#i can’t see you in pain. mercy kill.

[tennessoui]

There are so many lines in the Hunger Games AU I love but also THIS TAG: he has to write the girl's name on his hand so he doesnt forget it If you ever expand this I will be sooooo excited. The tone and dark Anakin is just A+++

hunger games au anakin is like the most tunnel vision anakin ever he is like “you are not integral to my love story I don’t even know who you are” he kills like 10 people the first day he’s known as the Betrayer because he makes a bunch of Allies before going into the arena and kills them all

Some guy from district 1 captures the girl from anakin’s district and tries to use her as leverage like “if you take a step closer I’ll slit her throat you wouldn’t risk that would you? Not your love!”

and anakin probably like covered with the blood of other tributes is like (deadpan) “you kill her, you die” (telling a fact not dependent on the implied if but just a statement of events)

and the girl is like no don’t do it he won’t care (telling the truth)

But obviously the other guy has heard so much about their romance that he really thinks he has the upper hand and then anakin takes a step forward, and the guy solves a lot of anakins problems right then and there 😌

Especially when he dies and there’s only a few other players left in the game (you know, 2 days in)

[fair-dinkum-mechanic]

I’ve gone from being terrified that this allergic reaction is going to kill me to hoping that tonight it suffocates me in my sleep.

[xazse]

So about the Shouki no Kami x reader, while we're fighting Scaramouche's boss we get injured and some pieces of our clothes are already ruined, causing Scaramouche to feel umm. Yk 🫣

HUMILIATION

Synopsis: Your ruined clothing definitely catches Scaramouches attention.

Notes: Hi I enjoyed writing this, I must tell you that it’s completely consensual and reader was free to leave whenever she pleased but chose to indulge in scaras antics! + I do have other requests but they are just asking for a part 2 of something, I’d love to work on it but id rather work on some new stuff.

Pairings: Scaramouche x fem!reader

Warnings: Pussy eating + crying + manhandling + mean!Scara + dom!scara + overstimulation + smut + not proofread + creampie + begging

“Die insolent woman, you’ve been a pain in my side for the longest.”

Scaramouche points Shouki no Kami’s hand at you, he can’t choose which way he wants to kill you, with all the elements in his very hands it’s hard. He wants to make you suffer for as long as possible: wants your screams to fill the room as you beg for mercy, maybe you’ll even cry he’d enjoy that the most.

He bares you one more final look your face dirty and ragged, coughing up your own blood, his eyesight falls a little lower and he pauses. Your shirt was ripped with large tear; exposing your bra, it’s white and basic but nonetheless he can see the fat of your boob spilling out: clearly the bra doesn’t fit you as well as you think it does. Your shorts are a tattered mess as well.

He halts the beam to stare and maybe even admire you a little, He won’t lie and say he hasn’t felt a little bit of attraction at just how desperate you are to kill him, every battle you’ve had with him ends with him fleeing after taking a damaging hit or he’s managed to knock you unconscious, why he hadn’t killed you those times is because he’d wanted you to live with the humiliation, but now that he’s in the final steps of his plan he no longer sees the need to toy with you.

Looking at you longer starts to stir some of those lewd feelings he knows he shouldn’t have for you, it’s merely sexual nothing romantic, he deems you aren’t on his level for him to see you that way, doesn’t matter you’ll be dead in a few.

But… Ever since becoming sentient and reaching the age of maturity, Scara hasn’t laid with any women. As a way of relief when he was alone he’d find himself grabbing and groping at his cock, such a thing had an impact on his body and mind it aggravated him that men had to go through that, it did feel pretty good though when he reached his peak.

He supposes in this moment that you’d be the perfect specimen for him to have sex with, you should be honored you’ll be the first woman to take what humans call his virginity.

You attempt to grab your pole arm but find it getting knocked all the way across the room with just a flick of the giant robots finger. You feel completely defenseless, at least the comfort of knowing you went down with a fight will provide some relief, you close your eyes as you await your death.

Footsteps can be heard behind you, the bastard wants to kill you with his own hands? His steps are slow and steady as he approaches you, when he finally does he kicks you over you groan in pain at just the force of the kick, you’re now on your stomach when he sits down and puts his entire weight on your back.

“I’d kill you right now but I have other uses for you”

“Just get it over with” you seethe through clenched teeth

“And miss the chance to further humiliate you? I don’t think so. I could kill you right now or I could fuck you then let you leave orrrr you can leave and run back to your family with your tail inbetween your legs. Your choice either way you’ll die sooner or later it doesn’t matter to me”

Your lip quirks upwards and you resist the urge to burst out laughing

“Not so popular with the women? Knew you were a hopeless virgin,” you giggle a little before continuing “is that why youre so hell bent on destruction? You just needed some pussy?”

Scaramouche’s expression darkens but you can’t see that, he won’t allow you to.

“You’ve got a mouth on you, always have.” “I think that’s why breaking you down has been so fun”

You shrug “I’ll indulge you Scaramouche” you huff out, “I don’t need to guide you through it right?” You tease.

“No need, I’ll have you crying on my cock begging for more.” He tears off the remainings of your shirt, your shorts are next as he descards the fabrics somewhere else, you aren’t getting those back you sigh loudly.

He places his hand under your stomach in a way you’re arching: ass up and face smooshed into the cold hard floor. You don’t process it as quickly as you should but next thing you know you can feel the cool open breeze on your parts, bastard even ruined your underwear. He admires you once again, staring at your cute cunt as it’s begging to be filled and fucked, he’ll give you just that.

First he decides that he wants to taste you, wants to figure out why people enjoy pussy as much as they do.

He bends down a little, having him eye level with your cunt makes you feel a little embarrassed and your body a little hot, you’ve never been eaten out before if he does- you lurch forward when his tongue licks a stripe up. He thinks he didn’t really get a good taste so he licks another, and another until he’s full on licking and sucking directly on your hole.

“Ohh..mnh-“ you use your hand to close your mouth, you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. But fuck does it feel so good, he hasn’t even found your clit yet and you don’t think you’ll be able to hold back anything.

He starts getting messy with his tongue work, it was messy before but now it feels dirty. You know you’re becoming wetter by the second and he isn’t wasting even a second to lick up the essence that leaks out. This position isn’t doing it for him anymore so he flips you onto your back, immediately he dives right back into sucking, when he accidentally brushes over your clit and sees the sweet whine that slips past he does it again to make sure he heard you right, tracing over the bud you once again make the noise but even sweeter.

“Scara-Ah..ngh”

His arms wrap around your thighs, he doesn’t even seem the least bit bothered that you’re caging his head in, he’s completely in tune with sucking on your wet sloppy clit. All you can do is take it and cry small whimpers of his names, you don’t know whether you want him to stop the pleasure or continue it.

His shorts begin to constrict as he starts to grow hard, they feel tight around him and he feels the need to loosen them up, his hand dips below his waist and into them, his fingers grope his cock roughly, the damn thing definitely has a mind of its own as established earlier. It’s already leaking precum into his hands.

He stands up on his knees, you obediently don’t close your legs, leaving them wide open, a little bit of licking has your eyes clouded and lusty, he thinks you definitely now deserve to feel the stretch of his cock.

He tugs his waistband just below his heavy balls, you stare openly too, he’s fucking big, you had never expected that from his small stature. He knows he is too with the condescending smirk on his face, clearly proud of what he has. It’s more thick than it is long, girth was not lost on him, you advert your gaze fully.

“What are you doing? Look at me clearly woman, none of that shy stuff now.” He leans in and pulls your bra down, useful for later he supposes.

He stokes himself a few times, making sure your eyes are trained on every stroke and every dribble of pre that cascades down his length. He taps his cock against your clit eliciting a sharp rise in your chest. His cock is placed against your wet hole and pushes in, he only gets a little past the tip before you’re whiny voice picks up and telling him to stop for a moment, he does obey to let you breathe.

As he sits and waits he can feel just how hot you are, he bets putting it even deeper will have him seeing stars.

He starts pushing in again, repeating the words relax as you tense up every so often, he isn’t going to fucking kill you. Your tight cunt starts to slowly adjust and pull him in, it gets warmer and warmer the deeper he goes.

“You’ve been- mhn..- fucked? How come you’re so damn tight?” It’s clearly starting to affect him, serves the dick right.

It’s not long before he’s got his full hard cock deep inside you, his chest is connected to yours as he lifts up his hips to slam right back down into you.

“So… ooh my god” his hips can’t stop fucking into you, your gummy walls just adds so much more stimulation, it’s filthy and gross the loud sounds of his balls slapping against your ass or your equally lewd moans of his name drive everything so much higher. His chest is rubbing against your nipples when he goes up and down, they feel raw and extra sensitive adding ontop of the pleasure.

He’s using you like a damn toy to reach his peak, it feels different than when he would use his hands, his balls feel heavier and he feels the need to empty them, empty them right inside your sopping cunt.

You take your fingers and begin rubbing wildly at your clit.

He’s been hitting a certain spot inside of you, but when he inches his hips a way, he hits it directly.

“Pleas- please again-“ “deeper-deeper Scara.”

It’s embarrassing how you’re full on crying it feels so good, too good, you can’t help but cry from the amount of pleasure you’re feeling, no man you’ve ever come across has had his size nor the way he keeps hitting that spot.

He gives you one more stroke and you whine his name the loudest since he had you bent over on all fours. Your pussy gushes and cums around his cock, that nasty white ring shines so much when he looks at where you’re connected for a slight moment but he quickly returns to your face: mouth slightly agar as you take wide gulps of air from just how powerful that orgasm was.

You weakly try to slide up and slip his cock out of you, he’s quick to slam right back in to the hilt.

“That’s not fair, I haven’t came yet, I think you can spare a few more hours” he taps your cheek lightly in a mocking manner.

“You can can’t you?” He purrs out so seductively.

“I’can” you slur out slowly looking so fucked out and In scaras terms ready for another orgasm just like that one.

He keeps fucking into you, even if his cock is soaked in just your cum, or when he switched positions to him standing and holding you with your arms wrapped around his neck whilst he fucks up into your pussy. The floor decorated with your juices just drive him to keep ruining you. When he finally does cum it’s mind-blowing, he bites down so hard on your neck that you think it drew blood. It muffles his loud groan as his balls constrict and he’s filling you with his load, you think the virgin will stop and be one and done but he isn’t, he pauses to breathe but starts bouncing you up and down on his cock all over again.

Scaramouche thinks he actually wants you alive, wants to keep feeling your hot pussy milk him nonstop, he’s interrupted in his thoughts with you weakly begging for more, you’re so fucking gross, wanting to be filled with more of his cum regardless of your hatred for him.

[misc-obeyme]

Demon Brothers as Subs Headcanons

Almost didn't post this 'cause I'm feeling self conscious about it for some reason. So here's me being brave. I told y'all I was in a smut phase. I'm so sorry. Just gonna drop this and run, see ya.

GN!MC x the demon brothers

Side Characters as Subs Bros as Doms

NSFW MDNI

Note: There are a lot of warnings, but most of this stuff is just briefly mentioned. These are headcanons of things they'd be into.

Warnings: Dom!MC, bondage, blindfolds, gags, toys, praise, humiliation, degradation, spanking, edging, orgasm denial, collaring, begging, dacryphilia, role play, voice kink, dirty talk, biting, hair pulling, exhibitionism, shibari, food play, hot wax, breath play, blood kink, somnophilia. I THINK THAT'S IT.

Lucifer

He won’t do it until he’s comfortable with you. It takes some time, a little coaxing, and constant reassurance. You have to earn his trust if you want to see him being vulnerable. Once he’s agreed, though, you find him surprisingly compliant. He’s ready to take every order, easily falling into the role of obedience.

Once he’s fully comfortable with you, Lucifer likes to release all control. He wants to be told what to do, to surrender fully. He loves to be restrained. He enjoys watching you take the time to tie him up carefully. He’ll surprise you by requesting a gag. He likes to feel a bit helpless, like he can’t even speak to you, completely at your mercy. He appreciates a blindfold for the same reason.

Just as he wants you to give him orders, he wants you to enforce them, too. If he fails to do what you ask, he wants you to punish him for it. Lucifer has a high pain tolerance but a low humiliation tolerance. Pulling him over your knee for a spanking would be effective, but he might ask you to use an implement simply because he knows your hand won’t be enough. If he does manage to say anything about it, though, he’s blushing and refusing to look at you because the embarrassment is really the worst part. If you do punish him, it won’t be long before he’s whimpering in your lap, promising to be good and begging you to touch him.

Lucifer will swear you to secrecy. If you ever tell anyone, MC, especially his brothers, about any of the things he says and does during these times, he’ll kill you himself. These are empty threats, of course, because he wouldn’t do any of this at all if he didn’t trust you to keep it to yourself. He just feels the need to threaten you about it because it makes him feel better.

Mammon

He doesn’t have as much of a hang up about this and will readily agree to sub for you if you ask him. He’s going to be slightly embarrassed about it, but not enough for it to be an issue. And once you get into it, his embarrassment dissipates because he’s so focused on how good you make him feel.

Mammon is the one with a praise kink. He doesn’t like punishments and is far more likely to respond well to positive reinforcement. If you want to rile him up any time and any place, all you have to do is call him a good boy. He might even do things for you without you asking just to see if you’ll say it.

He also enjoys being tied up. He likes to feel that he’s entirely in your hands. He isn’t too fond of gags because he likes to be vocal. He’s always babbling the whole time you’re doing anything with him and it’s usually all begging. If you tell him to be quiet, it will be difficult for him. And anyway, it’s far more satisfying listening to him cry and whine and repeat your name over and over.

Mammon likes to be considered your property. If you want to collar him, he’s happy to wear it. He doesn’t care who sees it and if someone asks, he’ll tell them about it proudly.

While praise is his preference, he’ll be okay with a little humiliation, too. Please talk dirty to him, MC. Call him your little slut and he’ll be agreeing with you and asking for more.

He loves accessories and toys. Put that man in a harness, give him a cock ring, or one of those shiny bejeweled anal plugs. He loves to dress up for you, especially if it's in something sparkly or gold.

Also loves to be fucked. Let him sit in your lap and ride you (or your strap) and he’ll lose himself entirely. He won’t last long, but he’s also ready to go again quickly.

Leviathan

Although Levi is clearly the subbiest of subs, he’s also extremely nervous. You gotta calm that anxiety a little bit if you want him to make it through the experience without having a heart attack.

Because of this anxiety, he might not be willing to do it for a little while. He needs a bit of reassurance, to feel fully safe with you, before he’s willing to try it. Make sure you talk to him about everything ahead of time and establish some solid safe words.

Once he’s agreed, though… well, we all know Levi is the one with the humiliation kink. And not just calling him names, he wants you to degrade him. Tell him how useless and gross he is. Just make sure you give him some after care where you tell him that you don’t actually think that way about him. He won’t realize how much it matters to hear you say that until you do.

Alternatively, surprise him by praising him instead. It will shock him so much, he might start to cry. D-do you really mean that, MC?

Turns out, Levi is a bit of crier in general. It’s the embarrassment. He blushes so easily and when you make him feel good, especially in a humiliating way, he can’t help the physical reaction of tears. They’ll end up streaming down his cheeks by the time you’re done.

He’s not sure about punishment at first, but if you suggest it he’s willing to try it out. This can range from orgasm denial to spanking. He’s surprisingly receptive once he gets comfortable with the idea. He might find he prefers to be good, but occasionally he can get really bratty. So you might have to get a bit creative to bring him back in line. When you do, it flusters him so bad he doesn't do anything even remotely brat like for a long time.

Satan

Easily the most stubborn when it comes to getting comfortable enough to sub for you. It’s going to take a lot of trust and reassurance, even more than Lucifer. But eventually, you can convince him.

He will be much more receptive if you include something cute like a cat collar or even a maid dress. He likes the way you react to him and he also just likes to wear those things himself. They make him feel like he can let his guard down a little easier.

Satan does not like humiliation and will not respond well to this. He needs a gentle touch. He loves praise and a little pampering - he will be happy if you focus all your attention on him. He’ll accept a soft dom situation best. Tell him he’s a good boy, but be firm when you need to.

He has a voice kink. Tie him up and blindfold him then read erotic stories or romantic poetry to him. If you really want to rile him up, whisper dirty talk in his ear. He won’t like insults, but he will love to hear you describe what you want to do to him.

Satan also likes pain. Bite him, please, he wants to feel your teeth in his flesh. He likes the way the marks look on him, too, but he’ll insist they only arise in locations he can easily hide. He’s too embarrassed to let anyone else but you see them.

Requires plenty of after care, kisses, and praise. Take care of him well enough and he’ll even suggest it himself next time. But if you ever breathe a word of it to anyone else, he'll be in demon form so fast you won't know what hit you. Be careful because he will turn the tables on you, MC.

Asmodeus

Not even a question. Asmo is ready to do whatever you want, any time. He will sub for you without question, but don’t misunderstand him. He likes doing both and although he’s willing to do just about anything, he still has preferences.

He likes to be worshiped. He’ll indulge you if you want to humiliate him, but he thrives on being told how stunning and beautiful he is. He just wants to hear you say that he’s the only one you’re interested in, whether it’s true or not.

Although Asmo doesn’t have a problem with things that leave marks, he’s hesitant to do anything that could cause lasting issues for his skin. Just be careful with his delicate body, MC! But he’s also willing to let quite a bit slide in the name of feeling good. He does like a little pain with his pleasure and his favorite is hair pulling. Doesn’t leave a mark and it's easily fixed in the after math.

He also enjoys being on display. He always wants to have mirror sex or semi-public sex. If you’re into exhibitionism, he will agree to that readily. Let him perform for you (and anyone else who happens to be around).

Similarly, he’s happy to take orders that involve doing a strip tease or a lap dance. He likes to do role play and will dress up as anything you want. Also loves shibari, tie him up in some beautiful knots, please.

Finds punishments a little funny. He can get a little bit bratty about it. But if you seem like you’re really annoyed with him, he’ll switch to being obedient real quick. But he enjoys things like orgasm denial because oh what a rush! He sees it as a challenge. How much can he take? Far more than you’re likely anticipating.

Beelzebub

He will absolutely sub for you if that’s what you want. A very good boy who is willing to do just about anything to make you happy. He’s not embarrassed about it at all and he’s ready to dive right in.

Generally, he’ll do anything you want. Very easy, very compliant. He likes when you give him orders. He likes when you tell him what to do. He knows that if he does well, you’ll be happy with him and he likes that.

