#he's the white light on waxy leaves

[aendromedal]

the worst part about being hopelessly in love is that he's in literally everything

[ceilidho]

landscape with honey

summary: price/reader bear shifter fic. PART 4. (read the whole thing on ao3 here) tags: light daddy kink, breeding kink, very nsfw, she/her pronouns for reader

-

He starts showing up at your house at odd hours. 

You’re fixing coffee in the morning, still fuzzy and warm from sleep, only to hear the sounds of hammering outside. Wrapping yourself in just a housecoat, you find John fixing the loose step on your stairs, barely sparing enough time to greet you before returning to the task at hand. When he finishes, he brushes off your attempts to pay him for the job, just loading his tools back in the car and driving off.

You sip your coffee and wonder. Odd.

The next day, you find him raking the leaves in your lawn. Two days later, he shows up at the grocers when you’re picking up produce, and helps you carry all your bags to the car. He also adds a peculiar amount of canned goods to your order and when you fret and try to tell him that you don’t need the pickles and sauerkraut and beans and all of that stuff, he just lays a hand flat on your head and drags it down your hair until you go quiet. 

He pays for the whole order.

You’ve never had to wonder about a man’s actions. Men are largely inscrutable to you, ever-shifting. They say one thing and mean another. They look at you like one might look at an oil painting, entitled something like Virgin Meeting Her Lover’s Eyes From The Top Of The Staircase or Landscape With Virgin. They speak to you as though an answer were entirely antithetical to their purpose in conversing with you. 

John listens to you with a focus that borders on intimidating, like he wants to hear each word enunciated exactly how you might enunciate it. It has the sharp clarity of respect, of a mutual acknowledgement of humanity. He also comes over to fix your sink without you having to ask. The world of men is still largely confusing to you. 

John grows surlier as the days grow shorter though. He doesn’t snap or snarl at you the way he does sometimes with his recruits (you rarely see him interact with them, but sometimes you’ll drop him off his lunch on the days when you’re feeling particularly generous and that’s when you’ll have the rare pleasure of hearing him shout at a trembling twenty-three year old for littering on the trail like a military captain), but it’s a near thing. 

The worst is when he catches you on a jog one morning on his drive to work. You see his truck with the faded red paint pass you by and you give a short wave that he returns. He passes you by about half a yard before coming to a full stop and reversing. You stare at him as the window rolls down, brows furrowed.

“Hi Jo—” you start.

“Get in the car,” John growls. You hear the doors unlock. 

“…My uh…my shift’s in two hours, John, I can’t just—”

“Get in the car.”

“This is my only time to exercise!”

“If I have to get out of this car and drag you inside, honey, I will. Don’t play with me. Get in.”

You get in the car. Probably wisely. Still dripping sweat and shivering from the cold—you’re not used to jogging in the winter, or at all for that matter, but it seemed like as good a time as any to start—you glance over to stare at the side of John’s face. His jaw is set, almost as if in anger. His knuckles are white over the steering wheel as he makes a U-turn and drives back into town. The cab of his truck smells like flannel pulled out from the back of a closet, almost musty, but comforting in the way that old clothes can sometimes smell. There’s a cigarette ashed out in the dish in front of the centre console. 

He takes you to the nearest bakery for coffee and a breakfast muffin and stares you down until you eat the whole thing. You feel like you have to scarf it down. Customers bustle into the bakery to order coffee to-go and fresh cookies and scones in waxy paper bags; everyone in town knows each other so you try to avoid the more curious stares when they’re turned on you.

“This is weird,” you say, staring down at the crumbs on your plate. “This is really weird.”

“This is what you get for exercising before winter,” John says, flagging down the barista for another muffin and a refill on your coffee. “Waste of calories.” The last part is said derisively, almost with a scoff. 

You frown. “Lots of people exercise. Even when it snows.”

“Winter is a time for hibernating. Not…sweat,” he says with a grimace, like the very thought is anathema to him. 

"Hibernating?" you repeat skeptically, scrunching up your nose. "I mean, I spend a lot of time indoors, but I wouldn't say I'm hibernating."

John stares at you until you look away, flushed. "Finish your breakfast."

The barista returns with another blueberry muffin and a fresh cup of coffee. At least John's the one paying. When he finally seems satisfied, he hustles you home and leaves you off at the door with a stern warning. 

“You gonna be good for me this time?” he asks, a finger curled under your chin, tilting your head up. One of his hands curls around the doorframe and your heart jumps when you hear the wood creak under his grip. This close, you can see the faintest silver streaks at his temples and the flecks of it in his beard.

“It was just a light jog,” you mumble, looking away. 

“Not a light anything,” he warns, ducking closer until you feel like shrinking back, like disappearing into your house. “Bake a cake if you have to burn off energy so bad. I’ll be over around seven, alright?” 

You mumble something, the words getting lost in themselves. It’s impossible to think with John in your space like this. It’s only when he finally pulls away and ambles back to his truck that you rock back on your heels, let go of whatever spell he had you under. 

The first week of December hits town like a truck. 

You’re trudging home alone after your shift when you make the decision to cut through the forest because you missed the last bus and you don’t want to spend an hour walking home. The first snow of the season has caught you off guard, clad in boots too autumnal and a sweater too thin for the biting cold. The flakes fall in thick chunks that stick for a brief moment before melting into the skin.

It’s not the first time you’ve travelled through the forest alone. The town is surrounded by pockets of the forest, like it can’t help enveloping whatever space is left for it. Oftentimes it’s easier just to cut through the woods rather than travel the long way around. You wouldn’t even call this the forest proper, not like the acres of trees sprouting over the mountains just off in the distance. 

A bush rustles. Your eyes flick over for a second, breath hovering in your chest before you decide that it’s just a squirrel. Nothing ever happens in a town like this. The man from the other day notwithstanding, nothing truly bad ever happens. You keep walking down the partially demarcated path, lit only by the full moon overhead. It’s so dark that the snow around you is almost blue. 

The bush rustles again. You stop this time, feet staying planted in the snow long enough for your feet to grow cold. You stare at the dark shoots covered in a layer of snow; it stripes the branches like candy from a time ago, licorice twisted with white bark, and it doesn’t move when you look at it. The bushes and trees are dense, impossible to peer through. Even walking through the forest doesn’t make you feel immersed in it. You follow a barely marked path, hard to see through the recent snowfall, and stare out into the dark woods with a kind of animal sense. Not sure whether you’re alone, whether something’s there with you, and whether it’s sensed you or if you’ve sensed it first. 

You start walking again when your feet go numb. Better to just get home.

It comes behind you again as a slightly louder rustle. It’s harder to shake off the fear this time, harder to say that it’s just the wind. The snow crunches under more than one set of feet, branches cracking under the weight of something larger than you. 

You don’t want to turn around, but the sound of something chuffing makes your stomach drop. The first thing that emerges when you turn to face it is its massive head, a white frosted muzzle, and the visible hump on its back. The wispy smoke of its breath puffs out when it breathes. Its eyes are dark, hardly reflecting any light at all. Then the rest of it emerges, the saplings bending out of its way as it clambers out of the woods and onto the path, staring you down all the while.

You’ve never seen a bear before. Not this close. Not so close that you know it’s been stalking you, know that it didn’t come upon you by accident. You’re staring down at your own body from somewhere else, fear displacing you. Rending you from your own body. There’s no way to guess its weight at a glance, but it’s easily twice the size of you, easily more than that. 

When it takes a step forward, everything goes dark. 

You wake up snuggled under the warmth of a thick blanket. Sleep is creamy thick, engulfing you on all sides, only the faintest prickle of awareness letting you know that you’re awake. 

It’s unpleasant to leave the cotton miasma of sleep, you think. Your nose scrunches up and you let out a tired huff, trying to will yourself back into it. The harder you try to force yourself back into it though, the farther away it floats.

Still it weighs you down. It takes an age to work up the energy to so much as twitch a finger. Even your eyelids insist on staying shut. Yet, the prickle of consciousness needles at you as if to say hello, wake up, you need to get up. You sigh and try to shimmy up onto your elbows.

A hand shoves you back down. The breath rushes out of you.

“Get…back down,” a rough voice grunts from over you and then the full weight of a man settles on top of you, pressing you deep into the mattress. 

Consciousness snaps back into you, elastic sharp. The weight of him pins you to the bed, makes you sink into the plushness of—and this is gradually coalescing in your mind—an unfamiliar place. All four corners of your body are trapped under him. The voice is familiar though. Ragged, brutal. A saw taken to the trunk of an old, thick tree, too many interior rings to count. You whisper John’s name and he grunts, making you flinch from how the sound reverberates through the side of your head.

Exhaustion is thick though and it leaves you heavy, even when John slowly lifts himself to his elbows from behind you. You feel him drag his body down the length of the bed, beard scratching into your skin with every petal soft kiss dropped along your spine during his descent.

“John?” you whisper, only just able to turn your head, not even able to struggle up to your elbows. “J-John?”

He doesn’t answer you. The room is near pitch black, only a window on the other end of the room with the curtain pulled back the smallest amount enough to let the moonlight in. Even the moonlight isn’t enough. You know from the shape of the window that this isn’t your house, that it must be somewhere else. You can only surmise from John’s presence that it’s his, but that thought passes over you like a rock skipping over water. 

“Wher’m’I?” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut when his lips press over the small of your back. Sensitive there. 

Rough hands with callused fingertips smooth over your ass, pressing into the flesh. His fingers pry your cheeks apart, thumbs dipping into the space between and pressing over your hole, making you burn all over. You’re too far gone to worry about any hair on your legs or anything about your body other than John’s hands undulating over your ass and thighs. You flinch violently when his teeth sink into the meat on the underside of your ass, so tender that even exhausted to the bone your body lashes out. 

Big hands pry your legs apart. You flinch at the sudden hot breath over your sex, a whine tickling your throat. His face hovers so close to your centre that the tip of his nose presses on the tender skin near your entrance. 

“Wha’ d’you…think you’re doin’...” you ask breathlessly. Your brain tries to order your leg to kick, but it stays flat and limp on the bed. 

The first touch of John’s tongue along your slit makes you melt, the flat of his tongue lapping upward and making your hips tilt up with it. It almost makes your mind go blank again, almost tips you back into the unconscious world because the synapses in your brain stop firing the second you remember that it’s John between your legs licking hungrily at your cunt. John from the grocery store, John from the ranger’s station in the mountains—the John you’ve been crushing on and coveting for months now, content to just be friends with the gruff, handsome man in the house next to yours. Now sucking one of your nether lips into his mouth and tracing his tongue up the inside, gliding it over the supple flesh.

“Yer in the den,” John mumbles into your pussy and it’s like he sears the words into your brain. “‘N I’m takin’ care of you, honey.”

“The…the den…?” It’s so hard to keep your thoughts in order. Each flick of his tongue makes you gasp, pussy growing wetter and hips grinding languidly down on his face.

He hums instead of answering. 

“Why’m’I so tired?” you slur. 

His tongue saws over your clit from behind. It tears a broken whimper from you. You feel every textured ridge, the way it flicks around in a circle and then up and down again. 

“Winter season,” John says, sucking your clit into his mouth until you whine at the top of your lungs. “Bear’s sleep in winter.”

“Tha’s silly. M’not a bear,” you moan. 

“No,” he agrees, humming into your sex. “Jus’ mated to one. Makes you sleepy too, honey.”

“Mated?” you repeat back, but it’s lost in the way you moan when he eats your pussy from the back, licking into you with renewed vigour. Hungry like a bear. Grunting like a satisfied man, slurping loud enough to make your face heat up. 

Words and old memories about bears hardly matter when the handsome man from next door spreads your legs wide, almost to the point of pain, and sinks his tongue into your hole again. You never would’ve expected John to be vocal, but he’s noisy behind you, groaning into your cunt. He keeps mumbling things under his breath that you can’t catch. 

“John—” you gasp, biting your lip when he sucks your clit into his mouth again. “John—John—”

He only has to give you a single finger to tip you over the edge, feeds it in nice and slow. Your cunt clenches down at the intrusion, teeth nearly breaking through the skin of your lip. 

When he crawls back over you, anticipation makes you shudder. You hear something faint in the background that grows steadily louder as John rests his elbows on either side of your head, until you realize that it’s your own voice murmuring, “Put it in, put it in, put it in—”

He obliges. A thick, steady plunge that hardly manages more than a handful of inches before you’re crying, and it’s too much, too much, too much. Pleasure not a limpid pool anymore but something cavernous and deep-dwelling, pulling you in or trying to make a home inside of you for it. John’s biceps tense with the strain of holding himself back. 

You balance on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. There’s a single thought in your head that it might burn you up from the inside; it runs a jagged hole through you. 

His nose drags through your hair. “Never expected you. Thought I’d go another season alone ‘till I started smellin’ you around town.”

You hiccup. “Y’never—never paid me any attention ‘for— before, ah—”

“‘Course I paid attention to’ya, honey,” John says into your ear, grunting when he drives deeper into your pussy, still just a languid grind of his hips, so mind-numbingly slow that your thoughts sizzle out of your head. He keeps dragging his hips back and plunging in, barely pulling away from you, all skin on slick skin. “Made a home for m’self in your house. Made sure we had ‘nough to eat for the winter.”

“The winter?”

“Won’t be goin’ anywhere for a few months.” He brushes your hair out of the way to kiss down your neck, giving in to the urge to bite just a little. His body stays pressed tight to yours, hardly an inch of space between the two of you. “Wasn’ sure at first if it’d be here or in your house so… fuck, I had to get ready. Make sure you’d be safe when it hit.”

“Don’ even…know wha’ that means,” you mumble into the mattress, then squeal and fist the fists when John shoves a hand under you to grope your chest.

“Don’t worry about it,” he shushes you. “All y’have to do now is lie there ‘n take my cock, okay, honey? Can’ya do that for me? I’ll get some food in you after we’re done, then send ya back to bed.”

Only a whine comes out when you open your mouth. John’s arm by your head forces you to breathe in the scent of him, musky and rich. You stare at the hair on his knuckles and his thick fingers gripping the sheets as well, old nicks and scars decorating his hand. You can’t stop staring at his fingers and thinking that he had one of those in you before, that he’s felt you from the inside. 

He never pulls away, never changes positions, just fucks you on your tummy in his bed. You’ve never been in John’s bedroom before, but this has to be his room—even the pillowcase smells like him, pine needles and cigar smoke. He keeps up a steady pounding into your cunt, rutting like a wild animal. Has to be close. Gets so close to you that you feel smothered, trapped in place. Like if you struggled, he wouldn’t let up. You want to test it, see if you could, but the heaviness is still in your limbs, keeping you docile. Convenient. A little convenient thing for him to use, like a doll to get himself off with.

“Never coulda imagined such a pretty girl f’r me,” John groans, getting a grip in your hair to twist your head, tugging you into a kiss. Your whole body sparks to life, so shocked that you can’t even kiss him back at first. You wait until he pulls back, staring into his half-lidded eyes through the mess of your hair all tangled up around you. “Gave up on thinkin’ there was anyone out there. Thank fuck I found you first, honey. Can start workin’ on all the good stuff now. Get you to give daddy a baby.”

“D-daddy?” you gasp back, almost scandalized. 

He pants into your shoulder, worked up now. “Yeah, honey. Don’ I take care of you? Buy y’r food, fix y’r house? Give you someplace nice ‘n warm to sleep?”

You feel soaked with sweat, twitchy, on the verge of something dangerous. Vision all fogged up, heart beating so fast that your skin buzzes. Stretched out on a fat cock and pinned in a man’s bed, nowhere to run or hide. 

“Y-yeah,” you stutter when John gets a bit rougher, his breathing getting more staggered, laboured. 

“That’s right, girl,” he grunts, “I’m y’r fuckin’ daddy then, aren’t I?”

Magma bubbles up from deep inside of you. Rockslides off in the distance beat against the ground. When you cry out, it gets lost in the rubble. 

You stumble into the living room maybe hours later after using the washroom across the hall. Maybe a day later. It’s hard to say how many times the sun has risen and fallen behind the mountains. The clock face stares back at you uncomprehendingly. 

Come drips out of you onto the floor. Thick droplets run down your inner thighs. John is still sleeping in the bed where you left him, snoring like a chainsaw. It must’ve been what woke you up. There’s no way of knowing how long it’s been since he first brought you home, since he left a mess in your pussy, which is still puffy and sore from rough use. You walk with halting little steps to try to minimize the ache. 

You stare bleary-eyed around the room. It feels somehow different than the previous times John’s had you over; there are more throws and blankets draped over the couch, candles scattered around the living room with a lighter on the mantle. 

There’s a fire roaring in the fireplace, blanketing the house in a layer of warmth. It makes you sluggish, stumbling forward only a handful of steps before the shaggy rug in front of the fire drags you back down to the floor. 

“What’re you doing out of bed, pretty girl?” someone rumbles from behind you. 

“Had t’pee,” you say, blinking. You try to rub the sleep out of your eyes unsuccessfully. “Why’m’I still so tired? It’s been…I slept so long…”

“C’mon, honey,” John says, coming up behind you and curling his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Told you it was gonna be a long winter. Maybe just one more and then somethin’ to eat, okay?”

It’s easy to sink to the floor, so easy. Especially with the fluffy rug under your feet. Especially with the fireplace toasting you from the outside in, the tinder crackling in the hearth. Everything in the house is dark and warm, only the fire giving you any light at all. Outside the window, the moon is still heavy in the sky. 

Something about the humidity of the den makes you suddenly so tired, boneless, pliable when he goes to move you, when John curves himself around you in the furs and reaches down to slide a hand between your thighs. 

He grunts when he finds you wet and wanting, sinking a couple fingers in and palming your clit. He doesn’t talk much still, but he says good girl when he cants your hips and slowly stretches you out on his cock. Feeds it into you achingly slow, like molasses. Like nothing’s due for another few months, so why rush it? He’ll take his time so you’re nice and happy and sweet come spring for cubs.

You’re not sure what that means. The pace is slow and deep, like before but less intentional. Like he just wants to savour the warmth of your body. 

