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junkissed · 1 year ago

Text

show me what you do

member — junhui x f reader genre — smut word count — 1.2k synopsis — jun likes it when you cry. why don't you show him what you can do? smut warnings — descriptions of female anatomy, dacryphilia, reader has a wap, there is liquid everywhere this is messy asf (and we like it that way), fingering, sadist!jun, mean dom!jun, sub!reader, bdsm dynamics, orgasm control/denial, edging, overstimulation, some humiliation, names (sweetheart, baby, slut), wow this is a crazy one but i am indeed crazy notes — requested by @onlymingyus for my 🐈 1k event — hi. still insane over psycho jun. hbu. it's 4am but i had to write something so pls excuse any errors. tagging @seokgyuu for fun. enjoy!

“jun, please— need to cum, please let me cum—”

you feel your cunt throb with emptiness as tears well up in your eyes, finally beginning to spill down your cheeks at the discomfort of being edged and then subsequently overstimulated for the better part of an hour.

he says nothing as his thumb continues to roll over your swollen clit at an agonizing pace. his other fingers keep your folds spread apart so he has a perfect view of your spent pussy, clenching around nothing over and over again.

your skin is already glistening with slick from so many orgasms, and he watches with a smirk as more continues to leak out of your hole. your tensing muscles force the wetness to drip down your ass and pool on the sheets beneath you, but he makes no moves to clean it up.

even if he doesn’t say it aloud, you know he loves the sight: your cunt messy and ruined, and his cock isn’t even out of his pants yet. it’s almost impressive how all he needs is his fingers and his mouth to reduce you to a stuttering, shaking puddle of your own cum.

“you can do better than that, sweetheart.”

you whimper and squeeze your eyes shut as you feel your cheeks grow wetter with tears you can’t hold back. “please, junnie,” you sob out. “please let me, need it so bad— please!”

“i’ve let you cum plenty of times already, and you still need more? have i not done a good enough job that my baby is still not satisfied?” he presses his thumb harder against your clit, and you gasp and buck your hips into his hand, simultaneously trying to get closer and farther away from him.

“no, just—please, i’ve been so good, jun, just let me have one more,” you choke, your thighs trembling in exhaustion yet you still plead for more.

“and how many times have i let you cum tonight?” he asks as he increases the speed of his thumb petting your clit. he bends his knuckle and the edge of his nail brushes against your nerves for just a second, and automatically your legs jolt and try to snap shut. but his large hands are there to stop you, easily keeping your spread open despite the soreness already settling into your muscles.

you whine in frustration, but still answer his question. “f-four, but—jun, please, it hurts…”

“oh, it hurts?” he asks with faux sympathy, almost mocking you. you know what he’s going to say but you nod anyway, tears still staining your cheeks as you writhe in his grip. “you’re so close that every second without release is almost too much to bear? so overstimulated that you can’t possibly take another orgasm, yet you can’t live without just one more?”

“yes!”

his features melt into a grin, his eyes darkened with lust as he increases the pace of his thumb one more time. “good. because that was my intention.”

your mouth falls open in a guttural moan before it even registers in your brain that he’s taken his hand off of you. your cunt aches nearly to the point of hysteria, and your hips thrash uncontrollably as an incoherent melody of sounds falls from your lips, begging and whimpering and pleading for jun to let you cum. but he just watches with a smirk as his hands grip your thighs tightly, making it almost impossible for you to move or do anything to chase your fleeing orgasm.

your breath catches in your throat, each inhale like fire in your lungs despite the chills running through your body. every inch of your skin is sticky with sweat, and a fresh wave of tears is already beginning to spill down your face.

with a gentle touch jun brushes his finger against your cheek, wiping away a stray tear that falls from your eye. you blink your eyes open in surprise just in time to watch as he pushes his finger between his lips, his dark eyes locked with yours as his tongue swirls around his own fingertip.

he groans at the taste, inhaling sharply through his nose before exhaling slowly as his eyes close in pleasure. a moment later he pulls his finger from his mouth and he opens his eyes again, his gaze falling on your expression as you stare up at him.

“don’t you know how sweet you taste when you’re in pain?” he asks. he reaches out to swipe his finger against your cheek once more, but this time instead of opening his mouth, he presses his tear-soaked finger against your lips, and you willingly part them to allow him to let you taste.

he studies your every move and hums when your tongue brushes over his finger. “such pretty tears,” he coos as you squirm beneath him, feeling your cunt beginning to throb again under his watchful eye, his words alone setting you back on the path towards your high. “look at what a mess you are. poor, sensitive baby, look at how you cry. doesn’t it feel so good when it hurts so much?”

without warning you feel a surge of energy, every muscle in your body tensing up as pleasure overtakes you. your heartbeat pulses in your chest and in between your legs at the same time, the sound rushing through your ears and overwhelming your senses as you struggle to stay conscious through your most powerful orgasm tonight.

“and look at you now,” jun chuckles, the same sadistic grin still spread across his face even as you whine and gasp for air. “cumming untouched, over nothing but a few tears? stupid little slut can’t even wait long enough to ask permission anymore. all you know how to do is cum.” he sighs, looking down at you almost with pity. “at least you look pretty when you do.”

“jun, p-please,” you sob, heaving breaths pushing your chest up and down rapidly.

“please, what? i’ve already given you the orgasm you asked for, so what more could you possibly want?” he hums at your silence, and the sudden feeling of his fingers on your clit once more makes you jump. “looks like i haven’t done a good enough job then, since you’re clearly still needy. so i guess i’ll have to just keep making you cum, until you can’t anymore, and maybe then you’ll finally be satisfied.”

he plunges three fingers into you without warning and your walls clench down around them, sucking him in as your cunt greedily accepts him inside you. you’re already feeling yourself beginning to fall into another orgasm, but you fight it off as hard as you can, barely recovered from the previous orgasm mere seconds ago.

“jun—” you rasp, your vision going blank at the force of the pleasure coursing through you. “fuck, j-jun, please, i can’t—”

“oh, you can,” he says harshly, curling his fingers rougher, harder, faster into your cunt. “and you will. until i say you can’t, you will. and i don’t think i’ve seen enough tears yet.” he leans down over your trembling body, pressing his lips against your ear so you can feel his hot breath burning into your skin, as he says the words that fill you with both dread and desire. “so go on, show me what you can do. cum for me, baby.”

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 month ago

Note

Jamil first meeting with Fellow and Gidel. (With Jamil being nice to them in their first interaction but as the three of them become alone, Jamil gave them a threatening warning)

JAMIL STANS BE HONEST WITH ME IS THIS WHAT YOU LIKE/j (because I get it, I totally get it--)

So tell me, do you wanna go?

“Cheers…!!”

Jewel-encrusted containers clinked. The liquids inside of them sloshed, some spilling onto the lush carpets the host and guests sat cross-legged upon. Ordinarily, Fellow would rush to salvage the fallen beverages—but not here. Not in Scarabia, the land of abundance.

He knocked back his drink, downing the (very expensive) wine the dorm leader had poured him. Oh, Kalim. Sweet, gullible Kalim. Of course he had invited Fellow and Gidel over the instant he spotted them, even offering to throw an entire banquet in his honor—and the duo were eating up every morsel of it.

“Pwah!! That really hits the spot!”

So this—Fellow thought, lapping up the droplets that ringed the rim of his cup—was what it was like to live like a king.

“Doesn’t it?” Kalim beamed. “Have some more.”

The sharp-eyed boy beside him moved like a trained shadow. He tipped a wine bottle, a stream of rich burgundy liquid pouring out and into Fellow’s waiting glass.

Gidel held up his own cup, as if asking for more too. The shadow obliged, this time with a deep red pomegranate juice. A single pathetic drop trickled out.

"My apologies. It seems we've finished this bottle."

“Oh, we’re already out? Here, I’ll get us a fresh one!” Kalim volunteered, springing to his feet.

“I’ll get it,” the sharp-eyed boy said.

“It’ll be fine, Jamil! This is a party, so just hang tight and chat with our new friends,” Kalim insisted. “I’ll be right back!”

The other boy frowned. “I don’t think that’s…”

But Kalim had already scampered off.

“… Figures. He never listens to me,” Jamil grumbled.

Fellow eyed him. He wore his long, dark tresses in a complicated ponytail, half of it pulled tight and woven into braids along his scalp. Various bangles and shining accessories hung from his hair.

Fellow had surmised that he was an attendant of some sort. Always by Kalim’s side, always tending to his needs. He had been polite enough to them, greeting and serving them throughout the event—but, critically, Fellow sensed a coldness in him, and a gaze that lingered when his own was averted.

He was being watched too.

“Ah, liven up! No sense in gettin’ wound up over it,” Fellow laughed, slapping his back.

“… And are you enjoying your stay at Scarabia, Mr. Honest?” Jamil asked carefully, each syllable evenly placed.

“Very! But if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself, lad.” Fellow inclined his cup toward Jamil in a slightly taunting manner. “Haven’t seen ya smile once since we sat down.”

“Yes, well… It’s difficult to be smiling when you’re told to roll out the welcome wagon for strangers who attempted to kidnap and sell off your ward.”

“Ah—so you know about that whole… debacle!” Fellow gave a light-hearted laugh.

Jamil shot him a withering look. "Debacle is putting it very lightly! Do you have any idea what kind of mass hysteria and panic you could have incited with your stunt?! This isn't something to casually hand-wave away."

"Eeeeh, you win some, you lose some." Fellow shrugged and went for another sip of his drink. He was stopped by a hand latching onto his wrist--the grip surprisingly strong. Fellow stopped, forced to meet Jamil's dark gaze. "Can I help you?"

"Listen closely." His voice was the low, hypnotic hiss of a cobra. "You try pulling anything like that again, and you will have to answer to me."

"I'm shaking in my boots." Fellow spat sarcastically, tearing his hand away. "Cool your jets. I'm not in that business anymore, so you don't hafta worry so much."

Gidel nodded, scrawling an X over his chest. Cross my heart.

"Hmmm."

It was a non-committal sound.

"Gettin' all up in arms like this... You must really care about that kid, huh? Lemme guess--" Fellow snapped his fingers. "Childhood friends? How touching. It almost makes me wanna shed a tear!"

"Care? About Kalim?" A smirk played on Jamil's lips. "Ridiculous. It's my own skin I'm trying to save. If anything happens to him, it won't be without consequence to myself."

"You don't say. Sheesh, you're a shrewd one."

A scoff. "Like you are any different than me? We are cut from the same cloth, Mr. Honest--which is why I've got my attention on you. People like us... we can't be entirely trusted, you see."

Like calls to like. Evil to evil, ashes to ashes.

"Hah. I can respect that." Fellow raised his glass to Jamil. Gidel, too, lifted his empty cup. "I almost feel sorry for him, keeping a snake like you around. Poor kid doesn't realize you might just sink your teeth into him one day."

"... You are mistaken about that. I am but a humble servant. I would never even think to turn my own fangs against my master."

Fellow cocked a brow. "Wouldn't you? Cuz I've done it before. The whole betrayal, double-crossing thing, I mean. I wouldn't be surprised if you decide to do the same."

"You're a born comedian, sir." Jamil's eyes sparkled darkly. "I'm sure the stage would love having you on it."

