#instead of saying your blood type is red say your blood type is blue

[seventeen-cephalopods]

Fun Octopus Fact

Octopods have blue blood

[fxrmuladaydreams]

don’t touch her (mv1)

max x reader , unnamed mclaren employee x reader

summary: max knows his feelings for you are wrong, you have a boyfriend. but all bets are off when that boyfriend gets aggressive with you

notes: this one’s angsty guys, also we’re gonna pretend that japan was later in the season just for timing purposes

warnings: physical fight, blood, a toxic relationship

He knew he shouldn’t be staring at you from across the paddock. He knew it was wrong on so many levels. You were a part of the Red Bull team, one of his coworkers. You were also dating someone from the McLaren team. Max had never wanted to hit Lando over the head as much as he did when the young Brit introduced you to your current boyfriend. But he couldn’t stop himself from searching for you in any room he went into, or at any media events or any meetings.

Max Verstappen could confidently say he was without a doubt in love with you.

He had grown attached to you quickly, being one of the only people he worked with that didn’t fawn over him just because he was good at his job. You treated him like a real person. When he was with you there was no Max Verstappen, there was only Max. You were a breath of fresh air, the calm in the storm that was his chaotic life. You were his quiet, safe space he could escape to when things became too much. He wanted nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and shield you away from all that was wrong in the world, but he’d settle for calling you his friend, his best friend.

Max liked to think of himself as a good person, the type of person that just wanted to see you happy, even if it meant seeing you with someone else. He promised himself he wouldn’t act upon his feelings, at least not while you were dating anyone. He wouldn’t dare destroy your happiness just because of his heart.

Max could also admit he was petty, so childishly petty. He didn’t like seeing you hanging around the McLaren garage during race weekends, weekends where you would usually be by his side, making sure he was ready to drive. Instead he had to watch your navy blue stand out against the bright orange at McLaren. It didn’t suit you, being surrounded by papaya, Max thought.

He knew he could complain about it to Christian. He could use his power to make you come back to him, but in doing that he may end up hurting you or your job. So he sat quietly and let his annoyance fester inside him.

He could tell when things started to shift with your boyfriend. When your long hugs and visits to the McLaren garage turned into brushing shoulders and arguments in an empty walkway outside.

Max tries to ask about, tries to help make you feel better, but you shrug him off, telling him that you’ll work it out, it’s nothing but a rough patch.

He asks if you’re okay, if there’s anything he can do to help. You give him a sad smile and shrug your shoulders.

“There’s nothing you can do Max.”

He’s never felt so helpless in his life. He hates that he has to see your face with tear stains over it, that your smile has dimmed in the garage. That you no longer search him out for comfort.

Part of him thinks he should have a conversation with your boyfriend. He thinks he should give him a talking to about how he’s ruining someone so special. But he knows he’d probably end up throwing punches if your boyfriend ticked him off anymore than he already has.

You don’t seem to get any better as the season comes closer to an end. Max tries to help you open up to him again, asking if you have any plans over the winter break. He even invites you to join him on his trip back home to the Netherlands. He tells you that his mother and sister would love to have you with them during the holidays.

You frown, telling him that you planned on staying near Milton Keynes to do some work at the factory.

He scoffs and shakes his head. “It’s winter break, I’m sure they can spare you for a little while.”

“I can’t take time off work just to hang out with you Max.” The words are much harsher than you mean for them to be, you can tell by the way Max takes a defensive step back.

He nods. “Right. Sorry.” Then he leaves you standing there to go to his driver’s room, or somewhere that just doesn’t have you.

Everything becomes clearer to Max at a party near the end of the season. It’s just after the Japan race, and Lando had insisted on celebrating the McLaren 2-3 as well as another tally to Max’s list of wins this season. The nightclub is filled with drivers as well as team members from each team hoping to let off some steam before the next race weekend.

Max doesn’t want to be there. He wants to go back to his hotel and sleep before he has to fly back home just to fly to Qatar a week later. But Lando and Charles keep putting new drinks in his hand, which promptly end up being left on random tables, and dragging him around to converse with everyone else that’s there.

He keeps an eye on you the whole time, watching as you wrap your arms around yourself, staring into the crowd on the dance floor. He can tell you aren’t really looking at them though, that you’re staring off into space. Your boyfriend comes up to sit on the stool next to you. He says something in your ear, to which you shake your head and leave, walking outside.

Max quickly pushes his latest drink into Charles’ hands and follows you outside.

You lean against the wall, attempting to get some fresh air after feeling a bit too claustrophobic in the club, but the heat doesn’t help as much as you hoped. You see Max as he steps outside and quickly walks to you.

“What’s wrong? And don’t say nothing, because I know you, I know when you’re upset and you can’t hide it from me. Is it me? Have I done something wrong?” He asks, his words spilling out quickly.

“Max, it’s not you, it’s just-”

“Y/n! Come on, we can talk this through!” Your words are cut off by your boyfriend who looks around for you, the smile falling off his face when he spots Max standing next to you. “Are you fucking serious Y/n?” He storms over to you, and grabs your forearm, yanking you away from Max. “Always running back to Max, huh?”

You yelp when he roughly pulls you to him.

Max is quick to put himself between the two of you, pushing your boyfriend with just enough force to make him let go of you.

“Don’t touch her.” He snarls.

You already know how this is going to end. Max stares at your boyfriend with fire in his eyes. While Max isn’t quite as tall as him, he makes up for the height difference in his strength. He’s got enough muscle to knock him to the ground in seconds if he wanted to.

Anyone with half a brain would know they’re in dangerous territory, being on the receiving end of Max’s intense stare, but your boyfriend refuses to back down.

“She’s mine Verstappen. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He says quietly, taunting Max.

That’s all it takes for the first swing to fly. You think it’s Max, but your boyfriend is quick to throw up his own fists in defense.

It’s a mess of navy blue and orange as the two end up rolling on the ground, throwing punch after punch. Max ends up on top, straddling your boyfriend, lifting his fist to swing. You grab his arm and pull him off and away from the fight. You catch a glimpse of your boyfriend, well now ex-boyfriend’s bloody nose and black eye.

Max huffs, pulling his arm away from you and stalks towards his car. You follow him, practically jogging to keep up. You stop when you’re standing between him and the driver door. The lamplight illuminates his face. He’s got a bruise on his cheekbone, a split lip, his hair is a disheveled mess, and his fist is coated in blood, whose you aren’t sure. He’s avoiding eye contact with you, instead looking up at the sky.

“Max, why-”

“I’m fine.” He says when he finally looks at you. “Let me drive you back to the hotel.”

The drive back is quiet. You can’t help but keep looking over at Max, the streetlights passing by spread light over his face. He pulls a plain hoodie from the back of his car, pulling the hood up over his head. He keeps his down as he walks inside, attempting to avoid any interactions with fans that have decided to hang around the hotel.

He walks you to your door, then turns to leave, stopping only when he feels your fingers thread themselves through his. You gently pull him inside your room.

“Bathroom.” You tell him, steering him towards the small bathroom.

He sighs, knowing that there’s no use in trying to argue with you. He tugs the hoodie off and tosses it on your bed. He lifts himself up to sit on the counter of the bathroom, just next to the sink. There’s barely any room between where his legs hang off the counter and the wall opposite the sink, but you manage to squeeze between them with a small towel in your hand.

You run the towel under warm water, then bring it to his face, softly dabbing at his lip. He flinches slightly, pulling away. You apologize softly, then continue to wipe the blood from his lip.

You do the same with his hand, gently holding it in your hand and wiping away the red. It turns out to be mostly blood from your ex boyfriend, his skin only slightly bruised from the impact.

“You shouldn’t have hit him. You could’ve broken your hand. You wouldn’t have been able to drive.” You scold him quietly.

He gives you an incredulous look. “I should’ve done a lot more than hit him.”

You don’t answer, continuing to absentmindedly wipe at his hand. The blood is long gone, but he can tell you’re too lost in thought to notice.

He lifts your head up to look at him with his other hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks.

You shake your head. “You heard him. Always running back to you?”

“I like it when you come to me.” He shifts slightly. “I mean, I like feeling like you can come to me for, well for anything really. You should’ve felt like you could’ve talked to me.” He drops his head down now.

You can tell he’s starting to close in on himself, that he feels somehow at fault for this. It’s your turn to lift his head up this time. His eyes are welled up with unshed tears. He tries to blink his tears away putting on a brave face for you.

You gently swipe your thumb under his eyes, then hold his cheeks in your hands.

“This is not your fault Max. It’s my fault. I let it get bad, I should’ve ended it a long time ago. I just have a talent for being self destructive I guess.” You let out an unconvincing laugh.

He leans into your touch, letting his eyes flutter closed.

After a few minutes you begrudgingly pull your hands away from Max. He immediately misses the warmth on his face.

“You should put some ice over your bruise.” You tell him.

You step back, giving him space to hop down from the counter. He stands over you, but his height is anything but daunting. He looks down at his now clean but bruised knuckles then back up at you.

“Thank you.”

“I should be the one thanking you.” You tell him.

He clears his throat then shuffles around you, back into the main part of your room. “I should probably go.”

You follow him, itching to give him a reason to stay.

He grabs his hoodie from your bed and walks back to your door. He opens it, ready to step through when you call his name. He turns back to see you standing near the door as well, shifting your weight on your feet.

You take a deep breath then throw caution to the wind. You take a quick two steps to him and press your lips to his cheek.

Max freezes, only regaining a semblance of composure when you pull away from him.

“Thank you Max. Really.” You smile.

He gives you a sheepish smile and a nod, his cheeks colored with a light pink blush.

“Goodnight Y/n.”

“Goodnight Max.”

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ tell me about love (show me how) | gojo satoru

wc: 7.4k

summary: you teach gojo how to love. 

contains: f!reader in mind but no pronouns mentioned, descriptions of blood (typical jjk canon type stuff), shibuya onwards manga spoilers, implied minor character death, there are swears, suggestive bit at the end (but it’s funny!), lots of internal thoughts/dialogues, kind of canon divergent

a/n: relates to my short blurb, do you believe in love?, explores a lot on how i think gojo would be when it comes to love; ambiguous but linear timeline (jumps through scenes)

collection masterlist: conversations on love 01. do you believe in love? <- you are here -> 2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours)

When Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it. 

It’s unusual for him to be so restrained, being born into greed and predetermined purpose—a one-man clan fated to hold power close to God. There exists a hunger within him, insatiable and stubborn, unstoppable until he gets what he wants. It’s all he’s ever known: to take and devour, simply because he can. 

Yet with this, he doesn’t. He can’t seem to. 

“I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.” 

When you offer your heart to Gojo, he looks at you softly. 

You catch his eyes and see the sky, bright, with flecks of light floating on his irises like cotton clouds in its periphery. It’s different from the piercing blue you’re used to—a terrifying riptide that washes you away. 

It wasn’t intended as a confession, but Gojo always takes whatever you have to say. He commits it to memory each time; how could he not? Words that come from you flow so naturally, so earnestly that the air around you shifts all on its own.

His lips part slightly, red spatterings lining pink inner corners before they close again. He doesn’t say anything, but you know Gojo and the fingerprints of his soul—the way he bites his lips to withhold himself from speaking. 

It’s dangerous, he thinks, how you make wanting something so complicated seem so simple.

He takes a small breath, then you feel it, pressed against you—the faint signature of his cursed energy overlaying his entirety. It tickles your skin a little, the effects of it brushing. You don’t remember the last time he put it up around you.

A million things run through Gojo’s mind for every split second he breathes, but at this point in time, he counts a million and one—one thought that if he touches you by infinity instead of his hands, he can have this good thing for now, that this is the only way how. 

You’d think this a rejection, if any, but he doesn’t move away from you, and the blush blooming at the tips of his ears says more than he ever could. 

.

.

.

The subtle intimacy you share with Gojo grows sporadically, from knuckles brushing to pinkies touching. He stands next to you more often, a few inches closer than he used to and sometimes, still, with an infinity connecting you.

.

.

.

When you hold Gojo’s hand for the first time, he jolts very slightly, as if you’ve shocked him. He’s started to put his infinity down around you again, and you continue the limbo of whatever it is you both are—except this time, he’s made it clearer, just a little bit. 

During the last few leaves of fall, Gojo skips to an ice cream stand like a pre-schooler on early dismissal. You trail behind him slowly, shaking your head affectionately; he’s the only adult you know that still acts like he’s 5. 

“You’re like a horse.” you jest, stopping next to him in line.

“You’re a snail.” he huffs, side-eyeing you, like a child.

You gasp exaggeratingly, hitting his arm. He fake-winces, but that’s all it is; Gojo’s the strongest and you don’t know of any human touch that has managed to hurt him, except—

Yeah. Your eyes trail to the side of his neck, hidden in the shadows of his jawline; there’s really nothing, but sometimes you blink and see crimson, oozing, gushing, leaking—you shake away the thought.  

When he receives his ice cream cone stacked with vanilla-strawberry-vanilla and rainbow sprinkles on top, the smile on his face parallels the sun. He looks cozy, almost boyish, beaming against the autumn breeze blowing on his thick gray hoodie. 

You wonder if he feels just as warm.

(Maybe that’s why you do it, then).

Once Gojo turns to give you the cone, you reach for his other hand tentatively, shyly—your fingertips grazing his palm lightly. You want to give him an out if he can’t take this, but he doesn’t move. He twitches a little, as if he’s been caught off guard, but that’s it. 

His eyes widen briefly, just a bit, before turning into the same soft skies frequenting them lately. 

“Sorry, is this okay?” you whisper, peering up at him. 

He stares at you for a while, his hand in yours unmoving. You leave a sliver of space between your palms–your own version of his infinity–just in case. And he takes it all in: how tiny your hand is wrapped around his, how gently you speak—how warm he feels now amidst this autumn breeze. 

“The strawberry’s really good,” he finally replies, pressing the dessert closer to you, “try it.” 

You give him one last look before you indulge in his request. Gojo’s always been good at that: pushing and pulling—pushing you away with non-answers only to pull you back in with something else. 

But he doesn’t let go of your hand, so you keep yours there, palms nearly touching. (You make a point not to mention how the parts that do touch become clammy for the rest of the afternoon). 

.

.

.

You start to think that your relationship with Gojo is going somewhere, then he disappears (‘gets sealed’ might be the more proper term). 

His absence is deafening. You’ve all lost so much, and it hurts, but you carry on knowing full well that this is what being a jujutsu sorcerer means. There aren’t many left to fight his fight, so you do what you can to. You stay with Shoko, mostly, if not going back and forth with Utahime. You can’t afford to be crying when the students, the kids—you can’t even bear to think about what they’re going through.

Nights are the hardest, when the world is quiet but your mind is loud, throwing far too many questions you can’t find the answers to.

What will Gojo come back to? Then the scarier thought: Will he even come back? 

You don’t want to doubt him, ever, but your mind continues to play back that day, like a final memory. The unintentional confession; his eyes like the sky. 

You don’t want it to be the last important thing you tell him. 

“I should start looking into retirement plans, like Nanamin.” you raise an eyebrow, questioning. Gojo’s never spoken this far into the future before, most especially his. 

“Work is shit now for you too?” you scoff, leaning back on the wooden ledge. 

Gojo rolls his eyes, skipping the coverage of his blindfold today. 

“Well, after I remove the old geezers and change everything, there won’t be much left to do.” 

You hum in response. He does make a point. 

“Also, Megumi won’t need me anymore,” he pouts, whining, “who else will want me around?” 

You try to hold back your laugh, wanting so badly to tell him that Megumi doesn’t even really like him around to begin with—but you figure breaking Gojo’s heart isn’t really something you want to do if you value your peace. 

“I don’t know,” you reply, shifting your weight, “I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.” 

Even now, especially now. You wish you were with him, too. 

.

.

.

The day you hear of Gojo’s potential return, you drop your breakfast outside the 7-Eleven near Jujutsu Tech. You’re supposed to meet up with Utahime for a weekly check-in but your feet take you to Shoko, and the footsteps in your heart have never echoed louder. 

This is the first good news in a while—especially after finding out about the state of Megumi and what happened to Tsumiki, your sweet girl Tsumiki. 

When Gojo comes back, it’s like he never left. He pops out of the box joking the same way, talking the same way. He proves himself to be the strongest all the same, and when he wins—there are scars, but he wins and that fact stays the same. 

So, when you reach for his hand now and he moves away, you’re stuck wondering what’s changed. 

.

.

.

You let it stay that way for a while, your understanding extending to Gojo the way it always has—you don’t push, and he gives you what he can. It honestly isn’t all that bad, because at least he’s still talking to you like he used to. 

Jujutsu society is still shaken from its core. You and all who have survived bear the task of building everything from the ground up; it’s exhausting, especially since most of you are still mourning. 

Megumi’s been put in an induced coma; you understand why but it still tugs at your heart when Shoko tells you it might take a while. Everyone else has been assigned to sweep through the rest of Japan to ensure that any remaining curses are taken care of. 

