#i tried and tried and just could not fucking manage that

[alchemistc]

Yet another post-8x17 fic because I can't help myself

stories of a dead man

Buck stares at the text for a good ten minutes, trying to come up with something to respond with.

Tommy - Tommy knows him. Can somehow discern tone from the way he writes his texts, makes leaps that would seem wild coming from anyone else but he's never wrong and Buck had - God Buck had taken advantage of that so fucking often. Had been so desperately happy not to have to over-explain himself, to just be, and be known, and... and he hates that he hadn't made the effort back, that he made it all about hims-

Doing okay, thanks.

And then:

How about you?

Tommy bubbles him immediately.

The bubbles disappear.

The bubbles reappear, and settle there for a long, long moment.

Then nothing, for an amount of minutes he's not counting off in his head, he swears.

He's considering tossing his phone across the room in a fit of pique when it vibrates with an incoming call.

He stares. He stares some more. He stares a little bit longer and then swipes before Tommy loses interest and decides Buck isn't worth the time he's taking.

"Hey, Tommy," he says, and hopes it sounds normal.

"Evan. Hi."

"Hi."

Tommy laughs.

Buck had always taken special pleasure in hearing that laugh, rich and wry and sometimes, when Buck caught him off guard, just a little giggly. It was a badge of honor to get the belly laugh. This is soft, quiet, short, but it's still - Buck feels a swell of something in his chest. Tries to tamp it down because they - they're not -

"So tell me how you're actually doing," Tommy says, and the swell travels up into his throat, and tears immediately spring to his eyes because he fucking tried - he tried not to make it a thing and - and it's kind of not fair that Tommy could just, like, glean from six words that Buck was lying.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"Three separate punctuation marks, Buckley? C'mon."

The laugh that bubbles up makes the tears dip out of the corner of his eyes, and he doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to feel this, doesn't want to burden yet another person with all the feelings he's been throwing around.

"Evan," Tommy says, like it's important, like it means something, and that - well that's just not fair.

"Tommy," he manages to choke out, and then it's time for the waterworks, apparently.

He says some things, through the tears. If someone asked him to recite it back, he couldn't tell you a fucking word, but he knows he says things, because Tommy's there on the other end of the line with his hums and his quiet reassurances, and Buck - he could recite each of those back without a problem, even the little 'tch' noises he makes when Buck says something he doesn't like. He gets one for apologizing, another when he tries to talk about Eddie and can't make it through the explanation, one for the bitten off half-compliment to Gerrard for being a decent human being most of the time. He gets an amused snort when he tells Tommy about googling confession in his Jeep outside Bobby's church, and absolute silence when he admits that he's not - that he can't - that he doesn't have this. That no one needs him.

When he catches his breath, Tommy's quiet on the other end of the line.

"What - Evan, what do you need from me?"

To not have set in motion the worst fucking eight months of Buck's life, for one.

That's not - that's not entirely fair. He'd jumped the gun, hadn't he? Made it all about his own wants without ever checking in with Tommy so of course - of course he'd run. And then when he'd tried again Buck had lost his temper so spectacularly that -

"No one will talk about him," Buck says, once he's had a second to think about it, and Tommy sighs, low and quiet and Buck thinks - yeah. That's a stupid ask. Tommy lost him too.

"I ever tell you about the time he tried to teach me how to prep a turkey?" Tommy asks, and Buck sinks against the wall, tips his head between his knees, and doesn't bother to wipe away the tears as Tommy leads him through a story he's never heard before about a man he'll never have new stories for again.

[foreid]

smoke and stack come into the shop looking for bo chow only to find y/n at front desk and bo chow discreetly under her hehe

anon i love the way u think! one eater chow blurb coming right up :3

your hair was a mess, curls sticking up through every end and frizz spiking through its texture.

lips parted letting strings of whines as your husband was kneeled down in front of you, tongue lapping slow stripes against your slit.

the day was slow, only usual customers coming in and barely even meeting you at the counter.

bo thought he could use it to his advantage, missing the taste of your every aspect against his lips.

forearms holding you up against the counter, legs trembling from behind it as you hid moans between your lips.

“b— bo… someone’s comin’.” you gasped out, nails digging into the edge of the counter as he started to suck against your clit, knees buckling beneath your dress the more he continued.

he was humming in content, devouring you with full lips, his entire upper body hid by the fullness of your skirt.

your hand quickly covered a moan trying to escape your mouth as two men stepped through the doors, the jingle of the bell alerting you back to reality.

they walked sternly towards the counter, they were broad and a lot taller than you, staring down at you as they stood a respectable distance from the counter.

you swallowed dryly, the extra bodies in the room seeming to not stop bo at all.

“h— good evenin’, how ca— can i help ya?” a chirpy yet cracked voice, as if a moan was threatening to escape past your words.

the twin wearing red sort of just stood there, staring around the market curiously.

the other man, wearing blue, stared for a moment before he opened his mouth to speak.

“we mean no harm, missus, jus’ lookin’ for bo chow.” he spoke to you and his voice was low, gruttal, but he looked like he meant business, intimidating you for just a moment.

“is he here?”

only for a moment did you almost forget about the sensation between your legs.

and just as you thought, bo was not about to let you go through this without a fight.

before you spoke up, you felt a digit teasing your entrance, and as you were opening your mouth to speak, he was shoving it inside of you. knuckles deep.

“he’s— oh!” you perked up, gasping and quickly slapping your hand against your mouth.

you stared up at the two men, eyes wide as if even you were shocked at the noise you just made.

they both just looked at you with an insane amount of concern in their eyes.

you held a finger up, signaling them to give you a second as you swallowed dryly. clearing your throat.

when you tried speaking up again, all you did was choke up. so you decided to just expect your fate.

shaking your head ‘no’, and they seemed to get the hint.

one of them slowly nodded, a cocked up brow as if he was trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

“well. in that case, tell ‘im smoke needs t’ talk to ‘im.” with one last nod, as if to say ‘thank you’, he and his twin walked out the clear doors.

when their figures discarded out the stores line of view, you slammed your forehead against the countertop, letting out all the choked moans you’ve been trying to hide.

your hands grabbed at whatever was near, lips parted as bo started to fuck you with his fingers, plunging an extra one inside.

his tongue didn’t stop, and your hips started to rut against his face, your clit bumping against his nose, adding onto the pleasure.

he somehow managed to fit two digits knuckles deep inside of you, curling them against the plush of your walls.

that was it. he hit a familiar spot and you came undone against his lips.

your moans were unhinged and loud, legs feeling weak and knees practically giving out.

bo let you ride out your orgasm against him, letting you come down from your star-seeing peak.

one last moan of his name and a string of curses, your upper body became slack against the counter.

he appeared in front of you at some point that you couldn’t recollect because of the state of euphoria the orgasm had you in.

you managed to pick yourself back up, eyes meeting with a very proud bo chow.

his lips were glistening, eyes low and full of nothing but lust.

the look of frustration on your face made him chuckle, his hand reaching to your lower back in order to hold you close.

“did s’good, darlin’. taste j’s as good.” he murmured against your mouth, pressing his lips with yours.

lewdly tasting yourself momentarily. you still had a brain of putty, melting into the kiss as easy as ever.

“‘m give it to ya s’good tonigh’. my pretty lil’ wife.” he hummed as he broke off the kiss, hands grabbing at your ass through the dress, somehow simultaneously pulling you closer.

his words and actions screwed a quiet giggle out of you, fingers curling around his suspenders.

“i’d like that. maybe.” you teased, staring at your fingers as they played with the suspenders then back up into his eyes.

his head tilted a bit, grinning against your mouth again. “yeah? tha’s what ya want, peach?” before you could even respond, he was kissing you again.

this time with more fever, a hand grabbing beneath your knee to hold your leg against his side while he devoured your lips.

this is exactly what life was about.

a sexy husband who loved everything about you,

and that's exactly who bo chow was.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, domestic Lamelia, autistic meltdown on page, vaguely referenced public sex.

Notes — Timeline fuckery, as in I seem to have written Silverstone twice, in the last chapter and this one too. Clearly the podium fluff is too much for me to keep track of. So... Enjoy the extra fluffiness.

2023 (Silverstone — Hungary)

The sea was warm and quiet, the waves nothing but a soft hush against the sand.

Amelia sat with her legs tucked under her, an oversized white linen shirt hanging loosely over her bikini. Her hair was wet, curled slightly at the ends from the salt water. She was squinting at the horizon, watching the sunlight paint the beach in a million shades of gold.

Behind her, Lando dropped onto the towel with two icy cold drinks, one for each of them. He pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“This place is fucking amazing,” he said.

She hummed in agreement, leaning her head against his. “Warm, but breezy. The perfect in-between.”

He grinned. “Yeah? You glad I managed to convince you to come then?”

“Yes.” She said. “I’m going to have so much to get done when we get back to the factory, but I needed a break.”

Lando chuckled and stretched out beside her, propping himself on one elbow. “Hm. I know. And now you’re relaxed. That’s nice.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t say it like that. I can be relaxed. I relax a lot.”

“…No you don’t.”

She huffed. “Shut up.”

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “C’mon. Don’t get pissed off. It’s true, yeah? You have been stressed, but you’ve also been fucking ace with Oscar. With the team. I know the car isn’t what you want it to be, but it’s a lot bloody better than it was.”

Amelia softened. She leaned down to kiss him. “Thanks, husband.”

Lando’s eyes sparkled. “Say it again.”

“Husband?”

He groaned. “God, that’s hot.”

She laughed. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“You married me.”

“I clearly have poor taste.” She teased.

“Liar.”

He sat up and kissed her properly this time — slow and warm and a little lazy. She all but melted into it, fingers curling in the fabric of his swim shorts.

They ended up tangled together on a beach blanket under the slope of the rocks, just out of sight. The rest of the world fell away. It was just them. Skin on skin, hearts in sync, breathless laughter caught in the salt breeze.

Later, Amelia rested her cheek on Lando’s bare chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“I think,” she said softly, “I could stay here forever.”

He smoothed her hair back out of her face. Stared at her, like he was memorising her all over again. “Yeah, baby. Me too.”

—

The design lab was buzzing — a low but constant thrum of voices, keyboard clicks, air vents, printers, someone’s half-muffled phone call. The kind of sensory chaos most people filtered out without effort.

Amelia couldn’t today.

She had her noise-cancelling headphones on, her iPad open to three separate CAD model views, and a mechanical pencil tapping against her knee in a rhythm only she understood.

They were reviewing a mock-up for the 2024 suspension. One of the junior engineers; bright, eager, but careless, had accidentally uploaded an outdated spec into the shared build folder.

It seemed small. A mistake, an easy correction. But it meant the last two days of precision design work she’d done were out of sync with the rest of the development team’s data.

And that meant wasted time. Faulty conclusions. A domino collapse of calculations that had been perfect in her head.

She tried to breathe through it. In. Out. In again. But the wrongness sat in her chest like a ton of bricks.

Someone, Callum, tried to make light of it. “It’s no big deal. We’ve still got time before CFD locks—”

“No,” she said, voice tight. “You don’t understand. It’s wrong now. It’s all wrong.”

Her hands were shaking.

“Hey, it’s okay,” another engineer said carefully. “We’ll fix it. It was just a wrong upload—”

“Stop talking.” Her voice cracked, sharp and sudden. “Please. Just stop. Stop—”

She couldn’t hear them anymore. The hum of the lights had turned into a roar. The feeling of her shirt collar was too much. Her thoughts weren’t lining up right.

She stood up too fast. Knocked over a pen cup. The clatter made her flinch violently.

Then she was breathing hard. Too fast. Too loud. Her eyes stung. Her palms burned.

The room blurred. All noise. Too many people. Too many things out of place.

She left. Walked straight out the door, down the hall, past the glass break room, past a surprised intern holding two coffees. She found an empty office, one of the glass-walled side rooms, and ducked inside.

Lights off. Curtains drawn.

She sat on the floor. Curled into herself, hands pressed to her ears. Shaking.

She didn’t cry, not exactly. But her body trembled with the overload — her nervous system in revolt. All she could do was breathe and wait it out.

—

Ten minutes later, the door opened slowly.

Lando.

He said nothing at first. Just slipped inside and sat down on the floor beside her. Close, but not touching.

She didn't look up.

“Callum came to find me. He’s panicking.” He said.

She let out a half-broken noise. “I hate this. I hate when this happens.”

He shook his head. “Baby—“

Her shoulders curled tighter. "It’s all wrong,” she whispered. “I had it perfect. In my head. And now it’s wrong and I can’t fix it, and they don’t understand why it matters. They think I’m overreacting.”

“You’re not.”

“They think I’m difficult.”

“You’re not.”

She finally looked at him. Her face was pale, eyes glassy. “It felt like… too much. All at once. I couldn't stop it.”

Lando reached out, slow, deliberate, and gently took her hand. “I know, baby.” He said softly. “You don’t have to pretend, though. You know that. And I’m proud of you for walking away when you needed space.”

She gripped his fingers tightly. Grounded. Fiddled with his wedding band.

And little by little, her breathing began to slow.

—

Later, Amelia returned to her desk. The office had quieted. A sticky note sat on her monitor from Oscar, in his neat, blocky handwriting.

YOU’RE ALLOWED TO HAVE BAD DAYS — Ducky

She exhaled a shaky laugh.

Callum brought her tea an hour later and didn’t say a word, just left it on her desk like a peace offering. She nodded her thanks, smile tight but genuine.

She reopened her iPad, fingers steady now. Her brain still hurt, her skin still buzzed with leftover static, but she was here. She was okay.

And she could fix this.

—

The strategy room was windowless, cold, and lit by the slightly too-white fluorescents that made Amelia’s eyes burn.

She sat near the front with her iPad open, stylus twirling between her fingers as various engineers clicked through performance graphs on the large screen. Tyre degradation, pit stop windows, stint lengths, lap delta comparisons. The usual mess of variables before a race.

Oscar was next to her, elbows on the table, listening intently. He never interrupted. Never fidgeted. Just watched. Logged everything.

When the final graph flicked across the screen with the projected optimal strategy, medium-hard-medium, Amelia tilted her head, expression flat.

“No,” she said simply.

A pause.

One of the strategy engineers, Jeremy, looked up. “You don’t agree?”

“No. That doesn’t win us anything. That gives us a decent P6, maybe. P7 if the Mercs behave.”

“And what would you suggest?”

Amelia tapped the stylus against her pad. “Soft-Hard. Big launch, early gain. One stop. Pit window between 14 and 18, if the tyres last. Risky, but Oscar’s tyre management is good enough. He’s not heavy on the fronts.”

Oscar, quiet until now, nodded. “That’s what I felt in FP2. Softs felt clean even on the heavier fuel run. Just needs the rear temps managed early.”

Amelia gave him a slight smile, not warm exactly, but approving. “Driver agrees.”

Jeremy frowned. “If we pit early, we get undercut risk. Traffic.”

“We’re already in traffic,” Amelia replied. “You think anyone’s just going to make room for us? The only way through is to make it past them before the midfield concertina sets in. That means launch tyre, low fuel window, commit to Plan A. We stay reactive. Flexible. But we commit.”

Oscar added, “And if it doesn’t work?”

She looked at him. Direct. “Then it doesn’t. But we’ve learned more than we would’ve finishing behind both Alpines.”

Silence. Then, slowly, Andrea leaned back in his seat and said, “It’s bold.”

“That’s how we race,” Amelia said.

Another pause. Then a nod from Andrea. “Alright. Amelia, prep two versions of the radio calls. One if we need to abort early. One if we push deep into the stint.”

“Already halfway done,” she said, flipping to a new tab.

Oscar leaned toward her, voice low. “You really think we can pull it off?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“I like it,” he said, almost to himself.

She looked at him sideways. “You trust me?”

He blinked. “Yeah. I do.”

She smiled, barely. “Then we’re good. Don’t be late to the grid walk. Make sure Lando’s had some water.”

“Yeah. I will,” Oscar muttered.

As the team filed out, Jeremy passed Amelia with a nod. “You’re not as scary as everyone said you’d be.”

“No,” she shrugged. “Not scary. Just… specific.”

Oscar held the door open, glancing at her. “Will you make me cookies if I finish top five?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “With raspberries. Just don’t tell Kim. He keeps telling me off for giving you treats that aren’t on your meal plan.”

“Mean.” Oscar complained.

“Very mean.” Amelia agreed.

—

The moment Lando stepped off the scale in parc fermé, Amelia launched herself at him.

He barely got his arms up in time to catch her — she collided with his chest like a missile, legs wrapping around his waist, arms tight around his neck.

“You crazy, crazy man,” she whispered fiercely into his ear, smiling so wide it hurt. “You data-defying freak.”

Lando laughed, breathless, still winded from the final laps but suddenly full of adrenaline again. “Hello, my beautiful wife.”

She kissed him hard, not the polished PR kind, but the messy, gleeful, post-race kind that tasted like sweat and relief. Cameras were around them, but neither of them cared. Hadn’t for a long time.

“P2,” he said, dazed.

“Yes,” she said, still clinging to him. “I’m so proud of you.”

He set her down, barely. She kept one hand fisted in his fireproofs, grounding herself.

“That was such an amazing drive,” she said, quieter now. “Every lap. You didn’t put a single foot wrong. And I’m so proud of you, Lando.”

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes glinting under the brim of his cap. “Thank you, baby. For this. You. The car.”

“Anything for you,” she whispered, leaning up on her tiptoes and brushing their noses together. “I was getting tired of you moping around the apartment and yelling at Gran Turismo.”

He snorted. “You love when I yell at Gran Turismo.”

“I love you,” she said simply.

Someone called his name, an FIA official, maybe, or one of the social team, but he ignored it for a second longer. His thumb brushed her jaw. “Meet me at the podium?”

“I’ll be there.” Watching, always watching, always in awe of the man she loved.

“I want to spray you with champagne.” He told her.

“You’re not allowed to,” she warned. “I’ll be sticky.”

“Don’t care.” He grinned.

She rolled her eyes, kissed him again, and let him go.

Later, after the podium ceremony, after she did get sprayed, and did yell “Lando Norris, don’t you dare!” on live television, they curled up together in the back of the hospitality unit, him shirtless, her in one of his McLaren hoodies, and split a tiny bottle of celebratory wine Oscar had swiped from the hospitality fridge.

“I missed this,” Lando murmured, head on her shoulder.

She brushed his curls back from his forehead. “Podiums?”

“No,” he said, looking up at her. “You. You being happy. You being here, at McLaren, with me.” He paused, and she leaned closer curiously as he gazed at her, all soft and sweet and so dearly tender. “I kept it, you know? The note you left me before you joined RedBull. The one where you called me an asshole. The booklet too, with the race notes. You were the reason for every podium I got the year after that, you know?”

She swallowed thickly. Stared at him. Reached her hand up to cup his face. “You’re not an asshole.” She whispered. Needed to say it. Needed him to know that she didn’t believe that anymore.

“I am sometimes,” he grinned lopsidedly. “But you love me anyway.”

“I love you anyway.” She whispered.

—

It started with the toaster.

Specifically, with Lando kicking the cupboard under the sink in frustration because where the hell was the toaster? and why is there no bloody counter space anymore?

“I moved it because your smoothie machine was leaking again,” Amelia said from the floor of the living room, surrounded by three open boxes of car telemetry printouts and what looked like half of a sock drawer.

“I fixed the leak.” Lando told her.

She frowned at her pencil. “You fixed it with duct tape.”

“That’s how men do it,” Lando said, crouching to help pick up a stack of papers that had slipped under the coffee table. “Are these important?”

“Yes. They’re the data sheets from Oscar’s last long run simulation—don’t fold them!”

“I wasn’t going to—” He paused. “Okay, I was.”

She snatched them out of his hand, stuffing them back into a manila folder that was already bursting. Over the last few months, their beautiful apartment had started to look less like a home and more like an office. Helmets on shelves, engineering notebooks piled on chairs, printer cables tangled with furniture.

Lando stood up and did a slow 360° in the living room. “Have we… always had this much stuff?” He asked, his eyebrows pulling together.

“No,” Amelia said. “You moved in with a single suitcase of clothes and a sim rig. I had four crates of notebooks, over two hundred pairs of shoes, and a bookshelf. Now you have a room full of gaming stuff, we have two Dyson fans, my office is overflowing, and Max’s cats all-but live here part-time.” She pointed at the cat-tree they had stuffed into a tight corner by the window.

Lando rubbed the back of his neck. “You want to move?”

“I don’t want to,” she said bluntly, “but we���ve started tripping over each other. Literally. I had to do my work in the bathroom yesterday because you needed to use the extension cord in my office to use your NutriBullet.”

“There was no space in the kitchen.” He argued.

“Yes, I know. It was still a ridiculous solution.” She told him flatly.

He tried not to laugh. “Baby, you’re still mad?” He cooed.

“Lando,” she said, looking up at him, serious now. “We’ve outgrown this place. I love it, and it will always be our first home, but I don’t want to have to think about if I have space in my wardrobe to buy a new pair of shoes when I see ones that I like.” She said, biting her lip. “And I need a bigger office. You need a streaming room that doesn’t double as a spare room. It’s not fair to shove Oscar onto a pull-out bed every time he’s here.”

He flopped down next to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her onto his lap. “Suppose we could have a bigger kitchen.” He mumbled against her neck. “A nicer balcony. Maybe a dining room.”

“And plenty of space for guests,” she said.

Lando leaned his head against hers. “Okay. Let’s look. After the triple header.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, letting herself relax into his side. “I want to stay in this neighbourhood. Or close.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” He hummed.

She cracked a smile. “And I want us to start looking for a house in England, too. Not for now… but for later. Somewhere to disappear during off-seasons. With a big garden, and trees, and a big garage for me to play around with some cars again.” She rambled.

He stared at her, hearts in his eyes. “God, I love you.”

“I know,” she said softly, and kissed his cheek. “Come on. Carry me into the kitchen. My legs are numb, but I’ll help you find the toaster.”

—

From the pit wall, the view was beautiful.

The sun beat down on the Hungaroring like it was trying to melt the asphalt. The air was thick with it though, and Amelia’s headset slightly with heat distortion.

Oscar was starting from the second row. P4.

Lando P3. 

Both of her boys making up the second row.

Her fingers tapped restlessly against her keyboard, eyes flicking between sector deltas and real-time tyre temp data. She barely noticed the world around her, only the voices in her ear and the heartbeat under her skin.

“Oscar, radio check?”

“Radio good.” Calm, sharp. His tone was always a little flat, that’s what everyone said; that he was emotionless. It made them a perfect duo — she never needed to try to unravel his tone. If he was thinking something, feeling something, he said it.

“Copy. Full systems looking good. Expect higher degradation on rear left — we’ll manage it through lift points. Brake temps will spike early. Keep it smooth, ducky.”

“Understood.” He said.

She leaned back in her stool and glance to her left, giving her dad a confident smile. He leaned across to give her a heavy shoulder pat, squeezing hard.

—

The launch was perfect.

Oscar didn’t just hold his position off the line; he gained. He swept into Turn 1 ahead of Lewis, ahead of even his teammate. For one brief, glorious moment, he was P2 behind Max Verstappen, in only his 11th Formula 1 race.

Amelia didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just… hyper focused.

“Amazing job, Oscar. Straight into it. Eyes forward — target delta plus point-three, we’ll manage tyres early.” She said.

“Copy.”

Her hands hovered over the live strategy tools. They were starting on Plan A, soft-to-medium, but she had contingencies mapped like a chess board. She refused to ever resort to a late reaction.

—

By Lap 16, Lando had undercut Oscar and slotted into net P2.

Amelia knew it would happen. Still, she hated how early they’d had to box Oscar, forced into it by track position pressure and the undercut threat from Lewis behind. The window had been tight. And the McLaren pit stop wasn’t their best; 3.8 seconds. Enough to cost.

Oscar rejoined in traffic. Slower cars. Dirty air.

The moment Oscar keyed his mic, she knew he felt it too.

“Tyres feel edgy. Car’s moving around.”

“Yeah. I know. Let’s build up our temps gradually. Try not to fight the dirty air. We’re still advantage three, ducky. Cleaner air will come to us once we’re through this pack.”

He didn’t reply right away. But when he did, it was with full faith in her plan. “Copy. Staying patient.”

She made a note on her pad, already tracking tyre drop-off curves from the medium runners around him. There was still a shot at a P4 finish. Maybe more, if Ferrari made the wrong call. Again.

—

The race stabilised. Max was untouchable up front, but Lando and Oscar were both holding on. Lando ran solidly in P2. Oscar, behind him in P5 with Charles closing. Too slowly to be dangerous yet, but Amelia knew better than to relax.

“Leclerc at 2.2 behind. He’s on slightly newer mediums, but they’ll plateau. You’re doing exactly what I need you to do.”

“Rear left’s starting to slip.” He reported.

Amelia adjusted her headset mic. She didn’t raise her voice, but the sharpness of her tone cut through the heat and static. “We’re monitoring. Keep it tight in 11 and off the kerbs in Sector 2. We’ll be okay.”

Will leaned toward her, murmuring, “You sure we’re not going to lose it to Leclerc?”

She didn’t look away from the screen. “Not if he does exactly what I tell him. And he will.”

—

Leclerc wasn’t fast enough. And Oscar, even with graining tyres, rising temps, and thirty-five laps of non-stop pressure, didn’t put a wheel wrong.

“Last lap. Keep it clean. You’ve broken DRS.”

“Copy.” Calm. Professional. Perfectly Oscar.

When he crossed the line in P5, just behind Lewis, Amelia didn’t outwardly react. But her hand curled into a fist beneath the desk, opening and closing five times in even succession.

It wasn’t a podium. But it was a statement.

—

In the garage, the heat clung to them like a second skin. Amelia handed Oscar a water bottle before he even had to ask.

“You made them work for it,” she said.

Oscar looked at her, face half-smeared with visor marks, and raised a brow. “I was pushing hard.”

“I know,” she said, voice level. “Even after the weak strategy call. You salvaged your position, and it was impressive.”

He tilted his head. “Even that moment in Turn 2 where I had to back off?”

“Especially then,” she said. “That’s when I knew you were supposed to be my driver. You fight hard, but you race clean.”

Oscar snorted, leaning against the garage wall. “You’re very dramatic. And demanding on the radio.”

“You stayed ahead of a Ferrari on thirty-lap-old tyres. So…” She raised an eyebrow at him.

He smirked, then looked at her sideways. “Think we could’ve held that podium if we boxed one lap later?”

Amelia refused to lie. “Maybe. But we don’t deal in maybes. We deal in execution. And yours was great.”

He bumped her arm. “Thanks. I got a bit stressed there, after the first stop. You helped me keep my head.”

She smiled, faint but proud. “I’ll always do that.”

—

It wasn’t victory.

But it was control. It was consistency. It was yet another way of telling the world that Oscar Piastri, under her watch, was going to become something extraordinary.

—

Amelia found her husband sitting on one of the stackable pit wall chairs, half out of his fireproofs, head tipped back, hair damp with sweat. His eyes were closed, not asleep, but close to it. That bone-deep exhaustion that only comes after a truly hard-fought podium.

She nudged his knee with hers.

He cracked an eye open. Smiled when he saw that it was her. “Hey, Mrs. P5.”

She smiled right back at him. “Hi, Mr. P2.”

He let out a slow breath, opened his arms. She fell into them, onto his lap, and let him hold her. Tight. “Felt good today.” He started. “Felt like we were… properly in it. Like we’re not just pretending anymore.”

“You weren’t pretending in Silverstone, either,” she reminded him, sliding into the seat beside him. “But you really earned it today with that middle stint.”

He gazed down at her. “You always manage to do this.”

“What?” She asked, blinking at him.

“Say the exact right thing. Make me feel even better about a result I’m already proper buzzing about.” He explained, with a tilted smile. “Makes me feel like a bit of a muppet, honestly.”

She didn’t respond, just leaned over slightly, drawing something out from the inside of the pocket of her McLaren windbreaker. A thin silver chain, a small pendant strung on it. Lando in cursive letters, cut from a sheet of polished silver.

She held it up between them.

“A fan gave this to me outside the paddock,” she said, tone matter-of-fact. “Asked me to give it to you. I told her I was going to keep it.”

Lando blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Because,” she went on, “it has your name on it. And that’s comforting. Like when I labelled everything in the kitchen drawers so you stopped putting the spoons in the wrong place.”

He started laughing. “You think I’m a drawer?”