#twst #twisted wonderland #Jamil Viper #Scarabia #Kalim Al-Asim #Fellow Honest #Gidel #Gino #Ernesto Foulworth #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #a fellow in need is a friend indeed #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios

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widowsofchaos · 4 months ago

Text

𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬

synopsis: your menstrual cycle always pushes you to pure hysterics, thankfully your entrusted doctor is always there for you.

pairing: dark!loki laufeyson x brown!reader

ao3 // victorian au

warnings: dubious consent (slight sexual grooming), vaginal fingering, oral, nefarious medical practice, motional grooming.

a/n: for @cake-writes . I love you so much. :) did you know that in the Victorian period, physicians would perform pelvic massages that involved clitoral stimulation with early electrical vibrators to cure hysteria? traditional pelvic massages had been conducted for thousand of years, until western technology caught up. Dr. Silver Tongue prefers the old fashioned methods, hehe. hope ya’ll enjoy, this has been a draft for over 2+ years!

Spilling ichor is a woman’s curse.

Even worse, the womb begins its horrors at the precipice of girlhood. The excruciating pain that follows in its wake, so intense it feels as if fingernails are clawing at uterine walls.

Screams and wails for God’s sweet mercy, for the pain to cease. Bodies shivering in sweats, left so fatigued that one will rot away in bed. Praying under your breath, begging to just die.

Fits of rage and delusions—- once, at the high of your agony, you thought demons were crawling through your pink wallpaper, ready to devour you. Riddled with anxiety—- paranoid of everything.

Girls call it hell. Doctors coined it hysteria.

It’s nearing noon. He’s late.

Rattles of wheezes knock against your cavity, eyes sheening wet, as your bodice sinks and molds against the mattress. Lazily picking at your reddish cuticles, and the scent of copper lingering in the air.

The compulsive urge to throttle your bodice up and down in possessed fashion against the bedding, to gnash at the air with your canines, and howl —- perhaps, your calls would beckon him.

Groans slip from your mouth, as your abdomen is throbbing and swollen. Counting sheep mindlessly, trying to inhale deeply the packaged herbs that were prescribed to you —- but nothing is working.

The moans become more undignified. Your face is scrunching up, with tears kissing your lashes.

Faint footsteps creaking against the wood flooring, and voice muffled—- a tired gasp of relief and want escapes you. Strained whines stretch and bubble at the pit of your throat, eyes hawking your door.

The knob turns and creaks open—- what a glorious sight, to be greeted by emerald hues, and that pretty smirk. Those lovely cheekbones, and smooth ivory skin.

The dull glow of the sun illuminates through the heavy stitched curtain, and through the bedroom, with pretty pink wallpaper—- but the light shines his eyes ever so gracefully. Angelic.

A courteous bow of his head, that black hat over-casting his brow; lean and stands tall in such poise. Followed by your father, imposing and watchful.

Both can see you are too weakened to speak pleasantries, but can only greet them with a small smile and lazy eyes. Your father nods and leaves you both alone, but you could have sworn for just a glance, your father’s eyes are sharp from the sliver of the door.

A click of the door, and the air shifts.

He’s smiling with a hum. Ever so the gentleman, he lifts his hat off. He puts his leather gladstone bag gently by the edge of the bed, sits his hat on the nightstand, and begins to unbutton his long coat.

Loki holds his coat by the collar, neatly folding and placing it over your velvet chair.

It’s a quiet routine.

To be honest, this is the highlight of your day. Life of a curious socialite, stuck in your overbearing parents’ manor, primed to be a proper young lady, and young eyes to see only through a theological veil.

Dr. Laufeyson is a kind, and gracious man.

He came into your life last year. The menstrual cycles have gotten worse, and it has begun to worry your parents. He was recommended by your neighbors, the Maximoffs.

He is quite different from any man you have met.

“Hello, my dearest.” His voice is liquid smooth. His hand captures yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. Mustering all the strength to speak, “Hello, doctor.” A bashful smile soon drops to a quivering frown.

A sharp pain that slices at your gut prevails.

Loki tauts sympathetically.

His slender fingers graze gently against your thighs, feathery touch. By the glide of his palms, he lifts your sheath. Cupping the meat of your thighs, the pads of his thumbs denting, already memorizing the sore points.

It’s an unspoken ritual.

How salacious to undress an untouched lady of society —- he barely takes his eyes off of yours. Heat radiates off of you in waves.

Shivers of shyness and an foreign need for want sweeps over the hills of your legs. It is wrong for a man to touch an unwed girl.

But he is a doctor, your doctor. He has to inspect your body. He has always assured you that his touch has always been for the good of your health.

Unusual methods Loki practices. Not like any doctor you had as a growing girl. Over the time, you have known Loki, he has bathed you, fed you, and massaged you all through the cycles. So intimate, yet not befitting of your unmarried status.

Any remnants of shame melts away as his bare palms begin to massage your thighs, maneuvering your legs to part. With an expert flick of the hem of your undergarments, dragging the now stained white fabric down, and off from your body.

A strong scent of blood fans the air, making you wince at the smell—- but Loki doesn’t deter. No sign of revulsion, you watch through your lashes—- he moves with a calm focus.

Loki’s presence has been comforting.

The way he speaks with such eloquence. Speaking to you as he would to an equal, rather at you. It’s natural to him to see you as you are, instead of a porcelain doll to be seen, not heard.

Conversations of shared love of literature, and the arts. His charming words bloom warmth inside you. He has a taste for histories, and has taught you the lessons he has learned back as a young man in university.

It is not for a girl to learn academic skills, for it is more important for boys to gain knowledge. But Loki told you many things—- and in return, you confined to him.

There were many occasions where Loki has found you forlorn. The root of your problem is your father, being overbearing, and callous. Either you weren’t being dutiful enough in your responsibilities, and pressuring the idea of marriage.

Loki would comfort you, tell you that a man should not speak so cruelly to his daughter. Private conversations that bordered on flirtatious tones—- how pretty you are, and that such a cherub face shouldn’t be dew with tears.

He is your only companion. You don’t encourage yourself to socialize in the circles your family frequent in, often seeking your solitude—- many high societal folks are too boring, and vain.

But Loki is colorful and adventurous. He speaks of wonder. He is not like any other man you had the displeasure of meeting —- boring sons of the men who work with your father. Stuffy and shallow men who only want a brood mare and a slave for a wife.

Loki excuses himself, as he walks to the wash stand perched near your vanity. Putting the stained underwear in the nearby basket. Rolling up his white sleeves up to his elbow joints, readying to fetch the wash basin and pitcher.

Loki’s fingers pat the smooth glide of the pitcher, humming contently—- the water is still warm. Quickly, and securely, he grabs the handle, begins to pour the lukewarm water into the basin.

The anticipation is intense. Breathing heavily now, a filthy part of you yearn for this touch. To feel his bare smooth fingers fondle with your mound, the sensation of his hands bathing your wet pubic hair, and his fingers slipping between your folds—-

The haze is ripped from you as he feels his knuckles caress your cheek. Shyly, you sink more into your chest, your lips purse into a coy smile. Loki towers over you as a gentle giant, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

In one hand, he puts the basin down on the nightstand, and on the other hand with a towel. Loki leans down, unraveling the towel, and maneuvering it underneath your bum.

The dull ache of him lifting you makes you whine. Loki shushes you, his thumbs stroking the path between your inner thighs and lower belly.

He turns to retrieve a clean rag and the soap.

Loki seats, dipping his palm in the water, twirling the red soap. Soap suds form and the scent of the carbolic solvent is heavenly.

His hand nears and the droplets rain on your abdomen, earning a sigh of relief from you. Rubbing the bar of soap in circular motions on your pubic bone, diving between your vaginal lips, soaping up your bush—- it was simply amazing.

Your head leans back into your pillow, practically moaning at the feeling—- at the feeling of his hand, and the sensation of being cleaned.

The dried crust of blood now being scrubbed away by the accompanying wet rag—- you didn’t even realize Loki moved to soak it, too immersed in the cleansing.

Completely lathery now, the towel underneath you sodden, and the water in the basin crimson. Loki puts the soap in the basin, it sinks.

The rag feels nice, soaked in warm water, washing away the excess of soap. Loki wrings the wet rag, the water dripping into the basin.

Washing away the soap from your mound, Loki’s thumb simultaneously stroking between your folds, ensuring there are no remnants of soap.

Cheekily, his fingertips slither more into your sopping hole. Tender and swollen, Loki’s two fingers flex slowly into your quim. Halting at the sound of a whine, but resumes when you mewl under your breath.

Loki muses to himself, delights that your whimpers are akin to a kitten. His fingers curl and bend as he sinks deeper inside you. Leisurely, his fingers twist— staining his fingers red.

“I do believe you are due for your massage.” Loki spoke with a silky husk. He spread his fingers, roving over your thighs, heavily petting you. A gasp leaves your mouth, as Loki’s fingers fuck you a little faster.

“Such tension.” Loki says with an empathetic smirk. You huff of breath, a strained moan. Smug satisfaction floods Loki, his smirk morphs to a pearly grin.

He playfully clicks his tongue, “She weeps on my fingers.” Loki can feel your essence dripping, coating his knuckles now. You’re panting into your pillow, as a thirsty stray, eyes pinched shut.

Your muscles are tightening around his fingers, sucking him inside, needing more. Curling at the soft spongy spot that sparks fluttery delight, jolting your head up, eyes moon-wide.

Chin to chest now, mouth gaped in a lazy O, unabashed wanton moans. Toes curling against the bed sheet, as fresh blood coats your thighs, and Loki’s thrusting hand.

Your hair clings to the beading sweat of your forehead, gripping the wrinkled sheets. Unabashedly, your hips thrust and follow Loki’s electric thrusting.

His fingers flee from your thigh to your bush, playfully his thumb and index split it open, as he slows down his fingers. His eyes never leave yours, as the pad of his thumb begins to play with your clit.

You nearly choke on your breath, you inhale so deeply, it feels like your belly caves against your ribs. Leisurely and purposefully, Loki does it slow, leaving you in desperation.

Whimpering for him to move in haste. Edging you just near the cliff, but not yet there. The sharp strain of your menstrual blurs with pleasure— so unladylike of you, to be as a starving animal, but it relieves you greatly.

You crave it, his touch, his scent—- you adore him. How lovingly his eyes bore into yours, as you lose yourself. The flesh of your thighs shiver, the knot in your belly tightening, making you whine.

“Yes, my sweetling.” Loki whispers, as your body twists, and your toes curl, “Release your pain.”

A flood of pleasure washes over your body. Your head tilts back as your mouth hangs open. Throat clenching but no sounds, just an airy gasp. Eyes pinching shut, and nose scrunching.

The euphoria of your orgasm is sensational—- you’re delirious with it. Chest heaving and hands clasping at the air, giggling with relief. Loki softly seethes his fingers from your moist cavern.

Wiping his finger clean with a towel, as your erratic breathing simmers down. He finds it amusing to see you flustered, he can see your bashfulness seep through—- down-casting your gaze, staring at your legs.

In a second, your eyes flutter upwards, to catch his penetrative stare. Loki’s hand dents into the bedding, right next to your forearm, more so trapping you.

His nose just hairs away from yours, his warm breath fanning your face. It only fuels you more.

“Faring well, darling?”

All you can do is nod, with a titter.

Placid ease settles over you. Comfortable and clean. Not yet in your undergarments, Loki says that it’s best to air you out, with your nightgown wrinkled at your midriff.

Loki rummages through his bag, searching through his medical equipment, to grasp the dark green bottle.

Loki grabs the bottle by its neck from his bag. Revealing brown printed lettering on crismon wrapping, Loki unplugs the cork. It catches your eye, it makes your nose scrunch.