Beel likes praise, but he doesn’t have a problem with humiliation, either. In fact, it’s a little difficult to really humiliate him. He’s not easily embarrassed or flustered, he’s solid and steady, so you’ll have to work hard if that’s what you want. He likes to use a title for you, like master or whatever variation you prefer.

He considers any kind of food play a reward from you. If you involve the usual things like whipped cream or chocolate, he sees it as you doing something special just for him. And he’ll work hard to please you, even more than usual. Thank you for this treat, MC.

He can take a lot. He enjoys pain. Biting, spanking, hot wax, even choking, any of the above will be something he enjoys. He likes that he can feel both pleasure and pain at the same time. It gives him a rush and he gets excited about it, almost without meaning to. Similarly, he enjoys being tied up, blindfolded, or gagged. He likes when you’re in total control of him.

The only thing Beel really doesn’t like is edging. He’s fine with overstimulation, but edging will frustrate him. He can’t take too much of that and will absolutely devolve into begging you for release pretty quickly.

Since he's basically impossible to embarrass, he has no problem telling anyone and everyone what you get up to with him. You might have to be the one to tell him to keep it to himself, he just doesn't understand why anyone would care.

Belphegor

He likes the idea of subbing because he thinks it involves less work for him. But he is by far the brattiest sub of all the brothers. So he’s right because you’re the one with your work cut out for you. Be prepared to become a brat tamer.

He’ll take easy orders, but give him anything too involved and he’ll get petulant. Surprisingly, responds well to you being rough with him. If you’re going to be the dom, he really wants you to dominate him. He likes it when you manhandle him.

Yes okay he likes the breath play. But he also enjoys pain in general. He has a blood kink. Bite him and make him bleed. He’s gonna love any kind of vampire role play, he’ll straight up drink your blood if you want him to.

Belphie wants you to humiliate him. Tell him he’s a dirty whore, use him however you like. If you let him, he'll dish it right back to you, though.

Obviously into somnophilia. Is he asleep when you wanna fuck him? Go right ahead, MC. He doesn’t need to be awake for you to make use of him. Though if you start, he might wake up just so he can get off, too. If that happens, expect him to mouth off at you until you take him in hand.

Belphie is another one who will wear a collar all the time if you want him to. He likes strappy leather things and will gladly wear a harness or any other such items. He doesn’t care too much about blindfolds or gags, but he does like being tied up.

He doesn’t care who knows about the way he submits to you. If you want him to wear a collar, he’ll make sure it’s visible to everyone. Similarly into exhibitionism. It feels like he’s almost daring anybody to say anything about it.

side characters as subs | bros as doms | side characters as doms masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[ovaryacted]

JAGGED EDGE

─ QZ Joel Miller x f! reader || WC: 900

CW: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Age gap implied. Possible dub-con. Rough sex. Degradation. Dom! Joel. Dom/sub elements. Hair pulling. Daddy kink. Joel is a meanie & a big scary man. Ambiguous/toxic relationship.

A/N: This is literally something I wrote and typed out based off of this singular picture that was shown to me. I had to do this, for the people! Proofread by moi.

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

Joel was pissed.

Coming back to the QZ with less supplies than he’d like had him on edge, a shit deal led to two less bullets in the magazine of his gun. A waste of his time, a waste of his energy and whatever fucking else he managed to have left in this dying world.

The parasitic things around him continue to take, and take, and take until he’s a dog fighting for scraps again. He’s already worked for the current rations he has, bribed or killed for the rest, did whatever he had to do just to get by and ignore the stench of rotting bodies he has to dig up and burn. He’s already dealing with enough, he doesn’t need to lose any more of what he had.

At least he had you.

Steady. Solid. Real. The only constant in his world, something so tucked away from other people's grasp they couldn’t tell the difference between their Joel and your Joel. He holds you at arm’s length, just close enough to let you touch him, but far enough to consider you an outsider, another survivor amongst the rest of the poor unfortunate souls that seek purpose with death creeping around every corner.

Though the moments where he grants you closeness, you don’t take it for granted.

Pliant. Malleable. All for him to have and to hold. You’ve come to learn that Joel was a naturally rough man, all of him was. You can’t blame him, he was a product of the losses that haunts him in his nightmares, slowly chipping away at his wavering humanity one death at a time. A predator with razor sharp teeth containing a bite full of jagged edges. You just happened to fit the role of his prey, a lamb that has ventured too far from the herd, ensnared in his grip with no way out. Not that you’d ever want to leave.

His molars grind in his mouth as he growls from behind you, the pistoning of his hips filling the dingy apartment with an audible slap of skin. Large hands kept you pinned by the neck underneath him against the tattered mattress, your nails digging into the comforter as Joel pummeled into the arch of your back. Every brutal thrust he gave you sent you inching higher up on the bed, spine curved to keep your ass high in the air, right where he could see you at your best.

The glistening skin of your pussy wrapped tight around him, clutching at his cock every time he slipped out just to punch back into you with a snarl, your body wishing to keep him inside for as long as he allowed. His heavy balls slammed into your pulsing nub with each resounding drill of his hips, amplifying the sensations and sending you closer to your impending release.

Joel fucks without mercy, his touch as ragged as the rest of him. But this was your Joel, and you loved him in any way he came, in any way he’d allow. After all, you weren’t given any other option.

“Joel, please…” your gasp was followed by a moan, eyes rolling to the back of your skull when the tip of his length kissed your cervix with precision. You shrieked as your head was quickly yanked backward, thick digits pulling on the strands of your hair, now wrapped around an iron fist.

“Please what, hm? What does my fucking slut need from me this time?” He bit harshly beside your ear, the tone of his sharp voice forcing your walls to clench around him.

“I need to cum,” you cried out meekly, his unforgiving pace had your eyes fluttering, wishing you could look at Joel at this angle, but he wouldn’t let you get more than what he decided was enough. He tugged at your head harder, the pain rushing to your sensitive nub between your thighs, throbbing from his intensity.

“What you need is to take what I give you. You fucking got that?” Joel muttered next to your temple, your heart pounding in your ribcage at his command.

“Yes.” Another forceful jerk to his body made you jolt, deepening the curve of your back.

“Yes what?” The gears in your head began to turn, finding the right words in the back of your mind to avoid pissing him off any further.

“Yes daddy.”

He slams you back down to the mattress with a groan, grabbing hold of your hips and fucking into you with such force you know you’ll be left with an ache in your pelvis afterwards. You know he doesn’t mean to be so aggressive, that’s just who he is, it’s within his nature. You understand him despite others viewing him as anything but human. A man with so much blood on his hands shouldn’t have the ability to make you cry for him, to make your body sing and crave him when he deserves nothing of the sort.

Yet when the textured tips of his fingers reach your slick pearl to circle it with intention, sparks fly under your eyelids and you spill around him with a loud wail of his name, tears stinging the corner of your eyes as you fall apart. You’d consider it an act of kindness on his end, the only time you’d ever think the man, or any man, touched you with such reverence.

He’s rough all around, but perhaps you’ve always liked them that way.

©️ ovaryacted 2024. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[bilal-salah0]

Help Ahmed's family

In Gaza today, our families are enduring the most difficult moments, as they face relentless bombardment with all types of weapons, including those internationally banned. The attacks do not distinguish between the young and the old; everyone is a target. Infants, women, and the elderly are being killed without mercy, as if it’s a race to see who can kill the most civilians and innocents. This isn’t just material destruction, but a genocide aimed at erasing humanity itself.

A new tactic employed by the aggressors is starvation. Imagine spending your entire day searching for a place to get food or water. You carry an empty container, hoping to secure something to feed your children. You must arrive early because food runs out quickly, and if you’re late, they simply tell you, “Better luck next time.” You return home with nothing, and you and your children go to bed hungry, clinging to the hope that you might get a meal tomorrow.

This grim picture captures the suffering of the people in Gaza. Look at their faces, notice their eyes; they reflect a deep, overwhelming pain. They are in urgent need of humanitarian support.

One such family is Ahmad’s. They are enduring unimaginable hardship. Please don’t leave them alone in this struggle. Every donation, no matter how small, can make a huge difference. And if you can’t donate, sharing their story and raising awareness about Ahmad’s family can help them reach donors and may be the key to saving them from this genocidal war.

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[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 9

Previous/next chapters found here.

You and Johnny take a walk. CW: domestic abuse, panic attacks, dissociation, drug withdrawal, vomiting.

-

“Holy shit,” Jackie crows at the sight of you, her dark eyes huge and round like twin moons. One of her hands holds the rag she was using to wipe down the countertop of the bar and the other covers her mouth in a dainty expression of horror. “What happened to you?” 

You shake your head, a silent plea not to ask any more questions. The bruises on your face still throb with your pulse, a painful reminder that you are alive when you’re not even sure if you want to be. 

“Rooster’s gonna send you home,” says Jackie. “There’s no way you’ll get tips like this.” 

“No he fucking won’t,” you say through your teeth. A day of not working means a day of no tips. A day of no tips means the stash of money in your locker remains stagnant. If there was one thing you had learned on Saturday, it’s that your time with your boyfriend is coming to an end, one way or another. Either he will kill you, or you will kill him, or will finally scrape together the means to leave. 

You’ve got your eye on an apartment across town. One with copious natural lighting, one with a small but open floor plan. It would be more than enough for you. It would be everything.

Jackie sees the fire in your eyes—either that or you’ve gone and scared her—because she calls over Ruth to cover for you both and takes you into the break room, grabbing a bag of cosmetics out of her locker and doing her best to cover up your bruises. She gives you her jacket to cover the ones on your arms, the tiny circles caused by fingertips. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, feeling like there’s something stuck in your throat.

“We gotta stick together,” she says, shrugging a shoulder. “I can’t work here alone. Not with just Ruth to talk to all day, and Rooster strutting around—“

“I know I didn’t just hear what I thought I heard,” a male voice says, the break room door flinging open and startling you both. Ruben stands there, his cowlick looking remarkably like a rooster’s comb. Your manager hates being called Rooster (which seems to make the problem all the worse), but the likeness is just too canny. “Why is Ruth out on the floor alone?”

“Girl stuff,” Jackie says with open malice. “You wanna hear about my monthly cycle, Ruben?”

He scowls, recoiling. “Just—wrap it up ladies. And wash your hands.”

“Jesus,” Jackie mutters once Rooster is gone and the door behind him is safely shut. “Men are so fucking weak.” 

The bruises on your face throb at her words. Men feel pretty fucking strong to you. 

-

“Yer outta yer mind if you think I’m eating that,” Johnny slurs, head in his hand where he sits slumped at the kitchen table. His entire body throbs, stomach wracked with nausea as he stares down at the eggs in front of him. 

“You need to eat,” Simon says, firm and quiet. Just the sound of his voice makes tears fill Johnny’s eyes—but that’s all his eyes do these days. Water. It’s the withdrawal, he knows. It makes him feel like crawling out of his own skin would be a mercy, like he’s suffering from the worst flu he’s ever had: puking and shitting his guts out, body aches from hell, eyes and nose running constantly. Combine that with the tension with Simon and it’s like he’s living in a nightmare he can’t wake up from; except even in his worst dreams, Simon had never done something like this. Even in his worst dreams, Simon had been a hero to him. 

“Can’t trust you,” Johnny mutters.

Simon reaches out, the motion a little too sudden and unexpected. Johnny flinches. 

When Simon moves again, it is slower, with obvious purpose as he takes Johnny’s fork, spears a bite of his eggs, and brings it to his own mouth. 

Somewhat mollified, Johnny picks up the fork and begins pushing the eggs around on his plate, just to make Simon shut up. Even if he knows the food isn’t poisoned, he still doesn’t have an appetite. 

Then Simon sets a green pill beside his plate, and all it does is set Johnny off again. 

“Get that away from me,” snarls Johnny. 

“You can’t just quit cold turkey. They’re opioids, Johnny. It could kill you to stop.” 

Fury swells up inside him, the edges of his vision bleeding black. Johnny shoves the half plate off of the table. It shatters against the linoleum, a sound which makes Simon flinch. For the moment, it satisfies Johnny’s need for control, his need for retribution. His need for violence. “I hope it does,” he grits out on a whim. “Don’t you pretend that you care.” 

The table creaks under Simon’s weight as he places his palms against it and leans forward, his face stormy. “I fucking love you. Everything I ever do is because I love you so fucking much—“

“Oh, right,” Johnny scoffs. 

“—yeah, right, I’ve been killing myself to keep you alive and safe and happy—“

“And you’ve been doin’ a shit job!” Johnny shouts, face reddening. 

Simon goes quiet and stiff. Johnny doesn't believe for a moment that he’s gone too far. Simon is the one who went too far the moment he dumped the crushed oxycontin into Johnny’s juice. Everything else is fair game. 

Before they discharged together, Johnny would have thought that Ghost’s face beneath the mask was just as stoic. Now he knows better, knows that Simon wore the mask to conceal a face which too often wore its emotions so plainly. 

He looks sad. Angry. And for a moment Johnny thinks Simon might even hit him. It would be welcome, Johnny thinks. He would be glad to have a bruise to point to, to be able to say ‘Here is where you hurt me’ instead of all of his bruises being on the inside. But instead Simon just turns away and goes into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. 

After a moment, Johnny hears the balcony door open and shut too as Simon puts as much distance between them as physically possible. 

Well, Johnny thinks, looking toward his slip on shoes. I can do you one better.  

-

By the time you are clocking out, there is a message from Simon on your phone. Since poker night, there have been a few days of radio silence from the apartment next door—and you don’t even want to know the things they might have heard coming from your own apartment. You’ll be happy to see Johnny again, to know that Simon is getting to take a few brief minutes for himself, even if that’s all you can give him. 

But when you open the message, your stomach drops: Johnny is missing. Have you seen him? sent nearly thirty minutes ago. You slam your locker shut, clenching the phone in your hand as you slip back out to the front of the restaurant, already bringing up the interface to call Simon, to hear what has happened and to find out how you can help. 

It isn’t needed. 

Johnny is sitting in the booth in the corner. Your heart swoops, takes your guts with it. You carefully make your way to his booth, noting the sweat on his forehead that he is mopping away with a napkin, noting the way his arm trembles. He looks thinner than ever. He looks sick. 

He smiles at you. 

“Are you off work? Did I catch you at the perfect time?” Johnny wonders. 

“You did,” you say cautiously, slipping into the booth.

“Good. I want to take you somewhere.” 

“Maybe we should go back to your apartment. Simon is pretty worried about you.” 

Johnny’s face darkens, visible storm clouds rolling in. It makes your stomach turn over, anxious. “Simon doesn’t worry about anyone but himself.” He stands, shaking a little, and holds out his hand to you. Nothing else you can do, you take it, careful not to pull him over as you stand out of the booth. 

-

The place Johnny takes you is a park nearby. It’s one that is handicap accessible, something which you’ve been taking notice of more and more often lately. The sidewalks are smooth and wide, the bathrooms are roomy, and there are plenty of benches (such as this one) for you and Johnny to sit down on when his leg aches from walking so far. 

Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. The first thing you had done was text Simon that Johnny was with you and he was okay. You could feel the buzz of multiple messages, but you hadn’t brought the phone out yet to check them, not with Johnny’s focus on you. You could sense that Simon was a sore spot right now. 

You didn’t want to make Johnny angry. 

So the two of you sit on a bench in dappled sunlight, the sweat cooling on both of your bodies. 

Johnny leans over and vomits. 

“Jesus Christ,” you say, scooting close to him to rub at his back. “Are you alright?” 

“Detoxin’,” he mutters, wiping the back of his mouth with a napkin he brought from the diner. “Don’t worry about it.” 

You’re pretty fucking worried about it. Detoxing from what, you wonder, as Johnny sits up, leaning back heavily against the park bench, close enough that you can count his eyelashes. He takes several deep, steadying breaths, and you take the stolen moment to look at him. His jaw is sharper than ever, cheekbones sharp, circles beneath his eyes, but he is undoubtedly handsome. The thought startles you; you haven’t had such a thought about a man in years. 

Johnny’s eyes open, blue as the sky, and rake over your face.

“Yer makeup job isn’t very good,” says Johnny at length. 

Your heart skips a beat. You turn away and watch a woman pass with her dog, a shepherd. Wetting your lips, you can’t think of anything to say. Johnny’s hand appears out of the corner of your eye and you flinch away from the touch before taking note of the shape of his hand: open, with soft fingers meant to caress instead of hurt. Baffled by this gentle touch, you let him stroke his thumb along the shadow of a bruise visible beneath Jackie’s makeup. It makes you shiver, like a cold breeze has blown in. 

“What was his excuse?” Johnny asks. “Or did he even have one?”

“What did Simon tell you?” 

“Everything. Already suspected most of it. He beats on you, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” you mutter. 

How long has it been since someone knew? No—not since someone knew. Since someone cared? Since someone confronted it head on and called it what it was? Jackie knew—she had to know—but other than taking the heat for you about some texts on your phone and helping you cover up the bruises, she never made any motions to acknowledge it. Your family had known, before they cut off contact with you for good, but they were terrible creatures in themselves. 

You thought that maybe Simon had known, too. 

People seemed to have a limited capacity for caring about others. Or maybe they just had a limited capacity for caring about you. 

“I want to help you,” says Johnny, earnest. 

You can’t help but look at him with suspicion. “Why?” 

“Because it’s wrong, what he’s doin’,” says Johnny simply. “Because we’re supposed to cherish the people we love. Because no one deserves this, least of all you.” 

Your hands work anxiously in your lap. He says the right things—but you’ve always been a sucker for pretty words. 

“The last time a man wanted to help me escape a bad situation, it was so he could put me into a worse one,” you admit. Johnny’s face falls, hurt splashing across his features, and you feel it keenly, like it is your own. You’re quick to assure him: “I want to trust you.” 

The rest remains unspoken: you don’t know if you can. 

“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them,” says Johnny with a wane smile. 

“Hemingway said that.” 

“Aye. You like to read?”

“Yes, but not Hemingway.” 

Johnny laughs, a bright sound that has your mouth curling upward. Smiling isn’t unfamiliar to you, not when you must plaster one on all day to have any chance at all of making tips, but it’s been a while since it’s been genuine. Maybe that’s why it feels so strange. Maybe when it’s real, it uses different muscles. 

“If you were going to help,” you begin cautiously, giving an awkward smile to an older couple as they shuffle by, pausing and waiting for them to be gone before you continue, “how would you do it? I’m…I’m in deep. He’s got videos.” 

