his wife and daughter perished.”

You don’t have a heart as a demon. But the echoes of sorrow, emotions you understood when you were human, flutter awakened.

“That’s… awful.” You mumble.

“Isn’t it?” The other woman nods sorrowful.

He apparently begged God for mercy the day his family died.

“And after that, he took on the path of a priest.” The other woman finishes bright like this is a happy ending of the story.

You feel upset for Joel now, for his family, getting diminished as a way to remind people of God’s grace.

“Thanks to God.” You say robotically. The words taste awful, and you hate them.

When bible study ends, the sun slowly starts to sink over the horizon. Saint Jude’s is not just a simple church, but an older one. There’s even a cemetery right beside it.

You walk along the graveyard’s edge cautious not to fully step inside.

Further inside among the headstones, the priest sits on a bench beside a tree, looking down at the ground with rosary beads in hand.

Now more than ever Joel looks like a man, beautiful and human, not a holy warrior of God.

He must sense you. Immediately his eyes snap up, and pure rage twists his face.

“What are y’still doin’ here?” Joel snaps low.

“Had bible study.” You shrug.

Daring to be bold, you take one step into the cemetery.

Being in here among the dead is more dangerous even compared to the church. So you remain close to the entrance.

“Y’know I can exorcise your ass right here and now.” He growls, and it sounds beautiful.

“You’re forgetting where we are, old man.” That nickname slips from you effortlessly.

His mouth falls. Eyes, dark as the graveyard dirt, fill with trepidation. It’s a strange reaction that paints him small, almost lost and begging for something.

But you simply shrug it off, kicking a bit of dirt towards him.

A cemetery is the one true neutral place where both demon and saint can walk alongside each other. Neither you or the priest have any power here. In theory, you’re as weak as a mortal. But so is he.

“What the fuck do ya want?” Joel says exhausted with an anger brewing below his voice.

“Demons want everything, that’s a silly question.” You reply.

His earthen eyes narrow, pinning you right where you stand among the dead.

“But what do you want?” He emphasizes his words sounding delicious this calm and deadly.

“Maybe I just want you.” Your answer, earnest and casual, rings borderline soft.

Exiting the cemetery, you wave goodbye to him.

“Until next time, Father.”

A new plan of action hatches.

Being a lust demon you indeed hold the ability to sense the carnal wishes of others. But it also means you can draw out and read what a person’s desires are, erotic or not.

And you want to know why Joel desired to become a priest.

Sometimes you can catch hints of a person’s desires from those they’re close with. So since your abilities, for whatever reason, don’t work on the handsome priest, your next option is Deacon Matthews.

He’s a boring man. Has two kids about to head off to college and a wife he doesn’t know is secretly having an affair. He’s been earnestly trying to talk with you more, and you swear you catch a whiff of lust floating off him.

So you sign up for another church event. This time it’s a rummage sale. You gladly offer to help at the stall Deacon Matthews works.

You catch the look on Joel’s face when he spots you. How disgusted he scowls almost makes you laugh.

“He seems extra grumpy today doesn’t he?” Deacon Matthews notices it too, and you playfully snicker alongside him.

“What happened to Father Joel embracing the heavenly gift of joy?” You joke.

The deacon sighs. “Well, after the trials he’s been through, I understand how hard it can be for him to find grace sometimes.”

Shifting in your plastic seat, you give your full attention to the deacon. Now you sense it, the heated sensation of a man feeling eager being the center of attention.

Deacon Matthew leans closer and of course tells you the same story you already know.

So you decide to act now. You touch Deacon Matthew’s arm expressing your sympathy, but it allows your power to slowly trickle in and search.

You find a glimmer of Joel in the deacon’s memory, but a terrible sensation crashes in.

Anguish and hurt, a frozen grief ripping fierce…

The holy mantle weighs a burden for Joel.

This man swore the vows, took on the blessed robes, as atonement for letting his family die. He wants to punish himself for not saving them, believing he doesn’t deserve to indulge in this world.

Pious, prudence, all punishment.

And by exorcising demons as God’s warrior, he gets to ignore his own.

You didn’t expect this much guilt, and heaven splitting heartbreak.

It makes your lips quiver, and you can’t explain why.

Immediately your hand draws back from Deacon Matthew. His eyes have hazed over, borderline lewd, and you subtly shift away.

“I’m sorry Deacon, can you maybe get me some water?” You ask politely, faking exhaustion.

“Of course, you’ve done so much today. Sit and rest.” He agrees, eagerly scrambling out of his seat.

You exhale, closing your eyes and trying to relax in the uncomfortable plastic seat.

“What? Can’t have me so you’re going after him?” Joel’s voice cuts through sharp, and your eyes snap open.

Standing hands crossed over his chest, he wears his typical glare.

He’s in a simple black button up with the white priestly collar gleaming through. This attire shows off his built arms, his strong physical form. The afternoon light also highlights the glorious grays in his beard and hair.

He’s older, beautifully older - you know this. But it feels as if you’re finally letting it sink, like fully understanding why an art piece is stunning.

You don’t say anything, simply stare at this man who’s slowly been eating away at you.

Deacon Matthews thankfully arrives just in time. Batting your eyes, you exaggerate your thanks. The deacon blushes, and before he can even greet Joel the priest storms off.

You don’t even have the heart to go after him or even make a joke.

—

In the bible, the book of Joel tells a somber tale. Scripture depicts the prophet Joel, in the midst of a dooming plague of locusts, urges the people to repent.

You think it’s almost ironic, a sick goddamn joke, that this man is named after such a biblical figure.

Because Joel Miller has become a plague upon you.

Your thoughts are only of him. You stay at the church more just to see him.

You haven’t feasted or eaten in weeks. Your body feels exhaustedly sluggish, more human, but you don’t even mind.

A new hunger ripens in you now anyways.

At night, your fingers constantly dig deep into your pussy thinking of Joel’s firm hands all over you, strong and dangerous, burning your skin. Demon of desire or not, this craving is unbearable. Your mouth dries parched at the thought of tasting him.

More, something dark in your whispers. You want him more…

After mass, a choir member tells you Father Joel wants you to meet him in his office. This could be the most twisted trap, but you realize you won’t be mad if it is.

“Come in.” Joel’s gruff voice comes muffled through the office door.

A strange nervous energy bubbles in you. Entering the office, you feel younger than ever, faintly human.

The beige room stands desolate, spartan and bare, except for a picture of the Divine Mercy on the wall. At his desk, Joel scribbles away at paperwork.

Closing the door behind you, his eyes flicker up.

“Didn’t expect you to exorcise me in the middle of the day and with your poor cute secretary right outside. You’re getting bold, old man.” You snicker.

The priest dully glares.

“So, care to tell me why I’m here?” You ask, sliding into the seat across the desk from him.

He remains silent.

A prolonged pause follows.

“You know… this office feels very naughty professor and student vibes more than hot priest and demon-”

“Enough.” His snarl cuts you off.

He seems more on edge like he’s teetering.

An apocalyptic tension suffocates the room fast, a choking incense that stings your lungs.

Joel suddenly leans back in his chair rubbing a large calloused hand over his face.

“Do you remember… anything from when you were human?” His voice has never been so quiet.

It’s strange hearing this powerful force of a man sound this meek.

“Uh…Sorry I don’t have memories of my old life.” You tell him truthfully.

The only memory you hold of your human days is when you sold your soul. There was pain, absolute wrecking grief that was swallowing you whole. You remember wanting to save the people you love, wishing you could trade your life to keep them alive.

That’s when the quietest voice had asked among the despair - what would you trade, to save those you love?

Anything, you had sobbed out.

Then, the pain drifted away. You woke up brand new and hungry, a clean slate. Now the heartbreak that crystalized you to this new life collects cobwebs in your lost soul.

“You remember nothin’ at all?” Joel presses again, and you shake your head no.

An ancient sigh escapes him, weary and anchored by the test of time. Something in you begs to comfort him.

“You seem tired.” You comment soft.

His endless eyes find yours.

Silence settles thick in the quaint and hauntingly barren office.

There’s so much you want to say. A demonic being of craving, of want, cursed to be silent, how cruel.

You want to ask what plague has he placed upon you. Is this a new form of exorcism? What evil has he unleashed? Because you’ve never wanted someone as badly as you want him.

A knock on the door shatters the stillness.

Joel’s secretary pops her head in.

“Sorry to interrupt Father, but the archdiocese is on the phone.” She’s smug. You sensed her desire before, a powerful drunken feeling knowing she gets to order Joel around.

“Alright,” he nods, and the secretary closes the door. You don’t miss the side eye she gives you.

You take your cue and stand up to leave.

“Hey…” his voice stops you.

“Demons… they have true names. What’s yours?”

That question surprises you.

Of course you’ve been using a fake name this entire time. He must have figured that out. Smart man.

But if he knows your true name, your human name…it’s over. A demon’s true name gives an exorcist the power to permanently destroy them.

A wide knowing grin pulls at your lips.

“You still haven’t even taken me to dinner, Father.”

The smallest wave of emotion flashes across his face. A tug pulls his lips, a hint of a smile he’s fighting against.

You’re about to leave when you stop.

“Oh…Also that secretary of yours definitely wants to dom you. Don't ask me how I know.” You mention casually.

You smirk walking out of Joel’s office, especially hearing his indignant squawks as you close the door.

—

The wind blows gently, barely rustling the leaves to let the dead rest peacefully for now.

A storm approaches. Serious enough that the annual Easter festival is now in question of being canceled today.

In his simple black button up and white collar, Joel stands like an ink blot against the graveyard. You’ve noticed he always stays by this particular tree with the bench.

“I know you’re here.” Joel’s gruff sharp twanged voice pierces through the silence. His face stays focused on the gravestones, holding a rosary tight in his large hands.

You smirk and step out from the shadow of the angel statue you've been hiding behind.

This is the deepest you’ve gone into the cemetery.

“Your senses are getting better, old man.” You greet him.

He scoffs insulted.

“You know… you really are too hot to be a priest.” You’ve made the joke to him before, and you make it again.

“Pressin’ your damn luck…Remind me why I haven’t fuckin’ exorcised your ass yet?” Joel mutters rubbing his temples.

“Because I’m just too fun to get rid of?” You offer with a weak grin.

An unsettling silence grows in the cemetery.

“Or maybe…you really are here just to torment me.” The words come out mumbled, like Joel doesn’t realize he spoke them.

“I could say the same for you, priest.” You openly tell him.

Finally he turns to you.

A strange corroded weight fills your chest. You realize it’s the desire now calcified into your very being keeping you anchored to this man. You wonder if this is your eternal punishment, to crave a man you can never have.

“Tell me… What’s your real name?” Joel asks simply, no hidden motive.

Here in the graveyard, he’s just a human man. Just like you’re the whisper of a human standing before him.

A painful smile tugs at your lips.

You give him your true name, the only thing left of your humanity.

Pure dread falls over Joel’s face.

Then he snaps.

“Ya damned fuckin’ demon from hell… Get the fuck outta here!” He yells, angry and violent, like a vengeful God ripping open the sky.

Demon.

He’s never called you that. It stings more than you thought it would.

But he’s right. It’s what you are, a creature warped from a human soul now relying only on sin. Demons don’t dream. Nor do they cry. But the way your chest twists, you wonder if this is the closest it feels to crying again.

Not saying another word to Joel, you leave the cemetery.

You don’t even know why you stayed to help with the festival. You adamantly refuse to look at Joel. Everyone notices the change in your demeanor. You lie saying it’s the weather.

“Ugh, it really is quite dreary for such a holy day, huh?” The sweet elderly woman from your bible study group coo’s sympathetically. She urges you to rest in the rectory.

“No one will bother you there honey, take some time to just catch a breather.”

You take her advice, especially as the thunder rolls ominous like the heavens stand ready to strike you at any moment.

The rectory is eerily quiet. You wander around until of course find yourself at Joel’s office. You can’t take this ache raging in you anymore. Once the festival fully starts, you decide to leave in the shadows and never return.

The front door out in the main hallway opens. Spurred by a strange sense of hope, you rush out.

You’re not one for prayer, but you pray it’s Joel.

Deacon Matthews, in his boring salmon colored shirt, instead stares at you. Danger gleams in his eyes.

“Finally…I was hoping to get you alone.” His voice boils with desire, radiating from him a rancid stench.

“You’ve felt it too haven’t you? What we have between us?” He grins, a serpent slithering closer to you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” You play dumb and confused.

“You've been flirting with me this entire time. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” His voice jumps more erratic.

His desire is brewing to a poisonous level that threatens to clog your throat. So you try walking towards the door, but he stands firmly blocking it.

You haven’t eaten in months. Any time you consider feasting, your stomach now turns sour as you only think of Joel. He really has ruined you in so many ways.

With your senses dimmed, you’re too late to react when a greedy hand grabs your shoulders and pulls you closer.

Panic erupts. Feeling like a cornered animal, your teeth sharpen. Your hands twitch, itching for the attack. But your mouth acts first.

You bite down hard on the deacon’s hand, and a violent scream rips from him.

You haven’t tasted blood in months. This bite, you thought, should have sent you into a frenzy. Instead you gag tasting this pathetic man’s blood.

“What the fuck are you?!” The deacon yells in terror.

You realize you must look quite the monster now.

So you decide to show him.

Hellish claws, your claws, yank this man’s face closer. Then you whisper into his ear the tongue of the damned -

“…ⱤØ₮ ł₦ ⱧɆⱠⱠ…”

The deacon screams horrified.

Someone yanks you away.

Then Joel’s fist collides with the man’s face.

At the impact, Deacon Matthew’s cries in agony while Joel holds you close to his side. The smell of his shampoo, his cologne and something so familiar, surrounds you in a heavenly cloud.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch her.” Joel snarls deadly.

Blood spills across the deacon’s face and his hand while he sobs.

Joel holds you protective, hand cradling and covering your face. Slowly you revert to normal, the demonic retreating to hide.

No surprise, the commotion is heard.

People swarm in. Joel effortlessly explains what transpired and how you even used self defense against the deacon.

The bleeding terrified man however screams that you’re the monster here.

You stay quiet against Joel's side, keeping your face hidden, clinging to his black button up shirt. The church reacts ready to reprimand Matthews.

Everything goes hazy. Your head even aches painful, like something is trying to break through your skull.

“If y’all don’t mind, I’m gonna stay with her.” You hear Joel say.

Of course everyone strongly agrees. A few even offer to stay with you instead. But Joel keeps you in his hold.

In a blink, a door closes and you realize you’re in his office.

Then Joel’s hand slides up to your cheek. The simmering heat from his skin touching yours burns beautifully.

Even without the claws, or monstrous eyes, you still must look every bit a terrifying creature.

Then, with a white small handkerchief, he wipes away the blood on your face tenderly, cleaning you with the delicate care of someone who is precious.

“Y’got a good bite. Scared the shit outta him too.” Joel mutters, faintly joking, but you catch a hint of pride.

You stay quiet now.

“Hey, look at me.” Joel orders low, but concerned.

And you do. His eyes search yours.

He’s never been this close. You soak in the sight of him, a sharp gorgeous hawkish nose, aged wrinkles, soft touches of storm cloud greys floating among his chocolate curls. Heaven never looked more beautiful.

No words reach you. You can’t think of anything to say.

You don’t know who moves first, but a revelation comes when your lips surge to meet his.

It’s raw, consuming, rattling your bones.

You barely get to chase this greed, the taste of this man, before a searing pain cracks open your skull.

Your vision goes white. You don’t even know where you are.

Glimpses of home warm and welcoming, with a loving man and a wonderful daughter you’ve raised like your own, fill your mind.

Soon, the picture crystalizes clearer. The man driving, holding your hand. The young girl in the backseat laughing at something you said.

Then your world ends in fire.

The truth resurfaces you frantic and panicked, like emerging from the flood of ancient times. Blinking back into reality, everything is clear, pure as crystal.

Someone calls your name, and it sounds like home.

“Y’alright? Talk to me darlin’ please.” Joel begs frantically, still holding your face.

Darling, the word rips through you wild.

“Joel.” His name leaves you blessed and sanctified. You see him with eyes brand new.

The closest thing to a sob escapes you.

Confusion colors Joel’s face while you clutch onto him like a life raft.

You swallow hard.

“My old man… my husband.” You whisper.

You jokingly, affectionately, had started calling him ‘old man’ when he pulled his back after a job. Tommy and Sarah had laughed so hard at the nickname. Back then he was a few years older than you, but now…

Joel cracks. His face falls. Tears simmer in his eyes threatening to spill.

He kisses you again. This time it’s filled with an ache that draws you back from the grave.

The kiss grows heated fast. Desire explodes off Joel now and you want to drown in it. He licks into your mouth, pushing you against the door. You moan, sliding your hands into his hair.

Commotion returns outside interrupting the moment.

You growl annoyed.

Joel shushes you against your lips, yet his hands continue holding you tight.

Eventually you untangle out of his arms. Yet you feel like a newborn foal on shaky legs. Joel keeps you close the rest of the day. No one from the church thinks anything of it especially after what happened.

If only they saw you now.

Sprawled out in his bed, Joel devours your pussy and grinds into the sheets. You moan loud enough for all the angels to hear. He eats you starved, as if he’s found divine communion between your thighs.

“Need you inside, Joel please,” you beg, yanking at his grey curls.

Who is he to deny you, not just a demon of sin, but his wife?

Sliding into you, Joel feels like the beginning of the world, a Genesis life changing. It’s a lust that makes you melt, pure and dangerously addictive.

Joel’s lips stay attached to your skin, biting and licking every inch of you.

“Fallen Angel, light of God, you are crafted in beauty and loved.”

You remember that’s the prayer the nuns said. Now Joel whispers it reverently against your skin.

“Lost creature of heaven, you are found.”

You cum hard clutching at his shoulders. You worry about hurting him. Yet Joel bites at your skin like he’s the one now longing for your blood. You wonder if you and him could both dig into each other’s bones.

But once the passion finally simmers, and your poor husband needs to rest, the heavy reality sets in.

Naked in his arms, you know understand the strange passion and awareness Eve must have felt being in her husband’s arms after biting the forbidden fruit.

“You really sold your soul…” Joel mutters.

You sigh, rubbing your face into his warm strong chest.

“I didn’t care… I begged for anyone to save you or Sarah.” You whisper.

Your sweet sunshine girl.

Even without a heart, thinking of Sarah brings immeasurable pain. You mourn her with Joel, his arms becoming your sacred church.

—

“Sweetheart, ya need to eat,” Of course Joel notices how weary you’ve become.

“It’s okay… I’m fine.” And you’re half right. The desire unleashed between you and Joel helps maintain you enough. You wouldn’t dare devour his soul now. After all, there are other things you gladly want to consume from him.

You kiss the palm of his hand holding your face.

But ever the provider, ever the caretaker, your husband moves his hand down to your lips. His fingers trace your mouth. His eyes darken, and your body hums wanting him again.

“Bite me.” He mutters.

You bluntly tell him no.

“Do it or I’ll exorcise your ass.” His words hold no threat.

“Come on baby,” he adds, a soft purr, your personal temptation.

You’re worried. Worried if you bite you won’t be able to stop. You don’t want to hurt him.

Joel’s hand returns to cradle your face, stroking your cheek tenderly. He whispers your name.

“You won’t hurt me.” He’s always been able to read your mind.

It’s why he draws your face to his neck, the perfect spot to hide beneath his robes. Reverently you kiss his skin thanking him, then your teeth sink in as gently as you can.

His blood rushes into your mouth tasting of salvation. Your mind shuts off, instantly consumed by him. You lick and suck, pouring your devotion into this man. You moan or maybe it’s Joel. Because the way his hips grind seeking release, he’s drunk on this too.

This is the ecstasy saints dream of, a holy feast of unbelievable bliss that has you coming untouched.