Laudanum.

A very strong poison that your palate has not yet been fully accustomed to. Over the months, Loki has insisted that you drink this in small doses.

Very small doses.

Loki spills just a little more than a drop into the spoon. The reddish-brown liquid wafting by your nose, you groan childishly, but you make no fuss. Sweetly, he puts the spoon into the cave of your mouth, your lips wrinkling into a pout.

It’s so grotesquely bitter.

“I know,” he chuckles, “but now you can rest.” His words make the drink’s icky taste more appealing, for he does it to ensure you are content, and comfortable.

The laudanum has settled in your belly, and lulled you to a slumber. A cocktail of poppy, morphine and codeine. Administered for the most severe of pains.

Loki seats in silence, watching your chest fall to a steady rhythm of breath. He smiles. Loki muses to himself, you look like a sleeping beauty.

A smile forms at his mouth, relishing in the granted opportunity. His slender hands flex expertly, hovering over your belly, to your cotton-clad chest.

Loki twirls and unties the strings of your nightgown between his fingers. Revealing your bare chest, plump brown breasts display. He whispers marvelous under his breath. Tilting his head downwards, his teeth scrape your skin.

Every chance there is of you falling to a pacified sleep to the poison, Loki snatches the chance to taste you. His lips leave open-mouthed kisses, littering your breasts. Inhaling your essence as he ravages you. His warm wet tongue licks and twirls against your pebbling nipple.

His nose traces your skin down to your navel, to your abdomen, and finally to your lower pelvis. The scent of faint copper hits his nose, accompanied by the fresh scene of carbolic.

He doesn’t mind. Rather, Loki enjoys your blood connecting with his palate. Leaning more to your core, Loki’s pink tongue slithers out between his lips, and flicks at your clit.

His sculpted nose connects with your mound, his lips now suckle on the hood of your clit. Grazing his teeth ever so cheekily, earning a small wheezing pants.

You stir in your sleep, your body reacting to the pleasure he’s pulling from you —- as if he tugs on the silk rope, snagging the knot in your belly.

A savage urge overtakes him. Loki bites the supple brown flesh of your thigh—- nibbles melt to a few pecks, then back to devouring you.

Loki has plans. Too sweet and pure to let go of—- oh no, he yearns for you. The chase for you has heightened. Monthly visits can no longer sustain him.

Loki intends to ask your father for your hand in marriage. His income is more than satisfactory, able to provide you a life of comfortability, and passion. As a wolf who must tear apart his prey from the inside out, to ruin you— possessive over his prey.

None of his female patients have bewitched him. All were so eager for him to defile them, so haughty and pompous. Neither of them saw beyond his beauty.

But you, ever so sweet, only sought out a friend, and how easily you entrusted him. And Loki must enact his plan now. Last month, as he walked up the stairs to your room, he overheard your father discussing with your mother, over the prospect of marriage for you.

Loki has already purchased a ring, waiting in a velvet box.

He has already begun stripping the petals of your modesty. Small stepping stones to soon deflowering you completely. His cock swells at the mere thought.

Your velvety lips tug by the scrape of his canines. He moans a gust of hot breath, this sinful act causing your body to quiver unconsciously.

Loki’s pink tongue slurps your folds into his mouth, back to sucking on your clit. His lips are wet with your slick, and, menstrual, the corners of his mouth with splotches of red.

An impulsive urge vibrates from his knuckles to his fingertips.

Loki’s fingers itch with compulsion. Instead of sweetly plunging inside you—- oh, he thinks, an act done with gentility. But, I cannot awaken her from slumber. We have not yet reached this stage of our courting.

Traditionally, a doctor must massage his patient’s genitalia, not have his fingers explored, as he has done so freely. But, ever so naive and sweet, you do not know any better—- to you, Loki is simply doing his job.

A chaste darling, to approach you with the advance of tasting you, would have had you flying to your father. No—- he must break you down, piece by piece.

He stifles the thought, keeps his fingers at bay. Loki’s mouth keeps eating at your weeping welt, his warm tongue flickering against your sensitive clit. Unconsciously, your hips shutter gently against his mouth, spasming in your slumber.

Loki can taste your essence, moaning at your taste hitting his tongue. His eyes rolling in the back of his eyelids.

He turns his face a bit, still attached to your core, pecking small kisses on your inner thigh.

Loki dips his palm in the now chill bowl of water, snagging the sodden rag. Squeezing in his tight grip, water dripping, and splashing, a bit of soap is left.

Wiping away your essence, and ichor. Soothingly caressing your inner thighs with the rag, until all is gone. Loki puts the rag back, standing to his feet, as he goes to wash his mouth.

A simple routine where he finds peace. It’s a quiet shared between you two.

Patting dry his hands with a cotton white towel he found from one of the vanity’s drawers. Quietly and leisurely, Loki walks with a stride towards your bed. Standing over you, admiring his work.

A familiar routine: placing a rag inside your underwear, snuggling and cladding your mound, tying the strings to your nightgown, and pulling the rest of the fabric down your body.

Loki’s checks your pulse—- a perfect rhythm. Redressing himself, a swell of pride casts him. The sensation of your velvety core still dancing on his tongue. With a click of his bag, and flick of his coat buttons—- Loki begins his departure.

Softly closing your bedroom door, Loki walks down the stairs. His ears catch a few hushed words, one of them is marriage. No doubt, they were conversing about you.

As Loki reaches the bottom of the stairs, from his side-eye, he can see your father and mother waiting in the family’s living space.

“Ah, Dr. Laufeyson.” Your father stands from his chair with a weak grunt. A peculiar strain upon his face, he can’t meet Loki’s eyes.

“My apologies, but we cannot afford your services,” your father stammers at the sight of Loki’s pinched brow. “We had no other choice, as you know our daughter can be ill—” his panicked tone is interrupted.

Loki tilts his head, those green eyes ever so observant, a slick smirk curls. Savoring the sight of this man squirming.

“And how would you propose we solve this dilemma?”

“We can pay you in food, I can provide from my garden.” Your mother’s fragile voice pleads, standing to cling to her husband’s arm. Her fingers wrinkled his sleeve. Her eyes were blood-shot red. “You are a kind man, please understand.”

A memory of your bliss-stricken face flashes before his mind, and it provokes a breathy hum. An opportunity delivered to his feet by fate itself.

“Perhaps, I have a solution to satisfy both our needs.”

#widowsofchaos wrote this #dark loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki x female reader #dark loki #mcu fanfic #loki fanfiction #dark smut #poc reader

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qierxing · 3 months ago

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Tipsy Spells

A/N: Drabbles based on drinking prompts for a warm up. Yan! LaDs x Reader TW/CW: Implied confinement/captivity, obsessive behavior, drinking problems(so many drinking problems), unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional manipulation, dub//con, unhealthy relationships, co-dependent behavior, unbalanced power dynamics

—

Xavier/Shen Xinghui

Xavier doesn’t have many rules in his apartment.

He lets you eat whatever. Books, TV, games, and even more are open for your entertainment. There’s no limit to what you do, so long as you’re not endangering yourself. It’s almost…normal. As normal as you can get when you’re under a sociopathic captor.

So when you open up the shopping bags Xavier went out to get, you’re rather disappointed.

“Really? Beer?” Holding up the bottle from the bag, you glare at Xavier balefully. “When you said you were going to get something ‘special’, I hoped you would, you know, get something stronger?”

Xavier gives you his signature innocent look while putting away some ingredients from the other bag. “I thought you liked beer though.”

You did. But living with Xavier has been terribly dull and grating. If it meant some reprieve, you’d rather not be sober.

“Can’t you get some huangjiu at least?” you plead.

Xavier looks at the digital clock above the stove. Nearly one in the morning. “I think the supermarket nearby is closed now.”

You groan. Giving up, you open a drawer and retrieve a bottle opener and crack the beer open. At this point, you’ll take what you can. Anything to not feel like clawing your eyes out from hysteria or boredom, whichever the two strikes your mood first.

Xavier follows you out the kitchen into his living room as you slump into the cushions of the couch, chugging the bottle. You protest as he takes the bottle from your hands.

“Hey!!”

“Don’t drink too fast. You’ll end up feeling sick,” he softly says. You roll your eyes and huff. After a moment, he gives you back the bottle.

“It’s not like there’s much anyway,” you mutter reproachfully.

And it’s true. The second time you lift the bottle up to your lips, there only remains several spoons of liquid that goes down your throat. By the time it trickles to several drops, you start to feel the whoozy effect of the alcohol in your system. Not strong enough to really do anything, but just enough to make your tight shoulders relax.

You barely register Xavier taking the bottle again and setting it on the coffee table. When he winds a warm arm around you, you don’t protest. You’re too tired to fight. And it would only result in being banned from going outside again.

“Want to watch a movie?”

“Sure.”

Maybe you could get yourself to fall asleep midway.

Zayne/Li Shen

When he came home late that night, he expected you to be sleeping. This, however, was not entirely surprising.

You’ve been behaving so well, he’s forgotten about how you were prone to being susceptible to easy and unhealthy escapes.

You’re on the floor leaning against the slanting open doors, nursing a bottle of vintage port wine. Several other empty bottles litter the floor; sauvignon blancs, rosés, and various other kinds of wine he never bothered to open. He’s never been one to drink, but gifts were gifts, and it felt like a waste to throw them away.

He wants to scold you for breaking into the wine cabinet again, but he supposes it won’t register in your foggy mind right now.

“My love,” he says softly, kneeling down and wrapping a solid arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get you some water.”

Your glazed eyes slide over and it takes a minute for them to process Zayne in his doctor’s coat.

“Shaddup…” your face pinches into a sour expression, and his heart freezes at the sight. Your head lolls to the side unsteadily over his supporting arm and you click your tongue.

“You–you’re sucha, ahh, ah party pooper, ya–y’know?” Your words slur together in a loopy insult. He hasn’t seen you this drunk in a while.

“Let’s get you some water,” Zayne repeats, more firmly this time. He works to release your death grip on the glass bottle, but you fight him every step of the way.

“S-stop, stop that, Li Shen,” you garble in distress. He pauses in surprise at the once affectionate name in your voice. “I don’t wanna feel…if I can’t drink, then I-I, it, ah, it starts to hurt so much...” you giggle, as your cloudy eyes look up at him brimming with wetness. “It hurts so much…I just, just–don’t wanna hurt anymore.”

He swipes a gentle finger under your eyes, catching the tears and flicking them away. Zayne knew everyone had their lapses, but this time in particular made his heart ache.

Of course, you didn’t take to being resigned from your job and brought under his care. Even if he devoted every bit of his body and love, it seemed it wouldn’t be enough to bring back the love you used to hold in your heart.

Zayne decides to leave the bottle and bring your slumped body up into a chair instead. By the time he brings you a glass of water, you’ve already finished the bottle and planted face down onto the kitchen table.

Puffing out a worried sigh, Zayne rakes his fingers through the messy tangle of his dark hair before setting down the glass and reaching for some painkillers.

Come tomorrow morning, you’ll awake with a pounding headache and queasy nausea, and he’ll be by your side, even if you’re reluctant to rely on him. But no matter how much you cry and struggle, Zayne couldn’t give you up anymore. Not when he couldn’t go on without you.

“I’m sorry, my love,” as he presses a kiss to your limp hand. “I can’t let you go.”

Rafayel/Qi Yu

Rafayel is an interesting kind of drunk.