“Videos.” Johnny’s jaw has clenched tight, his eyes hard and cold. 

“Of me.” 

“Aye, I assumed. So he’s blackmailing you.”

You shrug a shoulder, eyes on your scuffed work shoes. 

“What if I could make him disappear?” Johnny asks quietly. 

You glance up. “How?” 

It’s his turn to shrug, an expression of feigned indifference. A little smile tugs at his lips. “An accident. Any accident, really.”

You finally understand him, and at first you laugh, grin tugging at the bruises on your face until his own solemn expression barely changes, and then your laughter dies on your tongue. 

“Johnny what the fuck,” you whisper. “You’re joking, right? I—Jesus Christ. I have to pretend that was a joke. You’re talking about murder, and—

—and I’m the first person they’d suspect!”

“That’s why it would have to look like an accident,” Johnny emphasizes.

“You’d be risking my freedom, my life—“

“I’d never let you take the fall—“

“Then you’re putting your own life at risk—why would you—fuck you don’t even know me!”

Johnny’s face goes red and he says nothing. Your teeth click shut with how fast you shut your mouth. You’re embarrassing him, making him angry—that much is clear. Maybe he expects you to be grateful, (and there is a part of you, small, which is flattered, as nonsensical as it is), but mostly all you are is scared shitless. 

Johnny talks about killing the way most people talk about getting lunch. 

“I forget that you don’t know about our past,” Johnny says, seeming to shrink into himself as he leans back against the bench, running a hand through his mohawk. “Simon n’ me. We’re ex-military. I don’t even want to guess at our combined body count. I—lass. I’m scaring you.”

“No,” you lie soothingly. Your hands clench together to keep them from shaking and giving you away. “No, no—I’m fine, I just remembered, I was supposed to give Jackie some gas money. She gave me a ride the other day. I should probably go—“

“I’d never hurt you, I swear it,” says Johnny fervently, sitting up tall. He reaches for your hand and you want to scream but you go limp instead, like a rabbit caught in a dog’s jaws, playing dead. He takes your hand and pets it softly. You barely feel it, mind far away. 

“It’s okay,” you soothe him emptily, hoping to placate him enough to get away. “I’m fine, I promise.”

Johnny seems to realize what you’re doing. He gently lays your hand back in your lap.

He says, quiet: “I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot.” 

You can’t talk anymore, shell-shocked, terrified. There was a time when you were good at this: good at appeasing the beasts inside men. You could soothe your boyfriend’s bad mood in a heartbeat with just a touch or a few words. But over time it had become more and more difficult, and you had become more and more afraid. Now no matter how hard you try, your efforts feel stunted and lame. 

Johnny is talking, low voice rushing over you like the current of a warm river.  

“—in public, aye? Would be a fool to hurt you here, wouldn’t I?” he asks, voice soft. He has moved to the far end of the bench until a gaping chasm rests between you both, one you are grateful for. It gives you the space to breathe, your chest throbbing. “All these people around—someone would stop me. You’re safe, lass. Take a breath fer me. Aye, and another—good girl, that’s it. Doing so well. Strong one, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” you croak, feeling uncomfortably tethered to your own body, to the burning of your eyes. You reach up and wipe at them before the tears can fall. Beside you, Johnny sits quietly. Several minutes pass, and each person who walks by the bench seems to bring you more and more security, until you are safe enough to feel silly and embarrassed by your own overreaction. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Don’t be sorry,” says Johnny. “It was my fault. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I won’t…I won’t bring that up again. I guess it’s pretty stupid. Simon’s been telling me so all along.”

“Are you two fighting?” 

Johnny snorts. “You could say that. He did something…something terrible. I don’t know how to trust him anymore.” 

“Do you still want to trust him?” 

“Aye,” says Johnny, voice nearly carried away by the breeze. “In the service, I trusted him with anything. Everything. My whole miserable life. Never wanted that to change.”

“Someone once reminded me that the best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them,” you say. 

“Sounds like a fucking cunt.”

“Hemingway or you?”

“Both.”

You have just relaxed back onto the bench, tilting your face toward the sun to offer it another one of your rare smiles when a shadow falls over the two of you both. 

[shanastoryteller]

Sam seems convinced this is going to work, but Dean’s pretty sure it’s just a load of crap. Bobby’s even more convinced that it’s a whole lot of nothing, although he had admitted that he couldn’t read every symbol that Sam had added to this mess up devil’s trap. That didn’t mean it would work. It just meant that Sam had thrown everything he could think into it.

The real reason that Dean is going along with this, and probably Bobby is too, is because it means that Sam wouldn’t be alone after Dean is dragged to hell. Although standing in the middle of Bobby’s junkyard in a mess of spray paint isn’t exactly how he’d wanted to spend the last hour of his life.

“You really think Lilith is going to show?” he asks. He doesn’t know why she would. She just has to send the hellhounds, who’s howls and yips Dean has been hearing for days. And those things have never been stopped by any sort of devil’s trap.

“Yes,” Sam says, tense, not looking at him.

That’s another thing. For weeks Sam has barely looked at him, barely talked to him. Which sucks, because he’d really wanted to spend the last weeks of his life just looking and talking to and spending time with his brother, but Sam hadn’t been interested in that. At all.

He shares a look with Bobby, who just shrugs, hands tight on his shotgun.

Then the hellhounds come, just like he knew they would, no Lilith in sight. “Sammy,” he says, reaching out for his brother. Not because he thinks he can do anything, but because he wants to touch Sam one last time, one last memory to sustain him through hell.

Sam snaps out his hand and the hellhounds go skittering back, letting out pained yowls.

Dean stares, not understanding. “What did you – wait. You can see them?”

Only he should be able to see them. He’s the one that made the deal.

Sam still won’t look at him, damnit, even as Dean fists his hand in the back of his shirt. Sam's voice is low and pained when he says, “I’m sorry.”

Fear clenches in his gut. But before he do anything, there are demons surrounding the devil’s trap, appearing one by one in Bobby’s junkyard. They’d needed to take down his protections so Lilith could get in, but they hadn’t expected this. Of course she brought a freaking audience.

“Which one of you is Lilith?” he barks out, dragging Sam behind him. He refuses to let the last thing he sees be his brother hurt, or worse.

Dozens of demons stand there, human vessels with pitch black eyes. The hellhounds whimper and slink around them, but don’t seem interested in getting any closer. Dean can’t blame them.

Sam pries his hand off of him, stepping away before Dean can grab onto him again. He leaves the safety of the devil’s trap, which is fucking stupid. Dean’s lunging forward to stop him, but then there’s Bobby’s arm holding him back, face pale with a horror Dean doesn’t understand. He hadn’t looked like that even at Cold Oak, when they’d seen the gates open to hell.

The demons bow.

He blinks, not understanding what he’s seeing.

Sam is standing there in front of them, no protections, and they’re all bowing to him.

Except one.

Ruby is there, stupid red leather jacket and blonde hair and the smirk he hates so much. She walks around the demons up to Sam, who’s face is cold and expressionless. “She’s coming.”

“I know,” he says. “If this doesn’t work, I’m going to kill you.”

“Promise?” she returns. “If this doesn’t work, death will be a mercy.”

Dean tries to push Bobby off of him, to get in between Sam and this bitch, but he doesn’t let go.

Then there’s a little girl in a white dress, head tilted to the side. “Something here belongs to me.”

Ruby flinches, stepping just slightly behind Sam.

“Not you,” she sneers. “You haven’t belonged to me in a long time, I fear. You really think that this boy can save you?”

“Sam,” Ruby says.

He sighs, like this is a trial, and raises his hand.

Lilith’s sneer drops from her face. Her upper body yanks forward, but her legs won't move. “You bastard,” she snarls, raising her hand in return, but nothing happens.

For the first time, fear flickers across her face.

Ruby steps forward, her own terror swallowed up by arrogance, by delight.

Dean tries to move, but finds he’s just as frozen as Lilith, even more so. He can’t twitch a single muscle. Going by Bobby’s unnatural stillness next to him, he assumes he’s in the same boat.

“Samuel is the heir of the light bringer,” Ruby says. “He has taken his birthright. You can’t touch him.”

What’s she talking about? What birthright?

What has Sam done?

“No,” Lilith snarls. “He’s nothing more than one of Azazel’s experiments.”

“A night, a full day, and then morning,” Ruby says. “That’s what he was. Then he rose on the third day.” She shoots a mocking look his way. “If it weren’t for his brother, he would have died nothing more than a failed experiment. But he has risen.”

No. What does that mean? What’s she saying? He had just wanted Sammy back.

Did he do this? Is this his fault?

“Ruby,” Sam says, a note of warning in his voice.

“Right, right,” she sighs. Then, back to gleeful, “Her eyes.”

Sam’s finger twitches and Lilith’s eyes bleed black tears.

She screams, the sound even worse because her vessel is a child.

Ruby lists thing after thing, pulling out her fingernails, peeling her skin. Her blood is black, none of it red, and the injuries shouldn’t really be hurting her but they clearly are. Dean watches helplessly as Sam tortures Lilith at Ruby’s command, enacting one terrible thing against her after another.

Lilith lies there, moaning, limbs broken, body in pieces.

“That’s enough,” Sam says.

“Enough?” Ruby hisses, turning to face him. “You know what she did to me! She – she–”

Sam’s stoic mask breaks, creasing in sympathy. Dean would prefer it wasn’t for a demon, for Ruby, but at least he now recognizes his brother. He raises his free hand to her head, his touch an oddly gentle counterpoint to everything he’s done to Lilith. “I know. But it’s enough.”

Tears glint in her eyes, just for a second, then she swallows and nods, stepping away from Sam’s hand.

He steps forward, crouching in front of Lilith. “You shouldn’t have come after my brother. Now we both have to live with the consequences.” His mouth twists. "So to speak."

Whatever she would have said in response is lost in her screams. Black smoke pours from her, then lights up, like a spark in steel wool, the fire moving through her reminding him almost of the Colt.

Lilith dies. Sam kills her, no Colt, no devil’s trap. Nothing but his own terrifying powers.

“Will you bow to me now?” he asks.

Ruby tears her eyes from Lilith’s corpse and her irritating fucking smirk slides back into place. “Now?” She steps closer, tilting her head back almost like she’s about to kiss him, then falls gracefully to her knees in front of him. It looks more like she’s about to give him a blowjob than a form of subservience, but he thinks that for a moment Sam almost seems amused. “I bowed to you first.”

“So you did,” he says softly. He raises his voice. “Move out. Casey. You know your job.”

“Yes, sire,” says one of the demons, voice almost familiar.

Then Sam’s walking away, Ruby just a step behind him. The other demons follow suit, the hellhounds not even glancing at Dean as they get caught up in the procession.

Sam still won’t look at him. He only sees the back of his brother’s head as he leaves him behind

The only demon left is Casey. He knows her, he recognizes her, the demon he’d been trapped with in that city full of sin, the one that Sam had shot and killed. He’d seen him kill her.

She gets to her feet, offering him a smile as she draws closer. “Hello, Dean. I bet you never thought you’d see me again.”

She steps right into the devil’s trap and presses a hand to him and Bobby each. As soon as she touches them, they’re able to move, darting away from her and leaving her stuck in the devil’s trap.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, wishing his voice wasn’t shaking, but he has more important things to worry about.

She turns to face them. “Samuel does not want you to die. He did what he had to do to ensure you wouldn’t.”

“The fuck you talking about?” Bobby asks gruffly.

“I told you back then I was ready to follow Sam,” she says, stepping out of the devil’s trap like it’s nothing, which she definitely shouldn’t be able to do. Bobby hadn't thought that this thing would be able to contain Lilith, but Casey’s nowhere near Lilith’s level. It should work on her just fine.

Bobby’s hand darts out, throwing holy water over her, but it doesn’t so much as steam.

She just looks amused. “That won’t work on me now. Neither will an exorcism, or any of the usual tricks. I have been purified.” She holds out her hand to Dean and it’s the Colt, the one that they’d lost when Bela sold it. “This is the only thing that will kill me now.”

“And you’re just handing it over?” Dean asks.

“I have my orders,” she says steadily. “Samuel wants you to have it.”

His entire body goes gold.

“What do you mean purified?” Bobby asks, shooting Dean a concerned look. “You’re a demon. Purifying you should kill you.”

“And was Lucifer a demon?” she asks. “I have taken the sacrament.”

Dean doesn’t know what that means, but Bobby’s expression shifts from disgust to shock to a horror filled curiosity. “You drank Sam’s blood?”

She did what?

“I have taken the sacrament,” she repeats, lifting her chin. “Samuel purified me.”

How the hell would Sam’s blood do that? Why had she drank it in the first place? She’s a demon, not a damn vampire. Dean pushes those questions aside and instead asks, “How are you even alive?”

“Samuel resurrected me,” she says. First he can kill demons, and now he can bring them back? “He knows we had a rapport and he thought it would be easier if it was me.”

“What would be easier?” he asks. His head is spinning and his heart hurts and he doesn’t understand anything that just happened. At least being dragged to hell would have been simpler.

She presses the Colt into his hands. “Samuel doesn’t want you to die. He knows this will be difficult for you, that you’ll make poor choices. I have my orders. I am to stay with you and keep you alive. We’re going to get to know each other very well, Dean.”

“Like hell,” he says gruffly, hand tightening as he takes the Colt and raises it to her head. “What’s to stop me from killing you?”

“The same thing that will stop you from killing Samuel,” she says and he flinches. “Nothing.”

He stares at her. He can’t bring himself to speak.

“You’ll have to hunt him down the old fashioned way,” she says casually. “But if you can find him, you can kill him. We’re all under orders not to touch you. Samuel won’t stop you if you want kill him. The same way I won’t stop you if you want to kill me.”

“Why?” he asks.

She shrugs. “It’s always been up to you, Dean. He trusts you. If you decide that he must die, then he’s willing to die.”

Dean sold his soul for him. He’s not going to fucking kill him.

But the Sam he sold his soul for wasn’t capable of doing that to Lilith. He wouldn’t have even wanted to be.

“What about your demon lover?” Dean asks, thinking of the priest that Casey had embraced and kissed, the demon she’d begged to spare Dean’s life before Sam had killed them both. “Sam bring him back too?”

Grief chases across her face before she smooths it away. “He will. If I am good, and obedient, and loyal, then Samuel will bring him back for me.”

Dean’s stomach rolls to hear Sam described like that, like some sort of tyrant or king. Like Dad. “You really believe that?”

Casey meets his gaze steadily as she echoes the words she’d said to him in that basement as she spoke of Lucifer, except now she’s talking about his brother. “I have faith.”

[mochiwrites]

It’s dark out.

Moonlight casts a softness over the server that isn’t there during the chaos of the day, creating something uncanny and uncomfortable for a game such as this one; softness. It’s not something that lasts, not something that comes naturally here. And yet the moon remains with its soft glow, gentle light sitting around them all like a blanket.

It’s dark out, and it’s hard to see.

It’s just Skizz and him now, their third no longer tied to this Hell. Grian is stuck between jealousy and relief. There is no break for someone like him, no reprieve or rest. The pain of it all doesn’t stop when his lives run out, when he leaves this place—it only continues. It wraps around him, sinks into his skin, his heart. It digs its claws so deep in him that it leaves a permanent mark on his memory. He’s unable to forget any of it.

He has to tiptoe around Skizz when leaving, avoiding stepping on the arm the guy has thrown out to the side of his body. His loud snores grate on Grian’s sensitive ears, and the quicker he escapes the better. He tucks his wings in close as he climbs the bridges, Mumbo’s ecstatic voice ringing loud in his ears with each creak of wood under his feet. Grian holds onto the railings, but his grip is weak, loose.

He doesn’t need to ask himself where he’s going, or even think about it, really.

When he reaches the last of their bridges, he heads up the mountain. It almost feels familiar, like he’s done it one, two, three times before. Cherry blossoms drift to the ground around him, uncaring of the somber air that Grian carries with him. He almost wants to stop and shout at them, can’t you read the room? I lost my best friend today! But he doesn’t. He ignores the tranquility of the petals, ignores how he squishes some under his feet.

Some chests come into view, right at the center of the mountain. He passes by the three parrots, some bit of him happy to see them untouched. He’d have to fix them up himself if they were damaged (and knowing looks would be sent his way the following morning).

He knows he shouldn’t be surprised that no real infrastructure is up here. No base for safety from the night, a small farm or two. At least he’s learned to put torches down to ward off mobs.

Grian moves closer to the center, finding no one else around. Lizzie probably went off to see Joel, and Jimmy… who knows with him, really. That doesn’t matter much to Grian, not in this world where his brother is dead to him.

His eyes roam over to a pink bed, and ah.

Scar is awake, as if he were waiting for him.

Grian’s feathers ruffle slightly as he avoids making a big deal out of it, stalking toward him. The scarred man doesn’t say anything, simply scoots over some to make some room. Grian is quiet as he pulls the blanket back, sliding into place. In this world, he hates how perfectly he fits with Scar. It makes it hard to hate him, to commit to being enemies with him. How is it that Grian can so easily promise his own flesh and blood that he’ll kill him until he’s out of the game—but he can’t keep to being enemies with Scar for more than a session, if that?

It’d be… so much easier if Grian could just hate Scar. If he could kill him without mercy like he does with everyone else and go back to a world where hating Scar is never a need nor an option.

It’d be safer, if Scar hated him too.

(It would’ve been safer for Mumbo, too.)

Rough fingers card through his hair kindly. Grian burns. Something primal and angry and hurt claws at his chest. He lashes out much like a wild animal would, despite having sought Scar out on his own. “I hate you,” he tries to say, tries to keep any emotion out of his voice, tries to mean it.

(He couldn’t help Mumbo. But maybe here—)

Scar’s gaze softens, lacking any hurt. It only serves to frustrate Grian further. “You don’t.” He sounds so confident, so certain of it, like it’s some kind of universal truth that everyone has accepted except for Grian. “I don’t think you could hate me if you tried.” He’s smug.

“I can, and I do,” Grian argues with him, glaring.

“Mhm, and that’s why we’re best friends, huh?” Scar lifts a brow. “Why you gave me the mace and only wanted to ally with ol’ Scar instead of the Bamboozlers. Or why you’re here in my bed, gripping me like I’ll poof.”

“It was an underhanded kill.” Stop looking at me. “I would’ve done that with anyone.” Stop knowing me. “Your bed is the closest.”