When he finally comes deep inside you, your body goes limp, collapsing in a heap onto the rug. You expect John to pull out and turn over, maybe pull you onto his chest so you have somewhere to rest. Instead, he sighs all tired and content, and stays in you, still plugged up in your cunt, his spend only just starting to leak out into a pool beneath you. 

“Are we gonna eat?” you mumble, already half-asleep.

Somewhere behind you, he laughs; it’s soft like a snowfall in winter. “Yeah, honey. After a nap, we can eat.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Monster, Inc.

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss is an asshole, you know this. But what happens when he turns his wrath upon you? (plus!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, this reader is known as Missie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

You sweep in with an armful. Two! You push through the door with your ass and barely keep from falling onto it. As ever, you enter in a whirlwind of to dos and currently being dones. You breeze over to your desk and carefully lower your load, blowing out through your lips. Whew. 

You peer over at the office door. The place is desolate. You’re always the first in, the last one gone. You can blame your boss’ high standards but that’s not fair. You put just as much pressure on yourself. 

You unlock Mr. Hansen’s office door and set about sorting through your list. You hang his suit jackets that you picked up last night and put the new pair of Prada loafers he ordered on the little rack across the bottom. Then you bring in his usual coffee in the gold insulated mug engraved with the company logo. Then you set out that special little treat you spent your morsel of free time baking. 

You carefully place the numbered candles on the mini cheesecake and stand with a proud smile. You never forget to dot and i or cross a t. You think that’s why you’ve lasted longer than any other PA under Hansen’s wise guidance. You anticipate his needs before they even come up. 

You hear him coming and light the candles before you rush to the door. You swiftly step outside and out of his way as he shoves his briefcase into your arms and tosses his jacket at you. You catch the latter and wait for him to enter before you trail after him. You put his briefcase on his desk as he goes around the other side and swiftly hang his jacket with his freshly cleaned suits. 

He noisily flicks back the lid of the travel mug then let out a hum. You know that hum. He’s not happy. He hasn’t even tasted it. What’s the problem. You turn and smooth the ruffles of your polka dot skirt. 

“Sir? Is the coffee not hot enough?” 

“What the fuck is this?” He stares at his desk with a sneer. 

“Sir?” 

“What the fuck!” He raises his voice. 

“Oop! Happy birthday, sir!” You trill and come closer, peeking past his iMac at the flickering flames on the 4 and the 6. 

He snarls at the candles and picks up the waxy 6. You blink, surprised by his reaction. You don’t understand. It’s a nice birthday surprise.  

“Sir, It’s tiramisu cheesecake. I know you like the stuff from down at White’s but--” 

He throws the little candle at you and the melting wax drips on your ruffled collar. You cry out and catch it as the flame goes out. He does the same with the other and scalds your inner arm. You cradle the candles as he takes the cakes and tosses it like a frisbee toward the door. You gulp. 

You’ve seen Mr. Hansen angry before. It’s his favourite emotion but it’s never been because of you. His blue eyes narrow at you and he curls his lips. 

“I don’t need some young fucking bimbo like you reminding me how old I am,” he snaps and picks up the travel mug, slurping loudly, “get the fuck out of my sight. And clean that up.” 

“I’m sorry, sir, I thought--” 

“You thought?” He barks, “not hard enough, hips.” 

You wince. His little pet names aren’t as sweet as they might seem and he rarely hurls them at you. No, he calls the women in the copier room sugar tits and baby, but not you. You look down at your skirt, the frills don’t make you seem any less wide. His reminder of your size stings, not that you hate yourself, but he can be so nasty. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer brightly. 

He sighs and falls into his large leather chair. He mutters into the cup as you go off to grab paper towel to clean up the desecrated cheesecake. You return with the wastebasket from beside your desk and set to wiping up the ruins. 

“You really need to make those things look any bigger? I should send you down to HR,” he snips. 

You look up, confused. You shake your head as you put another clump in the bin, “Mr. Hansen?” 

“Whatever that is...” he gestures to his collar and you look down at your ruffly collar, “it’s not doing you any favours.” 

“Thank you, sir, I’ll donate the blouse,” you agree. 

“Even the poor idiots down at Goodwill don’t deserve that,” he scoffs. 

He’s in a mood. You’re not prepared for it. You assumed his birthday would be a happy day. It’s your own fault for trying to predict him. He’s hard to account for.  

You finish up and grab the roll of towels and the bin. You stand and something flies over your shoulder. You flinch and turn to look down at his golden pen. You stare, perplexed. 

“Well, pick it up, hips.” You shrug and obey. As you bend over, he chortles, “damn, wide load.” 

You snap up, embarrassment singing your neck and cheeks. You turn and hurry over to place the pen on his desk. You dip your head and quickly retreat. 

“Ah, cheeks, don’t be so shy. Some guys like the extra cushion,” he snickers. 

“Sir, can I get you anything else?” You stop by the door. It’s better not to feed into his little game. This is fun for him. 

“Some fucking peace and quiet. Get out.” 

You don’t hesitate to do exactly that. You shut the door and cross to your desk. You put the bun down and swerve towards the break room to put the towels away. You return to your desk and sit, recentering yourself as you ready yourself for the daily rundown. Before you can open up the calendar, a notification pops up in the corner.  

Mr. Hansen? 

You click on it and revealed in the chat is a picture of your ass as you bend over to grab the pen. You cringe. He can see that you read the message. The little eye icon pops down beside the picture. 

‘Cancel my nine o’clock’ his next message pops up. 

‘Yes, Mr. Hansen,’ you type back. 

His dot turns to red. Unavailable. Right. He is bristly this morning, it’s best he doesn’t have anyone else around to provoke him. 

[hypnos333]

i’ll see you again

Hyun-su x reader

Synopsis: As Hyunsu turned into a monster you took it upon yourself to sacrifice yourself to turn him back human and you died or so Hyunsu thought

“Shh Baby it’s okay” You said hugging Hyun-su as he his wings digged into your body. Without anyone’s knowledge though your eyes were white instead of black, you going through your Golden hour.

As he started to calm down you went limp, you lost blood so much Blood.

Hyunsu catched you before you fell on the floor. His tears were noticeable. He sobbed, “No no no no, Please done leave ___, you can’t leave me” He cried.

Ui-myeoung laughs as the pathetic ness of the situation he’s the only one that knows about your little golden hour. He knew this was gonna be way different though.

Hyunsu squeezed your body in anger before picking you up and putting you with the group which made Eunyoo instantly grabbed you making sure your okay. Your not breathing or moving making her instantly worry.

“Hey ___ everything gonna be alright, okay honeybun?” She started tucking your hair behind your ear. you choked up blood as you tried to speak. You wish you could comfort them to bring comfort and say everything is gonna be okay and we’ll get pass this.

But…. Your slowly fading and it hurts that your gonna loose yourself soon.

You can hear Hyunsoo fighting Ui-myeoung all the pain grunts. Until you couldn’t hear anything no more and your eye sight was completely white. Your eyes were white.

Everyone in the group gasp as Yeong-su cried out to you, he tried running to you but his sister held him back. His cries made your heartbreak.

You wanted to go over there and hug him but your a monster now and your head was just spinning it was making you loose control.

White wings appeared from your back as you pulled away from Eunyoo.

You felt an urge to fly and that’s what you did, You flew towards the sky stuck in your mindset. You didn’t hear anyone called your name.

Especially Hyunsu the moment he lost his memories all he remembers is just you. And when he saw you fly he tried to follow but people he didn’t know held him back. All he wanted to do is be with you and follow where ever your going.

Sang-wook found you and he helped you control your wings and abilities. Apparently you can be within the light and blend in.

Sang-wook complement you multiple times with the gift. You monster wasn’t bad either it was just another version of you but was more twisted and less understood. Like a fallen angel per say.

Until one day he said something unexpected. “Angel how would you like to save you little fiancé?”

That alone made you excited so when you both hijack the army vehicle. Hyunsu took a moment to realize it was you. You look so different, your hair was now medium length and very much waxy and your outfit was like an apocalypse outfit which suit you.

He hugged you tight. he gave you multiple butterfly kisses on your face. “I missed you so much, I was gonna give up” He mumbled in your neck keeping you close.

“Yeah we know” Sang-wook said sarcastically.

“Sangwook?” Hyunsu questioned.

Making you instantly agree with Sangwook “Baby you were gonna give up all our covers. We’re all trying to stay hidden from the government” You said looking at him sternly.

You were honestly so angry and maybe he could tell because your eyes should’ve been white but he seemed to ignore it and bury his face into your neck almost like he’s smelling your scent for Comfort.

“I can’t believe you tried to turn yourself in” You mumbled as he hummed in agreement.

Sangwook continued driving until Hyunsu came back to his senses. He couldn’t trust him, he could definitely trust you but not him.

So they started fighting and you of course stayed out of it because that’s your fiancé and mentor you can never choose sides between the two but when you knew it was getting to real you blend in with the light for your sake.

You watched at the vehicle crash with another with military people. You stepped down, stepping over dead bodies and not so dead bodies.

“___!!!” You turned around to see Hyunsu lifting you up and spinning you around in circles making you laugh. He peppered kisses on your face leaving hickeys on your neck before finally kissing your lips.

You missed moments like these.

“Listen, i’ll need you to hide just in case the military comes” He whispered gripping your thighs making you nod in agreement.

You stretch your wings out your back as he let go making you fly blending into the sunlight

“I’ll see you again My love, I promise…” He whispers before going to deal with Sangwook.

Part 2

[erenspussy420]

Two Face Pretty Boy (Neige)

Word Count 3.7 k

MDNI 18+ ONLY SMUT

FEM READER/ NEIGE LEBLANCHE, slight Reader/ Vil Schoenheit

Warnings: Dubious consent, vulgar language, phone call, light cucking

Tags: Alternate back story for Neige

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In the world of acting, one must always be in character to succeed. That was the first lesson.

No one really knows where Neige had come from. One day he just appeared at the orphanage alone and was drowning in a knitted sweater too big for him. He wore confusion like an old friend when he was left by the doorsteps, resignation of his new life came second like an uncle no one wanted to see.

Several days and several nights, Neige didn’t recall much of the beginning. Mostly it was a dark, grayed tone but always a shiny gleam of redness that glimmers in his dreams. All he can remember is a heavy hand that gently guided him to the door, his sweater being the only part of his life that wasn’t taken away. Mostly due to Neige tackling anyone who tried to pull it off of him.

It was the third day of May, when an apple was placed in front of him. Lucious and full of juices behind its bright waxy surface. The fruit a tempting shade of red, Neige had followed the apple on the outstretched hand, and up to bright yellow eyes that belonged to Hop. “You look hungry,” were the first words, followed by the kindest words Neige could remember,” Come sit with us.”

 Sometimes fate works in funny ways.

No one knows where he came from, neither did the dwarves, all seven of them. Neige is going to take what the world gave him with both arms and bare white teeth. He doesn’t remember his old life, but all it left him was the understanding that everything can be taken away on the whimsy of others. 

Perhaps that’s why he was ruffled haired, and dirty with ashes on his cheek, chasing off bullies from his new family. Dirty, but fed. One day they leave the orphanage quite young, opting on their own to get by. Better this way, Neige thought at the time, easier. It was not easier, he learned but he was molded by his tale.

A poor boy who cleaned homes with his seven brothers, no matter if he was human and they from dwarven blood, he worked himself to the bone washing filthy floor boards and defiling rotting gardens. His clothes were always tattered and drowning him in excess fabrics, and hunger gnawing at his belly. But as long as Grum cheeks were full, where Dominic didn't have to scurry for tape when his old glasses fell apart, or worry where Shelpie fell asleep at— whatever it took, no job was too much for him. Their dream, a wish made by Toby who tossed one of their coins into a rotting well, was to have a warm cottage in the woods. 

Ebony hair, skin white as snow and eyes like roasted chestnuts.

The day Florian's Wonder Talent Agency recruited him was the day Neige could finally breathe. Taking him and his brothers to a clean apartment, where the fridge is full and he can sleep easier at night.

Before he gets tossed to the wolves.

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"I'm gonna treat you like a whore." The sweet voice mutters. It sends sparks running down your spine as Neige sucks down on your neck , leaving his marks for anyone to see. He’s greedy, he wants everyone to know that you were his. Walking around printed on by his lips, his adoration comes covered under the night. As much as he would love your marks on him in turn, his agency would throw a fit at any blemishes on his skin.

Annoying, but that’s fine. He can have other things that tie you to him. His red ribbons in your hair with his initials, your school tie made into a bow he wears with his uniform. The world can do what they want, take a poor boy and make him a prince but it never really took what made Neige into the man he is.

His eyes, hard as flint when they took him under their hands. Become a prince for the public, sweet and gentle and innocent. The world adores Neige LeBlanche, and that version of him loves them right back.

All sweet smiles with closed eyes.

The crafted mask hides a two faced boy, a good heart always, but a sharp tongue and steely eyes framed with large lashes. Fair skin like snow, eyes like a doe, fluffy ebony hair, and those lips that were soft like rose petals. Soft pale pink lips that let slip the filthiest words from a sweet face. Not that anyone knows that ‘cept you and his actual friends.

(And perhaps Yasmin when he caught him with a cigarette between his lips)

 Your giggles end with a soft squeal when he nips harder, another love bite to the collection. Gods, he loves that noise you make. With a soft sigh, you relax in his arms as Neige makes his way to your collarbone. His hands run down your body, caressing your curves, and brushing over the sensitive spots he knew so very well. One hand massages your ass before squeezing a cheek.

“Missed me?,” came that cheeky smile he adores.

“Always princess.” 

His mood is much better, squeezing your flesh.

 Affectionate, he rubs the very warm spot where he marked you. A twinge of possession heats his core, desires her to take her again as much as he likes. Soft sighs between quirk firm kisses, and muffled moans. His tongue sweeps over his bottom lip, tasting the flavor gloss you like so much. Apples, his eyes flicker for a moment. 

You squirm, his grip on your ass a bit tighter.

Whoops, he has to be careful, it's not your fault, he’s being like this, nope. His mind a buzz, his hand sneaks itself over your thighs caressing the warm flesh. Neige was focused solely on you, but some recent scenes at his new film brought an unwanted guest. Eyes like Amethyst have no place near him. Your panties had been slid off, hanging pitifully around your ankle as he rubs over your folds, pressing on them feeling that pulse. Rather a really annoying, second hand model was. A tick pulsed on his head at the mention of his so called rival, but he has nothing to do with now. Or even with his dear love.

Oh yes, Neige made sure of that with such great pleasure.

He hums as he sucks on your nipples, swirling his tongue over the lovely bud.

The VDC was just for fun. Dominic and the rest of his brothers all wanted to have one big finale to their Sophomore year and who was Neige to deny them that? To be honest, it was like as if Neige killed two birds with one stone, he got to enjoy one more hurrah before his work life took over and he gets to fuck with Vil Schoenheit’s head one more time.

It's not like he hates Vil. But he sure as fuck didn't care about him either. Still, there was a part of him that did enjoy watching Vil’s smile strain at casting roles he passed up on mere inclination for a more gentle ‘look’.

Vil made a great mistake bringing you that day to the VDC. It felt invigorating, watching that perfectly crafted face finally break so openly, mauve painted lips twist with sour palatable envy. Retribution Neige believes, from making him a poisoned drink of apples. How dare he, was all Neige could feel that day. He couldn’t remember much from waking up, but the sensation. The sensation of his hand trembling as he reached for the tempting apple juice to bring to his lips. Never had his stomach twisted at the scent of apples in his life.  His revenge will come, one day.

And it did, literally in that same second you fell into his arms. The warmth in your eyes did more than make Vil soft on you. It brought back the twinge of gentleness back into Neige. Soot covered, messy with hair that came from a fight it was quite the sight to see. But under the layers of exhaustion that cling onto you like a second skin, Neige spotted a kindness in you that refused to die.

It reminded him of something.

Something good. 

“Mmm, damn princess look how wet you are,” Neige chuckles huskily, he pulls out to show you the strings of thick slick coating his fingers,” Mmm Look at that, so shiny how tasty.” He sucks his fingers, tongue swirling around so as to not miss a single strand.

Slim fingers slip you, exposing you to him, they were careful in their actions, but damn the pretty mouth from their owner is not. The fingers slip into your wet fold, parting them before slipping into you, rubbing you and stretching your walls adding more fingers as time goes on. He switches from rubbing your cute clit, to light pinches as his fingers curl into you. He even slaps your folds, enjoying the debauched way you thrust your hips up at him. You try not to moan too loud, but the sensation of being finger fucked is making you light headed. Neige curls his fingers in you, brushing the nerves that make you buck your hips into his hand wildly, a needy groan leaving your throat as he does. Watching your body suffer and tremble under him, soaking sheets with your juices slipping down your thighs.

He couldn’t help but slide his cock between your folds.. The pressure of his heavy cock between your folds brought a new wave of fluids pushed on by the pulse of your pussy.

An impish giggle escapes his parted lips, a heady darkness tints his eyes as he gazes at the scene of his cock being sandwiched, lathered up with slick by your folds. You shudder and little soft gasps escape with each brush of his swollen head catches her clit.

“Look at that,” he coos bending over her,” You love it when I do this don’t you?”

What a sinful expression you have on, your eyes screwed shut with that dopey smile as you pant his name. Neige can’t wait to have you warm his cock, he’s been denied you way too long. He swaps between his fingers in her walls and coating his cock with her cot slick. He needed you, he missed his sweet princess.

Those videos you sent him were not enough. Fucking his hand thinking of your tight cunt is nothing to the real you and Neige’s starving.

The wetness of his thighs brought his attention to your soaked pussy, laughing softly at the sight Neige cooed at his princess. “Look how wet you got for me! See how needy you are, your pussy practically sucking me in! You think you’re ready, my princess?”

He pressed taunting hot kisses, nibbling at your lips as you gasped out,"Yes."

“Yes what?” He asked.

Neige prodded your cheek with the tip of his tongue, a long stripe on your jaw. You shudder, a whine escaping you,”Yes, I’m ready!”