You suppose it’s a combination of the Lemurian blood and his passionate, artistic soul. For anyone else, it would either induce sleepiness or giddiness. For Rafayel? The end result is a highly unstable, ludicrously stupid merman who thinks that nothing else matters but you.

Granted, he already had this mentality while sober, but while imbibed with alcohol, the effect was more pronounced and obvious.

“I looove youuuu, like,” Rafayel hiccups, pausing his proclamation. “-like, thiiiiiiis much~” He opens his arms wide in a flourish as if he was in front of an applauding audience.

You only hum in acknowledgement as you swipe his glass of baijiu out of his hand. Rafayel whines, but ultimately gives up retrieving his glass back when you finish the rest of the liquor inside. Setting down the crystal glass as gently as you can, you sway unsteadily as you land back on the couch cushions.

“I love you when you’re drunk,” you admit shamelessly. “At least you’re less annoying that way.”

If Rafayel had been sober, that statement might have ended another few nights being forbidden from stepping outside the studio, more bite marks littering your skin, or forced to beg for your clothes back. But he isn’t sober. Instead, he giggles loudly, as if you just told him the funniest joke in the world.

“You’re sooooo mean,” he gasps. He giggles again. “But it’s okay! You’re still cute as ever~”

You briefly wonder if you could get away with strangling him to death. The thought is dismissed when he starts to cling to you. You forgot that unfortunately, while his senses may be clouded, his innate strength was most certainly not.

Despite your best(while drunk) efforts, Rafayel’s arms remain tight around your waist, his face buried into your stomach. You click your tongue in annoyance.

“Qi Yu.”

No response.

“Qi Yu, get off me.”

For a moment, it was quiet. Then a loud snore echoes and air is blown directly onto your stomach.

Maybe you can try seeing if you could get him by suffocation.

Sylus/Qin Che

Formal dinners don’t make you nervous.

What did make you nervous is the very man who invited you to his grand dining room.

The head honcho of Onychinus. And N109’s ticking time bomb.

You don’t like the man. Call it paranoia, intimidation, or anxiety, you simply do not like him. He’s a towering sort of brute with appropriately broad shoulders and height that makes heads either turn or bow instinctively. His eyes, you shudder, makes you think of hellfire, brimstone, and all sorts of terrifying things. People have whispered of those who have been buried under his hand.

You don’t want to be next.

But, business is business, and information is information.

“Does the bourbon suit your taste?” Sylus asks with an amused arch of his eyebrow.

You smile uneasily as you take a sip, bittersweet tones of chocolate burning your throat and all the way down to your stomach. “Surely you’re not bribing me with liquor to figure out what I know?”

“I take offense at that, sweetie.” You stiffen at the affectionate pet name. The fondness dripping from his tone leaks disgustingly over your skin. “I’m sure you know I have my own ways of getting what I want.”

You hide an annoyed grimace with the glass as you take another sip. “Then, how may I help you, sir? I only broker info and nothing else.”

“By being mine.”

The response is so ridiculous that you can only stare. It takes too long for you to come back to your senses. Your smile strains your taut cheeks.

“Very funny joke, sir.”

“Oh, but it’s not.”

Your smile fades as you feel two presences behind you. You grip the glass tightly. Before you can even move, Sylus clicks his tongue in a patronizing way.

“Don’t even try it, sweet thing.” He smirks. “I don’t want to use force if you don’t cooperate.”

You loosen your grip.

“Why are you doing this?” you whisper. You’re only one among thousands of other info brokers in N109 zone. And even more so, you’ve been on the outer edges like an outcast compared to other highly sought people.

Instead of answering, he simply holds out the bourbon bottle with a genuine smile that sends shivers down your neck.

“I simply have a taste for fine things, and you, my dear, are one of them.”

#yandere love and deepspace #yandere lads #lads #my works

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strangelittlestories · 5 months ago

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It was 4am and Treasure was forcing down a third can of energy drink when thing got *weird*.

The library was hazy with that kind of quiet hysteria that blooms late at night, when impending deadlines crush the soul down into fertile soil for strangeness.

The fluorescent strip lighting and insufficiency of windows didn't help any.

Treasure was tired in a way that banished coherent thought and made sleep an impossibility. Her eyes kept trying to close, but when they did, she just saw spots of dark light floating on the inside of her eyelids.

She stared at those spots, daring them to make sense.

Imagine her surprise, then, when those spots - those holes in the reality of her - began to stare back.

Treasure opened her eyes. She looked down at the energy drink and considered setting it aside (she did not). She looked up again and found she had opened a new document on her laptop.

"MAKE AN OFFERING" It read in bold Grotesque font, each letter an oddly elegant blunt instrument.

Treasure looks from the energy drink to the laptop. Her hand moved on its own, pouring a splash of blue neon liquid onto the keyboard. She resisted the urge to wipe it off. She failed to resist the urge to swear.

The liquid fizzed and hissed on the keyboards and there was a scent of sickly fruit tinged with ozone in the air. The keys, already gummed up by solidifying chemical sweetness, began spitting out characters onto the document.

At first, they were nonsensical - no words, just a jumble of letters, punctuation and blank space. But as Treasure's eyes began to unfocus, the whole mess began to coalesce like one of those magic eye images (but made out of ASCII art).

The figure on the screen was a mess. Eyes like black holes. Lines running down them like cracks or oily ramen stains. Hair like thunder.

"What are you?" Treasure whispered.

Amongst the slurry on the screen, a few letters became bold and spelled out a sentence.

"I AM OVERDUE. GODDESS OF BURNOUT."

"Do you..." Treasure's voice was quiet, reverent, hesitant; a hymn in the key of awkward. "...do you want me to worship you?"

The letters swam. Rearranged.

"YOU ALREADY DO."

"What do you want from me?"

"GET SOME SLEEP."

"I ... I can't. I have a paper on Applied Theurgy due tomorrow."

"NOT A REQUEST."

Treasure's eyes closed. Sleep came.

When she awoke, days later. She found out that she had submitted a paper to the Arch-Professor. It was junk. The same mess of forehead-smashed input through which the goddess had appeared to her.

She had received a B minus.

The title of her paper was "It Is Better to Fade Away: An Accidental Communion."

It had been submitted with the note: "Please Give My New Disciple A Good Grade."

Treasure went in search of coffee.

#writing #microfiction #flash fiction #short story #writeblr #wtwcommunity

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insanitygirls · 8 months ago

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(The) Differences of the Liquid Sun

CH. I - Never Share

How could we they ever think we'd they'd be so successful in our endeavors?

- Febrile we they are, as mortals; fallible & error-prone. Almost never accomplishing of what we they say. Terrible beings,

terrible, we they are.

Nonetheless, I could not ever be grouped in along with such ones that aren't worth even speaking of us; such imperfection.

We'll never share.

For they are deathbound,

I am divine, while they are damned.

- That's what the haughty believe and ponder on about. What they do not think about is how death is a release; Perhaps the most feared release in the history of man's existence.

- "We die but we are forever powerful, how?"

"Dust we come from and to dust we will return. Ashes, debris, and dust remain forever and consume all things!"

We are dust, dust is us-- eventual eternal conquerors are we.

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delxsive · 1 year ago

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@graveyard-ripper

there is rarely a time where ivory grimes allows herself to appear vulnerable, though this would be one of them. the end of a tourniquet is clenched between white canines, the other looped and tucked to squeeze against her bicep. it would be so easy to utilize the wrong amount, to overdose and die a pathetic, careless death that would make tabloids as the mishap that finally killed chloe grimes. the killer breathes deeply, ensuring the comfort that comes along with a familiar environment ; even someone that appears as stone solid as ivory grimes needs an escape. when nightmares and hysteria threaten to overtake that overactive mind, the doctor always finds her way back here.

when the front door opens so casually, there is only one person it could be, and the scholar rolls her eyes as a scowl settles over perfect features. she continues her pursuit, liquid drawn into an empty syringe as floorboards creek. when misty rucker rounds the doorway to the bathroom, the scholar is seated upon the countertop with her back to the mirror, thumb and forefinger giving a FLICK to the syringe that glistens, dripping with excess opioids. ❝ haven't you been taught to knock ? ❞ she murmurs, now busying herself with cleansing her antecubital as her fist clenches and releases.

#graveyard-ripper #v; twenty dollar nose bleed

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greedyhoneyz · 9 months ago

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Days After Last

.ೃ࿔*:･pairing: anakin skywalker x reader .ೃ࿔*:･synopsis: "there is no death, there is the force." life returns to the soul of one once beloved. .ೃ࿔* wc: 1.9k words. ೃ࿔*:･cw: angst. death? claustrophobia? rising from the dead. fluff at the end. .ೃ࿔*:･author’s notes: really wanted to write another story for anakin, it has been time since ive written one for him. this is a a sequel to till death do us part but can be read as a standalone.

In pure blackness, stillness came. It rippled across her skin, its bitterness pumped through her blood, its chilliness brought the synapses of her brain to a standstill. The air was heavy with the scent of impending dread; the silence was only splintered by the howling storm. But then, a faint stirring, a flutter of eyelids, and a gasp of breath shattered the quietude.

Her eyes shot wide, her vision blurred and shrouded by darkness. Fright clung to her skin as her hands frantically padded against the walls around her. Each breath she took burned her lungs with the anguish of deprivation.

She fought against the oppressive mass pressing down on her chest and with trembling limbs and the beat of her heart pulsating through her ears, pounded her fists against the lid above. Torment and despair fuelled her movements; her desperate screams fell on deaf ears.

Push. Terror purged through her mind.

Push. Woe slithered around her heart.

Push. Rage palpitated through her blood.

With a final surge of strength, (name) willed her willpower, her muscles strained and pushed against the lid. It slowly creaked open and a glimpse of silver light filtered in.

A wash of air sifted in and caught (name) between bated breaths as she carefully rose to hands and knees. She clawed her way out of her tomb and wobbled onto her feet.

The dim light unveiled an empty scene, eerie and bitter, yet pristine.

Bewilderment had struck (name) numb.

She shivered, nerved by the questions whirling through her mind as she gawked at the stained glass window staring at her from above.

It was her, she was sure. She, in the finest of garments and the brightest of colours. Muralised as if death had come before her.

She stumbled forward, her steps unsteady and erratic and hastened through the dimness. The world around her no longer seemed familiar. It was distant, foreign.

With each trembling step, (name) journeyed from her coffin and hobbled towards the grey, stony doors. She willed it open, her hands wilted and flung herself to the greater outdoors.

The horizon stretched out before her. The sky, a wollen grey, swirled in steady ripples. The thickest fog covered the sky as thousands of liquid globes conjured across the planet's floor.

Step by agonizing step, (name) ventured into the unknown. Alone in the morning gloom, guided by one thought.

Anakin.

Faces blurred together in a maelstrom of confusion and commotion, and yet she paid them no heed, as she screamed. “Anakin!”

Over and over, she screamed his name, her lustrous gaze lost with fright as she wept. Icy droplets cascaded over her skin like a million tiny needles, the cold seeping into her bones, sending shivers down her spine.

She pressed on, her yells shadowed by the disbelief of strangers as they gathered around the town square, watching.

“Anakin!” (name) screeched at the top of her lungs, her throat hoarse. “Anakin!”

In a fit of hysteria, (name) stumbled to the floor, her face to the pavement. She lay still, nestled beneath spattering raindrops and pleaded wretchedly, her bloodshot eyes cloaked beneath her eyelids as she clawed at the earth beneath her. “Please…please…bring him…”

“Bring me Anakin!”