“I think you’re mine,” she said plainly. “And this necklace is a tactile reminder. So I’m keeping it. And I’m going to wear it all the time. Until it goes rusty, and then I’m going to have another one made. More permanent. And I’ll wear that one all the time too.”

Lando looked at her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth twitching with affection. “You’re so romantic.”

“Maybe.” She sighed, like it was the worst thing she’d ever been told.

That earned a full grin from him. Tired, slightly loopy from the adrenaline crash, but full and wide. He reached over and ran his fingers along the chain. “I love you, baby.” He said quietly.

She looked at him, blinked once. “I know.” A beat passed. She gave him the smallest smile, then added, “And I love you too.”

Lando pressed his forehead against hers. “God, I missed you during the cool-down room. Lewis and Max were being so serious. I just wanted to say something dumb and have you roll your eyes at me. Make everything feel fun again.”

“You did great,” she told him earnestly. “You kept Max behind you for more laps than most people have managed all year.”

He pulled her in then, quick and fierce, arms around her back, his mouth warm against hers. “You’re the only podium celebration I actually look forward to.” A pause. A long, lingering kiss. And then, “did you bring the chequered flag underwear?”

She glanced around before tugging at her top. 

He peeked down and smirked.

“Fucking class.” 

[bruhstories]

guilt

summary: you're looking for an end to your misery and guilt, but find healing instead. pairing: dante sparda x succubus!reader | game-oriented warnings: reader has a death wish and suffers from meltdowns, unprotected p in v, fighting sex?? swearing, descriptions of reader's demonic form, afab!reader, fighting for dominance, slightly sub!reader, some aftercare w/c: 5.1k

a/n: aight, here it is! i hope y'all don't mind a bit of build up lol

You were created with one purpose to fulfil — weaken humanity.

And you did. For centuries, you crept into the dreams of soldiers, doctors, priests, kings, disturbing their peace with your beauty, syphoning their life force with your body. You ruined marriages, impaired armies, even, all in the name of the King of the Underworld. But not without guilt.

See, when Mundus selected you for his demonic crusade, he overlooked one particular flaw that you managed to hide quite well — compassion. Not that you were the first demon to give a shit about humans, but you were one of the few who experienced shame so strong that you considered death to be a form of penance.

Only, death wouldn't have brought humanity any benefit. So, you ran away, slipped through a gate between the worlds and hid away for decades, until you were sure no demon was looking for you anymore. Inspired by Sparda's selflessness, you picked up odd jobs, helping the humans you once actively tried to destroy. You were a village teacher who disappeared, a military nurse who died on the battlefield, a firefighter who burned, a police officer who got shot — even if a body was never found — all while battling your own demons.

When you were born, you were born with a weakness, an insatiable, aching hunger for sex, an urge you needed to suppress and control. And it consumed you, like lava flowing through your veins that burned holes through your skin. Some days were easier. Others weren't, because when it rained, it poured, and you locked yourself inside of your bathroom, submerged in ice cold water just to stop the impulses from taking over. Your body, your real, demonic body, decorated with blood red scales, and a serpentine tail to match, with horns and slitted pupils, were harder to control when the urges hit, and you felt bad lying to your boss when you called in sick.

Because of your abstinence, the carnal cravings became frequent, more violent than ever before, and you knew the only way to go back to normal was to give in to them every once in a while, but you couldn't. You couldn't break the humans that took you in when you needed them the most. There were only two options left — to die, or to fuck.

You met with Enzo at the Bull's Eye Bar, hood over your head to hide the horns, gloves to hide the talons. You didn't take your sunglasses off, not wanting to scare the one man that knew the truth about you. He sat down next to you, but you quickly moved away, leaving one barstool between the two of you. The last thing you wanted was to rampage through the bar and kill him.

"I'm not afraid of you, kid. It's just a bad day." He tried to comfort you, but you shook your head.

"I think my time's up, Enzo." Your voice was meek and raspy.

"Don't be dramatic! Buy me a drink and let's talk about it."

You smiled at his optimism (and opportunism), accidentally flashing your fangs, and while you could tell Enzo was taken aback by them, he didn't leave. So, you bought him a drink and talked about it.

"I don't think I can take it anymore. Just being here makes me want to... jump your bones." You cringed at your own words.

"Who would've thought I still got it at my age?"

"It's not funny. You know that would kill you."

"I know." Enzo sighed. "Listen, I know a guy-"

"No. Absolutely not." You shook your head and sat up ready to leave.

"Sit down, girl. I'm not finished." He grabbed the glass full of ice-cold water that you ordered and splashed you with it.

"Why on Earth did you do that?" You froze, shocked by Enzo's behaviour.

"To cool you off. Did it work?"

"I- well- yeah, actually." You felt your body temperature go down.

"Good, now listen."

It was a stupid idea, but it was an idea nonetheless, better than the one you had, anyway. The red neon sign in front of you almost blinded your eyes, particularly the silhouette of the girl, but you walked closer to the building and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, you decided to push open the door, letting yourself in. Your heels clicked on the wooden floor as you wearily approached the front desk, with nothing but a rotary phone and the photo of a beautiful woman on it.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" Your voice echoed in the building, and you didn't dare to stray away from the desk.

"Shop's... closed."

Turning on your heels, you looked to your left to see a man with wet white hair sticking to his cheekbones, wearing nothing but a pair of leather trousers, beads of water dripping down his bare chest. God, he was stunning, and it did little to help your condition.

"I'm sorry, but I really need your help." You could barely breathe. "Enzo sent me."

"Still, shop's closed." He shrugged and walked past you towards the stairs. Underneath the landing was a white fridge, and the man opened it and grabbed himself a beer.

"Please, you're a devil hunter. Dante, right?"

"That I am."

"Good, because I need you to hunt one for me. Please." You begged him again, and after a few sips from his drink and careful consideration, he sat in his chair, feet propped on the antique desk.

"Alright, I'll bite. What am I hunting?"

You sighed, pulling down your hood and removing your sunglasses while your heart beats quickened.

"Me."

He paused drinking, blue eyes staring at you, and even though he was trying to hide it, you could tell he'd never seen the type of demon you were before. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you unbuttoned your trench coat, letting it fall down and pool at your feet, then took off the gloves. With each article of clothing you peeled off, more of your demonic nature was left exposed, but you had enough humanity in you to not strip all of your clothes. You wanted to die with dignity.

"Please be quick." Squeezing your eyes shut, you felt hot tears roll down your cheeks. You didn't want to die, not really, but you would be doing humans a favour if you did.

"Save your tears. Devils don't cry."

Dante was harsh with his words, but he was right — you didn't deserve that, you weren't human. But then, why were you afraid? Why did you feel centuries of guilt haunting you in your last moments? Why could you see the face of every man and woman you tormented in their sleep whenever you closed your eyes? Was that not human enough?

"I'm sorry, I can't help it." You said, eyes still shut and your fingers tugging at the hem of your dress.

"What kind of demon are you?" He asked, and you sighed.

"What difference does it make? You kill all kinds of demons, don't you?"

"Just curious." Dante nonchalantly said.

You opened your eyes, slitted pupils following him through the room. Was he stalling? Was he even the man Enzo recommended? You were hoping for a quick, clean death, not an interrogation.

"I'm the worst kind." You said, praying it would irk him, make Dante want to kill you faster. "The cowardly kind. The kind that shows up in your dreams and torments you, sucks the life out of you for sustenance, that makes men lose their minds. Not blood and gore, but pleasure and pain. And I am begging you to end my life."

"Why?"

"Why does it fucking matter?" Your voice lost its sweetness, now dark and low. "What matters is I hurt people, lots of people." You dropped down on your knees, lifting your dress inch by inch. "And I wanted to be like him, like Sparda, wanted to be good!" Your sharp talons clawed at the skin on your cheeks, leaving burning marks under them. "But I can't fight it anymore, it's eating me alive! Please, Dante, please do something!"

You were hysterical at that point, sobbing, screaming in pain, dripping with sweat. Dante found your eyes — full of both lust and grief — and your body shook spasmodically, like you were possessed by yourself.  Your hips rolled, thighs squeezed together while you tore the collar of your dress, wriggling, writhing in pain. So much pain. That was your penance.

He was genuinely shocked by the conflict within you, the battle you fought for God knows how long, and he could tell you regretted it. In fact, Dante pitied you.

"Kill me, kill me-" You choked on your words, throwing yourself at his feet. "Please, please, please-"

"I'm not gonna kill you." Dante stepped back, then crouched next to you, one hand placed on your shoulder.

You flinched and hissed at the man, his touch sending a wave of heat through your body, but you propped yourself on your elbows and pushed yourself back, as far away from him as possible, crawling into a corner. There was very little sanity left in your brain, and you eyed the door — you had to run again, or else you could have hurt him. Leaping towards the door, you found yourself caught by his arms, and he overpowered you with ease, holding you while you tried to fight him.

"Let me go!" Your fists slammed against his bare chest. "Please, I need to go, need to feed, need to fuck-"

Agony. You were in agony. Dante swept you off your feet, knocking the wind out of you as he threw you on his shoulder to carry you. You tried to put up a fight, tried to wrestle out of his grasp, but he was much, much stronger. Almost like he wasn't human at all. Dante practically dragged you to the bathroom, forcing you into the bathtub, despite your protests. But he was doing you a favour, really.

The cold water snapped you back to reality, even if it was momentary, and your convulsing body relaxed. Your breathing and heart beats slowed down, and you sighed, watching the tub fill with water. Dante opened the window, and the cool late-night breeze tickled your skin.

"How did you know about the temperature?" You whispered, too ashamed to even look at him.

"Hell's cold. Thought you might be homesick." Dante leaned against the edge of the bathtub and you snorted at his remark. "You got a name?"

"Y/N."

"Your real name." He folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm trying to forget it. Trying to die, too, but you're making it harder." You scoffed.

"Oh, yeah, not happening." Dante turned the tap off. "Enzo knows about you." It wasn't a question at all.

"Yeah, he believed I could change. So did I, but I guess I'm a demon through and through. Any reason why you didn't shoot me on the spot?"

"Eeeh." He shrugged. "Guess I saw potential in you. You're pretty weak, though."

"Gee, thanks, Dante." Your finger tapped on the surface of the water, creating small ripples.

"No, that's a good thing. It means I don't need to tie you up while I figure out a solution." He rubbed his chin, and your eyes followed his hand, stopping on his white stubble. Shit, he was a little too handsome for his own good.

"Not to be rude, but are you out of your mind? There is no solution, only death."

"But you don't want to die."

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Of course you didn't. But what choice did you have?

"How long until your next... meltdown?"

"I don't know, a week? Two? They're becoming more frequent and less... bearable." You shivered, and Dante stepped away to bring you a towel.

"Anything else I need to know?" He helped you stand up in the tub.

"This is awkward, and contradictory, but feeding helps me regain control."

"Feeding?" He rose a brow.

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"You do, and I don't wanna say it." You snatched the towel from him and dabbed it on your skin.

"The first step is acceptance. Don't be a prude, it doesn't suit you." Dante closed the window while you stepped out of the bathtub, water dripping down the tiled floor.

"What, are you a psychiatrist? Fine, it's sex! I need to have sex!" You said that a bit too loudly. "There, happy?"

"Well, it definitely makes it easier." He closed the gap between the two of you, backing you up into the bathroom corner.

"You're crazy. It'll kill you."

He laughed. Dante full on laughed in your face while you stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Believe me, it'll take more than that to kill me, princess. But, by all means, if you have a better idea, spit it out."

"I can't, I'm not ready." You shook your head.

"Bold of you to say that. You know, considering you're a sex demon and all." Dante's harsh observation stung you, and again, tears fell.

"You're an asshole." You whimpered like a wounded dog. "A first-class asshole. You don't even know how hurtful that was. You don't even know me."

"Am I wrong?"

"Yes! Yes, you are! I have to kill to survive. Do you know how fucked up that is? I can't believe Enzo sent me here. I'm leaving." You pushed him away with all the strength you could muster and opened the bathroom door.

"If you leave, you'll end up hurting someone. Or yourself." Dante said, and you froze.

Maybe he was right, maybe he could help. He did overpower you, and humans couldn't really do that. You spent too much time away from Hell to keep up to date with the news, but you heard rumours of half-demons. Sparda's offsprings in particular.

"Who are you?" You turned to look at him.

"Just someone who's not so different from you. Stay and find out. Or leave, and I'll have to hunt you."

He knew how to bargain.

"Can I at least have some dry clothes?"

His shirt was big on you, swallowing your entire body in it, but it was comfortable, and most importantly, dry. Dante offered you a beer, but you politely declined — alcohol riled you up. He offered you a spare room in his strange shop, and you locked yourself inside of it, refusing to sleep. Your hunger wasn't just physical — it transcended into the realm of dreams, and you didn't want to torment the man who wanted to help you. But he was kind enough not to pressure you into sleeping with him, even if deep down you knew that was the only way to keep you sane.

When you were mentally stable, Dante taught you how to shoot and fight, and when you lost the plot, he forced you into the bathroom, hosing you down with ice cold water. When he left for missions, you begged him to chain you up and lock you in your room, and when he came back, he brought you back to reality. But it was becoming worse than ever. The weeks between your outbursts turned into days, and you were harder to handle each time. Still, Dante didn't even try to convince you to give in. If anything, he admired your stubbornness.

It was late at night when the devil hunter came back from his mission, and the first thing he did was to run upstairs and check on you. Dante turned around on the hallway, stopping when he saw the door to your room wide open and empty. The chains that were supposed to bound you while he was gone were broken, making him think that it wasn't you that somehow escaped, but that someone, or something, broke in. A quick scan around the room and Dante concluded that there was no sign of trespassing — the window of your room was locked from the inside, and so was the front door. Nothing was different, not even the claw marks on the floor.

He frantically checked every room upstairs, calling out your name, asking where you were, but before he went downstairs, Dante stopped at the top of the staircase. He didn't check his bedroom.

His hand hovered over the doorknob and he slowly turned it, quietly pushing it open. Even with the lights off, Dante knew you were there, the outline of your body barely visible in the dim moonlight. He flicked the light switch, and there you were, sprawled on his bed in a torn shirt that left very little to his imagination. But something wasn't right. You weren't tormented by that insatiable hunger, weren't convulsing, you just looked at him through thick lashes with those slitted pupils that he came to both love and hate.

"You're here." Dante tilted his head, one hand close to his gun. Just in case.

"I am." You purred, rolling on your side, your serpentine tail coiling around your ankle.

"Why are you in my room?"

"I was drawn to it. Well, to your scent." You simply shrugged, and he couldn't understand why you were so calm, so docile. Unless...

"Have you fed?" Dante stepped closer, gun now in his hand.

"Mmm, wouldn't you like to know?" You flashed your fangs and fixed him with your eyes, like a viper assessing its prey. "What are you gonna do, shoot me?"

Damn it. You really had to go and fuck everything up. But when he took another step, he could hear, no, feel your heart thumping against your ribcage, too fast for how calm you were trying to appear. Then he saw the beads of sweat on your skin, and the claw marks on your neck, the hair strands clinging to your talons, the wound on your lower lip, and the tears welling up in your eyes. He saw how you hurt yourself for fear of hurting others.

"For a demon, you're a pretty horrible liar." He tossed his gun on the table next to his bed, and you wailed in pain, unable to pretend anymore.

You understood two things in the months you spent with Dante: that he wasn't fully human, and that he wasn't going to give up on you. Yet it didn't make yielding any easier. The last time you fed was at least a century ago. Even if Dante did let you feed off of him, there was no guarantee it would help since, well, he wasn't fully human. But he wasn't going to kill you, and you were running out of self-control.

Fuck.

"Let's get you in the bathtub." Dante's voice was gentler than ever.

"No."

"No? Y/N, I'm not gonna shoot you, that's final."

"I don't... I don't want you to shoot me." You sighed, chewing on your lower lip.

He didn't say anything, and instead waited for you to speak.

"Are you sure it won't kill you?"

"Positive." He nodded.

"Fine. Just know it won't be like with a human."

"What, are you gonna crawl on the ceiling or something?" Dante joked, but the look on your face told him you didn't find it amusing.

"I don't know, I can't remember what it's like."

Oh, you poor thing. He couldn't imagine going through centuries without feeling a touch, a kiss, even a hug. Not that he got laid often — women were drawn to him until he opened his dumb mouth, but it was their loss.

"It's alright, I'll take care of you if you'll let me." Dante promised, and you believed him.

Whether it was your desperation or his confidence, you didn't know, but you truly believed that he could help. You just really hoped he wouldn't fucking die in the process.

"Please." The word was quiet, weak, but full of desire. "I don't know how long until I fully lose it, Dante."

In the blink of an eye, he stood beside the bed, again proving that he wasn't human, and you slowly gained courage. Maybe it would be okay, maybe you would be okay. Your body reacted when you felt his presence, kneeling on the mattress to be at his level. Locking eyes, you swallowed the lump in your throat and placed your hands on his shoulders. He felt like fire under your fingertips, and it made you want to rip open his shirt, which you tried, but Dante wrapped his fingers around your wrists, holding them in place.

"Down, girl."

"I can't, I'm starving."

"I know." He pressed his lips onto your knuckles, so gentle that you thought you might spontaneously combust. "But you need to take it slowly. Don't let it control you."

You nodded, albeit the heat and pain between your legs killing you, and tried to calmly unbutton his shirt when he released your wrists. Your hands trembled, failing miserably with the first button, and while Dante pitied you, he refused to give you a hand. It was tough love, but it was necessary.

"Please, Dante, please help me, please fuck me, pleasepleaseplease-" Your incoherent babbling tempted him, it truly did, but it felt wrong. It felt like he would be taking advantage of your weakness. Men would have walked on corpses to hear a beautiful woman beg like that, and they would have been persuaded in a split second.

But Dante wasn't a normal man. You asked for help, and he would do just that, but not how you wanted. He placed two fingers onto your luscious lips, silencing your devilish tongue, and it worked, because you stopped and stared at him.

"You need to calm down." He said, and you nodded before opening your mouth to suck on his digits. "Not like that." Dante sighed, the leather trousers now very uncomfortable on him.

He didn't tell you to stop, though, because having something to suck on helped you focus on unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. God, you were something else, something equally beautiful and grotesque — a demon with a human heart.

His shirt fell on the floor, and Dante finally pulled his fingers out of your mouth. Your hands rushed to his belt, only for him to swat them away, telling you to relax, to enjoy the moment, but how could you enjoy it when your skin itched with impatience, while he had the patience of a saint?

"I need you, Dante, please. Have I not been good?" The pain in your voice mixed with the sorrowful look in your eyes had him weak, but he remained focused.

"So good." He growled, slowly losing his cool. There was demon blood inside of him, too, after all. "But I need you to stay calm, yeah? Can you do that for me?"

Another reluctant nod, even if you flesh was burning and your heart was racing. Taking a deep breath in, you dragged your sharp claws down Dante's chest, down his abdomen, past his V-line, and only then did he let you unbuckle his belt. You violently pulled it away, tossing it somewhere on the bed, and he grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back and holding it in place.

"I'm gonna kiss you now, and you're going to behave."

"Can't promise that." You scoffed at his demand.

He didn't quip back, but instead pressed his lips onto yours, kissing you with a hunger greater than yours, a kiss so sloppy and wet that you thought it was his first time. It wasn't, he was just that needy, and you kissed him back, looping your arms around his neck, moving closer to him until he almost lost his balance. When he pulled away, you whimpered, pathetically begging him to kiss you again, to touch you, to fuck you, the sound of his zipper shutting you up.

"Fuck this." Dante pushed you onto the mattress so hard you bounced back. "Can't hold back anymore."

The grin on your lips should've been a red flag, but he didn't care anymore. His thick, hard cock sprung out of his boxers and you instinctively spread your legs, only for him to grab your ankles and pull you closer, earning a giggle from you.

The tip of his cock pressed against your entrance, and Dante groaned when he felt how impossibly wet you were. He really wanted to take his time with you, but he was still a man, and you were a succubus. It was never going to be slow and steady. He pushed past your slick, velvety folds, not giving you any time to adjust to his girth because you took him so well.

You arched your back when he bottomed out, power coursing through your veins as you regained life strength, and he was still alive. For now. His first thrusts were brutal, full of lust, rage, love and hatred, and you bucked your hips, brain and body overwhelmed by the sudden strength inside of you.

"Thank you, thank you!" You cried out, latching your arms behind his shoulders. "Fuck, I've never felt so good!" Your sobs echoed in his bedroom, and with the newfound strength, you managed to hook one leg around Dante's thigh, pushing him on his back.

The mattress dipped under his weight, his hands roaming all over your body to rip the already torn dress off of you. You frantically bounced up and down his cock, palms on his chest to support yourself. He let you have your fun, let you ride him as he took in your beauty, but Dante wasn't in the mood to submit. Not after the months of torture you made him go through. With a supernatural force, he sent you flying across the room, and you hissed when your shoulder blades hit the wall that cracked behind you.

Dante leaped towards you, pinning your hands above your head while you wriggled and fought against his restraint. You got a taste of power and needed more, and he was about to give it to you, but not before crushing your lips under his, reminding you that you were not in charge. Yet, you didn't want to take the hint, and instead coiled your tail around his ankle, yanking it until Dante lost balance and let go of your wrists.

What was supposed to help you turned into a battle for dominance, both with Dante and with yourself, because deep down you knew that you should've yielded, but it wasn't in your nature to submit. You slipped away from him, but he was quicker, grabbing your arm and turning you around, his chest pressed against your back. Dante held you despite your protests, before slowly bringing you down to the floor, on your knees.

"Relax-"

"Don't wanna relax-" You snarled, convulsing under his arms. "Wanna, oh-"

The words melted in your mouth when he slammed his cock back into you, painstakingly slowly rolling his hips while your eyes filled up with tears of ecstasy. You never submitted, always dominated, but the way Dante pushed your head down and fucked you felt so good that you couldn't help but lift your ass up for him to take you however he pleased.

"See? That's much better, isn't it?" He fucking cooed at you, and you sobbed.

"Yes! Yes, yes, oh, God, yes!" You cried out when the tip of his cock bullied your cervix, stretching your sore cunt out. "More, please! I need more!"

"Greedy girl." Dante's fingers bruised your hips, gripping them so tightly you thought he might rip your flesh off.

The power that seeped into your veins was minuscule compared to the the new sensation that you felt — addiction. You became addicted to him, to his touch and his scent, to his cock, like it healed something within you, like you didn't live to suck the life out of humans anymore, but to be with him and only him.

It seemed as though Dante fucked you eternally, and your once insatiable hunger disappeared with each thrust, replaced by pure bliss. Your arms wobbled under the pressure and pleasure, and you bucked your hips against his, chanting his name like a prayer.

"I'm close! Dante, I'm gonna cum!"

"You poor thing." He whispered with a hint of pity in his voice while brutally slamming into you. "When was the last time you came?"

"Never did, no man could make me cum! No one fucked me like you do!"

And Dante believed you. He believed every single word that came out of your sinful mouth, because you came to him looking to put an end to all the misery you caused through sheer sacrifice. You were desperate, and desperation made you honest.

Like clay in his nimble hands, you let yourself be sculpted and shaped by Dante into something else, something new, something better. Oddly enough, he felt the same, as though all his life he'd been navigating through a long, dark tunnel, and he finally found the light at the end.

You came undone on his cock with only his name spilling from your lips, waves of both pleasure and power coursing through your quivering body. When your arms and knees gave in and you almost hit the floor, Dante caught you, one arm around your waist to bring you closer to him. His hips stuttered while he held you, fucking you until your cunt felt hot and sticky with his cum. Slowly and carefully, Dante pulled out, and without a word, he picked you up, carrying you to the en-suite bathroom while you buried your nose in the crook of his neck.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was gentler than ever before as he placed you in the bathtub.

"Like I can live another century without going batshit crazy." You sighed, catching his wrist in your hands. "Thank you. I know you were probably disgusted by me the whole time. I'll leave as soon as I wash myself."

"Actually," Dante tilted his head, a grin spread across his lips, "I was hoping you'd stay."

He wished he could frame the priceless look on your face, with your dishevelled hair, mouth agape and glossy eyes.

"Why?"

"Think about it." Dante turned the tap on, kneeling by the bathtub. "You said you wanna help humanity, didn't you?" He asked, and you nodded. "Great. Then what better way of helping it than by hunting demons? You can already shoot, I made sure of that, and you can definitely put up a fight. Learned that the hard way."

Your eyes darted to the water flowing from the tap, pondering his suggestion. Could it be? Have you found a purpose for yourself? One that didn't involve faking your death or disappearing from villages? One that allowed you to be yourself, without hiding your true nature? One where you didn't have to be so alone?

"I'd like that."

"Good." Dante's fingers brushed through your hair. "And I'll personally make sure you're not going batshit crazy."

"Gee, I'm beginning to think you actually enjoyed that."

"I reserve the right to neither confirm, nor deny."

[wordsofwhimsy]

Irresistible

Pairing: Shiesty!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Mannn, ol' buddy knocks your brain outcha head - you know what it is

Tags: Smut, not much else to say LMAO that's all you finna find here

Word Count: 1,006

Synopsis: It is LITERALLY just smut, i ain't lyin' to y'all. come get that good nuck nuck & leave me alone lmfaooo

The room smelled of sex, sweat, and the undeniable dominance of Mark as he fucked you into oblivion. You were pinned under him, legs spread wide and pinned back damn near to your chest, eyes barely open from the intensity of it all. Your body was on fire, drenched in sweat, and yet Mark was just so smooth, grinding into you with the kind of rhythm that made your mind feel like it was melting. He wasn’t even trying to hide it — he knew exactly what he was doing, and he was loving it.

“Yo, look at that,” Mark muttered to himself, glancing down between your bodies. “You see that? You feel that?” His voice was thick with pride and satisfaction. “I’m so deep in your stomach, I can see it. I can literally see myself in you. Damn, bae, you’re lucky you’re getting this.”

Your head was spinning, but his words — his cocky tone — was so goddamn arrogant, it was almost unbearable. You could barely think straight, but somehow, his voice kept cutting through the haze of pleasure. He slowed his pace just to drive you crazy, making sure you felt every single inch of him as he stared down at where your bodies met.

“Look at that shit,” Mark continued, a smug grin on his face as he shifted, angling himself deeper inside you. “I I know you see this.” He pounded into you harder, pushing you further up the bed. “I’m putting it down crazy. No one else could fuck you like this. I’m fuckin' you into the next level.”

You couldn’t even respond — couldn’t form a coherent thought if you tried. Your entire body was reacting to him, shaking with every brutal thrust, every harsh movement that made your body tremble and your walls clench around him.

Mark paused again, his hand slipping down to your stomach as he felt the way you were taking him, just so deep, just so fucking full. “Damn, I know you feel that,” he grinned. “Shit, I can feel it. I can feel every inch of me inside you. I’m all the way in there. You’re lucky I’m the one giving it to you like this.”

You barely managed to drag your eyes open, looking up at him — and all you could see was that cocky grin on his face, the sheer pride he had in his ability to fuck you so good. He didn’t even wait for a response because he knew. He knew you were his, completely lost in him, like you were made to take every last inch of him.

“Shit, I’m killing this shit, ain’t I?” Mark chuckled, fucking into you harder now. His confidence was almost too much, but damn if it didn’t make you want more. He didn’t care about anything other than how good he felt, how much control he had over you. “Look at you. Can barely keep your eyes open. You don’t even know what to say, huh? All you can do is feel me puttin’ it down.”

Your mind was spinning. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess. Mark’s cock was unreal, hitting all the right places, but it wasn’t just the sex — it was his arrogance, his self-assurance that made your heart race, your body ache for him even more. He was so sure of himself, so confident in his abilities that it made you crave him more.

“Gah damn, babe,” Mark said, his voice low and rough, his eyes locked on yours as he leaned down, his mouth next to your ear. “I’m fuckin’ you so good, you’re gonna feel this shit for days. Don’t even worry. You’re not gonna forget this. Nobody fucks you like I do.”

You moaned hard, the sound almost hurting your throat, but Mark wasn’t letting up. His cock was relentless, each thrust more powerful than the last. His hands were all over you, his fingers gripping your hips like he was about to break you apart.

“You’re about to cum on me, huh?” Mark grinned down at you, seeing the way your body was trembling, the way your chest was rising and falling with every breath you took. “Bet you didn’t think you’d be screaming my name tonight. Bet you didn’t think you’d be begging me for more. But here you are.”