This is your sacred sacrament you would die for.

—

“My husband, the priest.” You snicker watching him get ready.

You hate how incredibly sexy it is watching him slide the white collar on.

“Well, my wife’s a demon.” He smirks.

“I think there’s an actual shirt that says that.” You wonder.

Joel rolls his eyes and you laugh.

Kissing him before he heads to mass is pure sinful bliss. It only gets worse when you visit his office. Closing the door, Joel sits at his desk raising an eyebrow seeing you.

You make it known why you’re here when you sink onto your knees between his legs.

Nuzzling against his thigh, a possession overtakes. Joel’s hand runs to your face.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” You mutter peering up at him.

His thumb swipes across your lips, and his eyes melt into dark pools. Especially when you slide his thumb into your mouth and suck, moaning at the taste of his skin. Your teeth ache to bite him, taste him like you did again this morning.

“Y’look like fuckin’ sin.” He mumbles, but rapidly draws your face up closer to him.

“Gonna be my good girl and keep quiet?” He asks leaning down to kiss you, meeting you halfway. Nodding, your hands fly to his belt.

A knock on the door comes. Joel cusses sharp under his breath.

“Should let your secretary walk in and see us like this.” You grin.

He shushes you.

“Next time let’s try to fuck in a confessional.” You mutter against his lips.

“Little fuckin’ trouble maker.” He growls, a beast that you welcome with open arms.

Later, in the witching hours, you wander around Joel’s living room. You spot a photo of you, him, and Sarah at Halloween the one year she dressed up as a power ranger princess.

Warm strong arms suddenly wrap around you from behind.

Joel’s gorgeous nose nuzzles against your face.

“You don’t mind… that I’m like this and not like how I used to be.” A shadow frozen forever, a creature condemned to hell.

He places the softest kiss on your cheek.

“Ain’t who I used to be either. M’old now.” He mutters.

“You’re hotter than ever.” You tell him firmly, and Joel snorts amused.

Shifting in his arms you embrace Joel tight.

“I’m a selfish demon now. You’re the only one who can get rid of me.” Both figuratively and literally.

“Like hell I ain’t.” Joel replies firmly, inhaling your scent.

“Besides, ‘m not so holy anymore.” He adds.

“Are you okay with that?” The question escapes you quiet, small and worried.

“Wouldn’t fuckin’ change it.” It’s the last thing he says before he dives in to kiss you.

Maybe in another life you would’ve been blessed to be Joel’s wife, pure and human, would’ve grown old with him…maybe even adopted a cat like Sarah had been begging.

Heaven will never greet you. So you hold this version of it tight in your hands.

You used to wonder why you had wandered to this specific town. Now everything aligns. A piece of you was trying to return to your other half, the love of your life.

Walking into the cemetery, you find your husband again praying at his favorite spot.

That’s when you finally notice a small memorial plague against the tree. Walking towards it, you read what’s on it.

There’s a scripture verse…then Sarah’s name and yours below it.

An emotion too powerful to describe swells in you.

Done with his prayer and alone in the cemetery, Joel soothingly now rubs his hand against your back.

“Let’s head home, sweetheart.” He mutters, your home and salvation.

A particular line from the exorcism rites suddenly comes to mind -

Lost creature of heaven, you are found

As you head out of the graveyard by Joel’s side, you truly believe you are.

#yes I am posting this during h*ly week my ex c*tholic ass has to do it for the sacrament of it all #anyway if you read this you are the true blessing & I can’t thank you enough!!#joel miller x reader #priest!joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel 🤎#SpringFever25

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comatosebunny09 · 7 months ago

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cotton candy clouds | sylus

summary: you guilt-trip sylus into taking you to the carnival. you get caught up in more than just the festivities, hidden feelings finally coming to light. genres: romance, fluff, minor angst warnings: kissing, unrequited (not really) feelings, tender touches, pet names, incredibly self indulgent, profanity, cheesy af, fuck fate notes: limerence au, but a little less pain. now playing: siren guitar - carlos carty

Well, it seemed like a good idea.

Until it wasn’t.

You see, the boardwalk wasn’t too far of a walk from your bungalow. You saw the Ferris Wheel gleaming in the near distance from the passenger window of Sylus’ rental. Caught sight of it on the ride back after spending the morning with him.

The carnival beckoned to you. Taking you was the least Sylus could do after torturing you with restricting dresses and uncomfortable heels all weekend. And he could sweeten the deal by winning you a plushie and stuffing you full of cotton candy.

Sylus relented with a chuckle, pulling the car into the carport. Good on you for suggesting you travel on foot to the boardwalk after you dropped your bags at the house. He looked like he wanted to contest you, gaze turned skyward like he knew something was amiss. Instead, he shrugged and settled his dark shades onto his face, following your lead.

The carnival was lively.

It smelled of funnel cake, smoked turkey legs, and lubed machinery. People milled about, their glee staining the stratosphere. Carnies coerced you into trying for prizes. You had an armful of colorful plushies with a grin to match by mid-afternoon, courtesy of your boss and his impeccable aim.

If you hadn't known any better, you swore you were on a date. But you knew that could never be, given the state of your relationship and your position in Sylus’ life.

You were halfway through a candied apple when Mother Nature decided, ah, that’s enough fun.

The sky, once a bright cyan with a golden sun pinned to its center, gave way to ominous, dark gray clouds. Thunder followed, and eventually, the nimbus clouds opened up to pelt the boardwalk below with its glacial downpour.

You scattered along with the other carnival goers, Sylus in tow, the spoils of your endeavor forgotten. On the race back to the bungalow, he grabbed your hand, and you laughed like two carefree adolescents as he tugged you across the sand to your temporary lodging.

You were breathless when you reached the porch, shoving into the warm sanctity of the entryway with a “Hurry, hurry!”

It was quiet inside.

The light pouring in through the sliding doors and windows illuminated the stilled space. Your teeth chattered as Sylus helped divest you of your clothes in the living room. Such a gentleman, his gaze never dipping past your collarbones as he tore his sweater from his shoulders. He left you briefly, taking his warmth with him to light a fire beneath the mantle.

Clad only in your undergarments, you pawed at him, giggling amid your shivering when he came back to drape you in an oversized throw.

He led you to the high-pile rug in front of the fire. Sat down cross-legged, drawing you into his lap. He shrouded the pair of you in the throw blanket, his arms encasing your middle, hands smoothing over your arms to ward off the cold.

For a while, you sat like that, watching the fire kindle. Chuckling, panting, and existing in the moment until your shared quivering abated, and only the rhythm of your even breaths, the crackling fire logs, and distant waves crashing against the shore colored the air.

Even now, you sit like this, still housed in Sylus’ lap and arms, his chin notched in the hollow of your shoulder. He absently rocks your body side to side, his occasional pleased hum vibrating your spine.

You’re no longer a sopping, chattering mess. You’re much warmer than before, Sylus’ proximity causing your cheeks to prickle with heat. You don’t want to disrupt the mood that’s descended onto your shoulders. Ignore the complicated thoughts and feelings that burble to the surface, threatening to bare themselves in the face of your peace.

He feels too good. Smells even better, the scent of his cologne easing the tension from your shoulders. And a glance at him in your periphery reveals his lashes fluttering, eyes closed in what you assume is contentedness. You study him for a beat or two, ingesting the peachy tone stippling his cheek and the pretty curl of his lips. He looks so boyish and unguarded this way, his hair falling into his face, and you find yourself wanting to see this side of him more often.

“You look like you want to say something,” he teases through a smile, thumb cruising over the skin of your belly.

You shake your head no, eyes wide like you’ve been caught rifling through the cookie jar.

His hold on you stiffens the slightest. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” He moves to pull away, but you quickly ensnare his wrists with your hands, quietly imploring him to stay. He acquiesces, holding to you a little tighter. Nuzzles a little more affectionately, inhaling deep the warm aroma of your skin.

“What’s on your mind,” he queries on an exhale, tenderness lancing through his question. He almost sounds like he’s afraid to scare you off. Afraid to let you go, swept up in the spell of the moment and the sensation of your body against his.

Your lips pull into a rigid, thoughtful line. Your pulse thrums in your ears, and you rub cautious thumbs over the veins pulsing in Sylus’ hands as you study the geometric patterns of the rug. Sighing, you figure it’s best to broach the subject now rather than let it fester.

“Is this alright?” you timidly ask. Uncharacteristic of you, but in light of everything that’s transpired since he whisked you away on this impromptu vacation, you’ve become even more confused and unsure of yourself.

Sylus shifts, drawing back until you feel his eyes on the side of your face. In the corner of your vision, he cants his head quizzically, lips parting.

“What do you mean?”

The angle is awkward, your neck straining. But you turn as best you can to look at him, and the puzzled pinch of his brows makes your chest tighten.

“I mean, us being this…close. Is it really okay?” Your question hangs in the air like the pop and fizz of the fire. You watch his Adam’s Apple bob whilst he swallows, and he scrutinizes you, the cogs in his mind slowly turning.

“Is this a problem? Because if I’m making you uncomfortable, sweetheart—”

“Sylus, that’s…that’s not what I mean.”

He watches your lips tremble. Expression still reads like he has no idea what you’re on about. He strokes up your arm, encouraging you to elaborate. With another weighted sigh pushing through your nostrils, you relent.

“I mean, like…what the hell are we doing here?” Try as you like to mask your frustration, bits and pieces of it leak into your words. You clench your fists in your lap, brows furrowing as your eyes burn and glaze over with the threat of tears. “Why did you bring me here? The last few days have been so�� wonderful and confusing, and I—I just wanna know where I stand with you.”

The past weekend with your boss has played out like a dream.

It began when Sylus snatched you away from the arctic darkness of the N109 Zone in favor of something brighter, more low-key. Wanted you to take a load off after employing you for so long. To show his appreciation for you laying your life on the line for him each day.

He bought you gifts at every turn. Said things that thoroughly derailed your perception of him. Touched you in ways that, although weren’t sexual in nature, lit a fire within you and gave you an inkling of hope. Hope that he cared for you as much as you pined for him despite his history with the Hunter.

You knew it wasn’t right to covet him like that. But you couldn’t help yourself, and how he’d been behaving since you arrived on the island only worsened matters. He treated you like a lover more than his subordinate, and you needed—no, deserved—an explanation for the sudden shift in tone.

“I thought it was obvious,” he half-chuckles, shaking his head whilst pinching the bridge of his nose.

As if you’re the problem here.

You make a sound. Maneuver yourself in his lap to get a better look at him, fixing him with a perturbed look. Explain, demands the quirk of your brows.

“Well, it’s been brought to my attention that maybe I haven’t been completely clear with my intentions.”

Sylus shifts you around in his lap until you’re straddling him, your legs framing his hips, wrists instinctively crossing behind his neck. He drapes his arms about your waist, a wide, possessive hand at the small of your back to hold you in place. He peers at you with all the softness of the world, and from your vantage point, you make out the amber flecks nestled between the crimson wash of his irises.

He tilts his head, quietly studying you. Turning over the right words in his mind. “I care about you.” His voice is low and abrasive, but the crackle of it sparks in your chest like steel dragged across a flint stone.

Your breath hitches, and you watch him with widened eyes and parted lips.

“I care about you. Maybe more than I should. Perhaps more than I deserve to, but I do. And you mean more to me than mere words can illustrate.”

Great. Now you feel absolutely horrible amid the butterflies piling in your stomach. “Sylus—”

He chuckles sardonically, glancing off to the side. “I thought that by bringing you here, I could make it inherently clear how I feel about you. No distractions. No outside forces. Nothing standing between us.”

Unconsciously, you gather his cheeks into your hands. Lure his gaze back to yours, and the look in his eyes makes your stomach somersault. You’ve never seen him so wounded. Like he fears your rejection, yet he’s determined to set the record straight.

Sylus’ voice steeps a few octaves when he closes in, his warm breath fanning over your lashes. You feel dizzy like you would collapse if not for his virile arms keeping you fastened to him.

“Fate be damned,” he whispers. Molds his hand to the nape of your neck, fingers easing up into the delicate hair that resides there, and you shiver when his gaze slacks to your lips. “You were an oversight—a pleasant oversight. A detour in my plans that I didn’t anticipate. A detour I don’t regret taking.”

His lips graze yours, and you’re panting as pleasant tingles ricochet up your spine.

“You occupy all of my thoughts.” Sigh. “You ruin me,” he husks, sealing your chest to his. “I don’t want anyone else but you. And I know your mind has more than likely convinced you otherwise. But I’m here to say that I truly…” He draws back to kiss the tip of your nose. “Honestly…” Brands the corner of your mouth with the languid drag of his lips. “—pine for no one else. You’re the only person I want in this lifetime.”

“Sylus,” you halfway sob in the slither of space between your mouths, every nerve in your body trained to the feel of him.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You swallow thickly, your mouth dry, your mind fogging over. “You gonna keep waxing poetic, or are you gonna kiss me?”

He snorts out a laugh at your impatience, cupping your jaw with a tender, sweltering hand. “There is nothing I would like more,” he breathes, luring you closer for a taste of your lips.

#love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus x you #sylus x reader #sylus #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus fluff #sylus love and deepspace

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zepskies · 11 months ago

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LOST ON YOU || Series Masterlist

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x F. Reader

Summary: 1983 is a big year for you. You’re finally chosen to join the ranks of Payback, led by the most (in)famous supe in the world: Soldier Boy. He’ll never admit that he’s trying his damndest to figure you out. You’ll never admit that he’s actually growing on you. But the problem with this game is deciding who's the predator, and who is prey.

Song Inspo: “Lost on You” by the Cubaneros (originally by LP)

AN: Oh, here we go! Get ready for another Boys AU. And in the immortal words of Cher, we're actually turning back time, to the '80s, no less.

Series Tags/Warnings: **18+ only! It's the world of The Boys, so angsty and messy, with morally gray and downright charcoal characters, including Soldier Boy, of course (and even the reader herself). **Smut, language, misogyny, violence, drug use, and other chapter-specific tags.

Chapters:

Part 1: Siren Song

Part 2: Foolish Game

Part 3: A Deal is a Deal

Part 4: Better Shape Up

Part 5: Eminence Front

Part 6: Drowned and Spellbound

Part 7: Welcome to the Jungle

Part 8: For Whom the Bell Tolls

Part 9: Free to Be You and Me

Part 10: I Need a Hero

Part 11: Heroes and Monsters

Part 12: A Fire in the Blood

Epilogue: As Good as It Gets

Series complete!

🎙️ Listen while you read:

The Lost on You Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

Lost on You Playlist Posters

"Interrupt the flow, they better not dare..."

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Join My Patreon 🌟

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Soldier Boy Tag List:

If you would like to follow along as I post each chapter, please follow my side blog @zepskieswrites with notifications on so you don't miss out. 💚

@spnwoman @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @adoringanakin @rizlowwritessortof @chernayawidow

@midnightmadwoman @deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@deansbbyx @sarahgracej @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @jacklesbrainworms

@foxyjwls007 @iamsapphine @roseblue373 @lacilou @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @syrma-sensei @alwaystiredandconfused @globetrotter28

@mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @k-slla @deanbrainrotwritings

@jackles010378 @deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @just-levyy

@leigh70 @kmc1989 @ghostslillady @siampie @jessjad

@beautyvaliant @mimaria420 @lifeonawhim @pieandmonsters @twinkleinadiamondsky

@stoneyggirl2 @sl33pylilbunny @spnfamily-j2 @mostlymarvelgirl @artemys-ackles

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bucketgetter535 · 1 month ago

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No Margin for Error: Chapter Four

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd (Formula one AU)

CW: drinking,weed

WC: 4.4k

Notes: I think you guys will like this one 😏 (also possibly another surprise tonight if I’m feeling motivated)

The thing about being home — if you could call it that — was that everything slowed down just enough for Azzi to hear herself think.

New York wasn’t peaceful. The streets below her penthouse buzzed all night, a city on a loop of sirens and car horns and late-night laughter. But the windows were thick, the lights inside low, and the weed — just enough — made everything feel wrapped in velvet.

She lay sideways across her couch, wine glass on her stomach, and her phone in her hand. Her legs dangled off the edge, socks mismatched, half a playlist spilling from her speakers like smoke curling up the walls.

Neither Paige nor Azzi finished in the points in Canada. Just a truly terrible weekend.

Spain had been hot and brutal and fast.

Monaco had been worse — precision hell.

She’d gotten third in Spain and Monaco. Third.

And Paige had stood above her both times.

That fact settled in her chest like a weight she couldn’t quite shake. Not anger, not jealousy. Just… pressure. Paige was pulling ahead. Quietly. Efficiently. And worse than that — she wasn’t being smug about it.

They hadn’t even argued lately. Which somehow made it worse.

She was midway through a half-hearted scroll through her F1 side of TikTok when she saw it. Paige, in a black blazer and dark-wash jeans, standing in front of a logo wall at a brand event somewhere downtown. Probably SoHo. The caption was useless — something about brand activations and “American girl in the city.”

Azzi blinked.

She’s here?

In her defense, she was high. Which didn’t impair her judgment so much as loosen it.

Her thumbs moved before she could second-guess herself.

AF35: come over for a drink

AF35: not like a weird drink. i just have tequila and i’m bored.

AF35: you’re in nyc i saw

PB5: k

She didn’t expect a yes.

But twenty-five minutes later, she was lighting the stupid hotel-scented candle by the front door just as her intercom buzzed.

–

Paige looked… different in the hallway.

Same height, same attitude, same somehow-always-laced sneakers. But her hair was loose and soft and there was something casual about her — black hoodie, gray sweats, the faint shimmer of perfume that Azzi didn’t recognize but knew she’d think about later.

“Hi,” Paige said like it was maybe a mistake. Like she’d still bail if Azzi gave her a reason.

“You came,” Azzi replied, stepping back. “Not a trap, I swear.”

“Yet.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and headed for the bar cart. “Still like tequila?”

“I never said I liked tequila.”

“Well. It’s what I have.” She poured two glasses anyway, handed one over, and flopped onto the couch with the weight of a person who lived here.

Paige followed, sitting sideways in the armchair, drink balanced carefully, eyes trailing the skyline for a beat too long. The silence between them was comfortable in the way only people who have screamed at each other on radios could understand.

“How’s the city treating you?” Azzi asked eventually.

“It’s loud,” Paige said. “And weird. But good.”

Azzi smirked. “Welcome to my world.”

Paige shrugged. “I’m just here for the brand thing. Back to Minnesota in like four days.”

“Figures.”

Another sip. Another silence.

Then:

“You’re on a roll,” Azzi said, watching the way Paige tapped her glass once on her knee, thoughtful. “Monaco. Spain. That car is made for you or something.”

Paige grinned — a tiny, quiet one. “It’s not just the car.”

“Ugh.” Azzi threw her head back. “Say that again and I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

But it wasn’t venom. Not really. And Paige knew it.

They talked for a while longer. About the season. About the team. About how both of them still felt like they were fighting ghosts — old legends, old stats, old press narratives. Azzi’s PR boyfriend came up, almost accidentally. Paige raised an eyebrow.

“You know you’ll need one eventually,” Azzi said. “Or at least the media will say you do.”

“I’ll let them pick,” Paige replied dryly.

“Have you ever had a real boyfriend?” The question came too fast, too clean, but Azzi didn’t pull it back. She just watched Paige.

Paige blinked. “Define ‘real.’”

“That’s a no.”

Paige just smiled behind her glass.

And Azzi wasn’t sure if it was the tequila or the candlelight or the scent of that damned perfume — but something shifted.

Because suddenly Paige looked different again.

Not like a driver. Not like a rival.

Just… like Paige.

Azzi’s gaze lingered too long on the shape of her jaw. On the way her collarbones showed just barely beneath the hoodie neckline. On the way Paige tilted her head, asking a question Azzi hadn’t heard.