You see Yuuji and Yuuta visit Megumi sometimes, along with Maki and Toge when they’re free. Gojo’s there pretty often too, using healing sessions with Shoko as an excuse to see the boy he’s practically raised at 17, with you. 

But while Gojo’s smiles to everyone else remain as charming as ever, you can always tell when they’re untrue. 

.

“Are you okay?” 

You find Gojo a little after midnight on the rooftop of the faculty building. The city always looks pretty from up here—a sea of lights reflected up on the sky. It’s a running joke that rooftops are Gojo’s ‘thing’, but you know he really only comes to places like this to think. You wonder what’s on his mind now, coming here every single night since being unsealed. 

Despite how quiet you try to be, sneaking up on Gojo is almost impossible; he senses you before he hears you, sees the familiar traces of your cursed energy through his Six Eyes. 

“Can’t sleep thinking about me?” he teases, looking straight ahead.

The steps you take towards him are careful, afraid of running him off like you seem to be lately. You sit beside him, leaving a space larger than you usually do, then shrug, “These days, yeah.”

It’s times like this when Gojo forgets how honest you can be, how he takes your word for everything, completely. 

It’s threatening, he thinks, how you can say so much with so little. 

“Well, maybe I can suggest—” 

“Seriously, Satoru,” you grip the ledge tightly, knuckles turning white, “please.” 

You tend to let Gojo dodge your questions a lot of the time, his elusiveness a hallmark of who he is. So you never sound like you do now, serious, pleading. 

Gojo fiddles with his fingers, pondering. He hums lowly before speaking, “Does it matter?” 

It hurts you a little, how that’s even a question. He should know better than to ask that to you. 

“It matters to me, Satoru,” you sigh, “you know it does.”

You barely catch the way his brows furrow at your response, but there are creases on his blindfold that can’t be created by anything else. And Gojo knows—is so painfully aware of the way you care. 

Since coming back, he’s never felt like he’s fully returned. It’s an odd existence of in-between, like he breathes everything and nothing all at the same time. The emotions are even worse, overloading his senses with feelings he can never pinpoint. 

How does he tell you that he must be fucked in the head? That every second in his mind is another step closer to insanity? That he’s lost your tether on Satoru in pursuit of Gojo—of being a god? 

“I’ll tell you,” he starts, “but you have to look away.”

You’ve always treated Gojo tenderly, patiently, and he knows, without a doubt, that no matter what he says you will continue to do the same. But he can’t allow that, not anymore. Not after the way you looked at him that day.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning your head the other way. 

He breathes out and you can almost picture it: half-bitten lips and eyes like low tide. 

“I’m fine,” he says to the back of your head, “you have nothing to worry about.” 

A breeze picks up and brushes past your neck. It’s a lie. He knows it, knows you know it too, but—

it’s easier this way, he thinks, to give you answers when you’re not looking.

Gojo’s never found a weakness he can’t work around, but he might have just found one with you—in your eyes, that read through his every lie. If you turn around now, he’ll want to tell you everything.

“Satoru,” you whisper, letting his name fill the air. You get it—him, and even when you don’t, you try damn hard to because you refuse to let Gojo carry all of it on his own. 

There are crescent indents on your palm from squeezing your knuckles too hard. You think, is this how you form shallow cuts on your heart?

“It’s just me,” you continue, facing him when you say it. 

He takes you all in—your eyes that hold the city lights, your lips, the only vessel that handles his name so delicately. It’s that look on your face again and Gojo’s hit with an ache in his chest—the overwhelming truth that whatever it is, he feels the same. 

.

.

.

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he’s certain he’ll never tell you: that when he looks at you upon his return and finds an emotion he refuses to name, he’s never felt so afraid.  

He takes in the shadows under your eyes and the sunkenness of your cheeks—the number of blinks it takes you to reign in tears on the brink of leaking. The way your voice shakes when you say his name.

Shoko tells him about it because she knows you never will—about how you’ve been running yourself dry, speeding through colonies to gather intel for any possible way to break the seal. She tells him about the sleepless nights, how she catches you standing outside his office at 3 a.m. before travelling to Utahime the next morning. 

And he cannot comprehend it at first, cannot understand how he’s caused you to crumble this way. 

If this is all because of him, how you’ve broken yourself all for his sake, he can’t allow it. To see you ruin yourself over him, over anyone ever—you deserve better.

So, when Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it; he cannot possibly take any more from you if this is what is left of you when he does. 

.

.

.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you catch him by the door of the conference room. 

Rebuilding an entire society requires work and apparently a lot of meetings. Gojo doesn’t usually go to most of them, leaving you and Utahime to carry the chunk of his attendance when he’s not there. In the rare times that he does show up, he makes it a point to be the last one in and the first one out. Utahime hates him for it but you don’t blame him—he isn’t exactly amicable with other figures of authority.

He pauses when he steps out of the door, hands in pockets as he turns to face you. 

You’re not mad or anything, just stating the fact. He’s always known you to speak this way. You lean against the wall next to you, keeping your arms crossed. More people continue to file out of the conference room, some eyeing the two of you curiously as they pass by.

Gojo glances at them, suddenly self-conscious as he clears his throat, “Right, I’ve been avoiding the paperwork you left in my office,” he emphasizes, practically announcing it to everyone in the vicinity, “let’s finish it now.” 

You don’t know whether it’s irritating that Gojo’s so terribly bad at acting, or comforting that he still can’t, for the life of him, successfully lie in front of you. 

He motions for you to follow him as he strolls down the hallway, but you intentionally lag a few steps behind, careful not to encroach on his space lest it make him avoid you any more than he already is.

Stepping into Gojo’s office after so long feels weird, like you belong here but only to a memory of it—as if closing the door behind you feels like activating a muscle you haven’t for a while. It’s been months after all. 

Your eyes skim over the entire room, zeroing in on the stacks of paper lined up on his desk; paperwork has always been Gojo’s least favorite part of the job, often leaving you to do them with him (or alone, when you’re feeling generous). Not much has changed in his space; the mini living area still exists to the left of the room, with little bits of you in its interiors—the pillows, the coffee table books. 

Gojo plops down on the sofa chair and props his feet up on the ottoman, giving four scrolls to his phone before pocketing it. He has the audacity to casually offer you the seat across from him, as if nothing’s wrong—as if he hasn’t been avoiding you for god’s sake. 

Ever since the rooftop, he’s canceled lunch with you six times for reasons that you’re now realizing are less likely to be true. He’s kept a distance of at least one person in between you at all times, and to this day, you still don’t understand why. 

You sigh, taking a seat and leaning back to cross your legs. 

“You’re so bad at acting.” you start.

Being with Gojo for so long, you’ve come to realize that there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it. 

“I technically wasn’t lying.” he replies, sticking his index finger up. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” you snicker, nodding to his desk. 

It’s always like this with Gojo: he pulls you in and you follow. No matter the distance between you, when you sit down together like this, it still always flows so easily. The banter you’ve built together over a decade and more shines through no matter what state your relationship is in. 

Neither of you say anything until Gojo replaces his blindfold for his sunglasses, placing the piece of cloth on the coffee table. 

You break the silence. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” you ask quietly. Gojo aches at that, how you still choose to regard him so kindly. 

Why has he been avoiding you? It’s a good question, completely valid with how he’s been treating you lately, but he could draw up every answer he has, all one million and one, and still not know what to say.

Gojo’s a pretty bad communicator; for how much he talks, he doesn’t really say much—and maybe that’s the root of all this. There are too many things he wants to say but can’t formulate in the right way. 

“If it’s something I did, can you at least let me know?” you continue. Gojo frowns, how can you be wronged yet still think of yourself as the one to blame? 

“Why do you do that?” he tuts, head tilting sideways as his hands dig deeper into his pockets. 

“Do what?” you furrow your brows, confused. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, so don’t worry about it.” he says dismissively. 

You arch an eyebrow; he has it all mistaken. 

“Satoru, I’m not worried because I feel guilty,” you sit up, inching towards the edge of your seat, “I’m worried because you’re pushing me away.” your voice is level, but your pupils shake.

Something grips at his chest seeing you this way; together or apart, he seems to be the main contributor to your heartache. 

You wonder if confronting him like this is any good if he’s not going to say anything anyway. 

“If you want space, that’s okay, I get it, but,” you exhale, “at least just tell me why.” 

This entire time avoiding you, Gojo’s had you on his mind—the million and one. He’s come to terms with what he feels when you’re together, and how it amplifies when you’re not. 

It’s shitty of him to practically ghost you, not just in text but in real life too. But he’s thought about it logically, really, that removing himself from your life should be just like ripping off a bandaid—painful but quick. At least that way, you’d get over it fast. 

He’d been resigned to doing that and that was the plan—until now. 

All it takes is seeing that look in your eyes, and his resolve falls apart. 

“I can’t.” he speaks softly. 

What hurts the most is that beneath his sunglasses, his eyes still hold the sky. 

You think you want to cry. 

You take this as your answer and close your eyes, taking a deep breath before getting up to leave. If this is goodbye, you don’t want your last interaction to be an awkward memory of him watching you bawl in his office chair. 

You push yourself up with the armrest only to sit back down—because Gojo is right in front of you, blocking your way. His infinity is up but touching, a tingling sensation sweeping across your knees. 

“Wait,” he swallows, a franticness you’ve never seen before. His head stays down as he bites his lips, sunglasses hanging by his fingertips. You wonder what he wants to say, that even if it comes out messy, it’s okay. You want to tell him that it’s just you—that you’ll always want to hear it all anyway. 

What comes next is unlike any version of Satoru you have ever known—nervous and uncertain, almost like he’s afraid. He lowers himself, slowly coming down to his knees in front of you. A giant of a man so small in your presence. 

“I don’t know how.” he mutters, dropping his sunglasses to the floor. 

You blink once, twice, still surprised by what’s in front of you. Gojo has always towered above you, has always known how to do anything and everything so effortlessly without fail. 

Watching him now, with every inhale and exhale dragging in slow motion, you do your best not to startle him. 

“How to what?” you whisper, the moment so fragile. 

He looks up, eyes locking with yours. A reaction happens in that moment—the split second of all his thoughts collapsing into one. You see a clear sky, blue and bright as day, the Satoru he saves for you—while he sees you, with that look on your face, the one that he knows has always only meant love. 

The sincerity in your gaze overwhelms him—makes him look away before it becomes too much. Red blooms at the tips of his ears as he bites the inner corners of his lips, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his pants. You’re afraid he might run away again, but he doesn’t and stays right where you are. 

“You know…” he looks to the side, pouting, “whatever you do….”

“Like…?” you coax lightly, trying hard to hide the small smile forming on your lips. 

You wonder how many versions of Satoru you’ll meet in your lifetime, and if this one, shy and nervous, will be one you’ll fit into the crevices of your heart just like all the others. 

He grips his pants tighter, fabric bunching under his fingers, “When you hold my hand… those things. You get it.” 

And you do (get it), so you don’t push, taking whatever Gojo has to give you like you always have. 

The tension relieves from you slowly, comforted by the fact that at least he’s given you his reasons now (no matter how vague they still seem to be). That at least there are no non-answers this time. 

You tell yourself that it’s okay, that you’re content as long as Gojo’s in your life even without the possibility of becoming something more. 

“Ok—”

But there’s always one thing you forget about Gojo—

“So show me how.”

—in the moments you least expect it, he speaks the words that matter most. 

.

.

.

You choose to show him slowly, gently, like the trickling introduction of water to a man who is first learning how to drink. 

In the first few weeks of you and Gojo readjusting to one another, he turns on his infinity again—but only when he gets close enough to touch you. Lunches together happen more often, dinners sometimes too. Then he puts his infinity down, indefinitely. 

For the most part, your relationship falls into the usual steps of your dynamic with Gojo; there’s no pressure for anything and he likes that, appreciates the time you’re giving him to learn things at his own pace. 

It grows organically that way: knuckles brushing as you both reach for the stapler, pinkies touching whenever you walk side-by-side during site visits—until you’re able to hold his hand fully again, leaving that little infinity between your palms for him to close (hopefully, one day). 

.

.

.

The faculty room is cold, especially during winter. The heating system is never warm enough to keep your hands from shaking whenever you mix your morning coffee. 

“So loud so early,” Gojo saunters into the kitchen, hands in pockets as he approaches the pantry. 

You stop mixing, ceasing the clinking of the spoon against your mug. “How are you not freezing?” 

He shrugs, grabbing his box of (heavily sugared) cereal. “I guess I’m just hot.” he says, turning to wiggle his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and set your coffee on the table, Gojo following with a bowl brimming with cereal and milk. 

Mornings usually consist of you and Gojo, with an occasional new hire who has an early class that day. Most of the time, it’s just you two though, with Shoko coming in much closer to lunch time already. 

“Want some?” he asks, holding out his spoon.

It’s routine—Gojo asks and you decline, choosing to save yourself from the cavities that he somehow manages to evade despite having a diet of 80% sugar. 

Today though, you’re feeling a little adventurous. 

You nod, opening your mouth. Gojo’s eyes widen, nearly dropping the spoon at your request. You see the flush of his cheeks and smile, corners of your mouth extending wider. The spoon is shoved to your mouth too quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed to feed you. 

“Too sweet,” you scrunch your face, swallowing down the copious amount of sugar you’ll feel for days. 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Gojo throughout this whole relationship trial period, he recovers from any state within a nanosecond. There’s no end to how shameless he can be. 

“Like me, right?” he winks.

“Sure,” you drawl sarcastically and Gojo smiles like it’s high praise. 

You sip your coffee slowly, revelling in the heat that flows down your throat.

“Can I have half of that?” you point to his bowl. Gojo looks at you, confused, but slides it over anyway.

What happens next is an abomination to Gojo’s eyes—pure absolute disgust: you pour half of his cereal into your coffee and mix, sipping and crunching on a few pieces every now and then. 

His face contorts into complete distaste, horror and revulsion in the way his mouth hangs open. 

“What are you doing? That’s gross!” he nearly yells, reaching over to bring your mug down. His hand covers yours for a moment, the contact still causing gallops in his heartbeat. 

You laugh, giggling as he processes what you’d wasted his cereal on. It honestly doesn’t taste that bad, you think. 

“You’re weird,” he says to you, the grin on his face uncontained. This morning, he feels fond, like the butterflies in his stomach are warm, tickling him from the inside. “Give me.” he motions to your mug. 

You hold it up for him to take a sip but he keeps his hand over yours when he tastes, sticking his tongue out once the bitterness of your coffee hits. You set the mug down, preparing to reach for your spoon, but he takes your hand in his, long fingers slotting right between yours, interlacing. 

Gojo doesn’t normally reach for your hand, much less interlace them together (a recent evolution to your hand-holding), but this feels nice, how your fingers fit right in the spaces of his. 

You turn to him, a shy smile on your face. The tips of his ears are blush red but he looks at you the same, “Your hands were cold,” he pouts, “is this– is this okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s warm. Thank you, Satoru.” you nod, beaming. And it’s not a competition but he hopes you see the light in his eyes, how it feels to be ignited within him only when he’s spending breakfasts like this with you. 

.

.

.

Shoko asks what you are and you don’t know what to tell her other than you’re happy and it’s good. Gojo’s existence is loud and vibrant, easy to spot from miles away—but he cares for you discreetly, in the hand that gently rests on your lower back while crossing the street, and the seemingly unlimited supply of your favorite coffee when you have no recollection of restocking it ever. 

He gives you a new mug for Christmas, one with little cereals painted all over while you give him his own tube of hand cream that he claims always smells like you. 

During the faculty New Year celebration, you overhear one of the new hires make a move on Gojo. You aren’t bothered by it or anything, simply walking past to sip your sake by the couch. You can hear them talk a bit from the kitchen, but you try not to pry despite how curious you are about his response. 

Until—

“I’m taken,” you hear Gojo say bluntly. 

Everything rings in your ears after that. The countdown music is loud, but your heart beats louder; there are murmurs and footsteps around you, but only one man crouches down to check on you, glass of water in hand. 

You snap out of it and see blue, the sky—a familiar light; you don’t think you can control the smile on your face, the alcohol lowering your inhibitions to paint on something lovesick. 

And when he smiles back, pink lips stretching wide—oh your heart can’t take it. He places one hand on your knee, rubbing gently. You hear it faintly, how he asks if you’re okay, but all you can do is nod, words failing to express how you feel right now.  

The countdown starts. 3 — and you take his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks to an image of him on your phone from many, many years ago. 2 — you go closer and his eyes go wide, a mixture of panic and surprise, but soft at the same time. 1 — you lean in and his eyelids fall shut, his chest on rampage. Then it lands, there, on the tip of his nose: a delicate peck and the smell of sake mixed with mint (like the lip balm you always carry around in your pocket). 

When you pull away from him, you’re smiling the biggest he’s ever seen, and he can’t feel it from how numb his cheeks have become, but he’s doing the same. 

.

.

.