You couldn’t even think of a response. You couldn’t even care to roll your eyes. Mark was just... too good. And he knew it. He didn’t need your affirmation. He was too absorbed in himself, too cocky, but it was that cockiness that made him irresistible.

“Tell me, baby,” Mark whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice full of dark, confident amusement. “Tell me how good I’m making you feel. Say it. I wanna hear it. I wanna hear you admit it. I’m the best you’ve ever had. You’re never gonna forget this.”

You gasped, body shaking as you finally let go, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you saw stars. You couldn’t even form words, your body writhing, every inch of you tightening around him as he kept fucking you, pushing you through it, making sure you felt every damn second of it.

Mark’s cock twitched inside you, and with a final, forceful thrust, he came, filling you completely as he groaned, his body shuddering with the release. You felt him claiming you, and he didn’t stop until every last bit of him was empty inside you.

Breathing heavily, he pulled out, giving you a satisfied, almost arrogant look. “Told you I’d put it down crazy, didn’t I?” he said, a cocky grin spreading across his face as he watched you, still catching your breath. “You’re never gonna forget that. I just ruined you. You’re mine now.”

You were too far gone to say anything. Too exhausted, too high off what he just did to even bother with a response. But he didn’t need one — Mark Grayson knew exactly how he’d wrecked you, and the cocky bastard was pleased as hell with himself.

[linics]

sae itoshi needing a quick release during halftime

nsfw — minors dni

cw ; possibly ooc sae , nsfw, quickie , semi public (?) , hair pulling , face fucking (?) , not proofread , no capitals are intentional , also my first nsfw .. be nice pls , smut w some plot , i know nothing about soccer sorry

it was finally halftime. sae sighed in relief as he walked off the field. all of his teammates just seemed like morons to him; how can you be a striker and not even know how to score? hell, he, a midfielder, had gotten more shots than the forwards.

he was the last off the field intentionally, he didn’t want others to see him meeting up with another. your confidentiality was his top priority.

he continued to walk along the long hallway, internally cursing the u-20 team for being such slackers —

“hey, sae!” your voice called out in the cheerful, but not tiring tone.

“oh, hi.” he dragged off, nonchalance coating his tone like he didn’t come this way just to see you.

the two of you began walking down the hall together, he was weirdly quiet. he was usually reserved, but it wasn’t ever this hard to keep a conversation going.

“is there something bothering you?” you asked cautiously.

“ugh, it’s just my team, especially the strikers, they’re all impossible. and don’t even get me started with the awful captain..” he rolled his eyes at the thought.

the topic changed to him ranting about the team, you didn’t mind, at least he was talking.

“so.. you’re pent up?” you summarized, looking at him directly.

“yeah, you could say that.” he brushed it off. “it’s nothing much.” you almost scoffed. ‘nothing much’, but he spoke about it for almost 5 minutes straight, and immediately after, continued.

the next thing he knew, you’d managed to drag him into some other change room, pushing him down on the bench, swearing it’ll help him relax.

“i mean, im not like, shocked or anything — it’s japan, they could never have good strikers, but something like this? it’s almost pathetic..”

his words became nothing more than that, just words. your focus went towards, something else — his shorts. you pulled the band forward, causing a slight pause in his sentence as he eyed you on your knees. but made no effort to step in.

you took that as a ‘go ahead’ from him, so you continued, quickly pulling his shorts and boxers just low enough so that you could see his hardened cock spring out.

you dragged your hands up and down it, giving occasional squeezes which earned you a stutter or shaky breath. you knew there wasn’t too much time left in it anyways, maybe 10 minutes? so you’d have to be quicker. you began with the tip, your tongue circling it and gently pushing down to let yourself adjust.

however, sae was on much more of a time crunch. he groaned as your saliva coated more of his length, grabbing your hair and thrusting it down towards the base.

“fuckin’ hell, if you’re gonna pull this shit, you gotta do it quicker.” he mumbled, his voice hoarse. he held you there for a moment before slowly lifting your head up just to force you back down moments later.

you tried to let out some sounds, but they came out muffled.

“hmm? what’s that? y-you wanna talk? you can talk later. breathe through your nose, yeah, jus’ like that.”

a/n: HELLO oh my god this is so. embarrassing i’ve never writing anything even slightly suggestive before im gonna cry. starting off with a reallyyyy small one cause i had this idea like a month ago lmfao. i’ll try to get back into writing more frequently, and other characters.. i hope.

[applejusue]

Imposter Syndrome ── Ellie Williams ౨ৎ˚₊

tldr; immunity is a blessing, but infections adapt cw: dissociation, intrusiveness, grief, angst, violence, sexual themes, comfort, love, slow-burn, illness, blood, gore descriptions, mature themes w/c: 13.2k

a/n: I put a lot of love into this one, and I kind of want to do more of this longer styled writing. I still want to feed everyone though, so please do send requests that I can fill in between bigger works like this ♡ Let me know what you think!

Prologue;

Seattle wasn't so bad, even if nobody knew her name. Ellie tried to blend in with them, keeping her head low. After giving up on the hunt for Abby, she found herself at a loss for moving forward. Without another home to go to, Ellie made one herself here. A dingy one-bedroom apartment just off road of the main street. The place was small, but it was cheap. Walls so thin she could hear her upstairs neighbors fucking most nights. Ellie was exhausted lately; sleep a valuable commodity these days and not just because of the noise. She just never felt safe, no matter how many locks she put on that door.

The migraines had started not long after moving in, a skull-splitting ache that no amount of painkillers seemed to fix. She'd taken to turning off the lights and burrowing her face between two stained pillows. It helped, sometimes. When Ellie lay there, teary-eyed and not a soul there to encompass her, it felt like a rotting tooth that refused to fall out. She'd made this bed when she left that farm, thinking that if she took Abby's life, it would make her feel whole again. She wasn't angry anymore; that's what she told herself, at least. She still thought about how it felt to hold Abby beneath the harsh current, even if it made her feel sick to the stomach.

The thoughts never seemed to leave, especially with the influx of headaches. Her dark eyes would linger on the dusty carpet, consumed by how things could've been. Would she have felt better? If Abby's warm blood had coated her hands. Joel would've done it. She shuddered. She still carried that resentment, that bitterness at the lies she still didn't fully understand. There was so much about him that she didn't know, that she'd never know now. He was dead, and she was still alive. She hadn't figured out yet what that meant to her.

Still, she wanted to fit in, to go to the store and get groceries even when it felt like the whole world was staring. Her crooked fingers would twitch in the milk aisle, the screeching of the rusted trolley wheel irritating her to no end. It felt like her arms were too long for her body, did people notice? Maybe it was her wrinkled clothes or her marred cheek. She filled the cart with stuff that didn't take half a brain to cook. Instant noodles, pre-made burgers, beer. Ellie managed to afford these luxuries with a small part-time gig she'd picked up for the council. It was sort of like volunteering, fixing up the rougher areas of the city or delivering supplies to shelters. 'A better Seattle'. That's what the contractors seemed to think anyway.

Ellie couldn't give a damn, as long as she got a crumb of conversation and a way to put her hands to use. The truth was she'd gotten worse at speaking lately; maybe it was the way she'd locked herself away from people or the fact that her thoughts were too loud. Still, she often stumbled over her words, her brow twitching in mild irritation whenever she couldn't spit out a simple sentence. The workers didn't care, they were just people like her with no family or friends to compare her to. It was grounding to crack a cold beer on site with them, nobody ever talking about much in particular.

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ☆

Ellie was reading over her list of duties, sometimes it was relatively few. Today it seemed she had to head downtown to the foster center to fix a broken heating unit. She felt a dampened sense of unease at the idea, her own time in the system not exactly pleasant. She shoved the sheet down into her backpack along with her toolkit, slinging her lanyard around her neck. The breeze bit at her ears as she headed down the street, hands stuffed into her coat pocket.

When she arrived at the center, she stood dumbfounded to see a colorful building with murals of rainbows, flowers, the thing even had a little playground to the side where kids where battling it out on top of a slide. A small toothed smile tugged at her lips as she watched one of the supervisors trying to split up whatever territorial dispute seemed to be happening between the group. She felt an odd sense of amusement tinged in with a slight jab of envy, even if she knew it was misplaced. As she walked through to the reception, there were paintings and drawings splattered all over the walls along with plants that cuddled some of the furniture.

Ellie could hear giggles from down the hallways, a rather controlled chaos with young volunteers chasing after toddlers and toddlers chasing after each other. After sliding her ID into the reception, she stood idly waiting for the care director to bring her 'round to the unit. Her speckled gaze traced over some of the drawings on the wall, many with chicken scratch signatures or blotchy fingerprints. Cute.

When the director arrived, the last person she expected to see was you.

It all seemed to go quiet when you walked in, a child clinging to your hip and a binder in your arms that you were desperately trying to keep from the little one's nosy hands. You looked different, certainly much older than the last time she'd seen you. Draped over you was an oversized sweater with a smiley-face pin and your name, jingly bracelets covering your arms with similar lining your earlobes. When she'd known you, you were just a kid, thrown into the system like she was. Your face was the same, just with lines that showed your age and a warm smile that softened the edge you used to have. You looked happy.

"Ellie? Oh my god, I didn't even recognize you.."

She wasn't surprised; with her scruffy short hair and marred cheeks, it was a wonder you'd even identified her at all. The little kid seemed to grow bored of being in the presence of two grown-ups, quickly tumbling back to where all the action was at in the playroom. Before Ellie could even attempt to say something, you were pulling her into a hug. Your warm arms came around her like you'd known each other forever, but there was a lifetime between you now. Her body stiffened, but you smelt like warm memories and midnight stories.

When you pulled back, she finally managed to get some of that courage back, even if she felt like the two of you couldn't be more different. You'd grown softer. Ellie wasn't like that; she'd hardened.

"You look older.."

It was all she could think of saying, and the awkward laugh you gave in response made her sink inward just a little. In truth she hadn't expected you to be here or anywhere. That was the feeling in the system; people you'd known would vanish, and that was the last you would hear about it.

"You aren't getting away with it either.."

Your voice was warm, patient. The tone that must come natural now that you work with young children. Even at her age you instilled a sense of calmness in her, your familiar sarcasm working a small crooked smile onto her lips as Ellie glanced away bashfully. You held your binder to your chest, still little miss control freak.

"This place.. s'nice.."

Ellie's voice came softer than she'd expected, the hint of a stumble in her tone making her cringe. You didn't seem to notice, or if you did, you didn't mind. She watched your hair bounce as you nodded your head, your earrings jingling from the motion.

"Thank you. I didn't expect to settle down here.. was just a rundown building when I got her, now I couldn't imagine leaving."

That was so.. you.

Ellie had grown used to the constant moving around within the system, being pushed from family to family and usually ending up right back where she started. You, on the other hand, found it more difficult. She'd hug you when you got sent back, wondering why the new family didn't want to keep you. No matter how often she tried to soothe you, it seemed too personal for your young mind to comprehend. It made sense that now, as a grown woman, you still craved those roots, that commitment to somewhere.

It was difficult for her to not just stare at you, an imperfect habit she'd developed over time. Fumbling for straws, she adjusted her belt, staring at the ground for a moment. You seemed to pick up on her awkwardness; it drew you in. This wasn't the confident, smart-ass kid that used to sneak you in games for your 2Ds that she'd stolen from a foster home. It'd been a decade, sure, and you could tell that the years had been unkind. Her once bright hazel eyes were dark, hidden under a firm brow that bored lines onto her forehead. Her freckled cheeks had faint scarring, mostly obscured by dead-end bangs. A warm smile graced your lips, and you took her cold, calloused hand into yours.

"Right.. the AC unit.."

Ellie offered a wordless nod as you began to lead her through the hallway with more murals painted up the walls. It sent a flush of nostalgia through her hazy mind, a weird déjà vu that she couldn't shake. Still, your smaller hand was warm, and she felt strangely transfixed by it. She could feel every line, every brush of your fingers as though her senses were working overtime. Ellie didn't let it go until you brought her into one of the main playrooms. It was a flurry of arts and crafts, babies banging pots together and some older kids trading sweets by the window. Her ears twitched a little at the noise, one that she'd forgotten after all these years.

You led her to the unit that was tucked up in the corner of the room, it looked ancient and covered in purple crayon. No wonder the thing wasn't working anymore.

"I know that look.. it is old, but we get it serviced pretty regularly so I'm not sure what the issue is.."

You mused with a soft chuckle, flipping through your binder to where the last check was done a month ago. There were no notes from the last inspection, just that all seemed to be in working order. When you glanced up again, Ellie was already standing up on a plastic chair and unscrewing the front grille to get in at the filter, her toolbelt slung across her hip. Your eyes widened at the way she precariously leaned upward on a chair built for a 4 year old.

"Careful Els.. you're giving them ideas.."

Your voice was a teased murmur, and Ellie pulled her head back from the unit to notice a small gathering of curious children on the floor who were watching her tamper with the AC. A hint of red embarrassment tinged at her cheeks, unsure on what to make of the little observers. In the end she just gave you a gruff nod before pulling back the grate and lowering it onto one of the small desks.

You were needed elsewhere when an out of breath volunteer stumbled in saying that one of the kids in the playground pushed the other off the slide. Little bugger, Ellie thought with a small smirk.

As you got whisked away, Ellie was left with big eyes watching her every move. Some of the kids had taken to holding her tools for her, just happy to be helpers. She rummaged through the broken unit, lifting one of them up to see the inside as she gestured at all the little moving parts in there. That of course led to all the other kids wanting to see too.

Eventually she deduced the issue. The unit had a faulty air compressor, likely stemming from some dirt or oil build-up within the refrigerant. After making sure the AC was empty, she loosened the compressor belt with a small screwdriver before unplugging the electrical wire. After unbolting the damaged part she carefully extracted it from the unit, holding it up so she could examine it. It seemed busted up, whatever maintenance guy checks it out each other month was clearly a bit useless.

She disconnected the unit so it couldn't be turned on, before screwing back on the grate to keep out prying hands. The little group of observers scurried closer when Ellie stepped down off of the brightly colored chair. A soft huff of laughter left her lips when they all wanted to know what was wrong. Some of them reminded her of how she used to be, nosy and wanting to learn more about how things worked. Ellie crouched down between them, letting them all get a look at the broken air compressor.

"When things like dirt n' stuff build up in the unit, it can make the parts go faulty.."

She mumbled, gesturing to the slight staining along the edge of the part.

"What is that, ma'am?"

One of the kids spoke up, a small boy with a flurry of red curls and a dinosaur t-shirt that Ellie would unashamedly wear as a grown adult. The other kids nodded in agreement, looking up at her expectantly to explain it. She fumbled for a minute, not entirely sure how to explain a compressor system to a bunch of children.

"..s'Sort of like, it takes the warm air into the vent unit, and it.. turns it into cold air and spits it back out.. and visa-versa.."

She scratched at her head, yeah that was pretty much it.

"So what do we do now? Are you gonna fix it?"

A slightly older girl with dark hair and bangs that she'd very clearly cut herself spoke up, her hands toying with a small stuffed bunny rabbit that she held to her chest.

"Well, nothing.. right now anyways, I'll have to take this with me and see if I can find a replacement for it.."

"Are we gonna freeze?"

Someone spoke up from the back, causing a flurry of questions and worries that she wasn't exactly equipped to handle. She raised her hands trying to get their attentions, waving her wrists and trying to convince them that no, they won't freeze. However, before she could, you were walking back in with another supervisor. Frantically, one of the little ones ran to you, tugging at your legs with eyes of great distress.

"Miss! Miss! What are we going to do? I don't want to freeze.."

The little boy began to tear up, and you could only raise a brow at Ellie who was knelt down with a bunch of panicked toddlers crowded around her. You bent down to scoop him up onto your hip, patting down his hair.

"Don't be silly, nobody's going to freeze.."

You mused with soft amusement as you approached the group. Ellie looked at you with red tinged cheeks smeared with dust from the vent. She quickly stood up, patting down her trousers and offering up the broken component.

"..there's your problem sweetheart, broken compressor, I'll have to try find a replacement for it.."

Ellie murmurs, scratching at her scruffy hair as the little ones nod along in agreement.

Once back out in the hallway and alone with you, Ellie stood idly. She shifted on her feet while you signed her contractor sheet and took a copy for your maintenance folder. Her eyes lingered over your face as you scribbled your name and handed it back with a warm smile. She couldn't help but return that smile, though hers was a little tight lipped.

"I'll see you around, yeah? Give me a call if you find that part, these kids will be tropical once it starts getting hot.."

Your voice whipped around her ears, and she found herself nodding like an idiot. When she eventually did find her words, it was just before you were about to walk away. Maybe it was the fact that you were old friends, or maybe it was the fact that she liked having a purpose, but she'd get you that damn compressor if she had to raid a car engine for it.

"Yeah.. yeah don't worry I'll find you one somewhere.."

Her crooked fingers tugged at her sleeve, but her sullen eyes bore into yours like she couldn't look anywhere else. You smiled at her, liking that she still kept some of those same mannerisms that used to be so familiar to you. Unable to help it, you pulled her into another gentle hug, one she returned this time. She didn't mean to smell your hair, but it practically invaded her bloodstream once you got close. A more genuine smile pulled at her lips when she let you go, giving you a small wave as you walked off. She stood there for a minute or two, cheeks rosy.

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ☆

Ellie barely batted an eyelash as the person next door punched numbers into their microwave, the humming faintly pulsing through her walls. Ellie was pitched up on the kitchen counter, where the yellow tinged-light was the brightest. She held your damaged part up, working away at it with a screwdriver. A moth was clinking around in her lightshade, something that made her fingers' twitch in irritation. For a split-second, she felt a flush of anger, considered ripping the damn bulb from the socket and smashing it against the wall. The thought in it's intensity unsettled her, and she tried to regain her focus on the small object.

She'd searched all over town yesterday, badgering in auto part shops and checking out car-boot sales, but to no avail. While she did find compressors, they were too new for that hunk of junk you had in that wall. Still she had continued to search, even when the rain dampened the back of her collar and splintered through her scruffy hair.

Eventually though she was forced to give up, so here she sat. 2.47AM, half-naked, fucking around with an AC part that was older than her. The microwave next door dinged. That thing went off at all hours, and with the stench she was assaulted with whenever she walked past that door, it was no surprise that he got the munchies.

She waved her hand as it started to cramp up, her eyes tracing over the rim of the small metal device. She'd cleaned most of the oil and dust out of it, along with tightening up the bolts along the edge. The moth continued to flutter around the lightbulb, occasionally getting burned. Ellie's gaze flickered up to it, then down at her arm with a soft huff.

She was a moth.

She slid down off of the counter, padding to the bedroom in old socks. Her room was essentially a void, those black-out curtains she'd found in a garage sale like a blessing, considering the street-lights that flashed all hours just outside her window.

Ellie had even gotten used to it, changing in the darkness and sometimes even showering that way. It was somewhat relaxing, though sometimes you could clearly tell by her outfits that she couldn't see herself. Some blend between southern grandpa at a barbeque and closed off junkie, however that worked. She tugged her sports bra up over her head and onto the ground somewhere, stumbling towards the bathroom along the way. The sound of water hitting the tiles filled the room, warm steam surrounding her in the darkness as she moved in. Hot beads trickled down her neck and shoulders as she lay her head back against the current, a heavy breath of relief drifting from her lips.

A few minutes later Ellie dragged herself out, pale skin damp as she ran a towel through her hair. She could faintly catch the sound of soft moans and thumping from above her, rolling her eyes as she continued to dry herself off. The noise was louder as she left the bathroom, a towel draped around her loosely as she shuffled into her bedroom. Ellie rummaged through her nightstand in search of her retainer, letting out a small grumble of annoyance when she couldn't find it. After a minute or so of feeling around in the dark, she admits defeat, turning on her small bedside lamp. She squints at the soft bulb, glancing around and seeing her retainer amidst her dirty bedsheets. Gross.

After splashing some water over them and pushing them in, Ellie padded back, glancing around. The room was.. a mess, to say the least. Clothes hung over every corner, to-go cups and empty beer bottles lining what used to be a desk. Her brow furrowed a little, that was another reason why she liked the darkness, it made it easier to ignore what was right in front of her. The ceiling continued to rattle above, exaggerated cries that definitely didn't match the pace of whoever was up there with her. Poor thing. Ellie reached over her bedside to turn off that lamp when she caught a glimmer of her reflection in the mirror.

Moving closer, she let her eyes gaze over her speckled skin, old bruises still fading. She looked like a mess. Unkempt hair, a towel still hanging from her hips and dark circles under her eyes that looked more akin to smudged eyeshadow. She cocked her head slightly, eyes roaming over the small cleavage that was still rosy from the shower. With the stranger's whimpers in her ears, she let a hand trail over her firm breast, exhaling back through her lips as she held herself.

Ellie's eyes drooped shut as she slowly traced along her ribs, up to her collar and around her neck. With a slight squeeze her hips swayed forward gently, mimicking the creaking of the floorboards. She rolled her head around limply before settling her half-lidded gaze back on her own reflection.

Her hands drifted back down to the white fabric that concealed her lower, unwrapping the towel gently and letting it sink to the floor. Her body grew rigid as it dropped, her blood running cold. Along her upper thighs were faint greenish-yellow veins that crawled along her skin and up across her abdomen like a soft pulse beneath her skin. Her crooked finger traced over one of the lines, a slight tremor in her own touch. She swallowed deeply.

She slowly tilted her body to the side, seeing that some of the veins ran up her back, curling around her waist like dying plants. As her gaze flickered over her body she grew paranoid, now up close and personal with the mirror as she examined every inch of her skin. Aside from the veins she seemed relatively normal.

Her eyes were a little darker than before, though that could be from hiding herself away in unlit rooms and the lack of sleep she'd been getting. It was normal, she was normal, just a strange reaction. Might've been a bug bite or a kidney infection or something. She'd pick up some over the counter drug and be fine.

After all, she was immune, right?

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ☆

The weather was just as awful the next day, heavy rain splattering down on her coat, beads of water rolling down her boots with every step as she shuffled down the street. Her teeth were gritted at the whips of wind. Eventually she made it down to the foster center, the playground drenched and muddy with no sense of life. Rolls of thunder brewed behind the clouds, electrical wires dancing in the harsh winds.

Moving up to the entrance she rapped on the door, loud enough that if there were people inside they'd hear. Though, where else would they be? The lights were shut off, the place likely short on power in the storm. Ellie had initially left her place with the intention of returning your compressor, not noticing the severity of the clouds until it was too late.

The door swung open, and your eyes widened to see her there. Ellie, soaked to the skin with a crooked smile and muddy boots. She bit back a chuckle as you ushered her in quickly, shutting the door behind her.

"What the hell are you doing here? Are you crazy?"

You were wearing a teddy-bear colored fleece with baggy jeans and brown boots, your hair in two messy braids and eyes wide set with concern. You looked cute.

"Came to fix the vent, bad time?"

She teased with a soft chuckle, considering there wasn't a single light on in the building. Your cheeks were red like you'd been rushing around. She wondered if you were still afraid of thunderstorms. You used to be. You scoffed in mild irritation, folding your arms and starting to walk away from her. Ellie clambered after you with a shit eating grin.

"Hey don't be like that.. I can probably get your generator working too.."

She called out after you, trudging down the hallway and peeling off her coat to hang up. You waited for her with an expression of subtle amusement and relief, letting her follow along with you back to the playroom. Inside was all the little ones curled up together by the supervisors who were holding candles and trying to keep everyone calm. There was puffy eyes, tears, and anxious faces. Ellie had to bite back another laugh, covering her mouth before you jabbed her in the side with your elbow. She nudged you back almost childishly, this time leaning down to speak to you.

"It's not chemical warfare outside you know, you got them all huddled together like a nuke's about to drop.."

She mused against your ear, chuckling as you batted her away again with your hands. Ellie rummaged through her backpack for a flashlight, heading back down the hallway where you had said the generator was. When she pried open the old cupboard, the thing was covered in a matte layer of dust, her brows furrowed as she searched for the fuse 'round the back. Eventually it clicked in, but the generator simply let out a chortled chuff of smoke before shutting off again. Damn.

As she got a closer look, she felt a sudden rush of unease flood her. However, it didn't feel like her unease. Pulling her head back from the dirty closet, she glanced side-long down the hallway. Ellie noticed you at the end, staring out of the window with those worried eyes as the thunder shoved against the small building. She remained crouched on her hind, eyes soft for a moment.

She wasn't sure why she suddenly felt attuned to you, it was like she could smell how uncomfortable you were. Scooting herself up, Ellie padded down the corridor, coming up behind you and carefully placing her dusty hands on your arms. Your body went rigid at the unexpected contact, but when you moved your head back to see Ellie, you relaxed slightly, lowering your head sheepishly.

"..Still don't like the thunder huh?"

Her voice was soft, low, she almost didn't even recognize it as her own. She studied your expression, stress creased into the lines on your forehead and that stain of redness on your cheeks. Ellie could tell it still bothered you, it's why you were out here instead of in with the rest of the tots. You didn't want them to be scared, and they certainly wouldn't be reassured by seeing you scared too. You swallowed, turning to make up some sort of half-assed excuse for why you were out here when there was another bang of thunder.

Before she could register it, you were against her chest. Her arm's hovered in the air for a moment, those veins pulsing beneath her clothes in a way that made her heart sink. She hoped you wouldn't notice. Her arms slowly lowered themselves around you, a sigh drifting from her lips as she patted your head and gazed out at the lashing rain. Ellie's felt that warm nostalgia floating around her, holding you close again. You were kids then, it felt different now.

"s'Just rain.. just noise sweetheart.."

Her voice came soft against your ear, tucking some strands of hair back into place as you continued to hide away against her chest. She didn't like that you were so tense, that such a brave woman like you was still so wary of things beyond your control. You tilted your head up to look at her, and that puffy face of yours damn near broke her heart. Ellie gazed down at you, her crooked fingers still adjusting your braids. She didn't like seeing you upset, and she couldn't fathom why she could feel you being upset.

Your eyes lingered on her face, freckles splotching across her cheeks and heavy bags under those dark eyes. The way she adjusted your hair made your heart flutter, a hint of heat creeping up the collar. Ellie was feeling something similar, her finger's burning against your skin and your perfume practically invading her nose. Then she felt it again, that pulsing under her skin, and her hand dropped. She took a guided step back from you, not entirely trusting her own body no matter how badly she wanted to be close to you.

Her rejection stung, a subtle ache that swirled around your gut. It was typical of Ellie, to push you away when she got nervous or scared. You wished she wasn't like that, wished she'd pull you closer instead.

"Els.."

You began to speak, your voice a guarded whisper. Before you could even finish the thought though, the lights flickered back on, the busted generator churning loudly like an old fan. There was lots of excited chatter filling the air now, squeals and little claps. The air between you though still stayed thick, your eyes searching hers. They were dark, a hint of clarity in them that was unfamiliar to you. Ellie's heart was thudding in her chest, her fingers twitching. She avoided your gaze, distant.

"Ellie?"

Your voice was softer now, a little more worried at the lack of.. well anything from her. You bridged the gap yourself, gently taking her arm and trying to look up at her lowered face. You still felt warm, she felt colder now. Maybe it was the rain, you thought, she could be sick. Her skin was still clammy from the walk, her hair soaked through and you sighed softly.

"Hang around, yeah? I'll give you a ride home when the rain eases up.."

She looked up at you when you spoke this time, brows furrowed as that thudding in her chest continued. It was disorientating, your lips were moving but it was difficult for her to know what you were saying to her. Still, when you patted her arm and guided her to a comfy chair inside one of the playrooms she recognized that you wanted her to stay here. She watched you walk away, a strained sigh leaving through her teeth.

After some slow, measured breaths that pulsing beneath her skin started to calm, replaced by a deep hollowness on the inside of her chest. She fiddled with her shirt sleeve, her gaze trailing over the various activities that were kicking off between the junior inmates. Ellie knew she should get up, fix your vent like she came here to do in the first place but at the minute she was weighed to the chair. Her gaze flickered to a little girl sitting by herself in the corner, book in hand.

She had short-ish hair, splotchy cheeks and was reading about space with glasses pushed up her nose that were way too big for her. Ellie's eyes lingered, a bittersweet sense of familiarity circling around her. The girl did occasionally look up, watching what was happening around her but never being directly involved with whatever game was taking place. She felt too old. It was a feeling Ellie knew all too well.