“Hm?” she said, eyes snapping up.

“I said — you okay?”

Azzi nodded, a little too late.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

Paige raised her glass in a quiet toast. “To not crashing into each other.”

Azzi clinked her own glass against it. “Yet.”

And they drank.

Not as teammates.

Not as rivals.

Not yet as anything else.

But it felt like something had changed in the air between them.

And Azzi — tipsy and warm and barefoot in her own apartment — wasn’t sure what to do with that.

The glasses clinked faintly as Azzi set them down. The tequila buzz was warm now — not heavy, just humming under her skin. That soft, fizzy kind of buzz where everything felt slow but sharp, like the city had been dipped in molasses and lit with a thousand little neon flares.

She turned to Paige, lounging half sideways in the chair, one leg kicked out, the other bent beneath her. The hoodie had shifted just enough to show the edge of a tank top strap. Azzi’s eyes lingered for a beat too long. She didn’t look away.

“Do you smoke?” she asked.

Paige didn’t blink. “Why? You got some?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “If you tell the team, I will crash you in Austria.”

Paige laughed — a low, real sound — and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Guess I won’t tell the team then.”

Azzi pulled herself off the couch with a slight sway and disappeared into the bedroom. When she came back, she had a small tin in one hand and a lighter in the other. The joint was already rolled — perfect, tight, clean — the mark of someone who’d done this more than once.

“You roll that yourself?” Paige asked, amused.

Azzi settled next to her on the couch this time. “I’m good with my hands.”

A beat.

Paige’s smile twisted just slightly at the corner. “Noted.”

Azzi lit it.

They passed it back and forth in silence for the first few minutes, the smoke curling in thin ribbons toward the ceiling, lit softly by the candle on the table and the glow from the kitchen lights behind them. The city beyond the window blurred just enough to feel distant, like it couldn’t quite reach them here.

To say it loosened them up would be the understatement of the year.

Azzi leaned back on the couch, her body turned just enough toward Paige to make it obvious. Her laugh came easier now. Her eyes lingered longer. And she didn’t stop herself — not tonight. Not with the liquor in her blood and the smoke in her lungs and the city vibrating beneath them like it was waiting for something to happen.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” she asked, voice low and lazy.

“What?” Paige tilted her head.

“That Saudi podium.” Azzi’s eyes flicked over Paige. “You, top step. Lights all purple. Drenched in champagne and looking like… I don’t know.”

Paige blinked. “Like what?”

Azzi shrugged, but it was the most deliberate shrug in history. “You looked… golden. Or something. Glowing. I was high when I watched the replay, though, so maybe I imagined it.”

Paige’s voice dropped just a bit. “You didn’t imagine it.”

They didn’t touch. Not yet.

But something pulsed between them now. Something thick and slow and impossible to name. The tension wasn’t rivalry. Wasn’t hostility. It was… a question. An inch of space. A dare waiting to be taken.

Azzi handed the joint back. Paige didn’t take it right away. Just looked at her. Then finally reached for it, her fingers brushing Azzi’s — hot, electric, brief.

Azzi felt that touch all the way down her spine.

“You ever think about what happens if we keep trading podiums like this?” Paige asked softly. “Like — if it’s just us the whole season?”

Azzi’s eyes locked on hers. “It’s already just us.”

The joint burned low between them, and Paige exhaled slow.

Azzi leaned her head against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. She didn’t move away when Paige shifted closer, legs brushing now. Not quite on purpose. Not quite by accident.

She didn’t speak again for a while.

She just sat there, drunk and high and golden-warm, listening to Paige breathe beside her.

She wasn’t resisting anything. Not tonight.

And that was the dangerous part.

The joint was just ash now, curled in the tray between them. The city still shimmered on the windows, golden and indifferent, but the room itself had gone quiet. Almost too quiet.

Paige was close. Closer than before. Her leg was still pressed to Azzi’s, and neither of them had moved in a while — not even a twitch. Just this steady, measured breathing that filled the space between them, too soft to be anything but intentional.

Azzi’s voice came a little rough, caught in the stillness like a hand brushing against silk. “You ever had a boyfriend?”

Paige turned her head slightly. Smiled, slow. “You already asked me that.”

It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t teasing — just a quiet reminder.

Azzi’s mouth quirked. “Right,” she murmured. “Guess I did.”

But she didn’t take it back.

And Paige didn’t ask why she’d brought it up again.

Instead, Paige leaned in the smallest amount — not enough to close the space, just enough to acknowledge it. To breathe the same air. “You tryna ask me something else?”

Azzi looked at her, and for once, didn’t retreat. “Maybe.”

Paige nodded once, slow and steady, like they weren’t on the edge of something sharp and irreversible. “Then ask.”

And god, maybe it was the weed or the tequila or the glow of the city playing tricks on her, but Azzi suddenly felt fourteen again, like she was back at some middle school sleepover daring herself to admit something she wasn’t ready to name.

But she wasn’t fourteen.

She was twenty-two. A two-time world champion. And she didn’t want to keep pretending she didn’t notice the way Paige looked in candlelight or how her voice always went low when she got serious or how their rivalry had always been a little too electric to be just about racing.

So Azzi asked — not with words, not really.

She just leaned in.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… honest.

Paige met her halfway.

The kiss wasn’t fireworks or thunder. It was quieter than that. Softer. A confirmation more than a confession. The kind of kiss that didn’t need buildup because everything before had already been foreplay — all the races and podiums and fights and those stupid lingering looks in the paddock.

It was slow. And warm. And easy in a way that made Azzi forget about Monaco or Spain or Austria. For one second, there wasn’t a championship or a car or a headline. Just Paige.

When they pulled apart, Paige’s forehead bumped gently against hers.

Azzi let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “So I take it you like girls.”

Paige smiled again — that same calm, crooked thing that made Azzi want to throw something and kiss her again all at once. “Told you already,” she said quietly. “You just weren’t listening.”

Azzi opened her mouth to respond, but Paige cut her off with a second kiss — surer this time. No maybes left.

When it ended, Azzi’s voice was almost a whisper. “So what now?”

Paige tilted her head, eyes still half-lidded, voice brushing Azzi’s jaw like velvet. “Now we go to Austria… and try not to crash into each other.”

Azzi grinned against her skin. “No promises.”

–

Austria was fast.

And Azzi loved fast.

There was something about the Red Bull Ring that felt like it had been designed by someone who understood her. The uphill sweep into Turn 1. The high-speed descent into the back straight. That perfect balance of aggression and grace. Austria let her show off — not just as a champion, but as someone who knew the edge of control better than anyone else.

It was free practice. The skies were clear, the car felt dialed in, and Azzi was singing through sectors like it was nothing. She liked this track. No, she thrived on this track. And for once, the Ferrari felt like it was really hers again. Like it was working with her, not against her.

Which was good. Because the radios were still a mess.

“Mateo,” she called, breath calm through the corners, “are we actually connected this time or am I talking to god again?”

“God would’ve told you to pit five laps ago,” her race engineer replied dryly. “You’re good, Az. We’ve got full coverage. Mic’s working.”

“Well hallelujah,” she muttered. “That’s already better than Miami.”

“You say that every weekend.”

“Yeah, and I’ll keep saying it until someone gives me a headset that doesn’t cut out the second I’m about to brake.”

There was a pause. Some quiet chatter on the backend of the pit wall. Then Mateo’s voice again. “Data looks good. Sector 2 especially. You’re flying.”

“Told you,” Azzi grinned. “Austria loves me.”

“Don’t get too cocky. It’s only practice.”

“I’m not cocky. I’m fast.” She downshifted into Turn 4 like the corner owed her money. “There’s a difference.”

Another pause. “How’s the balance?”

“Better. Still a little stiff on exit, but—” She stopped, squinting at the digital display flashing on her wheel. “Wait. Is Paige on track?”

There was an audible blink in Mateo’s silence. “…Yeah. She just went out.”

Azzi didn’t say anything.

“Why?” he asked slowly.

“No reason.”

More silence.

Then: “Do you want her sector times?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Why would I want her sector times?”

Mateo hesitated. “Because you ask for them literally every practice?”

Azzi rolled her eyes so hard she nearly missed her braking point. “Whatever. I was just wondering if she was on track. Chill.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Azzi could feel the curiosity building on the other end of the radio, but Mateo wasn’t stupid. He didn’t push. Just clicked his mic and moved on.

“Anyway, you’re coming up on a Red Bull. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Azzi exhaled, sharp and focused again. “Copy.”

But the thing was—

She had asked about Paige one too many times.

And Mateo had definitely noticed.

What he hadn’t noticed was that Azzi hadn’t spoken to Paige since New York. Hell, Mateo didn’t know they’d even seen each other in New York.

Not a word. Not a text. Not even a glance on the flight in. Which maybe wouldn’t be weird if they hadn’t made out in Azzi’s living room while the Empire State Building lit the sky outside her windows.

But they had.

And now they were back to cars and silence and championship points.

Azzi braked late, leaned hard into the corner, and caught the tail of a Red Bull just before the turn-in. Easy work. Fast and clean.

Yeah. She was fine.

Totally fine.

And maybe later she’d ask Mateo to show her Paige’s telemetry just for “technical reasons.”

Totally technical.

–

Austria loved her. Azzi knew it in her bones. Qualifying was a perfect display of that.

It was the feeling in her chest when she opened up out of Turn 7, the way the car practically begged her to take more speed into the corners, the way the sky stretched wide and blue above the rolling hills of Spielberg like it had cleared itself just for her. The Red Bull Ring was smooth, brutal, honest. No tricks, no street circuit secrets — just pure speed. And Azzi was fast.

She was so fast.

Her hot lap was clean, relentless, the kind that comes from instinct not calculation. No traffic, no mistakes, no hesitation. Just her and the car and the roar of the track laid out beneath her like a dare.

As she crossed the line, her voice came easy over the radio. Breathless, a little proud. “That was a good one, yeah?”

Mateo’s voice crackled back with something flat but hiding a smile. “Yeah… good lap.”

She let herself exhale as the car eased into the cooldown lap, coasting down through the gears like the whole world was hers again. Not that she needed confirmation from Mateo — she knew that was fast — but it was nice to hear it.

Then, like lightning, something moved in her mirrors.

Or not in her mirrors.

Past her.

Paige.

The red Ferrari blurred by in a flash of speed that made Azzi’s jaw click shut. Paige was flying. Like she’d hit a slipstream only she could see. The engine note was perfect. High, tight, cutting through the air like it wanted blood.

Azzi’s grip on the wheel tightened by half a degree.

The Ferraris were fast on the straights. That much was obvious. But that fast? That wasn’t just the car.

She said nothing.

Mateo said nothing.

They didn’t have to.

The final runs came next. Azzi and Paige lined up in sequence, separated by barely ten seconds. Out laps were quiet, focused. Tyres warmed. Brakes dialed in. The sky over the circuit held a gold hue now, late afternoon light turning everything cinematic. Austria always felt like a movie.

The last lap was a weapon.

Azzi wielded it like one.

It was push-lap aggression and pedal-to-the-floor clarity. She nailed every apex, bled speed in all the right places, trusted the car so fully it was like they shared a pulse. She couldn’t see Paige ahead of her, but she could feel her. Somewhere out there, carving a line just as precise. Two Ferraris. No room for error. The ghost of Red Bull in the data screen.

As she crossed the line again, Mateo’s voice came back, louder this time. “1st. For now.”

Azzi didn’t ask for Paige’s time. She didn’t need to.

But then the live board updated.

1: Azzi Fudd

2: Paige Bueckers (+0.091)

She blinked. Not even a tenth between them. Paige had flown.

Back in the garage, the mood was light but wired. Mechanics bustled, tire blankets hissed, engineers gathered around screens like priests at an altar. Azzi climbed out of the car, yanked off her gloves, and checked her phone while Mateo reviewed telemetry.

And there it was.

Someone had posted a meme. A freeze-frame of Red Bull’s team principal looking like he’d just swallowed battery acid, overlaid with the caption:

“Red Bull Ring? Not anymore. Welcome to Ferrari World.”

Azzi smirked and double-tapped.

This was her track. Always had been.

But Paige… Paige was right there. Nipping at her heels. And if she was this fast here?

Azzi pulled her helmet off and ran a hand through her hair, skin still burning from the heat of the drive. She didn’t know if they’d talk before the race. Didn’t know what she’d say.

But one thing was clear.

Tomorrow, they were going to humiliate Red Bull.

And maybe — just maybe — each other.

–

It was a pretty race.

That was the only word Azzi had for it.

Not brutal. Not technical. Not desperate. Just fast. Smooth. Controlled. A ballet of apexes and throttle curves set to the music of the engines and the glint of the sun off red carbon fiber.

Spielberg gave them blue skies and perfect temperatures. No wind, no chaos, no variables. The kind of race that let you breathe through the straights and think through the corners. The kind that reminded Azzi why she loved it. Why she needed it.

From lights out, the Ferrari twins were untouchable.

Paige got the better launch, slicing into Turn 1 like she was born for it. Azzi stayed close, shadowing her through the first lap, reading every move, every lift, every millimeter of steering angle.

By Lap 7, she made the pass down the straight with DRS — textbook clean — and Paige didn’t fight it. Not yet. Not there.

But a few laps later, Paige took it back. Same corner, different line. She braked later, harder, but still smooth. Always smooth.

Back and forth they went.

No wheel banging. No dirty air tantrums. Just two of the best drivers in the world showing exactly what that looked like.

Red Bull couldn’t catch them. Not even close. Mercedes looked confused. McLaren hung around 5th like they’d forgotten how to climb. Somehow, both Williams drivers ended in the points. But Ferrari? Ferrari was painting lines across Austria like it was theirs.

And maybe it was.

By Lap 50, Azzi took the lead again — and this time, she held it.

The tires were still in a good window. No overheating. The car felt light, eager. She could feel how close Paige was behind, matching every sector, every turn-in, every breath. A second and a half at best. Nothing.

But Azzi didn’t flinch.

Not once.

She crossed the line and exhaled — a sharp, satisfied breath that sounded like relief and pride and ownership all at once.

Mateo’s voice came through her radio, beaming. “P1, Azzi. That’s a win.”

Then came Fred’s voice, warm and crackling but clear. “Beautiful job, both of you. Real racing. Proper Ferrari racing. Great points for the team.”

Azzi smiled into the sweat of her helmet.

And Paige?

Paige crossed a second and a half later, still fast, still right there. If she was annoyed, it didn’t show. She pulled alongside Azzi on the cool-down lap, gave the smallest nod. Respect. Approval. A quiet yeah, you got me.

After they parked the cars, when the helmets came off and the engineers swarmed, Azzi turned, expecting a pause. A beat. Maybe even another day of silence.

But Paige stepped forward and stuck out her hand.

They met in the middle with one of those classic teammate dap-hug combos — just a beat longer than strictly professional. Their first time doing it. No words, just shared breath and hot skin and adrenaline still buzzing in both their veins.

Fred came over, clapped them both on the shoulder, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

Because maybe he had.

They’d gone 1–2 in Austria. On Red Bull’s turf.

Clean. Fast. Beautiful.

And for the first time in this increasingly tangled championship fight, Azzi wasn’t just racing against Paige.

She was racing with her.

–

The post-race debrief room was too bright, too cold, and way too full of old men who hadn’t touched a steering wheel in years.

Azzi slouched a little in her seat, arms crossed, still in her race suit with the sleeves tied around her waist. Paige sat a few chairs down, sipping water and tapping her foot against the tile floor. The high from the Austria win hadn’t worn off, not really — but it was already being buried under media directives, sponsor guidelines, and the endless grind of image control.

Fred Vasseur stood near the door, not speaking. Just watching.

It was the PR team that ran this show.

“We want to build a dual narrative,” one of them said, gesturing toward a sleek slideshow that none of the drivers were actually watching. “Two champions, one team. The key is in balance. Equal exposure. Shared press. Cohesion.”

Azzi blinked. That last word sounded like a threat.

“We also think less ambiguity between you two would be good for the public,” another PR rep chimed in, glancing toward Paige. “You’ve both been… intense. In interviews. Online.”

Paige didn’t answer. Just raised an eyebrow like she was waiting for them to get to the point.

“We’re not saying don’t compete,” the woman clarified. “We’re saying show unity. Respect. Mutual support. The fans love a duo dynamic. We want to lean into that.”

Azzi felt her jaw tighten. “So we’re supposed to be a brand now.”

The room went quiet for half a second too long.

“Well—” a third person finally said, smiling too much, “—you are Ferrari.”

Fred didn’t stop them. He just kept watching.

There were notes about what to wear in certain press appearances. How many mentions of each other were “ideal” for interviews. Even brand-approved phrases: It’s always about the team. We push each other. We race hard but fair.

Azzi tuned most of it out.

By the time the meeting ended, she had half a headache and a full tank of irritation. The PR team filed out quickly, chatting about logistics and fan events and Monaco footage still trending. Paige lingered in her seat a beat longer, arms on her knees, staring at the floor.

Azzi stood. “You good?”

Paige looked up. “Yeah.”

The room was emptying. Fred had already disappeared somewhere, probably to make peace with a sponsor or shut down another Red Bull rumor.

Azzi walked over, thumb hooked into her waistband. “Wanna get some air?”

Paige nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

They didn’t talk until they were out in the hallway, walking side by side past team offices and winding corridors. Eventually, they found a spot near the back lot — quiet, shaded, warm from the summer heat still lingering in the concrete.

For a minute, neither of them said anything.

Then Paige broke the silence. “That meeting was bullshit.”

Azzi snorted. “Total bullshit.”

“They want us to be a duo, but only if it looks how they want it to.”

“Like a tag team with no heat,” Azzi said. “No edge. Just smiles and synergy.”

Paige leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “You think they know what happened in New York?”

Azzi looked at her. “Do you?”

That got a real smile out of Paige — lopsided, dangerous. “Nope.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

Azzi chewed on the edge of her thumbnail. “You were good today. Clean. Fast.”

“You too,” Paige said. “Didn’t miss a beat.”

Azzi looked at her for a second longer than she should have, then dropped her eyes. “Cool.”

Paige shifted on her feet. “So… are we good?”

Azzi hesitated. The weight of that question wasn’t just about the race. Or the meeting. Or even New York.

But she nodded. “We’re good.”

There was a pause.

Then Paige reached over, just briefly, and tapped her knuckles against Azzi’s wrist and walked away.

Not a handshake. Not a hug. Just something in between.

A little contact. A little understanding. A little we’ll figure it out

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #dallas wings

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mochinomnoms · 11 months ago

Note

Half asleep past midnight ramblings because I saw a pirate AU mentioned and I know you like Jade so like

Yuu drops stuff off the edge of a ship and into the ocean by accident - maybe some kinda mushroom-shaped pendant idk. And jade ends up catching it and misinterpreted the exchange as a courting gesture somehow. And now Yuu keeps on getting dragged out to deck by the rest of the crew because this bigass mer with bigass teeth keeps jumping aboard and snarling at anyone who approaches him except for Yuu for some reason

And Yuu just keeps having to drop what they're doing to nudge what seems, to them, like quite a placid merman off the deck and back into the ocean, wondering why they specifically have to do that and not believing the rest of the crew when they describe Jade as 'A hissing monstrosity that tried to take a chunk outta my arm!' etc. etc.

Anyway they have a collection of random ocean trinkets that Jade keeps giving them or something. And also Jade saves them from drowning. Floyd follows Jade to the surface once and then there's an issue with TWO mermen tryna hang out on deck but only tolerating two specific crew members and one is the angry redhead who ends up looking super amusing trying to drag a slippery, troublesome eel to the edge of the boat so he can get back to whatever he should be doing

Sorry about the rambling - and sorry if it isn't coherent. My brain needs something to do since I can't get to sleep rn lol.