That kiss to his nose serves as the catalyst to the months that follow: Gojo becomes more comfortable touching you now, and though he blushes every single time, there’s nothing to be ashamed of because you do too. Shoko can’t believe the slow burn this is taking you both, having watched this on the sides since you were both 22, but you think you like it—like the slow drizzle of honey on Gojo’s favorite breakfast waffles. 

“How is it?” you ask, watching as Gojo takes a big bite. 

“D Beft.” he replies, mouth full as he chews. You take the seat beside him and take a spoonful. 

“There’s a secret ingredient.” you say mischievously, wiggling your eyebrows. 

He swallows before he scoffs, “What?” cutting up another piece, “Love?” 

You’re surprised because he says it so casually, and Gojo’s never talked about love, has never even mentioned the word since this shift in your relationship. He realizes a beat late by the expression on your face and gets flustered, thinking immediately of ways to brush past it. 

You had meant to say that you used that infused sugar he buys whenever he goes to Kyoto, but… you suppose love works too. He should know by now, right? 

“If it is?” you whisper, pretending to stir your coffee. 

Gojo doesn’t know how to approach this, really, but he’s come too far to back out now. He clears his throat, mentally running through what he wants to say, then, “Good. ‘Cause that’s what I put in your coffee too.” 

You laugh and the tension dissipates; there are hearts in your eyes for how hard Gojo has tried after denying himself of this for so long. 

He stares at you—at the laugh lines by your eyes and the soft curves of your lips, the moment moving much too slow, stop motion in his mind. He’s drawn in until you’re all too close, a few centimeters from your noses touching. 

Your laughter dies and your cheeks feel like they’re on fire; he’s so close you think he might kiss you. The signs are there—his eyes scaling your face to focus on your lips, his tongue peeping ever so slightly to wet his lips. 

So you wait. 

But he doesn’t, because he moves away after wiping his thumb on the side of your mouth. Even though you know there was nothing there. 

Gojo continues to eat, blabbering about a site visit he’s assigned to next week, but you don’t miss the way his ears are fully red and how he’s biting his lips to death.

.

The tension this time is different; instead of a growing rift, you can’t seem to be close enough. Every time you part ways, he lets go of your hand more reluctantly—as if he wants to say more, do more, but stops himself while he still can. 

When he leaves for missions, you kiss his cheek, pull him in by the hand and linger there, shyly. He gets embarrassingly red but tries to cover it up by telling you not to miss him too much (even though you know you will, and he knows he’ll miss you more). 

Your near-kisses with Gojo happen more frequently, and it comes to a point where he even manages to land one on your forehead, while you fall asleep next to him on his office couch. 

It’s driving you crazy, this tension—the mixed signals of it all. You try to kiss him a few times on the lips, but he evades them each time. You’ve caught Gojo staring at your lips more times than you can count; if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is. 

Now that Gojo thinks about it, he’s come so far yet the prospect of kissing you properly still scares him. What if he fucks up? Doesn’t do it right? What if it’s not how he wants you to be kissed? 

There’s that secret Gojo will never tell you, of how seeing that look on you has never gotten him more afraid. And he’s worked through that now, but it’s evolved into something else: how Gojo is now afraid of love, more than anything else, not because of loss but because he might not know how. 

And kissing you, loving you this way—he’s never done it before, doesn’t know how to make you feel love without his lips shaking and heart palpitating; how to do it while letting you know he feels the same. 

.

It happens during an assignment out of town. Curses aren’t as bad as they used to be, but they’re still stronger than what any of the available sorcerers right now can handle. 

You don’t remember the last time you saw Gojo use his technique that way—almost forgotten how powerful and ruthless he can be. Every time since, holding your hand, keeping you close—he’s just been your Satoru. 

Your apartment for the weekend is a two-bedroom unit with one bathroom and a decently sized living area and kitchenette; Gojo always chooses the room in front of the bathroom because he tends to wake up in the middle of the night to pee (information you know from your many other assignments with him before). Still, going as what you are now—it feels different. 

There’s a charged air between you as you move around the unit; you make your nightly tea while Gojo looks through the groceries for some crackers. It’s peaceful and quiet—domestic almost, but there are goosebumps on your skin for reasons you can’t explain. Being around Gojo lately has felt that way.

He brushes past you to throw the finished packet of crackers and the feeling intensifies; it’s not awkward, just tense, like anticipation sitting deep in your bellies, waiting on each other to make the first move. 

He announces that he’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind, and you motion for him to go ahead. Your mind is fuzzy and having Gojo around seems to only make it worse.

When you walk past the bathroom and straight to your room, you hear Gojo humming that soft pop tune from a popular girl group on the radio earlier. You giggle, thinking it’s sweet—how he sings obnoxiously around everyone else but is admittedly pretty good when it’s just him, alone. 

You still have the rest of the weekend in this area, having agreed to monitor the site and any nearby locations for other suspicious activity, but at least the worst of it is over (maybe just to you though; Gojo hates paperwork). 

The sound of running water stops and you hear the bathroom door swing open. You don’t see Gojo when you exit your room but he leaves the door open to release any remaining steam.

There’s a reason why people say showers are good for the mind. You’re happy for those who’ve found it, but that couldn’t be you, because the only thought plaguing your head right now is Gojo—and whether you should greet him goodnight, if you should kiss his cheek or hug him tight. The tension between you now is palpable, an electric current waiting to zap on both ends. 

Your mind is so out of it that you don't realize you’re missing your skincare bag until after you finish brushing your teeth and dressing for bed. You open the bathroom door with the sole intention of going back to your room to get it, but instead, you’re met with a wall of chest.

Gojo’s eyes are wide, bright blue with damp strands of white falling like curtains barely shielding the sky. He’s just as surprised as you are, toothbrush in his hand as you hold up the towel wrapped around your head. 

You’ve seen Gojo in his pajamas many times before—white long sleeves with gray cotton pants, but your eyes trail to his collarbones and the way the bathroom lights cast it under a soft glow. The redness on his cheeks, a visual manifestation of the heat on yours. 

Gojo can’t stop staring at your lips, at how soft they look—at how soft you look fresh out of the shower. The little baby hairs sticking out under your towel are cute, and he leans in without knowing—a pull he can’t seem to resist. For once in his life, Gojo’s mind is still. 

You try to meet him halfway, tiptoeing, but you’re a little out of your element; you don’t know where to put your hands and your heart’s about to explode out of your chest. When your noses touch, you can’t breathe, closing your eyes while you wait for it. 

But it doesn’t come. 

You feel Gojo’s breath stilling before speeding up into little exhales. Something is wrong. You open your eyes and find him staring back at you, a version of Gojo you haven’t seen in a while—that you rarely see ever, except that day during your confrontation in his office. 

Concern laces your features and you move back a little, hands coming up to caress his cheeks. His eyes still look frantic, but they focus on you when you cup his face so gently. 

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice grounding. His breaths slow down a little. 

You realize that it must be true then, what they say, that those who love to be feared, fear to be loved, because you’ve never seen anyone afraid of something so good as Gojo is of this. 

“Satoru,” you repeat, massaging his temples with your thumb, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Gojo hates it, how you’ve always had to adjust for him. He hates that he can’t give you this one thing, hates that you’re still so patient, that he’s still so afraid. He swallows, closing his eyes tight before opening them again. 

“I want to,” he chokes out, “I just don’t know—”

You chuckle, without judgment, “I don’t either,” you lean forward, foreheads touching, “but do you want to try together?”

You learn that Gojo sees himself so differently from how you do—and maybe that’s everyone, but Gojo tends to say things while doing the other. He says he can’t bother with kids, but continues to take so many of them under his wing anyway; he calls your cereal concoction disgusting but tastes it regardless; and he says he can’t think about love, doesn’t know how, but proceeds to try so much harder, everyday. 

When you look at Gojo, you see a heart so big, so capable, that he can’t see it himself. 

You nudge his nose with yours and he breathes deeply, closing his eyes once again. If he doesn’t do this now, how much longer ‘till he does? 

Gojo hums before nodding his head slightly. His hands come up to cover yours, toothbrush wedged in the spaces between his fingers; they’re clammy, he’s sure, but he’s kept you waiting long enough. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, everything trembles—his pupils, his lips, the breath he takes. It’s all shaky and nervous, but your lips touch and all you know is that you like it there. He’s a little bit stiff but you don’t mind, pressing closer just for a little bit before pulling away. 

Gojo keeps your hands in place, half-lidded eyes staring at you lazily. His ears are fully red now but he’s giving you a look you’ve never seen before—like lightning crackling in the gaps between his eyelids. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, you don’t expect it to be by the bathroom door of a rented apartment, while away on a mission. You don’t expect it to be in your pajamas, towel wrapped around your hair as you’re getting ready for bed. You definitely don’t expect him to guide your hands down his neck while he places his on your lower back, squeezing lightly before pulling you in to kiss you again. 

This time, his lips move more pliantly, parting yours slightly; he tastes mint, mixed with the strawberry candy he had earlier and it’s nothing he could have ever imagined before, but is now everything he’s ever wanted. The push and pull between you is magnetic, soft lips and the intermingling of held breaths. All Gojo can think of now is to take, to devour—to keep you with him, like this, always. 

You wonder if Gojo is lying—that he’s never done this before, because you don’t think you can kiss anyone after this and not think of his lips on yours. 

By the time you part, the air is significantly warmer. Your fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck and you smile, sighing. Gojo looks warm, with his swollen lips and flushed cheeks. 

“That…” you trail off, nudging his nose. 

Gojo looks at you fondly; to ever even think he could have this now, with you—he doesn’t believe in any higher being but you must be his prayer come true. 

“We can practice a bit more, I think.” he pulls you closer, hands gripping your hips. 

You feel it against you, something solid and firm against your stomach and your eyes go wide at the realization; Gojo does the same. 

“Satoru, you–” he moves back and freezes, untangling himself from you completely. There’s a faint outline on the crotch of his pants and your whole face goes red. 

“Let me use the bathroom real quick.” he panics, rushing past you and closing the bathroom door. 

You stand there stunned for a good minute before you shake out of it, laughing. Gojo yells about how you’re being so mean, making fun of him when he’s like this, but you aren’t—not really. 

It’s been a long time getting to this point with Gojo, but considering all things, you think, this might just be the beginning.

thank you notes: i would also like to shoutout @stellamancer for leaving such lovely comments on dybil that it actually kinda pushed me to write this longer piece connected to it!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[yurinaa-world]

Characters: Boothill x Gender-neutral Reader

Synopsis: Boothill tied up

Warnings: Fluff and spelling mistakes, they got me with his design, mentions of a gun, Boothill being freaky, enemies to lovers??

𝐵𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓁𝓁

“Didn’t take ya for the freaky type.” 

Somehow Boothill still has that dumb smirk on his face which gives you the urge to just slap him as hard as you can since at least he would actually feel the pain. yet the rope around his body doesn’t look half bad, which gives you an idea. instead of ignoring him, you sit down right on the cold floor ready to take it out all on him.

“I wonder do you ever shut up?” 

You grab his chin roughly, forcing it up to meet your gaze before going to his holster to pull that infamous gun that almost killed you before. Pointing at his pretty head. “bang” you snicker mimicking a gun sound. “do you think blood would be blue or red if I shot you?” 

“You're such a beauty.”  he grins, staring at you as if he’s enjoying himself like a sicko. “aw such sweetheart there’s no need to point out facts” You know what he wanted to say, wanting to curse at you but can’t. the gun begins to go lower until stopping at his chest.

"Maybe instead I should mess around with your wiring, mess your insides up real good.”  

"You would lak' it more if aah' mess yours instead.” You immediately smack his face with the barrel of the gun, causing him to grunt in pain. 

“Disgusting.” 

“Only for ya.” 

In an instant, he rips the rope around his body before throwing the gun from your hand, pushing you onto the ground. his sharp teeth becoming visible while seeing your eyes go wide eye at the sudden shift in position.

“Chickenin' out are we? I’ll be gentle with ya”

if you liked this, consider tipping me on ko-fi! it'd mean a lot!

[libraryofolive]

party time!

featuring: CEO!Satoru Gojo x trophy wife!reader

genre: fluff, drabble

word count: 1.2k

synopsis: You, the trophy wife of the infamous Satoru Gojo, decide to spend your October planning a no expenses spared party to celebrate the holiday. What could go wrong?

part one of spooky section, my 2024 Halloween event!

“We’re throwing a party.” You declared over dinner on a dreary mid-September day. Your husband, the notorious CEO Satoru Gojo looked up from his meal (made from scratch, by you) at the sound of your voice.

“Hm?” He asked, cocking his head to one side, blue eyes as bright as ever.

“We’re throwing a party. For Halloween.” You continued, “I want something to do whilst you’re at the office all day. So, I’m throwing a Halloween party. It’ll be the talk of the town.”

“I’d expect nothing less from my darling wife.”

“I’ll handle everything - down to your costume. We’ll be doing a couple’s costume-”

“I would hope so-”

“I want it to be extravagant. The type of party that ends up like an urban legend.”

“You know I love when you have a passion project, baby. Why are you asking mee for my permission on this?”

“Oh, I’m not asking for permission.” You grinned at your husband, “I’m asking for a budget.”

By the time All Hallows Eve fell, everything had miraculously fallen into place. It had taken you the full month and a half to plan everything, but seeing it all pull together had made it all worth it. You had decided to throw it at your multi-story penthouse, deciding it made the party feel more personal, more exclusive. But gone was the chic home you and Satoru were used to, and instead, when Satoru returned home from a half day at the office (to leave plenty of time to get ready, by your demand) it was like walking into a whole new universe. Candelabras lined the walls, the melted wax dripping red against the white exterior of the candles, giving a blood-like effect. Cobwebs were strung from the ceiling, littered with faux bats and fairy lights. You had turned one of your corridors into the iconic tunnel from Coraline, your kitchen into a witches’ lair, full of ‘potions’ to drink and ‘charms’ to eat. Even your windows were decorated - full of decals that made them look like the stained glass one would find in an ancient church. There were pumpkins everywhere, some carved, some warty - in any placed you looked there was something seasonal.

“Baby?” He had called out once his awe had worn off.

“In the bedroom! Get your ass in here!” You yelled back. He let out a chuckle at that, before heading up the stairs two at a time. To say he was excited to finally found out what he would be dressed as this evening would be an understatement - if he was being perfectly honest, he would say it had been at the forefront of his mind since he slid you that black card after you had asked for a budget, telling you to go crazy. He had been stalking your various Pinterest boards dedicated to this party, to no avail (you knew he would do this, so purposefully made a private board for costume ideas, it was a surprise, after all).

He burst into your bedroom, giving the poor woman currently doing your make up a fright. “Blue? You’re being painted blue… please don’t tell me you’re making me be Papa Smurf all night.” His eyes scanned the room, looking for anything that would tip him off as to what you had planned. You giggled at his antics, forcing yourself not to shake your head at him so you didn’t disturb your make-up artists.

“And parade around as Smurfette all night? No, it’s something much better.” You couldn’t help the grin that overtook your face. “Your costume is hanging up in the white bag in my closet - bring it in here before you open it. I want to see your reaction.” Satoru all but sprinted to your closet. Halloween had always been one of his favourite times of year, so when you had told him you had wanted to throw a kick-ass party for the holiday, he wanted to jump with joy.

He found the bag immediately and raced back to your side, shaking in anticipation.

“Go ahead, Toru, open it.” He was like a child at Christmas with how quickly he tore the zip of the garment bag open, his glee lighting up the room. He took the costume in - a pinstripe suit. Was he Gomez Addams? But you were being painted blue, so you certainly weren’t in the middle of a transformation into Morticia. The tails of the suit jacket were thin and pointy, and there was five of them instead of the usual two. It wasn’t until he set his eyes on the iconic, large bowtie, or rather bat-tie that it all clicked into place.

“Jack Skellington!” He gasped. “Right? And you’re blue because you’re going to be my Sally?”

“Bingo.” You smiled fondly at him.

“Babe, this is- this is amazing. Your decorations are like - oh my God, they’re brilliant, and this is such a good costume idea-” Your face warmed as he sung your praises, glad he approved.

A few hours later and the party was in full swing. Everyone you had invited showed up, all dressed to the nines in their various costumes. Drinks flowed, the band you hired kept the vibe up and the dance floor full practically all night. At points, that included you and Satoru, who couldn’t resist a dance (or two or three) with his lovely wife.

In the wee hours of the morning, as people filtered out, after thanking you for a brilliant night, some even enquiring if you’d do the whole thing again a year later, Satoru forced you onto the dance floor one last time. This one much slower, much more intimate, as he held you close, tucked against his chest and under his chin, one of his hands around your waist and the other holding yours against him.

“You’ve done amazing.” He whispered into your hair, deciding that speaking at a normal volume would ruin the moment. “I mean, I knew you would, especially after seeing you plan our wedding.”

“Oh shush.” Your words implied annoyance, but your tone said something else entirely as you hid your face in his chest.