Ellie swallowed that unease in her gut, slowly getting up and heading to the air unit. Now that the power was back, she could actually see what she was doing. She unscrewed the panel again, her brain on auto-pilot as she screwed the 'new' compressor back into place and re-attached the belt. Once it was all bolted back down, Ellie placed back over the grate, fiddling with some of the air-con settings to see if it was back in working order. When that gust of soft warm air hit her face she felt that flicker of satisfaction.

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ☆

It was around eight when you eventually got back to Ellie's apartment, walking her to the door despite her insistence that she was fine. Her mouth was dry when you looked up at her, a soft expression on her face that only you seemed to get out of her. She was all too aware of how you smelled. It was like your perfume had doubled in intensity since you left the car, it made her brain foggy as she fumbled with her house keys. As she pushed the creaking door open she glanced back at you.

"..Wanna come in for a bit? I got beer.."

Her voice was quiet, vulnerable.

"I have to drive, Els.."

You let out a gentle laugh, but you weren't saying no to coming in.

Ellie led you to the living room, giving you the better cushion on her beaten-up sofa, a small grin growing on her lips. Ellie still felt.. off, even as you cozied up with some blankets and soda. It started off pleasant though, soft chatter above the TV as you sat close. She could feel how warm you were, her heart thudding gently in her chest. She played it off though, lazily scrolling through her contact list to search for the takeout number.

Her fingers twitched as she tried to pay attention to what you were saying. You'd started talking about how you'd eventually found a foster family here in Seattle, you got your certificate online for pre-primary teaching and childcare. She wanted to listen, she really did. But the TV was playing, the harsh blue light rubbing against her dry eyes. Whatever you were wearing was so strong she felt like she might cough it up, and your voice became a drone that made her head pound. Her left hand brought a cold beer to her lips, trying to keep contact with your pretty eyes.

There was a bit of peace when the food arrived, she could focus on the tastes swishing around in her mouth as it filled her gut. She liked to eat. Your arm was brushing against her side while you both sat there, your legs crossed as you snacked on some spring rolls. Her eyes flickered over to the way your mouth bit down onto them, the crunch and the way your neck bobbed with each swallow. It was more distracting than it should've been. Ellie wasn't sure if she wanted to be the one biting down, or to be the one that you sank your molars into. Her brow lowered, put-off by her own staring as she shoved some more rice into her mouth.

There was nothing in her that wanted more than to be closer to you, to hear those sweet sounds in her ear. But still somehow your voice was too loud, and your body was too close to hers. As she watched the bluescreen across from the two of you, she could feel that dull pounding in her head kicking in. She tried to ignore it, couldn't exactly shut herself in a dark room. She snapped at you. She didn't mean it.

"God could you just.. just be quiet for a second.."

Her voice was low, cutting you off while you told her some silly fact about the actor who was on-screen. She hadn't even expected to say it until the words were already out, and the look on your face made her feel like she'd been socked in the jaw. Ellie felt antsy still, her head aching now with the familiar bug of guilt that was chewing on her gut lining.

"I'm sorry.. I didn't mean that, s'just.. my head.."

She spoke out in an unsteady murmur, rubbing at her forehead with her cool palm in an effort to ease her mind. She wanted to be like you, or she wanted to be with you, she hadn't figured that part out yet. She figured you'd be fed up with her huffing, she'd been a dick to you all day. Her head hurt. Sweat had started to pool around her neck, dripping down her back in an unpleasant shiver as she crouched forward, the floor blurring. The TV continued to drone, her crooked fingers trembling against her face.

And then, softness.

Your hands were touching her arms, gently prying her hands from her pale face. She almost wanted to bark at you for taking away her brief relief, but then your small hand found it's way to her forehead.

"God Els.. you're burning.."

Your hands glided back into her scruffy hair, noticing the beads of sweat that'd gathered around her forehead and the way she looked at you with those lost eyes. Ellie had been quiet for most of the night, you figured she was awkward and nervous. Now it seemed something lay deeper under that skin, her hands coming up to grip onto your wrists. You rubbed her hair back for a few moments before letting go. After turning off the TV and gathering some cold water you held it to her dry, pink lips. She drank it down like a dying man. With the lights now dimmed she seemed to gain some of her focus back, but still that guilt persisted.

"I want you here.. don't know what's wrong with me.."

Her voice was a strained mutter, her fingers still twitching at her brow as she tried to focus on that pretty face of yours. She looked sick, maybe a fever from being out in the rain. You couldn't help but grow softer at the confession, figuring she was simply grumpy and overtired. It was sort of like the kids you'd deal with, throwing tantrums usually because basic needs weren't met. You continued to nurse that water into her, your hand resting on her upper back. Ellie wanted that hand everywhere.

She let her head hang low, deep measured breaths leaving her lips as her shoulders hunched over. Ellie tried not to think about the fact that she'd snapped at you, the fact that her teeth hurt and her stomach was covered in veins. She didn't want to think about it, and she certainly didn't want you to think about it either. The urge was there, to hide herself away and be alone, but it felt so nice to have a hand on her back, to have your palm holding her head.

Eventually the pain stilled, the world was a little quieter now. She looked up from her shoulders, her hazel eyes meeting yours almost sheepishly. Your hand was still on her back, the other smoothing down her hair as though she was a dog. It made her huff. Her eyes traced your features, the look of worry in your eyes.

"M'okay sweetheart, just get these migraines sometimes.. it's like my skull is being split open.."

You let out a soft hum at her words, mulling over her behavior. It made sense, you'd noticed the dark bags under her eyes so Ellie likely didn't sleep well. Her fridge was full of junk, and the sweat that beaded her skin was a cry for hydration. Not to mention the fact she'd spent an hour in the rain today. Your finger brushed a strand that had fallen into her face, both of you once again stilling at the intimate contact. To Ellie's disappointment, you were the one who pulled away this time, your hands falling down to your lap as you cleared your throat.

"Well it's no wonder, you look like a damn zombie Els, probably running on nothing.."

"Mm.. feels like it.."

She huffed out an uneasy laugh, her hand slowly finding yours. She felt a little calmer now, though her temper seemed to flutter under the surface of her skin like an elastic band that could snap. You let out a warm giggle in response, rolling your eyes as you held onto her cold hand. Your fingers idly traced her pointed knuckles, noticing the red and purple blotches that coated them. Your brows mulled together.

"You've been fighting?"

Your voice was gentle, it made her feel less defensive. She didn't withdraw from you, too engrossed by your fingers on her skin. Still, Ellie had no idea how to even explain what her life had been like this far. She knew you wouldn't judge her, even if you both grew in different ways. She nodded.

"Yeah, something like that.."

She chewed on her bottom lip, remembering how her hands had felt wrapped around Abby's neck.

"Sort of found myself a family like you, his name was Joel.."

Ellie hadn't planned on letting you in, but it seemed her heart had other ideas.

"He.. he raised me, in all the ways that mattered anyway.."

Her red eyes brimmed with salted tears that she didn't want to let fall. Her face was hunched over again, so one simply dripped straight down onto the floor. Your silent gaze conveyed empathy, she knew you were listening.

"But he was an idiot.. got himself killed and I couldn't-"

She swallowed deeply, his bloody beaten face looking her dead in the eye. She felt sick to her stomach at the image, at the squelch of the golf-club bludgeoning his skull. Her fingers started to twitch, that hollow ache in her gut that spread up to her kidneys.

"Oh Els.."

Your voice was a whisper, and you didn't even know if she had heard it over the sound of her own breathing. Shifting closer, your free hand hovered near her arm. Her tears were dripping down onto the carpet, and it felt like your heart was being squeezed tight. Ellie continued to stare at the ground when she felt your warm arm around her shoulders, holding her to your side. She wanted to be closer, to be under your skin. Ellie let her forehead press into your collar, but kept her hands to herself.

"I don't think you should be here.. m'not.. I.."

Her words didn't make much sense, her thoughts muddled and warm and confused. Your fingers continued to travel along her brown strands, unable to look away from those red-brimmed eyes, that dark look in them that stood stark against her pale skin. You cradled her face, your breath a ghost over her cheek as you let your nose nudge into the side of her ear. Ellie tensed, her head tilting ever so slightly before one of her cold, large hand finds it's way to your hair, pulling you in closer to her neck. That was always the way with her, her lips telling you one thing and her hands contradicting it.

Her shoulders were hunched, sweat dripping down the back of her neck. You could smell it the minute you hovered, a mix of cologne and petrol with that hint of sweat. Prying back her hair you tied it up into a bun, despite her grumbled protests about having the back of her neck exposed.

"You're too hot.. Trust me, I don't give a damn about the back of your neck.."

Your voice was almost exasperated, a hint of amusement sparkling in your eyes at her antics. Ellie liked to be particular about things, her hairstyle was one of them. If she got a haircut, good luck getting to see her do anything else for a few years. It was cute in it's own way, but that half-up half-down was doing nothing to cool her down.

Ellie refused to remove her sweats or her t-shirt, she couldn't let you see what was hiding under the fabric. You sighed, not pushing her on it but instead just coaxing her upward.

"Think you need to get some sleep honey, and take those sweats off when I leave, you'll cool down.."

Your voice was gentle as you guided her into what you assumed was the bedroom. Ellie winced when you turned on the light, exposing a dump ground of dirty laundry, stained bedsheets and a small country worth of bottle cans. She avoided your gaze as you set her over on the bed, crouching down in front of her.

"Didn't think anyone would b' over.. I would've cleaned it you know.."

Her voice was a vulnerable whisper, her fingers twitching at the drawstring of her sweats. She didn't like that you were seeing her this way, it was humiliating. Your eyes were understanding though, and you gently rubbed her knee.

"I know.. I get off this Sunday, if you'd like I have a stack of black bags and a bottle of Mr. Clean.."

Ellie's eyes shot down to your hand on her knee, then back up to your warm eyes. Your teasing yet caring tone made her heart flutter. Her mouth still felt dry, and as she looked around the room, she knew that she probably couldn't do it alone.

"Yeah, yeah okay.."

Her voice came quiet, the veins under her skin still pulsing. She leaned down so that her arms were resting on her upper thighs, your voices closer together. Her dark eyes searched your features, lifting a hand to gently trace down one of your messy braids.

The air between you was warm, eyes locked while you knelt between her legs. She leaned over you, fascinated with your knitted hair and your soft eyes. Up close she was still pretty, dark lashes that brushed over a sullen brow. The small glimmers of sweat still dripped down the back of Ellie's neck, a soft shudder leaving her lips.

Ellie leaned down closer, her exhales gently blowing against your cheek. You reached a hand up slowly, taking her fingers that were carding through your braid. Ellie flicked her tongue out over her dry lips, wanting nothing more than to lean down and press her face to yours. You held her gaze, watching as she began to lean down to you with half-lidded eyes and rosy cheeks.

As much as you wanted to give in to that, to see where this unexpected fling would lead, you knew it wasn't right. You gently took her cheeks before she could kiss you, and her eyes flickered open. Ellie felt a tingling of rejection in her gut once you stopped her, her eyes shifting from vulnerable softness to a hurt defensiveness. She slowly straightened up, avoiding your gaze.

"Still not into girls huh?"

A gentle smile tugged at your lips at her almost petulant response, the way she folded her arms and pushed you away like you'd just broken her heart. You shook your head with a soft laugh.

"I'm not into girls who aren't in the right headspace to make an informed decision.."

Your voice was knowing. As cute as this freckled girl was, she was clearly not in the right mindset to do anything with. You knew that she wasn't well, not right now anyways. When she continued to avoid your gaze, you gently pulled her chin back to face you.

"Not like this, okay?"

You spoke softer this time, the look in your eyes reassuring her that you did want her, it just wasn't the right moment for this to go any further. Ellie held your eyes for a few moments before nodding with a soft sigh, her shoulders slumping.

"You know you don't always need to be responsible.."

She grumbled, though there was a flicker of amusement tugging at her lips, pretending like she was still mad at you.

"I know, boring as ever.."

You murmured softly, still knelt between her legs with a gentle expression. You reached up to Ellie again, petting down the side of her hair as you studied those rosy freckles and dark eyes.

"You're beautiful.. you know that? Haven't changed a bit.."

Ellie almost short-circuited when you called her that, she almost didn't believe you. In her mind she had changed, no longer some greasy kid with braces and a plethora of facts about the solar system. She leaned her head against your palm, her face still warm. Her arms then sunk down to you, bringing you into a warm hug.

You jolted when she suddenly grabbed you with ease, surprised by the display of strength in her weak state. She was so sweet though, and you all but melted as she hid her face in your chest. You let out a chuckle, patting the top of her head and letting her hold onto you for a moment.

"I'm gonna head home now Els, get some sleep yeah?"

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ☆

The laundry machine rattled against the floorboards in her kitchen, bundles of clothes sloshing around while others hung up on a small drying rack. You were still managing to find dirty bras and t-shirts stuffed under her bed, your nose wrinkling slightly.

"No wonder you always wear the same clothes, half your shit is buried.."

You teased, carrying another basket full of laundry to where Ellie sat by the counter, watching the clothes spinning around. She still wasn't feeling her best, but your company had her eyes sparkling even through the embarrassment of this 'early spring clean', as you called it. She slid down off of the counter, taking the heavy basket from your hands and sitting it down by the washing machine.

"I'm on a journey to a minimalist wardrobe.."

She shrugged, ruffling through some old band t-shirts that she'd forgot she even owned. Some of them were definitely more suited for the trash, with rips and stains that no amount of washing could fix. You tugged out a black laced bra from the pile, raising a brow. It was such a contrast to Ellie's.. everything, and you couldn't help but giggle as you lifted it up.

"Ellie Williams.. I didn't know you had someone to wear all that for.."

You spoke, a shit-eating grin on your face as you watched her go hot in the cheeks. Ellie was quickly moving toward you, trying to wrestle the bra out of your hands while you giggled and tried to squirm away.

"How d'you know it's even mine?"

She grumbled out in a fluster, cornering you against the counter and managing to get the thin garment out of your grip. You continued to laugh at her, a rosy tint to your own cheeks. The idea of it belonging to someone else did send a strange flicker of insecurity through you, but judging by how Ellie was currently red in the face and flustered you had a feeling that wasn't the case.

"That doesn't make it much better.."

You huffed, folding your arms as she stuffed it back into the laundry basket. Ellie stood back up, raising a brow at the way your tone had shifted ever so slightly. More focused on you now than her shyness, she moved closer, leaning against the counter playfully. You scoffed, pushing at her chest to try and get some amount of personal space back.

"That wasn't an invitation.."

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile that split through your teeth as you managed to escape her trap, heading back to the bedroom. You could hear her chuckling in the kitchen still, cleaning down countertops. After shaking the shyness from your cheeks, you got back to work stuffing all those dirty cans and beer bottles into a black bag. The place was already looking better, brighter. That might have something to do with the way you had forced all the curtains open as soon as you arrived, despite the protests of that vampire of a woman in the other room.

As you shoveled trash into the plastic bag, you noticed a small shoebox tucked beneath the bed. A hint of curiosity crept over you, but you hesitated. For all you knew that could be a box of porno CDs or genuinely an old pair of shoes. Still, your hand tentatively reached over to pull it out from under the bedframe. You glanced over to the doorway, where you could still hear Ellie moving around and clearing out her cupboards of expired food.

Still, the glitter covered box drew you in, a large 'E' plastered on with old glue stick and painted with stickers. It was cute, reminded you of how Ellie used to be. Your fingers traced along some of the stickers, the box painted messily in a pale lavender color with remnants of cardboard brown peeking through.

You set aside the lid onto the carpet, peering inside. The box was filled to the brim with photos, wristbands and tickets. A warm feeling swirled in your stomach as you lifted some of the polaroids, Ellie with a big grin full of braces as she held up a fish with an older man. Joel, you assumed.

Some of the other items caught your eye too, old drawings of her as an astronaut and one poorly drawn horse. You were beaming ear to ear without even realizing, feeling as though you were catching up on the life that she kept hidden so tight to her chest. Hidden amongst the memorabilia was also a photo of.. you. Truth be told you didn't even know this image existed, a little seven year old you with that choppy haircut and watching a film on tape.

You recognized that blurry sort of texture, that cartoonish watermark that came from those off-brand kid cameras. A rosy shyness dusted your cheeks as you found some more, one a selfie of you and her. You even found some photos of an older you, from the foster family you inevitably got adopted into. Clearly given to Ellie in a means of comfort while she was still in the system.

You weren't sure when you started to tear up, maybe it was the polaroid of Ellie and Joel that had 'love you babygirl' scribbled onto the back in messy sharpie or perhaps the drawing of you and Ellie holding hands in a crooked love heart.

It was a bittersweet feeling, and it near destroyed you to think about how this poor girl had lost practically everything. At the time you were a year younger than her, still not fully mature enough to realize the depth of her affections for you. A few tears dripped down your cheeks, staining the old notepad paper.

Ellie trudged into the bedroom, wondering why it had gone so quiet all of a sudden considering you'd been squawking all morning about how much of a mess her place was. Her heart dropped as she seen you knelt by her bed, a hand over your lips and eyes brimmed with tears. The next thing she noticed was the small lavender box on your lap, pictured scattered across the carpet. She felt that intense flash of anger at you for going through her stuff, though her feelings for you swallowed that heat.

You noticed her in the doorway, staring up at her tearfully like a deer in headlights. You knew you shouldn't have been snooping around, there to clean not go through her stuff. The allure of simpler times had gotten to you, and now your heart felt ten times heavier with guilt from the pain that Ellie was in.

"Els.. I'm so sorry.."

You weren't too sure whether you were apologizing for going through her things, for what she'd gone through, or for leaving her. Ellie watched as you hid your face in your hands, shoulders shaking subtly. Despite the haze that clouded her mind, her feet began to move of their own will as she sat down onto the floor beside you. She pried the box from your trembling hands, before pulling you gently between her legs and against her chest.

You weren't expecting to be cradled that way, and you hid your face away against her collar. Warm tears still dripped from your cheeks, Ellie's face brushing against your head. Ellie was still incredibly warm, and it was easy to relax. You slowly raised your head, batting wet eyelashes at her. Ellie watched as you held one of the pictures of you two together.

"I didn't realize.. I.."

Your voice was an unsteady whisper, your freehand still covering your lips as you sat between her legs.

"We were kids.."

Ellie muttered softly, patting along the side of your hair as her own heart burned from the memories. She'd spent so much time back then comforting you, soothing how homesick you were. Ellie hadn't even known what to do with herself when you never came back. Unsure of what came over her, Ellie leaned down to smell your hair again.

"I know that but I could've.. I didn't mean to leave you there.."

You let go of the polaroid, letting it sit back into the box and instead wrapping your arms around her so tight that you were surprised she didn't push you away. Ellie continued to rub down the side of your head, her other crooked hand tracing along your back. She almost lost herself in your hair, engrossed by the smells and textures. That cloud over her brain continued to worsen, a billow of frustration swirling in her gut that she couldn't stay present with you.

Sitting against her on the floor was surprisingly cozy, her arms keeping you close as you rested your head against her chest. You were used to her not replying by now, she got too caught up in whatever she was thinking about. Typically though, you didn't mind, not when she was holding you close like this.

You soon felt her mouthing at your hair, biting at strands like a kitten and couldn't help but let out a watery giggle, pulling back just enough to raise a brow. Her eyes were dark and lidded, her fingers still gliding down the side of your head.

"What are you doing?"

Your voice was soft, unable to hide the amusement in your tone.

"I don't know.."

Ellie confessed, holding back the urge to continue. The truth was it'd gotten worse, she'd gotten worse. The thoughts louder, the migraines harsher, the control weaker. You smiled at her warmly, before your gaze drifted down to her neck. A cold chill trickled down your spine as you noticed faint green and yellow veins peeking out ever so slightly from the collar of her shirt that faintly pulsed beneath her skin.

Ellie noticed your gaze immediately, trying to shift and tug up her shirt but she knew it was too late. You'd seen it.

"What the fuck is that?"

Your voice came a nervous whisper, not even wanting the answer.

"It's.. I don't know.."

She felt like a broken record, her thoughts looping around and around in circles in a way that almost made her dizzy.

"Take off your shirt.."

"..I can't, let me-"

"Ellie, take off the damn shirt.."

Your voice came strained, a raised tone that left zero room for argument. Tears brimmed in Ellie's eyes, her fingers trembling as she reached for the bottom of her t-shirt. Your hand flew to your lips as she exposed her chest, covered in veins and blotches of greenish yellow, her ribs pulsing like it had it's own heartbeat. For a moment you were stunned into silence.

"Jesus Christ.."

You spoke in a whisper, your warm fingers reaching out carefully to trace along some of the veins that fluttered gently at your touch. They covered all along her abdomen and across her breasts, crawling around her collar and down her back. Ellie was staring at you wide-eyed, her eyelashes growing wet with held back floods.

"Did you get bit? What-.. what is this?"

You looked up at her, wanting answers yet still fearing the answers that they might bring.

"I got bit.. five years ago.. I'm immune, or-.. I should be.."

Ellie spoke, a few stray tears falling down to the carpet as she avoided your gaze, feeling utterly exposed under your eyes. Her chest was a sore sight, covered in veins and murky colors that stood out grimly against her pale skin. Despite her fears she was still gripping your shirt tightly, she was scared.

You continue to look her over, before meeting her dark eyes again. It was all starting to make sense; the mood swings, the lack of concentration, the way she walked around like she barely knew where she was. Your heart sunk further as you wiped away some of her tears, your warm fingers rubbing against her marred cheeks. It was no surprise Ellie was immune, but infections adapt to their biome. What was more likely the case was that the fungus had sat dormant, taking hold of her and gradually spreading over time.

"Something's happening to me.."

Her voice was a watery whisper, her skin pulsing just beneath the flesh.

"I can't sleep, I get so-.. so angry all the time, n' I throw shit around.. can't even think straight.."

You held her burning cheeks, your own eyes glossy with worry as she finally confessed all that had been happening lately. Part of you was pissed off that she'd kept something so serious from you, but seeing her cry like that made it difficult to hold onto.

"..m' so damn scared.. sweetheart"

Ellie confessed, a vulnerability in her tone that she hadn't let through in years. You were quick to pull her to your chest again, feeling the heat of her skin and the strange textures of her back. Your heart was racing in your chest, and Ellie could practically hear it. Ellie mouthed at your shirt, trying to calm down as much as she could. She was afraid of how easy it was for her to lose herself these days, a little grievance or a memory dragging her beneath a heavy current.

"It's okay.. we'll figure this out.."

Truthfully, you were terrified. The look in her eyes though kept you grounded, you wouldn't leave her again, not like this. You brushed more of her wet tears away, unable to reason with yourself this time. You leaned down to her, your nose rubbing against her cheek and seeking the permission of her lips. Ellie shied away, afraid that somehow she'd transfer this gross bacteria to you. Her hand was braced against your hair still, her other sinking down to your hip.

"What if-.."

Her voice was a watery whisper, and you didn't need her to continue to know where her fears lay.

"I don't care.."

You confessed, stroking her marred cheek as you rested against her lap. The thought of her here all alone, suffering through whatever this was destroyed you. There wasn't anything in this world that could convince you to leave her. You pushed back more of her tangled hair, glossy eyes tracing over her pale face that had already begun to show signs of discoloring.

Ellie's gaze ghosted over your warm lips, soft and pink and all that she'd been able to think about since she found you again. Her trembling hand brought you closer, her movements disjointed. With your warm breath on her face and your wordless pleas, she all but melted into your promises.

The cluster in her head went silent the moment your mouth met hers, her heart syncing to yours as she pulled you closer. Your smell was once again diluting her bloodstream, strong and lovely. Her cold hands trailed up your shirt and against the warm skin of your back, a shiver trickling down your spine as your lips moved against hers.

Your hands traced the lines of her skin, feeling that softness while you could. The kiss was practically a warm cuddle, your legs wrapped around her waist as you molded together on the bedroom floor. Ellie could already feel it, the tremor in her hands and the way she'd lose a grip on something light. Her motor skills were deteriorating, slowly, but steadfast. She knew that soon, she might not be able to touch you, to hold you like this, and so she pressed you to the cold wooden floor, embracing this moment that she knew might never happen again.

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ☆

The next few weeks were painful. Ellie had gotten worse by the day, puking blood and losing any sense of coherency that she'd had. She wasn't like anything you'd seen before, not exactly mutated but not herself either. You'd moved in a few nights after finding out, afraid to leave her alone in that apartment like this. You kept her keys now, locking her in the apartment whenever you had to leave to keep her from wandering. Not that she would, if anything she was even more of a homebody now.

Still it made going to work even more difficult, constantly checking your phone though you doubted she'd even think to call you if something happened. You were trying to push away the inevitable, knowing that soon it would get too hard to go to work. Already you had to re-explain to her every morning where you were going, why you were going, and the tearful tantrums that ensued. The worst part was getting home, most nights finding it in tatters or Ellie passed out in a pile of her own body fluids.

You'd have to lift her, cradling her by the head and trying to get her to wake up. She'd always try to escape you initially, to fight with you when you caught her off guard. Your arms often took the brunt of her anger or fear, holding deep scratches and bruises from where her blunt nails dug into your skin. It was the only way Ellie could express things to you, especially now that her vocal chords were mostly too tensed to make any coherent sounds. Some days were better than others, where sometimes you might get a poorly formed sentence or she'd let her give you a bath.

Those baths were a complete nightmare, especially at the beginning. Ellie often found it extremely distressing to have her body exposed to you, and to her own eyes. She was covered in those yellow-green face, rough textures and blotches of callouses sprouting along her back and inner thighs. You always tried to calm that insecurity she felt, saying she felt like the moon and how beautiful she was. Even still, her once hazel eyes were now dark and clouded, paranoid. During bath time you'd taken to just covering her eyes with a small scarf, like one might do to a travelling horse. It made her calmer.

When you did manage to get her to sit into the lukewarm water, her fist would be painfully tight around your wrist at every moment. The first few times you'd washed her you ended up soaked to the bone whenever she caught sight of some peeled skin floating in the water. Her wet nude frame had refused to leave your arms, drenching you in the process as you tried to soothe her, to remind her that her skin wasn't falling off.

You loved her, but you were exhausted.

The clawing at your arms, the sleepless nights and her unwillingness to detach from your body was slowly grating at your patience. Ellie didn't exactly recognize personal space anymore, she liked to smell your hair and be all over you like a slobbering dog. Her breath would stick to your face and neck, her bony arms usually too tight around your shoulders while she chewed on your hair or your earlobe. You knew she didn't mean it, but it still wore you out, especially on nights where you just needed to be alone for an hour.

You didn't have it in your heart to blame her, not when she was puking up clots in the toilet or hiding in the closet because something had frightened her. You were both stuck in this desperate cycle, wanting the other but suffering from this broken dynamic. You feared the day that you couldn't care for her anymore, and you knew she felt it too. You wouldn't leave her, you knew that. But it grew to a point where eventually, you snapped;

It'd been a long day at the center, an issue with adoption contracts that led to the foster families pulling out last minute from the arrangements. This led to you having to deal with children who had spent the day packing, crocodile tears and confused faces pulling at your clothes or getting angry at you. It was heart-breaking, and you were so worn out.

After getting home, all you craved was some quiet. One hour, even. As you trudged up the cold stairwell and turned your keys into the door, a breath left your lips at the state of the apartment. You'd gotten used to the mess, half the time you didn't even bother cleaning it because Ellie would tear into it a few hours later. But this was ridiculous. Pillows were strewn about the floor, and your favorite vase of flowers was lying in a million pieces by the kitchen counter.

With Ellie nowhere to be seen, you approached your broken vase. While you were trying to collect some of the pieces, your bag slipped from your shoulder and caught on your hair. You cut your hand on a shard, letting out a yell of irritation as you slammed the bag away, rubbing a shaky hand against your forehead. Ellie heard your voice, stumbling into the room with her janky sort of walk, eyes trailed on you.

Before you could even take a minute to gather your scrambled thoughts, Ellie was all over you. Her bony arms circled your torso tightly, cooing in her attempts at a soft greeting. She pressed her face into your neck, but you were so hot and vexed that it just made you feel another flare of anger. Ellie found it difficult to differentiate your moods these days, she couldn't tell that you were on the brim of exploding.