“Mm, I don’t know,” Neige pretended to mull over it, his eyes crinkled at the sight of that panicked look on your face when he pulled his hand away.” It doesn’t seem like it, haaa, oh well,” he drawls, the sweet smile grew pointed as traces her labia,” I guess it can’t be helped–”

“No come back!” You plead him, clinging onto an amused Neige,”Please fuck me!”

The grin on Neige’s face, the curves of his smiling benevolent eyes was downright wicked to the sight of you thrusting yourself back on his wet fingers. He chuckles, that sweet voice of his too lovely to be denied,” Beg my dove,” He coos taking his fingers away from the pulsing slick walls, he lines the head of swollen cock to  you folds rubbing his cock between them, lubing it in your slick. He grunts, tilting his head back as his cock begins twitching, being slicked up. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, the corner of his lips grinning in satisfaction of how wet you are.

You bite back a squeal as the head of it catches your clit, making him laugh huskily. His tip pushes into your cunt, drawing a loud gasp from his princess. Her body shudders in glee being finally filled.

“Please! Please! Neige I need your co—,” a loud ring interrupts your begging much to the dismay of you and Neige. A scowling ‘tsk!’ cuts through your moaning, as he snatched the phone off the sheets. He pushes into you deeply, drawing a long raspy gasp as you arched up feeling his cock make itself at home. Her feet tapping against his back in jolts, usually he would love this but the text of words on the white screen made him still.

Even your pulsing walls, eager to devour him didn’t distract the way his body went taut seeing not what it was but rather whom it was.

Chestnut brown eyes hardened at the name that flashed across your phone. 

Vil

"Haaah~ What does the second best want?" the annoyance dripping in his sweet voice. His thumb is swiping through your phone. You bite back a whine, as his hips press into you. Even reading the texts from before, years of acting doesn't betray the stoic expression on his face. At the end, he scoffs.

Spider webbing cracks grown beneath his thumb.

You can feel the throbbing vein of his cock in you, as he laughs reading the text. The grip that held up your leg grew tight. "Pft, What's this?" he holds the phone up dangling it towards you to look."He is actually begging you to go out with him! I wonder, what does Second Best do, if he knew who was in you right now?"

You tense up at the sight of the texts, your name on display with a message from Vil. Scoffing Neige, changes it then angles down the phone at you, and you shake feeling the head of his cock hit the spot that made your legs feel jolt under him. No, focus! It's hard to keep your head grounded, not when he's keeping you on his lap, rocking his hips against you that has your toes curl in pleasure.

“I wonder if he would like to watch me fuck your brains out?” Neige thumb swipe the screen.

 "Mnn.. No, don't," you protest weakly, fingers digging into his shoulders, you close your thighs around his waist. Enjoying the rocking of Neige hips, focus…” Don’t send it…Neige!”

 Neige sighs, shaking his head at you with mock disappointment, he leans down, resting his head between the crook of your neck. Despite his sweet look, the hand that gripped your thigh, rubs it slowly, creeping towards the plush of your ass. "How would he feel seeing my cock in your pussy?"  Neige mouth kisses your neck, its distracting, as he questions you with each kiss becoming closer to nips,"Tell me, do you think  he'll lose it if he sees me fucking your pretty hole?"

Your phone tapping your shoulder much like a sickle on stone.

Images of Vil kissing you and Neige being the one to fill your pussy, swapping between them or Sevens having them spit-roast…–!

You try to keep the moan in at the sheer idea of it, Vil watching as Neige fucks you, but the throbbing between your legs gives you away. Neige laughs,"Oh? Do you want it? You want me to fuck you in front of him? Want to scream my name as I fill you with all my cum, while he watches?"

And Merlin, he pushes his cock into you with a deep thrust, his grip on your hip possessive. The sheer idea of it makes his toes curl. Getting to see the fury coated in desperation and heartbreak in Vil’s eyes would be worth it.

Cause if you do, then Niege will make sure Vil never gets to experience this, by the fair queen’s  hand in retaliation that meets the cold steel of a sickle��

"No, wait-!" Your protests fall, as Neige hands back to resting on your hips thrusting into you with a visceral primal claim. The sound of wet flesh fills the air. You squirm in his lap feeling all the shots of pleasure shock you, his thrusting has slowed leaving you to his mercy as he looks down on you with those dark brown eyes. His free hand caressed her jaw gently, the swipe of his thumb over her lips as he took her in with this expression that dashed away any anger he had over Vil. 

Serene almost.

 Then his smile ruined it, all sharp at the corners, his canines more prominent than the photos make it seem. The sweetness of Neige LeBlance was not there, but rather Neige the man who did many things to get where he is.

No one knows where Neige came from and he's more than fine with it.

“Neige?”  He smothers your voice under a kiss, tossing your phone to the side letting it bounce behind her head. Hot tongues play with each other, his princess’s mewling reverb in his chest as he keeps fucking her pussy into over stimulation. His grip on her thighs is strong keeping her in place as he takes her over and over. His balls smack her ass with every hard thrust into the sheets. 

“Mmmm Niege…Neige,” You pants, whimpering between kisses.

“That's it princess,” Neige muttered as he grinds into her,” Say my name. Say it nice and loud.” His fingers tug at her nipples, drawing mewls from her,” You sound so good princess. Who's making you…,” a low grunt leaves him as he speaks with hard thrusts,”...feel…so..ngh,” he squeezed her breasts as he plucked her nipples,” good. You squeeze me so fucking good.”

“Oooh Neige,” You groan, whimpering loud and clear.

His name fills the air with sweet mewls and cries, his smile growing with the matching pace of his thrusts meeting her own.

“Mmm you feel the way you squeeze me? Fucking love my cock,” Neige croons kissing and nipping along her jaw.

He loves loves how much her walls squeeze his cock, how her nails drag down his back. It felt so good, the way his muscles near his belly feel nice and tight. His knee digs into the mattress as he pulls her up on his thighs, to continue going deeper and grinding against the sweet nerves that made her spasm on his cock. His hand caresses her belly, heading lower and there, he presses down as his paces became shorter and desperate with the gaining of hitting that release.

Faint words register in your ear, faint but familiar. You can almost pinpoint it but it does when the head of Neige's cock buries itself in a bundle of nerves, her core desperately trying to keep him in. For a moment the world goes fuzzy as the tingling sensation melts into your skin. You don't know what brought Neige like this today, but you're grateful for it.

Neige, however, didn't feel quite ready to finish just yet. He grinds himself into her, slow and wretchedly cruel from letting her reach her peak. His head nudges between the crook of her neck kissing her up her jaw and over her ear. The action sweet melts her, but of course nothing sweet comes by itself in this world.

“Choose, Vil or me?,” Neige growls as he goes rougher pulling her closer, his ball aching to spill into his princess. Your eyes widen at the question, biting your lip as if to not say, but he isn't having that.

His hand slaps your pussy, finding your swollen clit as he runs hard swirls over it. A heavy gasp leaves you, the wet slickness between them drips more down her thighs.

“Who princess?,” Neige croons, his voice haunting her with the deep heat that grows in her belly.  He looms over her, his smile is wicked as his swirls become long slow sweeps of her sensitive nub,” Who do you want more than anything?”

Her legs jolt and thighs shaking as the fantasies roll in, chestnut eyes and mauve painted lips….

“Mmm that's..nnmm…good,” Neige grits his teeth with a hiss,” you want it that bad huh? But he doesn't get to have you, my sweet dove. Who's cock is in you? Who’s the one making you soaking wet?”

You tried to keep your voice down but you can stop the way your body twitches and seize,” Neige!”

Hot gushes of cum fill your cunt, the sensation making you pulse madly with greedy suction. Your chest rises with each harsh breath, drinking in air as much as you can as your skin cools. Above you, you barely could concentrate with Neige’s long deep grunt as he kept your thighs gripped tightly against him, determined to keep his seed from leaking. A vain attempt from the rivers flowing down your stomach.

Slowly you open your eyes,” Neige that was so good….Neige?”

You gaze up at your boyfriend to ask why he was so quiet and to come cuddle with you. However, spotting your phone in his hand your words die on your tongue.

“You didn't.”

Your words fall on deaf ears as Neige smiles shamelessly,” Did you get your answer?”. No words can describe the way your mouth feels open as realization hit you to who Neige could be speaking too.

Neige laughs as he hears the absolute venom from Vil, the words fall over him like water as he strokes your belly. Even as you shudder under him, his touch is gently rubbing down your calves and thighs.

“Neige, what are you…?” Your voice dies as Neige holds a finger up to his lips.

“So Schoenheit,” Neige drawls, beads of sweat fall from his chin onto your skin ,” how about it? Interested in one of the roles with our dear heroine? Who knows, I might consider giving you the starring role.”

[bunnypansy]

Little Death

Rated NC-17, read at your own RISK!

This is a dark fic, read ALL of the warnings before you consume. If anything mentioned in the warnings makes you uncomfortable, TURN AWAY. As a creator, I do not condone the things I write about, though that should be obvious enough.

With warnings out of the way, this is the first episode in our 16 part Kinktober season; Drugging and Pseudo-Necrophilia. The Undertaker likes you quite a lot, but he likes you much better when you aren't moving as much. A little drink should do the trick, shouldn't it?

Featuring: The Undertaker, and You, dear reader

Beware! This film contains: Ftm! reader, nonconsensual drugging, noncon/dubious consent, implied/pseudo necrophilia (there is no corpse fucking, but the Undertaker is pretending you are a corpse), fingering, light sadism

You had your suspicions drinking tea from an Erlenmeyer flask, fearing there may be trace amounts of whatever foul chemicals it last contained, but the Undertaker was quite insistent that the funeral parlor had no other vessels with which to drink tea. You should've trusted your instincts.

It had tasted just fine. Not unlike any other cup of Darjeeling you've drunk, but only a few sips in, and his rasping, pitchy voice bleeds into the generalized hum of the air surrounding you. The entire parlor is murmuring and Undertaker has joined the chorus, his voice almost inseparable from the buzzing background. He's telling a story- something about one of the Jack the Ripper victims, you think.

You had no involvement, only knowing of the case from the paper- which you had stopped reading after a particularly gruesome description -but there he goes, describing in lurid detail exactly how the poor woman had been carved up like cattle. He's practically waxing poetic on the fun he had stitching her waxy white skin back together, shoving her remaining organs back into place, and tucking filler into the empty cavities the Ripper had left behind, as though stuffing a sagging stuffed animal until the vacant body was plump and full once more.

The pictures he paints in your mind are ones you can never erase, but you can barely form a clear image anyway. Under any other circumstances, you would be sick to your stomach, moving to leave the funeral parlor and never return, but under the mist of whatever was in your tea, you can't find it in you to move. You can't even find the strength to speak.

Your lips stay parted, jaw hanging open and tongue limp in your mouth. In turn, you watch the Undertaker's lips instead, pale and dry as they move with each word, trying to parse whatever he was saying from the movement of his mouth. You can't hear the Undertaker's voice over your own breaths, slow and labored, and your heartbeat pulsing in your ears. With every second, the world gets fuzzier and fuzzier. The already dark funeral parlor became a sightless void, with the Undertaker becoming a star in the center of your dark universe, his silvery hair almost glowing in the dim candlelight.

With nothing else to reach for, you're leaning towards the Undertaker, a moth drawn to a flame. He's kind enough to catch you, a hand on either shoulder to steady you. Though his skin is no warmer than marble, you feel deeply comforted in his embrace.

"Oh my..." You don't know what he says after that. You only know that it feels so nice when he eases you into a more comfortable position, slumped against a coffin behind you, speaking in a low, soft voice. The sounds don't make sense, but they thrum sweetly against your brain as they enter your ears.

A moment later, the muscles in your neck give way, unable to hold your head upright. Instead, you entrust this task to the Undertaker and he gladly accepts, cupping your face in his spare hand. Your cheek rests perfectly in his palm, those long black nails scratching lightly against your skin; he's cold, but your skin is beginning to feel so hot that you can't bring yourself to care.

A feverish delirium has begun to swallow you whole, with no sign of releasing you any time soon. The energy sweats out of your body with every second, leaving you as still and limp as a mannequin, but warmer than a summer day.

Your brain is boiling within your skull, and it shows on your face. A thin strand of spit oozes from your lips and down your cheek, onto the Undertaker's fingers. Your hand twitches, but you don't have nearly enough strength to lift your arm and clean yourself up. How kind the Undertaker must be to lean close to you- close enough you can feel his frosty breath -and drag his tongue over your skin, tenderly tidying you up.

He traces the trail of saliva back up your cheek, finishing the intimate gesture by flicking his tongue across your lips. You're somewhat grateful he went to the effort, but it hardly matters when he makes a mess of you all over again, only moments later.

The hand on your cheek readjusts to your chin, gripping just tightly enough that the Undertaker can tilt your head this way and that to get the desired angle as he slides his tongue into your mouth and halfway down your throat. The taste of antiseptic and salt coats your mouth, but there's little you can do other than summon forth a quiet whimper. The movements are awkward and messy; the Undertaker eagerly runs his tongue over every crevice and tooth in your mouth, as if attempting to form a perfect map within his memory, while you lay unresponsive to his affections.

Whatever you and the Undertaker are doing together can hardly be called a kiss, but he probably prefers you this way. Still, weak, easy to manipulate; as perfect as a doll, as human as a body.

He pulls away and you're breathless, lips glossy with a sheen of his spit. "Look at you now, so still... What a good boy."

The praise barely penetrates the thick fog filling your skull, but when it does, you make a pitiful attempt at a smile back, barely able to even twitch your lips. You're rewarded with the Undertaker's abrasive laughter, startling a groan from you. "Und...er..."

"Shhh, shh..." His lips keep moving, but you don't pick up on a single word, whatever the Undertaker is saying must be nice, right? You feel so calm, entirely weightless as if you're floating.

Then the sensation stops, and instead, you're being pressed in upon at every side by something soft, a fabric... maybe velvet? The experience rides the line between claustrophobic and comforting, as if you're bound in a straitjacket made of velvet; warm and tight. So warm. Too warm. You want- no you need out, if you stay as you are, you'll surely cook to death. The heat is torturous when you can't even make a move to relieve it, forced to moan out to the Undertaker for help.

Hands dart across your body as he mutters something sugary into your ear, deftly undoing buttons and clasps on his way down. At long last, your skin meets the open air of the funeral parlor, bringing a sigh to your lips at the refreshing feeling. So caught up in your relief, you hardly even notice the cold fingerprints littering your body; poking and prodding here and there, adjusting your posture to his liking.

Legs straightened ahead of you, back flat against the surface beneath you, arms folded neatly. Great care is taken to interlace your fingers with each other, before he places your hands just below your navel, giving you a small pat on the tummy before his hands drift lower.

It's in this moment that it occurs to you where you must be laid and how you must look; in a funeral parlor, there's no place to rest but a coffin, and in a coffin, there's no way to look but dead.

The Undertaker plays with your lax body like a doll, rubbing his fingers across your lips for a few moments before he pauses and holds his thumb up against your lips, reveling in your shallow breaths for a few heartbeats. Although your ears feel stuffed with cotton, you can easily pick out the pleased groan the Undertaker makes.

Further down your body, a shiver crawls up from where the Undertaker's hand is tucked between your thighs. Whether the goosebumps pimpling your skin are from pleasure or temperature you can't tell. Something your mind tries to claw from the darkness, warn you how wrong this all is, but you can't hear it over the slick noise of the Undertaker dragging a finger through your slit.

You should be scared, you should struggle away or cry for help, but the adrenaline never comes; the fighting spirit you need is eagerly leaking away from between your legs and wetting the funeral director's hand. The silence that once fell between the two of you is replaced with a constant squelching of the Undertaker's fingers working over your clit; drawing slow, firm circles around the nub and simply enjoying the feeling of your breath against his hand as if it were an equal pleasure.

That calloused finger keeps rubbing at your clit, the rough skin pulling meager grunts from your lips with greater frequency the faster he moves. There's a twist in your stomach, something that makes you desperate to thrash in place, burning with frustration at your own limp body.

"Uh-" The hand on your lips quickly slaps entirely over your nose and mouth, clamping tight enough to cut off anything you planned to say. Those knife-like nails dig into your soft skin, threatening to cut.

"Hush. Don't speak." There are a few more words after that, still in a harsh whisper, that are inaudible to you.

Quiet panting, soft groans, slick fingers; the sounds and sensations are all too much, sending a vibrant buzzing through your veins, so strong it threatens to burst from your skin. Faster, rougher, harder; more, more, more-

The Undertaker mercilessly grinds the sharp end of his fingernail against your clit, and your body gives way to him completely. With just that simple demonstration of pain, the Undertaker rips an orgasm from your body as easily as a heart from a chest.

Acid pours through your veins, burning every vessel within you and filling your eyes with white-hot stars. Your eyelids twitch and your steamy breaths heave between the Undertaker's fingers as you lose any former semblance of control. The sleeve of the Undertaker's robe is soaked with your release. You'd be embarrassed with yourself if you could form coherent thoughts, but you can't even form a proper moan, just a pitiful gasp that seeps from your throat like a dying breath.

When the Undertaker finally pulls his hand away from your face, his hands are trembling just as much as your thighs. Briefly, you wonder if he enjoyed this as much as you did- or more.

That is all for tonight's episode of the 2024 Kinktober season, thank you all for viewing and have a lovely night.

I originally wrote a draft of this a couple months ago and was going to post it earlier... but it works so well for the spooky month that I just put it off teehee. i'm very excited about Kinktober, I've never participated before now so... we'll see if I can do it all!

[drivinmeinsane]

Snow ※ 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Four ※ Sierra Six / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

※ Summary: You expected a quiet night in, but that changes when you follow a trail into the trees.

※ Rating: No mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Pre-relationship, Treatment of injuries, Caretaking

※ Word count: 1920

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

Of course you notice that the log basket by the fireplace is empty when you’re already sprawled out on the couch, remote in hand, Christmas tree plugged in, and fully prepared to settle in for the night. You grumble as you get up and pull on your boots and your coat. Grabbing your flashlight, you open the back door and step out into the cold. You’re nearly to the shed when the beam of light picks up something unusual in its field. You come to a complete stop and examine the ground with a growing sense of horror.