“I’m serious - you’re brilliant at this kind of stuff.” He kissed the top of your head, “did you have fun?”

“I did, actually. It kept me nice and busy.”

“Is it too early to ask you for a Christmas one?” You pulled back slightly, looking at him with your brow furrowed.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously! I can see it now - the living room a Santa’s grotto, you in a sexy Mrs Claus costume.” You scoffed at that.

“I’ll think about it.” You answered him, tucking yourself back under his chin. Truly, you didn’t want the moment to end. Sure, you loved organising an event like this or your wedding. But really, your favourite thing about the entire ordeal was this - the moment with your lover after a success, calming down after a vivacious evening, ready to climb into bed and spent the rest of the night cuddled tightly in each other’s arms.

Like this? You can find my smaus here and my drabbles and other fiics here!

Do you have a request? You can find my rules for requesting here!

[felassan]

John Epler in the BioWare Discord (August 7th, again) -

User: "Since the dialogue wheel is coming back, will our choices set our Rook as diplomatic/humorous/aggressive with varying tone and voice lines similar to Hawke being able to be blue/purple/red?" John: "Not to the same degree - we want to give you the freedom to play your Rook differently depending on who they're talking to (you might be kinder to your companions and brusque with authority figures, for example), but your tone choices will have an impact within a conversation and, sometimes, with specific characters across multiple conversations." --- User: "I have to ask: how muscular can we make the elves?" John: "Reasonably so. You won't be making any massive bodybuilders but like... Timothy Olyphant?" User: "As a follow up what about humans and qunari? Quite muscular a la arnold or big viking type? Or not so much that lvl?" John: "Larger lineages (Qunari, esp) are bigger by default so the upper bounds are going to be bigger, but for modeling and animation we did want to put some limits on it. But your Rook can look pretty reasonably muscled, regardless of lineage choice." --- User: "Are there any time-sensitive quests (in terms of gameplay time, that will fail automatically if not addressed in a timely manner), and if there are please tell me they're at least indicated as such in some way?" John: "There are quests that can go away and technically 'fail' if you don't address them - but, to be VERY clear, this is not an in-game timer, but rather as you progress the game's story forward. That said, we do try to sign post them as much as possible." --- User: "Does Rook ever get the choice to cuss?" John: "Yes. You'll know when you're doing it, and we leave it up to you to make the choice, but sometimes, cursing is exactly what the situation demands."

[character limit text break!]

User: "Does the bioware team read the other channels and if so do they think we're unhinged or endearing?" John: "Little of column A, little of column B. But I mean, I've been online for 27 years, the internet has ruined me as much as anyone." --- User: "all the Rooks we've seen so far are wearing purple, please tell me we dont have to wear purple" John: "Everyone else can wear whatever colour they want but you, specifically, must always wear purple." --- User: "All the games have had unique faction symbols for our protagonist (Warden, Champion of Kirkwall, Inquisition) I assume there will be one for the Veilguard Will the symbol for it get released before the game or is this something that will be revealed in-game/after it’s launched?" John: "Every faction has their own symbol - including the Veilguard themselves! You may have noticed it in some of the art out there." --- John: "As a general comment - one thing I want to be super clear on - even as creative director there are things I can say, and things we're not ready to talk about. I'd rather spend my time answering what I can instead of a dozen 'sorry I can't talk about that yet' - especially since this channel is on slow mode." --- User: "There are blood effects in combat after Rook hits an enemy. And I think a developer shared images of the blood effects on hit after the reveal. Will characters be covered in blood or other environmental effects? Like getting wet from walking in puddles or muddy from running on dirt?" John: "There are environmental effects that persist on characters, depending on the environment you're traversing. They're subtle, but they're there!" --- User: "how many tattoos can we choose from? are there also full bodied ones too?" John: "I don't know the exact number, but there are quite a few. Some are full body as well, though you have control over colours and opacity on a more granular basis."

[character limit text break!]

User: "Of the zones/areas revealed what was the most challenging to design?" John: "Each has its own unique challenges. Arlathan seems simple because - well, it's a forest, right? But what about Arlathan makes it different than places you've been before? How does it fit into the established lore? Minrathous is a different kettle of fish because we've talked about it extensively and in a way that meant it HAD to be grander and more impressive than anything we've built before, which can be a tall order. The team did a fantastic job on all the areas, though." --- User: "which faction has the best fashion, in your opinion?" John: "Crows. Largely because 'black leather and feathers' isn't a look I could pull off in the real world but I am glad my Rook can." --- John: "Alright folks. I've gotta head back to work, but please keep asking questions and I'll answer what I can as soon as I can!"

[source: the official BioWare Discord]

There was also this question and answer:

User: "Can we name our saves like in Origins?" John: "I had to double check because I was about 95% sure on the answer, but also, I've been on this project for its entirety and sometimes I remember features that we had to cut (or never actually built) - yes. You can name your saves to reduce confusion."

but the answer may have now been deleted.

[charliemwrites]

A reader x Simon commission piece I just recently finished for my sweet bean N.W. I had a lot of fun writing a little scenario I never would have thought up on my own!

(Reader is described with FAB anatomy, but no gendered pronouns are used. No sensitive content warnings, just spice.)

It’s a perfect day.

The sun is a bright golden marble in a perfect jewel sky, toasting the sand into a powdery bed. There are only wisps of flossy cloud to interrupt the light, a feathery salt-soaked breeze to soften the edge of heat. The water is nothing but lazy ripples, foamy waves crawling up the coastline before slithering back.

And your coworker is soaking wet.

When you first signed on as a lifeguard, you didn’t expect more than some extra pocket money. A little financial cushion while you finished working through your master’s program. A chance to get some sunshine instead of holing up in your room. Maybe the occasional bit of eye candy while you fished children out of the shallows and fussed at families for littering around the barbecue grills.

You didn’t expect Simon “Walking Wet Dream” Riley. (Okay, that’s not his actual nickname – apparently it’s “Ghost.” Because of course it is.) You didn’t expect his big, fuck-off muscles, or his perfect sun-bleached hair, or the dark ink of his tattoos, or…

Well.

You got more than just eye candy when Mister Price hired you. Simon is a whole damn feast. Especially when he’s fresh from a cool-down swim, red trunks weighed down by water and tides, revealing the tantalizing curves of his hips. Droplets skittering over the bulges and divots of his body, sparkling in the sun…

“Excuse me?”

You try not to jolt, head jerking to the guy that hopefully hasn’t been standing there too long. He looks about your age, maybe a bit older. Wavy, chin-length brown hair and eyes nearly as blue as the water. Pretty, in a young Instagram prince kind of way. Maybe your type in another time – the time Before Simon.

“Hi,” you say quickly, “did you need something?”

“Do you have any plasters?” he asks. “My little brother scraped his knee.”

You glance at the kid shuffling just behind him, his knees dirtied and one red with a bit of blood. Nothing serious, you determine, but could use some first aid.

“Oh, poor thing!” you say. “C’mon, we have some bandages in the shack.”

You wave to get Simon’s attention, make the quick hand-sign indicating you’ll be gone for a moment. He notices you, the two boys, then nods and makes his way back to his usual lookout spot.

The shack is a quiet, cool oasis away from the heat. You’ve dozed off next to the mist fan more times than you care to admit, only to be woken by Simon pressing a cold water bottle to your cheek. It used to annoy you, but now you appreciate the reminder to hydrate.

There’s a robust first aid kit in one of the cabinets, though you groan a bit when you see how high Simon’s stashed it this time. Damned tall man; you could swear he does it on purpose. You try to reach it on your toes, but when that doesn’t work, you jump a bit. Still no luck. You’re going to have to get the stepstool at this rate.

“Here, I’ve got it.”

You jump a bit as Insta-Prince comes up behind you, sliding in close before you can scoot out of the way. He stretches his arm over your head, tugging the kit down from the shelf. When you glance up – concerned about something falling on you – you find him smirking down at you.

“Thanks,” you say trying not to snatch it out of his hands.

“Seems like an… inconvenient place to put that,” he muses.

You sit the younger brother on a plastic chair near the door and kneel, kit open on the floor. “We usually keep it lower… I think Simon forgets I’m shorter than him.”

The kid winces a bit at the sting of wound wash but puts on a brave face when you smile at him.

“Seems pretty rude. Is he hard to work with?” Insta-Prince asks.

You hesitate, trying to think of how to respond. Simon was intimidating, at first. Dark eyes and stoic expression, he was difficult to read. Always within a stone’s throw, you used to feel like he was hovering. Like he didn’t think you could do your job right.

Over the months, though, that insecurity has bridged into a tentative friendship. Even if he’s not talkative himself, he lets you chat to your heart’s content. Keeps you hydrated, reminds you to eat snacks and apply sunscreen. Even handles the rowdier beachgoers when they break rules, his bigger stature and sharp glare enough to cow even the most entitled people.

“No, he’s—”

“What’s the hold up?”

You glance up at Simon’s broad form angled in the shack’s doorway. His eyes aren’t on you or the kid, though. They’re on Insta-Prince – standing a little close to you, now that you’re not focused on the younger brother.

“Just finishing up,” you answer, smoothing a waterproof bandage over the scrape. “You did great, buddy, high five!”

That earns you a little smile and the requested high-five as the kid hops out of the chair. When you stand, Simon’s eyes flick to you. Darker than deep water, something swimming within that you can discern from the surface. It makes you fidgety, like you’ve been caught out doing something you shouldn’t.

“Remember to log it,” he rumbles.

“On it!” You lean over the wooden counter to pluck the clipboard from the wall on the other side, relieved that someone put the pen back for once.

“So, you have to write down all the injuries people get?” Insta-Prince asks, trying for casual conversation. The air feels oddly stifling, and gets worse when he settles closer, peeking around to see the sheet.

“Just if we use medical supplies,” you answer, scribbling quickly.

“Lifeguards only in the shack, kid,” Simon interrupts. “Get moving.”

You try not to snort in amusement. While Simon might tolerate you, he’s got a general disdain for most beachgoers – ironic considering how adamant he is about safety. But he seems to find the average person a nuisance to be constantly monitored and herded away from trouble. Like a shepherd with a flock of particularly stupid sheep.

“My brother was hurt, man, give me a break,” Insta-Prince protests, annoyed.

“And now he’s not,” Simon replies. “You should catch up with him. Kids need to be watched, isn’t that right, sunshine?”

You hum absently in agreement, signing off on the injury log with your initials. There’s a beat of silence that itches at the back of your mind. When you look up, Simon’s arching an eyebrow at the guy, thick arms crossed across his barrel chest.

Sir, firearms are not allowed on the beach, you think, before wrenching your eyes from Simon’s biceps.

“Did you need anything else?” you ask Insta-Prince.

“Just what time you get off work,” he replies, giving you big, soft, hopeful eyes.

You blink, a bit shocked. Flirting happens rarely for you, except maybe platonically with Soap or Gaz. To be fair, you’re not exactly the female lifeguard idol that most people would fantasize about. Half the time you jog around in shorts and a rash-guard, more comfortable in unisex swimwear and keeping the worst of the sun off yourself. Helpful to avoid wardrobe malfunctions if a panicking swimmer grabs at you.

Besides, you’re not really looking to get hit on. Hard to keep an eye out for emergencies if someone’s chatting your ear off for a shag by the restrooms. (You didn’t think people really did that until Farah groaned about it at the bonfire when you first hired.) Still, now that it’s happening… you don’t hate it. This guy is objectively attractive, apparently cares about his younger sibling enough to get him first-aid, and is weathering Simon’s increasingly annoyed scowl.

You figure there’s no harm. Not like someone else is showing a similar interest.

“At sunset,” you answer. “So, uh…”

“6:30,” Simon offers.

You shoot him a grateful look as the kid begins scooting for the door, skirting around Simon’s wider, thicker frame. Christ, the difference is stark. You tug at the front of your rash-guard to relieve some of the sudden heat.

“Maybe I’ll see you then,” he says before disappearing around the corner.

You stare after him for a second. He didn’t even ask for your name. “Huh.”

“The hell was that, sunshine?” Simon grouses.

You turn to him and shrug. “No idea.”

“Really now?” he scoffs.

You shake your head, already agitated by the whole thing for no reason you can pinpoint. Lean over the counter again to hang up the clipboard. “Really.”

“This isn’t a place for your silly summer fantasies and little meet-cutes,” he growls. “This is a real job, with real lives on the line.”

You twist around, brows furrowed as your mouth drops open in offense. “I know that.”

“Do you? Then why the fuck were you in here flirting?”

“I was helping the kid,” you argue, “you saw him!”

“Real convenient, that. When the older one’s been eye-fucking you all damn day.”

Any snappy retorts drown in the shock of his crass language and the accusation. All day? That guy? And Simon noticed? Never mind all that – Simon would seriously think you’d use a kid’s injury as an excuse to… what? Get cozy with an attractive stranger while on duty?

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” you huff, “but I need to get back out there.”

As you pass, a big, rough hand snaps out and catches your elbow. You come up short, half-turning towards him, face hot. Equal parts angry and ashamed for some reason. Summer romance your ass.

“Get it together,” he orders.

You click your tongue at him. “Same to you.”

You wrench your arm back and storm out onto the sand, snatching your floatie from the shack railing along the way. Don’t know what jellyfish stung his ass, but you hope he figures it out. Don’t think your self-esteem can take another round of… whatever that was.

The rest of the day passes tense and slow. Without Simon to talk to, and the beach relatively peaceful, you’re left to fixate on the incident in the shack. What was that about? You thought for sure you’d grown on Simon a bit. Sure, you’re one of the younger lifeguards, which is why Price assigned you to Simon’s post, but you’ve worked hard. You thought you’d proven yourself.

Checking your watch, you find that it’s nearly 6:30. The sun doesn’t seem that low yet, but the beach got empty while you were idly keeping watch. Might as well pack it in, you figure.

Not even thinking of Insta-Prince when you hop up the little wooden steps to the shack. Simon isn’t back from wherever he’s monitoring yet, and you’d like to be clear before that changes. Just in case he’s still in a bad mood.

You shed your blue swim-shorts and rash-guard on the counter, leaving you in the more standard one-piece. Roll your shoulders a bit uncomfortably, itching to squeeze into your binder after a day with tits-out. You’ve gotten accustomed to the sensation of leaving it off for the job, but you’d still prefer to wear it when safe.

You flop onto the counter, reaching over the side to fish your bag out from its cubby. Of course, that’s the exact moment that you hear Simon’s heavy step on that creaky board by the doorway.

“Bloody hell,” you think you hear him mutter.

“I’m just about to head out,” you assure him.

“Meeting up with that knob?”

Your temper flares. You abandon your bag and land on your feet, spinning around. Come up (very) short when Simon’s right there, not enough room to breathe without your chests brushing. But you don’t allow yourself to be deterred.

“So, what if I am?” you challenge.

His eyes darken, then narrow. “This isn’t a game you want to play, sunshine.”

“Maybe I do,” you insist, planting your hands on your hips.

He exhales slow and heavy, boxes you in against the counter with hands on either side of you. Your stupid, traitorous heart skips a beat, then trips into double time. Normally he wears a rash-guard too, but not today. No, today it’s swathes of tanned, scarred skin. And it’s so, so close to yours.

“You won’t win,” he warns.

Your tongue feels heavy and clumsy, maybe because your thoughts feel the same way. Now, you’re not always the most aware of “signals,” but there aren’t many other ways to interpret someone near-pinning you to a counter with smoldering eyes.

You scramble to review the earlier confrontation through a new lens. The way Simon glared at Insta-Prince, not you – until you seemed open to his interest. Oh. Ohhhh.

You wet your lips; the way his eyes lock onto the movement bolsters your courage.

“What if… I don’t want to win?” you ask.

His eyes dart up to yours, something a little sharper than longing when he whispers, “I’d make you a sore loser.”

An unexpected laugh bursts out of you; his teeth flash in a crooked smile as he scoops you up so easily. He sits you on edge of the counter and steps between your thighs, pelvis bumping against yours. You gasp, head dropping to stare wide-eyed at the frankly monstrous bulge in his trunks.

“W-wow,” you mumble faintly, thighs squeezing around his hips.

“C’mere, sunshine,” he growls, cupping your jaw.

You tilt your face up, sigh softly as his mouth slots over yours. He tastes like blue powerade and sea salt, tongue curling against yours when you grant him enthusiastic access.

Your hands make scattered, eager work of exploring him, unsure where you want to touch first, just that you have to. He’s as solid as you always expected, densely packed muscle under healthy, hydrated layers of fat. Sun-warm beneath your palms, shudders as your skim them dangerously close low on his twitching abdomen.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, tugging gently at the shoulder strap of your swimsuit.

“Yeah,” you mumble, wriggling closer.

He huffs in amusement, peeling the elastic material over your arms and down your chest while you scatter kisses over his jaw and neck. You gasp into his peck when his calloused thumbs brush your hard nipples. Just a small touch, yet electricity is racing up and down your spine.