You didn't mean to shove her, but when you did your blood ran cold. You couldn't believe that you'd done it, her fragile body hitting the ground with a thump and a pained groan. Some of the broken glass on the floor dug into her arm, little trickles of blood staining her pale skin. The pain was sudden, and like a frightened cat Ellie started to claw at the floorboards, her voice coming out in loud garbled tones. You quickly tried to quieten her down, it was difficult enough as it was to keep her hidden from her landlord.

"Shit- Els.. I'm sorry-.."

You tried to get at her bloodied arm, to make sure she was okay but she wouldn't let you near her. When you tried to grab onto her shoulder she writhed, digging her blunt nails into your arm and sending a searing sting of pain through your already hot flesh. You let another exasperated shout, trying to get her to detach herself from your skin. Ellie looked at you with those wild eyes, her thoughts running half a minute to try and comprehend what was happening, why it was happening. You couldn't deal with this, you couldn't deal with her right now.

Once you managed to get her off, you made a bee-line to the bedroom. You needed some sort of space before you a blew a casket against your girl. The lock clicked as you shut yourself off behind the door, ripping out jewellery and tying back your hair in and effort to cool down. Ellie clawed at the door, groans of fear and frustration at being unable to get to you fleeing her lips.

Ellie wasn't angry at you though.

There was still that little spark of her there, that semi-awareness that haunted her skin despite the lack of control that she had over her body. She hated how badly she was hurting you, how frustrated you got with her inabilities. You tried so hard to be patient with her, and it made her well up at how much of a burden she was. She couldn't help it when her grip forcefully tightened and she couldn't get the muscle to relax, or the flush of anger that came whenever you tried to leave her alone.

Her motor skills barely functioned anymore, even when she did try to clean her mess it often just made the mess worse. There where nights when you'd come home tired, or upset and she wanted nothing more to take care of you. She wanted to brush your hair with a gentle stroke and not a harsh tug, she wanted to make you smile like you did whenever she could muster a sentence. Ellie couldn't fathom why you were still here, why you stayed with her despite what she'd become. Her blunt and cracked nails continued to dig into the wooden door, hot tears now streaming down her discolored cheeks.

"Ph..s.. s-..rr..y.."

Ellie's voice was disjointed, the vowels clinging to her throat and refusing to make it any further. There were so many things that she needed to say, she knew you were hurting in there and it felt like she had no way to reach you. It broke what remained of her soft fleshy heart as she slowly retracted from the door. Her arm still stung from the broken glass, and with a huff she shuffled to the bathroom to try and rid any remaining shards from her skin.

After a few minutes of fumbling with unsteady fingers, it was all out. Ellie bent her shoulder awkwardly to rinse her marred arm under the cool tap. It dried quick, a surface wound that would only leave a few scratches. It was you that Ellie was worried about, locked away from with and with feelings that she probably couldn't comprehend even if she wanted to. She wanted to be good to you, to be the girl that she knew you deserved. Hearing you crying in the bedroom made her antsy, and she fought down the urge to force herself in.

Ellie staggered to the living room, eyes drifting upon your broken vase. It was an accident, she'd bumped against it earlier when she was trying to smell one of the flowers. Her crooked fingers twitched, and she tried with the best of her ability to clean it up with a small dustpan. Her jerky movements made the whole ordeal ten times more difficult, grunts of frustration leaving her maw every time her hand went in the wrong direction. She got everything up eventually, her heart fluttering with pride.

Ellie noticed one of the roses laying on the ground, crouching awkwardly to pick it up. She then glanced back over to you, shut away from her behind that wooden door. She felt that urge again, to claw and shout and drag you out, but she bit down on that thought as hard as she could. Instead she shuffled towards the bedroom, nudging her cheek against the door. She couldn't hear you crying anymore, that at least was a relief.

She slumped down onto the floor, her back against the wall as she traced the petals with her crooked finger. You had so much patience with her, every single day. Ellie wanted so badly to be patient for you too. She'd wait for you this time, until you were ready for her.

You'd managed to cool off are tying back your hair and taking long measured breaths. As you sat on the mattress, the tension slowly drifted from your shoulders. Your eyelashes fluttered open, gazing around. The bedroom was perfectly clean, something you hadn't noticed before. Your laundry was messily folded in lopsided piles on top of your drawers. Ellie knew you didn't like the mess, she tried to keep this space nice for you.

You felt another stain of guilt at the folded close and the sloppily made bed, knowing how hard this was for both of you. Still you could see how hard she was trying, and it was impossible for you to stay angry with her. You let out a few more deep breaths, stretching out your body with a sigh as you approached the pile of clothes. You stripped off your work pants and blouse, instead pulling her old clothes and letting her scent cuddle you.

It was the not knowing, that was the worst thing about it all. She would continue to deteriorate, you assumed anyways. However, Ellie's transformation was so slow, so unpredictable. You had no idea if one morning you'd wake up and she'd be completely gone. It scared you, and you knew it scared her too. She was hollowed out version of herself now, an Ellie with nothing but basic instincts and functions. It was her memories that had kept her warm, unbearably loveable. She still knew you, still knew that she loved you and that kept her present even in her hardest moments.

Your shoulders fell as you rolled them back into place, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment of peace. It was silent in the apartment now, and you couldn't help but spark a flicker of worry again. It made you feel uneasy when it was too quiet, because at least when she was loud and babbling you could locate her. Wanting to know what she was doing, you moved from the bed. Your nerves now settled.

As you reached for the doorknob, you caught ear of some gentle sniffling, a sound so soft it near broke your heart. The lamp light illuminated the hallway once you cracked open the door. Your eyes grew warm as you found Ellie, sitting on the cold floor and crying as quietly as she could into her calloused palms.

Oh Ellie.

You sunk to your knees beside her, slowly bringing a gentle hand over hers. Your other hand moved to those scruffy strands of hair, caressing the side of her head. It took some coaxing to get her to come back to you, but when she did lift her head, her dark eyes were wet with guilt and worry. Ellie fumbled with the rose she'd gotten, managing to get it up to your face with an apologetic murmur. She wanted to kiss you, but she couldn't. There was that risk now, that maybe she'd bite down on your lip or cheek by mistake.

You met her halfway, leaning down to smell the rose. The soft scent of the flower kissed your nose, making a gentle smile creep onto your lips. She was too sweet, and you adored her. You carefully took the rose from her grip, setting it aside. You brought her into a tight hug, mimicking the ones that she suffocates you with almost always. She responded well, immediately running her cold hands along your shoulders and hair as gentle as she could manage.

Ellie spoke a different language to you now, but it was one that you would never stop trying to learn.

[yuujispunches]

Restless ~ M.F.

Pairing: Megumi Fushiguro x reader

Summary: Megumi suddenly wakes you up in the middle of the nigh because he can’t sleep and he needed someone to help him.

CW (content warning): mentions of nightmares, Megumi being absolutely emotionally constipated, some cursing, nothing else really, this is pure fluff pretty much.

AN (author’s note): so I was scrolling through Cai and ended up stumbling into a bot with this prompt, got carried away and here we are. This is the first time I’m writing anything Jjk related so I’m still trying to figure this out a bit. Also English is not my first language and I’m typing this on my phone so I’m sorry if there are any mistakes. I might have ended up getting a bit carried away with this one hahah. Hope you enjoy this and let me know what you think! :)

Requests for other jjk characters are open! Feel free to ask (you can check out the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

You were sleeping soundly in your dorm room, tightly tucked in under your covers when, suddenly, the creaking sound of the door woke you up. What the hell? Was someone breaking into my dorm? Who could it be at this hour? You thought to yourself, suddenly feeling hyper alert.

That sound paired with the fact you couldn't really see anything made your senses go alert, and without thinking, you threw a pillow in the direction of my door. A quiet though was heard in the room, you had hit something.

"What the- hey, it's just me!" You heard Megumi whisper-yell in an annoyed manner on the other side of the room after he'd supposedly been hit by the pillow.

"I…” He trailed off, seemingly hesitating on wether he should say something now or just turn back and go back to his room. “I couldn't sleep." He ended up admitting quietly, scratching the back of his neck while his footsteps slowly approaching your bed.

“Fucking hell, you scared the living shit out of me Megumi!” You whisper-yelled back as you watched Megumi’ figure walking towards my bed. You clutched your chest, feeling your heart drumming inside as you tried to get you eyes to focus to the darkness of the room.

The two of you had been best friends for a long time, at the beginning he flat out ignored you when you first met, he was pretty aloof and always kept people at arms length but little by little you had managed to see through that and you became close. He was still terribly emotionally constipated, lacking some common social skills, and sometimes he still came off as cold and stoic but you knew he actually really cared about being a sorcerer, about his missions and about the people closer to him, despite being terrible at showing it.

“What happened?” You asked him as I sat up on your bed, moving closer to him when when the bed dipped slightly under his weight once he sat at the edge of it. He let out a soft sigh and paused for a moment before turning to look at me when you moved closer to him.

"Couldn't sleep again." He replied in a calm manner, looking down as he avoided eye contact for a moment. Then suddenly he looked up at you, his dark blue gaze meeting yours. "Are you mad I woke you up?" He asked, tilting his head to the side just barely as he spoke.

Your gaze softened at his question and you placed a hand on his shoulder gently caressing it. “No of course not” You quickly answered, not wanting him to feel bad about waking me up. Knowing Megumi it must be something really important if it had made him come here now. “You just almost gave me a heart attack, but it’s fine” You added in an attempt to make a light joke but it only got a half-assed chuckle from Megumi. Yeah there’s clearly something wrong.

The bags under his eyes were very noticeable even with the lack of lighting in room right now, he just looked plainly exhausted and the sight made your chest tighten.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked him softly, your voice quiet as you shifted a bit, resting your head on his shoulder.

He hummed softly in response when you placed your hand on his shoulder, and his gaze softened slightly as he felt you gently running your hand over it. He exhaled quietly, and then shifted his position slightly to look at me directly.

Your head resting on his shoulder felt good, a reminder that you were there, that he was awake and no longer seeing his nightmares and he relaxed a little more, his arm instinctively wrapping around your waist as he leaned back a bit. He was quiet for a few moments before he spoke again.

"I think talking... won't fix anything." He mumbled softly.

“Megs…” You whispered, the nickname falling off your lips almost unconsciously, at the beginning he had hated it, but as time passed and the two of you get closer he ended up growing fond of it. You were the only one allowed to call him that, so whenever he heard it it made him feel somewhat warmer inside. He had always been like this, he was absolutely terrible at opening up and talking about how he felt.

You let him pull you closer as he wrapped an arm around your waist. You knew that pressuring him into talking about whatever was on his mind would only make matter worse right now so you decided not to. “How long has it been like this?” You asked him quietly, the bags under his eyes were a clear indicator that he hadn’t been able to get a good sleep in a couple of days at least. God he looked terrible.

He sighed softly as he tightened the grip of his arm around you waist slightly for a moment, his fingers lightly drumming on the small of your back as he pondered how to answer the question. He couldn't even remember the last time he slept through the night without being woken up by a nightmare. The bags under his dark blue eyes showed the toll it had taken on him.

"A while." He mumbled in a quiet voice, almost as if it had taken him a lot of work to say that out loud his gaze averting from yours for a moment right after.

You sighed as he answered, a troubled expression on my face. Part of you wanted to scold him, tell him that he should have come to you sooner and that he was stupid for neglecting himself like this once again, but another part of you was just worried about him and wanted to comfort and hold him.

You sighed and pulled away for a moment, Megumi’s frown deepened at the gesture almost as if he was disappointed at the lack of contact but you didn’t say anything. Instead you just pulled back the covers of the bed, silently offering him the space to lay next to you.

He truly had felt a pang of disappointment when you pulled away from him, the loss of contact making him feel suddenly lonely and cold, but before he could even verbalize any protest, you were already offering him a space in your bed. He felt a slight flutter in his chest at the gesture, and without a word, he silently crawled into your bed, laying beside you.

He was a little flustered by the sudden proximity, but even more so when you pulled the covers over the both of you. His arm instinctively wrapped around your waist once again, seeking your touch.

The room was quiet, only your breathings could be heard. At first Megumi was a bit tense, but as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer he seemed to relax ever so slightly.

“Do you want to watch something or do you want to try and get some sleep?” You offered him softly, knowing that despite being seemingly calmer now he was still clearly worried about something that kept him from sleeping.

Since Megumi was pretty bad at communicating and usually kept a lot of thing to himself you had learnt to read him really well by now and you were able tell that he was still hesitant about something, maybe even worried that he was bothering you because of the fact that he had woken you up for something so silly as having nightmares. He felt childish and reluctant to talk about it because of that.

He remained quiet, his gaze flickering up to meet yours momentarily when you spoke. There was still some uneasiness written in his tired eyes, but he was definitely calmer now that he had you by his side.

He sighed softly, his fingers gently starting to trace patterns on your back as he thought about what to do. He knew he was bothering you, how could he not be? He had woken you up at god knows what time in the night to dump his problems on you. But... he needed you. He needed the reassurance, the comfort that he only felt when he was around you.

I want to help to do something to help him but I don’t know what. The feeling of Megumi’s fingers softly tracing patterns on your back as he held onto you, only made it harder to concentrate as it made your chest flutter.

“If you can’t fall asleep I’ll stay awake with you” You stated, your voice was still soft but firm. “We don’t have to watch anything or even talk if you don’t want to.” You added as you moved your hand so you were caressing his face, both of you laying on your sides facing each other “We can just stay like this if that’s what you want”

You really wanted to reassure him, it didn’t bother you in the slightest that he had come to you at this ungodly hour in the middle of the night. You would gladly stay awake every night if he ever needed you to without a doubt.

He nuzzled his face into your hand when you started gently caressing his cheek, his eye closing for a moment as he took in the feeling of your touch. He sighed softly, a hint of gratitude crossing his face.

Hearing your reassurance brought a little bit of peace to him. He knew he could be difficult to deal with at times, but the fact that you were willing to stay up with him despite that made his chest feel warm.

He shifted a little closer to you, his hand still resting on your back."You... promise you won't leave?"

A small smile played on your lips as Megumi asked you to promise him that you wouldn’t leave him, as if that ever was a possibility.

“I promise, I’m not going anywhere” I whispered back, still caressing his face gently as you looked at each other. Megumi’s eyes were searching your face, looking for any sign that might have indicated that you were uncomfortable or doing this out of pity but all he was able to find was care and softness that made the walls that he had spent so much time building around him tremble.

He sighed softly as he looked into your eyes, his gaze softening further when he heard your words. A slight flutter was still present in his chest as he was reminded of just how much he needed you, how much he cared about you.

"Thank you..." He mumbled, his hand on your back sliding down to your waist as he pulled you a bit closer.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as he took in the moment. Just being like this with you brought him a sense of peace and comfort, something he desperately needed. You felt him relax even further under your touch, his expression finally softening up as you let him pull me even closer and rested his forehead against yours.

A small smile formed on your lips and you felt your heart skipping a beat. You had to remind yourself that this wasn’t the time to let your feelings out, Megumi needed you. He probably just sees me as a friend, nothing else.

“Besides, you came into my room, so I technically can’t even go anywhere else even if I wanted to.” You added, jokingly in an attempt to cheer him up even if it was just a bit.

This time, unlike the last time when he had first barged into your dorm, a faint, tired chuckle escaped his lips as you tried to joke with him. He knew you were trying to make light of the situation, and he appreciated it. That flutter in his chest only grew more intense as he silently acknowledged the fact that he felt so comfortable with you. He felt a bit guilty for having those thoughts, but deep down... he knew he was developing feelings for you.

"Right." He mumbled back, a slight smirk forming on his tired face. "So I guess you're stuck with me now."

“Exactly” I said amused, playing along, some sense of pride growing inside your chest at the sight in front of you.

The small smile that had formed on Megumi’s face, and even though it was small and tired smile it was still something and the fact that you had been the one that caused it made my chest flutter lightly. I wish he could be like this more often.

Megumi was still holding onto you, his fingers tracing patterns on your back “Oh who will save me from this torture?” You asked dramatically.

He couldn't help but huff out a small, weary chuckle at your dramatic response. The tiredness and strain in his eyes was still visible, but being with you seemed to be helping.

"No one will save you. You're stuck with me." He mumbled with a bit of amusement in his voice as he continued to hold onto you, the hand on your back still tracing patterns until he paused for a moment, his gaze flickering back up to meet yours. His expression suddenly looked a little more vulnerable as a thought crossed his sleep-deprived mind.

“Oh what a terrible fate” You whispered as you laughed a bit until you noticed.

You were about to say something else but then Megumi stopped moving his hand along your back, making you gaze up at his face, only to find him already staring at you, a look in his eyes you had never seen before. You just stayed there, not daring to move a muscle in case it would break the moment, waiting for him to do or say something. You could feel your heart pounding inside your chest. Is he able to hear it? Given how close the two of you were it was certainly a possibility.

You felt his fingers trembling slightly against your back as he stared at you, the expression in his tired eyes growing a tad more vulnerable.

He was tired. He was tired, and he didn't have the mental capacity to filter his thoughts like usual. The words slipped past his lips before he could stop them, the admission coming out in a soft, quiet, almost vulnerable voice. "...I don't deserve you."

You froze for a moment as you heard him, his voice unusually quiet and vulnerable. You looked into his eyes, searching for something, although you didn’t even know what. Your heart melted and ached equally at the sudden confession.

“Megs…” You whispered, his nickname falling off my lips as a breath once again.

You moved your hand that had been caressing his face, now running your fingers through his hair gently as you kept your gaze fixed on his. “I really wish you could see yourself like I see you”

His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, his head nuzzling slightly into your hand as he felt the gentle caress of your fingers in his hair. He leaned into it slightly, as if chasing the comfort it provided him.*

His expression was still vulnerable, his weariness clearly visible on his tired face. He slowly opened his eyes again, staring into yours as he spoke in that same quiet voice.

"You... make me feel things. Things I don't think I should feel."

With each word he spoke you could feel your heart sinking deeper and deeper, terrified of what this could lead to but also pained that he felt like that, like he was undeserving of love, of having feelings:

“Why?” You breathed out.

He let out a soft exhale, his expression turning a mix of vulnerability and uncertainty. He continued to stare into your eyes as he struggled with his thoughts, silently fighting against his own mind. It was taking all of his energy to keep his guard down, to be open and vulnerable.

"Because..." He paused for a moment, his voice growing softer as he spoke. "Because you're too good for me. You're too good, and I'm... I'm just... broken."

You could’ve never dreamed that he would also have some kind of eelings for you, you should’ve been happy about this but instead, it broke your heart to hear him speak of himself like that.

“You’re not broken Megs” You said, both your hands cradling his face, making him look at you. “Yes you might have some baggage but that doesn’t make you broken or undeserving of love” You stated and paused briefly, gathering your thoughts for a moment. It is now or never.

“You are incredibly infuriating, you always keep your feelings to yourself, you push people away and act as if you don’t really care and you make me want to strangle you most of the time. Getting to know you is probably one of the hardest things I have ever done.” A frown formed on Megumi’s face as he listened to you. “But you’re also the most loyal, unintentionally funny and caring person I have ever met.” You were pouring your feelings out and paused briefly to take a breath before adding something else. “You’re truly amazing Megumi Fushiguro and I’m in love with you.”

There it is, I finally said it. He listened intently as you spoke, his tired eyes fixed on your face as you held his face in your hands. He could feel his defences crumbling down as he took in your words, your confession making his heart beat faster in his chest.

As you finished speaking, he was left speechless for a moment, his mind processing what you had just said. Your words had left him reeling, his heart and mind in a turmoil of emotion.

"You... love me?" He managed to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.

All you managed to do was nod in response. “I love you.” You repeated, even more firmly than before if it was even possible.

His eyes widened slightly as you repeated the words, completely caught off guard by your confession. He could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest as he struggled to process the fact that you loved him. Megumi was used to keeping people at a distance, he was used to being alone, but hearing those words come out of your mouth made his mind reel.

"You... love me." He repeated softly, almost as if testing the words on his tongue. Then there was silence.

“This is supposed to be the part where you say whether you feel the same or not Megs” You said, your heart was beating so hard inside your chest that you thought that it would burst out of it at any second now.

He stayed quiet, only making me more nervous m. Had I gone too far? Maybe I had misrepresented what he meant earlier, maybe I had just ruined our friendship forever. Your mind started spinning. “I uh… it’s okay if you don’t I just-“ Your nervous rambling was suddenly cut off by Megumi’s lips.

As your anxious rambling was about to escalate, he silenced you by abruptly pressing his lips against yours. It was a quick, impulsive action, born out of his need to shut you up and reassure you that you weren’t wrong. It was a bit rough and uncoordinated due to him acting on instinct, but the message behind it was clear.

He pulled back from the kiss after a few seconds, his tired eyes fixated on you once again.

"I love you too." He whispered softly, his voice still hoarse from fatigue and emotion.

“Oh…” You let out, dumbfounded as your mind and heart were reeling from the kiss. “That’s good then” You chuckled awkwardly, your face surely blushing as you felt your whole body growing hot.

Megumi shook his head, adoring eyes looking at you as if you were the best thing he had ever seen which, to him, you were before leaning in again, his lips meeting yours once more.

That night neither of you really slept, but instead of nightmares, the night was filled with soft kisses, adoring glances and whispered ‘I love you’s.

tags: @fortunatelyfurrygiver

Taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added!

[livfastdieyoung69]

OMG THE MOODBOARD MADE ME FERAL.

GIVE ME A HEEL READER X FACE CODY AND HE SUPPORTS READERS RIGHTS AND WRONGS.

I love cody im bawling hes so pretty

(current!cody rhodes x heel!reader, warning red hot bat shit diva incoming)

(the mood board in question)

Beautiful, Violent, Vulgar

Now, you love Cody. Truly, with everything in you. But he’s too nice sometimes. Along with everything else about him, you love Cody’s compassion for the people surrounding him, but he was genuinely kind to every single person he’d ever met.

Every here and there, you tell him that. He just kind of scoffs it off though, considering your reputation of being an asshole to everyone except him (most of the time).

This new annoying ass version of John Cena trying to prove it though? That pissed you off. What pissed you off even more was the ‘proof’ he gave in his last WrestleMania match.

You had a deep, terrible gut feeling that Cody was going to lose. The two of you tell eachother everything, and he had told you the same thing in the quiet of your bedroom the night prior. You would’ve been okay with it if it was fair, however, all of this with Travis Scott was bullshit. Nothing in your entire lifetime of constant bitching and discourteous actions, could have made you angrier than the disrespect put on the one person in the world that not only you could stand, but that could stand you.

The second the ref counted to three, you flew down to the Guerrilla and tried your best not to pick any fights in the mean time. That could wait until after you knew Cody was okay.

He looked completely defeated, and it broke your heart worse than you thought it would. When Cody finally looks up, his eyes immediately lock on you. The two of you rush to eachother, the tall man folding into your embrace.

“Baby…” You pull him tighter, hand curling in his short, bleached locks, the other around his back.

“I told you,” He shakes his head against you. “I told you.”

“Codes,” You pull him up a little so you were face to face. “You’ll get it back. I swear to God you’ll get it back. The only thing you proved out there is you are too good of a man to let bottom dwelling, filthy, middle aged, Hollywood sellouts manipulate you into changing.”

He scoffs, shaking his head but you keep talking.

“That’s what he is, Cody.” You nod. “And I know you used to love him, but that was when he was a wrestler, and a good man. He is not the good man he used to be, and if he needs Rihanna’s husband to get in your face then clearly he isn’t a good fucking wrestler either.” Your voice is growing with anger, so you take a quick breath and pull yourself together. “We can talk about that later. Are you okay? No injuries?”

He nods again, lips curling in the smallest smile, but the biggest one you’d seen just about all day.

“Just sore, that’s all.” You hum at his answer, rubbing up and down his sides before you pull your hands back. “I just- I just want to get out of here.”

You’re quick to lead him to the bus, running into Cathy Kelley who you might’ve yelled at for a quick seconds after Cody basically ran up the bus’ steps. Oops. You’ll give her an offhand apology through a gift card, maybe flowers, or something later, you know Paul put her up to it. Speaking of, you needed to have some words with him.

When you clamber up the steps of the RV and find Cody sitting at the cramped table with his eyes shut and his head against the wall behind him, all bruised and bloodied, the last teensy bit of self restraint you’d managed to keep leaves you. You will be having those words with Paul, now.

“Left my water bottle back in Guerrilla, baby, i’m gonna go grab it before we take off.” You’re already shoving the door open again, yelling that you’ll be right back over your shoulder while you speed walk through the background of Cathy’s screen time. You didn’t leave your water bottle, it was sitting right next to Cody. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice for a bit.

You’re storming through the Guerrilla like a lunatic, screaming for Paul at any passing person. Some staff member ran off the scene and grabbed his attention from the social media directors, creative team, press conference, and every other thing you could imagine and he’s rounding the corner with furrowed eyebrows under the reading glasses he didn’t get the chance to take off. Paul sighs, and his eyes close when he sees you. He says your name, riddled in pure exhaustion. You don’t care.

“No.” You stick your hand out. “What in the absolute fuck was that.”

“You know how this business works,” He tells you, attaching your name to it with the shake of his head like you’re some petulant child with no reasoning behind their argument. “He had to lose it eventually.”

“That’s absolutely not what i’m talking about and you know that. You make him lose, I don’t give a fuck, he’s still the best damn man in this place without a belt. But that bullshit with Scott was embarrassing. For this company, for Cody, for, and I couldn’t care less about him, but for Cena.” He tries to interrupt you again, and you shove the hand you’d been waving around back in his face. “I know you’re money hungry, Paul, but that was a fucking disgrace.”

He lets silence blanket over, the rest of the staff in the Guerrilla finally taking the hint to leave while he gathers his thoughts.

“I’ve known you for a very long time, kid.” He finally manages to start. “I know you’re very opinionated and you aren’t afraid to stand up for yourself. But I am your boss, and you can’t speak to me like that.”

“Oh, cmon, Paul,” You roll your eyes. “How many times have you threatened to fire me, huh? It’s not gonna happen. We both know that. I’m trying to bring light to the problems this company has with you running it- and you want nothing but money. Everything is a goddamn marketing scheme now, and it’s disgusting.” Stephanie rounds the corner, standing next to Paul just as you decide you’ve had enough and start to turn around.

“What’s going on here?”

“You and your husband are greedy moneybags running this company into the fucking ground!”

You hadn’t planned for all of this. All you’d wanted was to throw a couple back handed compliment around, but here you are, screaming at your bosses because you can’t help yourself, when all you want to do is get back out of the stadium to Cody.

Paul yells from behind the curtain of the Guerrilla you’d just torn through about how that was your second strike. This was your third second strike of the year, Paul really liked the idea that he had the ability to get your attitude managed with the threat of firing you. Usually, you would have rolled your eyes, maybe scoffed, and kept walking. Today, though?

Today, you may not have forgotten your water bottle, but Tiffany Stratton did, and it’s right there in all of its clunky, big-ass, bright pink, metal, Stanley cup glory. You pick it up and chuck it back through the curtain and against the wall behind him and Stephanie.

“You want to fire me, Paul? Do it! Do it!” You burst back through the curtain. “There’s your media reason.” You point to broken cup, spilling ice water everywhere on the ground. You’d buy Tiffy a new one, you were actually pretty good friends. “See where this company goes when we leave again. Back in the fucking trash.”

With your grand finale, Shawn Michaels steps in from behind you to gently lead you from the room. Though you may get on Paul’s nerves, you reminded Shawn a lot of his younger self. He was on drugs though, you’re just kind of bat shit. You finally start the dash back to the RV with no interference, walking back up the steps and plopping into the seat across from Cody with heavy breath.

He’s staring you with raised eyebrows and the gleam in his eyes tells you he’s trying not to smile. His big, veiny hand is spinning your water bottle on the table.

“What’d you do?” He tilts his head up, a tiny smile breaking through. You shrug.

“Nothing to worry about.”

“Did you get another strike?”

..

“…Maybe.”

I had absolutely no plans of doing this rn it’s so late but i miss cody so much

this is probably pretty bad i wrote it laying in bed on my phone im sorry </3

[secondsistershelby3]

A MONSTER BUT NOT FOR YOU [2]

Pairings: Joel Miller x immune!Reader

Summary: you were born and raised in shit, like so many other people born during the apocalypse, you knew that things would be even more difficult since that fateful day in 2015, but did you ever imagine that people would no longer see you as a human being, or maybe someone would?