Scar’s fingers in his hair don’t stop, soothing and gentle. It feels wrong. “But you didn’t. You wouldn’t have if it was TJ or Pearl.” His lips curl with amusement, “You can’t fool me with any of that.”

Grian doesn’t answer, and Scar doesn’t push.

Instead, he’s tentatively pulled closer, an arm sliding over his waist. It feels so familiar, in a different home, in a tower. Grian can almost imagine the sound of a llama bleating nearby. He huffs some frustrated noise, and lets the familiarity tug him in. He selfishly takes the comfort Scar gives him, as if they hadn’t been at each other’s throats just a few days ago. But Grian is selfish, and he takes what he wants. Scar is selfless, and is happy to give whatever Grian needs.

He exhales silently, right against Scar’s buttoned shirt. He doesn’t speak, so Scar does it for him, giving him an out. He always gives Grian some kind of door. “I put you back to 100/100 reputation with us.”

Grian can’t help but snort. “Did you put the heart back too?” Contradiction after contradiction.

“Oh, that was only for your name. No offense to Skizz but he and I aren’t like that.” Scar’s hand drifts down to the middle of Grian’s back, right between his wings. “I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” Grian huffs, “might just explode it again if you kill me.”

“Probably. I’ll show it to you anyway.”

Grian rolls his eyes in return. “Better not betray me again then.” It wouldn’t be Scar who does it.

Scar’s eyes hold understanding. Grian almost wants to reach in and tear it out, replace it with the hatred he wants Scar to feel instead. He only digs his fingers into Scar’s shirt. “I’d be a fool to betray you after getting you back today.”

After getting you back.

Grian should be the one saying that. “Whatever,” he mumbles in return. He clings to Scar, allows himself that small mercy, that small kindness. Lips brush his hair.

“Sleep well, G.”

Neither of them say anything more.

[eupheme]

DEADPOOL & WOLVERINE FIC RECS (PART II)

a rec collection of my fave logan and/or wade x reader fics - please give these writers some love! ❤️💛

(these recs are in addition to this post - I intended to combine them but I hit my link limit on the first!)

LOGAN HOWLETT X READER

— a mouse christmas by @guiltyasdave

Before Christmas, you and Logan have an unexpected house guest.

— cardinal by @danidrabbles

At the edge of the world, someone from another keeps you from stepping off.

— come on into my bed with me (i know you want to) by @sceletaflores

you can't sleep, logan left his door open…

— dirty little secret by @silverskyeline

logan finds that you've left him a little gift behind, and he just can't help himself. 

— don't mind me by @/moonlight-prose

you refused to admit that you were smitten with the man who melted your otherwise intelligent mind. you were however…horrible with subtlety. luckily the same could be said for him.

— guard dog by @/elflutters

Nobody would believe how his masculine bravado fell as he let you take control. They didn’t notice how you could dismiss him with a nod of your head, how he would immediately back down from a fight if you told him to drop it. Like a dog with a bone. That’s the thing about Logan. He is protective like a guard dog is  protective. And he is submissive like a guard dog is submissive. Oh, you so enjoy training him.

— i could play the doctor (i could cure your disease) by @sceletaflores

it’s been another six months, and logan needs your help…

— in every lifetime by @pedroscurls

you lost logan in this universe. logan lost you in his. what happens when you both see each other again, but realize that you're both from different worlds?

— kinktober 2024 by @avocado-writing

— kinktober 2024 by @robo-writing

Logan’s got hundreds of years of experience under his belt, and somehow you manage to match him blow for blow.

— manhandle by @embbarnes

Feral-ish Logan is obsessed with you.

— nameless as a river undiscovered underground by @/moonlight-prose

his leather jacket remained a tie between your love and his. the weight of it, the smell of your intertwined scents, all revolved around a relationship he never thought would happen.

— of flesh and bone by @cavillscurls

logan just can’t bring himself to kill a pretty thing like you—even when he’s starving.

— slippin' and slidin' all over you! by @/sceletaflores

logan forgot to fix the ac…

— the animal in the cage by @/silverskyeline

you return each week to watch the stranger in the cage, desire swirling in your mind. there's no way he'd ever look at you too. . . right?

— trapped lies by @wlwloverwrites

Logan has a very hard time hearing the words “I love you.”

OLD MAN LOGAN X READER

— come undone by @nymphoniah

— dust to dust by @/moonlight-prose

when the days are long and he's grown weary of everything, he knows he can find his peace in your body. that is until he brings a whole new understanding to the belt buckle that sits proudly on his waist.

— makeup sex with old man logan by @rqnarok

— my girl by @moonlitbirdie

Logan comes home after a scuffle and you clean him up. He finds a way to thank you.

— my man by @/silverskyeline

he's irresistible in that work suit of his, so much so that you decide to treat him with it on.

— runaway bride by @pedroscurls

on the day of your wedding, you find out that your maid of honor and husband-to-be has been hooking up behind your back... and you run directly into the arms of a stranger to help you cope with the sudden betrayal.

— smoke and ash by @/moonlight-prose

cigar smoke trailed after him with every step, his mouth always desperate for something to wet, something to bite down on. and you with the match between your teeth indulged him every which way.

— twin flames by @/elflutter

Logan wasn’t shy about his thing for pain. He should have known you would like it too. When pain is your only companion, when it can’t even give you the mercy of death, you learn to master it. To love it.

— when things turn green again by @lubdubology

Hoping to mend the pain of your broken heart and bury the memory of your failed marriage, you turn towards the woods. A cabin was left in your name and it’s the exact distraction you were looking for. What you didn’t anticipate is meeting a quiet, ruggedly handsome man along the way who helps you heal.

LOGAN HOWLETT X WADE WILSON

— number one fan by @/silverskyeline

rockstar logan meets popstar wade backstage. what could go wrong?

LOGAN HOWLETT X READER X WADE WILSON

— angel of the morning by @/moonlight-prose

wade has a proposition to offer: he will sit quietly (a complete lie) as logan shows him how fucking you properly is done. only it's not up to logan...it's up to you. his sweet angel of the morning.

— she's your daddy by @/elflutters

— woo, my baby's got me all mixed up! by @/sceletaflores

wade gets to whiskin’ (and logan’s there too)…

if you haven’t read these, you need to! and please support these amazing fics & writers by reading, reblogging & commenting! 💕

[glimmeringtwilight]

Gilded Cage (Part Three)

ok. i'm not going to try to come up with a clever name for this one, this is just. part three. please send an ask or a DM if I missed any CW's! been a while.

Pairing(s): Dottore/Reader, Pantalone/Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

CW: NSFW, drugging (painkillers and other ment), rough sex, biting, threats of mutilation (mild. but it's Dottore), yandere themes, noncon/dubcon, AFAB reader, overstimulation, humiliation

Dottore has been on edge lately. 

You can tell. You can see it in his jaw when he’s sedating you as you lie on the operating table, eyes burning and dark as he stares through you at something presumably only he can see. You can see it in the way his hand sometimes twitches slightly– which bodes terribly for you– as he makes a small incision into your thigh, or your stomach, or your arm.

Most of the time, you think he just cuts into you simply because he can. Because he likes to watch the blood welling from the wound, dripping down your skin. He’s been doing it a lot more lately, sometimes forgetting to sedate you, sometimes forgetting to give you something for the pain, sometimes cutting too deep.

It feels like there’s a storm brewing that you can’t see; curtains drawn so you can’t look out the window and see the magnitude, brace yourself for wind or rain.  

His clones seem to be affected by it, too; usually it’s only ever the younger clones of his that lash out, but even the supposedly older ones are starting to show signs of agitation. You haven’t seen the same test subject twice in what feels like weeks. All of them seem to enter and leave the lab only once– something that should horrify you more than it does, whenever you watch them wheeling the covered bodies past. 

It’s this way for weeks. Dottore stalks around his lab like a harbinger of death, practically oozing poison and malice despite the deceptively calm mask he dons. 

You find out what it is that’s been agitating him when he opens the door to your cell one morning. Not a clone. Not the occasional trembling Fatuus. Him. His eyes burn into you. You can’t make out the emotion in them, but the complete coolness in his expression makes your stomach sink. You wonder, briefly, if he’s going to finally kill you– would that be a mercy, at this point? Killing you? Perhaps not. Knowing him, he’d draw it out. Make it hurt. 

Still, despite the terror that curls its fingers around your throat, you follow him quietly out of the cell and into the lab, staring at the back of his head as you walk and wishing you could read minds so you could at least brace yourself for whatever this is.

The two of you enter the lab and you finally realize what it is that’s crawled under Dottore’s skin, sat at the desk in the corner as though he’s not terribly out of place in the sterile environment. 

Pantalone sits comfortably in one of the chairs near the desk Dottore rarely seems to use, smiling as though he’s received a warm welcome and a parade. Dottore, meanwhile, looks palpably annoyed as he strides past the banker and takes a seat behind the desk, motioning for you to follow. 

It’s… Intensely uncomfortable, to say the least. You rarely find yourself sitting at Dottore’s desk, considering the doctor usually prefers to be conducting experiments rather than sitting and compiling data; he usually delegates that to his clones, who bitch and moan about the boring task. 

So sitting in a chair, next to the two men who’ve each held you captive at different points, as Dottore practically radiates anger… You don’t know what to do. You fold your hands in your lap, avoiding looking at either one, even as you can feel the two of them just… staring. 

You feel like you’re under a microscope, worse than any other time before when you’d been laid out on the operating table under Dottore’s invasive prodding.

Pantalone speaks first, breaking the charged silence. 

“I take it you don’t mind if I verify that this one’s real,” He says, rising from his chair and smiling at the way Dottore visibly bristles. “After all, I’m paying for this, aren’t I? I deserve that much.”

It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about you, and the demeaning way in which he’s referring to you as though you’re some object that might be counterfeit is both unnerving and irritating. You’re careful not to let it show on your face as Pantalone approaches you. 

“What-” You start to ask, but you’re swiftly interrupted by gloved fingers prying open your mouth, prodding around in search of something that isn’t there. You feel them press down on your tongue, ghost over molars, then press against the back of your throat until you gag. 

Somewhat satisfied, the banker pulls his fingers from your mouth and grips your chin firmly with a now-damp glove, turning your head this way and that and ignoring the obvious discomfort painted on your features as the action smears drool on your skin. What is he doing?

You shoot a glance towards Dottore, who is still just watching. He’s obviously pissed– you can see a vein popping in his forehead, belaying his anger on his otherwise blank face. 

Pantalone lets go of your chin in favor of grabbing you by the arms, pulling you up from your chair and motioning for you to spin around in a circle. You do, though you’re still confused, unsure of what’s happening as the banker seems to be appraising you like a precious gem. It’s a different type of poking and prodding than Dottore’s usual tests and checkups, but it’s invasive nonetheless. It’s doubly unsettling that this is the first time you’ve seen the banker without his usual smarmy smile. 

Hands find your shoulders and stop you again, and you bristle when they trace the curve of your spine, exposed thanks to the open back of the hospital gown. You feel them stop, tap something just to the left of one of your vertebrae, and Pantalone spins you back around to face him, clearly pleased. 

You try not to flinch when he takes a lock of your hair in his hands– it’s gotten so long since you’d been brought back to the lab– and brings it closer to his face. His nose crinkles, palpable disgust on his features, and he mutters something about “that vile soap he makes you use”– likely referring to Dottore– before turning around to face the man in question. 

“Are you done ogling?” Dottore asks, his tone clipped. You can’t see him around the banker, but you’re sure he still looks as pissed as before. 

Pantalone tilts his head slightly, smiling, then glances over his shoulder at you. “Perhaps not yet, but I’m satisfied enough for now. You’ll get the funding for your little… project, and I expect to see this one at my doorstep every other month from now on.”

Every other month? You frown. Is this some sort of… custody arrangement that the two men worked out? You don’t know if you want to laugh or not at the absurdity of it all; like you’re the unfortunate child of two divorced bastards, except this is much, much worse.

“Fine,” Dottore grits out, in a tone that suggests it’s anything but. He gets up to shoo the banker out of his lab, but Pantalone merely tuts and makes his way back over to where you’re standing, confused, and rests one hand heavily on your shoulder.

“One month starting today, of course,” Pantalone continues, “It’s only fair, after all, when you’ve been hoarding my poor pet this whole time. I have to make up for lost time, after all.”

He delivers those words with a smile that only seems to irritate Dottore further, red eyes boring holes into him as Dottore visibly seems to be contemplating murder. Pantalone speaks up again before he does anything, however, offering a hollow consolation: “Of course, I’m not cruel. How about a farewell? A parting gift, to… tide you over while they’re gone?”

You don’t like the sound of that, and Dottore seems to pick up on the banker’s suggestion as you’re spun around once more and ushered towards the exam table you’ve become intimately familiar with for the last several months. 

For this supposedly being Dottore’s “parting gift,” Pantalone is awfully remiss to keep his hands– and commentary– to himself. 

“Ah, what a cute noise that was,” You hear him coo, a finger tapping your nose with just enough force to startle you so you flinch, “Don’t you think you’re being a bit rough though, Doctor?”

“Quiet.”

You jostle against the table, gripping the edge of it for support as hips snap into yours with bruising force. Dottore’s fingers are gripping your hips so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave bruises– that’s probably the point, honestly; he’s fucking you like he intends for you to feel it for the entire month you’ll be absent. 

Pantalone’s comments aren’t helping things either; despite the banker’s comment about roughness, it only seems to have encouraged the doctor to go even harder. 

Thankfully, you were given something for the pain, but not from Dottore. Pantalone had pressed a pill into your gasping mouth when Dottore had started, telling you that you were going to need it, and though swallowing was a struggle, you’re glad he did. 

Dull pain and sharp pleasure mingle together, and you’ve long since lost track of the orgasms that have been dragged out of you. You’re starting to numb, honestly, overstimulation bleeding into pain, and you gasp into the table with every sharp thrust into you. 

“Tsk– don’t pass out now,” Pantalone chides, fingers curling around your jaw and biting into your cheeks when your eyes threaten to flutter shut, and Dottore snarls something about cutting your spinal cord if you do; something you sincerely hope is an empty threat, given the black spots dancing in your vision. “You still have another thirty minutes to go.”

You don’t remember there being a timer set, much less a time limit, but you certainly know you can’t last that much longer. Your knees have already long since given out, and Dottore had to hoist you up further onto the table so he could continue, leaving your feet dangling a few inches above the ground. 

You feel weight against your back, heat, smothering you as Dottore leans down to sink his teeth into your shoulder as he spills inside you once more, and you shudder through another weak orgasm in response, your eyes rolling back and your vision blacking out for several long moments. 

Pantalone shakes you back awake before you can slip too far, and you sob as Dottore starts to move again. You already know that you won’t be able to walk for the next few days, if not for the next week. 

Tears blur your vision, the world spinning around you as a gloved hand comes to rest against your head, petting you in what’s likely intended as a comforting gesture but only seems to frazzle you further, overwhelmed and overstimulated as you are. 

It must be Pantalone, because Dottore lets out an irritated noise, sinking his teeth into your skin to leave a new mark as he resumes the harsh pace he’d set earlier. Another hand, this one not gloved, curls around your throat to dig two fingers into your racing pulse as he tries to engrave himself into your flesh through means slightly less violent than cutting you open. 

You can barely keep track of who’s doing what– your vision is too blurred and you’re too far gone to fully piece together a coherent thought before it and the breath are knocked out of you by another snap of Dottore’s hips. One of them reaches down to rub circles into sensitive nerves, and you sob as another climax is ripped unwillingly out of you. 

You black out for longer this time, shaken awake once more by Pantalone. He’s cooing something at you that you can’t make out, drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears and the sound of Dottore’s ragged breaths mixing in with your own. 

It feels like you’re burning up, shivering weakly under Dottore’s crushing weight as the man seems to be pouring every ounce of frustration into his thrusts, and darkness encroaches on the corners of your vision with every movement. 

Another shuddering orgasm. You twitch weakly through it, your body registering the sensation more than your mind does. 

The world seems to tip, swaying like a vessel rocked by choppy waves before finally capsizing. Your vision goes, and you’re pulled into a sea of static. 

It smells like lilacs. 

It’s the first thing you notice when you slowly come to, a stark contrast to the smell of bleach and copper that you’ve become accustomed to. You’re also dressed in some proper clothes– or rather, ”proper,” compared to the usual paper-thin hospital gowns you’ve worn since being brought back to the lab. 

Opening your eyes, you’re greeted with the familiar luxuries you remember seeing when you were last in Pantalone’s care, and the sight would nearly be a relief if consciousness didn’t bring with it the unbearable ache in every inch of your body. There’s a budding headache building behind your temples, stinging pains from various bites and bruises littering your skin like brands.

It aches most between your legs, but there’s an ache in your thighs and your stomach like you’d pulled every muscle within; you probably did, honestly, but you try to push back the memory invading your thoughts and you sit up in bed. 

“You’re awake,” A silky voice drawls from behind you just as you sit up, and you turn around to see Pantalone sitting in an armchair in the corner, one leg folded over the other as he reads a book. He doesn’t look up as he addresses you; he just pats his knee, indicating he expects you to come to him. You’re not sure you can walk…

Climbing out of the soft bed hurts, various muscles protesting the movement, and you’re not surprised when your knees give out on you the second you rest your weight on your feet. Pantalone simpers at you from where he sits, amused, but he makes no move to help you stand up or walk. He just pats his thigh again, smiling at you. 

“I can’t walk,” Even talking hurts, evidenced by the crackling of your voice when you speak. 

“Then crawl.”

He says it so simply, as though you should have already known the answer. Your ears burn with humiliation. You don’t move.

“Don’t make me punish you on your first day back,” He says, setting his book down so he can properly address you. His tone is disappointed, but you don’t miss the way the bastard’s smile widens at the idea. 

Pantalone’s punishments aren’t nearly as severe as Dottore’s are, at least in terms of pain. Rather than physical punishments, he seems to prefer humiliation. You’re tempted to try your luck, but… everything hurts. You don’t want him to decide you haven’t earned the privilege of clothes– or find something equally humiliating and degrading– on top of the pain you’re already in.

Crawling hurts. Every muscle protests the movement, yet again, but you force yourself to ignore the aches, to ignore the humiliation burning beneath your skin at being made to crawl over to him. 

When you finally reach him you sit up unsteadily so you can climb into his lap, but you’re surprised when he stops you by pressing a gloved hand firmly against your head to keep you planted on your knees in front of him. 