“This alright?” he checks.

You hum the affirmative, pressing into his touch as he pinches and rolls the sensitive peaks, slow searching. Reclaims your mouth to swallow each and every little mewl and moan that spills off your tongue. You can’t help rocking against him, hot and hard through the thin layers of swimwear.

“Simon,” you whine against his mouth, “c’mon.”

“Impatient,” he teases, nipping your bottom lip.

“You’ve kept me waiting long enough,” you complain, tugging at his trunks.

“I know, sunshine,” he coos, “just wait a bit longer.”

He takes the tiniest step back, fingers hooking in your swimsuit again to roll it the rest of the way off. You lift your hips to help, nearly squirming as strings of slick web between the fabric and your pussy. But Simon seems hypnotized, snapping the strands with his fingers and following them back to your swollen cunt.

“Fuck, all this for me, baby?” he rasps.

You make an embarrassed noise – which quickly graduates into an alarmed squeal when he drops to his knees.

“Simon, wait, I’ve been working all day and—”

“Don’ give a fuck,” he growls, “I’ve been dying to taste you for weeks.”

He yanks your thighs over his big, strong shoulders and dives in. It’s messy and obscenely loud, filling up the tiny shack and all the empty space in your head. Would be embarrassing if you had any room for something so frivolous. Instead, you’re gone on the way he sucks your clit and laps thirstily at your entrance. Utterly obsessed with the deep, throaty groans that leave you throbbing.

It's been a while, true, but you know he’d have you on edge so fast regardless. And he does, rushing up on it like a building, rolling wave. The devastating kind that’ll drown you in unyielding currents.

“Wait, wait,” you squeak, tugging at his coarse hair.

To his credit, he stops instantly, though he sounds absolutely gutted about it. Pulls back licking his lips like a cat with cream, chin practically dripping.

“Alright?” he asks, voice shredded to ribbons.

“I just,” you pant, “I just w-wasn’t ready to – to… I wanna cum on your cock. Please, Si?”

“Fuckin’ hell.” He surges up, pressing you down flat to kiss you stupid(er) and senseless. The taste of you isn’t as offensive as you expected, not coming from his tongue. “You’ll get anything you want if you keep talking like that.”

“Just want you.”

He helps you off the counter, drags you by the wrist to the plastic chair by the doorway. You’re about to protest – no way can that chair support someone his size, never mind both of you. But then he’s spinning you around, crushing you to his chest, and yanking you down into his lap. Any such nonsense as good sense dissolves like a sandcastle.

You can feel the length of him pressing hot and a little wet against your spine. (So, so high up your spine, good god). When he freed himself from his swim-trunks, you’re not sure, nor do you care at this moment. Your priorities narrow down to one absolute necessity: getting him inside you now, now, now.

“Easy now, baby, don’t hurt yourself,” he purrs in your ear. “Let me help.”

He curls big hands around your hips, tight enough that you relish the bruises that may bloom there later. Supports your weight as if it’s nothing to him, propping you over his lap as you line up his cock, dragging the flushed head through your pooling wetness. He curses low and rough, sinking you down until the tip catches on your entrance.

“There we are,” he grits, hands flexing in your soft flesh. “Nice and slow now, sunshine.”

If you had your way, he’d already be balls deep in your aching pussy. But his grip is firm and unrelenting, lowering you inch by thick inch down his shaft. You back and squeeze around him, encouraging him deeper, faster, helpless little noises escaping from your gaping mouth.

“That’s it, halfway there,” he breathes. “Doing so well.”

You choke. Halfway?! You already feel stuffed, walls gripping every contour of his cock like you were made for him.

He twitches inside you, bulbous, leaking head grinding deliciously, and your resolve cracks right down the middle. You dig your nails into his thighs and slam your hips down, crying out as he buries deep inside. Can feel him nudging your cervix, stretching your silky walls, all the way down to where your opening is sealed tight around the base of him.

“Fuck,” he snarls.

“F-feels so good,” you whimper, head falling forward as you clench around him.

Oh, you are definitely going to be so perfectly sore after this. You can’t fucking wait.

“If you’re that impatient to be ruined,” he chuckles breathlessly, “best brace yourself, lovie.”

You barely manage to get your feet planted before he’s fucking up into you, hard and mean. Just what you want, what you need. Your head falls back to cry your pleasure to the shack roof as you bounce. Rocking your hips each time he bottoms out, grinding him against that spongy bundle of nerves inside you. It’s mind-numbing; you’re leaking around him, know it must be dripping onto the floor at this point.

He snakes a hand around to your front. Brushes where the two of you are connected, the strange and dangerous sensation making tears prick at your eyes. Then his fingers skip up to your needy, oversensitive clit. You almost want to stop him, already so overwhelmed with pleasure. But again, anything like coherent thought is ripped away on a tide of ecstasy when he begins rubbing quick, tight circles.

Your rhythm faulters at the new stimulation, but Simon just widens his stance. It changes the angle, drags the head so perfectly against your g-spot. With the hand still on your hip, he starts jerking you down to meet each thrust. It’s slightly slower, but so much sweeter, combined with the rhythm he’s strumming on your clit.

Your orgasm rises like a tsunami, higher and higher, a devastating force building up inside.

“Simon,” you keen, “Simon, I’m gonna – right there…”

“That’s it, sunshine. Get me nice and wet with your cum.”

That voice, saying such filth in your ear, sends you over the edge. You nearly convulse, eyes rolling back in your head as you scream. Back arching, writhing and gripping crescents into his thighs. And you can feel yourself gushing all over him, onto the floor.

“Yes, yes, fuck, just like that.”

You’re near limp as he keeps hammering into you, practically using you like a toy to get himself off. The thought alone makes you squeeze around him again, a powerful aftershock bringing another flood of wetness. Your head lolls back against his shoulder, crying into his ear, begging him to cum inside you, fill you up…

He crashes his mouth into yours as he cums, groaning into your lax mouth, jerking violently into your overstimulated pussy. You swear you can feel him spurting inside you, thick and white-hot. It feels… it feels…

You break the kiss to suck in a deep breath, lightheaded and still squeaky with pleasure. Simon trails soothing kisses over your shoulder, grip easing up to caress over the forming finger marks. You hum softly, voice husky. Flutter your eyes open and blink at the pink sky out the window.

“Is it… is it just now sunset?” you ask.

Simon chuckles against your ear. “Looks like I was about thirty minutes off. Whoops.”

[c0ld0utside]

Platonic Yandere Werewolf Dad or Platonic Yandere Vampire Dad!?!

Assuming you’re asking for more of Werewolf Dad or Massimo. We’re going with Werewolf Dad and I’ve decided that his name is Lucian. 

Warnings: Mentions of disease and insects, Home intruders, Kidnapping, Violence/Gore, Panic attacks (Reader)

It’s been five months since your Dad’s little…transformation, and the two of you have made some discoveries. For one, each moon cycle has a certain “pull” on your Dad. On New Moon phases your Dad can’t shift at all (something he’s been working on controlling) and on Full Moons he has to.   The two of you had yet to see what effects Harvest, Blue, Blood, and Eclipse moons had on him, and the ideas you made weren’t pleasant. Crescent moons had the weakest “pull.” His urgest weren’t that strong on those days either. Quarters weren’t that bad either. Waning moons is where it got tricky.

Like today, for example. 

You had been helping your Dad in the kitchen, seasoning the steaks when he started to shift again, groaning and gripping the kitchen island tightly. “Dad-?” You started. “I-it’s alright, pup…it’s just really loud today.” He reassured, taking deep, shallow breaths. “Can you reign it in?” You asked, setting the seasoning down. This could go two ways. Either he bolts out the door, or he snatches you up, drags you into your room, and makes you stay in there while he goes out to hunt. Literally. The amount of deer corpses you’ve had to clean up was getting ridiculous. 

“Trying,” your Dad huffs. He lets out another groan. “You might h-have to go t-to your room.” With an irritated sigh, you head into your room and flop down on your bed. You try not to cringe as you hear your Dad give in, groaning and whining as the transformation takes hold. A few moments later, you hear claws scraping against the wooden floor of your home and a low, growling noise. You can hear your dad shuffling around and struggling to get up, yipping quietly as if he was trying to call out to you. “I’m in here,” you say aloud, leaving your bed and opening your door. 

Immediately your father stands to full height and looks over at you. He’s taller in his wolf form, lean and utterly terrifying. Wood-brown fur and red-brown eyes stare at you from down the hall, mouth slightly open and teeth on display. With another growl, he charges at you-

-and then wraps one arm around your back and the other under your thighs, scooping you up and carrying you into your room. He sets you down on the bed and grumbles at you as if he were complaining. A type of grumble you’ve come to learn is: Stay put, I’m going hunting. “No- no, you don’t need to do that,” You say urgently, rolling out of your bed. Your father growls at you but you ignore him. Instead, you head back into the kitchen, the weredad chasing after you and snarling. There’s no real heat behind it. You know that now after the first few weeks of him doing that. “Look, we were making dinner!” 

His angry gaze shifts from you to the half-seasoned steaks on the kitchen island, which were sitting on a large cutting board. He lets out a dissatisfied growl. Not good enough. “No, it’s fine,” You say firmly.  He growls again. There’s heat behind that one. “Oh come on! Dad, I can’t eat the deer you drag into the house! They probably have that wasting disease or ticks! Remember what happened last time? It got infested with maggots!” Another growl. “Dad. Please.” Deadpanning, your Dad picks you up again, carries you into your room, and tucks you into your bed. He points at you with a firm expression before leaving and shutting the door behind him. “Are you serious-” You start, earning a muffled warning bark in return. That makes you go quiet. 

With no other options, you lie in bed and wait, watching the digital clock on your bedside table. Boredom sets in quickly. In werewolf mode your Dad will definitely throw a fit at any signs of you leaving the bed, but you’d take an angry werewolf over dying of boredom any day. So you read a short book. Two. Then you scroll on your phone. You check your clock. Two hours have passed. You hear the door open.

Your heart drops at the sound of multiple footsteps. Heavy boots against the wooden floor. The shifting of fabric and objects. The click of a gun.

Quickly- and with not many options- you hide under your bed. Someone enters your room, walking around before heading over to your closet and slamming it open. They dig through it, tossing your clothes and other things you stored inside onto your rugged floor. There’s a pause. A beat. Two. Then the stranger is making their way over to your bed, ripping the covers off. You finally realize that you stopped breathing when they kneel down to look under the bed, dark eyes looking into your frightened ones. 

-

Lucian’s mind is running at a mile a minute. Hungry Pup is hungry I’m hungry Need food Food at home isn’t enough Need more Need more Pup deserves more Is pup safe Pup should be safe… 

His paws? Hands? Pound against the forest floor, sending leaves and fallen twigs everywhere and bugs scurrying. Above an owl hoots. Farther ahead a mouse squeals. Scents fill his nose. Avian, rodent, pine, earth, water, flowers, leaves, deer…

Deer. Perfect for his pup. Enough to share. Enough to fill them up and make his Pup big and strong. Maybe he’ll find some berries? Preferably blueberries. They can’t always rely on deer and rabbits. Lucian pauses, taking a moment to lock on to the scent. A doe. A fawn. Oh, man…his heart aches a bit at the thought. But pup needs food, his mind says. And food his pup shall have. Lucian takes off into a sprint, pace speeding up when he finds tracks.

He’s close to his target when a  nagging feeling tugs at Lucian and his thoughts get worse. Something’s wrong Is pup safe Pup should be safe So why do I feel this way Go back Need to check on pup Pup needs help… A scream rips through the air, coming from the direction of his home. Pup.

Abandoning his mission, Lucian whirls around and bounds back home, breath coming out in huffs of air. Strange scents fill his nose. Unfamiliar ones. Tobacco. Metal. Gunpowder. Leather. Oil. Older humans and his pup. He bursts into his home and finds it a mess. Everything he sees screams signs of a struggle- chairs knocked over, broken glasses, dirty footprints on the wooden floor. Whimpering, Lucian rushes into his pup’s room.

They’re gone, covers thrown off the bed and clothes littering the floor. Where where where where where why why why why why who would do this who would dare- his mind rambles, panic turning into rage. Whoever took his pup would regret the day they were born. He’d make sure of it. 

The scent trail is easy to follow. Foolish, his mind growls. Foolish Stupid Going to get them Going to kill them Going to make them pay Where is my pup I want my pup back Stupid Stupid Stupid… The thoughts swirl around in his head like a hurricane. It hurts and it’s overwhelming and worsens his already-soured mood. That’s an understatement. His mood is the most bitter, sour, foul tasting thing anyone could ever taste if it were possible. It would be pure poison. Maybe even acid. Melting through flesh and bone and mixing with blood. Each step has a purpose, stamping out the footprints the humans left. Metal…gunpowder…hunters? That’s interesting. 

Lucian had tried to find the werewolf who made him what he is now, but all of the scents had gone stale and he came up with nothing. It had been frustrating and still was. It would’ve been nice to know that yes, werewolf hunters do exist. …Though he should’ve known that himself. If there were werewolves running around then that meant the hunters were just as real and still in business. The scent is getting stronger now and the trees are thinning out. He smells metal. Silver, probably? Was he now weak to silver? He had sold his ring after his wife left and he couldn't be bothered to test it with his wood tools. 

He hears voices. His pup’s voice and others he’s never heard before. Gruff. Hostile. Cruel. He’s mindful about where he steps as he sneaks up on the fools. 

-

“Is this really necessary?” One of your kidnappers grumble. Two men are fussing over your bindings, tying you up against a tree. “I don’t see why we had to use the kid as bait. It would’ve been better to catch the damn thing by surprise.” The other nudges him harshly. “I believe in the new boss. Sure, he’s…rough and isn’t as good as his old man, but he’ll learn. He has us to help him out for a reso-” He rambles, only to get cut off by jaws snapping around his head, crushing his skull. Blood sprays into the air and splatters onto the floor. Both you and the remaining man scream in pure terror as you watch your father pull the poor guy’s head off of his body. He lets it drop from his mouth and turns to the other, who cowers away. 

“No- wait- I didn’t even want to!” He pleads, falling on his ass to the floor. A deep growl comes from your dad- one you have never heard before. You can’t hear the clicking of a gun over the commotion, but the werewolf in front of you does. Your father abruptly ducks to the ground and a bullet whizzes over his head. Then he lunges, leaping into the air and slamming into the hunter who shot at him. The guy who fell messily gets back up and runs in the direction of your house, ignoring his coworker’s screams for help. You force yourself not to look. You try not to look. 

Your brain overpowers your body and you take a peek. Nausea churns in your stomach at the sight; your father- the werewolf- ripping into the man’s stomach and feeding on his entrails while he wailed and begged for mercy. Holding him in place with his claws. Nails digging into his weeping flesh. You feel hot and your face feels wet, an ache blooming in your head. Your chest grows tight and for some reason it’s getting harder and harder to breathe. Maybe it’s the ropes. It’s definitely the ropes, right? Yeah…the ropes. The wailing dies down into quiet sobs, which dissolves into silence. Licking its maw, the werewolf rises and looks over at you. 

“Please,” you choke out, heart pounding a mile a minute. “Please don’t- Dad, please.” The beast stared at you for a moment before walking over, placing a hand on your shoulder and keeping it there as he walked behind you like you were a horse. He fumbled with the knot in the ropes, the bindings getting loose and eventually going slack. They fell around you and into your lap, the werewolf tugging them off of you. He moved back in front of you and sat down. He licked the blood and gore from his lips before lowering himself, slowly reaching for your hand and grabbing hold of it. 

You flinch, wanting to pull away, and the werewolf whimpers. He presses your hand against his forehead, grip light and thumb rubbing your wrist soothingly. It takes you a moment to understand what he wants. Cautiously, your hand moves down to rub the back of his neck, the feeling of his fur grounding you. Your Dad shuffles closer, sitting up to pull you into an embrace. His hands press against your back, pushing you into him and forcing you to take deep breaths. The smell of iron fills your nose and blood gets on your clothes. It’s still warm and it makes your panic worse, which in turn makes your Dad hold you closer. 

He scoops you up, holding you tightly against his chest. Your Dad breathes in deeply and exhales slowly, making you unconsciously follow along with it. In and out, in and out, like wind through the leaves.. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6…1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. The two of you do this for a while, your Dad rocking back and forth slightly. After you calm down, your dad lifts his head up and sniffs the air. A low growl rumbles through him and he sets you down behind him. As he goes on ahead, you realize you’re shaking, panic still not completely soothed. Okay…okay, you’ll just have to do it yourself. Picking up where the two of you had let off, you breathe in and out, listening to the forest around you and squeezing your arms when you breathe in. 

You catch a glimpse of the corpses. Reds, whites, yellows, pinks. You nearly throw up from the sight and have to start all over again. 