Warnings: !SPOILER TLOU!, typical violence of the last of us, angst, blood, quite specific descriptions gore, age gap, SMUT, 18+, obscenity, !Legal!, flashbacks, I will try to make Joel behave in a fairly canonical way

Note: I'm glad people enjoyed the first chapter, I had this idea in mind for a while but I never had the courage to write it because I thought it was a bad idea

MASTERLIST

Part 1 - Part 2

Boston, 2023

Your skin was cold as ice, almost as if you were dead, even though it was hot in Boston. You felt almost helpless, as if you hadn't moved in a week. At the slightest noise you jumped up in the air thinking that whatever made the noise was coming into the room with you. The room was dark, except for a few slivers of light that came in from the window during the day, the chains had left a mark on your wrists from how many times you had tried to free yourself. There was only silence

"uuuggh WHAT THE FUCK!"

well not completely silent, since every day you heard a voice complaining and pulling on the chains in the room next to yours. You could hear them always asking her the same thing: "count slowly and clearly from 1 to 10", "now hold out your hand" "say your name slowly", you always heard her answer.

Count, Veronica, count Veronica, count Veronica, always the same answers

For you, they only came in to feed you, they looked you up and down and then they left. No tests, no questions, no 'courtesy'

You didn't speak, you only used gestures: you kicked, you gave the middle finger, you spat, you pulled but not a single word. You had been in that shitty room for a little over a week.

No torture, nothing like that, it wasn't because you were weak.

It was because they hadn't fed you since they put you in this room. Not the food that is usually meant, something else that you wanted to repress for days but that in the end you had to give in, a souvenir of that night, along with others.

You had your knees pulled up and your arms around them, trying to stay "conscious", in case someone came in.

The door in front of you opened and you threw yourself back against the wall, panting and feeling your face throbbing, as well as your arms and legs.

"you're still… well you" Marlene approached slowly, still remaining at a certain distance.

"you're not going to say anything today either?" nothing. That bitch didn't deserve a word from you, she just had to give you some fucking blood tests and blood samples, instead here you are.

"I know you don't like this, but if I had told your sister and brother they wouldn't have let me do it, and this operation is important and we're sure we can do it with you" you were sweaty, out of breath but you still managed to give her a threatening look and suddenly you tried to sprint with your little strength but the chains were too short and they pulled your wrists for the umpteenth time. Marlene remained still where she was.

"you'll understand that all of this is for the greater good" you remained on your knees staring at a fixed point while you heard the door close and you returned to the dead silence, you don't know how much you would have resisted your impulses and you didn't want to find out.

—

"I told you that you couldn't trust Marlene, damn it!" Thomas whispered to Denise as they walked quickly to the building where they had left you because Marlene wanted to do some "tests"

"She seemed trustworthy, I.. I thought I could trust her…" Thomas turned quickly towards his sister, making her stop suddenly "that's why we shouldn't trust the fucking Fireflies" Thomas looked her straight in the eyes and sighed before starting to walk again.

Denise loved you and only wanted the best for you but she thought she could trust her, they both trusted the Fireflies, but for a while you had your doubts about that group, but they gave you extra rations, a comfortable place to sleep and in exchange they wanted you for a blood sample or test, but never for that long. They had to understand that Marlene wanted to screw them

While walking through the streets of Boston the two ran into some F.E.D.R.A. soldiers that surrounded where it looked like there had just been an explosion.

"it must have been those fireflies again" Thomas sighed - "yes.."

they only had one thing in mind, to have a talk with the boss of the fireflies

—

You hadn't counted how much time had passed since Marlene had spoken to you. But you knew that you were getting worse by the minute, your veins were pulsing all over your body and your almost primal instincts were struggling to get out and you were about to let go of everything, close your eyes and abandon yourself to the darkness.

But gunshots prevented you, you raised your head suddenly and opened your eyes wide, the gunshots continued and were reciprocated, you also heard people shouting commands from one side to the other, people running on the stairs, going up and down.

And then the door opened

"sir there's a little girl here"

it was your chance to recover and escape, but it wouldn't have been nice, not for you, nor for this F.E.D.R.A. soldier.

The darkness obscured most of your body.

"are you infected?" the soldier continued to slowly approach

"I'm sorry…" you whispered

"what-"

screams

gunshots

grunts

blood…

so much blood

the soldier was dead.

—

Tommy moved carefully as he entered the building with Denise and as he closed the door trying not to make any noise he felt a tap on his shoulder "Tommy…" his sister Denise's whisper scared reached his ear

"What-" as soon as Thomas turned he saw two dead bodies in front of the stairs. One was a firefly, the other was a soldier of the F.E.D.R.A.

"fuck…they got in" - "and if they got in it means they'll find her" they looked at each other at the same time and hurried up the stairs, fuck being silent, the F.E.D.R.A. had found the fireflies and that meant they would find you too.

Thomas went with the gun pointed in front of him as he checked every corner before moving forward, Denise looked at his balls with her revolver.

As they climbed another flight of stairs they heard the first voice

"Joel!"

fucking Marlene.

Thomas turned to Denise and put his index finger in front of his mouth to signal for silence. They stood against the wall as they walked forward, the voices getting closer and closer

"Ellie" was still Marlene's voice, it sounded authoritative as if she was scolding someone.

Thomas leaned forward slightly and saw 5 people, Marlene, next to her presumably a firefly, a girl who couldn't have been more than 15 years old on the ground, a man and a woman next to her. He could shoot one of the two unknown adults and they might have had a chance. Thomas took a breath and aimed the gun at the adult man, he put his finger on the trigger.

"Thomas, wait!"

Everyone turned around and the two smugglers immediately pointed their guns behind them.

"Don't shoot Joel!" Marlene stopped them immediately.

"Where the fuck is our sister Marlene?!" Thomas continued to keep his gun pointed, Denise did the same standing next to him.

"everyone put your guns down first, we're not enemies" Thomas raised his eyebrow

"oh no? so taking my sister as a guinea pig by surprise isn't being enemies?! - "now calm down and put your gun down Thomas and I'll give you your sister back" Marlene held one hand in front of her for safety while the other rested on the wound

Thomas looked from Marlene to the two strangers. "they have to put them down first"

silence fell in the hallway. "Joel does as he says" Joel glared at the head of the lights "Do it!….please"

Joel looked at Marlene and then Thomas and motioned for Tess to put her gun down, Thomas and Denise put theirs down in return.

"where is she?" asked Thomas as he slowly approached the group, continuing to check the two in front for safety. Marlene nodded towards the door next to the girl on the floor.

Denise looked at her brother and rushed to the door, took a deep breath and turned the doorknob and pushed it, letting light into the room.

Denise opened her mouth wide and gagged when she saw the scene in front of her, she put her hand in front of her mouth to keep from vomiting and turned her head to the side. Thomas put a hand on his sister's shoulder and tried to get his courage up to go in.

A F.E.D.R.A. soldier was lying on the ground with part of his guts hanging out, he had bite marks on his neck, his intestines were hanging out of his body. There were bullet holes on the walls, there were several.

Thomas turned his head to look for you but he didn't see you "fuck..fuck, fuck"

He immediately turned to Marlene and went angrily towards her, but the woman next to her raised her gun towards him "what have you done?!" Thomas had a look more than furious

"Thomas" Denise looked behind Marlene

"no christ now she have to listen to me, she have no idea of ​​the seriousness of the actions she have done!-"

"Thomas!" - "WHAT?!" he turned her head towards her sister angrily. Her sister had a worried look as she pointed her head towards the stairs, behind Marlene.

When your brother turned his head in that direction, he finally saw you, you had blood on your clothes and a little on your face, you were breathing fast, your face almost tired "holy christ.." he whispered before rushing towards you, your sister did the same, Thomas put his jacket on you. They just hoped that the two of them hadn't seen the body in the room.

"we had a deal Marlene, a fucking deal!" - "I had to do it, I needed you to help me carry the girl" Marlene sighed in pain with her hand on her hip as she looked at Thomas

"and I still need her" Thomas' eyes widened with an almost amused expression

"are you kidding us!?" your sister spoke to that statement

"my soldiers are dead and having your sister is more than indispensable, and I need you too" Marlene turned her head towards the smugglers

"Who is she?" asked the woman

"to you? She's a cargo"

"we don't smuggle humans and not with other kids" - "but how old do you think we are excuse me?" your brother looked at the stranger with anger

"he had to escort her to the government building, I had squadrons and armored vehicles but not anymore and you are the only ones who can do it"

"you are fucking crazy" your brother laughed

"there will be some fireflies there and they can escort you to Wyoming, that's where you want to go, right?" Your brother had an arm around you as he looked at you. Yes, they had wanted to go there for a while, they had heard that there was a community of survivors and they could finally be safe but they didn't know how to get there, but they didn't know if they could trust Marlene as much as they do now.

"and for you there will be more than a battery, I can give you also an armored vehicle with a full tank, weapons, supplies, I swear" Marlene turned her head towards the two smugglers then pointed her finger at you

"she may seem like a little girl, but you don't know what she is capable of, she is as much as you if not more, it will be more than essential" you looked with a cold gaze at the two strangers in front of you

"who said we accepted?" - "I swear I'm telling you the truth Thomas, I know what I'm getting into if I don't tell you the truth this time"

Thomas looked at Denise as the smugglers walked away to talk "I don't want to put her in danger" your sister spoke

"I can do it" for the first time in a week you had uttered a word "if this takes us to Wyoming…I can do it" you turned your head towards your brother more than determined

You walked down the stairs with your brothers behind you while you looked at Marlene without saying anything.

You had been locked up for almost 14 days but you finally got out but how long would it take you to get into trouble with these new "companions"

—

I swear the interactions with Joel will come, but first I wanted to introduce everything a bit

[phantasm-ae]

So i had a thought… 👀👀👀

cw: angst, afab reader x ghost, rejection, failed confession, afab reader x price

HEADCANON: Simon tries… really tries to finally tell you his feelings. Doing all that silly rom-com shit to try and win you back. But fuck, when the door opens. He realizes that maybe he was too late after all

PAIRING: Simon Riley x reader; John Price x reader

Simon Riley didn't do romance.

He didn't do candlelit dinners. No bloody hand-holding in public or those long rambling conversations at 2 a.m. about dreams and childhood memories.

Fuck that.

Simon Riley didn't do romance.

He didn't do soft goodnights or "text me when you get home". Would rather scalp himself clean than do forehead kisses or stolen glances across crowded rooms.

Simon Riley didn't do romance

Fuck vulnerability. Fuck intimacy. Fuck all that raw, open feeling bullshit. No. Not him. He didn't do that.

Not since his family. Not since the noise stopped in that house and never came back.

He lived alone for a reason. Slept with the telly on sometimes just so the silence wouldn’t crawl too far under his skin. Kept his place bare -- no photos, no keepsakes, nothing someone could walk in and interpret as a life. Because what life was left there, really?

But Simon Riley fucked. And fucked hard.

Clean. Quick. Tension out. Primal. Feasting. Then clothes back on. You get what you came for, and you leave before anything else happens. That was how he liked it. That’s how it always was.

Simon Riley fucked hard.

But he wasn't cruel.

He just didn’t have it in him -- whatever it was that made people want to be seen. To be known.

That thing that made people ask to stay the night or whisper “I missed you” like it wasn’t...terrifying.

He’d learned early that the world didn’t reward softness. He still had his father to thank for that -- a legacy of sporting bruises and burns that won't fade.

Opening yourself up was just another way to get torn apart. And he has his family to thank for that. Only now in their absence more than anything else. One day they were there. The next, a crater in his chest he never managed to fill.

So he learned to live alone. It was easier that way. Quieter.

Less messy. Safer.

Painless.

There were only a handful of people who ever managed to get past his walls -- but even then, it was like letting in sunlight through bulletproof and tinted glass. Price. Gaz. Soap. Roach. He trusted them in the field, would take a bullet for them without blinking. But trust didn’t mean vulnerability.

They’d never seen his flat. Never heard the silence he lived in. Never noticed how he never answered questions about where he went on holidays, because the answer was always --

nowhere.

Until her.

Her with all her frazzled ideas and chaotic warmth. All sharp tongued, clever-eyed, with a laugh that grated against his nerves in a way that made his chest ache.

She wasn’t neat or quiet or easy to read. She was the exact opposite of everything he’d thought he could handle. She didn’t ask for permission to touch him, to be near him, to know him in a way that stripped away the walls he’d spent years reinforcing. She was... messy, with that crooked smile, eyes full of too much understanding and never enough judgment.

She made him... feel

And Christ she didn’t tiptoe around him either. Fuck no. Didn’t treat him like he was breakable. She called him on his shit, pushed his buttons, and never let him sit too long in his silence without a jab to the ribs or a raised brow daring him to speak.

And he hated that.

He hated how she never looked at him with fear or pity, just curiosity -- like she wanted to take him apart, piece by piece, and figure out where the ghosts lived. Patiently too. All persevering and caring like she'd still listen and understand no matter what angsty bullshit he threw on to her. Hated how she touched him like she wasn’t afraid to get cut by the barbed wire he wrapped around himself. All gnawing and prickly. Never recoiling. Hardly flinching, Fuck.

But what Simon Riley hated the most was that he wanted to let her.

Yet they had rules.

Unspoken, but sacred. No strings. No questions. No staying past dawn. They fucked -- hard, rough, greedy of course -- and then it was done. He pulled on his jeans, lit a cigarette, and left. Always left.

She never stopped him. Never asked him to stay.

And that made it worse.

Because some stupid, aching part of him had started to wish she would.

He told himself it was just routine. That her scent on his sheets and the warmth she left in his bed didn’t mean anything. That the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention -- soft, sad, something like longing -- was just a trick of the light.

But he knew better.

He knew because he started dreaming of her. Started imagining what it would be like to wake up with her there, to tell her something real and not feel like he was choking on the words. He started noticing her little things -- how she hummed when she cooked, how she always checked if the door was locked twice, how she smelled like citrus and steel.

It wasn’t just sex anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. He just hadn’t let himself admit it.

Because the truth. The bloody truth. All raw, aching, and pulsing with need and rot -- was: he wanted her.

And not just her body -- but her fucking voice in the quiet. Her fingers in his hair. Her scent on his clothes. Her goddamn toothbrush in his bloody bathroom. Her laugh echoing off the walls of that dead, empty flat of his.

And that terrified him more than any battlefield ever had.

Because losing a mission, losing a fight -- Simon 'Ghost' Riley could take that. But losing her? Letting her close enough to hurt him?

That felt like handing someone the knife and baring your throat. Hoping they didn’t cut too deep.

But for the first time in years. God decades even.

He was thinking of giving someone the blade.

Simon Riley didn't do romance

But --

He was going to try. Just this once. Just with her.

So here he was after three? four? weeks of that no contact thing he started. Standing outside her door, rain soaking through his tattered and graying hoodie, flowers in one hand and a heart beating like it hadn’t in years buried somewhere under his ribs.

Taking a deep breath. Almost choking on his spit as he tried to rein in oxygen in his lungs one last time. Going over the words like some bloody parable he'd had to memorize for the sake of his sanity.

“I know I’m not good at this. But I’m trying. For you. Because you make it feel—fuckin’ hell—worth it.”

That’s what he was going to say. Or something like it. He’d practiced it in the mirror once -- just once -- before smashing the glass in disgust.

Still, he was here now. He’d chosen this. The flowers were half-wilted from the rain, and he probably looked like a goddamn stray dog on her doorstep, but he was here. Mask off. Scars and all past wounds out.

No Ghost. Just... Simon.

He knocked.

Waited.

His breath hitching as the door creaked open.

He lifted his eyes, bracing for her face -- soft, surprised, maybe a little annoyed by the late hour. But still hers. Still his, maybe. If he said it right. If he let her see it all.

But it wasn’t her.

It was Price.

Standing there like he belonged. Shirtless, save for a ragged old tee hanging on one shoulder, a dusting of powdered sugar in his beard, like he’d just taken a bite out of something sweet. Bare legs, boxers, the kind of ease that screamed: I didn’t expect company, because I’m already home.

Simon froze.

No -- his body froze. His mind raced, tore itself apart in the space of seconds. He couldn’t even blink. Couldn’t breathe.

Price didn’t look shocked. Just puzzled. Eyebrow cocked, voice rough with sleep.

“Simon?”

Then, before Simon could answer -- her voice.

Muffled. Playful. "Darling, who is it?"

Then she came into view.

Wearing one of Price’s shirts. Hair messy. Eyes wide -- too wide.

Like a deer caught in the headlights.

Like she’d been caught doing something she’d promised she never would.

Silence stretched. Pulled tight.

Simon looked down at the flowers in his hand. At the way the rain made his knuckles white from gripping them too hard. At the cracks forming in the center of his chest. Quiet, splitting fractures that no one could hear but him.

He swallowed.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Not to her. Not to Price.

Just... to himself.

For hoping.

He turned without another word. The flowers hit the step with a soggy thud behind him. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

Because if he did, he might stay. Might ask why. Might break, completely and finally.

And Simon Riley.

Simon Riley didn’t do broken.

Not where anyone could see.

He disappeared into the rain like a ghost -- but this time, not because he was hiding.

And this time. Because this time. Christ this time...

maybe there was really no place left for Simon to be.

masterlist

[dracosprettygirl]

۶ৎ lift you up

pairing: gymbro!draco x reader word count: 891 words. summary: You told Draco you’d do a pull-up, and somehow, your legs are wrapped around his waist, your arms are shaking, and his voice is in your ear, telling you to pull. warnings: sexual tension; suggestive language; flirting; physical touch; profanity; not proofread, let me know if i missed anything! A/N: this was inevitable. and also short. pls accept gymbro!draco as a humble apology for the way i've been not even around because of finals <3 pt. 2 with cooldown?

♫ body heat by selena gomez.

It wasn't your finest moment.

You'd been feeling ambitious—bold, even—walking into the gym with Draco at your side. You had your water bottle, your playlist queued up, and enough post-preworkout confidence to say, "I'm going do a pull-up today."

Draco had just smirked. That maddening, sharp-edged smirk that screamed, are you now?

And now here you were. Dangling from the pull-up bar like an exhausted koala, arms trembling, unable to lift yourself an inch.

"Fuck," you gasped. "Why is this so hard?"

From behind you, Draco's voice was entirely too smug. "Because you're trying to deadlift your entire body off the ground like it weighs nothing."

You twisted your head toward him. He was leaning against the cable machine, arms crossed, grey t-shirt snug over his chest and clinging to the kind of definition that should be illegal.

"Oh, go on then, gym god," you snapped, dropping to the ground. "Show me how it's done."

Instead of taking the bait, Draco pushed off the machine and came toward you, a glint in his eyes that made your stomach twist.

"No," he said simply. "You're going to do it. I'm going to help."

"I already tried—"

"Come down," he said softly, and his hands were already at your waist, guiding you gently back into position.

You swallowed thickly. He hadn't even tried to be subtle—his hands stayed at your hips even after your feet landed shoulder-width apart, warm and grounding and entirely too intimate.

"You're going to do assisted pull-ups with me," he said.

"Assisted how?"

Draco smirked. "Wrap your legs around my waist."

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. Hop up on the bar like you did before, and wrap your legs around my waist." He tapped his shoulder. "I'll take the weight. You pull yourself."

"That sounds… inappropriate."

"Oh, it absolutely is," he said, a delicious gleam in his eye. "But we're already here, love. Might as well commit."

You hesitated—but his arms were already sliding around your waist, hoisting you up like you weighed nothing, and you had no choice but to grip the bar overhead. and your legs instinctively wrapped around him, anchoring at his waist.

Bloody fucking hell.

Draco's body was all muscle and heat, firm beneath yours, and you were pressed against him now—chest to chest, hips aligned. You could feel the slight hitch in his breath when you adjusted your grip on the bar, your thighs tightening around him.

"You okay there?" he asked, voice low.

"I—yeah." You cleared your throat. "Ready."

His palms came to your waist again, steady and guiding. "On three."

You nodded.

"One," he said. "Two—pull."

You did.

With his support beneath you—his arms lifting, your legs wrapped tight—you managed to pull yourself up. Just enough. Not much. But it was something.

Your breath caught, not from the exertion, but from the way Draco was looking at you when you glanced down—like you were doing something far more intimate than exercising.

"Again," he said, voice rougher now.

You pulled.

And again.

And again.

By the fifth, your arms were jelly, and you slumped against him, forehead falling to his shoulder.

"I can't," you panted. "My arms are—"

"Shh," he murmured. "You're doing so good. Attagirl."

You stiffened.

"What did you just say?"

Draco looked entirely unapologetic. "Attagirl. What of it?"

"I—nothing, I just—" Your face was burning. "You've never called me that before."

"Well," he said, smirking, "You've never clung to me like a baby panda in public before. Felt appropriate."

"You're the worst."

"I'm the one holding you up right now."

"You're the worst and strong."

He hummed, then dipped his mouth closer to your ear. "I should help you train more often. You're very… pliable like this."

"And you're very full of yourself."

"You're the one with her legs wrapped around me around me," he pointed out. "Not complaining, though. You're warm. And downright adorable when you're breathless."

You narrowed your eyes. "Keep talking, Malfoy. Let's see how many more times you can say things that'll get you kicked in the shin. Put me down."

"Mm. If I let you go, your legs won't hold you."

He was right.

You groaned, resting your forehead back on his shoulder. "This is humiliating."

"It's hot," he said casually. "You, clinging to me, panting, flushed. If this is what it takes to get you to let me carry you around the gym, I'll have us in here every morning."

You bit your lip. "Draco."

"Hm?"

"My arms are literal jelly."

"Good. Means you worked hard." He leaned down, brushing his nose against your temple. "Also means I get to carry you to the bench, rub your shoulders, and then take you home for a proper cooldown."

"That's not how cooldowns work."

"It is in my program."

He finally lowered you gently to the ground, but didn't step away—his hands lingered at your hips, thumbs brushing your waist.

You looked up at him, flushed and panting, but his gaze was soft now—no teasing, no smugness. Just Draco, with that stupidly fond look he got sometimes when he thought you weren't watching.

"I'm gonna get stronger," you murmured.

"I know you will," he said. "But I'm not letting you skip the part where I help you up. That's mine."

You smiled. "Possessive, are we?"

He leaned in, lips brushing your cheek. "Of you? Always."

taglist !

@belovedenzo

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[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

“Love’s Gonna Get You Killed”

Chapter 6

“Distance + Retaliation”

Synopsis: A wounded mafia heir stumbles into a late-night convenience store, where a quiet clerk patches him up. He walks out—but can’t stop watching her. As danger circles and their worlds quietly collide, one question remains: Can you stay untouched in a life soaked in blood?

Word Count: 2,440

Karina X Male Reader

Suijoon dragged his bloodied leg across the cracked pavement, leaving a smeared trail as the van idled under the moonless sky. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat and failure.

The driver lit a cigarette, watching him struggle. “Zero for two,” he muttered, smoke curling from his lips. “Boss’ll be thrilled.”

“Shut the fuck up and drive.”

The silence in the van was thick. The only sound was Suijoon’s labored breathing and the rattle of broken weapons at his feet.

They pulled into the shipyard—the Syndicate’s ghostlike base carved into rusted steel and sea rot. Floodlights hummed to life. Armed men lined the path in silence, eyes tracking Suijoon’s limp like vultures scenting weakness.

Inside, the boss sat beneath a single bulb, suited in black, rings gleaming like threats on his fingers. His chair creaked as he leaned forward.

Suijoon didn’t even get a word out.

The backhand came fast—sharp, practiced. He hit the floor hard, copper in his mouth.

“I said nothing,” the boss growled, low and precise. “Because I’m done hearing excuses.”

Suijoon coughed, spit red on the floor. “Boss, it was a setup. I didn’t expect—”

“You didn’t think. That’s your fucking problem.”

The room stilled.

The boss stood, walking toward him with deliberate steps. “Do you think this is a game? You’re not some street punk throwing punches for pride. You’re wearing my colors. That means when you bleed, it stains me.”

Suijoon looked up, jaw tight. “I’ll fix it.”

The boss crouched, grabbed him by the jaw. “You’re not fixing shit. You’re lucky I haven’t fed you to the harbor yet. Two failures. Two.”

A blade glinted in his hand—not raised, just there, a quiet threat between them.

“You’re becoming a liability,” he whispered. “And you know what we do with those.”

He let go. Suijoon slumped, chest heaving.

“Now get out of my sight. And pray you’re worth more alive tomorrow than you are dead tonight.”

While the scent of gunpowder still lingered in the air and the distant echo of sirens began to creep into the night, you and Karina crouched in the shadows of a narrow alleyway. The glow of a single flickering streetlamp above you cast long silhouettes on the wall. Your back leaned against the cold brick, hand pressed tightly against your side—warm blood slipping through your fingers.

“You good?” you asked, your voice ragged, panting.

Karina looked at you, face pale but steady. “I should be asking that,” she replied, eyes darting to the spreading red on your shirt. “You’re bleeding—Y/N, you’re hit.”

“Yeah,” you managed, smirking despite the pain, “just a scratch.”

She scoffed, trying to stay calm, but you could see her hands trembling as she reached into your coat pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. She pressed it against the wound with shaky but determined pressure.

The truth hadn’t quite settled in her eyes yet. You could see it—the storm building behind her silence. She had questions, hundreds of them, but her lips didn’t move. Not yet. Instead, she stayed beside you, kneeling in the filth of the alley, pressing against the bullet wound of a man she only thought she knew.

The next night, you came by the convenience store again.

Same time. Same door chime. Same quiet “Hey Rina.”

But something had changed.

She didn’t turn around immediately like she usually did. No soft smile. No teasing remark. Just a faint nod over her shoulder as she restocked a shelf of instant noodles. “Hey.”

You tried to pretend it was nothing.

You placed the brown paper bag on the counter like always. Kimbap. Her favorite. You remembered.

“I brought you food again,” you said casually, like your hands hadn’t held a gun last night, like you didn’t have a stitched-up bullet wound under your coat.

She didn’t move from behind the register. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” you said, your voice low, “but I wanted to.”

Her eyes flickered to the bag, then to you. There was something unreadable in them. Not fear exactly—just a distance. Like someone looking at a stranger wearing someone else’s face.

“You didn’t tell me,” she finally said.

You stayed silent.

She looked down at her hands. “I thought you were just… someone who liked midnight snacks. Someone with good taste in tteokbokki and bad jokes.”

“I didn’t want to drag you into my world.”

“But you did,” she said sharply, not angry—just tired. “And now I can’t unsee it.”

Silence settled between you, heavy like the gun you still had holstered under your coat.

You wanted to reach for her. Say something. Anything.

But she stepped back slightly, a subtle shift in weight that said more than words could.

You didn’t push. You just nodded, grabbed the untouched food bag, and turned to leave.

And for the first time in weeks, the door chime behind you didn’t sound like comfort.

It sounded like goodbye.

Monaco. 12:47 AM.

The alley was wet—fresh with blood and rain. Sirens screamed in the distance, but no one dared approach. Not when he was in town.

Two men already lay crumpled on the pavement—one with half a face missing, the other still twitching, as if trying to crawl out of death. A trail of smeared crimson marked his final attempt. He didn’t make it far.

A third man was breathing—barely. Curled behind a dented trash can, knees to chest, his body trembled with each breath. He hadn’t even realized he pissed himself.

Then came the footsteps.

Not rushed. Not heavy.

Measured. Calm. Like death taking its time.

Click. Clack. Click.

The man’s heart pounded so loud he thought it would give him away. He pressed his back tighter against the brick wall, eyes wide, lips quivering in silence.

Then

A voice. Smooth. Low. Cold enough to burn.

“You know what happens to people who flee?”

The words wrapped around his throat tighter than fear.

Silence.

“They perish.”

Another step closer.

“Because people who flee… are cowards.”

A breath hitched. He bit into his knuckle to keep from screaming.

Smoke curled past the edge of the trash can. A faint scent of blood and gunpowder mixed in the air. The air was heavy—wrong—like the alley itself was holding its breath.

Draco’s voice came again—soft, but with enough weight to crush the world.

“I know you’re behind that trash can.”

Silence.

“Right where rats like you belong.”

A pause.

“Let’s make this simple.”

Draco’s boots stopped a few feet away.

“Do you know a gang called ‘Uncharted’?”

The man opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Just the soft click of his tongue failing him.

Then came the final sound.

A single gunshot.

BOOM.

One bullet. Clean through the trash can—and the skull behind it.

The body slumped forward, twitching once before going still. A small pool of blood began to form, stretching out slowly like it wanted to escape but couldn’t.