The snow is churned up, something had clearly come through here recently enough. Probably within the past hour or so while you had been snugly tucked into your remotely located home. You can make out footprints. Human, likely belonging to a tall male judging from the size and the distance apart. They’re messy like the maker had been stumbling along. Your flashlight picks up dark blotches on the white. Blood. You look up, frantically scanning your surroundings for a sign of who might have left this path across your yard. There’s nothing other than the trail that leads off into the woods. 

You silently backtrack to your home to grab the hunting rifle leaning against the wall in the coat closet, an assurance for living out in the middle of nowhere in the wooded hills. Feeling like a side character in a cheaply stereotypical horror movie, you go back outside to follow the trail. Flashlight off now that you’re in pursuit. You desperately want to nope out of the situation, but there is no one else around for miles to handle this. You push follow the path into the thicket. There’s a shape huddled at the base of a tree not far into the brush. 

The moonlight is blocked by the branches, so you resignedly turn your flashlight on to illuminate the figure. It reveals a man dressed in bloodstained street clothes. He’s slumped forward so you can’t see his face, but his jeans are covered in a mixture of blood and snow. Some of the blood is glossy, fresh, but most of it is frozen. He is only wearing a thin windbreaker for warmth. There’s a gun resting on his lap. His fingers are slack around it, not even holding onto the weapon. They look waxy and stiff. Only his labored breathing lets you know that he’s alive. 

“Hey.” He doesn’t respond to your slightly hesitant yell so you nudge his foot with the tip of your boot and try again, louder. “Hey!”

No movement, or any awareness of you at all. He just continues breathing like each exhale might be his last. Emergency services are at least forty-five minutes away, if they are even able to get through the snow at all tonight. 

Gritting your teeth, you inch forward to kick the man’s outstretched leg. “Hey!”

That finally gets a response. The stranger groans and lifts his head up. He squints against the bright light you have pointed at his face and raises a shaky hand to block it. You shift so you’re pointing the rifle at him in case he gets it in his head to make any sudden movements. 

“Put your other hand up too,” you order him. He complies, leaving the handgun on his lap. You can barely hear your voice over the pounding of your own heart. “What are you doing out here? You’re on my land.”

His mouth works a couple of times before he’s able to speak. When he does, his voice is hoarse. “Sorry. I got turned around.”

“Yeah? Why are you so messed up if you just ‘got turned around’?”

“Had to jump out of a moving car. The people I was with didn’t appreciate that much.” He sounds so serious that you raise your eyebrows in disbelief. 

“Are you going to be trouble for me?”

“Probably not.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, out of his mouth before your question has the chance to linger in the air.

Against your better judgment, you take his word at face value and tuck your rifle under your arm, pointed away at him. His handgun gets stowed in your waistband before you help him to his feet and sling his arm over your shoulder. The arm not occupied by your own gun gets wrapped around him. Your knees nearly buckle under the weight of him. It’s slow going to your back door. He seems to be intermittently losing consciousness. On the second of the three steps leading to the small porch, his foot drags and slips out from under him. He nearly takes the both of you down. 

“C’mon,” you grit out and bodily haul him up the final stair.

The stranger slumps in your hold as you get the door open and all but drag him into your kitchen. He comes to enough to stagger through to the living room. You more or less drop him onto the couch. He sags limply into the cushions like a puppet with its strings severed.

“Can I call for medical help or do you need me to try to do a patch job?”

“Please don’t call anyone. I’ll be fine.”

You exhale hard, nerves jangling. Patch job it is. “Sit tight.” 

Leaving him alone and dripping melting snow all over your couch, you gather a couple towels and the medical kit that you keep well stocked for emergencies. He is exactly as you left him when you come back in the room laden down like a pack pony. You put the supplies on the seat next to him. 

“What’s your name?”

“Six.”

You want to comment on how that’s obviously not a real name, but you bite your tongue and swallow the words down. It’s not your business. Keeping him from dying on your couch is your business. 

Without any further preamble, you wrestle him out of his wet clothing, leaving him in just the underwear you don’t dare to touch. Once he is stripped naked, you start examining his body to find the source of the blood. You find it immediately, but your eyes can’t help but take in the rest of him. Six, as he calls himself, is muscular, but you knew that from how heavy he was over your shoulder and in the circle of his arm, but it’s the expanse of his injuries that is more notable. It’s unsettling. He’s marked with old scars and fresher ones that are still uncomfortably raw and pink. You don’t think you want to know what this strange man does for a living. It looks as though several people have tried to kill him over the years, admittedly with limited success if his presence in your home is any indication.

Ignoring the rest of his body, you focus on the sizable gash in his size. A bullet must have burned its way across his side at a close range judging from the singeing around the edges of the wound. It’s still sluggishly bleeding, but it’s thankfully shallow enough to not be fatal in the short term. You wet a piece of gauze with disinfectant and press it against the wound. Six does not so much as flinch. He looks resigned to the pain when you glance at his face to gauge his reaction. You pinch the sides of the injury together and secure it with several meticulously placed butterfly bandages to keep it closed. Holding a thick gauze pad on the wound with your hand, you wind vet wrap around his abdomen to hold it in place. It should serve to put pressure on it to restrict the chance of bleeding and further trauma to the sight.

You’re relieved to discover that the rest of his injuries are minor in comparison. He has a slightly sprained wrist that you stabilize with more vet wrap. Unfortunately, he is covered in scrapes and abrasions. All you can do for them is to put a large band-aid on the worst of the road rash. It’s next to a tattoo that says something in Greek. Your stranger appears to be more well-versed in literature than you might have expected, not just a thug despite the obviously prison quality tattoos. 

Injuries aside, the man feels concerningly cold due to the exposure to the freezing temperatures and not insignificant blood loss. You realize that if you had been more prepared and hadn’t needed to restock your log barrel, he would have likely succumbed to the elements right outside of your home. The thought of finding his body in the morning makes you shiver reflexively. You push that line of thinking aside and pick up one of the towels. You hold it in both hands and rub his extremities in between your cloth covered palms, trying to encourage circulation back into his body. It works. His fingers lose their waxy appearance and his body temperature seems to level back out. He starts shivering, a good sign that means there is no more need to worry about hypothermia. You take the fresher towel and dry his sodden hair before wiping his torso clean. His shivering gradually subsides as you work. He’s dozing off, breath whistling through his nose. Some of the tension has left his face. 

Once you’re finished with him, you finally fetch the logs from the shed. On your way, you take the time to disturb the tracks. Even though it’s still snowing, you do not want to take the chance that they will be discernible by a hostile party. Knowing that you will be cleaning up anyway after you put your unexpected guest to bed, you don’t take any great pains to avoid tracking more snow into the house. 

You drop your armful of logs into the basket and put a couple of them into the fireplace. They should last a while. You approach the couch, catching Six awake but not alert. He’s staring blankly at your Christmas tree, seemingly captivated by it. His eyes redirect unsteadily to you when you’re close enough to touch him. The man squints like he’s having a hard time seeing through his exhaustion.

“You an angel?”

You almost laugh, but he sounds so tired and so sincere. “No,” you tell him gently. He mumbles something unintelligible in response.

Crouching at his side, you take hold of his legs and guide him until he’s laying down, curled on his non-injured side on the cushions. Six manages to lift his head enough for you to shove a decorative pillow under it. His eyes slip closed when you cover him with the throw blankets that you always keep in the living room. You practically tuck him in. Just before you withdraw, you impulsively smooth his hair back and press a kiss to his forehead. Something in your heart tells you that he could use the comforting gesture. 

You pull away, satisfied that he’ll make it through the night and that you will be able to get some food into him in the morning. Just as you turn to leave to start cleaning up the mess that has been left in the wake of his arrival, you’re brought to a halt. Six’s fingers are wrapped around your wrist just long enough to make you pause before he lets go. 

“Thank you,” he says, muffled against the pillow.

Your face softens and you feel the corners of your lips rise in a smile. “You’re welcome."

[another-lost-mc]

hello! i really love your blog and i love your writings they are incredible! i am happy to see you on my dashboard :)💕

can you do for the side dateables reaction for their S/O recreating Margiela "kiss shirt" and giving it to them? (you can search about this trend on tiktok)

When MC Makes Them a Margiela Kiss Shirt Scenarios | DIAVOLO, BARBATOS, SIMEON and SOLOMON 1.5k words | SFW | gn!Reader | Fluff & Humor | Mildly Suggestive Content Warnings: Pet names (Barbatos, Solomon), some possessive thoughts, some suggestive comments. A/N: I chose the four original Dateables, I hope that's okay! 💙

DIAVOLO

Diavolo is taking you out for dinner, and you agreed to meet him at the Demon Lord's castle.

When you arrive, the shirt is on a clothes hanger behind your back, and you present it to Diavolo with a nervous smile.

His surprised expression quickly morphs into one of delight because he’s obsessed with it. Humans are so creative!

He’s dressed in a stylish suit for your romantic dinner date, but he’s shrugging off his jacket so he can unbutton his shirt and put on the one you made for him.

He leaves his suit jacket open so he can show off his new shirt, decorated with the evidence of your feelings for him. He doesn’t care who sees. 

(Let them see, he thinks with a hint of possessive satisfaction.)

When you pass Barbatos in the hall leading outside, his eyes widen when he notices Diavolo’s change of clothing. You think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He does look like he just bit into something sour though…

Barbatos’s reaction causes your anxiety to spike, and you’re having second thoughts. 

You hesitantly ask Diavolo if it’s really okay for a prince to wear something like this, but Diavolo pulls you closer and presses a kiss against your temple. He tells you not to worry, and he sounds so sincere that you believe him.

When you leave the castle with Diavolo, he has his suit jacket on and the top button of his new shirt is undone. By the time he drives you back to the castle nearly four hours later, his shirt collar is open wide and his suit jacket is wrinkled and neglected in the backseat. 

Diavolo laughs when he reads the Devildom tabloid articles the next morning. He asks Barbatos to fetch him a pair of scissors, and he cuts out the blurry photos they took of him wearing the shirt you made.

Barbatos sighs when he serves his master breakfast. Diavolo waves the picture at him and the Little Ds hovering nearby, talking enthusiastically about his new favourite shirt. He has a lovestruck grin on his face the entire time he eats.

(Barbatos waits until Diavolo leaves the room before he cracks a small smile of his own.)

BARBATOS

“Mr. Barbatoooooos!”

Barbatos glances at the doorway as Little D Number Two enters the room, carrying some awkwardly shaped bag that trails wildly through the air behind him.

“It’s a gift from you-know-who!” the little demon says excitedly, fluttering around Barbatos who takes the package from him.

“Very well, thank you,” Barbatos says when he starts to tug on the clothing bag’s zipper.

He senses a pair of eyes on him - several pairs of eyes, in fact - and he looks around. The other Little Ds have appeared out of nowhere, hovering around the perimeter of the hall and pretending to be busy cleaning something while they eavesdrop.

Barbatos knows they just want to see the present you’ve given him today. Sometimes you even surprise the small demons with gifts of their own.

(The Little Ds might be a bit jealous of their boss.)

Barbatos shoos them away with a glare, and once they disperse, he retreats to his room for some privacy.

He finally unzips the clothing bag and stares at the crisp white - mostly white - shirt inside. He hesitantly brushes his fingers over the kiss-stained fabric. He's surprised when the waxy residue stains his gloves. 

Ah, so it’s real lipstick. That means your lips actually—

His D.D.D. rings and he doesn’t hesitate to answer when he sees your name light up on the screen.

“Did you get the gift I sent you?” you ask him, and he can hear the mischief in your voice.

“Yea, dearest, although I’m quite surprised by it.” He’s still touching the imprints of your lips. “I'm curious what inspired you to make me such a wonderful gift.”

“Think of it as something to remember me by while I’m visiting the human world with Solomon. Love you!”

Barbatos hangs the shirt up in his closet so it won't get ruined (and so no one else will see it). He keeps the token of your affection to himself; he wears it to bed instead of his usual night shirt until you return from your trip.

SIMEON

Simeon glances up when you knock on his bedroom door. You're a little early for your lunch date, but that's alright - he's almost ready.

He’s so distracted by your bright smile and handsome outfit that he doesn’t even notice the gift bag in your hand until you lift it up and let it swing on your finger.

“I made you something special,” you tell him happily and offer the bag to him.

He peers inside and sees a new button up shirt folded carefully in the sheets of tissue paper. “Would you like me to wear this today?” he asks teasingly. He already has his shirt on, but his eager fingers are already unbuttoning it from the top button down.

Simeon takes off his old shirt and shrugs the new one you give him onto his shoulders. He catches a hint of colour from the corner of his eye, and he tugs on the collar so he can look at it properly.

“Lipstick?” he asks, a little confused.

You nod and step closer to him, and you start buttoning up the shirt for him since he seems too shocked to do it himself.

“I made it for you.” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Do you like it?”

Simeon looks affronted, like the idea is absurd. He laughs and cups your cheek in his palm, stroking the soft skin with his thumb. “I love it,” he says when he gives you a quick kiss. He pulls away reluctantly, his eyes burning into yours.

He's playing with the collar of his shirt, tracing the shape of your kisses with his fingers. “I like having your mark on me,” he admits quietly before he leans towards you again.

Simeon’s sudden desire to keep kissing you makes you laugh. You have to dodge his greedy lips while you convince him that he really should finish getting dressed.

He reluctantly buttons his shirt and lets you pull him from his bedroom after a few more kisses that end much too soon for his liking.

SOLOMON

You’re getting ready for a date with Solomon, but he surprises you when he shows up unexpectedly at your bedroom door in the House of Lamentation.

He has a mischievous grin on his face, and you notice that underneath his coat he’s shirtless.

“Um, Sol? What happened to your…you know…” you ask awkwardly, pointing to your chest that’s fully clothed, unlike his own.

“Oh, I have no idea what you mean, darling,” he lies through his teeth, scanning your shelves and humming far too innocently to be genuine.

You groan when realization dawns on you. “Asmodeus told you about the shirt, didn’t he?”

Solomon has the decency to pretend to look shocked, even though it’s a poor imitation. “Shirt? What shirt?”

Ugh, so much for that surprise. You lean down and reach for the gift bag you tucked under your bed earlier that day. “Well, I suppose you can have it now,” you say, and no, you are definitely not pouting.

Solomon, however, is ecstatic, and he rummages through the tissue paper until he finds his prize. He holds up the shirt and laughs happily. “Oh, my darling, this is wonderful. Shall I try it on for you?”

He gestures for you to take a seat on your bed, and you cross your arms over your chest while he shrugs the shirt on and buttons it up. You hate how amazing he looks in it.

He turns around to look in the mirror, but his gaze is focused on the collar of kisses you made earlier that day. Asmo insisted he knew the perfect shade of lipstick for you to use.

("It matches your natural lip colour perfectly! Solomon will love it!")

“You know, I am rather fond of this,” the sorcerer says, his tone a bit warmer now, and more sincere, “but I think I prefer the real thing best.”

It’s hard not to blush when he makes eye contact with you in the mirror, and the playful grin on his face sharpens into a smirk.

“We’re never going to make it to dinner at this rate,” you say jokingly when he offers you his hand so he can pull you up.

His eyes are glittering and you smile at each other for a moment. “I think I’ll go brag about this to Asmo while you finish getting ready,” he suggests with a wink before he grabs his coat and heads for the door.

It's too late when you realize that Asmo is in the dining room with the rest of his brothers. You're barely out the door to stop the chaos when the familiar sounds of yelling and crashing dishware echoes down the hall.

BONUS:

Who’s inspired to make you a kiss shirt of their own: Diavolo and Solomon.

Who makes deliberate eye contact with you when they put on lipstick and insist the shirt isn’t necessary: Barbatos and Simeon.

[lazylazysblog]

[SUONIREI] MINE

TW: Cannibalism, blood

If you're not okay with this kind of story, please skip. I always wanted to write suonirei in this kind of story, so... I apologize.

It had been two days. Two days since Nirei’s body had gone cold. Two days since the light that filled Suo's world had flickered out forever.

The funeral preparations moved forward, cold and unrelenting like the ticking of a clock. The others tried to console Suo, patting his back, offering words that felt hollow and insubstantial. They didn’t understand. How could they? They hadn't seen the way Nirei’s laughter lit up the darkest of nights. They hadn’t felt the way his presence was like the warmth of spring after a bitter winter. Suo had lost not just a lover but a piece of himself, a piece he wasn’t ready to let go of.

And today was the day. Nirei's body would be cremated, reduced to nothing more than ash and memory. The thought sent a cold blade slicing through Suo’s chest. He couldn't bear it. He couldn’t let them destroy the only tangible remnant of the person who had given his life meaning.

He sat alone in the small room that had once been theirs, his mind was full of agony. His hands trembled as he clenched the edge of the table, his breath coming in shallow, erratic bursts. No. I can’t let them take him. I won’t.

The decision crystallized in his mind as clear as ice. Suo’s gaze flicked to the leather eyepatch he had discarded on the dresser. He didn’t need both eyes to see the truth—if Nirei couldn’t stay with him in life, then he would remain with him in another way. Forever.

Hours later, Suo’s apartment was silent except for the soft hum of a fan. The space was suffused with a sickly sweet scent—not entirely floral, but close. Nirei lay on the dining table, surrounded by beds of white lilies, chrysanthemums, and roses. Their purity framed the still figure like a saint in repose. His blond hair was still messy, framing his boyish face, now pallid and waxy. His dark brown eyes were mercifully shut, as though he were only sleeping.

Suo’s hands shook as he traced a finger along Nirei’s jawline. His face was cold, but still beautiful. Majestic, even. Tears blurred Suo’s vision, but he forced himself to smile. Nirei hated seeing him cry.

“You look perfect,” Suo whispered. He brought a hand to his own face, wiping away the dampne“ss. “You’ll always be perfect.”