-

Something clicks in Luican’s head as he tracks down the runaway. The leader wasn’t with them when he was attacked. Did they run off? Most likely. And that would explain why he sees two pairs of footprints instead of one. He reaches his backyard and walks up the wooden steps to the back patio at the top of the small hill. He remembers building this; his pup watching with curious eyes and offering to help. Lucian’s heart warms at the memories. The faint sound of crying catches his attention. 

For a moment fear starts to pool in his belly- until he realizes that the voice sounds different than his pup’s. Grunting, Lucian makes his way around the side of the house, through the thrown open fence gate. He walks down the beaten path that leads from his home to the street and finds the runaway sobbing on the asphalt. The sight of tire tracks tells the whole story. Their leader fled. …Which is far from good. Grabbing the runaway by his shoulder and yanking him back, Lucian clams his jaws around the man’s head and twists, the hunter’s neck twisting too far and letting out a sickening crack. 

That was the easy part. Now to track down the coward who left his men to die and make sure he doesn’t come back. Lucian takes off down the road, following the smell of burning rubber and gas. 

-

Every step you take back home fills you with dread. You hope this is the way back home; eyes glued to the floor and following the wolf-like paw prints in the earth, mixing with bootprints. You’ve never been afraid like this. …Then again, you never went out walking late at night or went too far from the house. Up ahead, you see the lights from your back patio. Instead of relief you are filled with apprehension. The wooden steps creak under your weight and the grass bends beneath your feet. It’s like your brain has switched to autopilot. Your head is just piloting your body around, carrying you into the bathroom. 

You need to rinse the filth off of you. Instead you burst into tears and sink to the floor. Why did this have to happen? Why was it you and your father that had to be stuck in this situation?  You wish you could go back in time and beg him not to go to work that day. Then you wouldn’t have seen him as a monster when he saved you. Then he wouldn’t have killed those men. But they deserved it, your mind says. You wish you didn’t agree. You cry until you can’t cry anymore. You cry until you’re too exhausted to move. You cry until the exhaustion settles in and brings you under, forcing you to sleep.

When you wake up you’re not in your room. You hear the bath running and your father steps out. “Bubba? Are you up?” He asks softly, walking over to your side of the bed and patting your shoulder. “...Yeah, you’re up. I can tell. Come on, pup, I got the bath ready for you. You can use my bathroom this time. I know you prefer it.” It’s true. You did prefer your dad’s bathroom because it had an actual bath tub. “I set out a change of clothes for you. Just remember to wash your hair in the shower afterwards, okay? Don’t worry about last night...”

“...I’ll take care of it.”

---

WHOOOO I DID IT!!! WE DID IT!!!!

Man I really need to make headers. Again some of my asks had disappeared so sorry about that. I'll update the masterlist at some point. Reminder that you're all beautiful and remember to drink water. I've been thinking of doing COD characters...how do we feel about that?

[jsfix]

Sweet Treat

Kinktober Halloween - Blood Kink

Pairing: Tim Drake x GN!Vampire!Reader

Summary: Tim lets you feed on him.  

Warnings: MDNI, no pronouns and no description of reader, reader is unhinged and obsessed with Tim (relatable), blood (mention of drinking from people/animals, the taste of it, vampire stuff yknow), Tim & reader have safe words, unprotected sex, coming inside, oral (Tim receiving), praise (Tim receiving), blood kink (Tim is a freak), marking, little bit of cockwarming

WC: 1,912

AN: happy halloween!!

Though you had no problem draining the life of the scum that inhabited Gotham City, your boyfriend sorely did. And, because you loved him, you tried feeding only from animals, though this left you weak. After a few months of low-energy, constant sleeping, and mood swings, Tim suggested you try feeding from him instead.

You told him he was crazy. How could you even think about feeding from him? Drinking his blood, splitting his skin with your sharp teeth, leaving painful marks even if they were quickly healed from your tongue. He insisted you at least try. He hated seeing you weak, especially if you were only feeding from animals to please him. He eventually wore you down. You matched him in stubbornness but, honestly, now you were too tired to fight for too long.

The first time you drank from him was… interesting. You two sat on the couch, each of you trying to calm the other’s nerves. He was good at masking it, of course, but you were good at reading him. You watched admired him a lot. Not in a creepy way, you swear, he was just hard to look away from. You knew his tics; the way his eyes would brighten when he uncovered a missing piece from a case, how he’d rhythmically tap each finger against his thumb when he was lost in thought, how his nose would twitch just the slightest bit when he was nervous. It was a blink-and-you’d-miss-it type of thing. You never missed it.

You comforted him by running your fingers through his hair - a gesture that always calmed him - and tried to appear relaxed. Of course, he knew your tics as well. The hand gently squeezing your thigh told you as much. You made him come up with a safe word. You didn’t want to drink too much from him, worried about hurting him, he said he would tell you when to stop. Still, your hand had a slight shake to it as it cupped his head, tilting it away from you to expose his neck. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his skin before sinking your teeth into it.

He let out a gasp, almost flinching away but being held in place by your hands. He grunted as you fed from him, his hand on your thigh tightening in what you would have assumed was pain if not for his other hand coming up to push your head closer into his neck. He started moaning now, soft breathy ones escaping his mouth in between whispers of your name. You were in a similar state and found yourself unable to pull away from him, only stopping when he stuttered his safe word. You stopped instantly, pressing kisses against his wound and licking it closed before pulling away fully to look at him.

He was flushed, cheeks a bright red, chest heaving, the cobalt blue of his eyes barely visible from the way his pupils had dilated. You were in a similar state; your chest heaving, your iris’, now tinged red, barely visible, and the blood you’d drunk from him allowing a faint warmth to pool beneath your cheeks. Needless to say, you didn't get much rest that night.

His blood - he, all of him - was addicting. You didn’t think you could be more obsessed in love with him. Before, feedings were just routine. You enjoyed the occasional chase when your victims tried to run from you, sure, but drinking blood from criminals and animals was just to satiate your hunger; it left you feeling full and that was that.

Drinking from Tim, however, left you feeling warm. Not only from his actual warm blood coursing through your body, a warmth you only experienced back when you were alive, a sensation you’d never felt from your past victims - but also from his trust in you and the love you shared. And also because he just tasted so damn good. His blood was almost sweet and felt so smooth going down your throat and left you with a sense of euphoria you’d never felt before. You were used to craving him - his kisses, his laugh, his presence - but this level of intensity was new. It was almost painful, the time between your biweekly feedings, waiting to taste his sweet blood again.

You know Tim felt a similar pleasure from your bite and he claimed the fanfare surrounding feedings nights was unnecessary (a lie, you knew he loved it) but you still wanted to make him feel special. It was a big thing, him letting you feed from him, and it took a lot out of him, which is why feeding nights were always planned for the night before his required two days off from patrolling (the guilt of feeding from him never really left but if anything at least it got him to actually rest).

Sometimes you’d wine and dine him (literally); sometimes, you’d have a simple movie night, spooning him on the couch, sinking your teeth into his gentle skin while jerking his cock, a combination that made him come almost instantly; other times, you liked to take it a bit slower.

On these nights, you liked to have him on his back, writhing as you kissed up and down his thighs.

“Fuck!” He let out, followed by a whimper of your name as his hips jerk up off the mattress. You hum at the taste of blood from the bite on his thigh.

“You taste so good, baby.” You murmur against his skin, moving to bite the soft skin of his inner thigh. You suck gently as he moans again, careful not to let your thirst take over. You want to draw this out.

“So sweet,” You lick the wound, pressing a kiss to the now healed skin. “So good for me.”

You continue kissing his thighs, nipping and licking his skin as he shakes with the effort to stay still, desperate but not wanting the pleasure to end. You reward his patience, finally taking his cock into your hand, hard and leaking, moving your thumb over his slit, gathering his pre-cum and stroking slowly. He sighs shakily, feeling relief from the friction. You rise from your lying position, knees pressed into the mattress as you lean over him to let a glob of spit mixed with blood trail past your lips onto his tip. He moans at the redness you massage over his length.

“Please,” he moans your name as your hand moves up and down his shaft, “please, please.”

“What do you need, baby?” You coo at his begging, moving your other hand to cup his balls. His hips jerk and he lets out another moan.

“I, I need-“ you cut him off, taking his tip into your mouth. You suck at his ruddy head, wishing you could take him fully.

“Oh, god!” He moans loudly, thrusting into your mouth before you manage to press your forearms against his thighs, pinning him. “Oh, fuck!”

You release him from your mouth, pressing light kisses along his shaft and down to where your hand was gently massaging his balls, taking one in your mouth to lap at while he caught his breath.

“What was that?” You smirked as he glared at you. “What do you need?” You licked his slit, the saltiness of his pre-cum mixing with the lingering sweetness of his blood. He hissed.

“You. Need you.” He released his grip of the sheets, sitting up to pull you up towards him. You let him move you, straddling his hips as he pressed kisses over your chest and neck, anywhere he could reach while you settled over him. You gently cupped his face moving him away from your neck to look at him. Your thumbs caressed his red cheeks as you smiled softly at him, taking him in.

“You okay?” The words were whispered, a quiet pause in the middle of an intense session. You felt as if you were in a bubble, oblivious to the outside world and its people and its crimes and ugliness and hate. You wanted to stay in this bubble forever, with Tim, with his beauty and love.

He smiles back at you, equally soft. He was thinking the same thing as you; he thought he could stay in this moment forever, you gently holding his face, looking at him with so much love, he thought he could burst from the feeling of it. The light from the rising sun shining through the window, hitting your figure, leaving you with a glow that somehow made you look even more beautiful, gentle for him, even with your red eyes and fangs covered in his blood.

“Yeah,” Tim said breathlessly. Your smile widened and you leaned down to kiss him. He sighed into the kiss, wrapping his hands around your waist to pull you even closer. Your kisses are gentle, both for the sake of the bubble you’ve created and for his lips. They grow rougher as he starts grinding up against you and you find yourself thinking he really doesn’t care about your fangs making his lips bleed.

He runs his tongue across your fangs, purposefully rubbing against the sharp point and you both moan as it cuts and bleeds into your mouths, just for a second, before it heals. Swapping spit and blood, Tim whines as his hips grind against yours harder and harder. He begs once more, needing to feel your walls around him, your warmth enveloping his dick. You reach down to grab his length, positioning it against your hole before sinking down on his cock, causing you to moan simultaneously. You let yourself adjust to his size while he goes back to kissing your neck, sucking hard at the skin to leave his own marks on you. After a quick ready? you finally move. He plants his feet and thrusts up into you and you set a quick pace, too desperate for each other to go slow.

The room fills with grunts and whimpers, moans of each other’s names only interrupted by pleas of harder, faster and expletives. You felt yourself getting close to your peak, Tim following right behind you. He grabs your hip with one hand and with the other grips the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss before guiding you towards his neck, tilting his head for access. You dig in, euphoria hitting immediately, causing you to cum. Tim manages a few more thrusts before coming himself, cum spurting into you as he digs his fingers into your skin.

You stay in this position for a bit, warming his softening cock while you drink from him and rest against him. His arms rub up and down your sides, occasionally squeezing you when he feels a spike of pleasure. He thinks he could stay in this moment forever too, if it weren’t for the potential loss of life. You pull back from him sooner than you normally would, that warmth filling your body already from the nips you’d given his thighs and lips. You gently press a kiss around the bite mark, about to run your tongue across it before-

“Leave it!”

You pull back, startled. He’d never asked you to leave marks before.

“Leave them. Please,” he says, surprisingly bashful with his red cheeks and even redder lips covered in blood, “I like your marks.”

You smile, feeling your cheeks warm, before kissing him.

AN: don’t forget to reblog if you enjoyed this fic!! Thanks for reading :))

[spookypete-94]

O-

GhostxFem!medic!reader

Reader is a medic that has been assigned to specifically take care of TF141. She learns just how difficult the lieutenant can be.

SFW, CW for- language, more then likely medical inaccuracies

You had worked next to Price shortly a few years after he started. Your impressive skill level always imprinted on him. After he became the Captain, he had sought you out specifically. The risks of the missions he was on he wanted someone he could trust on standby to take care of him and his men if something were to happen. Sure, you knew your way on the battlefield and could do basic operations if needed, but your area of expertise was caring for the injured. It was almost like you were hardwired and made for it, a natural.

Once learning Price had requested you, sought you for so long- it was a no-brainer to join him and his team.

"Ready to meet everyone?" He asked, his voice quiet but still carrying a booming effect.

"Sure am," she you replied, crossing your arms as he led her to his office. Inside stood 3 men. One that wore a blue hat in casual attire, the second one with bright blue eyes and a mohawk, and the other was a large looming man that leaned against the desk face covered with a skull balaclava, dressed all in black.

"Would like you all to meet the team medic, this is Y/N L/N. I sought her specifically for us."

Y/N stuck her hand out to greet everyone, shaking the first two, easily learning their names as Gaz and Soap. The third one, however, did not step forward to shake her hand. One could feel the distrust from his gaze.

Fine, You thought to yourself and instead stood next to the Captain again.

Price explained your duties and how you would be attending missions with them on scene, in your own helicopter, and would respond as needed.

"If I could have dog tags, just to have full name and blood type, I'd appreciate it. Makes it easier for me to log and store blood if needed."

Again, the first two she met and Price complied, handing their dog tags over with ease. The large one never left his stance from the desk, arms crossed, hands never reaching into his shirt.

"Lieutenant," Price said just shy of a scolding manner.

"No worries, Captain, I'll manage." you said, waving it off. Honestly, far from offended, dealing with difficult men your entire career, becoming used to it. Price looked at you, shocked, wondering how you would "deal" with it. Scribbling the information down, your own chicken scratch looking difficult to anyone else who might read it before handing the tags back. "Thanks," you said cheerily, handing the tags back. "Lieutenant," nodding in his direction still being courteous to him. "I'll be in the MedBay updating my records and starting carts for all of your needs. Hope you all have a pleasant day." Nodding, and stepped through the group of men.

Once the door was shut, they all turned to Ghost appalled by his behavior to such a kind woman. "Why ya' gotta be like that, mate?" Soap asked him.

"Don't trust new people," he grumbled, leaving them all to shake their heads.

Time had passed, you had her records all updated and built trust with three of the group she cared for. Not quite with "Skullface" though, as you called him. Being on the team with the TF141, means you still had to qualify on all weapons... leaving you at the mercy of the range with the grumpy Lieutenant as he was the instructor.

His tone came across condescending at the very start. The first weapon he picked was a handgun. He showed how to load and reload the mags, how to place it in the bottom of the guns and forcefully shove up to make sure the mags don't fall out. How to use the iron sights and the difference between red dots, the difference between calibers - things already known by you but dared not say anything wanting to make a point. He handed back the pistol, taking aim, and shortly emptied the clip, hitting the metal target in the center. The ping echoed, target shaking with each bullet. Managing tactical reload, dropping the mag, pulling the full one from your belt, reloading it, and doing the same thing.

"You know how to use a gun?" he asked stunned.

"I do."

"You could have led with that."

"Didn't want to interrupt your whole "spiel, "seeming it's the most you've said to me the entire time I've been here."

Behind him, Price stood smiling, arms crossed as he stood at the front of the range. Game, set, match, he thought to himself comically.

"Can we do shotgun next, or are you gonna break the basics down for me on that, too?" Your tone playing coy, making Ghost shake his head, handing her the shotgun.

The day was over faster than Ghost expected it to be, thinking you would be inexperienced.

"I'm sorry I treated you like that," Ghost said humbly as they picked up the empties.

"Used to it."

This answer caused silence among them both. You took it upon yourself that he was waiting for you to answer why.

"Most men in this field just see me as a nurse. They seem to forget that Medic's have to be battle trained, too. Used to being treated like that."

He turned to look at you. "Shouldn't be a medic, you're better than most of the soldiers I've seen in the field."

"All be it surprised, I'm a better medic, then I am on the battlefield."

"Have to be one hell of a medic then."

"I am." you said confidently, throwing the expended bullet casings into a bucket to be repressed.

How grateful you were, that it ended on a positive note between the two this time.

"Here," he said, going to hand her his dog tags.

"Don't need them any more."

Even though his face was covered, you could tell he was confused by your response.

"Got it taken care of." smiling widely to him, throwing your assigned weapons over your shoulder and heading back to the base.

You had left him preplexed and him watching that smile never leave as your legs carried you away. Satisfaction filling you, knowing you made your mark on him.

"Fuckin' hell," he said quietly to himself.

Inevitably, the day came. Ghost had found himself and Soap injured, Ghost was losing blood rapidly, taking the grunt of whatever exploded. They requested evac but had to wait for an extraction team to get to him. His conscious status was in and out, vaguely remembering you and your squad getting to him and Soap. Your facial features make you seem like you were is glowing, the light being so bright. If he had not seen your ability to be deadly, he would have thought an angel was standing before him from the golden glow.

The next thing he knew, he was on the helicopter, finally coming to. He started to sit up quickly, the sudden alertness making him realize what had just happened

"Sit your ass still," you growled to him.

Even as a threat, your voice calmed him, making him indeed sit still.