Draco stepped over it. Unbothered. Untouched.

He lit a cigarette and took one drag, eyes barely flinching in the smoke.

“Cowards don’t speak,” he muttered to no one.

“Only corpses do.”

He walked away, the sound of his boots echoing long after his shadow disappeared

Back at the base, the air was thick with smoke, curling lazily toward the ceiling like ghosts of your thoughts. You lay on the bed, half-dressed, a cigarette between your lips, and melancholic music spilling softly from the speakers—slow, somber, almost too fitting. The kind that echoes in your chest long after the last note fades.

Your eyes were open, unfocused, tracing the cracks in the ceiling you never bothered to fix.

You never expected acceptance.

Not really.

Not with a last name like yours, Not with blood on your hands before you were even old enough to shave, You were born into shadows, and whether it was loyalty or fear, people never truly saw you.

They saw Draco’s heir.

They saw the empire.

They saw the violence, the weight, the name.

But you accepted it—because it came with privilege, with power. And power costs. You knew that. You’ve always known.

Still…

Even her?

Even Karina?

She didn’t flinch the first few times. She smiled, even. Laughed when you brought her snacks. Teased you for your coat. Gave you something you never knew you missed—normalcy. Something soft.

But now?

Now, there’s a distance in her eyes. A hesitation in her voice. Like she’s already writing the ending in her head.

You couldn’t blame her. Who would want to be tangled in this world?

Who would want to love a man who can kill and smile in the same breath?

You inhaled, the tip of your cigarette glowing red in the dark. You watched the smoke drift away, disappearing into nothing.

Just like the idea of her staying.

You told yourself it was fine.

You’ve been alone before.

You’ve lived in silence before.

You’ll do it again.

But the thing about softness is… once you’ve felt it, it hurts more when it’s gone.

And she was the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Nightfall. 3:12 AM. Somewhere in Seoul.

A concrete room dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. Cigarette smoke hung like a veil in the air, curling around the edge of Suijoon’s jaw as he leaned over the table — maps, surveillance photos, red circles scratched in anger around one girl’s face.

Karina Yu.

“Convenience store clerk,” he muttered, tracing her image with a gloved finger. “Works the graveyard shift. No parents. In debt. No one to miss her.”

He looked up at the handful of men standing before him — all in black, armed to the teeth, faces cold, eager. A smaller man handed him a tablet — CCTV footage. Y/N and Karina, smiling, eating tteokbokki. Another angle — Y/N shielding her behind the counter when the gunfire broke loose. Suijoon sneered.

“Draco’s heir… falling for a stray. How poetic,” he said bitterly, snapping the tablet shut. “This girl? She’s not just leverage anymore. She’s the wound. And you don’t beat the heir by going for the head. You beat him by infecting the heart.”

He walked to the weapons rack, grabbing a knife, then a silencer-equipped pistol. He flipped the safety, slow and deliberate.

“We won’t kill her. Not yet,” he said darkly. “We grab her. Make it public. Let the son of Draco come crawling.”

A grunt of agreement echoed around the room.

“But sir…” one man dared to speak. “Didn’t the boss say not to—”

“The boss,” Suijoon interrupted, stepping forward until their foreheads nearly touched, voice low, venomous, “doesn’t have the balls to end this war.”

He stepped back, smile forming like a crack across ice.

“I do.”

He turned to the group. “Gear up. Black vans. No masks. We’re not hiding this. I want him to know.”

He lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his eyes — wild, cruel, desperate to prove something.

“Tonight,” Suijoon said, exhaling smoke like a devil whispering prophecy,

“we cut out his heart.”

Back at the estate, you were still lying on your back, smoke curling lazily into the ceiling, headphones on as melancholic jazz hummed through the room—your only comfort lately. You hadn’t seen Karina in days. Not really. Not like before. Her eyes no longer lingered. Her smile no longer reached you. You couldn’t blame her. Who would want to love the heir of Korea’s most feared mafia?

Suddenly, the door burst open.

“Sir!” Jun-ho shouted, breathless, eyes wide. “We’ve got movement. Four black vans. Same make. Same pattern. They’re circling Gangseo District. Near the convenience store.”

You sat up instantly, gun already in hand. “Karina.”

Jun-ho nodded grimly. “Yes, sir. They’re after her.”

You stormed down the hallway, boots heavy with urgency. Just as you neared the armory entrance—thud.

You bumped shoulders with a tall figure standing in your path.

Killian Draco.

Sharp suit, colder eyes. A calm storm in human skin. He lit a cigarette slowly, took a drag, and exhaled in your face.

“Where do you think you’re going, son?”

“I don’t have time—”

“You make time,” he cut in coldly. “For me.”

Silence swelled.

“Don’t do this,” he continued. “She means nothing. A girl scraping for debt. A pawn they’ll use the second they realize she matters to you. Is that what you want?”

“She’s not a pawn. She’s—”

“She’s a weakness,” Draco interrupted. “And love? Love is an art of vulnerability. Loving means weakness. And I didn’t raise a weak little squirt.”

You glared at him, chest heaving. “You didn’t raise me, you dumbass!”

His eyes narrowed.

“You taught me how to kill, how to gut a man, how to clean up blood without flinching. But you didn’t raise me. You raised a weapon. She’s the only human thing I have left.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped. “You think you’re different from me. You’re not. You carry my blood. You love her now? Good. Watch what happens when they put a gun to her head because of it.”

“I’d rather die trying to save her than live like you—numb and alone.”

He stepped aside slowly, his expression unreadable. “Then go. Save her.”

You moved past him, steps furious—but he called out behind you, voice like frost cutting the air:

“But remember this, son… If she brings war to our house, if your heart turns into our downfall…”

He turned, smoke dancing from his cigarette like a curse.

“Then I’ll end it. Even if that means you.”

You didn’t look back.

You just ran

You ran.

Through alleys slick with rain and streets that smelled like metal and neon. Your breath came in sharp bursts. Your coat, half-soaked, flared behind you like a shadow chasing a ghost.

You turned the corner.

The convenience store.

Lights flickering inside, humming faintly under the pale glow of the streetlamp. But something felt off.

You pushed the door.

Ding. The chime echoed like a scream in an empty church.

No footsteps.

No soft hum of Karina’s voice singing under her breath.

No rustle of snack wrappers or the tap-tap-tap of her scanning items at the counter.

Just silence.

And blood in your throat.

“Karina?” your voice cracked.

Behind the register, taped sloppily onto the plexiglass, was a note. Scribbled in red ink.

You yanked it free.

“Looking for your little night clerk?

Should’ve kept her hidden, heir.

You want her back? Come bleed for her.

— Suijoon.”

Your fists clenched so hard the paper crumpled, veins pulsing like live wires.

And in that moment, everything else — the mafia code, your father’s warnings, the war it might start — it all drowned under one truth:

He took her.

And you’re going to burn the whole fucking world to get her back.

[gnohomotho]

May I play with you? 「✦Pt.5✦」

Pairing: The Salesman // The Recruiter x fem!reader Summary: Well, folks, it's happening, everyone stay calm. He's lost it (not the game, you lost that one). Flowery shower leading to a bed. There is some fluff, because of course there is. Bit of an emotional rollercoaster, is he still playing? Are you? How many times have you lost? Is he counting? What exactly does he have in mind? How much of him is true? Is anything really? ⭒˚.⋆˖➴༯ Warnings: 18+ MDNI, heavy intimacy, rich sexual inner monologues, description of naked bodies, biting, choking, bondage, abuse dynamics, accurate depictions of trauma responses, very questionable consent, razorblades, heavy snogging, groping, grinding, fondling, power imbalance, near-smut, the man's in love, what can I tell you. (❀´ ˘ `❀) Word count: 8.7k A/N: I'm aware the water bill will be astronomical. ˙ᵕ˙ Again, I'm so grateful for the fans and the people requesting this, tried quite hard and tried to write the saucy scenes very saucily and plan to give them a fully fledged scene in the next part. Just wanted to deepen the characters and relationship, rather than just fucking. But please put "describing the Salesman's nether region while trying to study for a state exam" under things I did not expect to be hard. Wait. WAIT NO--- Gorgeous gif by: @phantom-evil Tag list: @storytellers-randomshortstorys @ingstadstarlight જ⁀➴ Link to previous Link to next If you like my work, I cherish every like // reblog // follow // message - thank you for helping me boost visibility and writing! ♥ Masterlist ฅ^._.^ฅ

The shower water beat down on your delicate beating head like drops on a hot tin roof. Your eyes refused to blink. The water kissed your lashes and blurred the never changing abject scene before you.

There he was.

There he was, the enigmatic salesman, in his entirety, just under the tender curve of your breasts, his dark hair, thick with wetness and heat, his face, slick and never changing, fully focused into you without a single touch. Droplets running down his face but seemingly making way for his engulfing features.

Let me revere you.

Your breath could not catch up, your hands were remotely, unnoticeably shivering, and though the warmth covered your naked body down to the hem of your tights, you felt so very, very cold and exposed.

He was a mirror, the mirror you could not stand to look at yourself in at home, and he took all he reflected.

And, perhaps worst of all, the unwavering stabbing uncertainty dragged through your mind as the steam made the small space ever suffocating.

Curling softly and sliding down your nose and throat.

Sliding the tiles from under you like hands gripping a veil of consciousness from under your toes.

If he was like the others, you could have managed. If he took and grabbed, if he defiled, you could breathe. Bitterly, but you could. But not this.

Your eyes move to the heels of his shoes, perfect spades glistening and getting ruined by water. You try to focus on him, his form breathing under the heavy soaked suit, you don't want to acknowledge what he's seeing. Nor you. Nor the damage. But you don't move.

You watch.

Heavy shoulders so light against their surroundings. A large form lithe enough to jump at you if you make the wrong move. Eyes darkened by the water caught on his eyelashes, a perfect backdrop for the lingering darkness you know is there, barely subdued.

His shirt, soaked through.

His suit, weighed down by dark fabric.

His sleeves, stained.

His hands---

His hands.

Large, meticulous, open hands.

So close to the places you don't wish to recall, harbouring a touch that both holds you here and holds you apart.

You unwittingly, as invisibly as possible stiffen and force your thighs together; how similar are your moves to the dreadful night he bestowed that burning touch on you the very first time.

Heart beating madly, you pray he didn't notice.

His eyes seem focused on your body now, piercing your navel and hips, unmoving. Focusing. You wonder what he sees, what caught his attention and held...before you remember yourself checking the damage even before this nightmare of an evening.

Oh.

Oh no.

His hand suddenly moves. Veins like highways delineating its trajectory. All along down to the wrist you cannot quite see. The electricity between the steam and his light motion plays between your skin and his touch.

A gentle but methodical cut begins to pull each sleeve down just a tad, revealing his entire wrists and you almost gasp - almost - at the concentration imbued in them.

He's either struggling or preparing, either fighting or dreadfully at peace with whatever is running through his mind and intentions.

Even the way he did that - he didn't pull away from you, no. He wouldn't grant you that kind of impersonality.

No.

The salesman instead dragged his open palm gruellingly slowly with each fingertip lightly burning through you across your stomach. Inch by inch.

He slid along your ribs and simply rested there, letting your body pulsate into his firm touch.

Not only mine, the touch seems to say.

One with me.

When he does move, it's to tend to one cuff that he visited by travelling across you. As slowly as it is torturous, he then repeats the motion the other way, gliding across your prickling, responsive skin, to his other hand. Never once hurting or pushing into you, so methodical are his movements - even as his wrist touches your skin and the hand returns to its open palm possession.

Slow, everso slow, so lightly against your navel, soft as transparent cloth, deliberate as the hand of a dealer who knows the house always wins.

Never once letting you go without his touch.

If it was possessive, you couldn't tell. You did not wish to think. To make sure it's not a reaction, you let yourself be still for a time too long before exhaling and closing your eyes.

You feel a new sensation, warm and almost comforting - but bathed in a sense of dread.

Gently he began to lather soap and foam across your stomach, soothingly travelling up to your ribs. Across places that screamed in pain and need. Your breath, your mind was holding onto its last confines of stability not to react, not to give him an inch. But every breath sent a shiver through you, you knew if you dared open your eyes, you'd see him watching you with one eye pinned each time you tried to avoid the charcoal depths.

You feel his momentary focus on your quivering chest, as the droplets fall slower past the tender hills. Circular motions caress your sternum, along each side of your breasts, under them, stopping only for places that visibly hurt. Places you know don't hurt only because of tonight and you dread him reading you like a book.

The foam gathers in heaped warmth and hugs your chest, lazily falling down onto your stomach and he catches it - lathering every inch anew.

Sometimes he lingers. And you swear you have to be imagining the place grow warmer, warmer, then hot - as if the steam gathered there and moulded into you.

You thought you were imagining it until a soft yet rough small surface, wet and warm, momentarily, only for a breath - - - brushed a particularly tender spot.

Are those...is that...

Your eyes flutter open and thankfully, you see for yourself without him seeing you.

And you are not thankful to be gazing into a flurry of dark hair not even a clandestine inch away from your skin.

❥❥❥

As gentle and soft as his hands were - they were methodical. Deliberate. Never lingering without reason. He focused on your bruises and stayed there.

"This one's old," he hummed nonchalantly, but there was a cold edge to the whisper even the shower couldn't heat.

His breath kissed your skin and bathed it in warmth as the whispers enveloped every inch of the soft spot under his lips.

"And this one wasn't done by a fast, brutal, unbecoming drow of emotion."

He didn't have to move to connect the surface you had already suspected to your skin, to your body, to your soaked shivering tenderness.

His lips brushed the surface of your skin - just barely - over the place he had tended with his breath.

The electricity. The touch. The need in you gathers and you almost quiver into him.

Your heart. Your heart is racing and he must feel it through your form, your stomach, your ribs.

But he left you cold once more as his lips departed.

He moved ever lower.

Circling soap and smooth warmth just under the curve of your breasts, never touching - making his presence and his absence the same gruelling pain. And you felt everything.

He is travelling up between them, up your sternum. Slowly. Pressing each centimetre of your skin into memory.

"And this one...these ones..." the breath that left his lips lingered hot on your skin but held nothing but contempt.

His lips closed around the tender place and for a while, only lay there. The contact giving life alone. As he pulled away just enough to speak but so close you could no longer tell what is hot water and what are his lips upon you...

"These ones...my little flower...my dear little bird shielded by a pair of broken wings..."

His hand had stopped and your eyes cannot focus, the eyes you're explicitly not meeting are burning into you. You almost gasp as you feel his finger glide against the soft skin of your ribs, to your hip, sliding along the dip and laying against your side. It slides down ever further and grips your thigh.

"These ones make me wish to lay you down and invite a few more players to the game for you to merely watch."

The knife of his intonation cut through the steam, yet ended on a jovial little chuckle.

"Watch them lose."

The grip on your thigh grows, and you know what that does to him, you know how his thoughts must be spiralling through each and every scene from the tapestry of your skin he's putting together like a full picture. And you shiver straight through.

You must not let him see.

You must not let him see that you are falling apart, and your body is growing into a cold carapace to shield the damage.

Hold me, don't touch me, hold me, don't touch me, ruin me, make it stop, please hold me, make it safe...

Your left eye begins to do something you truly cannot afford right now, and you would almost curse at both it and the thought that forced it to glisten.

...love me.

His thumb leaves the grip of your upper thigh only to softly slide inside the vice-like grip between your legs, rubbing the tights and smoothing them over. Not taking them off. Not roughing them up.

Smoothing them against the water and against your burning skin.

Stability? Possession? Need? Obsession?

Play?

Please let it be that.

The drip leaves your eye as the words leave his lips bathed in pretentious honey:

"You want me to hurt you, don't you, little flower?"

❥❥❥

He gazes up at you, the question hanging in the air, one open hand rested upon you but unmoving. His other firmly gripping your thigh enough to remind you of the poor chair. Is this a test? Or a genuine question? His face is a wet, beautiful, striking vision politely asking each drop of water to pass so that it may be burned into you without barriers. His smile is small, but his expression harbours little warmth.

Reverence.

And detachment.

And...something you cannot quite point to nor comprehend.

Like a snake smiling up at you, and you don't know whether it's satisfied with a meal or about to strangle one.

And your body is giving him every answer he should desire before he even opens his mouth. You almost caught a glimpse at your chest, and something in those eyes that glistened.

Awe.

No.

Self-satisfaction.

But...

No...

Your head is swimming, warmth and heat pooling against his touch, your sense of wrong and yet - safety - dragging you to him, dragging you on each drop that falls down on him, dragging you into his arms but you won't.

You won't.

You're not losing to him and you're not getting devoured today.

The salesman's softer eyes watch the droplets gather on your breasts and kiss each tip, before falling against his hands which twitch ever so slightly with each shared contact they bring to him.

You barely notice his lips move, but the voice kisses your ears past the droplets:

"You would prefer I be like them."

It's not a question.

Please don't.

"You would have me hurt you, wish to hurt you."

The polite soaked figure is only reading each page in front of him like a slow bedtime story. The dripping head lulls so close to your skin you almost lean into the crane of his neck for him and stop yourself - entirely wrong, all wrong, offering him refuge? What is wrong with you?!

His voice is so soft, but his grip on you isn't, and it reminds you of the game once more. His head leans into you, as if ready to kiss a bruise right under your ribs, hidden in such a sensitive spot. Which he surely realises.

Please don't go there.

But the sensation never comes. Only hot breath circling your skin as the words kiss it instead.

"So that my tender flower could loathe me. Discard me. And forget me...even as the poison pulsates through her veins."

He pulls you closer with one slow move, your legs momentarily teetering but you steady yourself. His other hand holds itself outstretched, finger by finger, on the skin below your ribs, just above your stomach where they disconnect into delicate softness, letting you fall into him and letting him feel you in your entirety - but you won't let him know that. You know he's playing.

You know he's playing.

The soft frown as he gazes at you, eyes wide, does nothing to dispel the thought. Lips turning softly, pityingly, patronisingly, he hushes into you:

"Poor thing. That's not how this works."

As he concludes the sentence, he lays his other hand to your side, gliding down the soft curve of your hips and just slightly around, not teasing, but trespassing - stopping at your bone to slide back down the navel and narrowly miss what you expected him to wish to violate first. The salesman instead lays his other hand on your untouched thigh and simply...

Pulls.

Steady, against him, his hands firmly holding you from both sides, you would almost let your guard down and fall. Let your aching muscles rest into his grasp and warm hands, his fingers dispelling lingering pain.

You are pulled into him, meeting both the soaked fabric and his hot body underneath. Firm as it is adaptive, strong as it is fast. Meticulous as it is brutal.

Elegant as it is cruel.

His lips burn into you straight through as their touch travels from the spot he breathed life into, trails down the bruise, and brushes the skin to the very end of your navel. Where his lips rest. Not a kiss. Not quite. Yet not even letting water run between your body and his.

As he pulls away and watches you with detailed satisfaction, studying your face, his eyes follow the little errant drop on your left cheek.

Voice like smoke and velvet, harbouring both hunger and patience, breaks the shower's hum:

"That's a flinch."

❥❥❥

As he pulls away, you're left burning alive.

Shaking. Infuriatingly cold. Pried open. Left to hang.

Helpless.

And ready to move into his arms and kick him at the same time. Your breath makes a sharp inhale and you force it to steady, and of course - he notices.

And he smiles.

It's not a smirk, nor is it triumphant.

It's worse, and you shudder.

It's soft and it is…worshipful.

It is the look of a man who has pried open the most precious of locks inside of you, waltzed straight inside and didn't disturb a single exhibit. Waiting for you to realise just what a heap of kindling is left of your locked doors. For him. And no one but him. Knowing you almost held your arm outstretched with the key as he did so.

The space between you should feel like a reprieve, but it feels like a wound. A void. A chasm. Something terribly missing, and you hate yourself down to the core you don't believe you have, that you want him to close it again.

And...

He does.

He takes your shivering hand and lays it back on his chest, just as you did to catch him in his own game. You feel the hot fabric; you feel his heart. It's pounding.

A knowing smile underlines your surprise, as if reassuring you that you are correct. You may just have an upper hand if you play your cards right.

You may stand to win, look at him, kneeling there, pulse mad, eyes barely concealing their own darkness.

But the salesman moves again and closes the gap. That dastardly gap you'd give anything to close. Closes it by pressing his cheek to your stomach. And he exhales.

His hands grip your thighs and for a moment you wonder if he's steadying himself or tricking you. A softly planted, deliberate kiss right above your navel almost makes you throw the game away entirely.

As you listen to his steadying breaths, hands gripping your thighs, your own gaze softens against your better judgement.

The kiss as a gesture is so very twisted.

So very reverent.

So very...him.

❥❥❥

As you swallow on a dry throat, hard - his eyes flick up, dark lashes wet, and the voice teasingly letting you feel a remnant of warmth it would positively beg for.

"You think I'm cruel?

The salesman's palms skim the inside of your thighs, but stop just before anywhere indecent. Just pressing, not parting. Holding. Knowing you're losing the game and keeping them clasped even as his fingers manage to slide around.

"You think I'll take?"

A single fingertip traces your lower spine, up, slow, deliberate. You're not sure if it's brand, a promise, or a threat. As it slowly teeters down, drawing a shaky breath out of you and leaving electricity wherever it brushed, he speaks once more.

"No, sweet flower, that's not at all how this works."

A single finger slips into the hem of your tights, leaving you just long enough to realise what he's doing before the other mirrors the action on your other hip.

"If I tie you down, if I leave you whimpering and begging for me, it won't be because I made you do so."

The fingers tickle your skin, playing with you, but you feel his own breath quickening as his words are underlined by what he is surely gladly imagining.

"It will be because you sit down freely, bound by the rules of the game, so entirely mine that you offer me the rope through tears streaming down those gorgeous doll eyes."

You feel your stomach pulsate as your heart cannot keep up. He looks up, as if he said nothing at all - relishing surely how much you're regretting every single moment leading up to this one. Cold envelops your mind. Fuck.

"Whimpering, begging, kissing the air with your hurried, strangled breaths...mine from the limbs you won't be able to move to the lips I could tear apart and leave cold. My little lady. Broken by herself. Held together by me. Her will bent like the tender flower stem waiting for its poison to work. Begging for peace."

The fingers dig into each of your hips, surely leaving indentations. Your jaw tightens and your chest does too - and he notices. Oh, he notices the tender skin drawing in on itself, the soft points of your breasts catching his eyes and serving that self-satisfied, leisurely smirk. Though he is under you, he is nothing but towering over you. Just as he surely planned. Just as he intended to play.

His voice comes so unassuming, as if reciting a particularly odd verse he cannot seem to fully wrap his tongue around - so sweet it turns to cyanide on his lips.

"And the poison won't come...hm, my poor little flower...? Can you feel it?"

His eyes close like that of a satisfied cat resting a paw on its caught mouse.

"Because it's too late."

As if to make sure you realise the ramifications of your displaced trust and faint self-assuredness, both of his fingers make the same up-and-down motion, caressing the naked skin he has not touched yet and enjoying the new sensation with polite delight.

As they find every piece of fabric they can, and safely hook themselves under it, the salesman slides down your tights with gruelling, torturous slow detail imbued into each inch of your newly exposed skin. So gently as not to burn your exposed nakedness, but so deliberately it feels like you're being sentenced.

Each new exposed inch is tended to with his lips. Though his fingers are not gripping as you would expect, their pressure is palpable, and they glide slower upon each spot that stings. His lips follow, breathing into you. Kissing the exposed place as if he were burning it into his mind...and yours.

As the tights slide down to your ankles, he traces both palms up your shins, around them, slowly up the inside of your legs you are now vibrating with to keep closed. But he, politely, without explicit force nor a move of the brow apart from his shoulders visibly stiffening, pries them apart just enough for his fingers to glide through.

You're giving him the sensation of your grip and hold without even realising. You quiver further, unable to move - if you know anything...it must be intoxicating for him.

He steadies himself against you, looking up with that small smile but not meeting your eyes, oh, no. He's entranced by your form. Bare before him. So many more avenues to explore and tend to.

So many more petals to pluck.

You merely step out of wet heap and try to nonchalantly slide it away. There still is a part of your brain very, very much concerned about something glistening in the wet clothing.

But you're shivering and you are burning.

And you would collapse around him and hold him to your naked chest, so that you are both enveloped, so that even the gentle water cannot enter the closeness between you.

"My gorgeous little lady," he humms, eyes fixated on your legs and entirely naked beauty, "you're as perfect as you are terrible at this game."

❥❥❥

And you finally move. Never taking your eyes off him, you kick the fabric of your tights away, knowingly giving him your thighs opening on a silver platter.

But as much as the opening captivated him, and as much as his hands squeezed themselves against them – his palm letting fingers envelop the inside of your inner thigh and softly gliding up and down against the water and sliding with it, his eye darted to your movement.

The metallic glint.

You slid the tights away, but the water washed their darkness and let the tiny object half-slip out of their torn hem. Gleaming in the light of the shower and droplets gracing its surface.

And the little glisten caught his one watchful eye. Less than a second, and still – his head stiffens.

The realisation hit you just as it hit him. Though yours was focused on regret and a past life that was washing away with each second with the salesman.

Why didn’t I drag it across his throat, carve out an escape and be done?!

“Oh?” His inflection is curious, but low, his hands don’t stop touching you. One softly brushes fingers just a tad too high and you close your thighs again. But he’s already there and only relishing the comfort of your warm naked skin against his fingers. The smile widens as you make contact with his harsh skin.

The salesman leans towards the wet heap, reaching by your ankles, and takes out the small object that caught his eye.

You should stop him. You should do something. Move!

But you cannot move as you hear his quiet, almost amused breath.

And the expression, as he holds it in his one free hand, is almost ethereal in its captivated fascination. And there is something in his voice that lingers even above the steam of the shower, but heavy enough to pin your feet to the ground and bind your thoughts. Though you detest the thought, as your heart pounds and your vision clouds, you wish it were mockery or judgement, even amusement – but it’s not. It’s something that binds him to you in wire and fishing line, something that is too deep for comfort.

Understanding.

Something close to…admiration.

“The flower came prepared.” Without warning, he kisses your navel and lets his lips rest there. His hand finally releases your thigh, but glides along their side, up your hip, and clenches your behind. And you almost gasp, not expecting him to wash away a boundary he seemed to be respecting most ardently until now.

“Get your hand off my---”

He chuckles into you, moving his head from side to side. He trails his lips up your belly and lets his chin rest in you as he speaks.

Without warning, you snatch at the blade. Without a shiver, without a doubt, taking back something yours, a part of you, your own protection, and you feel…

A sharp snag of your wrist, mid-motion, even as his head never stops resting against you, never leaving your gaze. Both your hands hold the small blade, you move yours to not touch his, he moves his to grip over yours. You don’t let go.

Once more he tilts his head, watching you. Watching you with that infuriating patience that could disappear at any moment. He already knows. And still, he wants to watch the scene unfold.

“If you want to use it, dear flower, why don’t you use it now?”

The salesman cranes his head, slowly, watching you like a snake. Smile still there. You are his one and only project that he’s studying every nook and cranny of, delighted at every gear moving of its own volition…under his control. Until now.

You feel a white-hot frozen anger growing in your chest and step away, leaving him without your flesh. His hand grips your flesh behind you.

Not moving away from me, little one.

You think. You try to think. Shivering even as his hand firmly holds your behind, his other still gripping yours.

And he…grins and guides your hand closer to him, slowly, letting the weight of the gesture sink in with every inch traversed. The razor rests against his throat as he looks up to you, holding your fingers, but leaving his own limp enough in his grip for you to move.

I could cut him. Just add pressure. He’s kneeling before me. He’s drenched. His suit is ruined.

Your heart begins to feel against your will.

He’s still in control. But he…he killed for me. He didn’t hurt me. Yet. He didn’t use me. Yet. And he’s offering his neck to me. Trusting me. Or is it another game? Does he think I won’t do it?

You add pressure to alleviate the thoughts. It feels foreign and wrong to you. Like desecration. Not of him, but of you. This is not you. This is not the girl who tried to save her friend. This is not the hand of the girl who held the detective.

He looks up at you, like you’re truly that flower. Truly beautiful, untouchable, not to be harmed. Worshipping you on his knees at the expense of himself. Playing with you. Testing you.

Each time the thought enters, you wish to push and drag. Drag across his skin. He wouldn’t stop you, that much you know.

But your fingers grow still. And your face saddens into closing your eyes, letting the errant tears drop in full view. Your fingers tremble.