I don't know a whole lot about pirates other than what I know from my video game...but from I am aware! They spend at least weeks if not months out at sea! I like to think that it takes Jade sometime to watch and actually fall for someone, while Floyd is the one more prone to love at first sight fight

When you guys are around at sea, slowly making your way to the next port, you're not super surprised you've been followed by a pair of merfolk.

They're known to be curious, but unless they're sirens, they're likely to keep to themselves.

But these two have been following the ship for quite some time now, like they're after something specific.

They're practically identical, just a few things like their gray strands of hair and their bi-colored eyes that help with differentiating them. The more excitable of the two seems to be most invested in chasing after your boat.

You can't understand the clicks, chirps, or squeals he makes, but you do notice how excited he gets when your friend Riddle, a crewmate who ran off from home, is on the deck. Riddle seems annoyed and will often yell at the merman, telling him to go away and stop following.

Though the big guy just looks so happy to see Riddle that you think he isn't able to understand human speech. If you had to guess, you think he was following after Riddle. Not sure why though.

You almost forget about the other one, with how quiet he is. You encounter him after dropping a cute little mushroom pendant that you got from a port shop a while back. The moment it plopped into the dark water in the dead of night, you were absolutely devastated. You even took some spare rope and wrapped it around your waist in a tight knot before scaling the side of the ship to carefully make it down to the water.

Hoping and praying to whatever sea god lorded over the current waters you were in that the water was shallow and pendant not lost to the deep, you failed to notice the soft teal aquamarine glow emerging from the water.

When you finally do turn to look at the water, you just about screamed at the upper hand of one of the mermen's face staring at you. Pressing yourself against the wooden hull of the ship, you stared back at him, not even daring to blink, as if he would suddenly lunge at you if you looked away.

Not an unwarranted fear; you and the rest of the crew had seen the way those sharp teeth and claws torn apart large tuna and annoying seagulls.

You think this is the more quiet of the two, based on the lack of reaction and the strand on his left. He seems more quizzical than playful, compared to whom you think is his brother. His eyes flicker down to watch the way your chest moves up and down as you try to calm your breath. He stares for a bit before flickering back up to your eyes, where he resumes his chilling stare.

What felt like hours, but was probably minutes, passed as you two played what was essentially a staring contest. Eventually, made due to boredom, or maybe he was satisfied after studying you so long, his right hand came up from the water clenching something. He gently opened his hand to reveal the golden mushroom pendant, complete with your gold chain and everything.

"Oh! You got it, uh, can I have it back?" You asked, pointing at the item in his hand.

The merman slowly rose up the lower part of his face and upper chest now visible. Looking at him up close, you could understand why they cautioned sailors to keep their distance from all sea folk.

Such pretty faces, it's no wonder people willingly drown themselves just in an attempt to be with one.

The teal colored merman watched as you carefully reached for the item in his hand, only to jerk it away and make a laughing sound. You think it was laughter, based on the smirk and squinted eyes he gave you. You huffed, reaching for it again, only for him to swam back again. His laughter was growing louder, seems that he was just as mischievous as his brother, just sneakier about it.

It almost sounded musical to your ears, too bad you were too focused on getting the pendant back to admire it. Eventually, the creature was far enough out of your reach that you were barely touching the ship with the tip of your toes. It seemed like he wanted you to fall into the water as he playfully splashed at you with the tip of his tail. You knew he was playing, if he really wanted you in the water, that tail had more than enough strength to wrap around you and drag you in.

But still, you wanted that damn pendant back! He seemed fascinated by the mushroom itself and the detailing on it. His claws kept tracing over the ridges and he was studying it intently when he wasn't staring at you. He's probably never seen one before. That's when a brilliant idea popped into your head!

Gesturing him to wait, you climbed back up the rope, turning back every time to check and see that he was still there. The big guy seemed a bit annoyed, disappointed even, that you were leaving. No matter, you'd be back soon enough with a bargaining chip.

It takes a moment for you to finally make your way back up, huffing and your arms straining from pulling your self up. Riddle, bless his heart, had rushed out after hearing your scream earlier and was pacing around the deck waiting for you to return.

"There you are! I saw you with one of the mermen, did you get hurt? Do you need medical attention? Come to the infirmary, I'll check you up—"

You waved him off, struggling to undo your knot, blurting out something about you being fine and needing to trade. Finally managing to stumble into the sleeping quarters and to your cot, digging against your blanket and bags to finally find a small pouch.

Smiling at your victory, you ran back up to the deck to find Riddle struggling with the rope and one of the mermen. You're pretty sure it's the other one: his strand is on his right side and he's a lot more vocal as he tried climbing up the side of the ship using the rope and digging his claws in the hull.

Poor Riddle was struggling to get the merman's arms off of his, the latter's grasp tightening the more he struggled to get out.

"Damn it Floyd! I told you! Leave!" A kick. "Me!" An inhumane yelp. "ALONE!"

The merman looked almost disappointed as Riddle finally managed to kick him in the face and crawl away from his grasp.

Riddle was heaving as he glared at the pouting merman, watching as he finally lost his claw grip in the wood and slid back into the water with a loud splash. You helped your friend up, checking him over for any stratches or bite marks.

"So it is you that they're following! I'd been wondering way they were so focused on our ship, but how do you know his name?"

Riddle sighed, nodding his head. "I apologize. I was hoping that he wouldn't remember me from our childhood, it's been so long, but..."

He dragged his hands over his face in exasperation. "He has a perfect memory when he wants to. He used to visit the reefs near my hometown, I ended up meeting him there when I was younger. He was so annoying! Liked to poke and prod at me anytime I visited the beach, I thought I finally managed to get rid of him when I left home, but it seems that he's found me."

"How can you understand them?"

"Ah, they can speak and understand common tongue. They just choose to feign ignorance." Riddle muttered to himself as he slipped off his now soaking jacket.

You watched your friend as he wrung out the water in his clothes from who you now know is Floyd. Pursing your lips, you looked toward the rope, now splayed across the deck, and move toward it.

"Do you know the other one's name?" you asked, tying the rope back to your waist.

"Hmm? His twin? I think it's Jade, why do you want to—what are you doing?"

Riddle suddenly stood watching in horror as you slipped over the ledge of the ship once again.

"He's got my pendant, gonna get it back—"

"No! You going down there is how Floyd got up, get back here!" Riddle marched over, stomping his foot and reaching for you just as you jumped. "I'll get you another, one with rubies in it—HEY!"

Using the momentum from the fall, you planted your feet against the hull as you landed against it, looking down at the water again. This time, both mermen were watching you as you climbed down, though the one you though was Floyd looked upset and bored, swimming up to the hull to make small crying noises to Riddle, you assumed.

As you got closer, the one called Jade came closer, apparently interested that you returned. Once you were finally within each other's reach again, you gestureed for him to come closer.

By this point, his brother was behind him watching curiously as you held up the pouch in your hand, opening it and revealing a white button mushroom.

Jade perked up, looking between your pendant and the mushroom in your hand. You pointed at the pendant in his hand, before remembering what Riddle said.

"Oh yeah, he said you could understand me." Jade didn't betray that he understood you, though his ear fins twitched as you spoke.

"Uh, if you give me that—" you still pointed to the pendant, just incase he was wrong. Though Riddle rarely was. "—then I will give you this!" You pointed back to the white mushroom in your hand.

Jade looked excitedly at the mushroom, nodding as you two traded. Sighing in relief, you pulled the chain over your neck and tucked it into your shirt. You readied to climb back up to the ship again before glancing at Jade.

He was poking at the mushroom, turning it round in his fingers. He seemed almost childlike in his wonder with the fungus, it was almost cute. Right up until he tore it in half and dropped it into the water, watching it float.

"What, no!" You whined, startling him as you gestured between him and the mushroom.

"No! No, no, no! That's a waste of a perfectly good mushroom! Do you know how hard it is to get those at ports? You're supposed to eat it!"

Exasperated, you opened your pouch again and handed another to Jade, though this time he eyed your hand warily.

"...What? Do you think I'm gonna posion you? Look—" You tore it in half, like he did earlier, and popped one half into your mouth. "Shee? Yummy!"

He still looked doubtful as you chewed. Rolling your eyes, you extended your arm out to his face, making him jerk away again.

"Just, try it! Come on!" You pushed against the hull again, on your tiptoes, as you held out the mushroom towards his lips.

"I'll even feed it to ya! Say 'aaaah'."

Jade looked at your open mouth and, you swear on your soul, blushed before looking away. He thinned his lips, eyes flickering back at you again with an almost shy expression. Floyd, in the background, was staring curiously, before making a chirping sound. Jade made a similar sound back, before looking at you between his lashes and bashfully taking the mushroom from your fingertips.

You tried not to jump from his teeth scraping you and his cold lips brushing against your skin. Instead, you stilled yourself, holding your breath as he chewed.

"It's good, right?"

Jade paused swallowing and slowly nodding before opening his mouth.

"Yes, it's quite...nice." You were surprised how smooth and human his voice was. It as almost soft, a stark difference from his sharp ends and edges. Pleasant.

You shook your thoughts from your head. You refused to be one of those lovesick sailors.

"Right...well, thanks! I'll be, uh, heading back now."

You actively chose to not look back as you climbed up, though perhaps you should have. You could have seen the way Jade watched you, like your were Aphrodite emerging from the sea foam to the land.

"What I tell ya Jade?" Jade continued watching you climb up, eyeing the way Riddle dragged you to the boat, though he flicked his ear fin towards Floyd. "I told you that the lil shrimp was just your type!"

Floyd giggled as he swam on his back, circling his brother. He paused to listen to the way Riddle was yelling at you. So cute.

"Aren't you glad you joined me? I get my Goldfishie, and you'll get a little Shrimpy out of it! Mama and Pops will be so happy when we bring them back home!

"Yes...we'll have to do it soon though." Jade smiled as he watched you and Riddle peer over the edge. You waved at him, and he back at you. His smile grew as you excitedly waved even harder speaking to Riddle before your friend dragged you away.

"The farther we get, the less time we have to return to Azul. His water-breathing spell will only last so long."

"And whose fault is that?" Floyd scoffed, flicking water at his brother in annoyance. "I wanted to take my mate and his friend since day one, you're the one who wanted to 'study' them and stuff. I know you best, if I tell you that the shrimp is perfect for you, you oughta listen!"

Jade glared at Floyd, who stuck his tongue at him, before softly laughing.

"You're right Floyd, of course you know me so well." Jade stared back up at the ship, as if his gaze alone would beckon you to return to him. "The water's warm, there's a storm coming from the east, where they've been traveling."

Jade dove into the water, his brother following him.

"The storm is large and coming soon, and the wood over here is damaged." Jade gestured to a part of the hull that was starting to rot, water slipping in. "If we cause the ship to take in more water, it will sink. They only have a few of those smaller boats, and much too many crew."

Floyd grinned as he caught on to what his brother was implying.

"Everyone will probably be scrambling to get on them boats—"

"Precisely, and with the chaos of a storm, will be much too busy to notice two of their crewmates snatched by a pair of mermen."

The twins shared a conniving laugh, following the ship into an unseen storm in the dark of night.

Something that few people ever mentioned, as it was quite rare, was that once a merperson fell for someone, they also were determined to drag them into the deep, never to be seen again by the people of the surface.

#mochi asks #twst #twisted wonderland #jade leech #floyd leech #riddle rosehearts #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jade leech x reader #floyd x riddle #pirate au

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sungbeam · 2 months ago

Text

BIRDS OF PREY — two

nonidol!kim hongjoong x f!reader

living in gray areas of your city, out of the way of gangs and mafia territories, could only keep you safe for so long. it was only a matter of time before you began running into problems, or rather, problems began running into you.

▷ genre, warnings. nc-17, strangers 2 lovers, slow burn, mafia au, angst?, swearing, action, mentions of alcohol, mentions of dead bodies, mentions of injuries and violence, threats of committing arson

▷ word count. 4.3k

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CHAPTER TWO: FROM THE WITNESS

MINGI AND YUNHO PUSHED OFF the alleyway wall as Hongjoong emerged from the back employee entrance. With winter swiftly approaching, the days became shorter and nights even longer. The last time he was in this alley, he had been pretending to be inebriated as you slung him over your shoulder and told him where the nearest metro stop was. The last time he was here, the night had ended in five dead bodies and no answers to their questions.

That was a properly unproductive evening.

You had saved him that night by one, telling him where his stalkers were; and two, giving him a head start to surprise his attackers by shuttling him through the back exit. It would have ended the same way if he went through the main entrance, but with a few more injuries on his end. The night ended well for him because of you.

Then, there was the matter of the bomb at the bank.

“So?” Yunho asked as the two of them flanked their leader and fell into step with him. There was a car parked at the far end of the alley that was Hongjoong's. They would take it back into Ateez territory from here, back home.

“She took the card at the very least,” Hongjoong said as he unlocked his car with a bright chirp from the vehicle. He climbed into the driver's seat with Yunho in the passenger's side and Mingi in the back. “We don't need to pull anyone else into our problems though, so it's probably a good thing that she wants nothing to do with me.”

“Smart girl,” Yunho jested with a smile.

Hongjoong inclined his chin. He agreed.

“I don't think we're gonna get anything off her background check, hyung,” Mingi piped up, raising his phone screen where he had pulled up the group text chain amongst the close inner circle that ran the Ateez mafia. “She seems pretty damn clean to me.”

Yunho chuckled. “You say this as if we're clean ourselves.” However, Yunho knew well that “clean” meant you had no ties or affiliations to any of the other gangs or mafias in the city. That was quite rare to find, but it only meant that you had been born and raised in a gray area and were smart enough to keep it that way. Few people in this day and age could resist the siren song that some criminal groups sung, like riches and influence and safety.

But no prize came without a price.

That was something they had all learned during their time before they built this family, and they were still experiencing its drawbacks now.

“Have we got any hits on the bank security footage?” Hongjoong asked as he turned onto a street that passed beneath the Treasure Island bridge. Here marked the boundary between your gray area and Hala Town—Ateez territory—both unspoken and physical, as boasted by the scarlet red letter A in a circle, spray painted onto one of the lumbering support beams of the bridge.

Yunho scrolled through the updates from his people who were monitoring security feeds and broadcast channels. Everyone in the inner circle had their own “employees” working for them, like the departments in a company or, more appropriately, crews on a ship, with each high-ranking member the mate of said crew. “Nothing concrete yet,” he sighed, clicking his phone off and laying it in his lap.

“You would think someone stupid enough to impersonate you wouldn't be able to cover their tracks this well,” Mingi grumbled. He had no luck from any of his eyes and ears either.

Hongjoong's expression was schooled into careful neutrality, and the only sign of his annoyance from their situation came from the slight twitch in his jaw. “It's more like the opposite, I figure, Mingi-ah.”

Mingi hummed. “Ah, anyone with the guts to impersonate you must have a thorough plan not to get caught.”

“Mhm.”

As the more infamously known Captain, head of Ateez, Hongjoong only made choice appearances in public. When he was going out as the Captain, he was careful to wear the uniform—crow-headed cane, mask shielding the lower half of his face, and a hard glare. Oftentimes, he also brought along a hat to shield his eyes and the color of his hair. All of this was an effort to conceal his true features so he could still roam the world as Hongjoong without the burden of being Captain.

However, because he had an unmistakable uniform, someone thought themselves clever to impersonate him. This imposter had been their problem for the past couple of weeks as they attempted to track down this bastard, as well as the people who have constantly been trying to end the real Captain's life. Ateez's leaders believed them to be the same person attempting to accomplish these two crazy feats.

They were beginning to become more than just a thorn in Hongjoong's side.

The drive from the edge of Hala Town through the residential streets and business districts was a familiar one. It took about fifteen minutes to drive from the outskirts to the nearest harbor entrance. The main buzzing point of Hala Town was port-side, a club manifesting itself as an old shipwreck and fittingly called the Shipwreck, too.

The men of Ateez had bought the shipwreck and other properties along the water's edge when they were gathering up ranks and made a name for themselves, then fixed them all up. The Shipwreck was a small employee space on the upper decks, and a bar and gambling den on the lower decks. Patrons would enter through the gangway installed in the hold rather than boarding to the top deck.

As Hongjoong pulled his car up to a private area of the wharf, he killed the engine right outside the warehouse that Ateez marked as home. While the Shipwreck was their main place of legal business, this was where they had made their place of living.

“Yunho,” addressed Hongjoong as the three of them climbed out of the car and made their way to the warehouse entrance, “find out where Wooyoung is and get on that security footage. We need to crack down on that.”

Yunho gave a firm nod, “Aye, Captain.”

“And Mingi, round up the others. We have some matters to attend to regarding the council meeting in a few weeks.”

Mingi saluted him as he hauled the warehouse door open. “Aye, Captain.”

“Well, no need to come find us,” drawled Park Seonghwa from the other side of the door. It seemed that he was just unlocking the door from his end when Mingi opened it. There was a stiffness to the righthand's shoulders and jaw. “We've got some updates for you, Captain.”

Hongjoong nodded. “Yunho, Mingi—you’ll both come along then.”

With updated orders, everyone followed Seonghwa down the hall. Because they often did not handle official business in their home, the formal dining room was usually the room designated for any problems that arose. Seonghwa led them into the dining room outfitted with a long rectangular table, enough to fit about ten people. There was an empty hearth sitting at the far end, just below a mantle adorned in vases of flowers that Yeosang enjoyed maintaining.

There was someone seated at the closest end of the table to the entrance, surrounded by the remainder of Ateez's highest commanders. Hongjoong recognized him as one of the men under Seonghwa's specific section, a “lookout” named Jungwon. He seemed ashen with the blood drained from his face and his knee bouncing up and down with rapid pace.

From the looks of things, Hongjoong and the others’ entrance interrupted whatever hushed discussion Jungwon was having with Yeosang, San, Wooyoung, and Jongho.

“Captain on deck!” Seonghwa announced.

Everyone stood at attention, their spines yanked perfectly straight at the arrival of their captain. Usually, the members of Hongjoong's inner circle weren't so formal around him, but when others were present, it was imperative that an air of authority be established and maintained.

“At ease,” Hongjoong said, nodding for somebody to close the dining hall doors behind him. “Jungwon, isn't it?”

Jungwon bobbed his head. “Aye, Captain.”

“You can sit down.” The lookout obeyed. “Seonghwa tells me you've seen something of importance.”

Jungwon's eyes flickered between the right-hand and the captain. He swallowed. “Uh, aye. It was in—it was in the east corner, and I was there doing my rounds. I… I know this might sound crazy, but I overheard some whispers about—about Strictland.”

A wave of silence fell over the room. There was a distinct weight that came with that name—Strictland. It was a name that was only heard in hushed tones around here nowadays. Any other context was just asking for a fight or for the higher ups of Ateez to come knocking at your door. Strictland was the organization Hala Town used to be ruled by before Ateez won the turf war. Those from Strictland who weren't dead or turned to Ateez disappeared into the shadows.

Hongjoong was afraid of something like this—a return. It could only mean revenge and carnage much worse than the first round.

He didn't let his worry show on his face, however. It was important that he stayed calm and inspired the same careful confidence in his men. “Did you hear anything else, Jungwon? Or perhaps see anything?”

Jungwon fidgeted with the zipper of his hoodie. “Something about trying to proposition another family, another one of the groups in the city. But I could've heard incorrectly.” The latter was tacked on as a show of humility, but Hongjoong knew that there was a high chance the kid heard correctly; why else would Seonghwa take him so seriously?

Hongjoong trusted his people.

“Thank you, Jungwon. Your efforts won't go to waste.” Hongjoong clasped a reassuring hand on the lookout's shoulder, coaxing him up to his feet. “We'll make sure this gets addressed. In the meantime, have you eaten yet?”

A moment later, Hongjoong dismissed everyone from the room except for his second in command. As Hongjoong stood in the same place he had before, Seonghwa leaned back against the edge of the dining table, arms crossed firmly over his chest with a grave look on his face.