Instead of addressing your confusion, Pantalone merely smiles and takes hold of your wrist, raising your arm to inspect the scars and bruises littering your skin from the months spent under Dottore’s care. His face twists with disgust, shifting into faux sympathy when he addresses you again, “Poor thing. Look what he’s done to you…”

His free hand comes to rest on his knee as he straightens up, uncrossing his legs, and you hear a steady tap tap tap as he drums his index finger against his knee thoughtfully. “Aren’t you glad I’ve brought you back from that wretched place?”

It’s a leading question. You know he expects you to answer correctly, and you get the sense he’s leading into something; a demand. “...Yes.”

“I knew you would be.” He says, dropping your wrist and leaning back comfortably in the armchair. He looks down at you, clearly pleased with the position you’re in. He props one elbow against the arm of the chair, resting his head in his hand as he smiles down at you. “Why don’t you be a good pet and show me just how appreciative you are?”

The implication isn’t lost on you, but whatever hope you’d had that he might mean something else is dashed as he spreads his legs slightly further apart to make room for you between them, and you don’t miss the growing bulge in his dress pants. 

Your hands are numb as you reach for his belt, and you barely flinch when his hand rests heavily against the back of your hand as you take him into your mouth. 

One cage for another. You’re not even sure you’re relieved, because every part of you still aches from the reminders Dottore had left you with. 

His hand presses against the back of your head, guiding you to take him further into your mouth, and you struggle to breathe around his length. You nearly gag as he pushes you down further, pushing back in resistance, and Pantalone clicks his tongue in disappointment but thankfully, lets up. Maybe he doesn’t want to ruin his pants. 

“I’ll get you something for the scarring,” He murmurs, fingers curling in your hair as you bob your head up and down his length. “And those garish bruises.”

Whether it’s an insult towards you or Dottore, you’re not sure. You try not to focus on it, instead focusing on the task at hand. You lave your tongue along the base of his shaft, earning a small shiver and a heady sigh from him. 

He’s silent for a few minutes as you continue to pleasure him, but you feel him boring holes into the top of your head. You don’t look up at him; you don’t want to. You’re trying to get this over with, and hoping that his silence means you’re doing well. 

The hand on the top of your head leaves, and you flinch when you feel him trace his fingers over one of the scabbed over bites left by Dottore, nearly biting down in surprise. You swallow, suppress the urge, resuming your pace even as he traces the outline of every bite left littered along your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders.

Pantalone straightens up a little, pressing his hand against the back of your head again to force you to take more than you already can. This time, he doesn’t relent when you push back, just holding his hand still until you stop whimpering and you manage to swallow back the urge to gag. 

“Hush.” He tells you in response to your muffled noises, groaning quietly at the way your throat vibrates around his cock.

You eventually relax, eventually get used to the feeling, and he lets you pull back slightly before he’s pressing down again, repeating until tears are spilling down your cheeks as you struggle not to reflexively bite down each time you gag slightly around his length. 

“How would you feel about something… permanent?” He asks, and his fingers are tracing the bites again. You try to pull back to answer, but his other hand stops you and he rocks his hips lazily into your mouth. A rhetorical, then; he doesn’t care for your answer.

You try to blink back your tears as you resume the pace you’d set, sucking lightly on his cock as his hand curls into your hair. It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying as his hand keeps threatening to force you down farther than you can take, and you’re focusing on stamping down the swelling nausea. 

“Something- hm-” He hums, and you can tell he’s getting close now, with the way his breathing is starting to deepen, his hand tightening its hold on your hair- “something tasteful. Not like those eyesores he leaves you. A collar is- fuck- too… too easy to remove.”

You don’t like where this is going, but humming your dissent only earns you a pleasured hiss and a rumble of praise spilling from his lips before he’s curling his fingers around the back of your neck. 

It’s the only warning you get before he shoves your head down, holding you there as cum spills into your mouth and down your throat. It takes everything in you to relax your jaw, and you pull back gasping and sputtering the second he relents.

By the time your vision clears and you blink back the tears spilling from your eyes, he’s already tucked himself back into his pants and is just watching you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn’t even comment on the mess of cum and drool that spilled from your lips onto the floor. 

It takes you a second to realize he’s not staring at you, but rather at the marks left on your skin. 

After a minute of tense silence, he smiles again, patting his lap this time in invitation for you to sit, and you ignore the familiar sting of humiliation as you obey. Again, one of his hands curls around the nape of your neck, tracing some pattern into your skin. 

“Right here,” He murmurs, though he doesn’t elaborate when your brows pinch together in confusion.

It takes you a second to realize he’s tracing invisible letters across your nape, then another few to realize it’s his name that he’s tracing into your skin. 

Something tells you that Dottore isn't going to be pleased to see you again at the end of the month.

[not-neverland06]

𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

A/N: I've been working on this for a few weeks, debating if I should post it or not. I've been getting an influx of attention on my other Arthur work so I figure now's the best time to try my hand at another series. (Following the timeline of the game but is rarely canon-compliant with how certain events take place.)

Summary: Cold, alone, and abandoned by your poor excuse of a husband. You see lights coming down the path and know you can't stay in your desolate estate any longer. It doesn't matter how far you go, though, the O'Driscolls will always find you.

Fighting for your life after they're through with you, it's another outlaw that decides whether you see tomorrow morning or not.

You hunker further into your blankets and huddle as close as you can get to the fire. Your husband had said he would be back soon with more food and firewood, but that had been three days ago. The wolves had either gotten him or he’d finally decided to try his luck on his own. Neither end would surprise you, but you’d just wished he’d chosen to abandon you in spring instead. 

The wind howls as it rages against the walls of your homestead. It hasn't always been such a bad life up here. This was once a beautiful, sprawling estate. Horses, cattle, and fauna roamed the grounds and your husband had an army of employees dedicated to his family home. Then, he started laying heavy into the liquor and all of a sudden your gorgeous home had wood rot slowly seeping into the skin of your marriage and poisoning you both.

Honestly, if the sorry bastard got his throat ripped out by a wolf, you’d call it divine justice- payback for all the scars you carry from him. 

You hiss as the tips of your fingers tingle painfully. Any closer to the hearth and you’ll set yourself on fire. Still, you push your luck, as you always do. Your stomach is burning from the pangs of hunger, but you’ll take whatever warmth you can get at this point. 

You haven’t seen a blizzard this bad in the years since you moved up to these cursed mountains. If this is truly the one that’s going to finally take you out, it better have gotten the man who dragged you here, as well. 

You struggle to think of ways to fill your belly, to prolong your life for just a few more days. There’s no point in hunting. Any tracks you find will be buried by soft, white snow in seconds. And only a few employees remain on the grounds, Sadie and her husband. But they’ve got their own store of food. As hungry as you are, you won’t steal from them. 

“-You see this?”

Your brows furrow in confusion as noises manage to seep through the thick walls of your home. It sounds like voices, men’s voices. There’s a gnawing feeling in your gut, beyond the familiarity of hunger. This is something else. 

Forcing your aching bones up, you duck down and rush towards the window. Five men, all on horseback and each of them armed, ride up the grounds of your home. Their silhouettes are illuminated against the snowfall by the lanterns they hold. 

They could very well be innocent travelers simply looking for an escape from the storm. But you know better than that. You didn’t make it this far in your life by naively trusting every man you meet. You’ve only made that mistake once, now he’s buried in the snow and you’re about to be killed by raiders. 

You don’t see much of a way out of this. You’ve never been a good shot, certainly not good enough to take on five men on your own. For a moment you think of just making a run for it. Or even shooting yourself before they can get to you. Doing that would probably save you a lot of unnecessary pain. You doubt they’ve got much respect for the women they encounter. 

Then, you remember the family sleeping peacefully on your property. Sadie and Jake deserve fair warning, you can’t just abandon them to the mercies of whoever these men might be. You push away from the window and grab your rifle from above the fireplace. 

Your home isn’t as big as some of those fancier estates you’ve seen visiting the city. But it’s large enough for you to have a back way to crawl out of. You slip through the door quietly, immediately being shoved back into the wood from the force of the snow. You tug your shawl around your face, ignoring the bite of ice crystals nipping at your cheeks. 

The snow is up to your knees as you trudge through it. You can see, on the other side of the house, the glow of lamplight steadily growing closer. As much as you try to rush, you can barely lift your feet. Your heart beats against your chest with panic as you squint across the way at Sadie’s home. 

You see light coming from their windows and you know it’s only making the place a bigger target. Your toes are already going numb as sleet leaks into the tops. You tumble forward slightly, hands sinking past two feet of snow to a frozen ground beneath. “God dammit,” you mutter, tugging yourself up and practically throwing yourself forward. 

This feels like you’re fighting a losing battle. Mother Nature herself seems to be telling you to just give up and turn your ass right back around. But you refuse, you’ve always been stubborn. You’re not abandoning people who entrusted themselves to you and your husband. If warning them is the last thing you do, then so be it. 

After a few minutes and hearing your home get ransacked behind you, you finally manage to stumble onto their front stoop. Your teeth are rattling together so hard you can’t even hear yourself knock. You certainly don’t feel it, half your arm having lost feeling after your stumble in the snow. 

Jake opens the door, hair mussed and face pinched like he’d just been dragged out of a deep sleep. Sadie ambles up behind him, tugging a scarf around her shoulders. Jake gasps out your name, tugging you inside quickly. “What are you doing running around out there? Mr. Rowe will kill me if I let his wife freeze on my watch.”

Sadie glares at him and directs you in front of the fire. “Ignore him,” she hisses. “But, what were you doing?” She sounds more suspicious than concerned. You rub your hands together, letting out heavy puffs of air as you try to get your jaw to unlock. 

“M-men,” the word is a hassle to get out and you can tell from the look on their face they don’t have half a clue what you said. You curse under your breath and pinch at the fat of your cheeks, trying to bring some feeling back to them. “Raiders,” you finally manage to get out. 

Jake’s teasing nature immediately drops. He takes the rifle off your shoulder and Sadie gives him an astonished look. “What the hell do you think you’re gonna do with that?”

“Get in the cellar,” he commands and you don’t think you’ve ever heard him tell her what to do. Not once since they’d joined your staff. Sadie opens her mouth to argue, scoffing at him. “Get in the goddamn cellar, Sadie, and don’t come out!” He shouts at her, running to the window and cussing when he sees whatever’s waiting outside. 

You stand from the chair, taking Sadie’s hand in your shaking ones and leading her to the cellar. She fights you on it, digging her heels in and pleading with Jake. “Just hide out with us, you ain’t know how to use that damn rifle, Jake.”

He turns away from the window with a resigned smile. “Would you, for once in your damn life, just listen to me?” You release her, just long enough for him to embrace her in what you know will be their last touch. You don’t interrupt, just struggle with the latch on their cellar. Sadie comes up behind you, hands covering your own and helping you with it. She urges you inside first and you drop onto the damp ground, her following quickly after. 

Jake stares down at you both, the light of the fire making him look bigger than life as he gives you a reassuring smile. “Won’t be long,” he promises. He leans down, closing the cellar door and plunging you both in such intense darkness you can no longer tell if your eyes are open or closed. 

It’s cold under the house, the harsh weather seeping in through the ground. Sadie crawls away from you as you hear Jake push the rug over the cellar door, hiding you both away. There’s a slight click, like the sound of a match against a boot, and light blooms before you. Sadie holds an oil lamp, crawling back towards you and placing it between the both of you. You open your shawl silently and you both huddle under it, trying to keep each other warm. 

It’s not long before you hear voices join Jake’s. The door slams open, boots rattle the floor above you and dust rains down on you both. You keep your face tucked to your chest, but Sadie’s eyes are glued to one spot. The same spot that you know, instinctually, is where Jake stands. 

It isn’t long before the guns go off. Too many rounds for just one man. You hear the laughter and feel as Sadie sucks in a breath so deep you’re surprised her chest doesn’t cave. You tighten your arm around her and ignore the warmth that seeps through the cracks of the wood. Something red drips against your arm and you just drag Sadie closer. 

You’re in there for most of the night, legs going numb as you and Sadie remain glued to each other. You probably could have survived the men were it not for them finding the whiskey. It only takes one drunken stumble and the rug is lifted off the cellar door. It takes one bullet to break the lock and suddenly the door’s being thrown up. Light burns at your eyes as a man leers down at you. “Well, ain’t this a nice surprise?”

“Even robbing a train doesn’t seem like a good reason for being out here. Not for O’Driscolls,” Dutch stares down at his boots, that look on his face that always spells trouble. Arthur glances back at the barn where the dead O’Driscoll boy lay. 

Of course, up here in the middle of a blizzard surrounded by nothing but snow, they manage to stumble upon an O'Driscoll camp. “We should bring the women up here, it might be a good place for ‘em.” Arthur loads up what little supplies he managed to find on the horses and glances up towards the big house at the top of the hill. 

No fires or noises come from it. He can’t imagine why the O’Driscolls would choose a run-down house to camp out in rather than that fancy estate. 

Dutch shakes his head, “I’m not comfortable separating everyone.” Arthur opens his mouth to argue when a shrill scream rips through the quiet of the night. 

“You stay away from us!” It’s a woman, screaming bloody murder as Micah cackles. 

Dutch lets out a rough sigh, glaring up at the door and rushing towards it. “Micah!” He shouts his name, barreling through the door, “What have you done now?”

Arthur follows after him, nearly getting his face bashed in by a flying kitchen chair. He ducks out of the way as a blond woman circles the table, trying to keep away from Micah. “Look what I found in the cellar,” he taunts, lunging at her. She jumps back, kitchen knife pointed out as she hovers near a cellar door. 

“Leave ‘er alone!” Arthur barks, peering around her legs and trying to get a look in the cellar. She notices him and jumps in front of it, glaring at him. She’d yelled ‘us,’ he wonders if she’s got a kid in there. 

As always, Micah doesn’t listen. He lunges at her again and flips the table over, sending an oil lamp flying onto the rug. The glass shatters, fire spreading quickly over the old wood. Arthur curses, shoving at Micah’s shoulder and forcing him away from the terrified woman. Micah’s still laughing at the look on her face, even as Arthur forces him out of the house. 

“It’s alright, Ma’am. I promise we’re not going to hurt you,” Dutch approaches her slowly, gently pushing the knife away and leading her towards the door. His eyes dart towards the quickly spreading fire, trying to get her out before the house comes down on them all. 

“No, I can’t leave her,” she looks back at the cellar but Dutch keeps pushing forward. She’s growing smaller by the second, muttering to herself and struggling along weakly. 

“Arthur,” Dutch snaps quickly, barely glancing over his shoulder at the cellar. He finally manages to push her out the door and Arthur moves quickly. He follows Dutch’s unspoken order, rushing over to the cellar and peering down. A woman lay curled up inside, a sickly sheen over her damp skin. The tips of her fingers are odd colors, from death or cold, he can’t tell. He drops down, dragging her closer and trying to listen for a breath. 

With the wood creaking dangerously above him, he can’t waste time on her. He throws her over his shoulder with a grunt, crawling back out of the cellar and hoping there’s some life in her yet. “They came three days ago.” The woman tells them as Arthur walks out of the house. Her face slacks with relief when she sees her friend over Arthur’s shoulder. “They killed my husband.”

“It’s alright now, ma’am,” Dutch tells her. And Arthur doubts she believes a second of it. After her encounter with the O’Driscolls and then Micah, he doubts she thinks anyone will ever be safe again. Not as she watches her home burn down. Still, she doesn’t have much choice as Dutch helps her onto his horse. 

“We’re bad men,” Arthur tells her bluntly, “but we ain’t them,” he mutters glaring at the O’Driscoll corpses littering the ground. The blood has already been covered by snow, bodies frosting over to become feasts for whatever starving predator lurks by the trees. 

She watches as he loads her friend’s body on the back of his horse and shakes her head, “Don’t have much of a choice do I?”

Dutch shares a look with Arthur, diverting her attention from everything that’s happened. “What’s your name ma’am?”

“Adler, Mrs. Sadie Adler.” She glances at the other woman and whispers her name with a pained look. Arthur keeps one hand on the chilled body, trying to make sure they don’t lose it in the snow. He’s sure she’s just going to be another corpse to bury. 

Every morning, Sadie sneaks into his room. She somehow manages to do it without him waking up, which is worrying enough. And every morning, he sees her standing over the woman lying by his fire. 

To almost everyone’s surprise, you didn’t die when he brought you back to the camp. You were barely holding onto life, nearly in worse shape than Davey had been in. But still, you kept on breathing. Even if every inhale sounded like the rattle of death, you didn’t let go. 

Sadie refuses to leave your side. Spending most of the day tending to you. It drives Miss Grimshaw insane because Arthur won’t let her bother Sadie into helping out around camp. Arthur’s a fool, but he’s not blind. He knows how uncomfortable all the men make Sadie. She was alone with her husband and you up in these mountains. Suddenly being surrounded by a camp full of the same type of men who killed her husband probably isn’t doing her any good. 

Still, maybe he should try and force her around Abigail and Jack. She can’t keep hiding out in his room. Dutch doesn’t like carrying around dead weight. She’s going to need to start contributing around here, eventually. 

He sits up in bed, running a hand over his ragged face and overgrown beard. Sadie’s already kneeling by the fire, taking a shawl from around her shoulders and putting it over you. You suck in another struggling breath and Arthur frowns. 

“How’d she get like this?” Her shoulders tense at the sound of his voice. He’s been curious about it for a little while. It didn’t make sense how she could be in perfect health and you were barely holding onto life. 

Sadie’s quiet for a moment, staring down at you before looking into the fire. “I mouthed off to one of them bastards. I don’t know what they were gonna do to me, shoot me or somethin’ worse, but she stopped ‘em.” Sadie chuckles slightly, getting to her feet and grabbing another shawl for herself. 

“She grabbed a knife and nearly took one of their eyes out.” The proud look on her face drops as she stares down at her feet. There’s something like shame in her voice, “They took her outside and tossed me back in the cellar. I don’t know what happened but when they finally brought her back in she was barely breathing.”

“You know,” Arthur starts, unsure of where he's going with this as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not your-”

Sadie’s head snaps up and she glares at him, “It’s my fault. I don’t need you lyin’ to me to make me feel better. It’s not gonna do anyone any good.” 

Arthur lets out a low breath and shakes his head. “Didn’t mean any harm. But you can’t blame yourself for stuff like that. She wanted to help ya, there’s nothing else to it.”