The woman, wrapped in the finest of garments and with eyes that seemed to hold anguish, lay in the centre of the square, drenched, chanting in a language unknown to those who gathered around her. Some whispered that she was a witch, while others dismissed her as simply a drunkard lost in a haze of intoxicated delusions. But as the woman's chants grew louder and more hysteric, a sense of unease began to settle over the crowd. Her wails seemed to hold a power all their own, a rhythmic cadence that pulsed through the air like a beating drum, sending a coldness through the souls of those who listened.

A single man, his face shadowed by the hood of his dark cloak, found himself drawn to the soporific chants of the woman. He, a stranger amidst the crowd, braved a step forward and approached the woman. He peered at her from beneath his hood and stared down at her face, taking in her features as she wept.

The woman’s eyes locked onto his; her chanting ceased. She clung to his leg, clawing at his cloak and pants and pined at the stranger. “Help me,” She begged sullenly, her voice was soft and filled with profound sadness.

The stranger, a man of few words, dropped to his knees. His hood staggered across his hair, draping behind his head to unveil the face of a man struck with shock. At a loss for words, the man watched, frenzied, as the woman sobbed. He eased a hand from his sides and placed a careful hand on the woman’s shoulder.

She jolted and let out a deeply troubled yell, visibly repulsed at his touch. She stumbled back, clambering on her hands and knees and nestled into herself, tucking her head into her chest and folding her legs beneath her.

The man, promptly, stood to his feet and waved his arms as dismay settled amidst the gathered townspeople. He paid them no head and motioned his fingers, and one by one, strangers shadowed by their dark cloaks emerged from the crowd.

They followed his commands and approached (name), her body sheltered within herself. They grasped her, two men at each arm and heaved her overhead as she thrashed and screamed. The strangers were unrelenting, the faces stern beneath their hoods.

They carried (name) away, and her chants of restlessness and sorrow faded into the distance, leaving behind a palpable sense of unease as the townspeople watched the strange figures disappear further and further from their view.

And as the storm clouds above howled and wept, the memory of the strange woman, the strange man, and the strange figures lingered on for as long as her chants echoed through their minds and rippled through the air.

Thunder quenched the planet’s earth with cocoons of black and dagged patterns of silver. From the temple windows, flashes of light ricocheted from the heaven ceiling in sporadic internals, and a dark rumbling bequeathed a percussion of hail.

From behind the fabrics of drabness and solitude, Anakin Skywalker stalked through the halls of the Jedi Temple with a heavy heart. It drummed through his ears with a rhythmic pulse and followed in beat to the clatter of his dark boots.

He navigated through the corridors, his eyes fixed ahead, alert. With each step he took, his dark cloak swished with power and persistence whilst his mind clustered in thoughts of dread and panic. He wore a scowl, his eyebrows tightly furrowed together, and his nostrils flared.

“Anakin,”

Obi-Wan spoke with words littered with disbelief and apprehension. He approached the young man with a careful hand and walked in tune with the rhythmic thumping of his feet. “You mustn’t approach her with haste.”

Anakin halted but hadn’t turned. “And why shouldn’t I?”

Exhaling deeply, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and hung his head. “She isn’t the same,” he breathed carefully, raising his head. “She doesn’t remember–”

“She has forgotten me?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, a tremble glinted in his voice. “No…. No. She calls for you”

“Then I must come,” Anakin’s voice tinged with concern. “I must see her.”

At the end of the long corridor, a door stood. Behind it, laid his wife, in flesh and blood.

He believed it true.

Without hesitation, he pushed it open, his heart thundering in his chest.

“Master Skywalker, Master Obi-Wan, you've arrived.” Master Varik was a man of few words, stern and firm, yet he spoke with an earnest sense of glumness and unease. He approached the two men with a distant glimmer clung to his eyes.

“The princess is resting.” He declared sharply, his hands tightly plastered to his back.

“Is she alright?”

“Yes,” Master Varik nodded. “She’s cold, confused but fine. The medic has assured me so.”

“Where is she?” Anakin attempted to wrestle his impatience beneath a tone layered with respect and prestige, however, his anger overtook and ruptured the quiet gloom that surrounded the three men.

“Master Skywalker, I must warn you that this is not the time for our emotions to run free. We must be patient; by the stars, the princess has returned…. But she is greatly disturbed; we mustn’t send her into a frenzy.”

Anakin dropped his shoulders, defeat inflated his being and looked heavenward. “I…understand.”

“Come.”

Swiftly, Master Varik twirled and waded through the halls of the temple. The final door stood at the corner of the hallway and opened to unveil (name).

“…my stars…”

Lost in her thoughts, (name) stood by the temple windows and gazed at the cityscape. Her delicate features bathed beneath the soft glow of its city lights, casting a dreamlike quality over her as she peered out into the night. Her beauty, her damp dress, and the way her eyes glistened with unspoken emotions, spell-bounded Anakin.

As he watched her, a sense of melancholy and longing passed over him. He longed to touch, to hold her in his arms and chase away the shadows that seemed to haunt her.

And as she turned away, Anakin felt his heart swell. No longer did she wear the face of a body devoid of colour from the decay of death. She was warm in colour, alive and free from the solitude of her shadowy tomb.

“…Anakin.” (name) breathed out slowly, boring her eyes into his own. She reached for him, limping forward, and wailed, her steps faltering.

Falling into him, her sobs wracked her body with convulsions. She shuddered under Anakin, his arms carefully swarmed around. He squeezed her tight, her soiled cheek to his hard chest and looked on begrudgingly.

(name’s) voice was muted as she began, but slowly grew inches louder to a careful whisper. “It was so dark.” Sob. “I couldn’t breathe.” Sob. “I looked for you.” Sob. “I swear I did, I swear–”

“It’s okay.” Anakin soothed faintly, his voice hinted with tenderness and compassion. His gentle hand combed across her back and scored across her head as she leaned into his embrace. She clung to him, her tears staining his cloak, Anakin held her close.

As minutes stretched into hours, the intensity of (name’s) tears began to cease, and her breathing paced to a stammered rise and fall as she nestled into a void of peace in Anakin’s embrace. She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, but filled with bliss.

“….Anakin,” She whispered, her voice hoarse but filled with contentment and lured a fatigued smile to her face. “I found you.”

He cupped her cheeks in his hands and bored his eyes into hers. His eyes glimmered, and his hopeful gaze shone down at (name) as he carefully reared his head. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, rubbing at her satin skin and fluttered his eyes shut as (name) slowly lulled herself to slumber. She slumped against his chest, her head tucked into the crook of his neck and whistled a melody of soundless snores.

With his arms swaddled around her, Anakin enveloped her slumber with an embrace brimmed with longing and oddity. He looked on at the city walls, disbelieved yet content as the molten sky hissed and howled erratically, and a torrent of rain reigned hell over Coruscant. The clouds above that gathered, in colours of greys, blacks and silver, pulsed with bold streaks of lightning, steady and strident.

#black!reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #star wars x reader #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanfic #star wars imagine #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic

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grae-98 · 6 months ago

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Treatment

Set between 1880-1890, You have been feeling and acting off. After visiting the doctor's he sends you off to stay in Pelican Town where you are set to receive treatment for your condition. Upon arrival you learn the doctor administering these treatments is better than you think.

Harvey/ unnamed reader

2nd pov

3867 words

trigger warnings: reader is diagnosed with hysteria, mentions of depression, cheating/ adultery, doctor/ patient relationship

smut tags: fingering, cunnilingus

notes: i do have this posted on ao3 if you'd prefer to read it there. I kinda interested into making this into a short series, if you're interested let me know!

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Treatment

“I believe we may need to seek alternative treatments for this type of abnormal behavior you wife seems to be displaying.” The nameless faceless doctor assures your husband. “It seems to be Briquet’s syndrome. To put it simply for your wife, here it is defined as-“

“Are you calling me hysteric doctor?” You cut in before he could even care to explain his own definition.

“Darling! I’m very sorry doctor as you can see my wife is surely not well. What would be the alternative treatment you speak of?” His statement was that of pure fact with little to no concern for his own wife.

“Normally I would recommend a simple rest cure, but I have a clinic I can recommend on the coast. It will also give your wife access to the sea air, which as you know is good for her feminine liquids.” He says “The doctor there is a friend of mine. He lives in a small area in the country called Pelican Town. I would recommend your wife stay there until she feels her symptoms lessen.”

“I see doctor thank you. I will be sending her soon, my grandfather happened to have a cottage in that area.”

That was all the preparation you received. Not even two weeks after meeting with the doctor you were being packed onto the train to be set off. Settling your skirts as you sat to look out of the window. The countryside was getting denser the further you traveled. The lush trees were scarcely letting in the midafternoon light. Checking your gilded pocket watch there was only 20 minutes left of the journey.

You were angry, you were alone, and you were left to stay in his grandfather’s hunting cottage with only two members of staff. Yes, you could dress yourself, but how were you meant to prepare meals or launder your dresses let alone mend them. But maybe this doctor will be able to help with whatever imaginary issues are at hand.

Stepping off onto the platform and taking in the surrounding environment. It’s all very quaint. You’ve been there only once before during one of your husbands hunting trips. It seemed like any cottage house that you’ve visited but now this one you’ll be staying in for heaven knows how long. The clearing of a throat brought your attention to in front of you. A tall man with light brown hair and well-groomed facial hair stood before you. His clothes were tailored handsomely but seemed to be worn in

“Hello, pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Dr. Harvey, you must be my newest patient.” He holds out his hand crooked slightly to the left. Staring at it with mild shock you place your hand in it to make a slight squeeze to greet him back. He quirks his eyebrow up at you taking the hand put before you. He seemed rather young to be a doctor. He didn’t seem to have any grey to his hair nor many lines to his face.

“Yes, it seems so. I didn’t realize for my treatment you would make house calls. I would have figured I’d come to your clinic.” You say as you drop your hand from his.

“Normally yes but given the nature of the treatment I would have thought you might be more comfortable in your own home.”

“And why might that be?” The doctor seems to flush at this statement and looks to the help that is beside you.

“Please do take that inside. I will be in shortly.” You shoo away the man helping you carry your suitcase.

“You haven’t had any discussion of your treatment before coming here?”

“I cannot say that I have. I feel as though I have been spirited away and left from my friends.” You say with an awkward giggle.

“Ah, well I see. I will discuss it with you further after we have a bit of a chat. I would like a better list of your symptoms before starting.”

“Yes, very well. Please do come in, I haven’t anytime to explore yet. I am sure we will still find some place to speak.” Opening the wooden door.

“My apologies, I was told you were to arrive yesterday.” Harvey removed his hat and his coat upon entering the cottage.

“I’m not sure who told you that, but as you can see, I have just arrived. I’m sure I will still be able to make time to answer your questions about my diagnosis.”

He seems very caught off guard by the direct statement. The same man who took your case earlier drops off a tray to pour tea. With a quick thank you the man is seen off. You sit in what seems to be a very old couch across from the doctor. Pouring one cup for yourself and one for him. He leans over to take his cup as you begin to speak again.

“I am very well aware the doctor who sent me to you says that I am hysteric. I feel that is not the case. I am bored, there is hardly anything for me to do. I find the typical ladies’ activities to be rather dull. My husband clearly does not love me otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. I have long been disinterested in my husband and he me.”