“How worried should we be?” Seonghwa murmured.

Hongjoong smoothed a hand over his jawline. There was a good chance that the imposter problems and attempts on his life were connected to the whisperings about Strictland's return. He couldn't shake the feeling clinging to his shoulders like a spiderweb. “We should be cautious,” he finally said. “I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to come back, so it's something we need to continue to be prepared for.”

Seonghwa nodded. “Aye,” he exhaled. He shook a strand of wavy, dark hair from his eyes. “And the girl? What happened there?”

“Nothing eventful,” Hongjoong sighed as the two of them began slowly walking out of the dining hall and toward the stairwell. “She wasn't interested in my business nor my help.”

His counterpart offered a small chuckle. They climbed the stairs up to the second floor of the warehouse, which was the main common area for the eight brothers-in-arms. “Good for her. She wasn't hurt from the explosion yesterday, was she?”

“Fortunately, she seemed alright.” Better to not involve innocent civilians in their mess. That was something Hongjoong hoped to avoid, but sometimes things happened that were out of his control.

“I do think it's interesting that she's appeared in the right place at the right time twice now,” Seonghwa mused. They ended up in the large living room space, and while Hongjoong collapsed into an armchair, Seonghwa went over to the liquor cart to pour out twin glasses of amber-colored liquid. “Do you believe in fate, Joong?” he asked this as he handed Hongjoong the second glass.

Hongjoong raised his eyebrows. “Fate? No. I believe in coincidence and intention.”

Seonghwa gestured toward him with his glass before he knocked back the liquid inside. He grimaced at the burn in his throat. “Ah, ever the romantic,” he teased.

The captain rolled his eyes good naturedly. “Forgive me for being a cynic. Now, the council meeting coming up—”

“Aish, always business with you.”

Hongjoong jammed his tongue into his cheek. “With the rumors about Strictland and their possible propositioning of other families, our game plan going into the meeting is all the more critical.”

Seonghwa sighed, nodding. “I know, I know.”

There had been a suspicion amongst the circle that the impersonator could be someone from an outside gang or mafia family attempting to gain control of Ateez land, as well as gray areas. Perhaps, an underlying worry was that it was Strictland instead, but with what Jungwon revealed, those underlying suspicions just became genuine concerns.

“Tell your people to watch their backs,” Hongjoong said quietly after a beat had passed. “Keep their eyes and ears open.”

Seonghwa pressed his lips together. “Aye, will do. You'll need to be careful, too, alright? No wandering around on your own, Joong. I'm serious.”

Hongjoong tipped his head back as he downed the alcohol sitting in the dregs of his glass. “No promises, but alright.”

You turned the business card between your hands for what felt like the one thousandth rotation. You sat on the couch in your apartment, your mug of coffee untouched on the coffee table and your mind blank. The card had fallen into your possession just last night when you met Kim Hongjoong, the man you apparently had saved not once, but twice.

A simple search online came up with nothing helpful. He didn't have an online presence, from what you could find, but the location of this Shipwreck place was not in a gray area—it was in Ateez territory. Not one to be privy to non-gray area locations, you knew nothing about Hala Town, only who ruled it.

Something you hadn't noticed last night, however, were the instructions on the back, reading simply: “Request for parley.” You didn't know what that meant either, but when you looked it up—parley—you learned that it was terminology used for discussions or conferences. Perhaps requesting for parley meant requesting an audience with someone, likely this Hongjoong character.

Though you pretty much rejected his offer of a double life debt, you still marinated on the possibilities. It was always good to have something to fall back on. You just weren't sure how trustworthy he was or what you would even ask of him.

Your head perked up at the sound of Ryujin emerging from her room, her pajamas swapped with business casual attire and her work bag slung over her shoulder. She shuffled over to you with a small smile. “Hey, how was work last night?” she asked quietly, squeezing your hand.

“It was good, fine,” you replied. You fisted the card in your lap, bringing your knees up to your chest. “Hey, have you ever been to the Shipwreck?”

You watched confusion flicker across your friend's face. She shook her head, her dark hair swaying as she did. “No, I don't think I recognize it, let alone have been there. What is it?”

“Just a club or a bar I think.” You gnawed your lip, glancing away to fib, “Y'know my coworker Leanne? She mentioned it last night offhandedly, I dunno. I think it's somewhere in Hala Town.”

Ryujin's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Hala Town? That's…” She hesitated, then settled on, “Just tell her to be safe if she goes over there. I've heard some things…”

“What things?”

She sighed, perching onto the couch armrest. “You know—it just underwent a turf war less than three years ago. It could still be a minefield with the fresh ruling family; you know how that stuff is.”

You hummed something noncommittal, hand warming around the card to the point you were sure your skin's oil was destroying the paper fibers in it. You wondered if the ink would smudge.

She stood up. “Well, I'm off to work now. D'you need anything before I head out?”

“No, I'm good.” You exchanged a warm smile with her, and you reached up to squeeze her hand again. “Stay safe, Ryu.”

“You, too. Oh, when's your shift today?”

“Oh, uhm, I think I'm gonna leave a little early tonight, but I'll leave dinner on the stove.” It was your turn to cook anyway.

Ryujin slipped her shoes on at the door, a grateful nod sent your way. “Gotcha. See ya, babe,” she sang with a wiggle of her fingers in goodbye.

When she was gone, the apartment descended into another bout of silence. You framed the card up in front of you between your thumbs and index fingers, thinking… thinking… thinking. You turned Ryujin's words over and over again in your head… recalled the strife you'd undergone just in this past week…

You stood up and walked into your bedroom, opening the first drawer of your desk and shoving the card inside.

It wasn't worth it.

The remainder of your day carried on rather uneventfully. You managed to finish up something for one of your classes, as well as look into jobs in your field to apply to once you graduated. While working at the bar was fine, it was just to fund you through getting a degree in business management. After working at the same place for over a year, you found that your boss wasn't the most open to letting you gain managerial experience, so you needed to move on soon.

By the time it hit six o'clock, you put one category of work aside, and got ready for the other.

Dinner was left on the stove as promised, and you shucked on a thicker coat over your work clothes before heading out into the crispening night.

You took the metro to where the bar was located as per usual.

Saturday nights were always quite busy, and tonight was no exception. As you hung your coat and bag up in your locker, you were already being herded into the main room for service. The bar was packed like a can of sardines with patrons standing shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow. You'd had plenty of practice sharing breathing air with a packed house of drunkards, but it didn't make it any more pleasant.

You tucked your serving tray under your arm as you passed by one of your coworkers. “Hey, I'm gonna take my fifteen.”

Your coworker nodded, but stopped you, fishing something out from his waist apron. “Could you pass this along to the boss lady? It's a delivery slip from earlier, but she wasn't there to take it.”

“Yeah, sure,” you said, taking the folded slip from him and heading into the back hallway. You breathed out a haggard exhale, exhaustion seeping into your muscles and joints now that you weren't in work mode.

For a moment, you stayed there in the darkness of the corridor, your back pressed against the wall and your head tilted back. The sounds from the main barroom were muffled with the door closed, but it provided ample white noise for you to take a breather.

Maybe a step out into the night air would do you some good, you thought, pushing off the wall and quietly stepping over to your boss's office at the end of the hallway. A sliver of warm light from beneath the closed door sliced through the hallway's darkness, and you followed it like a moth to a flame to find your way.

As you got closer, however, you realized that there were voices coming from inside the office. You recognized your boss's voice as one of them, but you didn't recognize the other. The latter was lower, more masculine.

“—I know you're paying dues to the pirate king.”

“If you're planning to blackmail me with this information,” your boss drawled, “then I'm afraid you're wasting your time. The Captain doesn't own this establishment, so it's perfectly in line with the rules.”

You pressed closer to the door, hoping to crane your ears and hear more. This wasn't a conversation you were supposed to hear, but your boss just admitted to paying tribute to Ateez's Captain in a gray area. This could likely endanger people's safety, including your own. (Why the Hell was this happening to you so often lately, and could it stop?)

“I'm not here to blackmail you; I'm here to make a proposal.”

A beat passed. “I'm listening.”

You held your breath as you waited for the other person to speak their mind. Your entire body was frozen there in the hallway, for fear that one small move might alert them to your eavesdropping.

“I am proposing an alliance, if you will, between you and my organization. In exchange for your loyalty, we will not only grant you protection but also the shares and ownership of the Shipwreck waterfront property. Prime real estate and good business.”

Your ears perked up at the familiar name. The Shipwreck? Was that not in Hala Town? That was a good distance away from this hole in the wall, but if he was offering ownership of the Shipwreck, then—no. No, that wasn't Kim Hongjoong's voice in that office, though. Who was this mystery person?

Your boss let out a small laugh. “And how do you plan on granting me ownership of the Shipwreck, Mr. Young?”

The Mr. Young character replied simply, “When we take over the Ateez territory.”

“A turf war? Are you crazy? The one there only just ended, and how do you plan on throwing out the current leadership?”

“We have our ways, Ms. Iwazaki.” Another moment passed, and you wondered if now would be a good time to finally knock on the door and get the Hell out of here, but Mr. Young continued onward. “Even if you do not wish to pledge loyalty—that is perfectly fine—my superior asks for one, small favor.”

Another laugh, this time drier. “A favor, hm?”

“I'm certain you will be able to complete it. You simply need to summon Kim Hongjoong to this location, and I will take care of the rest.”

Tension filled your shoulders. Hongjoong? Again? Was this guy always going to be in some kind of trouble?

“And why would I do you this favor?” your boss asked, her voice having dropped to something like a deadpan.

You leaned closer to the door.

“Because if you don't, my men and I will burn this building to the ground with you and everyone else in it.”

You barely caught your serving tray before it clattered to the ground, but the sound of your palm hitting the flat side created an unmistakable thump sound that fucking echoed. You swore, practically feeling the silence fill the hallway. Panic flooded your chest—

The office door was ripped open, light spilling into the darkness. The man who stood there glared out into the empty hallway, eyes narrowed on the door that led back into the main barroom that only just banged shut.

Meanwhile, you barrelled through the barroom toward the kitchen, weaving your way through coworkers and bar patrons alike. The receipt slip was the last thing on your mind—oh god, you had to get everyone out of here.

But… that was only if your boss didn't agree to do Mr. Young's favor.

What did they plan to do to Hongjoong? No doubt nothing good. You had to warn him somehow.

As you shoved yourself out into the cold evening, the temperature nipping at your skin and your breath manifesting into a physical form, you began to pace the alleyway proper.

“The card!” you gasped aloud, hands slapping against your pockets, only to realize that you weren't going to find the business card on your person. You groaned, hitting your palm against your forehead. “Idiot,” you swore.

You pulled your phone out from your back pocket and searched up the Shipwreck. There had to be some kind of phone number or contact information online.

You dialed the number listed there and chewed on your lip as it rang.

When someone picked up, you didn't recognize their voice. “This is the Shipwreck—San speaking. How may I help you?”

Anxiety bubbled in your chest. What if you just sounded stupid? What if this situation was handled? What if you were sticking your nose into business you weren't supposed to? Wasn't this how people got killed—

“Uh hello?”

San's voice snapped you out. “Shit,” you stammered. “Uhm, is Kim Hongjoong there?”

You could hear chatter and glass clatter in the background, all sounds normal to a bar. “Kim Hongjoong? And who may I say is calling?”

“Uh—a concerned, uhm, friend.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you screwed your eyes shut and repeatedly air-smacked your forehead.

A pause, then a chuckle. “A concerned friend,” he parroted. “Alright, what would his concerned friend like to say to him? I can pass along a message.”

Could you trust this guy? It didn't sound like he was going to take you seriously.

You had no other choice. Hongjoong had no other choice. “I just—if he gets a call from Iwazaki Rina, don't come to the bar on Fifth. It's a trap.”

It hit you then that you just endangered the entire building by making this call.

You leaned against the brick alley wall, guilt pouring through you. Why were you putting lives on the line for this man? You barely knew him, but your gut was urging you to save his goddamn life for the third time. Not that you were counting.

On the other side, San had gone quiet. Then he said, “Yn. This is Ln Yn, is it not?”

You straightened, your pulse lurching against your throat. “How do you know my name?”

“You said Hongjoong's in danger?” There was more shuffling, accompanied by muffled voices. You couldn't hear what he was saying or the voice he was speaking with. He returned to the phone a moment later, uncovering the speaker. “We're letting him know now. Thanks, Yn.”

“Wait!” you sputtered. “Wait, I—” Would they even care? “They're going to burn this building down with everyone in it if he doesn't show up. I—I don't know what to do—”

“Hey, it's okay, Yn,” San said softly, reassuringly. “You did the right thing. We'll take care of it.”

Panic was rising up in your throat again, rancid and bitter like bile. “What does that even mean—”

“We'll be in touch.” Then the line went dead.

a/n: pls remember to reblog if you enjoyed !!

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mercurysmaelstrom · 4 days ago

Text

The Stench of Red

pairing: Remmick x POC Reader

summary: “No amount of tears you spill is gon’ wash away the shit you chose to do.” He reached for your wrist, bringing your hand to your face. “And that smell? It ain’t goin’ away either.”

or…

Grief-stricken, your guilt manifests a punishment that only you can smell. Eventually, you find that Remmick can smell it too.

or…

You sleep with Remmick to distract yourself from your guilt, and he lets you.

part 2/2 of Swan Song

contains: vamp!reader, southern gothic themes, child death, angst, murder, grief, loneliness, alcohol-abuse, blood, smut 18+ (AFAB reader, finger sucking, oral sex, cunnilingus, blow jobs, piv sex), not very dialogue heavy, modern au.

word count: 3.5k

a/n: You don’t need to have read part 1 of this series. You might miss some light context clues, emphasis on ‘light’, particularly in the beginning, but you wouldn’t be missing anything crazy.

The flame burned solemnly before you.

And beyond the fire escaped the rancid smell of burning flesh.

It had been nine months since the speakeasy-massacre. Nine months since you started journeying with Remmick, following where the music led you as if it were a trail of scent, marking the fingers and throats that produced each song you’d heard with red handprints. With every blood-splatter that tainted each instrument came rebirthed musicians, lively, yet hollow. And the fire that had raced around them as they played dissipated once you and Remmick sunk your teeth into their necks, siphoning the life that lived in the tunes they played.

It had been four months since the boy was turned.

The young boy whose voice sirened in you and your supposed band of vampires. The boy from a church that sat in the middle of nowhere whom you’d decided was best to keep away from. However, that didn’t stop the pink-faced fiddler out of Arizona from greedily snatching the child’s little body, stealing him away from everything he knew, ridding him of ever being able to sit on a porch with his wrinkled brown skin and gray hair, watching his grandchildren giggle as they ran around on the grass barefoot.

From then on you decided the child needed a guide while he was here; someone to trust; an adult to teach him how to discern between right and wrong. But he was a growing boy. A hungry one at that.

Eventually no one in the pack, not even you, could help satiate him, and no amount of hypocritical moral lessons were going to appease the endless pit of his appetite.

Thus, you made it your job to put him down.

Remmick didn’t intervene. As a result, no one else intervened in the boy’s rampant chase for food, no method to his undeserved madness. They didn’t intervene when you found a pistol from the front desk of an abandoned motel, and they didn’t intervene when you told them what you were going to do with it.

And so, the flame burned solemnly before you.

And beyond the fire escaped the rancid smell of burning flesh belonging to the boy who had often tugged at your sleeve, looking up at you with a youthful curiosity in his eyes.

The oboist from Utah placed a gentle hand on your shoulder from behind. “Don’t linger for too long,” she said.

Were those words of her own or Remmick’s?

Even after spending months on the road attempting to learn each unique personality of every individual you and the eldest had collected, distinguishing between who they were underneath his control never became easier.

Once she walked off, only you and Remmick remained outside on the desert floor, standing on opposite ends of the child-sized pyre a large distance away from the motel everyone else grouped in.

The translucent blood on your hands stunk, and in spite of how “clean” the boy’s murder was, gazing into the fire hadn’t tempered the rotten smell in any way. Yet you continued to watch, presently feeling the same ache you reminded yourself not to ignore.

From across the flame, Remmick’s eyes trained on you, occasionally glancing at the pulverizing body laid between yourselves.

You sensed it; it wasn’t new, being the subject of his stare. It felt like the heat of a spotlight radiating on your face when you performed on stage, and at times it made it difficult to see anyone beyond the ray.

But it didn’t feel that way now. The only spotlight that mattered was the one you casted on the burning child.

Eventually, four weeks had passed, and the stink remained. Then another four months had passed, and the stink still remained.

Making use of the hive’s eyes and ears when he wasn’t close enough to use his own, Remmick watched as you sunk into the misty smell of the boy’s flesh, the stink subsequently clotting into what resembled spoiled milk.

Through the eyes of the oboist from Utah, he noticed the empty spot beside you when everyone would crowd around the bonfire, singing and playing before the sun rose back up, your hand thoughtlessly tapping or reaching out for a vacant presence—your fingers curling in when the only thing you touched was the air; through the ears of the mandolinist from Tennessee, he heard you throw freshly emptied bottles of beer against the back of the motel, the glass shattering agonizingly as you yelled out profanities when you thought everyone was gone searching for more bodies to take; through the ears of the saxophonist from Missouri, he heard you from the motel room next door, drunkenly sobbing about a stink that would never go away, no matter how much you washed your hands; crying that you couldn’t dare touch your keyboard out of fear that the blood on your fingers would stain the plastic keys.

Perhaps that was what made it easy—letting Remmick crawl inside you. Perhaps it was why your arm eagerly wrapped behind his neck after he knocked on the door of your motel room, pulling him into your alcohol-reeked mouth before he could explain why he showed up in the first place.

Rapidly, you welcomed him in, the tepid darkness overtaking your bodies like a shadowed hand reaching out to grab the both of you, dragging you away from the red, flickering neon sign that aimlessly managed to illuminate the wasteland where the motel lonesomely lived on. When the door shut, the light outside narrowed into a red slit between the closed, white curtains, accompanying the one candle lit on your nightstand—the red and orange glowing together just enough to see the pieces of each of your anatomies that solely carried weight in this moment.

Remmick’s lips had served its purpose for now, trailing from your jaw, to your neck, to your breasts, then to your belly before opening up your legs, locking his arms around your thighs in order to pull you in close to his warm mouth, flattening his even warmer tongue, licking and sucking with the guidance of your voice.

Your pussy coated his mouth, your juices a temporary, but sufficient replacement for blood this particular night, the muffled moans from his throat easing you closer to ecstasy; a distraction you hadn’t given to yourself in too long.

Whimpering, you stared at the dark ceiling, the red light from outside softly permeating the flat surface above you. When you lowered your gaze, you found Remmick’s face between your legs, his eyes already laid thick on you; his eyes emulating the wicked glow of ember that haunted you for the past few months in the midst of the very darkness that you chose to bide in when the door—blue luminescence peaking through the slits of its four sides—was right in front of you, unlocked and ready to be opened.

You sighed, stretching a hand to Remmick’s head, tugging at his dark hair as he sucked your clit. “Shit,” you moaned as your head dropped back onto the pillow, the rhythm of your cunt grinding against his face, edging you closer to climax.

Once you did, you had no use for him anymore.

You wouldn’t even say his name as you came. Instead, you rolled off to the other side of the bed, gradually coming back down from your high, yanking the sheets back up your body to hide away what he had just seen seconds ago.

Nonetheless, he didn’t protest. He laid on your bed for half-an-hour, staring at the side of your face before shutting his eyes for a moment or two, opening them up again when he decided that he needed to leave.

In between the next time he stepped foot into your room, your inebriated frustration ensued. Again, the saxophonist next door heard you in the bathroom as you wailed about the rotten smell of your hands while you ran them under the tap water—the scarlet prints that only you could see sinisterly coagulating into gloves that were impossible to remove.