Sadie shoots him a glare but she doesn’t argue further with him. He knows she wants to, but he can also see the exhaustion weighing heavily upon her shoulder. The guilt’s eating away at her. Maybe letting her stay cooped up in this small room with you all day had been a mistake. 

“Alright,” he gets to his feet, grabbing his hat from the table by the door and nodding her forward. “I need you out of here today,” she opens her mouth to protest but he holds up a hand and stops her. “Got business to discuss with Dutch, you can’t be here.” 

He opens the door and waves her forward, “Come on, out with ya.” She huffs, loudly stomping past him and muttering something wicked under her breath. Arthur follows slowly behind her, chuckling slightly to himself. He throws you one last look before letting the door close. 

The world is slow to shift into place as your limbs slowly tingle back to life. Your eyes are crusted with a week’s worth of sleep as you try and pry them open. A low whine of pain brews in your throat, but your tongue is heavy with weakness. 

You remember nothing past those men opening the cellar door and you’re sure you’re better for it. Bit by bit, you test which parts of yourself are still alive. You flex your stiff fingers and toes, roll your ankles, and let your neck flop around. 

You seem to have all your faculties in order, but the second you try and sit up, sharp pains shoot through your spine and legs. It's as though someone is dragging razor blades through every layer of skin and muscle. 

An animalistic sound of pain rips out of your chest as you flip back down onto the hard ground. Whatever waning energy you’d tried to conjure has been beaten out of you. 

There’s a creak of old wood behind you and the familiar sound of men’s boots. Your slow stutter of a heartbeat kicks into the pattering melody of hummingbird wings. Your blood rushes painfully through your skin as you pathetically crane your neck. 

Try as you might, you can’t get a glimpse behind you. You’re so close to a fireplace that the cinders and heat burn out your eyes. 

In the amount of time you’ve spent trying to collect yourself, you haven’t even considered that those men could still be around. It doesn’t make sense, though, this place doesn’t look like Sadie’s home. You suppose that they could have moved you both, but you don’t understand why they would want you so badly. 

While you theorize, the man has only gotten closer. You can make out his pants from the corner of your eye as he rounds the corner. Every part of you wants to jump up and run. But even breathing is an aching chore. What chance do you have fighting a man twice your size off?

“Damn, you’re awake.” The man sounds awed. He doesn’t carry the cadence of someone who's only been waiting to hurt you. He kneels beside you and tries, as much as he can, to gently help you up. 

Your teeth grit together and the thought of danger is long gone from your mind as screaming pain shoots through you. Everywhere he touches is like fire licking at your skin. There’s a worrying coldness buried deep in your veins waking up at the pain. 

You can’t help the pathetic noises that slip from your mouth as he eases you up. “Alright, come on, you’re okay now. ‘M not gonna hurt you.” It’s easy enough to believe him when you’re completely at his mercy. It’s not like you have any other choice but to trust him and hope for the best. 

Through watering eyes, you’ve got a good look at him now. He’s got sweet blue eyes with little bits of emerald swimming through them. The rest of him is scraggly. His beard is unkept, his face is dirtied, and his clothes smell too heavily of gunpowder. But if you just keep looking at those pretty eyes of his, you have no trouble believing him. 

You nod your head as much as you can and open your mouth to ask him something. What- you can’t remember. Your tongue is so parched and throat so cracked that nothing more than a wheeze comes out. 

“Hold on,” he mutters under his breath and leans over to the right a little. He takes you with him, contorting your body painfully as he grabs a small cup of water off an overturned bucket. There’s also a rag beside it and a few other things that look like they were used to care for you. 

He straightens you again and nudges your head back with the tip of his finger. You don’t have much warning before he places the cup to your lips and simply pours. It rushes down your throat in an overwhelming wave of half relief and half fear of drowning in this man’s lap. You swallow it down as quickly as you can, the aches and pains slowly ebbing away. Your tongue just about twitches back to life as he removes the cup and you flex your jaw. 

“You nearly killed me,” you accuse, voice still weak and cracking. 

He gives you a disbelieving look before laughing, jostling you slightly with the movements. “Really? That’s the first thing you say when you wake up. You’ve been in a coma on my floor for a week, and all the times I wondered what you would sound like when you woke up, I’ve been expecting ‘thank you.’”

You have just enough energy to narrow your eyes at him, throat still recovering from the onslaught of water. “Thank you,” you say slowly, still working out the kinks in your voice, “for nearly drowning me.” The slightly smug look drops for one of bewildered amusement. You’ve barely been awake for ten minutes and you’re already pushing your luck with someone who looks like a feral mountain man. 

“Oh, you’re just full of surprises, ain’t ya?” You can’t do much more than nod, already feeling the pull of sleep calling you back. He shakes you gently, hand slipping down your back slightly. It’s enough to make you jolt forward, skin stinging like he’s just whipped you. “What was that?” He demands, voice rough with something akin to worry. 

You can’t imagine why this stranger would be concerned for you. Why does he even care enough about you to help keep you alive?

“Back,” you croak out, shivers racking through from the pain. 

He skates his fingers over the thin cloth of your night shift, careful not to put too much pressure on your skin. There’s the quiet click of a blade unsheathing that has you tensing up before cool metal is placed against the back of your neck. 

“Hold still for a minute,” he warns and you can’t tell if you hear a threat lying in wait. Like butter, your tattered shift parts readily around his blade. The cold brisk air from outside combined with the warmth of the fire makes the skin of your back pinch painfully. You bite your tongue, suppressing a wince and trying not to whine. 

His silence speaks louder than his gruff words. Whatever he sees must be disturbing. He runs a finger over your shoulder blade and whistles lowly. “I see why we couldn’t get you better now.” His tone is clipped, disgust laying thickly on the edge of his words. 

“What is it?” You try and feel worried for yourself but it’s taking all of your efforts just to stay awake. Your words slur together slightly as your tongue laves lazily over your teeth. Your head teeters forward slightly and he just barely manages to catch you before you tip over. 

“Just hold on here for a minute, alright?” He crouches before you, tipping your head up and waiting for confirmation before he leaves. Your eyes remain closed while you nod your head. He hesitates for a moment before standing and walking towards the door. “Don’t,” he snaps, “fall asleep again.”

You don’t have enough energy for a response as he slips back out the door. The second he’s gone you let yourself crumple to the floor. Huddled under the blankets and stuck next to a small fire, you can almost lie and say the dusty hardwood is comfortable. Your eyes remain shut, but try as you might, you can’t fall asleep. Every time you think you might be lulled a little closer to the abyss, a sharp jolt of pain forces you back awake. 

You’re nearly convulsing by the time he comes back. The door blows open, and the wind gusts through, carrying with it snow and the smell of camp food. You hear the noises of people outside and wonder just where you’ve found yourself. 

“Oh, Mrs. Rowe!” Sadie’s voice nearly cripples you with relief. You feel warmth build in your throat, something burns at the back of your eyes as she rushes towards you. You don’t remember how you got here. You certainly didn’t remember whether or not Sadie even made it out with you. Seeing her kneeling before you is beyond comforting. 

Not only is she alive and safe, she’s obviously been fed well. Her cheeks have the rosy glow of staying next to a fire for too long, and the clothes she’s wearing are clearly donated but well taken care of. If nothing else, at least you might have managed to prolong her survival a little longer. You’re not sure you can say the same for yourself. 

Still, despite all the pain and the grief and fear you’ve both gone through, you correct her on your name. You chide her playfully, telling her to call you by your first name. “I’m not Mrs. Rowe any longer,” you laugh bitterly, wincing when it pulls the skin of your back taut. She clicks her tongue at you, taking both of your hands in hers and pulling you up straight. 

You can feel the man hovering awkwardly behind you both, not quite sure how to help, or if he should. “Bastard went and left us all,” you gripe. You keep talking, cursing out your hopefully dead husband. You blabber to try and distract you from the way you can feel something festering under your skin. 

Venomous pain crawls through your veins and rips at your strength. You lean heavily on Sadie to keep yourself upright. The cut-open back of your night shift slips open and Sadie catches your sleeve before it can fall. Her head shoots up, a hateful glare shooting straight toward the man. 

He throws his hands up, “Now, Mrs. Adler-”

“You thought you could just have some fun with her, huh? Oh, you son of a bitch!” You can feel how desperately she wants to leap up and have a go at him. She’s practically trembling with anger. You squeeze her hands with as much strength as you can muster, trying to keep her grounded with you. 

He scrambles to explain, taking a step towards you both and immediately retreating when Sadie curses at him again. “Now, that ain’t what happened-”

She cuts him off again and he huffs with exasperation. “You think I’ll believe anything you outlaws say? I should have known you were no better than the bastards that stole my husband from me.”

“Sadie,” you croak, “let the man speak, dammit.” She shoots you an affronted look, like she might try and yell at you next. The sickly sheen over your skin and your overall pathetic countenance are the only things that stop her. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he mutters, walking over to you both slowly. He approaches Sadie like one would a wild cat, trying to keep her temper from flaring up again. The only reason she and her husband ever managed to stay so long in your employ was because you always vouched for her. One day soon, though, that temper is going to get her into some serious trouble. 

“I think they did something to ‘er.” He starts speaking in hushed whispers, talking about you as if Sadie isn’t holding you between them. Your eyes start to flutter as you listen to their quiet conversation, words fading in and out as you grapple with keeping a hold of your consciousness. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sadie hisses, peering over your shoulder at something you’re probably going to be grateful not to see. “They whip her?” 

“I think so. And it don’t look right, all green around the edges.” He pokes a rough finger against the center of your back and you cry out, jerking away from the touch. Sadie swats sharply at his hand and he glares at her. 

“Don’t touch it you fool! We need medicine for her. It’s infected.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed Mrs. Adler but we’re currently stuck in the middle of a blizzard,” he deadpans. He motions towards the window of the small shack and the wind that whistles loudly behind it. The snow does its best to try and seep in. It pools in one corner of the room, melting into the floorboards below. You can’t feel the chill of it being so close to the fire, though. Or perhaps that’s a fever keeping you warm. You can’t feel much of anything, actually. 

Sadie eases you off of her and he helps lay you on your side. They get to their feet, sneaking away from you as if you didn’t just hear them talking about you like you’re lying on death’s door. “We need something,” Sadie hisses, but you can barely hear it above the rushing in your ears. 

Arthur mutters something back to her but you’re already falling back into the peaceful embrace of sleep. Body going limp as you try and escape the pain. 

“Goddammit!” 

“Quit whining, I’m almost done.” Charles has a gentle enough hand as he puts a salve over your back, but it still hurts worse than a lick of fire. It’s been a few days since you woke up in Arthur’s room. You were more cognisant the next day, more aware of the fact that if you went another moment without treating the wounds on your back, you’d most likely die. 

You’re lucky you’ve made it this long without anything. You suppose you’re just stubborn enough to not let those bastards kill you from an infection. God, that would be an embarrassing way to go. It’s how your husband’s father died and clearly, that had been the worst thing to happen to the family in generations. It left your husband in charge to destroy their reputation and their livelihood. 

You grit your teeth together as Charles’ calloused hand roves over the open wounds. They’re starting to feel a little better. They burn less now, more just ache when you extend your arms too far or cough too hard. You figure Charles has probably saved your life with this herbal concoction of his. Him and Hosea. It had been Hosea’s suggestion of using herbs for treatment that prompted Charles to go hunting for them. 

You never imagined owing your life to a bunch of outlaws but you suppose that no one knows what direction fate is planning on taking them. “You’re not a real sweet nurse, you know that?” You grouse, talking to distract yourself from the discomfort. 

Charles sighs behind you but you swear that it’s almost a laugh. “You complain a lot for someone who owes me their life.” You know he’s only teasing you. As shocking as that is. You didn’t think the man had a funny bone in his body when you first met him. Lo and behold he’s got just as much bite as you do. Still, you do feel a little guilty for giving him so much grief. 

He starts wrapping the bandages around your chest. You help him around the front, being mindful of the still-present burn on his hand. “Thank you,” you whisper as he ties it off. You can’t bring yourself to say it much louder, still not used to being in someone’s debt like this. 

Hell, you’re getting used to a whole lot of new things. You’d never dressed a deer before either but you didn’t have much choice but pull your weight here. You’re pretty sure Mrs. Grimshaw would skin you if you just lazed about like a prissy lady. 

Charles pauses, he’s quiet for a moment before backing off and turning around so you can put your shirt back on. You expect him not to respond, to just slip out quietly. He doesn’t seem the type to indulge too much in a woman’s emotions. “I’m glad you’re better,” he tells you. You don’t get a chance to respond before the door closes again. 

Sighing, you grab your jacket from the bed and tug it on. Your movements are still stilted, your body still stiff from spending so long in the cold. You now struggle to get your fingers to curl the right way. But you’re alive, and that’s got to count for something. 

You slip outside, prepared for the biting cold, and still surprised as your boots sink into the muddy snow. You owe the women for collecting some clothes for you, even altering them so they might fit better. They don’t have the time as they tend to the camp, but they still help. For a group full of murderers and gunslingers, they’re possibly some of the nicest people you’ve ever met. 

“Howdy, Mrs. Rowe, lookin’ might fine this morning.”

Besides, of course, Micah. He leers at you, licking his maw and tugging at his belt. You roll your eyes, ignoring him and trudging past. You hear him laugh behind you and wish you could kick his teeth in. Always gotta be one bad apple, doesn’t there? 

Arthur isn’t too far ahead of you, loading something up on his horse. You speed up a little, hoping to catch him before he leaves. “Arthur!” You call out, his head shoots towards you and you wave a little. He gives you a small smile, leaning against the hitching post as you approach. 

He tips his hat towards you, “How are you this morning, Mrs. Rowe?”

You let out an annoyed huff but there’s a slight smile playing on your lips. “How many times do I need to tell you to stop calling me that?”

He chuckles, turning back towards his horse and adjusting the saddle. “Apologies,” he acquiesces, but the tone of his voice tells you he knows exactly how much it irritates you. His gaze drifts to someone behind you and the amusement dips from his tone. “Charles help you out this mornin'?’” 

He always approaches the subject with more grace than you would have thought him capable of. He must know how odd it is for you to have a man see you nearly half-naked every morning. You were raised as a proper lady, groomed to be a perfect, virtuous wife. It’s a shock to see how brazen some of the women here are. Not necessarily a bad thing, you can appreciate the freedom it provides. 

You no longer feel the suffocating need to think over every word that leaves your lips. You’re not constantly walking around eggshells and fighting to be heard. But being bare before someone other than your husband has been difficult to stomach, even if it is Charles. Arthur seems to realize how hard it must be for you. Which is odd, you didn’t think someone like him would know much about proper women. You wonder if he’s ever had a woman of his own. 

“Yes, he says it’s looking better. I shouldn’t be at risk of dropping dead now, at least,” you laugh, but there was true fear you might not wake up. You know some of the members in camp argued to just toss you to the cold, let the wolves feed on you. They didn’t think you were worth sparing the supplies for. 

“That’s good ain’t it?”

“I suppose so. But, well,” you wonder if you should even be having this conversation. Maybe bringing up this worry will just put an idea in his head he hadn’t had before. 

“Well,” he prompts, not impatiently.

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask, hands dropping to your sides with a heavy sigh. 

“Whaddya mean?” His brows furrow in confusion and you curse yourself mentally. You’ve probably just royally screwed yourself. 

“Well, when I’m healed. When I’m not relying on you or Charles everyday. Where am I meant to go? My husband's dead and my house has been ransacked completely. I’ve got nothing to my name.” Voicing aloud the fears you’ve been carrying for the past few days is like a weight off your shoulders. You’ve been fretting about this forever, losing sleep over it. As much as you fear his answer, at least you finally said it. 

Arthur’s lips quirk up and you huff. There is nothing funny about what you just said. In fact, it’s incredibly worrying. Still, that doesn’t stop him from cracking up, laughing at your expense like you’re some foolish girl. “Arthur Morgan,” you chide, swatting weakly at his arm, “I’m being serious.”

“I know,” he sighs with a smile and you can’t help but return it. “We ain’t gonna throw you to the curb, Mrs-” he cuts himself off when you glare at him. Instead, he says your name with a comforting tone and reaches out, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “If you’re okay with it, you can travel with us or we can drop you off in whatever town we stay at.”

Your heart skips a few beats, hope filling your stomach with warmth. “Really?”

“‘Course, what'd ya think we were just gonna leave you up here in the snow?”

“Well, I know Micah wanted to,” his face falls at the mention of the man. 

His brows furrow and his jaw sets with something akin to anger. He does that every time you mention the man. He just seems to put Arthur in a foul mood. “I ain’t Micah and I ain’t in the business of just abandoning pretty ladies up in the mountains.”

Perhaps you’re a fool, but about the only thing you caught from that was him calling you a pretty lady. Before you can continue your conversation, someone rides up behind you both. “Mrs. Rowe, Mr. Morgan,” Dutch greets you with a gravelly call of your name and a suave smile. You roll your eyes at the mention of your husband's name but bow your head in greeting nonetheless. “Excuse me ma’am, but I need Arthur this morning.”

“Oh,” you flush, not realizing just how much of his time you’ve stolen with your silly worries. “Of course, sorry.” You give Arthur one last smile, watching as he mounts his horse and backing up so his leg doesn’t swing out at you. “Where are you going, anyway?” You ask, peering behind them both to see other men in camp riding up behind them. 

“Why,” Dutch grins, “we’re off to rob a train.” He kicks off and you’re left standing in the snow with a gaping jaw. Arthur gives you one last look before he rides behind him, the others quickly following. 

So, this is the life of an outlaw.

Next Part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[snowballseal]

Guard Dog AU - Zayne

Summary: AU where you are the Foreseer, and Zayne is a human you've given your blessing to who has devoted his life to staying by your side, protecting you, and worshipping you. He would do anything for you. Anything.

Word County: 2744

Note: Sooooo, I went a bit feral with this one... Could be interpreted as very sub-like behavior for Zayne, but I feel like we all know this man just wants to worship his partner. So yah. I'll be writing similar au's for the other guys too, but this one might be my magnum opus.

Coming soon: Sylus / Xavier / Rafayel

Warning: Gets a little, spicy at the end, but mostly by implication. Reader likes to touch Zayne's face a lot. Someone calls Zayne a concubine and you get pissed.

Enjoy!

---

“Kneel.”