“When you speak of disinterest?”

“I mean that my husband and I have not been in… amorous congress in quite some time.” You give a slight pause in the middle of the statement to find the right words to say.

“And do you find yourself frustrated with the lack thereof?”

“On occasion.” You answer truthfully. Harvey seems to be writing down everything you’ve told him thus far.

“Aside from those, do you feel any other physical symptoms that weren’t there before?”

“I do, yes. I find myself often fatigued. I feel as though I cannot sleep a wink at night, and I do suffer for it in the day. Some days I feel ravenous with hunger and other days I could hardly be bothered to eat a crumb. It all feels very strange to me, and that is what I told the doctor. Look where that’s gotten me.”

Harvey nods solemnly and scribbles more notes into his small leather-bound journal.

“Well Missus we will be able to rectify some of these odd behaviors of yours it’ll just take some time. I will be back tomorrow to begin your treatment; I would prefer to give you a little while to settle in your temporary home.

“Thank you, Dr. Harvey, I shall expect you tomorrow in the morning say around 3pm?”

“Yes, very well. Gald to meet you.”

“You as well doctor.”

It was early the next morning when you rose. Something about the fresh air allowed you to be able to sleep much deeper than you are used to. It was a lovely way to wake, with no lingering tiredness or aches. Placing bare feet on the floor you open the windows outward to let in the light and cool ocean air. Taking in a deep breath you move your way back to bed to ring the bell to signify that you’re awake.

After a simple breakfast of eggs toast. The eggs tasted a lot fresher than you were used to than in your own home. However, there wasn’t much time before the doctor would come to visit and you had a few things left to do before seeing him. Writing letters to your friends back at home to explain your journey and explain the place where you are staying now.

Three pm came upon you far too fast for your liking, but it was nearly at 3 o’clock sharp that Dr. Harvey came calling. He greeted you with the tip of his head as he walks into the room to find you sitting in the same place you were yesterday.

“I hope you hadn’t waiting for too long.” He speaks as he takes his seat across from you.

“Unfortunately doctor that’s all I seem to do.” He nods taking a seat.

“I came to discuss with you about the method of treatment that I had mentioned yesterday. After our meeting I strongly recommend this course.”

“Do please explain.”

“You will undergo a treatment that will involve you being able to expel your feminine liquids. Since you and your husband do not share each other’s company, and it is difficult for a woman to expel them herself. What this means is that I am to stimulate to for you for your health.”

“I see.” You blush at the doctor for even mentioning it.

He clears his throat before speaking, “I can feel your hesitancy, but I can assure you this will be relatively quick.”

“How exactly will you ‘stimulate me’ doctor?” You ask in meek voice attempting to sound more emboldened than you are at the moment.

“Easily. I will place a hand on your abdomen and the other I will massage until I feel that you had a paroxysmal convulsion.”

“I see. You said it would be relatively quick?”

“As quickly as I can.” He says with simply too much enthusiasm.

“Alright then. Let us try this new treatment then.”

You bring him to your bedroom for your ease and comfort he told you. It only occurred to you now as you slide your bloomers from under your dress that this man was going to see you. Doctor Harvey has you lay on the bed in such a way that he can stay standing. Sliding your dress up your legs you ask him a question.

“Doctor, how many patients have you done this treatment for?”

“Plenty while being trained on the treatment, but none since I came to practice here. Are you feeling nervous at all?”

“I am yes.”

“I will do my absolute best to ease any discomfort you may have. You will feel a slight pinch in the beginning but it should get better over time.”

He did not lie to you. As he entered a single finger to your entrance there was the familiar drag of skin to your dry opening. Sucking in a pained breath he stopped for a single moment.

“As I said it’s worse in the beginning. I will be better soon I promise.” He looks at you with concern in his eyes. You can tell he doesn’t want to be doing this anymore than you want it. Nodding to him the doctor moves his finger once again.

You feel your muscles relaxing while he moves his finger in a gentle front and back motion. Slowly coaxing the tingle from your belly; you begin to shift your legs higher onto the bed they were already perched on. Then just like a canary you sang a song. The dampness that spawned from a desert was amazing. The glide of the doctors’ finger within you had you singing a praise you didn’t know you could sing.

“Oh stars, Doctor Harvey this is incredible. Please don’t stop.” He responded by pushing the hand on top of your stomach just slightly harder while adding a second finger. Breathing heavily you look down to the doctor to see his sleeve rolled to his elbow, forearm flexing as he pushed his fingers into your newly soaked heat in earnest. Rolling your head back as he moved the hand on your stomach down slightly.

“I’m going to try something tell me if this doesn’t work, okay?”

He began to add more pressure to the top of your monds while pressing his thumb to the hood of your clit. The reaction was instantaneous, your hand grabbing to the one holding you. Wrapping your fingers around his wrist like you’re trying to ground yourself as your hips are now shaking to meet his thrusting fingers. Staggering breathing between throaty moans and cries of him to not stop whatever magic he is doing. You can hear the unmistakeable squelch as he moves his fingers is rapid movement. You feel like you’re on fire like everything is you is burning. The dress you’re wearing suddenly feels like a 40-pound weight, the muscles in your stomach begin to tighten so deeply they feel they’re about to cramp. Your free hand that’s not holding onto the doctor grips the covers beside you. You know you’ve been near screaming when you feel the two fingers leave your body. Breathing heavier than before you sit up to the edge of the bed.

You watch the doctor grab a linen from his bag to wipe off his wet fingers. Casually curling the rag around each of his fingers and down the palm of his hand. He looks to you as you stand and attempt to fix yourself in the slightest.

“Thank you Doctor, that was a very informative treatment. Although, dare I say, Mrs. Harvey must be a very happy lady.” You say towards him with a smile on your face. He responds with a laugh.

“Heavens, there is no Mrs. Harvey. I am unwed; however, I’m happy that you are feeling better after just one treatment. We will have to continue this for at least a few more weeks, just once a week to make sure you’re well and comfortable. “

‘No wife?’ you think to yourself ‘How has this man remained unmarried? Certainly that was incredible and it was unlike anything felt before.’

“I do not know how long I may be here. I don’t see why we shouldn’t make this twice a week to speed up recovery time.” You hope that you’re not coming across more crass than you intend to be.

“I can understand your desire to go back to your home, but I would rather not try to rush your recovery. Your symptoms seemed to be mild at the very least so just once a week should be okay for now.” Slight disappointment washed over you.

“Next week then Doctor?”

“Next week.” And with that he left.

Six weeks have gone by since coming to Pelican Town. The spring was now turning to summer and the heat was getting slightly more intense. Although you’re by the ocean so the blazing sun doesn’t seem as blistering as it would at home. Living in the country seemed to have its perks. The small community seemed to be the backbone of this town. There weren’t very many people to get acquainted with and the home in which you’re staying doesn’t have the space to host but nonetheless you’ve managed to make a few friends here.

You made fast friends with Robin who is aware of your condition and promises to keep things quiet after she heard your cries from an open window during a treatment. She is the local carpenter and was coming by to offer her services when she heard the cries. Even with that she offered nothing but support and understanding. Her previous husband tried to have her institutionalized after the birth of her first son before his death. Thanking the heavens above for your husband who apparently loved you enough to not send you there.

Your treatments otherwise have been very helpful in restoring a delightful mood. Today is a day for Dr. Harvey to come and visit. As the weeks have progressed you’ve invited him later and later to have him join you for dinner.

As the clock tolls 5 o’clock there is a sharp knock on the door. You hear the voices down the hall.

“Doctor Harvey, will you be joining the lady for dinner this evening?”

“If the lady wishes it, I would be glad to.” Harvey responds back. You can hear the rustling of his coat being collected and the footsteps of his approach. It almost feels like a response on these days. Once the footsteps come close you feel your body light with want.

“Doctor Harvey, it’s good to see you.” You say, smile plastered on your face. Standing to greet him. You move your way across the floor meeting him behind the couch. With a quick glimpse behind him you grab his forearms.

“It is good to see you as well. I am to take that I will be joining you again this week for dinner?” He says to you as you look up to him giving his arms a reassuring squeeze.

“As you know I get rather lonely here. What better company than the wonderful doctor that’s treating my illness.” He laughs as you lead him to your bed once again.

This will be the eighth treatment from him, and he will need to reassess after the tenth has been finished. Hoping your time with the kind doctor doesn’t come to an end too soon you pray that he will find some reason to keep you here longer.

You’ve become accustomed to not wearing anything under your dress on the day the doctor comes to visit, and each time the nerves wrack up your spine.

“Feeling giddy today it seems?” He spoke as he rolled his sleeves up once again. It doesn’t seem like you will tire of looking at the pale skin of his arms. Knees backing into the side of the mattress.

“In truth doctor I’ve been having impure thoughts. I used to not have anything like this before.” You loosened the cover that sits over your corset. Allowing you more cooling air to hit your mostly covered chest.

“And what type of impure thoughts are they?” He asks as he helps you slide your dress further up your thighs after you lay in your designated spot.

“I don’t think I should tell you.” You say to him while he pulls up the chair you brought in for him around the week four mark.

“I am your doctor, I think you should tell me.”

“I want to know things that I shouldn’t want to know.”

“Now you have piqued my curiosity. Do tell me.”

You take in a short breath before answering, “I want to know how your moustache feels. How it feels against my legs, my chest, my arms, here.” You stop to point to your mouth before continuing. “And most of all. Here.” You open your previously held together legs to show him the growing damp.

You swore you heard him let a slight gasp before he traced a finger to your outer lips. His eyes scan your half-dressed body to meet your own. He tilts his lip to give you a smirk.

“I believe some of that might be arranged.” He spoke so softly as he lifted your left leg into his hand. Lightly pressing kisses to the inside of your calf. You sigh in content when he moves his mouth higher up your leg. Trailing feather light kisses until he reaches the inside of your thigh where he planted a hot kiss. You open your legs a little further urging him to meet your center and offer you release. Even slower than before he marks wet lips to where your thigh dips. Steaming breaths cloud his rounded spectacles as his mouth hovers over you.

“Harvey…” You whimper. He takes one quick tentative lap with the tip of his tongue against you. You shiver, hands planted firmly onto your knees as you spread them as far as they can go. Fully displayed for the man, slick lips puffy from the morning when you failed to achieve what he can do successfully.

He lets out a shaking breath before muttering something. Before you can ask him what he said his mouth attached itself. Lips suctioned onto the sensitive part of you that he has learned to maneuver with his thumb. Gasping for breath you keep griping the tops of your knees until he dips his tongue into your entrance. Hand sliding down to his hair, and he moans into you. The vibration alone causes you to moan back like it was a call.

“Gods above!” You exclaim. Hand feeling his hair for the first time and it was so soft beneath your fingertips. You mistakenly move your hips up to meet his muscle and he lets out a low growl using both of his hands to keep your hips in place. He laps at your sex with hunger and want to push his head further into you.

Your moans begin to fall off your lips in words of praise and delight. Both hands now twisting wildly into his hair when he lifts the bottom of you. Placing your legs on his shoulders he grips your butt to raise it from the mattress. You start to chant his name like it’s the only word that’s in your mind. He moans into you again and this time you could nearly faint.

“Fingers, Harvey, I need your fingers!” You cry as you feel the intense tightening begin to threat. He obliges and pushes the two fingers into you. The combination of the licking and sucking with the pump of his fingers makes you claw at the sheets. Crying as the damn broke, he began to slow his fingers.