Soon you came to notice the odor alleviating when Remmick returned to your doorstep in his vest, stains of faded red seeped onto the white fabric that you tore off a minute later.

The elder’s presence didn’t make the smell disappear. The smell of rotting flesh always lingered, only now hiding under the thick aroma of sex.

His hands slithered along your body, the presumed wedding band worn on his left hand coolly dragging along the side of your thigh as you rode his cock, your hand wrapped around his neck and the other planted beside his face.

“Yeah…yeah…fuck…yeah…” he moaned, looking at you with the inner corners of his brows crinkled, his mouth hanging open at the feel of you around him. As you moved, selfishly only trying to guide yourself to an orgasm—his body simply a toy you bit your lip for—Remmick decided to grasp the sides of your hips, thrusting up into you at an angle that made him pound even deeper into your slick walls.

You yelped at the sudden action, but you welcomed it, promptly placing your hands on his knees.

As he moved in and out of you, you reached down for your nub before Remmick pushed you on your back, sweeping away your hand and replacing it with his own, rubbing your swollen clit.

“How’s that, darlin’?” He grunted, his eyes roaming all over your skin, the writhing of your body fueling his movement.

You mumbled incoherent sentences, letting out, “Shit, yeah, that…that feels good.”

Even after he came first, he continued to fuck you, his cum flooding your pussy while his hips stuttered from the overstimulation, though he enjoyed seeing you dazed below him, your spine arching and your breasts rising as you whimpered, “Fuck, I’m gonna…” as you came, your toes curling, your lips crying his name out for the first time.

The two of you laid breathless, tangled in the sheets of the bed you rarely made, Remmick’s head laid on your chest, his softened cock remaining inside of you. Your fingers lazily played in his hair, hovering down to the gold chain around his neck, fiddling with the jewelry until he raised his head.

Removing your hand from his neck, he brought it to his lips.

With your palm between your faces, the smell of sex began to wane, the wretched stink making its way up your nostrils. This time, Remmick could see the expression in your face firsthand—the look of disgust and shame that re-entered the depths of your being.

Softly, he planted kisses on your wrist, your palm, and your fingers, never averting his gaze from you.

Like that, the blood on your hands started to ink his mouth, covering his lips and tongue the way your slick did two weeks before. He proceeded keeping his mouth on your reeking hand, sucking the blood he seemed to notice from each of your fingers.

While the blood never actually left your hand, nor did the smell, there was an unusual comfort in seeing him take some of it for himself.

When he finished, he pressed his lips onto yours, his tongue entering your mouth, the bitter tang of red shared between the two of you until he pushed himself off of your body, pulling his dick out of you, cum oozing out after him.

Once you both cleaned up, Remmick left you alone again.

This time, however, you didn’t think you wanted that.

A week had passed, and even though the smell continued to cling onto you, you recognized the stink wasn’t as pungent. You wondered if the eldest returned, taking your fingers into the heat of his mouth just enough, that maybe you’d be rid of the smell.

When the sun set and the moon rose, the hive circled around another bonfire, singing and dancing until you saw your incorporeal families. To your expectations, they never appeared, even as the hive grew.

During the bonfire, the emptiness sitting on your right felt less apparent as you peered at the embers floating from the fire to the stars, your stare slowly traveling back down to the banjoist across from you who also happened to be gazing up at the night sky, his fingers plucking the strings of his instrument and his bloody mouth singing in an accent that had not matched the one he regularly spoke in—a phenomenon you never questioned.

When he hadn’t seen what he wanted, his head dropped to the fire, his eyes glossed with an emptiness that mirrored the vacant presence by your side. Beyond the flame, he was able to find you sitting across from him without an instrument, your fingers still reluctant to mark the piano.

The following night, Remmick found his way back in your bed, laying on his side with his head leaning on his hand, his other one tracing your clavicle.

“I can’t just forget what happened,” you told Remmick.

Just minutes before, you had his wrists above his head, fucking him until he came with your name leaving his mouth, desperate to feel your skin. But for once, he enjoyed being absolved of all control, allowing your hands to hold him down despite carrying an ancient strength in his body that effortlessly surpassed your own.

His calloused finger paused at your sternum. “So you’re…choosin’ to sit in your own guilt.”

You turned your head to the ceiling. “Someone has to.”

“And that makes you, what? Better than the rest of us?”

You blinked, your brows twitching. “That’s not what I’m saying,” you said, shifting to your side, the man’s hand falling off of you.

“No, what I’m hearin’ is that you think your guilt is gon’ purify you somehow,” the elder accused you. “You ain’t different from us.” From me.

“I’m not the one who used Arizona—” you hadn’t bothered to learn the fiddler’s name—“to bite the kid. You killed him the minute you got your teeth on him.”

Remmick scoffed. “Oh, ‘cause I was the one who held a gun to that baby’s head?”

Your mouth shut.

“I told you once, and I’mma tell you again: we’re the same,” he reminded you. “No amount of tears you spill is gon’ wash away the shit you chose to do.” He reached for your wrist, bringing your hand to your face. “And that smell? It ain’t goin’ away either.”

You furrowed your brows, failing to pull away from his grip.

“Hell, that stink was there way before I showed up,” Remmick continued. “Just…every now and then, you’ll get a reminder.”

There wasn’t room for denial anymore, but rather than kicking it out, you told Remmick to leave instead. You told him you were tired and hungry; that once he left, you’d go out to find something to eat. But you remained in your room, the red neon sign sneaking inside, the slit dragging across your chest as it rose and fell.

A fortnight passed by—Remmick hadn’t returned.

The stink also hadn’t dwindled, but this time around, you didn’t lament. You didn’t lick the salt that slid down to the corner of your lip either. You simply washed your hands, staring at the blood that poured down the sink, but never completely left your skin. Then you raised your head to the blemished mirror, finding only the graffitied tile wall behind you.

When you curled back into your bed, you lifted your fingers to your nose, sniffing the burning boy…sniffing the corpses of the folks at the speakeasy—your frenzied mind too far gone that most of those who died that night stayed dead, never hopping back up on their feet. With each inhale, you dug into each layer of people you’d killed or turned, remembering how they smelled and tasted, but never being able to recall their faces, or their names.

What mattered, you began to understand, was their flesh disembodied from their souls. Frankly, that’s what made your consumption easier.

You laid in your filth for another hour before gathering yourself, leaving to find Remmick’s room, craving the smell your glistening bodies mustered up together while the moon was out. Hesitantly, you knocked on his door, scrutinizing the faded teal paint that peeled off the aged wood.

Seconds later your ears perked at the sound of his footsteps reaching the portal, opening the barrier standing between the two of you.

Before you could say anything, he reached for your fingers, pulling you inside the darkness of his den.

When you stepped in, he cradled your face; up close, you could see the crusted blood on the sides of his mouth. He had just eaten. So closer you moved, finding his leftovers with your tongue, stealing some for yourself before taking his mouth completely.

With your lips attached to his, you walked forward until the back of his legs hit the bed enough for his bottom to land on the mattress. Standing above him, he gazed up at you; you could see the embers in his eyes again as he watched you ease down to your knees, undoing the trousers that trapped in his stiff cock. Once you slipped the waistband of his underwear down, it sprung out, and hungrily your hand molded around him, lightly, but firmly squeezing.

Remmick bit his lower lip when you found the tip of his member, rubbing your thumb around the slit where pre-cum leaked. Quickly, you spat on your hand, combining both fluids to jerk him off, dragging your hand up and down all the way to the base of his cock. Then as he watched you pump slowly then fast, interchanging between the two speeds, you used your other hand to push against his chest, leaning him back until he landed on his elbows. Soon his eyes rolled back, his head almost hitting the mattress when he felt your hot mouth close on the tip of his dick.

“Yeah,” he rasped out. “That feels nice, baby.”

When you took him in deeper, his cock pulsing, Remmick’s back finally hit the mattress as he hissed.

You enjoyed hearing him repeat your name. You liked the indecision of his hand, unsure whether to cup the side of your face or sit on top of your head, pushing you further into him despite being inside you.

Soon his pelvis trembled when he came, and as you drank him in, he groaned, “Fuck,” before letting out a salacious sigh that shot straight to your cunt.

Not long after, he was inside you again.

Your hands gripped the bed frame as you bounced on his cock, Remmick’s hand on your waist, his other squeezing your breast, and his lips clasped on the other, sucking thirstily. Eventually, he released your tit from his mouth, leaning his head back against the headboard, taking in the dim sight of you while continuing to cup your breast, flicking and twisting your nipple.

Dropping your gaze from the ceiling down to the utterly vulgar look on his face, you removed your grip from the mahogany wood, taking a hold of his stubbled chin, rubbing the tip of your thumb across his bottom lip. More than willing, he parted his mouth, letting your thumb slip inside.

As he sucked, he removed his hand from your breast, taking hold of your forearm to guide himself along your digits, enveloping not just one, but two or even three into his salivating mouth, never peering away from you.

The burning feeling beneath your belly only grew as you moved with him, your bodies finding a natural rhythm once both his hands found your ass, helping you maneuver yourself up and down his dick. Remembering the sight and feel of him slurping in your blood-coated fingers that only the two of you could see, smell, and taste, you inched closer to the edge.

Enjoying the feel of you moving up and down his cock and the repetitions of, “Rem…Remmick,” that slipped from your tongue, he inched closer to the edge too, encouraging you with his own moans, muttering, “Fuck, you feel so good.”

“Yeah?” You huffed out.

“Yeah. Like seein’ you…on top of me.”

For the first time, you both came together, your bodies stuttering as you held each other close, his nose deep in the crook of your neck—your mouth close to his ear, your breathless whimpers making him thrust into you two, or three, or four more times, allowing your body to milk him until there was nothing left.

You remained where you were, getting a hold of his ear with your teeth, gently biting on the cartilage before trailing your lips to his cheekbone, then to his lips. Tenderly, you kissed him, feeling his hand snake to the nape of your neck, caressing his thumb behind your ear while his tongue explored your mouth, tasting the cum you had drunk earlier.

That night, no one left each other.

You didn’t gather your clothes and rush back to your room, which you would have done weeks ago. And Remmick never told you to leave. Instead, he brushed the back of his hand along on your cheek as you laid on your back and he laid on his side, chuckling at something funny you said.

Nevertheless, the stench lingered, trailing its way to your nose without fail. And Remmick couldn’t fight the smile on his face when he recognized that you had finally welcomed it.

#remmick x reader #remmick x fem!reader #poc reader #remmick x sinners #remmick fanfiction #sinners remmick #sinners 2025 #jack o'connell #afab reader

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strangerdangerpookies · 1 month ago

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Nap Time Negotiations

Pairing: Giyu Tomioka x Reader

Timeline/Setting: Modern AU – Married with a 7-month-old baby

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The late afternoon sun streamed softly through the living room curtains, casting golden stripes across the hardwood floor. The apartment, for once, was blissfully quiet. No baby babble. No fussing. No teething wails.

You gently closed the door to the nursery, holding your breath like a final prayer. The crib mattress had finally accepted your seven-month-old daughter’s tiny, warm body. Her breathing had evened out, lashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks. Success.

You tiptoed back down the hallway, exhaling slowly as you rubbed your shoulder from the hours of swaying, bouncing, and lullaby-humming. Giyu stood at the end of the hallway leaning against the doorframe, dressed in soft black sweatpants and a plain gray tee, hair loosely tied back.

“She asleep?” he asked, voice hushed and low.

“She better be,” you said, pressing your index finger to your lips. “I just aged five years trying to get her to nap.”

Giyu chuckled—quietly, of course—and reached for you as you approached. His hand slid around your waist, fingers splayed and familiar, guiding you gently into him.

“Good,” he murmured, tilting his head to brush his lips against yours, “because I’ve been waiting all day.”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on yours—warm, slow, and just a little needy. The kind of kiss that reminded you you weren’t just a mom, but his partner. His love. His wife.

You melted into him, sighing softly as your hands curled into his shirt. His grip tightened on your waist as he nudged you backward, walking you gently into the bedroom until the back of your knees hit the bed. He didn’t push—he didn’t need to. The heat of his lips against yours, the subtle growl in his throat when your nails scraped lightly up the back of his neck… it was more than enough.

You pulled him down with you as you laid back, your legs curling instinctively around his waist. He smiled against your lips, his hand slipping beneath your shirt to trace the soft skin just above your hip. Goosebumps followed in his wake.

“I missed you today,” he murmured, brushing kisses along your jaw. “You’ve been a little preoccupied.”

“You mean keeping your child alive?” you teased breathlessly.

“Our child,” he corrected, dipping his head to your throat, where he kissed a sensitive spot that made you squirm. “But I’d still like some time with you too.”

You laughed softly until he nipped gently at your neck, dragging another sound from you entirely. His body pressed flush against yours, his hand cradling your thigh while his other kept you anchored close.

The kiss deepened—slower but more intense. You sighed into his mouth, letting your body respond, your hands trailing along the lines of his back. The kind of moment you hadn’t had in weeks. The kind that made your heart ache with love and your body ache with longing.

Just as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts—

“WAAAAHHHH!!”

The shrill cry from the monitor sliced through the tension like a knife. You both groaned in perfect sync.

Giyu dropped his forehead to your collarbone. “She has a sixth sense.”

“She really does,” you whispered with a weak laugh. “Sorry.”

He lifted his head just enough to kiss your lips once more, slow and sweet, despite the infant siren call blaring in the background.

“Don’t apologize,” he said softly. “You’re doing everything, and you’re still so beautiful it makes me insane.”

You blinked, flushed.

Then, with a final kiss to your cheek, he pushed up off the bed. “I’ll get her.”

“Wait,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “Let me go with you.”

He smiled, eyes full of something that almost made your breath catch—like love was a tangible thing in that moment.

“Okay,” he murmured.

Together, you padded back down the hallway, your fingers brushing together between your bodies. The monitor still buzzed as your daughter cried, demanding attention.

But even through the exhaustion and interruptions, Giyu’s hand found yours and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You weren’t alone.

And when the next nap time came around… you’d try again.

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Text

LITTLE DEATHS (IX)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER X

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 3.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, stalking behavior, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations, body image issues, food issues, scar descriptions, mentions of past intimacy, hurt/comfort, soft!Nikto, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wake up the next morning in the silk sheets of your hotel bedroom, in nothing but an oversized shirt and underwear. Your mind is sluggish and, between flashes of electricity up your thighs, the entire night comes back in slow images as you groan into the pillow.

A quick rush of a coat to cover ripped laces, the scream of sirens, Nikto arguing with authorities before you’re both released.

It was a play of luck that you explained away the snapped wrist as a simple instance of Nikto being some white knight—he’d kept you safe, you’d said. The host had been forcing himself on you; it could be seen on the cameras. Paired with his service record and a call from your investigators, they’d let you go without any further trouble.

Today, the small headache from the champagne was only a dull sting in the back of your skull; you hadn’t been drunk—hadn’t gotten to that point, anyway.

Eyes starting at the far wall, a heat builds and builds on your face as the minutes pass.

“Did we really…” you trail off in a whisper, hand coming up to your face as you roll onto your back and stifle a loud sound of exasperation, lips mouthing out, “Fuck.”

Nikto had left you shaking on his fingers in a damn storage room. Twice.

Your lips thin, legs caught in the sheets. You weren’t even awake enough to understand the potential consequences—not only the intimate encounter, but the repercussions of not sleeping with Oriel would be swift and fierce.

Never mind the broken bone.

The sharp knife of that moment is a deadly thing, it digs deep into you until your eyes are watering. That desperation in the storage room—the things you said were true. You’d silenced your phone last night because you knew the reaction would be instant; undeniable. Even now, you shift over and slide your hand over it on the side table, only to pause and take a deep breath before turning it on.

A sudden barrage of missed calls and texts slam into your ears before you slap the device back down and turn it off with fast fingers.

Your eyes close tightly, flopping back down and covering your eyes. It was instinctual the way your heart started running from you—the fear seeping back in.

They’re going to fire me, you think, hands shaking. They’re going to throw me out.

Through the heavy understanding, through the ideas you have to try and salvage this, you pause only when something makes your nose twitch. Hesitating, your hands slip from your face slowly, eyelids peeling back a millimeter at a time. Staring at the gray ceiling, your brows pull back to their normal resting point as your face goes blank.

What is that? Palms going to the mattress, you sit up slowly and sniff. It was dough, maybe? Something sweet and toasted.

Shifting, your feet connect with the cold floor, and you stand with a grunt, a tiny ache in the middle of your abdomen that makes your face heat and your hands rub at the back of your neck. A part of you was nervous more about what was outside of your door than what was in your phone—Nikto.

How would this go? Would he ignore the entire thing? Ignore you?

“He doesn’t run from things,” you mutter aloud, walking and stepping on the torn laces of your dress at the foot of the bed. Your hands grasp one of the bags in your room, not caring to check the rest of the contents before you sift through and drag out a pair of dark sweatpants.

Moving into them, the waistband is large, just as the legs are, but you’re too preoccupied to understand the way you’ve slipped into Nikto’s pants before you’re already at the door. Hands shaking over the handle, your fingers run the smooth metal before you shake your head and huff.

Walking out, the scent of fresh pancakes makes itself known as you blink at the scene in front of you. Trying to understand if you were actually awake, or if this was still some dream in the airyness of your mind. The stuttering of your heart feels real.

Nikto was shirtless.

Shirtless, making breakfast.

Your mouth is somewhat agape as you stare, struck down to a statue in the doorway as your eyelids flutter. Again, that bear tattoo writhes as the expansive muscle moves and twitches with work—Nikto’s front facing the pan that he works a spatula through. All of the ingredients are left on the counter, bought by him or already in the luxurious cabinets for your pleasure, you don’t know; flour, milk, among the others. Jams and honey.

You don’t know how long you stand there, fighting between your desire to run your hands over his bare skin and the respectful sense you know you need to keep. It’s enough time for him to slap one more scoop of dough into the sizzling pan and pass the done pancake to the side where one more rests, steaming.

You hadn’t thought your words meant that much to him.

Clearing your throat in shock, you see him glance over his shoulder swiftly. A bead of silence.

“Come. Eat,” is what he says—no emotion heard in the voice, though you didn’t expect anything less. His pale eyes dart down you, and after a small break in the air, he chuckles. “Thief, yes?”

“What?” Your brows crease. “I didn’t…” You look down and pause. It was fairly obvious that the pants didn’t belong to you. Your lips flattened, and your eyes flinched closed in embarrassment. “I must have gone through the wrong bag.”

Turning back, you hear a call from the Russian before you can disappear like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“I don’t wear them. I do not mind.” There's low electricity in the air. He doesn’t know how to go about this either.

Sighing, you shrug and nod, shifting back so you can walk to the kitchen counter and stuff your hands into your pockets. Leaning your hip to the corner, you fight the clamminess of your hands. The sweatpants pool at your ankles as your mouth opens.

“Pancakes?” You ask lowly, glancing at him.

He’s still in that balaclava, and his cargos are loose around his hips before being stuffed into dark boots that you’d never see him without.

“With jam,” Nikto grunts. “You will like them.”

You push out a tiny laugh. “I’ve had pancakes before, Nikto. I’m pretty sure most people have.”

“How would we know, hm?” Pale eyes narrow on yours, but it isn’t hostile. Nikto grumbles, moving the pan before he motions with a finger. “Those are done.”

You glance over at the pile and sigh, taking the plate with the two already done pancakes on it and padding over to grab the jam. Your eyes move down the label to find out which one it exactly is—gray isn’t exactly a large help—and open the sealed top with a tiny release of pressure.

Getting fat.

You pause, one hand holding the top and the other the glass jar; eyes blank, you stare at the plate with a steadily sinking heart. Clearing your throat, you move a hand and twist the top back on, placing the jam down and shifting to grab a fork instead.