The butcher knife gleamed under the dim light, the metal catching Suo’s reflection. His hands shook as he set the plate, the utensils, the wine glass. This was madness—he knew that. But love had never been rational.

Suo knelt beside Nirei, resting his head on the lifeless chest that would no longer rise and fall with breath. He inhaled deeply, trying to capture the faintest trace of Nirei's scent. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, tears spilling over his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Nire-kun.”

He picked up the butcher knife.

The first cut was the hardest. Suo’s hand hesitated, hovering above the pale flesh, unable to press down. He’s already gone, he told himself. You’re not hurting him. He closed his eye, summoning every ounce of willpower, and brought the blade down.

The blade slid into Nirei’s arm, just beneath the shoulder, splitting the pale skin. Crimson welled up, sluggish and thick, staining the flowers beneath him. Suo’s breath hitched, and for a moment, his composure cracked. He dropped the knife, collapsing to his knees beside the table.

“Nire-kun...” he sobbed, gripping Nirei’s lifeless hand. “Why did you have to go? You promised we’d stay together, no matter what.” His voice broke, and he buried his face against Nirei’s cold fingers.

The room was silent except for his muffled cries. Minutes passed—maybe hours. When Suo finally lifted his head, his tears had dried, leaving salt trails on his cheeks. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. He had to do this. For Nirei.

The next cut was surer. Suo worked methodically, though his tears never stopped falling. He carved away the flesh with precision. Each slice felt like both a desecration and a devotion. He began with Nirei’s arms, taking only small pieces at first. The skin was pale and smooth, unmarred except for faint scars, a result of Nirei's dedication to protecting his loved ones.

When he was done, Suo lit a candle and sat at the table, his trembling fingers gripping the fork and knife. He stared at the plate before him, his stomach churning with nausea and dread. But beneath it all, there was something else—an all-consuming need to keep Nirei with him.

He took the first bite.

The taste was indescribable—a mixture of salt from his tears and the metallic tang of flesh. Suo gagged, his body rejecting the act even as his mind screamed for him to continue. He forced the food down, his throat burning, his chest heaving with suppressed sobs.

Each bite was a battle, each swallow a betrayal of the man he had loved more than life itself. But Suo pressed on, his tears falling uncontrollably, his muttered apologies filling the silent room. He imagined Nirei smiling at him, forgiving him, telling him that it was okay.

He continued. Bite after bite, piece after piece. He worked his way across Nirei’s body, carving away flesh, muscles, and sinews. He cooked some of the portions, searing them in a hot pan, while others he consumed raw, savoring the raw intimacy of it.

The room grew heavier with the scent of iron and charred meat. Blood soaked into the flowers, turning the white petals a deep, macabre crimson. The once-beautiful tableau had become a grotesque parody of a feast, but Suo didn’t care. Each bite brought him closer to Nirei, binding them together.

The hours bled together as Suo continued his macabre feast. He didn’t stop until there was nothing left, until the plate was empty, until Nirei was a part of him in the most literal sense.

When it was over, Suo collapsed onto the table, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. "You’re with me now," he choked out. "You’ll always be with me."

The days that followed were a haze. Suo carried on as though nothing had happened, his outward demeanor as calm and composed as ever. But inside, he was shattered.

Sometimes, he swore he could hear Nirei’s voice, soft and cheerful, like it had been in life. Other times, he felt a warmth in his chest, as though Nirei were still there, still holding him, still loving him.

And maybe he was.

Because Suo had done the unthinkable, and though the world might call him mad, Suo didn’t care.

Nirei was his. Forever.

[bruh-changbin]

pamplemousse

pairing: yang jeongin x afab reader

genre: smut + fluff (minors dni)

warnings: mentions of food (grapefruit lawl), oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), kissy, that's it

word count: 1.5k

a/n: SHORT I KNOW but i'm busy and lowkey wasn't feeling this while i was writing it but was also too stubborn to scrap it and also havent posted for skz in like eons so here also first jeongin fic yay enjoy and lmk thoughts

you’ve always been impartial to mornings.

they’re so boring. 

and desolate.

and……. ugh.

who would rather be up at the ass crack of dawn being productive instead of getting a couple of extra z’s in? your boyfriend would, much to your dismay.

being a vehement night owl has been an integral part of your persona since highschool, when papers and essays that in hindsight were not all that important kept you up late into the night. the ink splotched sky dotted with milky white stars a solace from the glaring blue light of your laptop that dried your eyes and gave you a headache.

in post-secondary you never strayed from your nocturnal ways, often times only crawling under your covers to get some rest when the sun had started making its way up the horizon. whenever asked your greatest weakness the first word that always comes to mind is procrastination.

still, there’s something so hauntingly beautiful about being awake and alone in the late hours of the night. you’re able to gaze upon the moon and the pale glow she casts upon your surroundings. you’re able to take in the sounds of the world when people are removed from the equation. you’re able to ponder, allow your thoughts to swim around in your brain without interruption. all of which is washed away when tinges of orange, yellow and pale blue begin to streak the sky in the morning. 

ergo, you were somewhat disappointed upon the discovery that your lover does not feel the same way; quite the opposite actually. 

to be completely fair jeongin’s schedule is to blame for his early rising, but it makes no difference to you. most mornings you wake to an empty bed, hands feeling around before your eyes are open to search for a warm, 5’10” body and instead being met with cold sheets. 

of course it’s not the worst thing in the world but still, it’d be nice to bathe in the warmth of the late morning sun while wrapped in jeongin’s buff arms - morning sex is also a plus, should the opportunity arise (which it almost never does due to you usually waking up alone). 

this morning you wake up to an empty bed, as per usual. the screen of your phone lights up when you tap it and tells you that it’s nearing 11:00; you spend a few minutes scrolling through your socials before forcing yourself to get up. 

you laze your way through your morning routine, making sure to wash your face and make your bed and throw on some clothing with more coverage before making your way downstairs. upon entering your kitchen you spot a plate that’s been placed on the middle of your counter with a spherical object of some sort on top of it - a grapefruit. half of a grapefruit, to be precise.

it looks refreshing, with the flesh a pretty pink, the veins white and spongy, the rind a pale yellow that’s waxy to the touch. crystalline specks of sugar are melted into the juice, the sweetness a contrast to the bitterness of the fruit.

you indulge yourself by digging in with a silver spoon, scooping out coral coloured chunks of fruit and placing them in your mouth, leaving a tart coating on your tongue and the back of your throat. syrup slips past the corners of your lips and you lick it away, not wishing for a drop of the fresh juice to go to waste.

despite there being no note or whatsoever you know this was jeongin’s doing; and you know that he had the other half before he left this morning so in a way the two of you still had breakfast together (not really). of the small things he does for you in your relationship this is easily your favourite - knowing that your brain is barely operating when you first get up and head downstairs so he makes it easy for you to nourish yourself before starting the rest of your day. 

looking after you is second nature for jeongin, who tends to act as if you’re a precious baby bird who fell out of its nest and needs help getting back on its feet. you don’t mind it of course, and he knows where the line between pampering and coddling lies and rarely crosses it (you’re not actually that reliant on him, and he knows that). being the youngest in stray kids means he’s constantly being taken care of, and he just likes to do the same for someone else - that someone else being you. 

he’ll massage your back when it hurts, run to the convenience store when you’re craving something specific, dry your tears when you cry over a sappy rom com that you forced him to watch with you.  

he lets you play with his hair and help him choose his outfits. he’ll wrap his arms around your waist and kiss his way down your neck when you’re doing the dishes. he’ll fuck you in the middle of the night when you wake him from his slumber, claiming that you’re too turned on to fall asleep and his body is the only thing that can satiate you. 

the devotion he has to you is constant, and you can feel it in the way he talks to you, takes care of you, touches you. through this you’ve learned his quirks and nuances, how to tell what he needs and when he needs it.

much like tonight, when, after coming home from a devitalizing day of practice, you can tell that all he wants is to feel your warmth and you his. the pads of his fingers are rough as they slip under the hem of your shirt and smooth against your sides and your back, his pouty lips coming in contact with your jaw before pressing against your own. with movements that have an undertone of urgency jeongin guides you towards your shared couch in your shared apartment, his arms bracing your frame as he all but pushes you up against the cushions. 

with his chest flush against yours you inhale his scent, dragging your fingers through his hair and whining when his teeth pinch your bottom lip. the grip he has on your restless hips is strong, and when he glides his tongue against yours and you swear you can taste the faintest hint of grapefruit juice in his mouth. 

the warmth you lose when jeongin pushes himself off of your body is only worsened when he pushes the fabric of your shirt up to expose your tummy, his curious fingers dipping into the waistband of both your pants and panties, both of which are stripped from you when jeongin drags the fabric down and off of your legs. 

you instinctively clamp your legs shut, yet you allow jeongin to pry them open with his firm grasp and position himself in between your limbs. his pupils swallow up the rest of his eyes as his gaze falls upon your bare cunt, tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he kisses and nips his way down the flesh of your inner thighs. 

your pussy is sticky and wet with sweet nectar that jeongin laps up and swallows down like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. his tongue pokes and prods at your flesh, your cunt clenching around nothing when he teases your clit by flicking it with the tip of his tongue. 

“baby~ don’t tease,” you huff in annoyance as jeongin refuses to focus on one place for more than a few seconds. his right hand moves from where it was perched on your hip to allow his index and middle fingers to toy with your now dripping hole, only slipping inside once you’ve whined and complained enough. 

he continues to suck on your clit as his fingers dip in and out of your pussy, causing your stomach to churn and your heart to flip in your chest as you writhe in pleasure. your breath hitches in your throat each and every time the silver rings at the base of jeongins fingers graze your hot wet cunt, his digits now surely coated in your arousal. 

his fingers keep thrusting and his tongue keeps teasing and soon enough you’re cumming all over him, moaning aloud into the open space of your living room as your orgasm slowly ebbs away.

the sight of jeongin making his way up your body after tongue and finger fucking you is one to behold, with his pout swollen and pink and coated in your juices and his hair a mess from the way you were tugging on it. his cheeks are flushed a subtle shade of rosy pink, much like the colour of the grapefruit you shared this morning. you pull his body against yours and kiss away the sweetness on his lips. 

[beatinginavoid]

You guys wanted fics so... here you go! This was actually a gift for someone, but I'll share it here now.

-------

The scenery was beautiful in a faintly nostalgic way. Rugged rocks and patches of bare mountainside presented themselves in shades of grey, brown, and rusty red. Dirt and grass switched interchangeably in swathes and patches, various species of flowers reached proudly into the air and swayed gently each time a breeze blew softly by.

Soft, wispy white clouds drifted lazily in their high up ocean of light blue. The sun was a little too warm to be strictly comfortable, but the intermittent breeze afforded some amount of respite from the heat. Some, but not enough for one of the two people currently traversing the mountain.

Tifa frowned, huffed, and stared at the spiky tufts of blond hair on the back of Cloud’s head as she walked behind him. Did he not feel the heat? Was it a SOLDIER thing? She would be jealous of his abilities if she didn’t know the toll that acquiring them had left on her childhood friend.

She wasn’t even sure why they were making their way up the mountain in the first place. Something about an herb or a flower? Some kind of plant at least. One that only grew inconveniently at the summit of a couple of the nearby mountains.

“Are we high enough yet?” she asked.

Cloud raised an eyebrow, unseen by Tifa, at the possible context of her words. He chose to ignore it and take the words at face value, gazing upward and trying to gauge distances.

“No.”

A blunt and to the point answer, just like this version of Cloud that she had stumbled across, miraculously back from the dead. Red eyes narrowed at his back for a moment before she closed her eyes and sighed. Her friend was physically here, but sometimes she wondered if her friend was truly alive in that body.

“What are we looking for again?” she asked casually, hoping for more conversation.

“An herb.”

She waited. And waited. No more words were forthcoming.

“And this herb looks like…?” she prompted.

Cloud absently kicked away a loose rock. “Shiny leaves, waxy feeling, with a stem covered in stinging hairs.”

Tifa pulled a face at that, momentarily glad that Cloud couldn’t see her face. “Sounds lovely,” she said, tone sarcastic.

The gradient of their chosen path steepened until they were climbing more than walking. Tifa watched him carefully, putting her hands and feet in the same places he did, secure in the knowledge that they were tested and safe. As a native of Nibelheim, and especially considering her past, she knew intimately just how treacherous mountain terrain could be.

The last thing either of them needed was an accident to occur.

Things were quiet aside from the scraping of boots on rock. Not even the chirping of birds was audible up here and it was disquieting. She was a little tired, her breathing a bit heavier. From what she could see of Cloud, he looked like he was unaffected and could keep going for hours.

The SOLDIER had planned to go on this mission by himself, but Tifa didn’t like the idea of any of them going off alone, so she immediately volunteered to go with him. He was perfectly capable on his own, though something in her heart quivered and refused to settle until she was by his side. She knew the likelihood of him vanishing for another several years was low, but still…

She had no plans to lose him now that she had him back.

Some areas were steep enough to turn their progress into an almost sheer vertical climb. Tifa admired his athletic form before grumbling under her breath and reaching for the nearest handhold. She was almost to the top when her boot slipped. She gasped, red eyes blowing wide as her hands and fingers suddenly took on the task of supporting her entire body weight. Her boots scrabbled against the sheer rock, desperately searching for a foothold.

“Tifa!”

A hand wearing a glove wrapped around her right wrist. His grip was firm, and a little on the tight side, and he grunted softly as he heaved, lifting her up carefully. She tried to help as best she could, hauling herself up and over the edge the moment she could. Once every part of her body was no longer dangling in danger, she took a moment to catch her breath and looked at Cloud.

His eyes were locked on her, his usually impassive face held a small, worried frown. The Mako glow of his eyes was faint in the daylight, but his gaze was intense enough without it. She saw him looking at her up and down in assessment. Tifa knew Cloud was not checking her out, he was searching for injuries. 

She wasn’t sure if she should feel any disappointment about that.

It certainly didn’t help that Cloud was as dense as a box of rocks about girls and romance. Tifa and Aerith, and even Yuffie, had discussed it more than once. It had been the reason for many girlish giggles between them.

“I’m okay,” she assured him. Tifa let herself close her eyes as she laid there, processing what just happened.

A breath hitched. It wasn’t hers.

Her eyes flew open and she looked over to see Cloud holding his head in pain. Oh no, not again. Her poor friend had these weird episodes that left him tired, drained, and off-kilter. He always went to lay down when they ended, needing to sleep them off. For one to hit now was the worst possible timing.

Tifa scrambled over to him and covered his hands with her own. “Cloud? Cloud, can you hear me?”

His teeth were clenched and his breathing was a bit haggard, a frown etched on his face. He shook his head, sending blond locks swinging, and grunted in pain, giving no indication that he could hear her.

“It’s me, Cloud, it’s Tifa. I’m here, I’m with you, I’ve got you. Let me know if you can hear me, Cloud, come on!”

“No, Tifa!” he said breathlessly.

He slumped forward and the martial artist braced against the weight.

“No, no, no…” he muttered. “Not again. Not again!”

Tifa had no idea what he was talking about but she knew whatever he was experiencing wasn’t good. She did her best to wrap the fingers of her left hand around his, while her right hand sifted down through his hair to cup his cheek. Her thumb gently rubbed over the apple of his cheek and he froze.

“No!” he cried out. Cloud got up and lunged, right arm outstretched, and dove over the edge, sweeping his childhood friend along with him.

She gasped and instinctively clung to him, hoping the landing didn’t hurt too much. Cloud’s arms wrapped around her and he twisted in the air, putting himself beneath her to absorb the damage.

“I won’t let you fall alone again,” he whispered just above her head.

There was a loud THUD and Tifa slammed into Cloud, bouncing back up as far as his grasp would allow, then falling back onto him. His breath was knocked out of his lungs by her weight and he arched his back up slightly as she bounced. They both settled and all that could be heard was shaky breathing from her and shallow breathing from him.

Tifa was curled into his chest, unwilling or unable to move. She could feel his ribs rise and fall and there was a drumming beneath her right ear.

Bathumpbathumpbathumpbathumpbathumpbathumpbathumpbathump-

Cloud’s heart was racing, probably fueled by fear and adrenaline, much like her own. She focused on the sound, strong and steady despite the pace. It was undeniable proof that he was alive and still with her.

“Cloud?” she asked softly. Her red eyes opened and she tilted her head up to look at his face.

He moaned and turned his head fractionally, eyelids fluttering for a moment but staying shut. It took a lot to knock down a SOLDIER, enhanced as they were. She was sure the episode he had just suffered was the main reason he was unconscious. She carefully moved off of him, mindful of injuries, and quickly checked him over.

There was a small bleeding wound on the back of his head, and some inconsequential cuts and scrapes on his arms. His back was going to be a mass of nasty bruises, but nothing seemed broken at least. She turned him on his side and wrangled the massive sword off his back, setting it aside and letting him lay flat again.

She was anxious and fidgety, bitterly wishing she had a potion or Cure materia. It only took seconds before Tifa rested her head on his chest again, on his left pectoral. She couldn’t shake this niggling feeling that he would somehow disappear on her again. His heart had slowed, unlike hers, and she listened to it attentively – the only thing completely reassuring her that he was still with her.

Ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thumpathump……ba-thump…ba-thump…

What was that? Did she need to be concerned? Had her weight on him when they landed done damage she couldn’t see? She bit her lip and brought her left hand up to her face, placing her palm flat on his sternum with splayed fingers.

Tifa could feel the faint impacts of his heart against his ribs and sternum in time with the thumping in her ear. The rhythm was mostly steady with the occasional hiccup. His face didn’t register any pain and his breathing was unaffected, so she eventually decided it was harmless. It might even be normal for him, she simply didn’t know.

Time passed and Tifa found herself lulled into a near doze by the heart thumping steadily, for the most part, in Cloud’s chest. Despite any irregularities, the strength behind each beat was undeniable. No matter what the blond had gone through he had lived through it, life pumping in his body with a fierce strength she couldn’t help but admire.