“No, please don’t stop. One more, one more please.” Who is he to deny you. He removes his mouth from you to speed his fingers once again. Curling the fingers your eyes are squeezed shut. Legs held open my sheer force of will, toes curling against the cover. The intensity is so great for this. Your legs begin to quake, breathing labored as moans keep falling from between your lips. His hand moves slightly faster the obscene noise coming from your body would leave you embarrassed if not for how much enjoyment you were getting out of this. You open your eyes to find Harvey palming himself through his trousers. Prominent bulge showing through the tan fabric. You whimper again as you reach your hand out towards him just to feel. That’s all you told yourself. He lets you feel the thickness of it through his trousers. You could feel the heat of him seeping through into your palm and when you look up to see his face you’re awestruck.

Glasses tilted slightly, naturally wavy hair falls in a mess on his head, some even sticking to his forehead, moustache matted down against his parted lips, cheeks flushed and panting heavily. You threw your head back against the mattress whole body shaking against the surface. Harvey let out the longest and loudest groan as you looked down in horror. Shooting up so fast it nearly made you topple over

“I- I am so sorry Doctor Harvey! I didn’t realize that I could… Did I make water on you?” Harvey had no worded response. He quickly reached out to cup your face to haul you in for a kiss. Moaning once again but now into his mouth that tasted like you. Your lips parted only to meet again after heads changed directions. Your hands threaded their way through his hair again. Touch starved and lonely the both of you. As you broke apart you looked into each other’s eyes.

“Oh no.”

#stardew harvey #Harvey smut #sdv harvey #smut #stardew valley

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ashs-cardboard-box · 5 months ago

Text

Undead Nightmare 2

~ Van Der Linde gang/Male!Reader

~ Platonic

~ 4k words

CW: Gore and disturbing imagery

I'm back !!!! I hope you enjoy :33 I have a few WIP fics I'm working on, along with the long awaited requests. I'm thinking abt making this a "series" of sorts (I <3 Undead Nightmare)

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In the ripe year of 1899, it was as if a new plague had just infected the entire nation– who knew how Nuevo Paraíso was doing. No one knew how it came about. One day, everything was completely fine. The sun rose and fell all the same. The people going about their normal lives without a care in the world. The next, everyone had some sort of illness, it seemed. The animals grew emaciated, more dead than alive, making it hard to find living food. Odd phenomena showed up, like THE walking sasquatch. Due to the rumors that they ate babies, you made sure to put them down before they could.

The dead were rising out of their graves, you were sure you saw your mama come back, right before she took another bullet to the back of her skull. People were killing one another left and right, fighting for their lives.

Dutch had kept everyone on their toes more than usual. Hardly even unpacking before trying to move to another camp. Everyone was scared shitless, as well as confused and partly upset. Surely, it was just mass hysteria. That was what you would assume, if you hadn’t just killed another walking corpse hobbling through the trees at the smell of human flesh.

“Well, what the hell’s wrong with ‘em?” You hear Dutch press gruffly, earning a confused sputter from the undoubtedly inebriated Reverend. Your eyes flick around the trees along the edge of camp warily, trying to find more of those undead freaks. Unable to find any, you shuffle a bit more inward to the center of camp, one rifle in hand, the other on your back.

“I thought you were supposed to be a priest.” Micah remarks sarcastically, as if he had any ground to stand on for morality’s sake, you roll your eyes. You weren’t too sure how it happened, you saw them die right after the Blackwater heist had failed.

Yet, here they were, young Jenny, Mac, and Davey. All tied together in the middle of camp, growling and hissing as Swanson attempts to anoint them with a flask, flicking whatever liquid happens to be inside that thing, but it’s definitely not Holy water.

“Damn, they stink..” Lenny grimaces. His eyes flick over to you as you approach the group before they return to the undead trio. “No better than you or the O’Driscoll.” Bill adds. Normally, it was a comment that would’ve gotten a chuckle, at the expense of the boy, Kieran, you learned, with whom had been practically kidnapped back in Colter.

Everyone was up to their ears in stress, really. The Pinkertons were less of a concern than the rotting bodies that piled in the streets. Add that to the list of trying to keep twenty people alive. It was pretty unanimously decided to send the women and Jack away, board them up someplace with one of the men to protect them. John just so happened to be that man..until he rotates responsibility to someone new, that is.

The gang was tighter than you’d ever seen before, despite joining not too long after Charles had. Trying to protect each other from the horrors that had become society. “Maybe we should just kill them. Get it over with.” Javier suggests, earning a side-eye from Dutch. “He’s right, Dutch. Keeping ‘em here won’t do any of us any good. They’ll only bring a horde.”

“No.” Dutch responds flatly, now outright glaring at you. “We need to stay loyal. Respect our brothers, and dear Jenny, who have fallen before us. If we merely slaughter them..like animals.. We would be no better than they themselves. Savages. Beasts. Faith, and a little redemption, is all they need, son.” You didn’t see Dutch’s point. Not in the slightest. But you didn’t push the issue, knowing chaos was unnecessary during the end of the world as you knew it.

Shuffling off, you spot Hosea sitting on a short stump, staring blankly at the crowd hovering over the trio of undead. “Any ideas?” you inquire, to which he shakes his head with a dissatisfied hum. “It just don’t make sense, Y/N. They aren’t supposed to… y’know.”

You nod as you kneel down next to him, feeling the pressure get taken off your aching feet and back, down onto your knees as they nestle into the grass. Resting one of your firearms on the ground next to you, the other remaining strapped to your back. Despite all the chaos amok, nature still felt the same as it was. You wondered if the trees would remember, only to be pulled out of your thoughts with a sigh from Hosea.

“I sent Sean out with Arthur to find information. Hunt down the nearest school or something..” He mutters, causing you to quirk an eyebrow in confusion. “Arthur and..Sean..? You know he can’t–” You start. “I know.” Hosea cuts in, his eyes flicking away from the crowd to look down at you instead. “Sean can’t read. But, Arthur is the best gun we have, even if he isn’t the most literate. Keeping Sean around camp is a death wish to us all. Like a hyena in a lion’s den.” He explains calmly, earning another curt nod from you. That was the best way to describe ol’ Sean MacGuire. A hyena.

“What’d you want me to do?” You ask, feeling a bit useless just standing around and pondering what to do with Jenny, Mac, and Davey. Hosea hums, reaching into the pocket on his vest and pulling out an old pocket watch. “Maybe you should check on the women with John.. Bring ‘em some food. Find game for Pearson while you’re at it.” He suggests, putting the watch back into its designated pocket.

The thought of leaving camp made you uneasy, but it had to be done. Pushing yourself to stand, you pick up your rifle. Silently dismissing yourself from camp, just as anyone had done before any of this started, you make your way over to the hitch rails and to your horse.

It whinnies as you approach, only growing more wary with the apocalypse, a sentiment you could understand. Holding your hand out in a placating gesture, a small ‘shh’ leaving your lips. The palm of your hand comes to rest on its nose, while the other moves to unwrap the reins from around the rotting wooden rail.

Just as you adjust to step up into the stirrup, you hear someone calling your name from behind you. Turning around quicker than you meant, you spot Charles approaching, Taima in tow. “You need help?” He asks. While you wouldn’t admit it, it’d be nice to have him around. Especially for Hosea’s request of finding game for Pearson, you were a lousy hunter. Ironically better at killing humans than animals. Maybe that was just empathy’s game.

“Sure.” You muse, pushing yourself to mount your horse, swinging your leg up and over the saddle and taking a seat. Slipping one of your rifles into the carbine scabbard on your saddle, the other remaining strapped to your back, not even daring to come down. You need to be ready at all costs, especially with such limited ammunition being passed around. Gunsmiths all got raided God knows when. “‘sea asked me to switch with John, check up on the women ‘n Jack. Bring ‘em a bit of food and bring game back to camp for Pearson.”

Charles merely gives a small hum in acknowledgement, silently mounting Taima alongside you before gently pushing his heels into her flanks, with you to follow suit, allowing Charles to lead you out of camp.

“How you feel ‘bout all this?” You ask, but it’s a bit of a stupid question. Of course Charles wouldn’t feel good about it. No one in their right mind would. “Terrible.” He replies monotonously without missing a beat. “Just feels cruel, I guess.”

“You wonder if they’re suffering?” You inquire. A quick snap of the reins and a small click of your tongue causes your horse to speed up with a small huff. You keep your eyes focused on surrounding land. Watching for both predators, live prey, and those damn freaks.

“Maybe.. But- I’m not them. Ain’t too sure.” Charles sighs, doing the same to be riding alongside you, just heading East and staying away from the streets. Who knew what kind of monstrosities could lie in the cities. You didn’t even want to imagine what Saint Denis was like or how bad it smelled..worse than usual.

It was simple idle conversation, which often happened out on the longer rides, but it made it that much easier to bear. Sometimes sitting for hours at a time, riding down from Annesburg, to Saint Denis, to the middle-of-nowhere New Hanover and back to camp..all in time to make it back for Pearson’s stew in the evening.

Yet, even so, the rides were often longer than you’d like. This one in particular just felt agonizingly slow. It was one of the only times you’d left camp since this whole debacle began and you hated it. Instead of being on edge for lawmen or rival gangs, you were on edge for the growling mob of the undead. Some were slow, some ran after you like their asses were on fire. Some were dumb and brutish, while others spat acidic bile. Truly terrible. Though, the plus side is that they made noise, unlike Pinkertons.

Currently making your way across the tracks separating New Hanover and the East Grizzlies, Ambarino. Out towards a little known cabin Arthur has dubbed ‘Martha’s Swain’. When he first showed it to you, in a desperate attempt for the gang to find some place to hide the women and little Jack, there was one of those rat bastard walking corpses inside. Though, you had little time to assume if she was Martha before she was shot in the face by Arthur. After burying her outside, the cabin was deemed safe and hidden.

As you and Charles approached the cabin, after a damn too long ride, the silence in the air was concerning. Normally, that would be a good thing. Finally a moment to stretch your legs and relax. But now, that was the last thing you wanted. It was suspicious. Charles gives you a side eye with a small nod, pulling his bow out from around his torso and carefully dismounting.

Not wanting to make a ruckus, nor waste ammo, you leave your longarm in its scabbard on your saddle. Instead, unsheathing your knife and hopping down onto the grass with a small huff, your rifle weighing heavy on your back.

You silently follow after Charles, the pair of you half crouch-walking to avoid being seen by anything in the probable vicinity. Your eyes blown wide with caution and your heart racing in your chest, you’re sure your ears are ringing. Rapidly scanning your surroundings as you approach the cabin door. No sign of any threats yet..except for a bear. Your mind flashes with a split image of getting mauled by it, only to shudder instinctively.

Turning your head back to the door as you hear it creak open. Your grip on your knife tightening as Charles pushes it open, bow drawn. The two of you don’t share a word as you follow Charles inside.

To your horror, there’s one of those undead freaks trapped inside the cabin, feasting on someone. A short gasp leaves your lips in surprise, causing it to raise its head just enough from the body, allowing Charles to let go of his bow string, sending an arrow through its deflated, maggot ridden, left eye. Due to the force, the zombie is knocked backwards, dead once again.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Charles asks gruffly, to which you shake your head in uncertainty, already making your way over to the body. You’ve seen a lot of fucked up things in your life, but this takes the cake. The poor sod was still breathing…barely. His blood seeped into the cracks of the cabin, his eyes were wide with terror.