“Do you think that the investigators will call with any updates—”

“Eat,” Nikto interrupts firmly from behind, back to back.

Your face is tight, fingers tapping the counter. There’s a tension of something between you two, but you can’t name it. Not yet. But it’s there, like a blade cutting through a corset, it’s there. It’s what got you out of bed today, it’s what got Nikto to push himself to sleep shirtless for the first time in years. The possibility of…something. Unseen, you nod and take the food—moving away from the kitchen and sitting down on the couch, you carefully dig into breakfast and shift a dry forkful into your mouth.

Eyes closed, your head slightly bows forward as you chew.

It was no secret that you were quiet today, and Nikto didn’t have to be as sharp-eyed as he was to notice. By now you would have teased him about the effort for the food, or even spoken about the mattress you slept on, Nikto had hypothesized. But it was just…silent.

Nothing.

In the kitchen, the Russian’s brows crease, lips pulling. He huffs, rolling his shoulders as his bones crack.

He’d been up last night—for a long while—doing all the things he said he would until he had the clarity to understand hours later, that everything was a million times more complicated now that he knew the truth about this ‘trip’.

And he had to know all of it.

Nikto, truth be told, was a bit quiet himself; more than he usually was. He continued with breakfast in silence, listening to the sound of your fork tapping the plate as his brain fought with itself. The Russian’s mind told him to act like that hadn’t happened between the two of you—it was unprofessional, wrong down to the core. You were his charge, and he hadn’t hesitated for more than a second before he’d ripped open your dress and played with you like you were his own.

Why? Why was he so enamored by you? It didn’t make any sense. No one had ever mattered this much to him—it was absurd.

But whatever dead part of his heart that had come back to beat again said that ignoring this would be cruel to you; if all others in your life were, that was one thing he would not be. At least to you.

Nikto grunts under his breath and grabs his plate, stacked with six pancakes, before turning, grasping the jam with firm fingers, and heaping it on top. Blinking across to you, he pauses at your closed eyes—the dip of your head. Not only was there still food on your plate but it was set down on the coffee table, resting stationary.

You couldn’t possibly be done already.

“Not good?” He asks, voice gruff.

You shake your head. “No, Nikto, they were perfect. I’m just not that hungry this morning.” Pale blue eyes stare, blinking slowly.

He didn’t know what to do.

Looking down at his breakfast, Nikto clenches his jaw. Grasping his plate and his utensil he walks over before he sits beside you, sinking the cushions and shuffling aside the blanket he’d had last night. When you look over at him, confused, he doesn’t utter a word, before his free hand sneaks up and hooks under his balaclava.

It’s a moment, he knows, a moment of hesitation that instinctually tightens his muscles, stopping him with a shake of his fingers. And then, as he usually does, he forces himself through it.

Slipping the fabric up to his nose, you stare openly at the strong jaw that comes to light, as well as the unspoken horror of scars. It isn’t even a minute before the Russian leans back with a grunt, and spreads his feet until his knee knocks yours before he shoves the first of his pancakes into his mouth with muffled chewing.

Eyes darting away, you stare at your own feet tightly.

Silence settles.

“You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.

“Да,” his words are grumbled, even if you can’t see it, his face is beginning to burn. Heavy memories coming back. He won’t stay long like this—he can’t. It hurts. “I do not.”

You sigh, hands moving up to rub along your face, cupping at it until all the whiteness of the hotel is hidden from your gaze. It wasn’t hard to feel him passing glances.

Shaking your head, your hands fall, and you move to mirror his own position—back leaning and legs kicking out, except yours go to rest on the table next to your plate.

“I think a part of me didn’t expect you to actually be here,” you say, not looking at him. “I’m not used to having to deal with…” your lips halt themselves, looking for words. “After.”

No one ever stayed. Not anyone that mattered.

Nikto’s clinking fork pauses, stuttering on its course. He licks his lips, tasting the sweetness of jam. He continues to watch you as you continue on beside him, bare skin brushing—those large biceps caressing yours.

“I don’t want things to be awkward. If you can’t do your job without something feeling off anymore, I would understand if you wanted to leave. I’m sure my mother can get another operator from KorTac to take me on, she already had two from before that might still be available. I know last night was a lot. I don’t want you to feel…pressured, I guess. That was never my intention.”

He lets you finish, sensing you need to get some things off of your chest. When had he become so soft to this? To you? He was losing his backbone here—losing that edge that kept him…him.

Or was that ever him in the first place?

“I will not leave,” Nikto speaks slowly, lips moving every scar that lives there. “We are not ‘feeling off’. No one will look after you like us, and so no one will take our place until this stalker is either taken away or in ground.”

“And the awkward part?” You ask, glancing over, getting caught by long cuts and fissures.

“We will deal,” Nikto’s chest rumbles, and you believe falling asleep to that sound would stop your nightmares altogether. “There are worse things than that, yes?”

You huff a laugh. “I guess.” A second later, you lightly bump your elbow into his side. “You’re better at this kind of stuff than I’d thought you’d be.”

Dark brows furrow.

“I am speaking truth. Nothing more.”

“Mhm,” your lips carefully peel in a tiny smile. “Sure, Big Guy.”

Nikto scoffs, rolling his eyes before he takes down more of his breakfast. He glances over to see you peeking at his old insignia tattoo—the one on his shoulder. It was strange to him, how you took so much more interest in his ink than the scars; he’d been thinking about it last night.

It was against your nature to not ask about them, and yet…you had. No one had ever not asked about the scars. But, hm, Nikto’s eyes shimmer, it only made his chest swell when you chose not to. As if you understood the sanctity of them—the importance.

That was something that he just wasn’t ready to speak about yet.

“You like it?” He speaks.

You blink quickly, looking back up in an instant. There was no use hiding it.

“What is it?” You ask him, glancing back down at the tattoo and tilting your head at it.

The image was of some sort of crest—a two-headed bird wearing crowns; holding items in their claws with a, smaller, image set into the middle. A man on horseback, spearing a dragon.

“FSB crest.” Nikto’s voice goes lower, more under the breath than previously. “Reminder of service.”

“Oh,” you mutter. “What are the colors?”

He hums. “Red, gold. Little silver. Mine is just black ink, though. Did not go back for second session.”

“I’ve thought of getting tattoos before,” you confess, moving out a slow hand to trace the outline in his flesh. You notice him still somewhat at your dragging nails, lips parting softly. “AMA would never go for it, but I’ve still wondered what it would be like.”

Nikto licks his lips, letting you feel him as he side-eyes you. His muscles soften as your heat seeps in, tingling blood under his epidermis.

“What kind?”

“A bird, I suppose,” you hum. “I think they’re lovely.”

Nikto tilts his head, but the questions can no longer sit in the back of his throat. “You continue to be their pawn. Why? I can make no sense of it, Seraph. You speak of yourself as if you are nothing.”

“I might not be anymore after last night,” you whisper, dropping your hand from Nikto’s flesh. Your eyes close; a heavy sigh on your lips. “I know it isn’t healthy, I know that. I know it’s wrong, and vile, and disgusting—but you have to hear me out when I tell you that the only thing I have is my looks—”

“That is a lie.” Nikto snarls, glaring over at your face as his plate hits the table. “Why do you say that? You are smart, Seraph, anyone with sense can see it. You are kind; good.” The Russian curses, repeating. “You are good.”

“AMA needs investments,” your voice is muffled. “I’m not the only one that has to do things like this. I’m not special.”

The man grinds out, “It does not matter if a million go through it—you are here with us. It is our job to keep you safe now. It is special to me.”

“From a stalker,” you argue, body starting to go rigid at the intensity of the conversation. You didn’t like talking about this.

“From any threat,” Nikto barks. Face close to yours and his hard, crooked nose brushing skin. “Is this not a threat to you?”

You stare into his eyes, and it’s an expression he can’t recall you having. It makes him nervous—nervous for you in a way that was similar to when you’d disappeared from his sight. It was dead. Dead how his eyes would get on the bad days—when he couldn’t differentiate between himself and his body; what had really happened and what hadn’t.

You were exhausted, and you didn’t even see it.

“You need sleep,” he drops the hard tone immediately, eyes snapping over your face in fast jerks. “You need rest. Now.”

“I’m not tired.” Pale eyes bore through you, and you relent softly. “...I don’t want any more nightmares.” Your lips open and close. “They scare me because I can’t remember them, but I know something bad happened.”

Fingers come up and brush your cheek, leaving your lips flattening before the tears can make themselves known to him.

There was just so much going on.

The stalker, now AMA and potential repercussions? You thought if you had one thing, you had your job—trials and exploitations all, but you still had that. You still had something. Now you might not even have a home to go back to.

Bare arms shift, looping around you. With a roaming of skin on skin, Nikto bundles you in his arms and lifts, legs taking your weight. He moves you as your head rests burrowed into his neck—forehead to the long cut that loops around the side of his throat to the front. That one really made you shiver; the thought of it—the error he must have felt. Without thinking, you lay a tiny kiss on the skin, and Nikto’s legs only stutter once before he pushes open the bedroom door.

Setting you down on the bed, he mumbles into your scalp before he pulls away, moving his balaclava back down with firm fingers. “What can I do?”

Your body shifts, clothed in borrowed pants and the weight of a million realities. You wished you could see the color of his eyes—those creased things that watch you so closely; the marring of the different shades of his scars.

You wished you could pick up the courage to ask him if you were his soulmate, at the very least. The hunch was dimming, taking a backburner the longer it stayed in your mind. Surely he would say something by now? Right? With how he was, you expected Nikto to be reserved about it, but now…

Now your hope was drowning itself.

You wished you weren’t damaged goods.

“Sit with me?” Your weak voice quivers, but no tears fall.

Nikto stares, head tilting slowly as his now re-hidden face is a mystery. “Да. Yes.” It’s so tiny that the words are almost lost.

So, he shifts into bed after placing his boots neatly near the bedframe, letting you scoot over as he grasps the end of the covers and moves to have his back connected to the headboard. With a large pull, the fabric slides over your body and levels at his abdomen, your head slightly above it, until scarred fingers grasp and push it down a bit.

For a bit, a heavy silence settles between the two of you. You don’t touch, you don’t talk. It’s the sound of beating hearts and rabid minds, thinking over thoughts that only serve to make things worse the longer their dark fingers are around both of your throats.

“Come,” Nikto murmurs.

Your body instantly connects to his, hands grasping into his pants and head nuzzling his thigh. His grip finds your head, running itself over it until it ends at your shoulder and pulls you tighter to him.

“Sleep. No nightmares, hm?” He glances down, trying to push a fractured joke. “We will scare them off.”

Your broken chuckle makes his chest tighten, and pale eyes avoid looking down at you for fear he’ll realize how addictive it is to have your flesh on his—the sensation of touch that was becoming a need. When was the last time he’d been relied on like this? Never, he thinks.

To be protection in the barest sense.

A boy keeping away nightmares for a girl that lays in his lap.

No weapons, no orders. Only hands and sagging bodies, and a care that was infecting him like venom—injected into his bloodstream by white fangs. It leveled out, coating him. He wanted you to be safe, and it wasn’t just because it was his job. It was because he couldn’t imagine seeing you in pain like this—in a slow death of the mind until the body rotted away with it.

It wasn’t right to him, and he couldn’t describe it as anything other than blasphemy. Sacrilege. Nikto didn’t have the words; maybe he never would. All that he knew was that he would kill millions to never see you harmed. He would rot in the deepest part of hell willingly, go through darkness and fire—but none of it could touch you. Not a wisp of flame; not an idea of torture.

You were good.

“Why do you care so much,” you whisper before you fall asleep, curious even as your eyelids are fighting to stay down.

Nikto has not taken his eyes off you. He was always honest, but this truth scares him more than any other. The nagging in the back of his skull.

“I…do not know.”

You were too good for this.

So even when he gets that text message on his phone when you’re fully sleeping, even when he shifts it out of his pocket and sees the unknown number, Nikto is not going to wake you. He’s not going to shake your head as he massages the scar that lives there, his thumb taking in the familiar bumps and dips—the trauma it caused so similar to his own.

Nikto will not tell you of the sinking in his chest.

The guard accepts that little death in his heart when he sees that image of the both of you in the storage room. He accepts the little death when he sees your tightly closed eyes from over his own shoulder, hands digging into his one-size-too-small suit. The obvious actions taking place that are still seared into his mind hours later.

He accepts the little death of the caption, all in Russian but never more vile in his mind.

‘I know what you did.’

And he accepts that this stranger's death will not be so little if he ever gets his hands on him.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

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ohbo-ohno · 1 year ago

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merry christmas @luminousbeings-crudematter, here's the ghoap x reader purge au! (a week and a half after you posted about it... im so sorry)

5.7k, mind the tags <3

cw: ROUGH NONCONSENUAL SEX in all caps, pwp, under-prepared/painful anal sex, some pretty intense fear stuff, people covered in blood and referenced violence (it's a purge au lol)

Your hands tremble where they’re tucked close to your chest, blood sticky and thick between each finger. You feel coated in it, like someone has taken a brush and gone over every inch of your skin, painted you in red.

It’s in your mouth. You can feel the warmth of it on your tongue, the taste of iron sickening. You tell yourself that maybe you bit your tongue, that it’s not really your ex Phil’s blood coating your teeth.

Your thin pajamas are hardly any protection against the chill of the night air, less so with how soaked they are. The stench of piss is heavy in the air, a mixture of yours and his, but you don’t have time to go back inside and change.

You’re running on pure instinct, an animal urge deep in your mind insisting you run. You’d always thought you’d have more of a flight instinct than fight. Despite how you feel now, how your legs itch to carry you as far away as possible, the cooling corpse left behind tells you the truth.

You stumble into the wall, a wave of nausea knocking you off balance. There’s a trail of red left behind as you use one hand to balance yourself, the other held protectively over your heart.

Your security system - cheap, but usually enough to let you sleep through the Purge - is completely destroyed. There’s no chance of it protecting you, and the bust in windows will let anyone on the streets see your vulnerability. You’ll never feel safe there, and you can’t shake the need to run.

There’s no chance of any of your neighbors helping you. There’s some neighborly camaraderie between your floor-mates, but that all disappears on Purge night. It’s every man for himself, every year, without fail. You know that. You even think the same as them, pretend no one else exists when that siren goes off every year.

But now, shaking and terrified, you wish you could knock on a door and see it open. Hear the security system disengage and see a familiar face, beg for help and thank them on your knees.

It’s a nice fantasy. Reality is less kind, seeing you shake with a dawning chill as you manage to shoulder open the door to the stairwell, cringing when it slams behind you.

The cold cement is rough on your feet, and a distant part of yourself worries about slipping - your feet are slick with blood, and you can hear yourself leaving a trail of footsteps. You don’t try to slow down, holding tight to the metal railing and shuffling down the stairs.

You’re halfway down the first of four flights when the door on the next floor opens, a large figure stepping into the stairwell. Your stumble to a stop before you even register that you’re not alone anymore, and you’re backpedaling before you even fully realize.

He’s big, his face covered in a red skull mask. From your vantage point you can see his hair is shaved into a mohawk, and he’s shirtless with only a pair of gray sweatpants on.

He’s drenched in blood. Even more than you, and you feel like you’re drowning in it. If you’re painted in blood, someone took a bucket and dumped it on this man. You can hardly see any unmarked skin, and you wonder for a split-second if the skull was once white.

There’s an audible grin in his voice when he calls up to you. “Look’it you, bonnie thing. You tryin’ to run?” He steps to the side, leaving a wide open space for you to pass him to the next staircase. You’re frozen where you’re leant against the railing, hardly able to breathe. “C’mon, give it a shot.”

You listen, scrabbling further back and all but throwing yourself up the stairs on all fours. You’re only the need to get away, an innate fear that tells you to get as far from the blood-soaked man as quickly as possible. You swear you hear him laugh as you launch yourself up the next flight, panting already.

There’s no safety found in going up though, as hardly two flights later you’re tugged to a stop by your instincts alone.

Standing above you, hardly six feet away and blocking the door he must’ve just come from, is another giant. This one fully clothed and with a white skull mask, somehow bigger and more intimidating than the man you can hear coming up the stairs behind you. You can’t see even an inch of skin, black gloves on his hands and mean black combat boots reaching nearly his knees.

There’s a moment, before the chase ends, where you contemplate jumping over the railing. There’s no going up, there’s no going back, and you can’t even begin to imagine what these two men want with you. The only thing that keeps you from throwing yourself over is the fear that you wouldn’t die on impact, that you’d be left injured and even more vulnerable to these men.

You’re not sure you could’ve tried that plan had you even wanted to, because the moment it forms fully in your mind a pair of thick arms wraps around you, and a heavy weight forces you to the ground.

You cry out at the sudden shove, palms scraped raw against the cement. The man behind you covers your body completely - his knees bracket yours, his hands rest on either side of your head, and there’s no part of the back of you that isn’t cloaked in him.

He doesn’t say anything as he ruts against you, the blood from his chest soaking through your tank top and making you cringe further away. You can’t stop the quiet stream of whimpers as you try to shrink into the stairs, try to get away from the beast behind you. He doesn’t care, only drops more of his weight onto you and pantomines fucking you.

You can feel the outline of his cock through his pants, as thin as the clothes both of you are wearing are. If you weren’t wearing your shorts, if he tugged the waistband of his pants down, he’d be inside of you.

The thought makes you tear up, makes you want to slam your head back and try to knee him in the balls, makes you want to fight.

But all your fight is gone. It died with Phil and your security system, and you’re left only with a weight in your bones that makes you wish you could sink through the floor.

The hard plastic of the skull mask presses to the sensitive skin of your cheek, biting into the fat there. You can see the gleam of bright blue eyes in the sockets, the creases at the edges that tell you he’s smiling.

“You gonna fuck her here for the first time?” The white skull asks, voice deep enough that you hardly register the words. Your eyes are jerked to his form and it makes you shiver to see him sitting on the top of the staircase you’re pinned to, legs spread wide as he stares down at you with a cigarette between lips exposed by the tilted mask. You feel like a sacrifice, thrown to the stairs of a temple for a god.

“Can I?” The man over your shoulder pants, accent roughened from his own movements. You can’t tell if the wetness between your thighs is piss, blood, or an even worse option. You bite your tongue to hold back a whine, wince at the burst of iron in your mouth.

The man above you tilts his head, smoking blown into the air. “You fuck her here, you won’t get to go again on the roof. Don’t need you gettin’ spoiled.”

Your nails dig into the concrete, folding beneath the pressure as you shake beneath the red skulled man. He whines over you, like a petulant kid being told no for the first time, but goes still against you. That alone has you blinking open damp eyelashes, watching him from the corner of your eyes.

“Alright, I’ll wait,” he pants, chin resting on your soldier. “Give ye some time to get ready, huh lass? It’ll be easier for ye then. Just think about what we’ll do to ye, how good it’ll feel to get properly fucked, yeah?”

You sob when he grinds one final time against you, your hips pushed into the harsh edge of the stairs.

He’s dragging you up after that, hardly letting either of you stand fully before shoving you up the stairs. You can’t catch your balance and let out a small cry as you fall back to your knees, mouth twisting in pain at the unforgiving surface against your naked knees.

You flinch when a gloved hand grasps your chin, tugging up until you’re forced to look towards the white skull above you.

You’ve landed between his feet, a boot on either side of your body, and if you’d moved forward even another half foot, you’d have face planted into his lap.

Your heart skips a beat when you realize you’re making eye contact with him. The dark brown of his pupils blends almost seamlessly with what must be black paint smeared around his eye sockets, and the only reason you even realize you’re locked in a staring contest is the way the light reflects off the whites of his eyes.