Ba-thump…ba-thumpathump……ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thump..ba-thump..ba-thumpathump...ba-thump..ba-thump..ba-thump…

The rate increased slightly and her eyes opened immediately, finding his face. He was frowning and his blue eyes cracked open. Tifa sucked in a breath and gently patted his sternum. She couldn’t quite bring herself to move away from that oh so reassuring sound just yet.

Cloud groaned, the sound low as it vibrated through his chest. “T’fa?” he mumbled.

“I’m here, Cloud,” she said clearly. The patting turned into rubbing as she tried to give him some warmth and a sensation he could ground himself with.

He tightened his grip on her absently. “You fell,” he stated.

Something clicked in Tifa’s mind. “No, no, no, that was years ago, remember? We were just kids.”

He shook his head. “N-no. Not then. You fell,” he insisted.

Tifa really didn’t want to tell him the truth – that he had jumped and taken her with him. She sincerely doubted that he would take it well. “I’m fine,” she said gently but firmly. “I’m right here, with you, safe and sound. You can see, hear, and feel me, can’t you?”

The blond made a non-committal noise. His grip tightened fractionally and he took a slow, deep breath, blue locked onto red.

The thumping beneath her hand and head slowed slightly as he took in her words and her presence. The rhythm was steady, no more odd skips or stumbles, as he calmed. The tension bled out of her as he relaxed. His impromptu hug became more protective than restraining and the pair didn’t move or speak.

He looked up at the sky and she took the opportunity to scrutinise him. The faintest tinge of pink dusted his cheeks and she smiled, feeling accomplished for no particular reason she could discern.

“Do you have a potion?” Tifa suddenly asked.

Cloud blinked and looked down again. “What? You said you were fine,” he said, his voice holding a tiny sting of betrayal.

She rolled her eyes. “I am fine. The back of your head is bleeding.”

One of his arms moved from around her and his hand ran through his hair. His gloved fingers snagged and he tugged them loose with a tiny wince, bringing them around to take a look. His lips turned down at the ends at the smears and flakes of red on his gloves.

“Oh.”

They went back to laying there in silence, though Cloud’s arm didn’t wrap around her again. It was a bit disappointing, but Tifa was inordinately pleased that he was allowing her to remain on his chest.

The pair returned much later, herbs in hand.

[cookeybg]

Autumn's Loss of Petals - Chapter 1

Title: Autumn's Loss of Petals

Various POVs : Damian Wayne, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson

Tags: Angst, Loss of love, amnesia, brotherly love, familial love, will add more if relevant

Obviously, I do not own any of the rights to any of the DC comics, animated cartoons or movies and I am not getting paid to write this. This is purely for my enjoyment :)

Word Count: 1,936

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Damian

“Before I have you sign, I must ask, are you sure you want to go through with this?” Dr. Sato’s soft kind eyes looked at Damian with compassion. "Must you keep asking me such an inane question, I've already said yes." Damian snapped, he hated seeing the look of pity everyone kept giving him. "It is an important question, many think they can go through with this without fully grasping the consequences." Dr. Sato's eyes somehow turned softer when he smiled, a tinge of sadness marred the corners of his eyes. "It's just protocol, little D." Dick reached out to pat Damian's hand only to be swatted away. "He is my child, once he has made up his mind he will stay strong." Talia stroke Damian's head gently, she was not swatted away. "If you would only tell us who it is, we might be able to set things right. Before going through with such a major surgery." Bruce crouched next to where Dick sat, his hand hovered over Damian's. Jason snorted where he leaned against the door frame and Tim, sitting in the chair next to the door, paused in his typing. "There is no point if the object of his affection doesn't reciprocate." Talia glowered at Bruce, who glared back, finally placing his hand on Damian's. "Yes, well," Dr. Sato cleared his throat, "if you have determined that this is for the best, please sign the release form so we can begin the surgery." Damian rolled his eyes. He didn't understand why his family had to be here, he would have been fine on his own. He grabbed the clipboard the doctor had handed him and signed his name neatly. He coughed, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth. He was too late, a bit of blood had splattered on the consent form. Removing his hand he stared down at it, a clump of thick white petals came with it. He felt the room silence, his family ready to fight an opponent they could not punch. He felt weak, his breath coming in short, burning his throat, leaving a sour taste. He felt pathetic and that was the worst feeling of all. He hated that this was what had become of him. That he had let his feelings rule him in this way. His mother had warned him all his childhood that love would only hurt him, would hinder him; yet here he was beholden to it, ruined by it. "Tt." He crushed the petals in his hand. He grimaced, feeling the hateful tears, that he had tried to keep at bay, drip down his cheeks. A choked sob escaped him, before a hacking cough over took it. He clutched at his chest, the noise from the heart monitor attached to him rising to dangerous levels, the temperature in his head skyrocketing, forcing his veins to bulge, a high pitched ringing overtook his hearing. His fingers dug into in cheeks, his palms covering his open mouth, preventing the bloody saliva from splattering out. His forehead bumped his knees with the force of the last cough. With watery eyes he saw a full flower in his cupped hands, it's waxy white petals let the blood it came out with slide off with ease, dripping, staining the white hospital blanket. The strong sweet smell of it mixed sickeningly with the smell of iron and bile. The ringing gradually dropped and when he looked up his family were being pushed to one side, their panicked faces pale under the florescent lights. A nurse pat his back, telling him to lay back, trying to comfort him. Dr. Sato pushed his medical bed forward, his calm soft demeanor gone, replaced with the concentration and determination of a doctor who had been working in this field for decades. They rushed him out of the room, the white sterile walls blurring in their wake. He knew he was dying, his head light, his limbs heavy. He felt relief. When they placed him on the metal bed of the operating room, they placed a plastic mask over his nose and mouth, told him to breathe in and count backwards. He saw a pair of blue eyes reflecting the sky, tousled black hair and a smile brighter than the sun, his arms opened wide, beckoning him for one last hug.

Soft light streamed in through the large window, gently waking Damian up from his dreamless sleep. His mouth felt like sandpaper, his throat felt worse, he tried to lift his hand to rub at it but a weight prevented the action. The weight was warm, comforting and when he looked down he saw Talia holding his hand, half her body laying on the mattress. He tried to call her but all that came out was a rasp, the effort was too much and he fell back into unconsciousness.

“When do you think he will wake up?” Dick asked, pacing the room. “According to records from other’s surgeries, it can take anywhere from a couple of hours after surgery to three days.” Tim said sitting next to Bruce on the beige couch, his face hidden behind his opened laptop. “How do…did you hack the hospital records?” Dick asked stopping in front of Tim. “Is it really considered hacking if it was so easy?” Tim scoffed. “Yes. Yes, it is.” Dick said. “What, you going to arrest him, pig?” Jason was lounging on the recliner, an open book in one hand. “Boys, please let’s be respectful to your brother’s recovery.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, his hair looked like it needed brushing, his dress shirt rumpled and unkempt. Damian watched his family bicker with half opened eyes, he was already annoyed with them. He carefully glanced around, he no longer stayed in the sterile white hospital room he had first been admitted to. He could tell that his father had put him in a private hospital room complete with a two seater couch, two reclining chairs, a coffee table and a giant 4k television hung on the wall. The walls were a light warm colored wood and the giant window that basically covered one side of the room faced the peaks of mountains. He tried to tell them to shut up, instead what came out was a soft gasp. The gasp left a burning sensation in his throat, he needed water. “Little D!” Dick rushed towards him, “How are you feeling? OMG I’m so relieved that you’re awake.” He sobbed, clasping Damian’s hand to his chest, being careful of the IV needle embedded in it. Bruce and Tim had followed Dick, but were much more reserved. His father looked relieved, smiled at him and ruffled his hair. Tim smirked, the bags under his eyes looked darker and more defined. Jason had left the room, when he returned he brought a nurse with him. The nurse worked around them, checking Damian’s vitals, while Dick prattled on about how relieved Kori and Mari would be when they found out he had woken up. Damian did not have the energy to make Dick shut up, though he was relieved he was there, something he would never admit to. The nurse gave Bruce a cup of shredded ice, giving him instructions to feed it to Damian slowly. She helped put him in a sitting position, adding pillows for back support. She then excused herself, stating that she would inform the doctor of his wakefulness. The ice that his father fed him was the best thing he had ever tasted. He wanted more, was frustrated when he couldn’t snatch the cup away due to his heavy limbs. He was shaky and uncoordinated, Tim and Jason teased him, taking advantage of the fact that he couldn’t retaliate both physically and verbally. Bruce scolded them, feeding Damian another sliver of ice that melted far too quickly on his overheated tongue. The room quieted down when Dr. Sato walked in, his soft smile directed to the whole room, when it landed on Damian it softened further.

“I am happy to see you awake. If you would allow me to do a few tests?” He indicated for the rest of the family members to leave the room. They all reluctantly complied, Bruce squeezed his shoulder telling him to call if he needed him. Damian rolled his eyes, why would he need him? Dr. Sato gave him a brief check up, checking his breathing with a stethoscope and his eyes with a small pen light. When satisfied, the doctor brought the stool chair that had been under the hospital computer in the room, close to the bed, sat on it, looked at his clipboard and then gave Damian a serious look. “Physically, it seems that you will recover wonderfully.” Dr. Sato stated, “Do you remember why you had this operation?” Damian scoffed, opened his mouth to respond, but when he realized that he couldn’t remember his mouth shut with an audible clack. He rubbed at his neck, trying to message it, trying to distract from the uncomfortable feeling of blankness. He looked around the room, did he get hurt? Obviously, his throat burned and he had bandages wrapped around his neck, but what hurt him? His hand slowly drifted down to his chest, he had bandages there too, the skin felt painful, inflamed, he hadn't noticed before. "I was hurt." Damian rasped, unsure of his respond. "In a way," Dr. Sato nodded, "we removed a growth from your lungs and heart, it was causing an obstruction to your airways." He tried to remember, a subtle image of a memory crept up and quickly slipped away. It felt like a cold bolt had struck him, the sudden pain making him wince. "No, don't," Dr. Sato patted the blankets next to Damian, "rushing it will do you no good and will only hurt. Many patients in your shoes will have temporary amnesia, slowly you will regain most of your memories." "Most?" Damian couldn't go above a whisper, his throat burning with any effort of speech. "Hm, yes, all of the relevant memories will return, except for the ones that caused the injury in the first place." Dr. Sato wrote something on his clipboard and stood up, "You were very brave, I am glad you pulled through. I will inform your family to give you some time alone to process, I'm sure they would like to go eat and shower. Please rest, you need plenty of it." He smiled and left, the door giving a soft click as it shut. Damian stared at his hands, a faint image of white petals lingered, but he couldn't remember the shape. He shakily touched his chest, it was solid, his flesh intact under the gauze. He took a deep breath, it tasted of blood but it was clear. His heart beat without constraint, comfortable in his chest. Damian could feel it, that something was missing, he gripped his hospital gown. It felt like he could reach in if he pressed a bit harder, like he could fill the cold void left behind by whatever they had removed. Fill it with his fist, squeeze his heart so that it could feel warm. It was an silly thought, dangerous even, he should be grateful that it was gone. Wet droplets landed on his hand, large and hot, with a shock he realized they were tears. He was crying and couldn't figure out why, all he knew was that this emptiness was unnatural. He had forgotten something important. He wanted his father, he wanted his mother, he needed his family.

I will be experimenting with different POV's for this fic, but they will all be Damian-centric. I hope you enjoyed it and I hope I got the imagery across.

[craboon]

the redjam sea or sea of sweetness, is full of toxic algae and metals that sting your nose and mouth with and obscene sweetness, animals pour from the fields in great migrations to feast and die at its shores, leaving sticky trails of red strewn across the shores, most commonly large reddish house centipedes and rust covered snails that crawl from the crevices of the northern shore, the numerous bugs are harvested as food or for their shells the water when cooked down can be used as a tar and sealant and most famously a red paint, some people also eat it as a delicacy risking their health int he process

the sea of milk is a place of still opaque white fluid, primordial ancient things linger there, softly padding in the waves where most seas have a vermin clinging to the shores these ones lurk in the deep unseen, things very old live there long ago the goddess of the earwigs beckoned them from the pale waters and set them to fly to the moon and return only when they became wise

there is not a whole lot of industry around this sea the animals and crafty and things get eaten and gnawed upon when the earwigs emerge at night, there however are more farming settlements farther into the golden lands where the endless grain sates the appetite of the earwigs before they can reach

there are many monasteries and such things built in the seclusion they have found it difficult to keep records without using materials that the earwigs detest the red pigment from the sea of sweetness works well

the cadaverine seas waters are chilled and smell of rot there are numerous mass dyings and blobster like things washed upon the shores, the water is somewhat corrosive and one must were a waxed suit to safely wade, the waters are not filled with much except barnacles, molluscs, brachiopods,and echnoderms fished commonly in row boats with thick coating to prevent the encrusting of life on them, the corpses of the the waxy beasts are harvested and distilled into medicines healing salves and sedatives that have the side effect of giving dreams of one being trapped in mud at the bottom of the sea, in ancient times people built great sarcophagi to store the bodies of the giant waxy whale fish things, and referred them as saints, the fluid of the tombs is a legendary medicine

the gloaming sea is covered in churning pewter waves, cast in never ending twilight there is a great black engine built on the cliffs chains as light as spider silk are cast into the air like a net and as the sun sets apparitions sparks of angels burn into being for an instant before becoming entangled the great engine starts up and reels them in as night falls not sure what they do with them make lightbulbs idk the engine is powered both my the lapping waves agains the great steel wheels but also a material unique to this are called verminstone, its quarried nearby and shipped on rails, it resembles ancient sea fossils, byrozoans, coral, diatoms, sponges porus and once alive, it works when you dont look a rattling in a dark box so they are poured into the engine like coal great rattling and cacophony, worms that creeped so long ago led ghostly in great procession turning the heavy gears

[cowboygenesis]

2: sign from the skies | geralt x reader

part 2 of the "wild woman" series: masterlist. | buy me a coffee?

pairing: geralt x reader

chapter warnings: none.

word count: 4.4k

series summary: geralt begrudgingly accepts a monster contract issued to him by a strange girl, thinking it to be an opportunity for some quick coin. nothing goes as planned.

notes: here we go, chapter two! finally some more geralt/reader interactions... we're getting there, guys. enjoy x

The air was dewy and cold that morning. Geralt had woken up at dawn to the scent of musk, grass, and a sleek layer of moisture on his skin, cool and sensitive to the soft breeze nipping at his ears and cheeks. As promised, he had taken camp at the edge of the nearby woods; far enough to drown out the buzz of Posada’s rich nightlife, yet close enough to watch the churchbells swing rhythmically once the sun began to rise over the horizon.

“No trouble sleeping last night, Roach?” the man nodded towards his steed, earning a soft neigh. ���Last night was peaceful. No sign of that creature the barmaid spoke of, or of anything else for that matter,”

Geralt’s eyebrows raised in agreement, stretching his torso against the rough bark of an oak tree. “Perhaps it only awakens for the foragers after all.”

He crouched down next to the remains of a crude, makeshift campfire. The heavy, weathered stones encircled a blackened pile of ash that housed a tiny, dying flame. The man hummed lowly, reaching his arms into a canvas sack as his fingers poked around the flailing mound of cloth, testing the textures and mounds of the treasures inside. Shining gold, glass potion vials, scraps of leather, and unread letters… finally, his index brushed against a smooth, waxy surface.

“Ah, so we’re not yet doomed.” he smiled coyly, picking out a small, luscious apple and bringing it up to the sunlight. The red skin glistened deliciously, and Geralt could almost feel the tart juices on his tongue.

Roach whined, hooves stomping precociously on the soft grass below. Her beady little eyes were bright, pleading, and Geralt chuckled softly at her reaction to such a delightful treat. With a flick, he tossed the apple towards her and watched as it rolled on the grass, finally making contact with her slender front leg.

“I know you’ll appreciate this more than I would,” he remarked with a nod, legs flexing to stand up once again. He grunted, metal clinging and slashing against his pauldrons while he swiftly fastened his gear. He adjusted the steel and silver swords in their holsters and finally fingered at his chest piece until a metallic wolf revealed its head from under his blouse.

“We can resupply in town, but if there is any truth to the talks of this beastie I might as well see what it’s about. Perhaps I’ll be in luck to find a rabbit or two while I’m at it.” Geralt mumbled, and his mare snorted in reply. Her snout lapped at the red apple in curiosity, tongue slowly flicking against the short stem before she made her first bite.

Geralt moved his gaze away from Posada’s rooftops and instead directed it at the lush forest behind. The treeline was thick, twisting and turning in the soft, white light of the morning sun. Considering their current location, these woods could span for dozens of kilometers with no habitable settlements in between, making the witcher’s next hunt more complex, or, at the very least, very time-consuming. He huffed at the thought, but with a full suit of armor now on, persevered ahead.

Geralt strolled in, boots squelching and creaking against the plush, moss-covered ground below his boots. As he made his way deeper into the pits of nature, the birdsong became sporadic. It dulled down to an occasional tweet, drowned out by the echoing volume of a cool wind weaving through the green and yellow leaves above. This breeze would grow in strength ever so often, tugging at thinner branches and whistling an eery melody into the morning dew.

When Geralt looked up again, the tree crowns had thickened to such a degree that the natural light struggled to pass through. Only singular, thin batches of light made their way through the thicket, beaming down on the earth below and illuminating the surface of a small stream. The clear waters had carved a small grove amongst the trees, allowing for a steady flow of life through the otherwise tranquil, idle surroundings.

There was a snap from behind. The man’s arm quickly tugged at the padded handle of his sword, half-unsheathed as his eyes narrowed. He scanned around, focused and unmoving while he confronted the perpetrator of chaos head-on.

Up ahead, just by a thick, decaying oak stump, stood an animal. Her tawny coat shone with a matted kind of luminance, a thick bristle dotted with milky spots and lines that trailed down her slender limbs. She raised her head, beady eyes looking into Geralt’s through a fan of black lashes. She chewed peacefully on a patch of green moss, nose glistening with a healthy sheen of moisture and no apparent desire to escape her pursuer.