"Where's Johnny?"

"Next to you, across the bird behind the curtain, my team got him stitched and wrapped up. Hold still," You said, pulling his arm back to her. He realized you were stitching him, hand holding his arm close. Noticing the IV for fluid and another for blood attached into his other arm. There, he saw a rolling cart with "Skullface" wrote on the top where his name should have been, bags of O- blood inside it.

"My blood type isn't O-," he said, head rolling over to look at her.

"Mine is. It's the universal donor."

Finally, he realized what you meant.

"That's your blood?"

"Yup, been pulling mine off for your cart in case something happened since you wouldn't give me your tags that day."

He was silent for a bit. That was her way of managing... using your own blood to save him. "I'm sorry I was such an asshole to you."

"Stop. You already apologized. Just be grateful I did what I did and didn't leave you to bleed out." Some men just needed tough love.

Somehow, you had struck him. He was seeing you in a different light once more. How grateful he was for his mask because if it wasn't there.. you would be able to read his face. Adoration and all. He leaned back into the pillow, letting you finish and look him over. Fingers ghosted across his skin as you moved his body to be able to check for whatever it was you were looking for. No resistance was given by him now. You had earned just more than his respect and trust. Just on the ride back to base, you already had him stitched up.

"Still will have to do scans to make sure there is no internal bleeding, but have to do that back at base. I'm glad you're still alive." you said, patting his thigh in an area that you knew was not injured.

"Fuckin' hell," a phrase he found saying all too much with you. Eyes watching your walk away and prepare for landing.

Soap pulled back his curtain, smiling mischievously at Ghost.

"Not a fuckin' word," he grumbled to him, knowing all to well that Soap knew that Ghost had caught feelings for hyou.

Simon Ghost Riley Masterlist

[rippersz]

𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒕

✩*⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠*✩

✩*⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠*✩

A Larissa Weems x F!Reader oneshot (for now) - Normie Reader experiences a very sudden heat for whatever reason and oh good lord Larissa is just so hot how can anyone expect you to work under these conditions… (NSFW: Vulgar, Breeding Kink, Shapeshifting Advantages, All that Jazz) (Larissa is just mentioned/imagined in this.) Am I sorry? Meh.

✩*⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠*✩

There was just something in her that lit something in you.

A fire the likes of which you’d never encountered before. As though a flame was constantly flicked on beneath your heart, causing it to race, causing it to pound, causing it to bring the blood from your limbs up to your cheeks; painting you in a deep blush. Making you dizzy. Making you ache. Making you feel a type of delicious never-ending burn that seemed to spark the very moment you saw her.

Her.

Oh, her.

The same woman that made you realize that you wanted to become heavily acquainted with Lust and all of the friendly benefits it could offer. The very catalyst to your panic and your flush and the shake in your hands as you pressed yourself up against the wall of your shower and imagined it was her doing it instead. Oh how her hands would feel… how her touch would mold… how her teeth would graze and nibble and bite and gnash in ways that sent you spiraling. The muscles in her biceps flexing as she interlocked your hands and forced your arms up over your head, holding you to the chilled tile, making you shiver even if the water was hot.

It felt like the word ‘Please’ was on the very tip of your tongue whenever you passed her in the hall. ‘Please,’ you wanted to murmur to her one day, ‘Please, put me out of my misery and ruin me before I explode.’ Because that’s what it felt like, didn’t it? The strange pull in your bones, crawling up through your veins, invading your mind, it felt like you were being stretched taut and that no amount of self-assured pleasure could help release your tormented body. Explosion, at that point then, was imminent. And dangerous. You could barely concentrate on classes; you could barely pay attention to another person; you could barely think about anything other than her fingers… and her tongue… and those deep bottomless sapphire eyes - staring straight into your soul as you fell apart beneath her.

Some part of you told you that you were going through heat. That the very desperate natural human basic need for pleasure was just that - something a person experienced from time to time. Something that werewolves and cats and animals felt whenever that season came around. But you were a ‘normie’. You’d never felt that before… until Larissa Weems, of course. Until you sat down in a staff meeting one day and peered down at her painted nails and long tapered fingers and delicate hands, woven with blue veins and a wicked strength you’d never seen, and wondered what her index and middle finger would taste like when resting on your tongue. The thought still brought redness to your cheeks and drool to the inside of your mouth. It was just so terribly depraved. So desperate. So needy in a way that you wanted her to say- to tell you- to whisper in your ear while you whimpered into the warm skin of her shoulder.

‘Look at you… such a silly little thing… trembling all for me…’

All for you. All for her. All for Larissa, at all times, no matter what.

You knew that people were starting to worry about you and your actions - especially Larissa herself. She was your boss after all, she was supposed to pick up on any behavioral changes, and you had definitely changed. Without even knowing, you became far more introverted and spent more time alone than you ever had before. Though then again, most of that time was dedicated to taking care of the relentless throb between your thighs. Honestly, sometimes it got so strong that it interrupted your entire day and you had to find some way to ease the strange pangs before they got out of hand.

And you’d been doing a good job. Really, you had. You’d been taking the necessary moments to rid yourself of the feeling for at least a few hours before it came back - and that was enough. It was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Until it began to hurt.

Until you realized that yes, indeed, you were somehow going through heat - and there was no one there to help you with it.

–

‘Good morning Larissa,

I just wanted to email you with a quick update and say that I, unfortunately, have fallen quite ill. I don’t think I’m equipped enough to handle my classes, and I’m very sorry for the inconvenience. Knowing this would get worse, I already printed out lesson plans and activities for my students. They’re all on my desk in my classroom.

Thank you - hopefully I get over this soon.

Y/N’

A quick email. That was good. You didn’t specify timing but that was fine. Your ‘heat’, for lack of a better word, had already been happening for about three weeks. If you were correct in your research, it wouldn’t be too much longer - perhaps a week or so more. Though in the long run, it would be a bigger pain in the ass than you expected. Already, your room smelled of sex and was so stuffy that you had to keep a window open constantly. And to get rid of the scent, you resorted to wall plug-ins and incense; they were the best you could think of on the fly. The rest of the issue - such as the air being far too hot - could only be remedied with a lack of clothing and many cold showers.

You supposed that was the best blessing during your time of strife- having an ensuite all to yourself. Staff were given the option to live on campus or live near Jericho, but you decided that ease of access was more important than living utterly alone. And, another plus that allowed you to let out a sigh of relief from time to time, was the fact that the teacher’s wing was very far from the students’. So any of the werewolves that wandered the halls wouldn’t smell you - as long as you stayed in your room. Thus, the email. And the isolation. And the constant worry that often came as an after-thought during your moments of… reprieve.

Even then, you truly felt you were going mad.

Tears often leaked from the corners of your eyes at night when you twisted around in bed, trying (and failing) to keep your hands from wandering about your body. You’d never experienced the phrase ‘instinctive’ to such an extent until that span of time where your searching fingers tip-tapped their way down the soft skin of your rounded tummy and found themselves drawing circles around your clit without thinking. Because it was all done without thinking. Even thinking was done without thinking.

Most of the time, your head was filled with thoughts of your boss. It was always Larissa. It was always Larissa and it was always her tall figure dwarfing your own, pushing you into a state of submission that you wanted to fall into anyway. She wouldn’t even have to try very hard - she wouldn’t even have to bend you over her lap and spank you red unless you came without her permission and she wouldn’t even- she-

‘Y/N,

I’m very sorry to hear you’ve fallen ill; please don’t worry about your classes as I can provide a substitute immediately. That being said, take as much time as you need to recover. I’ll stop by later today to chat briefly about the form you can fill out for an extended absence. Thank you for letting me know and I sincerely hope you feel better soon.

Larissa W.’

The ping of the email distracted you for a moment.

Good- that was good- your classes would be covered and you were ‘off the hook’. Great. Take as much time as you need mhm mhm… blah blah blah… stop by later today… mh-

Wait.

Wait, what?

You blinked, stared down at the lit up screen of your phone, and then blinked again.

She was… stopping… by? Later? On that day? When the clench in your abdomen was so strong that you were descending into sniffling sobs every two seconds? On that day, when you had just reached the point in which your fingers- the four you managed to fit and utilize- no longer got rid of the ache? On that day, when you were cursing yourself for never buying a fucking sex toy just for the Hell of it?

In your defense, you didn’t think you were ever going to descend into a spontaneous excruciating heat at any point in your life- but it didn’t really matter anyway.

Because whether you liked it or not, Larissa Weems, your boss, the headmistress of the Nevermore Academy for Outcasts, the main event of your wet dreams and sexual fantasies was going to stop by your room for a ‘brief chat’... and you hadn’t been clothed for three days. And your legs were trembling all the time. And the insides of your soft thighs were coated in slick constantly. And your skin was always overheated and sensitive and your voice was hoarse due to the amount of muffled screaming you pressed into the fabric of your pillow and your bed was very much unmade and your room smelled like a 24 hour sex dungeon and the blush on your cheeks had only increased tenfold by the time you sat up in your unmade bed, winced, and let out a whine.

Oh why had the Gods cursed you so?

Why had they placed a hex on your little human body and filled it with a libido that could only match the ferocity of dragons? Why did they force a potion of lust down your throat and place you in front of Larissa Weems and make you look at her with eyes of dark desire? Why did they place the image of her sloping hips and long legs and thick thighs in your mind and poison you with dreams that followed you into the waking world?

Why did you want her so badly?

Why did you yearn for her touch and why did you want her smell enveloping your body and why- oh god why- did you want to kiss her so often? Why did you want her to take care of you? Why did you want her of all people! to take you to bed and make you see stars? Why did you want red lipstick covering your skin and why did you want your face between her thighs and why did you want to feel her come apart beneath you? Why did she drive you wild? Why did she force you into a state of fluster that you could only pull yourself out of when you were alone?

Why did she plague you?

“I can’t do this…,” you suddenly confessed to no one in particular as you let out a sigh.

The fire had dulled to a simmer long enough for you to stand and slowly make your way to the bathroom.

Pain experienced during heat, you came to find, was far different than any other pain. It was like you felt empty - utterly disgustingly empty - and your body hated that. It rebelled. It made your abdomen, your fucking womb, feel hot. And after the heat, it began to ache. Like you were sitting on the edge of an orgasm and you needed that extra push- that extra kiss- that extra lick of praise- to send you tipping off the edge into an ocean of bliss…. But you couldn’t have it. The push, the kiss, the praise wasn’t there. Nor was the thrust of strong hips, or the scratch of fingernails, or the hissed growl of dominance in your ear. None of it. And your body knew that, so it made you clench and unclench constantly; and it punished you for your negligence and made your clit extra sensitive and your nipples hard and eager to be teased and your skin- oh your poor skin- was practically begging for someone to touch it. To mark it. To hold it and squeeze it and bite it and make it theirs.

Make it hers.

Goodness, you were pathetic. The fog that fell over your mind whenever you thought of Larissa was so hypnotizing that once your thoughts got going, they couldn’t stop.

‘Think of her,’ the strange lustful monster within you hissed, ‘Think of her and all of the sinful things she could do to you. Think of her hands pulling your hair, think of her warm thighs straddling your waist, think of her tongue running itself along your neck… and down your chest… and lower and lower… lower… pooling with drool and letting it drip-drop onto your cunt… licking at your clit…’

A whimper slipped past your lips as soon as you stepped into the water of your shower.

The heat was both soothing and torturous, doing you no favors as it instantly glazed the top of your mind; normally you’d prefer to make it cold to put a damper on your libido, but the need to get off yet again overpowered any lingerings of common sense.

But really, if you were being honest with yourself, there was no common sense during ‘heat’. At all. You figured that out rather quickly when, on the fourth day of wanting to be fucked mercilessly, you began entertaining thoughts of breeding. Of course you didn’t want a child. But the thought… the thought… of such warmth in you… filling what was always so painfully empty… of someone- of her- holding you down and breeding you full, growling that you were to be hers forever, was something that had you cumming in under five minutes. You simply couldn’t help it. And ever since that thought, it was as though you crossed into the dark side. All kinds of kinks and experiments filtered into your horny little brain, and all you could do to keep yourself from going crazy was to keep orgasming until your fingers could barely move.

It was the worst experience of your life…

…when you weren’t sitting on the built-in shower stool and thrusting three fingers into yourself, imagining Larissa watching you from beyond the glass. It was terrible except for when you pictured her telling you to go faster, to slow down, to take your fingers out completely and spread your folds wide so she could coo over how cute you looked when your cunt ached for her touch. It was maddening while you weren’t fantasizing about her stepping into the shower with you- all 6 feet, 3 inches of her- and threading her perfect hand in your hair and pressing you to her venus mound and making you kiss it until you came around your own fingers. Then making you stick your tongue out and look up at her as she slowly rolled her hips, coating you in a taste you knew you’d never ever get tired of.

Maybe even… oh god… maybe even shifting that part of herself and surprising you by sliding the head of her cock into your mouth and making you worship her until you forgot your own name. Running your eager tongue along the hot veins… peering up through your eyelashes as she slowly- slowly- craned her head back and let out a deep bone-shaking groan… Unable to help herself as she pushed you down just a bit more, slowly making that ‘pretty mouth of yours’ (as she called it) take as much of her as it could.

“There… yes, right there darling…” You could practically hear her words, as if she were with you, while your eyes rolled back and your other hand came up to rub furiously as your clit.

Unfortunately, even as you sat there and felt the prickling wave of heat wash over your body, clenching tightly around your own fingers while you orgasmed, you knew that it wouldn’t be enough. You knew that the water running down your face was mixed with frustrated tears. You knew that no climax you reached all by yourself would ever be able to properly satiate your body and every thing it was feeling. After all, a ‘normie’ was not supposed to experience ‘heat’ - and your mind was already so close to breaking all by itself.

It was just a shame that Larissa wasn’t there to snap it in half for you.

✩*⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠*✩

This was just a quick exercise - I want to better my smut writing abilities. New updates soon and all that. Any thoughts on a Part 2? - Ripley x

✩*⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠*✩

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Happy follower milestone! Maybe an Ettore onesbot where reader is assistant to the doctor Dibs and maybe some kind of nurse kink???

Afflictions Of A Dark Nature

Thank you for the request! I hope this lives up to your expectations! This is my first time writing for Ettore so apologies if it seems OOC, I did try my best (I even re-watched High Life and will be sending the bill for emotional damages). Also get well soon @ewanmitchellcrumbs 😚

Warnings under the cut! Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Ettore Taglist

Warnings: *deep breath* lots of swearing, mentions of past sexual encounters that may have not been consensual, fingering, dub-con, p in v sex, ass slapping, degradation, mentions of a blood test, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), creampie, cum eating, dacryphyilia, choking, kinda face slapping?, ass play, spitting, overstimulation | Word Count: 6.4k~ | dividers by @firefly-graphics

If he had to see that wrinkly, smug face of Dr Dibs again, Ettore would lose it.

He knew who he was. He wasn’t beyond acting out against women if he wanted to. It’s part of what put him here in the first place. Drifting through space, on some suicide mission that the oh-so-wise earthlings had decided it would be better to doom prisoners to death rather than qualified astronauts. Not like it mattered. He was on death-row anyway, so what loss really was it?

Only the loss of his complete sanity.

He knew that if he lashed out at anyone, even Dr Dibs, there’d be a punishment of sorts. In a way that was wholly unethical for someone who is supposed to provide care, but hey, who’s keeping track. Nobody gives a shit on earth. She could put arsenic in the water supply if she wanted to, and nobody could say a thing about it.

For the sake of at least living longer, though it made him dry-heave inside, he sweetened up, got more sleeping pills out of it as a result, which in this place was gold dust. A long, good-night’s sleep did little to take a person away from a situation like this, but it was at least something. A small mercy in a way.

Deep down, there was a need-no, an impulse that Ettore couldn’t shake. 

But before he could indulge in the memories of those needs, someone called his name.

“Ettore, is it?” 

Her voice was sweet, far too compassionate for someone stuck aboard working on this fucked up prison. And when she raised her eyebrows at him to elicit a response, she gave a polite smile. When was the last time someone smiled at him, truly?

She had a clipboard in front of her, disguising the lanyard around her neck and she wore blue scrubs, which looked the same design as the prisoners, but instead theirs were red.

Perhaps to show how dangerous they were. Hers was clinical and clean. Pure.

He wore suspicion on his face, marked with the furrow of his brows and without saying a word he stood and followed her into the infirmary. She was a head shorter than him which made him smirk when he was sure she wasn’t looking. 

All he knew was that he was grateful it wasn’t that wrinkly, smug bitch. He was sure she was doing something fucking weird to them. Just couldn’t put his finger on what.

When she drew the curtain, she let him in first, “Have a seat”

This cubicle was at least separate. And even though they’d not been on the ship for long, it looked crusty and old, with those wax linoleum floors, vile padded walls. It looked like it was going to fall apart. 

Ettore slumped into a chair next to a computer with a huff, taking in his surroundings, still trying to figure out what to make of this new person. Why hadn’t he seen her before? And she looked a lot younger than Dibs, was she even a real doctor or nurse at all?