He leans into it.

You almost shoot the hand away for fear of hurting him, instinct doing its job.

Because this is not you.

You feel his skin; his pulsating neck almost touches your hand. The water cascades over him and doesn’t touch your entire palm. His warmth brushes your own. And the pulse beats into the blade that trails the sensation through your fingers up your arm and to your own heart.

Steady. Unafraid. Trusting.

Why do you trust me?

The unspoken question gets a reply as his quiet whisper circles the blade and kisses your fingers down to your wrist.

“If I was like them, I’d already be dead,” he smiles up at you, unmoving.

His fingers softly ease your own off the blade, one by one, stripping you of its cool surface until you are left…

Vulnerable again.

His.

His hand closes around the blade, hiding it, but you see his resolve and the pressure that built up through the scene in the veins on the back of his hand and the grip with which he envelops the blade.

“You’ll cut yourself, don’t hold it like that…” you hush against the shower, voice breaking. You begin to lean to him, hair falling past you, water shaping around your breasts and tummy, softly as you guide your hand to his. But no blood comes out of his palm as he opens it for you.

So you see everything, so close he himself could now slice your neck as you rest above him, exposed, naked, worried – he lifts the blade.

But he lifts it to his mouth.

The salesman presses a slow, deliberate kiss against the flat side of the blade and then…

Lets it fall.

The softest metallic sound against the wet tiles, a clatter, and…

It’s gone.

Just like your resolve, your armour, your weapon.

Just like the safety of placing him in the role of all the others.

And you know the innocence of you, the helplessness he might have imagined, is gone too. He sees you now. And he…is delighted.

And still, he didn’t hurt you. He took your weapon. Gave you his throat. And then didn’t hurt you.

The salesman leans back from you, resting on his heels and studies you anew.

❥❥❥

As if something clicked in his head, he finally stands up to his full height, soaked suit dripping on the tiles, face closing in the distance between you both until you step back at the feeling of his suit brushing against your skin. But you step into the cold wall and wince. And he towers above you, expression unchanging, full of mischief yet frozen condemnation, the snake finally zoning in on its prize and its meal. With no further need for theatrics or dances.

You feel his hand ghost your hip, and his breath kiss you – restrained, slow, but shallow. Too shallow.

As you move once more to avoid his hand, naked skin against the wall, his other grabs the small of your back, squeezing you tight. Before you can gasp, the other glides up your side, from your knee up, and as his face buries into your neck and collarbone, he grips your thigh and hoists you up against the wall as if it was nothing to him.

Instinctively, both your legs wrap around his waist and squeeze for balance, for safety, and you feel his head pull away from your skin just enough to let breath through.

You're blushing, you're almost overwhelmed but feeling everything, and the wetness of his suit against your naked skin, him holding you and being so, so close…The salesman lifts his head from you, water gliding past his hair onto his face, eyes sharp and entranced with you being locked in and gripping for dear life while he is standing there, looking down at you, having nowhere to go – dark eyes pinning you to the wall, just as he is with his entire body.

His smile is tender as it glides from your lips to your eyes, where it turns to pure hunger and restraint, something akin to a high off losing control. His large hands are gripping your flesh, but they jitter – even though the wall keeps you steady. He can't stop squeezing you, so hard he’ll leave marks, fingers brushing and exploring what they can.

As he leans into you, his eyes close, and the crane of your neck is kissed, softly, then simply rested in.

Such a false calm before the storm.

He's taking you in. All of you. His inhale is shaky, his breath hot. His hands firm and almost desperate in their pursuit of every inch of you he’s yet untouched. You feel his hot breath and you feel him nestle in, taste you, feel you, inhale you. Like he wants every sense enveloped in you. His thighs move and you feel him – truly feel him – truly no way to avoid his excitement. Each time you grip your shins or thighs for stability, he moves a bit more into you, until you could swear he was naked too for the sheer closeness of his own body.

"Clever girl," he coos into your shoulder, kissing the spot he knows must be tender.

"My good, obedient, clever girl..."

And you couldn’t control the feelings any longer. Between the tears forming in your eyes, heart beating out of your chest, and legs shivering around him as the roughness of his soaked through suit left nothing of your skin to yourself, you whimpered and let out a gasp as his teeth grazed your throat, sinking into your collarbone again. Your whole body twitched against him and your legs inadvertently squeezed him tighter.

It was like you flipped a switch in him. Time stopped. Even the water seemed to slow its drops. He pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against yours and pinned you down with his eyes alone. His face slowly distanced itself, his lips half open, head craning everso slowly to one side as if studying you for the very first time.

And in that small second that it took you to realise he’d pulled away, he hoisted you up against himself and pushed you into the wall, his hips crashing with yours and his excitement pushing against you with all the fervour he was hiding until now.

He pulls his head back slowly, drifting across your face and looks above you, a small, almost unnoticeable breath of a chuckle escaping his lips before he lets the wall hold you, one hand still gripping your thigh.

He looks fond. Calm. Steady as his other harshly grips the back of your head and grabs a handful of hair straight at your scalp – and pulls your head back. One last whisper swallowed by the shower caresses your ear, as his lips form around the words like soft nudges of air:

"You lose."

And his lips crash into yours. The kiss is anything but gentle – it is hungry, desperate, full of unspoken yearning and need – his tongue gives you no warning, he invades your mouth and tastes every little part of your mouth, craning your neck back with each pull of his fist. You cannot move, you are utterly exposed, and he’s inside of your mouth, against your body, exploring, invading, tasting, taking, owning you. You try to pull away to get air, but he only leaves your lips to explore lower – guiding himself to your neck and biting down, all the way down to your collarbone.

“Beg me,” he growls into your throat, and you pull your arm out of his grasp and grip his chin. You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t quite know why, but it was on instinct – and he freezes.

Oh, you made a mistake of a lifetime.

Your lips curled into a bitten through kiss, you taste blood as you hush against the shower:

"You first," and you kiss his forehead in a gesture both tender and devastating.

The way he gripped your thigh that pulsated straight through your leg to your toes.

The way he stilled, but his breath remained ragged, slowly collapsing into that calm you knew and feared so well. A snake shedding his skin to reveal a shining new one underneath.

The way his eyes refused to blink and the way his gaze remained frozen on you, a million horrendous scenarios drifting across his pupils the further he drank you in.

That was your only warning as he wordlessly stepped out of the shower with you, traversed the room in only a few deliberate, heavy steps, and clutched you in his fingers so hard your back arched into him as he stood above the bed. You shiver and try to remain stoic, but he has you outplayed.

No more kisses, no more taking you in. Something broke and you don't understand what direction the carnage is falling in. The salesman easily flicks your hand away, and you let it fall – he does the same to your arm, as if suddenly detesting your touch.

"Bad girl," he states, voice nonchalant, but you hear him holding the equivalent of a dam back behind the two words. And it's cracking.

"Very, very, very bad girl. Let go. I'll show you what you can and cannot touch."

If you were a betting person, you'd place it all on him doing a bad job at hiding something, something important, something big – but you don't have time to study his shifting eyes or his suddenly harsh cold hands. You're growing cold, the suit stings, his touch seems foreign.

Still his hand lifts, while still holding you up with his other, and he touches your face – as if doing so for the first time.

As if doing so for the last time, you try not to think as you swallow on a dry throat.

And there's something dark, solemn in that touch, just as his eyes seem blank and his breath too calm.

"I'm going to have to hurt you, little flower," he softly coos, caressing your cheek and brushing your skin as if he were telling you something gentle, "I'm going to have to hurt you very badly."

You start shaking your head, but his hand lifts a finger to your lips and stops you.

"Ah ah ah. You've forfeited the right to beg. You lost. And then you tried to play dirty. Little flower little flower...you have no idea what you've done."

The salesman kisses your lips softly, everso softly, but his hand holds your cheek far too harshly.

So you grip his waist with your legs. You move your face on your own. If he doesn't wish for your hands to touch him, you don't lift them.

You crane your head to him, brushing the hair from his forehead with your nose, and kiss his forehead again, so gently, so lovingly that you forget how sealed your fate is. Because you're kissing the man who wasn't like the others, and the man who almost lost his composure in you – the one who held the blade and could have sliced your neck open, the one who kissed each bruise and didn't stray. The one who broke something in the man who's holding you now the moment you gripped his face.

"Please," you whisper as your lips pull away just enough to let words through, "please."

Come back.

But he doesn't.

You only twisted the knife further.

He shakes his face as if trying to rid a thought and looks at you anew, eyes cold, something wild and uncontained dancing in their dark pupils.

"Too late," he whispers, "too late, little flower."

❥❥❥

And he throws you on the bed, with such force that your legs don't get a chance to unravel on their own, and your arms fall beside you and by your head, your body bouncing on the mattress.

Before you can adjust or move, you close your legs on instinct and try to take a few heavy breaths, as you note you're not hurt – just shaken and your trembles vibrate through your entire body. But you wince at the sudden realisation of just how much of you he was holding together.

The salesman doesn't give you time to think, he climbs above you, sealing your limbs one by one – both of your wrists get pinned down before you can lift on your elbows, your midsection is left under his weight and he is above you, shielding the light, eyes wild, mouth closed, no smile.

"You think you're special?" His voice coils around your ear as he gathers your wrists above your head and pins them to the headboard.

You shake your head, fear finally gripping you and enveloping you to your core, and you try to twist away from under him. But his weight replies with a sharp thrust to keep you in place.

"I've plucked flowers like you from the side of the road, and dozens remained in their place. Better. Fairer. More open."

He uses his free hand to slide down your ribs, your side, your waist and stop at your hip, gazing into you the more you shiver, the more you pull away and touch him in turn. He grabs at the skin of your waist and pushes you down into the bed, feeling every inch of you he can.

"You're nothing. You lost. I'll take my prize and leave you to wilt."

As he finishes the sentence, he grinds against you so harshly you feel him in his entirety. Your recoil only made his movement sharper. He lays his body against yours, full weight pinning you down. As he takes in your trembling, he thrusts everso slightly for you to feel just how well he intends to deliver on his promise. Your legs give in and leave an opening which he uses to his advantage.

You gasp and a moan escapes your lips, turning into hurried breath and ending in a small whimper. You almost wish you didn’t hear the hardly contained ecstatic inhale that reverberated through you as he grips you again. He teasingly repeats the motion, harder this time, and stays fixed against you, pinning you down with the full measure of his need for you. You shiver at the length you feel still contained.

He almost smiled the more you coiled under him, the more your body touched his with your every jitter, every recoil, every hurried breath. Every flinch, he caught and returned with force to pin you in place. Every move you made to avoid him; he used against you. The moment he felt your thigh lose grip against his, he dragged his arm up your leg and squeezed your behind, pinning you to him, squeezing you in place and letting him sink further into you.

"Mine," he whispers under his breath as he drags his teeth against your skin, biting down on your breast and suckling the more he feels you arch your back.

"Mine."

And you still. You no longer grip against him, you grow cold. The sensation of his wet suit, his length against his trousers barely contained, feels like fabric and force, not lust.

He fades into the background even as your senses are overwhelmed by the smell of him, mixed with sweat, need, and the lingering softness of the soap he lathered you with.

Just as you thought you’d lost – him, the game, your sense of self, everything, you realised something and hope he didn’t.

His hand.

His hand gave his bluff away.

His hand betrayed him, even as the words sent tears into your eyes and your heart into overdrive. But his hand. The same harsh hand that left prints on your thighs hesitated above them, just next to your tummy and the place he cared for so intently – so gently, the place he rested his head against and lulled into. The skin he smiled into and caressed.

You only watch him, wary to disturb the air. Your eyes follow his chest lifting and falling heavily. The chest that rises with yours and pushes you down. The hand that trails from gripping you and holding you down, to sliding and caressing your skin from your shoulder across your breasts down to your tummy and lower still. You see his eyes drink up your breasts, your waist, your skin, your collarbones, your neck...with each move putting the puzzle of you together and trying to keep the pieces apart all at once. He rests his hand against your most tender place and remains there, unmoving.

In stark contrast to the rest of him, it’s his hand that doesn’t let you leave entirely.

He's losing.

Without warning his hand moves down and climbs between your knees, forcing them apart. The moment he has an opening, he climbs between your legs, and his own body holds you down, pinning your thighs at each side of him and not letting you curl back into yourself.

As he rests above you, that self-satisfied smile glides across his lips, as if you’re so perfectly in place for everything he promised and more – as if you’re just a chip in a game he never intended to entertain losing.

“Those eyes…” he mutters as his head softly cranes to one side, as if studying a painting. But he’s not admiring its beauty. He’s admiring the ruin in his hands.

“Those eyes crying for help and safety…” he leans down to you and whispers into your ear, breath hot and poisonous: “…how foolish to run to safety to me. I thought you were better than that.”  

As his head straightens, he looks at you anew. Expression a falsity of tenderness.

“All the more beautiful the more you break with every thread you trusted me with. You lost. Flower. You lost each and every game. Did you think it would go unnoticed? Did you think you could ever play me? Unpunished? My dear sweet flower…”

His hand slowly glides up and touches you finger by finger, playfully, coldly across your naked skin until they arrive at your face where he simply dots your lips with each finger and bends down to kiss the side of your mouth. As you close your eyes into the kiss, fear and hope gripping you at once, you feel a sudden sensation on your neck – which turns into a grip. You gasp and try to move away, but he'd holding you tight.

You feel his waist move into you and with each breath you try to take for yourself, his body replies with less space for you to even think of moving. His waist guides into you, keeping your legs apart and grinding against you as his breathing grows more rapid. His chest is heavy as it collides with yours, and your hips inadvertently move with his every time you try to avoid him and sink into the bed. He pushes himself onto you, the full length of his need against you, the heavy breaths against your own chest turning into desperate kisses of every place his eyes drank up.

As if reading your mind, his hand moves from your throat to your mouth, this time, laying his entire palm over it so you don't make a single sound. And you sharply inhale as you hear the sound of a belt unbuckling.

You twist under him, feeling your hips grind into him and your stomach touch his fingers - you move backwards but he pulls you back down and pins you down.

His kisses turn from hungry to ravenous, leaving marks everywhere they touch – moving from your cheek to your chin to your neck and finally, your chest. He's not gentle anymore. He takes your breast into his mouth and kisses it, before biting down and feeling you whimper into his hand.

He pushes it down further and does the same to your other breast, stopping only to look back above you, looking into your eyes above his form, palm still strangling breath from your mouth.

He stops. Lips half open. Eyes wild. Face dishevelled. He stops.

"I thought I told you that you've no right to beg," he whispers in one breath, as if speaking to himself. The hint of anger at the very end of the sentence doesn't fit and you freeze. You haven't uttered a word. You can't.

The salesman guides his hand down your lips to your jaw and grips it, turning your head in his palm and driving his fingers into your skin.

Studying you. Pushing into you.

"I told you not to beg," he whispers again, losing your eyes.

You slowly try to undo your hands from his grip. His fist adds fervour until you tear up again for the pain.

He sees the tear and immediately lets go entirely, pulling away. Breathing heavy.

You lie there.

Before him. His eyes trail you so slowly, as if time had truly stopped.

❥❥❥

The bruise left my someone else, the remnant, fades next to his own handprint.

The tender, soft body still lifts – in perseverance, not defiance.

Her lips are tender, still tender, even after they've been torn apart.

Her eyes don't beg. Wide, gorgeous eyes, full of sorrow and betrayal but still. They understand. They accept.

Her body is scratched and marked where she should have been revered.

Red on skin that should have been tended to.

Petals lying scattered about her like little halos, cracked but not broken. Torn apart.

The light in her eyes is burning through everything, it hasn't faded. She didn't run. She didn't lose feeling. She didn't go numb.

She didn't fight, didn't kick, only tried. She could have. She didn't.

When she should have beat her fists into his back, she clung to him for refuge. Him.

Through everything, she's shivering under him, not begging, not using any poison. As naked as her body.

And he would defile it and ruin her.

To prove a point.

To win against himself.

To discard her as she would discard him.

Shoot first, lest he be shot.

Lest she realises his gun is full of blanks.

❥❥❥

You don't know his mental process; you only feel your tears against his hot skin on your cheek and mouth.

"So soft," he finally whispers to himself, gliding a hand just above your skin, his finger only lightly brushing certain parts as if scared to shatter you. Just as his hand hovers above your navel and your tummy, he rests it there fully. Listening to your pulse. Your breath. Lifting against him. Against his warmth. Against his harshness.

"So...delicate."

You gently, still terrified, but acting on an algorithm you don't recognise and do all at once, softly untie your hands for his fingers. Just as he did yours off the blade.

You touch your neck, your collarbone, and freeze at feeling scratches and bumps, tender places that burn on touch. Wetness and heat. But you don't say a word.

The tears fall to each side of your face. And through it all, you smile.

You smile as you lift both hands.

They seem like those of a stranger, but you fight to keep yourself in them, try to stay here one last time.

And you smile as you softly, carefully cup his face, tenderly as if he were about to flinch or break entirely.

And you whisper, meaning every word:

"It's alright."

And as if on cue, he begins to shiver in your embrace but doesn't pull away.

"It's alright," you smile through the tears, and allow yourself a deeper breath. Which he feels reverberate through his palm still laying upon your stomach. Just as he feels your pulse grow rapid, then...calmer.

His shivering turns harsher, but he never loses your eyes. Lips still semi-open, he's transfixed by you, frozen yet lost in time. Unable to blink away from you. His eyes begin to turn glassy.

You once more, with heavy effort and ignoring the pain pulsating through you, straighten just a tad under him, just enough to pull yourself up to him, clinging to his legs once more for stability.

You pull up to him and gently place a kiss on his forehead that is speckled with beads of sweat, vibrating in your hands.

"It's..."

You move down and kiss the bridge of his nose.

"All..."

You kiss the tip.

"…Right."

And you tenderly lay your lips on his, first merely resting there, then turning touch into a kiss. You feel him hesitate, grip you then...fade in his strength...and kiss you back.

Just as softly.

Just as gently.

And as if you lent him life in that moment, he moves, of his own volition, and lays you back down, cradling your back so you don't hurt yourself. His kiss deepens, but doesn't take nor hurt. You feel your head hit the pillow and envelop you in your wet hair and you swear you feel him smile into the kiss, one hand shakily placing errant strands from your face.

"My perfect little flower," he whispers as he pulls away just for a moment.

"Now I'll never let you go."

[lucydixon]

Drunk Dial

Imagine him looking at you like this while you drive him home, just absolutely lovesick 😭

Summary: Faust calls, you from a party, shitfaced, and gets all sappy with you. Warning: Sickening fluff

You jolted awake to the sound of the phone ringing at three in the morning, one hand clutching your chest as you tried to find the phone in your disoriented state. 

A late-night phone call was never good, and you were acutely aware of the fact that Faust was out partying with his friends.

He’d planned on crashing at the Mayhem house so you didn’t have to go pick him up at an unreasonable hour.

But now, you were frozen, just about to grab the phone off the hook, thinking about the possibility of it being a cop on the other side of the line, about to tell you that Faust had tried to drive someone else’s car home and wrapped it around a telephone pole. 

“Hello?” your voice was a little shaky, full of concern. 

Immediately, you could hear muffled metal music coming from the other side of the line, and slumped over in relief. 

“Faust?”

“Oh good!” he slurred into the phone excitedly, very clearly off his face. “You’re awake!” 

“I wasn’t.” You couldn’t help but laugh, lowering yourself into the chair next to the phone “Everything okay out there?” 

“I just really missed you,” you could hear the pout in his voice, “I always miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” You muttered, “Do you want me to come get you?” 

“No, no- you should be sleeping.” 

“I was sleeping, baby.” You reminded him, “I think you’re the one who should be sleeping.” 

“Oh fuck- did I wake you up? I’m so sorry, Angel, I-” He rambled, but you cut him off before he could get too worked up over it. 

“It’s alright, Faust.” You chuckled into the receiver, “I really don’t mind. It’s nice to hear your voice.”

“Faust, what the hell are you doing?” You heard one of the boys shout on the other side of the line. “Get off the phone!” 

“What?” He shouted back drunkenly, “I can’t talk to my girl on the phone? Fuck you!”

You grimaced at the volume and held the phone a few inches away from your ear. 

“She’s probably sleeping!” You were pretty sure it was Occultus arguing with him, “Man, hang up!” 

“Why?” Faust huffed, a little further from the phone “She picked up! Leave me alone!” 

“Then why don’t you just get her to come get you?” his best friend groaned in the background. 

“Cause she’s sleeping!” 

You could hear a scuffle and some muffled grumbling from both sides, and you guessed they were wrestling over the phone. 

“Can you please come get him?” Occultus must’ve won the grappling match. It was his heavy breathing and voice on the other end, “He wont shut up about you, and if Øystein hears him, he’ll never hear the end of it!” 

You could hear Faust trying to get the phone back, and tried to picture whatever was going on over there. Occultus was probably sitting on him if he’d managed to keep the phone out of his grip for this long, but Faust had a good foot and a half on him and eventually snatched the phone back. 

“Did you hear that, Angel?” He was breathing raggedly into the receiver. “I’m getting beat up over here.” 

“My poor baby,” You played into it. “Do you want me to come get you?” 

“I want to see you.” He groaned dramatically, “You’re so pretty and I wanna look at your pretty face and your pretty hair and-” 

“You just hang tight and try not to drink anymore, okay?” You chuckled, shaking your head. “I can be there in thirty.” 

“Why not?” He pouted. 

“I don’t think I can carry you to bed, my love. I’m gonna need you to work with me here.” 

“Oh man,” He sighed dreamily, “I love when you call me little names like that. Fuck, I love you so much that it hurts.” 

“I love you too, baby.” You couldn’t bite back your smile if you wanted to. “I’ll see you soon, alright?” 

“Okay.” 

You rolled up to the house, unsurprised to see that things had died down considerably by the time you got there. 

It was pushing four in the morning, yet a few stragglers were milling around the yard, just as drunk as Faust had sounded on the phone. 

You kept your distance on your way to the door.

You heard a gasp to your left as soon as you walked in, and before you could even turn all the way around, you were lifted off the ground and being clutched to someone’s chest. 

You could tell immediately, based on just how high off the ground you were and the long inhale as he smelled your hair, that it was Faust, and not a random stranger.

“Angel!” his voice was soft, but excited. “What are you doing here? Oh, your hair smells so good.”

“You called me, baby.” You draped your arms over his shoulders and gave him a squeeze back before gently nudging him to put you down. As much as you liked being in his arms, he was swaying a bit, and you were scared you’d both topple over in his drunken state, “remember?”

“Do you want a drink?” He slurred, clutching your hands in his, “I can get you a drink, come on.” 

“No, thank you.” You chuckled, tugging him gently in the direction of the car. “I’m here to take you home. We’re going this way.” 

Faust stared at you lovingly the whole drive home with a goofy little smile on his face. He held your free hand over the centre console and pouted cutely every time you had to wiggle it out of his grip to make a turn until you were pulling into the driveway. 

His eyelids were drooping by that point, and he was obviously struggling to fight off sleep. 

You got him into the bed while he pawed at you clumsily, tripping over his long limbs while you kept him steady. You’d turned to go get him some water, but yelped when you were dragged into bed instead. 

Faust pulled you under the covers and tiredly clutched your back to his chest while you giggled softly. 

“I was going to get you some water,” you told him, turning around in his arms so you could look up at him with an amused smile tugging at your lips.

“Fuck the water,” He groaned tiredly, still slurring a little “just stay here with me.” 

“I can do that.” You reached up to brush some hair out of his face, then cradled the side of it in your hand, gently brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. “You’re real cute, you know.” 

“I’m cute?” he scoffed softly, looking down at you with hazy adoration, resting one of his big hands over yours,  “you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t even know how much I love you.” He sighed, shutting his eyes 

“I love you, too, Faust.” You smiled, coaxing his hand to the side so you could bury your face in his chest, sure that he was falling asleep. 

“I’m gonna marry the shit out of you.” he mutted so softly into the top of your head that you could barely make out the the words. But still, you did, and stiffened, eyes widening as your heart rate picked up slightly. “I’m gonna get you a ring and you’ll wear a pretty dress and my parents will come.” 

Your breath hitched in your throat. 

“Stop it.” You breathed, “You’re drunk.” 

“I don’t care,” he rambled quietly. “I am gonna marry you and we’ll have babies, lots and lots of babies. I hope they all have your eyes, wouldn't that be nice?” 

“Shut up.” 

“What? You don’t want little metalheads running around?” He chuckled breathily into your hair at the thought, full of warmth. 

“I haven’t really thought about it.” You lied, curling into him, a little overwhelmed.

In all honesty, you’d never even considered having children until you met Faust. He had you thinking about lots of things for the first time. 

You couldn’t deny the almost giddy feeling that came with hearing him talk so confidently about the future of your relationship.

You knew that Faust loved you, of course you did, but it was still reassuring to hear that he couldn’t picture an expiration date for the two of you. 

“I have.” he sounded half asleep but clutched you to his chest harder “I think about it all the fucking time.”

“You’re all I think about. I miss you right now and I’m holding you.”

You wrapped your arm around him and smiled into his chest. 

“Go to sleep, you big softie.” You muttered, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too, Angel.”

“More than anything.”

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[madamejadex]

Hi Madame Jade. I was wondering from one Domme to another if you could help me with how to deal with brats. You see, I’m always struggling in how to answer them. My partner she is so quick with her mouth and sometimes I can’t come up with something good to say back and it makes me feel like I’m failing. Can you help me with some good comebacks. Like she usually tries to bait me like I’m not the boss of her, dare me to punish her, or telling me I’m not tough enough to handle her, or don’t need my rules. I mean it’s not all the time but sometimes shes in a mood and I want to give her a good time. If you don’t want to answer thats completely fine.

She/her 37 can I have 👠?

Hi there, dear.

Now, as I’ve mentioned before here on my blog, I’m not what one might call a brat tamer, nor have I spent much time intentionally seeking out brats. But I’ve certainly enjoyed a bit of defiance from partners in the past, and some of it could easily fall under the umbrella of bratting, depending on how loosely we define it.

So, there are likely other Dom/mes on Tumblr who are more equipped to help you, and I encourage you to seek them out to get more guidance. But I’m more than happy to share what I do know. I’ll offer some ideas to comebacks and energy to the examples your partner’s been using, since I know how tricky it can be to meet that energy without losing your center.

I hope some of the below can help.

"You're not the boss of me." (leans in, calm and devastating) "That’s cute. Let's see if you're able to say that while you’re on your knees, choking on the proof that I am."

"You gonna punish me or just glare all night?" (voice low, and dangerous) "Watch your mouth or lose the privilege of using it."

"You're not as tough as you act." (steps forward, voice flat) "No. I’m tougher. But you’ll learn that when I’m in your head, fucking you without laying a single hand on you."

"I can handle whatever you throw at me." (a pause, then slow and sharp) "Then open your mouth. Let’s test that theory."

"I bet you like it when I’m difficult." (smirks) "No, baby. I like watching your attitude evaporate the moment my fingers slide between your legs."

"Maybe I’ll top tonight." (deadpan) "You can’t even keep eye contact when I say your name. Sit down."

"What if I misbehave on purpose just to get your hands on me?" (slow and wicked) "Then I’ll tie you up and leave you untouched. Maybe then you’ll learn the difference between craving me and earning me."

"I always get the last word." (mocking smile) "Of course. It’s usually 'please' or 'I'm sorry, Mommy.'"

"Is that all you’ve got?" (dangerously soft) "You’ll be sobbing my name before I answer that."

"You’re not my mother." (leaning in, with a glare) "No. I'm worse. I'm the woman you obey, even when you hate how much you crave it."

"Maybe you’re just scared I’ll take control." (tilts head condescendingly) "Darling, you can’t even manage your own mouth. What exactly do you think you’re qualified to take?"

"Make me." (cooing) "Aww, baby. That’s precious. Do you want a sticker for saying something bold?"

"Maybe I want to be punished." (quiet, smug) "Of course you do. Needy little things like you always want what they can’t handle."

"You hate when I disobey? Maybe don’t give me orders then." (voice lowers) "Try that tone again." (waits a beat) "Go on. I dare you."

"Wow. All that stern talk and still no punishment? Starting to think you’re bluffing." (Without looking up) "If I punished you every time you craved attention, you’d never stand again."

"You need to lighten up, Mommy." (eye contact locked) "And you need to learn when to shut that mouth before I close it for you."

xo Miss Jade