You stare, features a mask of icy indifference, at the human envoy wavering at the foot of your throne. They shiver in their thick coats, no material warm enough to keep out the biting cold of the Tower of Thorns. The biting cold of your glare.

Yet, still, they don’t kneel. You can see the hesitation on their faces, the pride flashing behind their irises. Humans. They always come, high and mighty, thinking themselves better than you, a demigod.

Your lips part, a scathing reproach ready on your tongue, but you don’t get the chance to correct their insolence.

“I said. Kneel.”

Zayne slams his staff into the polished, white granite. The sound of it echoes all the way to the far halls of the tower. The thinly veiled threat behind his words is unmistakable. Kneel before I make you.

The humans all crumble under the weight of his command. They drop to their knees, one by one, trembling at the pure contempt burning behind his gaze. Contempt for them and their human greed. They don’t even deserve to gaze upon the threads of your robes, let alone kneel in your presence, yet they think themselves above it? You may have mercy on their kind, but Zayne would rather cut them to their knees than allow them to show you such disrespect.

A faint smile ghosts across your lips. With the barest flick of your fingers, Zayne returns obediently to your side. He drops gracefully to one knee, head bowed, eyes locked on the unblemished edge of your robes.

It’s almost amusing, watching him turn so docile, so small for you. A man who conquers you in height and strength, who holds himself with the regal poise of royalty, who you’ve blessed with powers no man can dream of - a submissive guard dog at your feet. Ready to kill if you desire him to. Willing to die for you.

“Foreseer-”

Your smile falls away. Right, the humans. Eyes icing over once more, you turn your gaze to the envoy, regarding them with disinterest.

“What do you want, that you’ve come all this way and disturbed my peace?” Your voice rings like a delicate chime, but carries the bite of a frigid river. 

The one who spoke - a man dressed in expensive looking furs, his skin covered in a layer of sweat - flinches at the sharpness of your tone. He seems to steel himself for a moment, collecting whatever pathetic bravery he has gained from his comfortable life, and looks up at you with a determined glare.

“We’ve come here for a prophecy, Foreseer,” he starts again, voice muggish and demanding, “Our kingdom has experienced prosperity in the passing years and our king would like to be certain that it will continue.”

Zayne tenses beside you, his fingers tightening around his staff. You can see him fighting the urge to put this man in his place, his jaw drawing so taut it almost looks painful. Letting out a low hum, you reach out and brush your fingers through the dark strands of hair. A silent request. Zayne wavers, his breath faltering as all his attention falls back on you. 

Always on you. 

Your touch is gentle but insistent, your delicate fingertips tracing his temple, his cheek, his jaw. It leaves his skin tingling, pleasant and cold. It’s an addictive feeling and he can’t help but yearn for more. Zayne nuzzles into your palm, pressing his lips to your skin in reverent gratitude when you give him exactly what he wants, your fingers brushing more firmly against his face.

An uncomfortable cough breaks the silence, “Foreseer-”

“I heard your explanation,” you interrupt him sharply, a wave of frustration washing over you. Zayne can feel it, feels his own frustration at having your attention drawn away from him. But he doesn’t dare make that known, instead watching your face attentively as you speak. “And I will remind you that my prophecies will not be bound to your expectations. They are bound to nothing but fate, so I advise you to deliberate on what you are asking of me.”

“Our King simply wants to ensure that our prosperity will continue,” the man insists, as if you’re the fool who is missing the point. He levels you with a look of disdain, his eyes not so subtly darting to the hand you now have resting in Zayne’s hair. “Though I am certain now that our Highness would not care for the words of a mere oracle who keeps a concubine as her guard.”

The air in the chamber goes deathly still once the words leave his mouth.

Your eyes narrow at the man, glacier and even, but he keeps his chin held high. The rest of the envoy all shift, sharing uneasy glances between themselves. It seems even they know that what he said was a foolish mistake.

One should not anger a god so carelessly.

Slowly, deliberately, you stand from your throne. A flick of your hand and your own scepter appears from the air, the Creatio Protocore glinting dangerously from its tangle of wood. All eyes fall on it, a mix of fear and greed, all eyes except for Zayne’s, which remain glued to you.

Every step you take, every subtle movement, is controlled, the utter definition of grace. Even the air bows to you, shivering around your form, any remaining warmth fleeing from your presence. Tendrils of ice spread along the granite, creeping up the walls, covering the windows, turning the room into a prison of your anger.

And Zayne can’t help but watch, transfixed, adoration curling in the depths of his being. Because this is you, his goddess, his queen. He may be your guardian, but he is well aware that his title is by grace alone, and not necessity. You’ve never needed him. Not like this.

“You seem unaware of whom you speak to,” you murmur, patience tested and gone, “So let me remind you.”

The man lets out a yelp as ice suddenly grips his boots. You feel a flicker of satisfaction at the panic in his eyes, his confidence disappearing like a leaf carried away by the wind. His companions scatter back, looking on in terror as the ice travels up his legs, encasing the entire lower half of his body.

“I am the Foreseer,” you say, stopping a mere foot away from him. “The demigod of the Tower of Thorns. This is my domain, my home, and you are a pest. I owe you nothing. I owe your king nothing. As far as I am concerned, he is beneath me.”

“You insolent- He is our king!” The man spirts, turning a drastic shade of red. “I demand you show him respect, you despicable wi-”

A dagger presses deftly to the man’s neck and he goes silent, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.

“Be silent,” Zayne snarls, “How dare you speak to the Foreseer in such a way.”

You glance at him over the man’s shoulder, brow flicking up. Any other time, it would warm your heart to see Zayne stand up for you, and you would gladly let him cross the boundaries of his position, to act as he sees fit. To act freely. But in this moment, all you can feel is the rage boiling in the depths of your soul. It’s your turn to show them their mistakes.

So you click your tongue, eyes narrowing, “I did not ask for you to intervene, my dearest.”

Zayne doesn’t miss the sharp disapproval in your voice, his breath catching somewhere in his chest. How thoughtless of him. Dagger slipping back into the sleeve of his robes, he forces himself to step back, head bowed like a wolf bearing its neck submissively.

“I apologize, my lady.”

You don’t offer your forgiveness, only giving him a stiff nod, and Zayne can feel his skin prickle with unease. Every fiber of his being aches, desperate to earn your affection, to please you, to offer an apology you deem sufficient.

If you want him to grovel, he will. If you want him to beg, he’ll do so until his voice gives out. Even if you want to punish him, he’d take it with such deep affection, because anything from you is more than he deserves.

But until you ask anything of him, all he can do is wait.

And currently, you must deal with the nuisance in front of you, even if you can feel Zayne’s laden eyes locked on you so intently.

“Now let’s talk about your king, shall we?” You muse, turning your attention back to the man. He swallows, regret showing in the way his hands tremble so viciously. “You humans have such a twisted view of power. Whether it’s money or prosperity or health. You are all subject to fate and that is why you hate my prophecy. Your king is no different, and I presume he’s looking for someone to blame when your land inevitably falls into poverty. In fact, I feel confident in saying he already sees it coming, and I would wager that he is the sole cause of it. Am I wrong?”

A low murmur spreads among the envoy. The man goes nearly purple in front of you, face tight with indignation, but he doesn’t dare utter a word, not with the looming threat of Zayne’s blade still nearby. 

You don’t need him to confirm what you already know, though. And you’ve had enough of this messing around. The day has been too long, and you desire nothing more than to rest.

“Tell your king that this mere oracle wishes him well in his remaining time on the throne,” you chime and turn to walk away. Your voice carries on over the clicking of your heels, “However short that time might be.”

“You can’t-! Foreseer!”

“See them out, my dearest, and then meet me in my quarters.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Foreseer-!” The man calls again, but Zayne doesn’t even allow him another glimpse at your figure. He’s lost that honor.

“I believe it’s time for you to leave,” he snaps, and breaks the spell of your ice.

The man immediately tries to make a run for you, desperation carved into every line of his face, but Zayne catches him by the collar of his coat and throws him back towards the rest of his party. His eyes set on them, harsh and cold, a sneer pulling at his lips.

“She has dismissed you. I suggest you leave quietly before you test my patience.”

“I will not listen to the orders of a-”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a sigil carve into the air before a blinding light fills the space. The humans flee from the sudden ice clawing at their feet, voices tight with panic, boots slipping against the granite in their desperation.

A faint smile pulls at your lips as you dip into a hallway. Zayne always has been good at scaring people away.

It’s a quiet venture to your room at the top of the tower after that. The howling gale outside is all you can hear, muffled by the thick stone of the tower’s walls. It’s a somehow comforting sound, soothing some your prickled nerves.

Still, you feel tense as you settle on the edge of your bed. Dealing with the humans always does this to you. That’s why you ended up here, in the desolate, snowy mountains, far from any village or kingdom. Dealing with them is too exhausting.

How many humans have come to you, begging for an audience, only to throw themselves into a rage after you share one of your prophecies? A prophecy you can’t control, you can’t change. Yet they always blame you. 

You can hardly be blamed for resenting their kind.

All of them except Zayne.

Your dearest. Your steadfast peace. The comfort of your isolation was no match when he came to your tower.

And your frustration melts like snow in the springtime when he appears at your door, wavering at threshold. Hesitation furrows his brow, his fingers twitching against the frame. Features softening, you gesture for him to enter.

“Come here, my dearest,” you murmur, tone impossibly gentle.

He hesitates for only a moment before sweeping across the room, reaching you with only a few long strides. You watch as he kneels at your feet, the thick fur of his robes gathering on the stone floor around him. And of course you notice the way his lips press together so vehemently, like he’s biting back something.

“Please speak, darling.”

Zayne’s eyes flutter shut, a shuddering breath passing his lips. You always say the term with such sweetness, such tenderness. It makes him feel dizzy and near breathless, loved in a way that makes his chest ache.

“May I touch you?” He asks, voice a low rasp.

You don’t even have to think to answer, “Of course you may, my dearest.”

With all the care in the world, Zayne gathers the edge of your robes in his gloved hand, drawing the silken material to his lips. His touch is reverent, like even the clothes on your body are deserving of worship. He takes his time, showering each fiber with devout affection, eyes slowly trailing up the material to gaze at you through ebony eyelashes. And you can’t help the way your breath falters so easily for him, always taken aback by the desperation, the hunger you find there.

Something dark glints behind those mottled depths at the sound. Slowly, experimentally he presses closer. When you don’t correct him, his fingers brush questioningly against your ankle, the warmth of his skin seeping through the leather of his gloves. And you’ve never been one to deny him.

Parting your legs, you let Zayne settle between them, your knees bracketing his wide shoulders. His fingers trace adoringly up and down your leg as he nuzzles into your clothed thigh, like a pup starved for affection. You can feel the warmth of his breath, even through the thick material of your cloak, and it makes your usually sharp mind spin.

“Please forgive my earlier thoughtlessness, my love,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing insistently against your inner thigh. “I will accept any punishment to atone for my actions.”

Gods, you never thought you would be so weak for one man. But how could you not be? How can you not crumble under such earnest devotion?

You’d freeze the world over if it meant having him forever at your side.

“You have quite the tactic for coaxing me to forgive you,” you breathe, reaching a hand down to trace through his hair. Zayne immediately leans into your touch, molten eyes soft with feigned innocence.

“I am simply a humble servant, unworthy of your favor, my lady,” he hums, eyelashes fluttering when your grip tightens momentarily in his hair. It’s only then a mischievous smile reveals itself on his lips. “How can I coax a goddess such as yourself to do something against your will?”

“You know full well what you’re doing, dearest.” You lean down, until your cool breath ghosts over his skin, sending a shiver through Zayne’s body. His bravado slips away, replaced by an uneven breath, his lips parting ever so slightly. “And there’s no need for it. Everything I have, everything I am, is yours, and that includes my forgiveness. All you ever have to do is ask.”

“You shouldn’t offer such things so lightly, my lady,” Zayne rasps, fingers pressing tightly into the softness of your leg as he forces himself to glance away. “You underestimate how selfish my desire for you is. I would take everything if you allowed it.”

Suddenly, your touch is on his chin, drawing his face back to yours, until he can feel the brush of your lips against his, taunting and delicate.

“If you want everything,” you challenge softly, gaze unwavering, “then take it.”

Zayne inhales sharply. And then his lips are on yours, kissing you so deeply, so tenderly, like he wants to draw the very breath from your lungs, like you’re the only one who can sate his hunger burning inside of him.

And you let him. You let him take everything he desires, because he always gives you everything you could ever desire.

That is how it has always been between the two of you. And that’s how it will always be.

---

This felt pretty different from what I usually write. I was inspired by an Xavier fic I read sometime back, and I just loooove the concept of truly feral levels of loyalty. And I love the idea of reader being just a feral for him.

Can't wait to write Sylus' 😉

[qstea]

Hello well can I request​ 4 killer, cross and error headcanon​ with kind-heart s/o? Like s/o love to help other people get through​ their pain such as dream,in short is s/o is a goody-goody-two-shoes kind of person.

📎 Kindhearted S/O Headcanons ★

Featuring: Killer!Sans, XTale!Sans, Error!Sans

#Notes: IM BACKKKKK SORRY GUYS LOLOLOL. EAT UP U LIL SHITS

pronouns used: they/them

warnings: some suggestive content if you squint

Killer Sans -

Killer thinks it’s beyond adorable. Seeing you so quick to drop everything to help somebody in need intrigues him so much, as he rarely feels actual emotions and empathy. Finds your goody-two-shoes behavior to be very motivating and such a breath of fresh air. It revives the small, faint, part inside of him that was the Sans he used to be.

Another thing is that they have a thing for innocent and naive types, all things untouched by life’s evils. The mere thought of corrupting somebody so sweet and kind is…. something they dwell on very often.

Don’t worry! He won’t hurt you, no, never. He just thinks that your relationship dynamic is funny.. the big bad wolf, Killer, who’s notorious for killing hundreds of innocent monsters without remorse or pity.. and the cute little kindhearted beauty at his side, untouched by all of his evils he has committed in his lifetime.

XTale Sans -

Your purity is exactly what made him fall for you. It’s the way you treat others with a type of kindness he hasn’t seen in so long, the one that he had longed for in his traumatized life. A life where he was stuck being some sort of sickening pawn under his father’s clawed fingertips.

Has an overwhelming instinct to protect you from everyone and everything, like some sort of untrained guard dog; biting, growling, and fighting off threats for the purpose of shielding you from the horrors of the multiverse, even though this protection may or may not be needed.

He can’t have another loved one leave, he just can’t. He loves you too much for you to get hurt like everyone else, he has to protect you. Everybody in the multiverse has a sick cruelness in their souls and he can’t let the light of his life be tainted with their diseases.

Nothing you say will have stop him from being overprotective and afraid of anything and everything.

Error Sans -

Kindness is not something often found in the multiverse, and especially not standing before the very force that stuck down many worlds, ended many lives, and showed no mercy or pity to those they faced against.

And then there was you, who dared flash their sweet smile, friendly words, and sympathetic nature to the destroyer of worlds. They were shaken, this was new, this was peculiar. They had never seen such a phenomenon before.

And so, they study you, they fall in love with you, they take you under their wing.

They couldn’t let the world see something that was only meant for their sockets, and their sockets only. In the multiverse, the strongest take what they want and take what they wanted, Error did. They had to take advantage of this, they couldn’t risk having anybody else having a taste of this.

They didn’t do it to protect you, they did it because they’re lonely, and all who have not friends, allies, or companions want more then they were destined to have. And so, they became selfish, and took you for their own. Have fun.

[moomuzan]

⋆·˚ ༘ *𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖊

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ they find you again, after all this time

but something‘s different,

you are no longer human

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ sanemi , giyuu , obanai

The battlefield was a graveyard of still bodies and whispers, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and ash. Casting its cold, pale light over the ruin, the moon hung low as Sanemi, a man made of storms, stood at its center. His sword was heavy in his hand, a weight that pulled at his very soul, though he refused to release it. Something else weighed on him—something darker, deeper. A presence.

And then you stepped into the light.

At first, he thought it was a trick of his war-addled mind. His breath hitched, sharp and involuntary, his heart stumbling over itself in its chest. It was you—your silhouette unmistakable, the curve of your face seared into his memory. But as you moved closer, the truth unraveled with cruel clarity.

You were not you anymore.

Perfect in its monstrosity, your skin shimmered with a cold, unnatural beauty, pale as death. Your once-warm eyes glowed red, the color of fresh blood, devoid of everything he had known. And you reeked—of death, of Muzan, of betrayal so vile it made his stomach churn.

Sanemi froze, the world narrowing to just you. Memories rushed forward like a flood he could not stop. The way you used to smile at him, tentative and soft, as though you could see the fractured pieces of him and still chose to stay. The way your hand once lingered on his arm, grounding him when his anger threatened to consume him. The way your voice, so achingly gentle, had once cut through the storms raging in his heart.

But that was gone. All of it.

Now, you were a weapon. Cold, deadly, beautiful. His masterpiece.

"Sanemi," you breathed, though it wasn’t your voice, not really. It was too sweet, too sharp, laced with something cruel that made his skin crawl. "I thought you’d be happy to see me. After all, you thought I was dead, didn’t you?"

His knuckles turned white around his sword, the leather of the hilt creaking beneath his grip. "You are dead," he spat, his voice rough and trembling. "Don’t you dare use her face, her body, her voice. Don’t you dare speak to me like that."

Almost curious, almost mocking, you tilted your head. "Dead?" you echoed, your lips curving into a smile that wasn’t yours. "If I’m dead, then why does my heartbeat still haunt you? Why do you still dream of me?"

Barely perceptible, but it was there, a crack in his otherwise unyielding armor that made the Hashira flinch. You had always been able to see through him, to peel back the layers of anger and grief he wrapped himself in. That hadn’t changed. But now, it wasn’t kindness in your eyes—it was something darker, something broken.

"You should have let me go," you said, stepping closer, your voice soft but cutting, like a knife sliding between his ribs. "But you didn’t, did you? You held on. Even now, you can’t let go."

Sanemi’s chest ached, a sharp, twisting pain that spread like fire. He wanted to scream at you, to tell you that you were wrong, but the words caught in his throat. Because you weren’t wrong. Of course, he hadn’t let go. How the hell could he?

And now, here you were. A ghost, a demon, a nightmare made flesh.

"I’ll kill you," he spat, yet the words sounded hollow, even to him. His blade trembled in his hand, his resolve cracking with every second that passed. He had faced demons countless times before, had killed without hesitation, but now? Now, his blade felt heavier than ever.