Geralt readied his weapon, slowly letting it slide out of its protective casing as his right foot stepped up. The steel swished against leather, now gripped with two hands: mightily, purposefully. “Better than a rabbit,” he muttered under his heaving breaths.

The man advanced slowly, watching as the doe made peace with her fate. Her head stood still, jaw clenching and unclenching with the chew of her final meal.

Suddenly, another snap, from up ahead. The animal’s ears perked up, large head darting behind, then back forward. She looked at Geralt with glazed eyes and a wet nose. His legs tensed up. Then, she galloped away.

Her speed was unthinkable, furry body darting through the thicket while the witcher sprinted after her. The doe’s nubby tail twirled, hooves stomping on moss and soil before she made a final jump ahead, disappearing into a tall honeysuckle bush.

Geralt’s feet stuck in place, halting rapidly with a quickened breath as he examined the greenery. The blood in his ears was deafening, the birds and wind abruptly silenced. He readjusted his grip on the sword, sweat trickling down his forehead as steel slashed at the twigs ahead. With the self-made opening, he squeezed his body through the branches, feeling a sting as they tugged at his exposed skin. His eyes squinted at the sunlight pooling onto his face, stepping ahead cautiously with his blade leading the way.

He was in a small clearing. The glade was filled with an array of wildflowers and poppies, lined with sparse, decaying fencing and housing a small, swampy pond at the right-most edge of the valley, speckled with rounded stones and water reeds.

Ahead, down a decline, stood a wooden hut, its roof angled awkwardly, holding the four walls together in a matter of unbelievable asymmetry and heedlessness. The small, rectangular window perched on one of the sides had been covered with a decrepit plank, rotten and mossy from the test of harsh elements and time. Walking closer, Geralt realized the shack was completely uninhabited, and perhaps for a while at that.

Seeking an entrance, he strutted alongside the wall, gloved palms feeling the roughened, brittle surface of the wood. A small porch could be visible from just beyond another honeysuckle, this time easily traversable by foot.

He slumped down through the thicket, eyes squinting as he made it to the other side. The air felt stagnant. Geralt’s eyes trailed towards the porch, down the betrodden path, and towards the blinding red below.

The doe was dead. Her soft, white underbelly rested against the soil, tufts of fur stained a brilliant crimson that speckled her snout, ears, and backside. Her eyes looked the same as when she was alive, beady and lifeless. Geralt’s eyes trailed to the liquid pooling at her wound, eyes following her flank. Four deep gashes were carved into the tan bristle, cutting skin and muscle with apt precision. Geralt’s grip tightened.

He stepped away, circling the body cautiously. The porch fencing was tangled up in a mess of twine and ivy, and nestled within a cracked open entrance; an inconspicuous, wooden doorway with no knob or handle. Kicking away at stray vines, the witcher positioned himself against the entryway, shoulder-angled and tense. He breathed in, and out, and with a quick bodyslam, the door slung wide open.

The stench within was indescribable. Sour, earthy, and musky, with hints of myrrh and lavender, heavily lacing the atmosphere within. Singular streams of sunlight flooded into the hut through boarded-up windows, revealing constellations of dust particles dancing and swiveling through the air like stars.

The ceiling was adorned with bundles of dried herbs hanging by a thin twine, so dried up they had begun to flake off onto the floor in little piles.

Along the first wall stood a kitchen drawer, hanging out of its hinges and exposing the void within; the second wall was occupied by a bed, covered in hay and a small, child-sized quilt. Despite its visibly decrepit state, the textile was able to retain traces of handiwork: small, colorful stitches connected individual pieces of cloth, some of which bore tiny floral designs and some kind of animal iconography.

Geralt furrowed his eyebrows with a hum. He took another general glance around the room, licked his chapped lips, and adjusted his gaze to the flickering glimmer at the corner of his vision. He sheathed his sword and cautiously approached, eyes squinting at the object. He dropped his right knee, fingers reaching out to grab a crooked floorboard. As he pulled, the blackened wood crumbled between his fingers, the stench of mold unraveling under his nostrils.

The glimmer of light faded as his figure obscured the sunlight, the small compartment below the deck emanating with darkness. Geralt reached his hand down, feeling around the moist soil and cobwebs before his knuckles brushed against a hard spine.

A book, bound in a weathered skin of tan fur and leather. The cover was simple, unsigned, yet bearing a sizeable silver plate. The metal dipped into a shallow grove in the center, worn with scratches where the valley was deepest. His fingers sunk under the side of the cover, flipping through a few pages until the book lay flat on the ground.

The pages were yellowed, stained with dirt, grease, and herbal residue, but otherwise blank. Geralt flipped a few pages in bulk, but the paper held no writing. A few more, and still, nothing. Raising his arm, he bit at the loose fabric of his glove and with a grunt, removed it entirely. His hand hovered over the crease binding the book together, eyes closing. The exposed skin of his fingers reverberated, gently caressed by an unseeable force emanating from the paper.

“Magic,” he muttered, his hoarse voice cutting the silence of the cabin like a dulled knife. “Unreadable, perhaps purposefully locked away.”

His legs tensed against the dusty floor, smacking the book shut before he rose to his full height. A hum escaped his throat, echoing through his head as his eyes scanned the leather cover of this newly discovered artifact. If there was a sorcerer in town, he could try and decipher the pages. Hells, perhaps an alchemist could aid him.

With a cautious turn, Geralt turned towards the doorway. The outside light was beginning to fade, the cool tones of dawn melting into a soft warmth. He pushed at the rotted wood and walked out with two short strides, shutting the door behind him. The hinges creaked with the impact.

The air felt fresh. A gentle breeze carried through the small valley, kissing his eyelids as his gaze wandered to a splash of red—the dead doe.

He inhaled, circling a patch of moss until the tips of his boots grazed the animal’s fur. The pool of blood had spread since he last examined her, forming a shallow lake around his feet and sinking into the porous material. With a sharp exhale, he propped his arms under her stained belly. The exposed skin of his left hand dipped in the crimson liquid, letting it lap at his creased palm and sinking under the fingernails. Once his grip felt secure, he lifted with a soft grunt. The deer’s head sunk, lolling lifelessly in the air as Geralt threw the body over his shoulder. The doe felt light, so fragile she could break at any moment if his movements were to become brazen.

The witcher took one last look behind, the insides of the hut greeting him once again with a dark void. He hummed, turning away at the sensation brewing in his gut. His feet stomped across the soil, grunts filling the air as he adjusted to the extra weight on his side. The doe lay perfectly still upon his collarbone, her white tuft of a tail now motionless next to Geralt’s cheek.

Thick clouds had emerged on the azure backdrop above once the witcher had finally returned to his campsite. The sky pulsed in shades of blue and white, clusters of grey hanging with a suspicion of rain, perhaps a thunderstorm if his luck was really down that day.

Geralt had thrown the fresh carcass onto a flattened boulder, letting it sit a while as he re-sparked a fresh batch of coals for a campfire. The sleek, steel blade slid against his flint in jots of white and gold, the sound of slashing metal harmonizing with the sudden onset of distant grumbling. The sky began to darken, the distant clouds fat and ashen with moisture. Geralt hummed, striking the flint once more. Volatile sparks flew into the mound of dried lavender and sage piled amidst black coals.

Another roar in the atmosphere sent Roach into a manic spree, her hooves kicking spastically into the air, cries of fear filling the cool air.

“Easy, girl,” Geralt commanded, yet a gentleness laced his grave tone as a hand raised in the air, reaching towards the mare’s snout. Her snorts calmed, eyes scanning the man’s pale face in search of something familiar and comforting. He smiled. “Just a thunderstorm,” he reassured, “judging from the wind, it might be headed away from us.”

The warm glow of the growing flame lapped at Geralt’s knees, giving the two companions a tiny bubble of comforting illumination. He hummed, gripping the slender blade in his rough palm, and swiftly crawled towards the deer. Her body looked flaccid, restful almost, as she continued her eternal rest against the jagged surface of the flattened boulder.

His eyes shifted towards the horizon, hovering over the betrodden path and along the navy overskirt of a woman heading his direction. His eyebrows furrowed, the firm grip on his blade loosening as she approached with a bright smile plastered across her tired face.

“Geralt?” the girl called out, breaking into a fiddly sprint. Her movement was jagged and awkward, possibly inhibited by the size of her hand-me-down boots that croaked loudly, even at a distance.

“Geralt!” she affirmed, giddiness laced into her breathy voice as she placed a protective hand over the sizeable item in her other arm- a woven basket. She approached the man with a half-jog, eyes wide and bright.

“I… I looked around… everywhere for you,” she heaved, struggling to catch her breath. Her face was reddened and moist with sweat. “I remembered… I’m so glad you decided to stay!” she exclaimed with a kind smile, dusting off her apron. The material was off-white and stained with ale, but came alive with the addition of small beading and sewn decals at the seams. The colors were mismatched and varied, yet somehow brought the girl’s features out in just the right way.

“I took your job offer,” Geralt reminded her with a nod, hand hovering over the deer’s thick bristle. The girl’s eyes dropped at the gesture, her smile fading into a frown; not fearful or disgusted, simply upset.

“Poor girl,” she said quietly, kneeling with the basket perched upon her hip. She placed a nimble hand on the animal’s back, slowly trailing towards her belly. Her pinky grazed gently against Geralt’s, making her withdraw shakily. “Such beautiful animals.”

Geralt remained silent, watching the woman’s eyelashes brush her blushed cheeks as she studied the carcass with a profound fascination.

“I hope she didn’t suffer,” she added with a sharp inhale, hesitantly dragging her gaze away from the doe’s white belly. Geralt hummed with an acknowledging nod, deciding to stay silent. He didn’t know whether the doe suffered or not, and bringing that up to the woman felt fruitless at the moment.

“When I was little, I would try and count the spots on baby deer, the little white freckles. My mother told me every one of them meant a past lifetime. I think it was some sort of tradition she picked up from her own mother,” the woman continued, that same soft smile returning to her lips. Geralt maintained his composure, hands placed firmly against his knees as he watched the woman fidget nervously. Her nailbeds pressed into the coarse material of her apron, and Geralt scanned along the place where it met her corset. This one looked looser, clinging onto her waist a lot more comfortably than her tavern attire. She must have been taking a day off.

“Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to deal with my chattering this early in the morning. I hope you’re hungry, I brought you something as a ‘thank you’,” she chuckled dryly, giving him a grin as her hands reached into the basket. She dug around for a moment, one eye closed in concentration before she finally withdrew a large loaf of bread. Her other hand unraveled a checkered napkin, which she opted to spread by the campfire. She placed the bread on top, then dug out a small paper parcel and leather decanter. She passed the latter into Geralt’s hands, and he grabbed it haphazardly. “For helping us out,”

The tanned leather felt cool against his fingertips, rough around the seams and adorning a crimson-stained cork at the top.

“The deer was dead when I found it,” he muttered, twisting the flask open. The cork squealed at the pressure, revealing a strong aroma of tart cherries and foreign spices. He tilted the bottle and looked inside, catching a glimpse of the bright-red concoction that swirled in the soft light.

“What is this?” Geralt questioned with a sniff.

The girl’s eyebrows seemed to relax at the notion that the doe didn’t suffer at his own hands, despite that conclusion being far-fetched and faulty. Sparing her the details of the strange occurrence in the woods seemed like the wisest course of action, regardless.

“Black cherry wine,” she declared with a smile, “A traveling merchant was selling these in bulk at the market this morning, for real cheap too. I hope you like it, though the spices might not be to everyone’s taste, I find.”

Geralt placed the nozzle to his lips, taking a modest sip and letting the tangy liquid slosh along his palate. The initial sweetness of the cherry transformed into a mild burn of cinnamon and cloves, filling the witcher’s chest with a comforting warmth that radiated down the stomach and limbs.

“It’s good,” he commented ingeniously, earning a satisfied nod from the girl.

“Right? It’s not so bad,” she chuckled, hands hovering over the fat loaf of bread warming against the fire. Her fingertips pressed into the crisp skin, as she eyed the witcher’s blade. “I don’t drink so much anymore, but these fruity wines from Skellige are always worth the trouble. ‘Lush’, I think they call them, traditionally. Something about the method of preparation. May I?” she trailed, pointing at the man’s knife with a mingy finger.

Geralt paused, taking another drink from the leather decanter. The supposed infamy of Skellige’s wines had never come to his mind. He cleared his throat, tossing the knife upwards to reposition his grip. His hands gently clasped onto the blade, handle aimed at the woman in front. She took it carefully, anxiously, letting the hilt land in her elfin hands, analyzing it meticulously and toying with the base. She let the flat of the knife slide against her palm, securing it in her grip.

“You don’t have to eat that doe anymore, you know?” she declared quietly, her voice laced with uncertainty. She didn’t look up, instead continuing to stab into the soft flesh of bread with a certain might and precision. The knife sliced into it smoothly, producing three slices of perfectly thick wedges that looked soft and delectable in the harsh light of the campfire.

“It’s a waste of meat if I don’t,” he replied, hand extending as the girl handed him two of the three slices in her possession. They felt moist against his skin, rough around the edges where the skin had baked into a thin crust.

“How about you sell it at the town’s market? The butcher could pay you handsomely for such a prime doe,” the woman suggested, peeling back the paper parcel to reveal a white goat’s cheese. She used the knife to slice it, placing the soft rectangles onto Geralt’s bread, then did the same with her own. “Venison spoils quickly, and you won’t make good use of the animal nearly fast enough.”

Geralt hummed, sinking his teeth into the morsel. The cheese was fresh and soft, spilling buttermilk on his tongue as he savored the delicate flesh of the bread below. Perhaps a fat pouch of coin would prove more beneficial than spoiled deer, indeed.

“Would you lead me to this market, then?” he questioned, quaffing the cherry liquor in intermissions. The girl’s eyes lit up, cheeks bunching with a smile. Her teeth sunk into her meal, chewing quickly and negligently. The bread disappeared quickly amongst her teeth.

“Let’s set out after our meal, in that case. The clouds have been brewing all morning, haven’t they?” she pointed at the horizon, thick gusts of silver nipping at the rooftops. “We wouldn’t want to get caught in that squall. Posada is infamous for these storms.”

The refreshments were gone quickly, replaced by a lulling comfort in their guts as Geralt stood up to prepare them for travel. He doused the campfire with water from his carafe, kicking at the remaining flames with his boot. He then unloaded his gear onto Roach. The deer hung off the steed’s backside, accompanied by the witcher’s travel pack and his visitor’s hand trailing gently along the mare’s muzzle.

“Hi, girl,” she spoke with a smile, rubbing her hand alongside the horse’s cheek. Roach whinnied, leaning into her touch. “Oh, just how precious you are! What’s your name?”

“Roach,” Geralt grumbled out, securing the leather saddle onto the horse’s back.

“Roach,” the woman repeated, scratching behind the mare’s ear. “Why Roach?”

“I name all my horses the same,” Geralt huffed, hands snaking down the thick bristle until his fingers tangled into the reigns. The woman chuckled at his explanation, and he raised an eyebrow in response. Her laughter was warm, hearty, and completely uninhibited by her company, it seemed. “There’s only space for one with the deer in the back. Get on.”

The woman’s face turned to face the witcher, lips pursed as she eyed the leather saddle under her palm. She approached slowly, neck craning as she maintained eye contact with the flaxen-haired man. Her cheeks flushed with a soft pink, dusting her nose and temples as she exhaled. She looked at her companion pleadingly.

Geralt hummed with an acknowledging nod, circling behind her back. His arms extended, hands hovering over the dip in her waist. He took note of the woman’s moss-green blouse, sitting loosely against her shoulder blades and exposing a fragment of the soft skin beneath.

She looked down, locks of mussed hair caressing her neck as her breath quickened, heavy in her chest whilst her breast expanded with every sharp inhale.

“May I?” Geralt questioned, his right hand gently resting atop her hip as he awaited confirmation. With the indication of a quick, subtle nod from the woman, he positioned his grip firmly against her waist and lifted. She gasped softly at the touch, her blue overskirt swept in a gentle breeze as her buttocks landed firmly against the saddle.

“Thanks,” she breathed out shakily, fingers wrapping firmly around the cantle. Her lips curled into a coy smile, watching as Geralt tightened his grip around the leather reigns and tugged, bold gaze relentlessly conversing with hers. He exhaled sharply, letting Roach trail ahead while he placed a free hand on the mare’s neck, nearing the girl’s hip.

“You’re strong,” she declared candidly, followed by a suppressed chuckle.

“Does it come as a surprise?” he questioned, head turned safely away from the woman’s curious gaze as he let a cheeky smile creep onto his lips. She laughed heartily in return.

As they led Roach down down the glade, she let her gaze trail along the stormy horizon, watching as the clouds approached in proximity to the red rooftops of Posada hovering solemnly in the distance.

She shuffled in the saddle, legs crossed as she let her eyes meet with the witcher’s long, flaxen hair, watching it trail down his heavy-set shoulders and toned back. He must have been robust under all that armor, certainly, after years of fighting monsters by hand and sword.

He strode down the beaten path with an air of inexplicable confidence and a certain, palpable grit that was made apparent through the fluidity of his movement. The woman gazed through half-lidded eyes, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“There’s another reason I wanted to speak to you,” she declared, stroking down Roach’s mane. Geralt kept his steady walking rhythm, allowing the girl to continue with his comfortable silence. “I know you spoke to Sylvanus in his room last night.” she trailed.

“And?” Geralt surmised, eyes glued towards the sky. The woman’s foot fiddled with a stirrup, eyebrows furrowed.

“I spotted him in the market square this morning, while I was resupplying ale for the tavern. He had just left the alchemist’s shop with a hefty purchase, and it very much appeared to me that he didn’t want to be seen or questioned about it, by anyone,” she confided, tone laced with slighted apprehension at the memory.

Geralt hummed in acknowledgment, fingers tightening around the leather reigns in his palm. He recalled the strange man’s declaration last night, his gravelly voice echoing in the witcher’s mind as they trotted down a patch of grass.