You don’t have time to try and move away from him on your own (or, more accurately, to throw yourself backwards and pray you didn’t break something falling down the stairs) before a pair of bare hands are shoving you up from beneath the armpits, making you almost squeal as you jerk in the direction you’re forced.

“Up, c’mon,” red skull grunts, hands flitting from one part of your exposed skin to the next as he herds you upstairs. “Need to get inside ye, kitty, fuckin’ walk.”

You sob as you stumble up the stairs, the top of your foot scraping painfully against the concrete. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see White stand to follow you two, but you’re nearly sent sprawling again when Red only shoves you all the more harshly.

“Pl-please,” you manage to gasp, shoulder roughly bouncing off the wall. A glance up tells you you’re two full flights away from the rooftop. “Please, I don’t know what you want, b-but…” You can hardly talk around the sobs floating in your throat, choking you. “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

Red groans as he tugs you nearly off balance, the sound echoing off the walls and full of what you can only describe as hunger.

“Fuck, haven’t even gotten ye naked yet ‘n yer already beggin. Knew ye’d be perfect for us.”

You can hardly see through the tears in your eyes, the rest of the trip up to the roof all gray with streaks of red and black. You can’t focus enough to try and get away again, can’t get enough of your panic under control to fucking think.

The red skull catches you when you almost go careening over the rails, one broad hand catching you by the chest and gripping.

He groans, you flinch. “Fuck, cannae wait to get my mouth on these.” He pinches with his whole hand, your breast going sharp with pain on every fingertip. You whine, flinching further against his chest and trying to shrink away.

“Keep movin’, Soap.”

“Aye,” Red - Soap - pants, and you can practically hear the saliva gathered in his mouth when he swallows. “C’mon, kitty, only a little further.”

The blood on your hands has dried by the time White is shouldering open the door to the roof, your hands itching and the red flaking away every time your fingers twitch. The night air is a cold shock, just jarring enough to tug some reason back into your brain.

Soap doesn’t stop his herding until you’re far enough from the door for his partner to block it with an old metal chair, the back tucked under the door handle. You tuck your hands beneath your arms, shoulders curled in in an attempt to preserve warmth.

You wouldn’t have expected the night to be so cold. Half of the street is burning - flames painting the sky, giving you the exact opposite impression of the biting chill you feel. There are dozens of people in the streets, carrying guns and axes and chainsaws and all sorts of other weapons you can’t see. You feel bile rise in your throat when you realize the dark pools reflecting flames in the street are blood, not water.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Soap grumbles, and you don’t have any time to think before his mouth is pressed forcefully against yours, tongue shoving at your lips.

Your eyes are wide open, unlike his, and you make a shocked sound high in your throat at the sight of his maskless face. You can’t really see what he looks like with the way he’s pressed against you, but it’s a shock nonetheless.

You keep your lips pressed tightly together, no matter how much his tongue prods and tries to force its way into your mouth. You feel more than hear him laugh against you after a few long seconds, and one of his massive paws comes up to cradle your jaw pointer finger against your temple and thumb under your chin.

He stops trying to force himself between your lips after almost a minute, instead shifting to just… licking your lips. His tongue paints wide across your mouth, soaking you in his saliva. He’s almost scarily determined in the way he accosts you, his grip tight on your face as his other hand shifts to bruise your hip, covering what feels like the entire bottom-half of your face in his spit. You can’t help but grimace, trying to pull away from him, but he’s pressed too close.

“Can’t fuckin’ wait to be in ye,” he pants, breath warm and wet against your cheeks. “I know yer gonna squeeze me just right, bonnie, can tell already.”

“Please,” you say, voice weak. “Please, don’t, I don’t want you to-”

His groan is guttural. “Ye wanna know a secret, bonnie?” His voice is quiet between the two of you, bright blue eyes boring deep into yours when he pulls back. To your endless frustration, he’s handsome.

He leans close, whispering so low that you almost have to strain to hear hum. “That’s what makes you fun. Wouldnae be draggin’ you up here if ye wanted it, could get you any other night of the year for that. But it’s Purge night, lass… so you go ahead and fight as much as ye want, yeah? Just makes it more fun for me.”

You can’t help but sob at that, fat tears streaming down your face as he maneuvers you. You feel disconnected from your body as he forces you down to the ground, your soft belly left exposed when he pushes up your tank-top to cup one of your breasts, a whimper crawling out of your throat at the way the gravel presses into you.

You feel his breathing grow heavier as his hands move down to your shorts, shoving them off your hips and leaving them loose around your calves, completely disregarding your pitiful attempts at crawling away.

“Poor thing, been stuck in these the whole time? They fuckin’ reek, bonnie, no offense. That his piss or yours?”

You shake your head against the ground, face twisted up in acute humiliation. For some stupid reason you don’t want to even begin exploring, you find it necessary to whisper, “H-his.”

Soap hums, and you curse yourself inwardly when the humiliation is slightly alleviated.

“Get ‘em off her,” the white mask says, and you can’t help but jump at the sound of his voice. He’s sat on a large box only a few feet away, leaning back and relaxing, looking for all the world like he’s settled in for his favorite show. “Don’t want anythin’ of his touching her now.”

The sound Soap makes at that is animalistic, a snarl coming from deep in his chest that makes you flinch as he all but tears the shorts from your body. You wince at the wet splat of them landing several feet away.

You force your forehead into the gravel when your knees are forced wide, a rough hand and another pair of knees spreading you.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no…” you can’t help but beg, voice trembling. “Please- god, please don’t-”

“Fuck,” he moans over your shoulder. “Yeah, keep goin’, lass.”

You sob at the feeling of warm skin against your bared behind, his thick length slotting itself smoothly between the slightly spread lips of your pussy. Your eyes squeeze shut and it takes all your willpower not to keep begging.

He slides himself back and forth against you for a few long breaths, using online the slight slickness from a mixture of piss and blood to get some friction. But to your immense horror, it only takes a few moments for the sensual movement against your clit to have your body preparing itself.

The slight wetness at your hole might be a betrayal, but it’s not nearly enough to ease the way when he pushes inside of you with no warning.

You nearly scream, a high sound of pure panic and pain when it feels like you’re being split in two. Somewhere off in the distance, you hear someone laugh. Right above you, Soap groans.

He’s buried himself to the hilt inside you before the pain has had any time at all to fade, and he’s fucking into you hardly a second after that.

Every thrust forces a grunt from your throat, the entire weight of him slammed into your back each time his balls smack against your clit. Your face is twisted up in a grimace, your whole body racked with pain that your assaulter couldn’t care less about.

“Fuck, kitty. Yer squeezin’ me so good, such a good girl, shit-! Knew you’d be ti-tight as a vice, fuck, but didn’t know you’d be squeezin’ me so tight I can hardly move.”

Your whine is plaintive, his moan is filled with pleasure.

“Yer gettin’ so wet for me, bonnie. Ye like this, huh? Bet you like it just as much as I do, gettin’ thrown around and takin’ advantage of. That it, kitty? Ye like being forced?”

You sob and shake your head against the ground, crying all the more when sharp pebbles dig into your cheeks.

“Naw, I think ye do. Why else’d you be- fuck, squeezin’ me like that?”

“Cause- because-” you try, but you can’t get the breath in to get more than a single word out.

“Huh? Cause- cause-?” Soap mocks, his voice pitching up to mimic you as he plants himself deep inside you, grinding his hips against the meat of your ass. “C’mon, kitty, tell me why. Go on.”

“Cause I want you to stop!” You cry, balled up fist slamming into the gravel. You can’t help but whine ow when the sharp rocks poke into your skin, and Soap’s laugh shakes your entire body.

“Good,” he whispers, breath hot against your ear. “Squirm all ye want, lass. I love it when you fight.”

You can do nothing but go limp beneath him as he begins fucking you again, his pace somehow faster and even more relentless. It’s a small mercy that there’s no fight left in you, that you can’t give him any more pleasure.

It certainly doesn’t stop him, though. Despite the fact that you’re doing your best impression of a dead fish, Soap pants and moans against your shoulder like you’re the single best thing he’s ever slept with. His cock is painfully hard inside of you, and his pace never once slows.

He’s loud when he finally comes, the sound of his orgasm clear enough that you know he’s thrown his head back to the sky. You can only whimper as he rolls his hips against you, working the last spurts of cum out of his cock and into your unwilling body.

“Fuck,” he sighs in your ear, sounding far more satisfied than he has any right to. “Good girl, kitty. You were perfect.”

You sniffle beneath him when he slowly pulls out, both of you groaning at the sensation. He gives you an almost perfunctory pat on the ass, and stands to walk away. You manage to open your eyes and focus just in time to see him slide to the ground in front of his partner, leaning against the wall.

“Yer turn,” he sighs. “Warmed her up good for you, Lt.”

Despite the hatred boiling in your gut, you can do nothing but lay limp on the ground and watch as his partner stands, cracking his neck and moving towards your prone form.

You want to run, you want to fight, but you can only watch the executioner come closer and wait for the metaphorical axe to fall.

He crouches by your head first, grasping your chin and pulling up until your torso tries to follow to alleviate the tension. He stares deep into your eyes for a long moment, and you find that it’s impossible to even tell where his pupils are with no real lighting. You feel like you’re truly looking into the empty eye sockets of a skull, no man and no mercy to be found.

“You’ll call me Ghost when I fuck you,” he rumbles, thumb stroking over the scrapes on your cheek. He doesn’t wait for a response, simply hauls you up by the shoulder and turns you onto your back.

He’s rough with your limbs as he shoves your legs together and up, his forearm banding across the backs of both of your knees and holding them to your chest. You whimper and wiggles as best you can, but the bruising blow against your thigh is enough to have you gasping and stilling.

“Don’t fight,” he warns, and you feel his gloved fingers running up the crack of you. “You’re hurtin’ enough as it is, and I’m not gonna help. You wanna make it worse too?”

You shake your head, unsure if he can even see you through your legs. He doesn’t respond, and hums when he swipes two fingers through the liquid gathered between your lips.

You whine when those fingers move further down, a fresh panic creeping in when he presses around your back hole.

“You should be glad Soap fucked you so good,” Ghost drawls. “He gave you all the lube you’re gonna get.”

You feel like an animal when you whine again, unsure of how to even begin trying to speak. You yelp when a thick finger slides into your hole, completely disregarding any resistance and forcing its way in until it’s buried to the knuckle. Your cries go ignored.

“Quit squirmin’,” Ghost scolds, pulling his finger out to smack your ass before shoving two back in. “You’re fine.”

You’re not, you’re terrified and hurting and upset, but none of those things matter when Ghost only coaxes more of your slick and Soap’s spend to your unused whole so there’s less resistance.

The only blessing you have is the fact that you can’t see more than the outline of Ghost’s figure with the way he’s got you positioned. You try your best to close your eyes and float into disassociation, and while you can’t fully manage it, the fact that you can’t see his face - his mask - helps you distance yourself from what’s happening.

The moment you realize this is of course the moment it stops being true.

He seems to decide you’re ready after scissoring three fingers inside of you, hefting himself up so that he looms more fully over you. You can only whine as you feel the movements of him unbuckling his belt, feel the weight of him slap against your slightly spread cheeks.

Fresh tears fall past your lashes as you stare up into the fathomless darkness that are Ghost’s eyes. There’s nothing there, just a cold empty skull prepared to ruin you.

You don’t even have the energy to beg.

The stretch of him inside your ass is five times worse than Soap was. There’s no natural lubrication, and nowhere near enough synthetic lube either. Your hole feels like it’s on fire, the stretch white hot as he gives you no mercy.

You’re not even fully sure what you’re babbling as he slowly sinks to the root, only aware of the pain and fear and panic sitting heavy in your heart. You fear you’ll choke on your tears, head jerking back and forth.

He sighs when he bottoms out, heavy barrel chest forcing your knees past your shoulders. Your hips strain, just another pain from the endless abuse.

“There,” he grunts, patting your thigh when you go limp from it all. “Stay nice and still now, just need a place to dump my cum.”

Upsettingly enough, that hurts. The idea that you could mean nothing to this man is somehow worse than the thought of him having some other twisted feelings for you, your hormone-addled mind deeply insulted.

His thrusts are long and slow, each one pulling nearly completely out before slamming back in. The sound of your skin slapping together is embarrassingly sexual, and a distant part of you is aware enough to pray that no one nearby had heard your screams and cries.

Ghost is near silent as he fucks you, the opposite of Soap. You can only hear the occasional grunt when you squeeze him because he’s inches away from your face - you can even feel the occasional gusts of breath when his hips start working a little faster.

There’s nothing you can do but lay limply beneath him and take it, just a vehicle for his pleasure. You almost manage to float away, to pretend none of this is happening or has ever happened, when his free hand moves from your thigh to the top of your cunt.

You nearly squeal when he rubs your clit, the smooth leath gliding over your slick bud. Your eyes fly wide open, back arching as much as you can with three hundred pounds of man holding you down. The loud laugh from several feet away only makes you writhe more.

“Make her squirt, Lt!” Soap shouts, his voice carefree.

“Shut it, Johnny,” Ghost grunts, voice roughened with pleasure. You don’t even have time to focus on the fact that he’s just told you Johnny’s name, far too preoccupied with the tidal wave of pleasure rushing towards you.

You have no idea why it happens. You’re never quick to come - almost every single partner of yours has complained about you taking so long to get off, it’s been an Issue in several relationships.

So it makes absolutely no sense that after hardly a minute of rough circles against your clit, you’re clenching down on the cock in your ass and moaning loudly as your orgasm overtakes you.

The natural clench of your body only makes the pain worse, a sharp spike of it running up your cunt and making your moan shift into more pained sounds. Ghost only moans in tandem above you, his thrusts becoming slightly less even as he lets your orgasm coax out his own.

You sob when you feel his cum paint your insides.

Unlike Johnny, Ghost doesn’t pull out after he comes. He lets your legs fall limp on either side of him, just barely managing to catch them for you before you slam your ankles to the ground. He leans his torso over yours, elbows resting on either side of your shoulders while you do nothing but wait beneath him.

He’s sweat off some of the makeup. This close, you can see hints of pale skin in the sockets of the mask. There’s nothing to read in his eyes, but that flash of skin tells you he’s still a man.

You swallow, trying to work moisture back into your dry mouth, and whisper, “Will… will you let me go now?”

You know it’s more likely he’ll kill you. It’s what you can only imagine happened to all those bodies in the streets, what you know happens to tens of thousands of women every year.

So it’s not a surprise when he doesn’t answer you verbally, instead covering your mouth with his palm and pinching your nose shut with his fingers.

Your eyes flutter shut after a moment, lungs tightening already, and all you can hope is that suffocation is a quick death.

———————————————————————

You wake, gasping, in a dark room.

You’re lurching forward before you’re even fully aware that you’re awake, coughing loudly and gasping when it feels like your throat is bleeding.

“Oh, poor thing,” you hear a familiar accented voice coo, and a moment later there’s a warm hand patting your back. “Yer alright, deep breaths.”

You jerk back from Soap - Johnny - as soon as your coughing is under control, scrambling back on your palms and staring at him with wide eyes. He only grins at you, looking for all the world like any other normal man in his sweater and sweatpants.

He got changed at some point - these pants are clean. He’s not wearing his mask either, and you’re struck dumb by how non threatening he manages to look.

He also changed your clothes - or Ghost did, maybe. You try to cover your chest with one hand, but there’s no hiding the fact that you’re completely naked.

Johnny only laughs at your attempted modesty. “Been starin’ at them for hours, lass. Ye’ve got nothin’ to hide.”

That’s… horrifying, and does absolutely nothing to calm you down.

It’s then that Ghost rises from a chair, stepping forward and making you aware of his presence. “Calm down, Johnny. We don’t want her panickin’ this early.”

Soap fully pouts, tilting his head at you before glancing up at his partner. “I haven’t even done anythin’, Ghost. Was just sayin’ hi, tha’s all.”

Ghost snorts, gripping Johnny’s mohawk and tugging back until the other man sprawls back on his ass. “You know how you are, pup. Give your kitty some space.”

Johnny listens, crossing one leg beneath him and bending the other close to his chest, looking casual as can be. Meanwhile your heartbeat only gets faster, and you wince when you happen to lean too far one direction and feel a throbbing reminder of what these men did to you.

Ghost steps forward again, crouching just out of arm's reach. You realize he’s not wearing the same skull mask as before, but a balaclava with a printed skull pattern instead. His eye sockets are unpainted, and you’re shocked by how such little things make him look so much more human.

“You can calm down. Long as you behave, nothin’ much worse’ll happen to you.”

You find yourself almost comically not-comforted by that, and can do nothing more than stare at him with wide eyes.

“Where…” Your voice cracks, so you swallow and start again. “Where am I?”

It’s Johnny who speaks up. “Our place. We finally brought ye home with us, kitty.”

The world feels like it’s slowed around you, and your eyes drag from one kidnapper to the other. You have to swallow again to work any moisture into your bone-dry mouth.

“Is the Purge over?”

The creases at the corner of Ghost’s eyes are painfully obvious with how pale his skin is, and you shudder at the thought of him smiling.

“Been over for… what, five hours now? Somethin’ like that.”

You can’t fight the tremble in your voice now. “Then… then you have to let me go.”

Ghost’s head tilts, the creases get deeper. “Do I?”

You nod with as much conviction as you can - which is almost none. “You can’t keep me here. You’re breaking the law.”

Ghost leans closer on the balls of feet and you lean further back, your spine pressing into the wall behind you. “Are we now? And who do you think will stop us, pet?”

“The- the police. Someone will report me missing, they’ll come looking.”

“Oh? And you think they’ll come here?”

You nod as best you can, and jump when Ghost laughs. It’s low and quiet, only a few beats, but it’s like gasoline thrown on the small fire of panic in your mind.

“You have no idea where you even are, and you think they’ll find you? I hate to break it to you doll, but you’ll be lucky if they look for you for a week. You have any idea how many people go missin’ after the Purge?”

Your breath is quickening. “So that’s it? You’re just going to… going to keep me here, forever? What are you even going to do?”

His laugh is sharper, meaner this time. “We’re gonna do a whole lot more of what we did last night, pet. Keep you as a little cocksleeve, a pretty thing tucked in the basement just for our entertainment. Ain’t that right, Johnny?”

You manage to tear your eyes away to look at Soap and see that he’s nearly salivating, having inched closer and closer and shifted so he’s knelt behind Ghost. There’s a feral spark in his eyes that has every hair on your body standing straight up.

“Yeah, tha’s right. Don’t worry, lass, we’ll make sure yer never lonely. Might even stay the night with you, cuddle up in the winter. Bet ye could keep our cocks nice and toasty in the cold, huh? Gonna let us use ye as a little heater?”

“A heater, a mattress, a fleshlight… your future’s lookin’ bright, sweetheart,” Ghost drawls, mockery dripping heavily from the cruel words.

Your eyes dart back and forth between the two men and their predatory stares, your heart racing against your ribcage.

It’s not a conscious choice for you to launch yourself towards them, reaching out and clawing your sharp nails down Soap’s face with a feral scream that tears your throat to shreds.

Even as Ghost throws you off and forces you to the ground, you vow to fight these men to the end. You’ll kill them both if you have to, leave them dead and wander however many miles it is back to your apartment.

Ghost only laughs when you shout this in his face, and you scream as you lunge forward, just managing to catch his masked chin between your teeth and bite.

With your fight instinct back in full force, you’re ready to make their lives hell.

#lumi im SORRY hand on the bible i could not tell you why this took me so long #it's pwp. it's pure smut. there is no justifiable reason for this taking a week #i literally have FOUR fucking docs of purge au's rn lmao like when i tell you i tried to write this SO MANY TIMES it was just not happening #ghoap x reader #bo writes #purge au #how do i tag this to get people to see it but not to get people complaining about dark fic to me #...i don't #oh well. special treat for you guys lol

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