"You won’t," you whispered, your voice so soft it was almost tender. "You love me too much."

Love. The word hit him like a blow, leaving him breathless. He had never said it, never dared to, not even in the quiet moments when you had been alive and whole—always having been too scared, too proud, too angry at the world to admit what you meant to him. And now, it was too late.

Swift and merciless, you attacked, and he barely had time to raise his blade. Sanemi gritted his teeth as he pushed you back; the clash of steel against your claws rang out, sharp and jarring. Being faster now, stronger, your movements were inhumanly precise. Every swing of his blade felt like fighting against his own heart.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

As the battle continued, a blur of blood and desperation, his body moved on instinct, yet his mind was elsewhere, tangled in memories of you. The way you used to laugh, the way your hand used to linger on his, the way you had made him feel something other than rage.

That was gone. He knew as much yet why…?

"You’re hesitating," you remarked, voice cold and biting as you dodged another swing of his blade. "Do you think you can save me? Do you think there’s anything left of me to save?"

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The lump in his throat was too thick, the words too heavy. Instead, he fought harder, his strikes growing more desperate, more erratic.

Then, suddenly, you were gone, vanished into the shadows as if you had never been there.

As he stared at the empty space where you had stood, the man fell to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp. Hollering around him, the wind carried the scent of blood and rain. Still, all he could smell was you — a ghost of what was long gone.

Sanemi stayed there for what felt like hours, his chest heaving, his hands trembling. He wanted to scream, to cry, to tear the world apart, but all he could do was sit there, the weight of his guilt crushing him.

You were gone.

And he had failed you. Again.

Burdened by a silence that felt almost alive, the night was heavy, pressing against Giyuu’s chest with a weight that made it hard to breathe. The forest stretched out endlessly before him, the trees stark and bare against the pale light of the moon. He moved forward, his steps measured and careful, though his mind was a mess of unspoken thoughts. He had been restless for weeks now, the sensation creeping into his bones that something was wrong, that something was unfinished. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way—it was a shadow that had clung to him since that fateful mission, the one where he’d lost you.

You were his tsuguko, his pride, his reason to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was hope in the quiet void of his life. You were everything he wasn’t: warm where he was cold, open where he was closed off, curious in ways that sometimes made him envy your ability to find beauty in a world that had been so cruel. He had trained you, poured what little he had of himself into you, and though he hadn’t said it—he rarely said anything—you must have known how deeply he cared.

But then you were gone, swallowed whole by the very darkness they fought every day. He had arrived too late to save you, too late to even hold you as the light in your eyes faded. Instead, he found only blood, streaks of it painting the ground like some grim mockery of a farewell. Your body was gone, taken by the demon who had bested you, and he had searched for weeks, scouring every shadow, chasing every lead, only to find nothing.

Eventually, he told himself you vanished. Not because he believed it, but because it was easier than living with the weight of not knowing.

Yet here he was, drawn to this forest by a presence he could not ignore, a feeling wrapped around his chest like a vice. He had felt it before, fleeting moments when the air would shift, and he’d swear he wasn’t alone. But those moments passed as quickly as they came, leaving him with only the hollow ache of his own imagination. This time, though, it was different.

Stopping in a clearing, the moonlight spilled across the ground in pale streaks. The air was still, unnaturally so, and for a moment, the world felt like it was holding its breath. And then he saw you.

Similar to the movements of a ghost you stepped out of the shadows, your figure bathed in silver light. His breath caught in his throat, his heart lurching in a way that almost made him stumble. It was you—he could never forget you—but you were different. Your skin was pale, too pale, and your eyes glowed with a crimson hue that sent a chill down his spine. You smelled of blood, of death, of Muzan.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved. His body, frozen in place as his mind screamed at him to make sense of what he was seeing, just couldn’t. With an unreadable expression you looked at him, though your eyes carried a weight that felt almost unbearable.

“Giyuu,” you said, your voice soft, trembling, a sound he hadn’t realized he’d been aching to hear.

Then, painfully so, his hand tightened around his sword, the familiar weight grounding him in a moment that felt too unreal to be true. “You’re... alive,” he said, though the words tasted bitter, laced with the truth he couldn’t bring himself to say.

You smiled, but it wasn’t the smile he remembered. It was colder, sharper, laced with something he couldn’t name. “Alive,” you echoed, the word falling from your lips like a stone sinking into water. “If this can be called living.”

Slowly coming undone, the silence between you lingered as the unspoken words pressed against his chest like a blade. He wanted to move, to reach for you, to do something, but all he could do was stare as the weight of his guilt threatened to crush him.

“You didn’t save me,” you said, and the simplicity of your words felt like a blow to the chest.

“I tried,” he murmured, though even to his own ears, the words rang empty.

“Not hard enough.”

Quiet, almost detached your tone didn’t reach him as angry, and that made it worse. You weren’t blaming him—not entirely—but your words carried the weight of a truth he couldn’t deny.

The grip on his sword faltering, Giyuu closed his eyes. “I thought you were gone. I looked for you, but I...” His voice broke, and he hated himself for it, hated the way his composure cracked under the weight of his failure.

When he opened his eyes, you were closer, and the scent of death clung to you like a second skin. “You should have let me go,” you said, and there was something almost tender in the way you said it, though it was a tenderness laced with bitterness. “It would have been kinder.”

“I couldn’t,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

“Why not?”

While the truth weighed too heavy, being too raw to put into words, he didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Instead, he watched as you stepped back, disappearing into the shadows—the shadows he couldn’t reach—once more.

Falling to his knees in the clearing, the weight of your presence—of your absence—crushed him. You were gone, and yet you weren’t. You were out there, somewhere, haunting him with the reminder of everything he had failed to protect.

The silence of the forest pressed in around him, and for the first time in years, Giyuu allowed himself to break.

A sharp scent of blood hung heavy in the air, the battlefield awash with red. Obanai’s breath hitched, but the chaos around him blurred into nothing as he stood rooted in place, unable to move. The shadows of the trees twisted in the dim moonlight, creating a stage for the figure that emerged from the darkness. He had spent months telling himself you were gone, mourning you in silence because grief was an emotion he could barely afford in this life. But there you stood—or, at least, something that resembled you—your body wrapped in an aura of darkness that felt like the demon king himself.

It was as if the universe had stopped breathing, leaving only the low rustling of leaves and the distant cries of the dying behind him. You were there, but clearly, it wasn’t you. You couldn’t be demon.

The Obanai who had stood tall and unshaken in the face of countless battles, who had worn his stoic mask like armor, felt it crack the moment your crimson eyes met his. The warmth he had once loved so deeply in your gaze was gone, replaced by something feral, detached—an unbearable void.

And yet, despite the demonic aura, despite the unmistakable stench of Muzan’s curse on your flesh, your face was unchanged. The softness of your features, the curve of your lips, the way you carried yourself—it all lingered, mocking him, reminding him of what he’d failed to protect. You looked like a ghost, not alive, not truly dead, and far beyond his reach.

“Obanai,” you said, and the sound of your voice cut through him like a blade. It was lower now, more venomous, but it was still you. The voice that had soothed him when he doubted himself, that had laughed softly as you tended his wounds in the quiet of the night. Clenching his fists, the trembling betrayed the storm in his chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice taut, forced. Painfully, his hands itched to draw his blade, to do what had to be done, but his body wouldn’t obey. Not yet. Not while the sight of you chained him to the ground.

Stepping closer, your movements were slow, deliberate, each step a challenge. “And yet I am,” you murmured. “I suppose we have to thank him for that.”

Muzan. That name was a curse in his mind, a symbol of everything vile and cruel in the world. The realization clawed at him—the same hands that had taken so much had taken you, turned you into a monster.

“You didn’t come for me,” you said softly, but there was no anger in your tone, only the empty weight of a fact. “I waited, Obanai. I waited in that darkness, clinging to the hope that you would find me. But you didn’t.”

Like a blow this accusation landed, harder than any wound he’d ever suffered in battle. The man wanted to deny it, to scream that he had tried, that he had searched, that he had torn himself apart looking for you. But what would it matter? You were here now, and the truth was written in the blood staining your claws, in the hunger lurking behind your crimson gaze.

“I couldn’t,” he finally whispered, his voice barely audible.

“No,” you said, tilting your head as if studying him. “You wouldn’t.”

Ever so subtle, the bitterness in your voice dug into him like thorns, wrapping around his ribs until he could barely breathe. He thought of the nights he had spent grieving you in silence, the guilt that had kept him awake, and the endless prayers he had offered to gods who had long stopped listening.

But none of it mattered. None of it would undo what had been done.

“You were my weakness,” you continued, creeping closer still, until you were only a few feet away. “And now I am yours.”

Shattered, his hand tightened around his blade, and this time, it wasn’t hesitation that stayed him. It was despair. He couldn’t fight you—not because he lacked the will, but because he knew that no matter how sharp his blade, no matter how precise his strike, he couldn’t kill the part of himself that still loved you.

“Do it,” you said, your voice almost tender, as if mocking him. “Draw your sword, Serpent Hashira. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Isn’t that your duty?”

Naturally, he wanted to tell you to stop, to beg you to leave, but the words wouldn’t come. His throat was dry, his heart pounding in his ears. The weight of his guilt and failure pressed down on him like a mountain.

You smiled then, a cruel, broken smile. “You can’t, can you? Because you know this is your fault.”

Like a dagger, those words were catapulted deep into his heart. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet your eyes anymore, because he knew you were right. He had failed you in the worst way, and this was his punishment—to see you like this, to know that the person he had loved was gone, replaced by something monstrous.

Softly, you cracked a laugh, a bitter sound that sent a shiver down his spine. “Goodbye, Obanai,” you said, turning away from him, your voice carrying no malice, only finality. “This was the last thing I needed to see.”

Long after you disappeared into the shadows, he stood there, the weight of your presence lingering in the air. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, his blade clattering beside him. The silence of the forest swallowed him, but it offered no solace.

The hashira had failed you, and now he would carry the ghost of that failure with him until the end.

pls don’t let this flop. i feel too deeply about kny men. 🫢

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐄 .

# with roronoa zoro.

roronoa zoro had a bounty of over one billion berries for his head — and prided himself in it. particularly, out of all of his crimes, you thought that his most heinous one yet had been to dress himself that fine while you were not around to see it.

⎰ & suggestive. mdni. thirsting over wano!zoro. reunion after whole cake. implied fem!reader. no y/n used. i need this man carnally. no spoilers!

W.C: 1.7K

the whole cake island incident had taken less than a week to be solved, and yet, it felt as though you had spent an entire decade and more into that miserable and forsaken place. upon approaching the location where the rest of your crew was stationed at — with your stupid swordsman you so yearned to reunite with — you foolishly believed that the coast was clear.

one single hour with him was all you hoped for. hell, ten minutes would have been enough for the time being. but as so it seemed, fate was a sadistic worm that threw battle after battle onto your lap, against foes stronger than you would have wished for, and whose mere existence was enough to divide the crew for yet longer periods of time.

glimpses of him were what you had been offered amidst that never-ending nightmare, and seas be merciful, wasn’t he a luxury meal course.

you had been praying to whoever listened for a mere opportunity to get that man alone, and at last, the deity of couple-who-spent-two-years-apart-and-now-can’t-keep-it-together-for-more-than-a-week — or something like that — was merciful enough to grant you that desperate wish.

zoro had snatched you by the waist once the opportunity seemed fit enough, and that monument of a man dug his calloused fingers so deep into your figure that it threatened to leave bruises longer-lasting than the ones you received at whole cake. his lips brushed near your earlobe, before traveling lower; chests pressed against one another as he whispered lustful-filled promises amidst small confessions of how much he had missed you.

and oh, hell knew those words were more than reciprocal. unfortunately, your tongue seemed to weigh more than a hundred sea kings as your fingers gripped the hems of his kimono, lips half-parted while your eyes drowned in the sight of him.

at your lack of action, zoro froze. he was an experienced man — so long as the subject involved alcohol or sword-fighting or your detailed schedule. the love matter? he was as proficient in it as he was in differentiating north from south. zoro moved his face from where it was buried in your neck, a tinge of uncertainty shown in his glance.

the silence lingered as zoro’s face scrunched in concentration, gears turning inside his head as the poor and clueless man attempted to understand whatever thought was going through in yours.

“if you want to speak about what happened during the time we were apart—” he began, seemingly planning on taking a step back and further from your body.

you tugged at the kimono and pressed him to your figure, a lonesome finger trailing down the bare skin of his chest, losing itself under the fabric of his clothing. you felt him shudder due to your touch, though your mouth remained sealed and you were sure your eyes were as wide as the four seas. zoro’s own hands were hesitant. there he was — the terrifyingly strong swordsman, the one who’d be the strongest, the one whose name was uttered in fear — completely vulnerable at the palm of your hand.

you wanted to swallow him whole.

“do i need to kill—” he spoke again, and you shushed the attempt yet again. as much as you valued his immediate instinct to eliminate whoever had dared to bring you pain, that was anything but the time for such declarations.

zoro’s grip regained its usual strength as he became more impatient, his words coming out with an edge as sharp as the swords sheathed and carried at his hip. “what is it, woman?!”

“was this given to you?”

he blinked, dumbfounded. “huh?”

“the kimono, zoro. was this given or borrowed?”

the swordsman rolled his eye as he, once again, pressed your chest flush against his, returning his ministrations to your neck once he was sure that nothing was amiss.

“why does it matter?” he rasped against your sensible skin.

as much as you wished to surrender entirely to that sinful mouth, a glimpse of the dark green of the cape he wore made you push his shoulders. your eyes were transfixed, unable to tear themselves from his appearance.

“of course it matters! i need to know whether or not i’ll need to bother stealing them once we leave this place,” you answered, eyes so focused in his chest you failed to notice the darkening of his glance.

zoro’s usual attires consisted of overused pants, the green haramaki that was close to infusing itself with his skin, and — if he felt the need, which was rare — a plain coat or t-shirt. the instances in which your lover dressed himself with such fine clothing were rare. truth be told, the entire crew was more well-dressed in an hour in wano than in an entire month in the sunny. the lack of money was far more common than you would’ve wished, and zoro himself refused to waste his slim fair share of berries and gold with — at least to him — vain and useless things such as new clothes.

hence why you were planning on robbing at least two entire wardrobes worth of those kimonos. the absolute urge to have him like that was gnawing at your insides. you wished for nothing but to have your arms around him for the entire day, acting as though an insistent pendant dangling from his neck and clinging to his chest due to the sweat from battles.

your mind trailed on, wondering if that pirate-surgeon would’ve been able to perform such a feat.

“keep wearing that, at all times,” you punctuated, allowing his hand to raise your thigh to the height of his hip. “you don’t bathe whatsoever, so it won’t be hard.”

he grinned against the skin of your exposed collarbone. “liked it that much?”

you hummed your agreement. zoro pressed your back against the nearest solid surface and opened your legs for further access to where you needed him most. the pair of you had half-an-hour of privacy — if not less — and he clearly didn’t mean to lose those precious minutes with meaningless gestures and words. zoro tossed the cape on the ground and started to undo the knot that kept his kimono shut.

you stopped him in the spot. “nuh-huh.”

“the hell you mean nuh-huh?” he bit back.

“clothes on.”

“how am i supposed to fuck you with shit on?”

you craned your neck to the side, offering him a clear glimpse of the wickedness gleaming in your eyes. “you’ll figure it out. unless you’re not up for the challenge. i’ll understand if you’re feeling like backing out. maybe someone more flexible would’ve—”

he wrapped both of your legs around his waist, supporting your entire weight with the arm placed under you. he moved and aimed for a distinct position, and you blinked a bit surprised at his decision. zoro had suspended you midair, with neither a wall nor a table to aid him. a gasp of delight and awe passed through your lips as zoro’s clothed thigh roughly rubbed itself against your arousal.

a calloused finger guided your chin up with roughness, adjusting your eyesight to his face.

“me,” rough voice wielded in a monosyllabic command whose further intentions he was sure you would understand.

the trance upon the first glance of that set of clothes — and the sinful thoughts thereafter — managed to distract you from the fact that you and zoro had been apart for almost three weeks. and for an instance you had forgotten that the yearning fed by distance was reciprocated. that zoro had been just as eager to have you in his arms as you were to be drowned in the sea of his lust.

that brief pledge — me, look at me — had such a meaning hidden underneath, that for a second you felt the urge to cradle his face in your hands, if only to caress the man beyond the demon with the care he ever so longed for.

most pirates sailed around the seas with postures and expressions that nearly seemed to shout “sex for free”. to them, the act itself conducted with strangers was but another trivial aspect of adventure; an adrenaline-filled activity not to be taken seriously. to zoro, sex symbolized the deepest shade of intimacy. an instance where he laid himself bare to you. not in the sense of nakedness — for he couldn’t care less for the sight of his body beyond the physical strength required to wield his swords and protect his crewmates —, but rather in the act of offering you his soul on a silver platter.

he was not a man of words. his devotion was made explicit through the manner with which he served you. zoro thought himself a wretched creature at your service, meant to protect and please. there was no space available for the hesitation born from the thought of vulnerability. sex was the act of tearing his skin apart with his own blade in order to offer you a warm solace within the walls of his heart. it was a sacred transaction where you were the worshiped deity; the ground beneath your feet the altar he knelt upon. and one should treat the object of their faith with the utmost respect.

yet, due to the scarce time unmatching the accumulated desire, zoro wasn’t given the chance to adore you properly. hence the reasoning of such a request.

a heartwarming action, truly. but your eyes were attracted to the way that stupid kimono hugged his frame, offering a scarce glimpse of his chest — only enough to leave space for imagination. both a curse and a blessing was bestowed upon you.

zoro turned your chin towards him yet again, a vein nearly popping on his forehead, wearing an expression you’ve grown to know too well. “eyes on me.”

you grinned. perhaps your stupidest decision yet. “are you jealous of a kimono?”

that taunt was his undoing.

“up for the challenge,” zoro echoed, tone dead, pupil blown. “clothes on.”

zoro flexes the muscles of his thigh, his entire expression brightening up with wickedness as his other hand reaches for your clothed arousal. “let’s test that, huh?”

“i need my legs to fight!” you suddenly felt the urge to remind him.

he grinned like a devil. “you’ll figure it out.”

— 🐈‍⬛ wrote this while rewatching some zoro moments in wano!!!!!!!! the exclamation marks are a shout for help!!!!!!