“Help- ..me…” He chokes, and you wish there was something you could do. Several bite marks and infected scratches cover the man’s body, already flushing the skin an unsightly gray-blue, slowly clawing up the man’s insides as the infection travels through his blood stream, though his pulse is slow. Skin was missing from the man’s body, his abdomen punctured and organs ruptured, leaking blood, pus, bile, and, undoubtedly, his bowel contents all over his clothes and the floor underneath. It’s sad– revolting… but every man for himself.

You felt a hint of guilt, sure. Raising your knife above your head with both hands before plunging it down into the middle of the man’s dirty forehead. You can feel bile climbing your throat, forcing you to swallow to hold it back down. It wasn’t like anything you’d ever seen before; the man’s skull just split in half like a goddamn onion. Brain matter leaking out of the bowl-shaped-skull, barely getting snagged on the optic nerve before it paints your boots. But, at the end of the day, your conscience was eased. He was put out of his misery, and there’s less of the undead crawling around.

“Gross..” You mutter, your lip curling in disgust as you stand back up. Wiping off the flat of your knife onto your denim clad jeans. Your eyes linger on the man, a sick image burned into your retinas. But, upon further inspection, the man is wearing a green vest, hardly able to be seen underneath the blood. Torn up by the undead’s mangy claws.

“O’Driscoll.” You point out to Charles with a gesturing nod of your head. Charles, uninterested with the scene, steps past you and further into the cabin, searching for where John had taken the women and young Jack.

“Maybe he had something to do with it.” You mutter, sheathing your knife, heading into the opposite side of the cabin to do the same. “Maybe.” He muses flatly, rifling through the many different belongings atop Martha’s rotting wood table. Accidentally toppling over a vase, swiftly picking it up before it could create noise.

Turning the knob of one of the back doors, you use your shoulder to push it open, finding a nearly empty bedroom as well. Nothing of value to be taken. But, abandoning that thought, you move into the room. Your boots squelching against the unknown substance covering the floor. Pushing forward, you make your way to an end table. By the looks of it, it’s already been robbed. You could only guess it was the gang’s doing. Regardless, you pull open the drawer in search for a letter or a sign. Nothing.

Not bothering to close the drawer, you shift to check the mattress. Patting around the edges, feeling for a ripped seam, the wood slats inside creak in agony as a protest to the movements. You could only imagine how old they were. To your shock, you find a hidden letter inside one of the cracks. Internally groaning, you slip your hand inside the mattress, pulling it out, along with whatever insides the mattress had to spare.

Slipping the letter into your other hand, you shake your hand free of the yellow dust that coats it. “Dear Mr. Kilgore–” it starts, but you don’t get much further. Hearing a “you find anything?” from Charles in the other room.

“Yeah!” You call back, walking back through the door, your eyes briefly scanning over the letter. Charles rushes up to you, faster than he meant to. “What’s it say?” He inquires. “From the gang.” you mutter quietly, flipping the page over to check the back of it before turning it over again to read aloud.

“Dear, Mr. Kilgore. Your grand-nieces have just been lovely, it’s truly an honor to have met them. I appreciate you letting us borrow your cabin for the weekend, but I regret to inform you that we must be headed off now. There’s no shortage of adventures to find in the great state of New Hanover. I hear Flat Iron Lake is just lovely this time of year, lots of good fish to eat! Especially from that lovely dock you mentioned that is oh, so near Flatneck Station.

I do hope you would grace us with your presence once more, but we understand if it would be a burden to request such a thing so soon after your return home from France. Do wish your brothers the best from us, will you? Good health is always important to us, you know. Yours truly, Mr. and Mrs. Van Winkle.”

With a small click of your tongue, you hand off the letter to Charles, who accepts it without missing a beat. Even if you weren’t being actively chased by Pinkertons, it was still easier to lie about your identities. You watch his eyes reread everything before you walk right past him, headed for the door. It’s pretty damn clear where they went. Though, a thought lingers in the back of your mind. What chased them off? It had to have been something they couldn’t kill. John was a coward, but he was stupid enough to stand his ground when protecting the vulnerable..right?

“Back to New Hanover, then.” Charles remarks, following you to the door, slipping the letter into his pocket.Though, as soon as you reach the door, you pause. A familiar growling heard from the other side..just barely. Holding up one of your hands, you silently tell Charles to wait.

Leaning forward and pressing your ear to the wood to listen outside. Only for the door to swing open as someone, or something, forces its body weight against the wood, knocking you down in turn. Pinned underneath one of the heaviest undead you’ve come across, you struggle to reach your knife.

Several gunshots ring out inside the small cabin, making your ears ring. You hardly had time to register what just happened before it slumps forward with a hiss, oozing something akin to blood all over you. It smells foul. You could hardly keep yourself from vomiting, gagging and swallowing down the puke that manages to make its way into your mouth with a small shudder.

You completely forgot about Charles until he kicks the hefty zombie off of you, causing the twice now corpse to roll off and onto the floor. “You alright?” He asks, oddly calm as he extends a hand down to you, holstering his gun with his other hand. He hated using it, but sometimes it was more than necessary.

With a slow nod, you place your hand in his own, allowing yourself to be helped to your feet. Your legs feel foreign underneath you as you stare down at the dumb brute that had attacked you. But, you don’t have any time to process it. With a pat on your shoulder from Charles, he finally heads out the wide open door with you following close behind.

Letting out a loud whistle from between your teeth, not exactly wanting to stick your fingers in your mouth after wrestling with that undead brute. Your eyes flicking around your surroundings, hearing the sound of hooves approach. No doubt your horse and Taima got scared of the monster. That or something different.

“You’re quiet.” Charles states bluntly, looking you over, It’s not a judgmental comment– the opposite. He’s concerned. He’s used to your thoughts leaving your mouth before you had a chance to stop it. Though, he could understand. Naturally, anyone would be a bit shaken up. He was confident you would get through it. “Ain’t you always?” You retort without batting an eye, earning a dry chuckle from Charles. “You ain’t wrong.”

Your eyes dart over to movement in the treeline, growing a bit tense at first, only to relax at the sight of Taima’s nose, a hint of a smile crosses your lips at the sight. Nodding towards her as Charles approaches her, whispering a small praise under his breath. Walking past him, you spot your own horse just down the hill, slowly making your way down to it with Charles just on your tail.

Your horse whinnies as it sees you, it’s tail swishing back and forth. “Easy..” you coo, reaching up and gently petting its mane. Getting closer and stepping up into the stirrup, further heading down the hill, expecting Charles to follow suit, which he does.

“There was another letter inside.” Charles mumbles, riding alongside you. You glance over towards him, silently asking for an elaboration, before facing forward again. Both of you heading right back down from Ambarino and back into New Hanover. “From the owner’s husband. He was in the Confederacy.” He explains, a hint of distaste in his tone.

You nod silently in understanding, remembering the skeleton you and Arthur had buried not too long ago. You hardly even registered the sight of the setting sun until it shines right in your eyes, humming with discontent as you squint. Your posture straightens as you focus more and more on the sounds around you, until you follow Charles further into the woods, finally having a bit of respite.

It’s unfortunate, really. Not finding any sort of live animals..or any at all, really. The plains were oddly silent now, more than before. Undead animals haunted the fields, attacking anything in their sights with the intention to infect further. The remaining, living animals were all emaciated. The disruption to the food chain was detrimental to the entire ecosystem…clearly.

All seemed well on the long ride to Flatneck station, until you hear gunfire echoing loudly in the distance. Much to your dismay, Charles races forward, leaving you to follow behind in a huff. Coming across the small, abandoned trading post, you damn near sigh in relief. John is the one firing the gun, getting frustrated with Abigail and readjusting her hold on a rifle to properly aim a half broken beer bottle resting atop the railway tracks.

“John!” Charles calls with a hefty sigh of relief. John tears his gaze away from Abigail and over towards you and Charles. You were sure there was a small smile on his face out of relief. “Uncle Charles! Uncle Y/N!” You hear Jack call before the door to the small building flies open and the boy comes running out. You couldn’t imagine how scary it must be for him.

Both you and Charles dismount at the same time. Jack nearly tackles your leg into a hug, allowing you to ruffle his hair. “We didn’t find any food on our way.” Charles informs, to which John shakes his head with a heavy sigh. “We got a couple rabbits on our way out..ain’t much at all.” “Better than nothin’?” You offer, to which John offers a half-hearted shrug. As Jack lets go of you, you follow after him inside the small building, mostly to check up on the other women. It’s incredibly cramped as you step inside. Five women, excluding Abigail, with Jack and yourself. But beggars can’t be choosers.

Molly is staring at her reflection in the small mirror, gently pulling at her skin. Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly are quietly whispering amongst themselves. Though, Karen seems shaky and jittery. You can only imagine what her lack of alcohol is doing to her body.

“Y/N.” Susan greets with a curt nod, sitting just by the door, her shotgun laying over her lap. A terrifying sight on its own. “Miss.” You reply with a nod of your own. Gently nudging Jack away from you and further inside into protection.

“How y’all been holdin’ up?” You inquire. Stealing a wary glance over your shoulder to make sure Charles, John, and Abigail were fine just outside, before returning your gaze back down to Grimshaw.

“As good as we can be..” She sighs. Her weathered hands idly feeling over the metal firearm. “I imagine y’all saw the wreck the cabin was left in?” You nod, earning a pleased hum from Susan. “O’Driscoll showed up and tried to rob us when John went out for food. He brought a damn.. horde with him. We handled most of ‘em, had to leave when we started getting overrun. Barely had time for Mary-Beth to write that letter.” She explains.

It made sense. A bunch of kick-ass outlaws wouldn’t just..abandon their safehouse for no reason. Leaning back against the doorway, you let yourself slide down it until you’re finally sitting, just relaxing. Resting your eyes with a heavy sigh, you’ve had enough to do with today. Just in desperate need for a nap. Yet, you know you can’t sleep yet. Especially not here. But Gods.. you want to. You definitely need to. You’re not sure how long it’s been since you last slept.

“Y/N.” Charles calls. With a small hum of acknowledgement, you force your eyes open, looking up towards him. “You head back to camp.. I’ll stick around here.” Nodding along blankly, you force yourself to stand up again. Yawning widely as you step fully out of the trading post, passing John and Charles, giving each of them a pat on the shoulder and a small nod to Abigail, shuffling back to your horse and mounting up, setting off into the night.

The lingering burden of finding food for camp weighs on your mind. But, as you slowly trek through the dark forests, you find nothing. You could blame it on your exhaustion or the dark..or some sort of noise, but there’s nothing around. Not a soul except you. It nearly snaps you awake, feeling a chill creep down your spine and the feeling of eyes on you. Clicking your tongue off the roof of your mouth, commanding your horse to speed up. You don’t want to be out for any longer than you need to.

But, as you come back to camp, the ride feels shorter. Dismounting your horse with an exhausted sigh, hitching up the reins to one of the rails, right next to Gwydion, Trelawny’s horse. Not feeling like dealing with the magician at the moment, your eyes flick around camp until you spot Hosea on his bedroll. You offer him a shrug, signifying you didn’t find anything, earning a solemn nod in response.

Hearing the growls and hisses from young Jenny, Mac, and Davey, your day ends just as it started. Laying down on your bedroll, your muscles aching and your skin slick with sweat. Though, unlike last night, you allow sleep to claim you and hope that, at some point, things will be okay again.

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#rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x male reader #john marston x male reader #undead nightmare #undead nightmare 2

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