“Show me to that alchemist once we’re in town,” he commanded, a loud, crackling rumble filling the atmosphere suddenly. The woman gasped softly, eyes gazing into the darkened skies as the ozonic air entered her lungs, flushed skin met with the soft droplets of the first autumn rain.

[mehoymalloy]

Tossing some Grace/Athena (Stray Gods) into the world in the form of the drabble that ran away from me. Consider it a taste of the slow burn fic idea that's been buzzing around in my brain for the past 48 hours.

~

And yet, Grace had the audacity to show up at Athena's apartment—wearing an almost awkward smile that contradicted the casual ease she carried herself with as she leaned against the door frame. Time after time again, she arrived uninvited. And what was Athena to do—turn her away at the door?

No; instead, Athena forced the shadow of a joyless smile to twist her lips, at least for a moment, before begrudgingly inviting Grace in. And each time, Grace made it a little further into Athena's home.

First, Grace lingered in the entryway for a quick, tense chat about her duties as mortal liaison—how Athena could stand to cooperate a little more. Athena listened, her frown growing more and more pronounced, and Grace met her expression with a surprisingly understanding look that somehow didn't deter from the stern set to her jaw.

Next time, Grace made her way into Athena's kitchen, all because Athena had politely, foolishly, offered her an obligatory cup of coffee. Athena stared at Grace's black and purple polka-dotted socks, stark against the white tile floor. For a long time, only the steady dribble of coffee trickling into the pot broke the silence. Until Grace struck up a conversation, stubborn as a bull colliding with a stone wall, honey eyes bright with an irritating flicker of satisfaction when Athena responded with all the grace of a striking snake.

Afterward, Athena washed the mugs by hand, pausing when she picked up Grace's cup. The smudge of lipstick around the rim had Athena reluctantly recalling the easy smile Grace had tossed her way, even when Athena had done everything in her power to dissuade such gestures. The dark, waxy residue stained the pad of Athena's thumb when she wiped it off, lingering even after the soapy water had supposedly washed all traces down the drain.

The next time Grace showed up, she didn't even wait for Athena's lead; she simply strolled across the living room. Athena trailed behind her from a distance, watching Grace fiddle with the lock on the balcony door before she slowly slid it open. Leaving the door ajar, she stepped into the fading light of the setting sun and padded over to stand beside Bubo, where he was perched on the railing. Athena leaned against the frame, and all three of them surveyed the city for a long moment, watching as twinkling lights slowly came to life beneath the cover of twilight. Then Grace turned to the owl, reaching out and gently smoothing down a ruffled feather. Bubo appeared unbothered—but surely only the dim lighting gave the illusion that he leaned into her touch.

Athena herself was even a part of the problem. One day, she found her gaze drawn to a loose button on Grace's shirt, hanging on by a frayed thread. She had opened her mouth and offered to fix it before she could even consider her words. They tumbled out unbidden, and Grace graciously agreed too quickly for Athena to snatch them back. And so Athena led her even further into her home, to a study that doubled as a craft room of sorts. Athena's eyes did not linger on the way Grace's undershirt hugged her frame when she removed her top. No, Athena kept her eyes on her work, not at all distracted when Grace came to stand over her shoulder. Athena did not shiver when Grace murmured a low, sly comment about never knowing the goddess of wisdom and warfare sewed. And Athena absolutely did not mirror Grace's playfulness by inflecting an air of exaggerated arrogance into her tone when she primly informed the other woman that she was also the goddess of weaving.

[xsapphirescrollsx]

Sunshine pt. 2

Written: Nov 12 2019

Ray Merrimen x Black Female Reader

10 Years Ago

Ray kissed your neck. His hands drew your palms to his chest as he leaned into your shoulder. You lay upon him, resting your body against his warmth never the wiser of his intentions. He licked the skin there, his hands gliding up the hump of your ass over the smooth skin of your spine until he cupped your face.

“I love you.” His voice was light but muddled in tone. A morning husk that often reminded you of the first time you met him years ago. A younger Ray, a teenage asshole who ditched first period to sleep, only to drag his ass in at the end of third with sleep still in his eyes.

“Ray…” his name always tasted sweet in your mouth. You whispered his name again and it turned into a moan as he kissed you.

You slid down his long abdomen, rubbing the heat of your vee along his taut muscles. You are slick and willing but Ray squeezed your thighs forcing you to stop.

Smooth, his voice silkily rolled over his tongue as he spoke. “Sunshine.”

Though you noted the waxy, perturb tone in his baritone voice. It annoyed you a bit but you felt victorious when his head fell back to the pillow. Your hips rocked front to back over his length, his brown eyes focused on the stippled white ceiling in a haze of lust.

For a moment he laid like that, swept up in you and the heat of your thighs but as you began to grip his shaft Ray’s head rolled back to you while his hands fell to your shoulders stilling your motions.

“I have to go soon. There’s no time for this.” He said.

You kissed his clavicle and then you lightly kissed the warm skin of his pectoral. Ray’s body tensed. You began to lick over his stiff nipple with a wide stroke. “There’s always time for love,” you said softly. “You don’t have to go…” you said between licks.

You felt his hips grind up into you, the length of him brushes against your wet folds. The tip of his cock throbbed, the dull wanting aches shot up his shaft. If your body was the heavenly release, then the lead up was purgatory. He was standing at the pearly gates awaiting entry but there was no time to confess his sins.

It was too late. There was never enough time.

You pulled away from him. The setting gold sun blasted through the window and caught the ebony and crimson of your curls. Horny, ready to fuck as he was he couldn’t help but be reminded him of the little sun catchers on his grandmother’s front porch when he looked up at you. Soft fingers wiped over his cheek as you laid down light feathery kisses along the way.

“Hey, I gotta go.” Ray rasped and planted a kiss on your pouty lips.

Ray rolled you over with a tight grin thinning his lips. Naked, Ray stepped out of bed and began to dress quickly. You curled around a pillow, drawing your legs up close and wrapping your arms into it and wished that it was Ray.

“You don’t have to do this.” You whispered.

Ray glanced back at the bed. You were watching him with those big brown eyes. The sun was soaking into your brown skin and at the same time casting a heavenly halo around your coiled form. He paused, a few seconds considered your words. But it was dumb. Why stop now? You couldn’t understand.

“We don’t have enough. So if I don’t do this you can kiss that car good-bye, those clothes in your closet-“

“Alright.” You cut him off and sat up, your naked breast became exposed but Ray did his best to ignore the flashing extra skin.

“It’ll work out.” He grunted as he hiked his jeans up. His tone is reassuring but leaves little room for that guarantee in you. Crime wasn’t reliable. Sometimes you can get away with it. But most times it can come biting you in the ass again.

When Ray does not come home that night you worry. But it was normal. You always worried too much when he was out on a job. It was the way this worked. 9-to-5’s were not his type. So it was natural for things like this to happen, as thin and uncertain as they were, took time to complete.

But two days later the worry turned to horror.

You tried to make sense of what was happening. Your calls went unanswered, as did your pleas to the accomplices that tossed their burner phones when you came calling.

It wasn’t until the next week when the police crashed into your home. Knock-knock, and then a giant clash of plastic and kevlar and too many masked officers to count that came barreling into your apartment.

They took you in the night. Half-dressed, hair still wrapped and going on little to no sleep they held you in a cold bright cell.

You knew that this was part of the game. If he had ever been caught you swore to God you would never tell. And you didn’t. Even when they threatened to throw the book at you.

And you kept your promise afterward too. After his sentencing you drove one hundred miles to the prison he was housed. You walked in, beaming a comforting smile and holding your head high when you saw him. Being his brave girl. It was the first time to see him in three weeks.

But Ray stared at you from across the sticky metal table in the visitor section. His buzzed hair grown out a bit more, darkness under his eyes to match the plumb colored bruise on his cheek. Little emotion was expressed, he blinked, nodded to your words. Until you finally decided that you too would just sit in silence.

“I don’t want you to come back here.”

Your hands shook but your voice was steady as you softly spoke back. “Why? You can’t think I’m just going to leave you in here…”

“Don’t come back. You’re a loose end.” He clipped back.

“What?”

“You fucking heard me.” Ray’s voice was sharp, commanding.

“So we’re off?”

His voice was still ringing in your ears when he spoke again. “It was never on.” He said flatly.

“I lost my job-“

“Get out.” Ray stood up from the table, hands cuffed in front of his hips and stared down at you from his six-foot five-inch frame. “Don’t come back.”

And after that, you didn’t.

Now

St. Tropez. French Riviera in October. Tourists have all but vanished in the coastal town. You followed Ray’s instructions along the way leading to the sophisticated seaside village. Now you sat in a little bistro near the weekly market. You felt off about it. The Place de Lices buzzed with the hum of people and the smell of sweets, and breads offered there. Your eyes moved the crowds, sometimes lingering for too long on very tall men in hats. You hoped it was him.

You had wished for a week that when you stared at the back of a man more than six feet it was Ray.

And like a kick to the gut you realized that maybe you were wrong about Ray.

Again.

Maybe he had left you once again to figure out what came next.

So you ate a small dinner, drank too much wine and left the bistro heavier than you arrived. You swayed when you walked. Your hair hung in your face, strands of curls stuck to your cheeks, a bit of sweat beaded on your top lip as you struggled to see the path in front of you.

You decided to take the long way back to your little hotel. Might as well take in the sights for what they were. You decided with a hiccup. A dizzy train of thought sped through your mind that perhaps this shit with Ray was off.

Because it was never on, remember? You laughed at yourself as you walked. A tarry, rigid giggle bubbling up from the pit of whirling doubt and moderately priced wine. He had told you that once.

So why were you here?

Your head tilted back, panned your eyes up that darkening French sky as your body became wrapped in the pale yellow glow of lamps along the way. You took the lonely feeling growing in your heart. You could smell the water. The breeze on your skin felt like a comforting kiss from a man you couldn’t wrap your mind around.

And the wine, the damn alcohol was sitting on your stomach. The slosh of it was ignored but you loved the numbing effect inside and out.

You remembered the jail. The day Ray all but said he didn’t want you. There wasn’t much left of that memory. Only the smell of wet dog the jail had cultivated and the icy glare of his eyes when he told you to go.

Now, the only memory that came first when you thought of Ray was him laying on top of you. The two of you wrapped together in an embrace decades in the making that the only sound you could make when you thought of it was a sigh.

The stoic gestures of Ray had always been there, even from the beginning. But this Ray, your Ray, was different now. Somehow more quiet, and more adept at holding in plans meant for the far future that you questioned his actions in the present.

Like now. You hiccup again and then paused along a stone fence. Another wave of the alcohol-induced dizzies you stood there with your face to the sky.

It would have been better to be more on guard.

But you weren’t.

And you were snatched.

Ringing in your ears, a bang from your temple pulled you from a dreamless sleep.

The lack of clothing concerns you but not near enough to truly shock you. It had to be Ray. 

You shift around on the soft sheets until you lay flat against the bed. Your head rolled to the left, the right, it looks different than your hotel room. A decent room with sparse decorations, a pile of clothes on one of the chairs in the corner and a lingering smell of men’s cologne.

You think back to the bistro. You were drunk but not wasted.

A shadow. It had been a large shadow from near you along the fence and a prick to your neck had been the last thing you remembered.

The only door creaked, lazily swinging in the southern France breeze drew your eyes back to the right. Along the floor dark leafy shadows swayed over the stone flooring. They seemingly merged into a dark outline against the bright morning sun. It got bigger, swelling in size until the shadow overwhelmed the light.

Around the corner, you could hear heavy footsteps. Ray stepped in with only a pair of cargo shorts and sandals. Water dripped from his nose as his head swept in your direction.

“Good morning,” he said gravelly as he smiled.

“You drugged me.” You croaked and then hold your breath as he began to peel off his soaked shorts.

“Had to—you would fight back.” He chuckled and dropped his box briefs.

Your eyes fell to his cock, limp but quickly gaining girth but you looked back up to him. “Wouldn’t have to fight at all Ray if you would have shown up.”

Ray began to walk toward the bed. Slivers of sun caught the green in his brown eyes as they roamed from the sheet to your bare chest.

“I’m a wanted man.” He pressed his knee into the bed followed by the other. “I had to make sure you weren’t followed.”

You began to gather the sheet up but Ray grabbed it back and pulled hard on it as you scooted back further against the headrest. “You can’t be mad at that.“

Ray tugged again the white sheets slipped from your fingers. And when his lips touched yours any thoughts of the budding animosity was pushed away.

Maybe it wasn’t important. Perhaps now being in his arms was the apology you had been seeking for the last decade that led up to last night.

And when Ray’s tongue licked between your thighs, his thick fingers gripped your silky skin it was a promise. His palms, not as smooth as you remembered, roughly scrapped along your thighs you wondered how long this would last.

Ray lifted his head and stared into your eyes. He rose above you a slight grin plastered on his lips under the slick of you and spit he mumbled: "I’ve missed you.” and then kissed your lips, ducked his tongue inside your mouth.

He was inside you before another kiss. No warning to the power you knew he held there. He pushed harder driving his length deeper. Desperately you clung to him letting him take what was his.

Your Ray missed you.

He was close. His hardening cock, the fevered thrusts. Ray was lost in you.

You missed him too. You watched his hooded eyes stare into your mouth, his eyes fluttered with his final pump filling you with warmth.

You didn’t cum. But you got something else.

You had your Ray.

Ray falls to the sand.

You smiled hard down at him, you don’t suppress the laugh coming up. In a burst of giggles, you sit back down on the lounger holding your chest and stomach.  

He had tried to dig a hole. Not just any hole—THE hole. Little did he know that halfway through its construction he would abandon it only to fall into it hours later.

Ray looked up at you from the cool sand.

“I knew that was there.” He grinned and then got to his bare feet.

Amused, your eyes dance from the hole back to his sweaty face. “You’re an idiot.” You said still clutching your chest from the ache.

“I’m your idiot.” said Ray and sat on the lounger with you and pulled you into his arms.

Your head rested on his broad warm chest. The strong flutter of his heartbeat under your ear and an arm stretched across his waist made for a perfect feeling. 

You missed him too.

“Only because no one else would put up with your shit.” You chuckled back, settling into his heat.

“No.,” he said, his voice hummed in your ear over the sound of his heart.

“No, what?” you asked, tilted your head up toward him and the fading grin on his lips.

“No, I wouldn’t want anyone else,” said Ray wrapping both of his arms around you encasing you in his protective embrace. “There’s only you.”

He peered down at you over his cheek barely moving his head before he looked back at the white-tipped waves.

“Donnie wants to meet up.” He said softly, almost under his breath as an afterthought.

But you caught it, and the meaning, even if he did not express it. Donnie was the architect of the last job.

You sit up on your palm and look down at Ray. Your dark eyes burning holes into his passive expression only makes you slap at his chest.

“Don’t you have enough?” you asked. "God, I can’t believe this shit.” You sat up fully now and pulled out of his arms. “You have millions, millions! So god damn greedy, Ray. Why?”

“It’s full proof.” He said, still laying on the lounger his fingers crisscrossed over his chest. He didn’t move, barely even opened his lips as he spoke. “I’m not greedy. It’s for us. Imagi-“

“No!” you shouted, paced over the sand as it gritted between your toes. “This is –“ You turned back to him, still unmoving, and shook your finger at him. “This is for you. Always. You do this shit. The world doesn’t owe you, Ray. You can’t just steal what you want as if it doesn’t matter. Do you want them to catch up with you? To us? I can imagine that!”

You dragged yourself, dejectedly, away from Ray on the beach. You felt the sadness, the disrespect rising up from the pit of your stomach. And even when you returned to the room it hadn’t lessened. Instead, your eyes swept around to the messy bed, a pile of Ray’s clothes on the floor, and an empty bottle of wine taking in the mess he had left behind.

He was always leaving shit behind.

Even you.

“You’re right.”

You turned around to find Ray standing there. His expression still passive he stared at you, he ducked his hands into his cargo pockets and waited.

It concerned you he was so easily swayed. That was not the Ray you were used to dealing with. Not the man of the past who would have gleefully left you behind to follow his own path.

“I’m right about what?” you asked, crossed your arms over your chest and studied him.

“About that job. About me…I don’t want to be that anymore.” He said simply and took a long step near you. “You’re enough.”

You were impossible to look away from. Dark coils sweeping over your damp forehead, your brown eyes watching lovingly over the scene, a happy smile pulling your full lips over white teeth.

It was a dream. Ray decided this moment right here superseded all other moments. Not even the wedding, the birth of the second or even the third kid could compare to this moment.

You lifted your skirt, squatted down near the creation one of his sons had constructed. He was smart like you, reckless like his father and Ray stared as your hand moved the little door open and closed on the castle of wood and stone he had created.

The Alps stood, gray rock and snow-capped peaks, in majestic contrast against the vivid green pastors, and the wood homes billowing smoke from their well-worn chimneys.

The oldest and tallest of the bunch ran over pushed on the shoulders of the youngest son playfully. Fighting brothers, but best friends, he teased his younger brother before clapping him on the back.

You stood watching them. Hands on your wide hips you gazed at them tease each other, Ray was sure you were remembering their birth and imagining the kind of men they would grow to be. You loved to talk about it. Sometimes, in the dusk of sleep, you muttered to the air of how much they looked like him.

A girl, the youngest, about five years old bounded down the hill from the house and wrapped her arms around your waist.

Chestnut curls caught the wind, blew around her rounded chubby face as she turned to Ray.

She pushed off from you and ran toward Ray and into his arms where he willfully pulled her on to his lap. Her small hand wrapped around his four fingers, squinting she stared up at Ray stroked his smooth face before pinching his chin.

Ray tickled her, under the arms around the ribs sending her screaming in a fight of giggles back to her mother. Ray’s eyes followed and then landed back on you.

The little nick-name he used seemed fitting more than ever. The white alpine rays of the sun steadily cascaded under the horizon turned orange and yellow. Your skin absorbed the light, shined more beautiful than he had ever seen it. His sunshine.

You were enough.