Her hair was in a loose bun, fractionally more formal than Dibs who wore her braid like armour over her shoulder at all times. It made her look older, despite what Dibs would like to have believed. 

She sat down in front of the computer, typing in a few things, and he admired her face for a moment in silence. The way the light of the monitor reflected off the colour of her eyes, how her tongue darted out to lick her lips when she was trying to read something and how fast her fingers typed on the old, beige keyboard that was far too loud for his liking. Sounded like a clock was ticking in his brain.

He didn’t say a word. As was Ettore’s way. He was usually never one to speak first. He was an observer, seeking out the weaknesses of people as if he could simply by looking, like he could extract a little piece of them the longer he did. For her though, he couldn’t make her out.

When Ettore craned his head slowly to look, he could see she was reading his medical history and it made him feel special to know that she was finding out everything she could about him. He wished he could do the same to her. Find out all her little secrets.

“Just some general things and blood work today, nothing fancy” she says, meeting his eyes for a moment with another polite smile, the kind of smile where she’s clearly just trying to be nice, but Ettore can’t help the deep ache in his core to have a woman in front of him now, after years of not touching one. The Box was fine, sure, but there was no other feeling like a woman. Their warm, fleshy insides, each ridge within different from woman to woman.

Something knocked on the door in his mind. A sinful thought had arrived and asked how would she feel? Did she use the Box as well? Who did she think of when she touched herself?

“Roll up your sleeve for me” she instructs, holding the blood pressure monitor in her hands and tearing the velcro away. 

She meets his eyes again briefly to find him already looking at her when she leans forward to wrap it around his bicep, right over where his tattoo is. She has small, soft hands, indicative of her work. How would they feel on him, wrapped around his cock? Would her hands even surround him? That was all he could think about as she patted the cuff in place, brushing against his shoulder.

The machine whirred to life and it squeezed his arm, at the end bordering on pain which made him wince. She busied herself with typing on her computer in the meantime, the lanyard around her neck now visible, showing her name.

Got you.

When the machine beeped, she looked at the screen and put the results into his record, wheeling her chair to him again to take it off. He felt his cock get hard beneath his scrubs not just at the feel of her hands on him again, but now because of her proximity. He assumed everyone used the same soap here, she was no exception. But it smelled different on her and he inhaled a deep, long breath to commit as much of it to memory as he could.

She looked surprised when he spoke, as if she hadn’t expected him to.

“Why haven’t I seen you around”

It was hardly a questioning tone, more like an accusation. But she didn’t flinch away at it, rather, she was used to it.

She gave another polite smile, “Oh well, I’m usually in here, running all the tests Dibs gives me” she explains, getting her additional tools ready for the blood test, “But she wanted more help with ‘menial’ tasks like this, is how she put it” she says with a short, quiet huff of a laugh, like she thinks the reasoning was poor.

“So now you’re doing poor sod’s blood tests?” 

She nodded, “Something like that” 

Her tools were lined up, a tourniquet, a syringe and some cotton swabs. She pulled a pair of blue gloves on and moved her chair closer to him. 

“So you’re gonna poke at me?” he asks, half-amused, like he’s testing her.

She cleans the area around his arm with alcohol, a puff of air coming out her nose in a quiet laugh, tightening the tourniquet on him “Just seeing if you have good veins” she says, running her thumb over the pale skin of his arm, clearly finding a vein she was happy with.

Dr Dibs always missed his vein at least once, and he’d clench his fist as the needle went in. He wasn’t into drugs, like a lot of other prisoners here, so he wasn’t used to the prickly feeling. He found pleasure in other ways he deemed fit.

“Just a scratch” she mutters, inserting the needle beneath his skin, smiling to herself when blood goes into the bottle. First time. 

Ettore watched the vial fill with rich, thick blood, and then watched her, “You seem a bit young to be a doctor”

"Technically I'm a Junior Doctor" she replies, concentrating on his blood flow before meeting his eyes again. She seems to look at him deeply, her pupils flirting across his face now that they're so close to each other. He hears every little breath, every movement of her throat as she swallows thick, like she's nervous. And everytime her tongue darts out to wet her lips, he stares at the pinkness of it, thinking of how it would feel.

"Should I be trusting you to give me a blood test?" He teases with a wolfish grin, trying to see just how far he can push his luck.

"Hm, I don't suppose you have much choice" her smile turns a bit devilish at his quip, which quite honestly, the turn of her lips makes him want to bend her over the desk and fuck her right then and there. Wants to see what kind of sweet sounds she might make. Even the thought of it makes his cock ache.

“Suppose not”

"I'm allowed to give you blood tests" she says with a teasing smile, pulling the needle from his arm and replacing it with a cotton swab, "Hold that there for me" 

He obeys, holding it with his thumb firmly, smirking at the banter he didn't expect to have. The fact that she doesn't visibly seem afraid of him only spurs him on more. Thinking how far can he really go to make her feel uncomfortable. To make her realise just how dangerous he is, what he could do to her.

If anything he's shocked at his own restraint that he's managed this long without touching her. Such a small little thing. She wouldn’t stand a chance against him if he put his mind to it. And in those cute little scrubs as well, she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing to him. How easy would it be to just rip right through them, to see if she was wearing anything underneath. He imagined she wasn’t, and that he’d rip them open to be greeted with her bare, soft skin, how plush and feminine her tits would be, filling his palm. He wants to squeeze them painfully, make her whine out like a slut.

His body is getting hot, blood thrumming with want.

Once the cotton swab is secured to his arm with adhesive, he can’t take his eyes off her, challenging her to meet his gaze to see what she would do.

“Why are you here?” he asks, intrigued. She doesn’t look a bit like a criminal. But he could be surprised by her and he has a feeling he will.

“That’s a personal question” she states, not losing the lazy smirk on her face at the fact he’s clearly so interested in her, “why are you here?”

“Alright, point taken”

She doesn’t prod for more information.

Holding out a clear tub to him, “You know what to do right?” she asks, clearly holding back a wider smile.

Cheeky bitch.

He snatches it from her grasp with a grin, “Now?”

Her eyebrow twitches in amusement.

“However long it takes”

A jolt goes through his body, as if a light had just come on inside. Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be.

Fucking cock tease.

He gave her a look before drawing the curtain in the cubicle, barely a few feet from where she sat. So close that he could hear her typing on her computer, hear her quiet sighs. What sweet noises would she make with his cock prodding her soft, tight insides.

Usually when he did sperm samples for Dibs, he took no enjoyment from the idea that she was essentially in the same room as him, not that it took him any less time to cum, she was still a woman and that meant something. As repulsive as she seemed. 

But when he took himself in his fist and stroked himself to hardness, teased himself with eyes softly falling shut, he imagined they were her hands. Everytime he squeezed from base to tip, reaching down with the other hand to cup his balls, wondering what her tongue would feel like dragging over every inch of him. Would she tease him? Lick his angry red tip only slightly, and that sensitive spot underneath, flattening her wet muscle over it slowly, allowing him to feel every warm and minute movement.

Without even really realising, his hand was guiding himself faster, desperate to feel the friction of her pussy choking him. Would she buck her hips to meet his desperate thrusts, or squirm away as he bullied the end of her, pushing against her cervix recklessly. He wanted her to be a good girl, and just take what he gave her. If he started, would he really truly be able to stop?

He struggled to hold in the shuddered breaths and he very nearly forgot to put the tub in front of him before finishing. A pleasant roll of warmth ran through his body, one that quickly turned into a dark, deep desire. His hand wasn't enough. He hadn’t touched a woman in so long. He wanted the real thing and she was right there. Dirty bitch was probably already wet thinking about what he was doing.

Slipping through the curtain he handed it out to her and she took it with an amused raise of her eyebrows.

“That was quick” she quipped, putting a lid on it and writing his name for the label.

Oh she’s going to get it, dirty fucking mouth.

He couldn’t hold off the sort of accomplished grin on his face, she was more fun than he thought. For a moment, he allowed himself to just simply observe her, wondering what other fun they could have.

He was growing impatient at not being able to act on those thoughts. 

“Is that it?” he asks, making her look up again.

“Unless you have any other…ailments?” Ettore doesn’t miss the way she suppresses a grin by biting the inside of her cheek. He doesn’t suppress his and feels impossibly hard once again seeing her dainty lips curl up just slightly. She must be able to see beneath the thin fabric of his scrubs, how much he wants her. Let her see, he thinks, make her squirm a bit.

He watches the way her eyes briefly run over him. It was so quick, that had he not been looking right at her, he would have missed it. She swallows, feeling like he caught her and turns away a bit, trying to hide the warm feeling that settles between her legs at the way he’s looking at her, exciting and yet dangerous at the same time.

She only hopes he doesn’t notice the way she’s squeezed her thighs together. 

“Smashing then, cheers doc” he smirks, sauntering off with a certain swagger about him, knowing that his sweet, innocent looking little doctor is all worked up. He looks over his shoulder before leaving.

The ache of the blood test is completely forgotten. Instead, all his blood is below his waist, with none left for his brain to function. It’s been a while since a woman last did this to him. Yeah he’d fucked plenty of women, some had even wanted it. But he wanted her to want it. Wanted the little slut to beg for it. To beg him to stuff her full of his cock.

That was new, he thought. But it didn’t deter him from trying to get near her when she was alone, for any chance he could get at having her all to himself. 

Annoyingly, he didn’t find the opportunity for quite some time.

Anytime he stalked past her office, there was always some other prisoner inside, having their own tests. A flash of something akin to a dark jealousy courses through his veins, his hands forming fists whenever he hears her talking in a hushed voice to another male prisoner, speaking in that way that only a doctor does.

It’s short lived, when he realises she doesn’t speak as sweetly to them as she does to him.

It feels like he’s had a hard-on for days, just merely thinking about being alone with her. It’s beginning to become painful just how much he wants it, to make her squirm for him, to make her cry. His use of the Box has increased dramatically, but the more he does it, the less the effect. His hand doesn’t do it for him anymore. He can’t replicate that tightness only a woman's cunt could give, the feeling of being sucked so desperately inside someone, being milked for all he’s worth. He dreams of it. She would take it all, he thinks, she’d be a good little slut and take it.

He thinks that if he goes there often enough, he might just run into her, drag her inside, or to a nearby hallway, or even tackle her to the floor if need be and shove himself so deep in her she won’t be able to hold back her wanton moans. He imagines holding her arms behind her back so she can’t move, brutally fucking her so hard that her hips will be bruised. 

He’s always liked walking around in the dark, even though he knows he’s not really allowed.

Tonight though, it rewards him.

A soft light emanates from her office and when he leans against the doorway to peek inside, he emits a quiet laugh through his nose, hands in pockets, just watching her.

Her hair is free of the loose bun she wore before and it trails down her back as she’s sat in her chair, leaning over a microscope. She’s so engrossed in what she’s doing and recording notes that his presence doesn’t even disturb her.

He didn’t even think about announcing his presence. He wanted her genuine reaction.

So he didn’t think twice about stalking up behind her and grabbing a fistful of her hair, yanking her back. Only a quiet gasp escaped before he slammed his palm over her mouth, muffling a surprised cry.

“Shut the fuck up” he warned with a low voice.

She froze at his words, eyes wide and breathing heavily, not even having to wonder who it was. His fingers curled painfully against her scalp, tugging her up so her back is to him. Ettore can feel her hurried breaths out her nose hitting his hand.

“Be quiet and I’ll play nice” he says against the shell of her ear, making her body shudder, drawing his hand away from her mouth.

“What the hell are you doing?” she whispers accusingly behind her as he pushes the front of her body close to the desk, the edge biting into the front of her legs. His hands run down the sides of her, sucking in the fabric to the shape of her body, growling low at finally being able to see her form underneath.

“I came to see you” he grins,

“Fucking liar”

There was something exciting about being called out like that, and about her saying such vulgar words. As sweet as she looked, he knew there was something deep inside, somewhere he wanted to prod and poke at.

“It’s your own fucking fault” he snarls, pushing his hardness against the softness of her ass. He feels her freeze up for a moment, as if she’s just putting the pieces together, “prancing about in your slutty fucking doctor’s outfit”

One hand dips beneath the hem of her scrubs, a warm sigh expelled from his chest at the softness of her stomach beneath it, trailing higher over her ribs. He can almost feel her pounding heart from here, and it does nothing to deter him, the smirk on his face evidence of that. His large palm tugs at one of her clothed breasts, slightly annoyed to see that she’s wearing a bra underneath, but he squeezes it all the same, relishing in the pained whine she lets out in response to it.

His other hand tugs her forearm almost painfully behind her, twisting it in his grip harshly. He fully knew how strong he was compared to her and couldn’t have her doing anything rash. Best to keep her hands where he can see them.

“I was just trying to be nice” she counters with a harshness to her voice, not being able to take the breathiness out of it,  “Damn sight better than what most of you deserve” she briefly struggles in his hold, that is until he tightens the clamp on her wrist. A warning.

“Careful” he warns low in her ear, “I don’t think you understand the situation right now”

“You need to get off me. Now” she tries to push her hips away from him, but at her blatant refusal, he only pushes himself closer to her, moaning softly at the friction against him and the warmth of her even with her scrubs separating them.

He resists the urge to outright laugh, and scoffs instead, “You are in no position to make demands to me. I see right through you…you want me”

She only grunts painfully in response, half-trying to tear her hand away. Not trusting herself to say anything. Ettore almost wants to laugh at how pathetically she’s trying to avoid showing how she really feels.

“How long has it been, hm?” he says, more like a growl than anything, as his hand dips beneath the waistband of her scrubs, “Since someone touched you here”

She doesn’t reply, half fighting and half giving in. But then his hand cups her clothed sex, only covered by her thin underwear and she feels his large palm rub against her, her clit throbbing with desire at not having been touched in so long. God it had been so long. His fingers tease her entrance, rubbing in circles, coaxing some slick from her.

“A while, huh?” he smirks.

“Stop it, we’ll get in trouble” she says, but it comes out a whisper, not able to hide the way his hand against her most intimate area is having such an effect on her. The heel of his palm rubs against her bundle of nerves, making her blood feel like fire in her veins, arousal pooling in her belly.

“You think I give a fuck?” he retorts, grinning, “I would have a thousand punishments if I meant I could shove my cock in your tight little hole”

“You wouldn’t”

He does laugh at that, “You wanna bet?”

Her body briefly goes rigid, trying to hold back a genuine moan when his hand dips past her underwear, and Ettore groans at the feeling of her warm, wet pussy, coating his fingers with her slick. Her eyes break closed, mouth taut into a thin line to hold in her whine, body slightly trembling at how hard she is trying to hold back.

“You talk all this shit and you’re fucking soaked for me” he grins against her ear, “is this what was under that uniform…while you were prodding and poking me?”

She gasps, her lips opening in a hurried breath as his digit sinks into her, teasing her soft, spongy walls with the calloused pads of his fingertips. She doesn’t answer him. Can’t. She can just feel herself getting warmer. It’s undeniable, the effect he has on her. And she’s not sure if she’d be wise to submit to it. 

But it’s getting harder and harder by the second not to.

“Oh, you’re filthy” he says, inserting another finger, stretching her pussy with them, softly but harshly pushing inside “getting off on taking my blood, fucking slut”

At both his words and motions, she lets out a soft and quiet moan, a pressure inside her building the more she feels his fingers caressing her warm, wet walls.

Ettore tugs down his sweatpants, freeing his cock which sits hot and heavy against the curve of her ass, the tip flushed and stood to attention against his stomach. He gives himself a few pumps, pushing forward to let her feel him. He doesn’t even bother to begin the tryst with kissing. He’s not like that.

It’s much too soft and intimate a gesture, compared to what he plans to do with her.

She turns her head, now just quietly moaning at the pleasure his fingers give her, eyes half open and a hedonistic expression on her face. She sees him pull his shirt up his chest, and then looks down, to see what exactly is pushing hard against her backside.

Before she has any time to react, his hand is curled around her nape, pushing her head flush against the table in front of her, sending the samples scattering to the floor. 

"Stop it!" She protests, trying to wiggle helplessly out his grasp, "I'll scream"

She sees him smirk, looking down at her with a half lidded lust filled gaze.

"Do it then, makes it more interesting" he shows his teeth, tugging down her scrubs song with her underwear. Now with her body flush against the table and stuck, both his hands knead the globes of her ass, his fingers leaving pink marks in their wake. He takes fistfuls, spreading them to have a proper look at her glistening pussy, just waiting for him. She whimpers at the pleasured pain it emits when his fingers hold her apart, only to turn into a surprised gasp as he kicks her ankles apart.

“Someone could walk in!” she whisper-shouts, holding her hand to her mouth to muffle any sounds when he runs the tip of his cock over her soaked folds, slapping it against her clit and smiling at her reaction.

“Let them watch then, they can see how much of a mess I’ll make of you” he purrs leaning down to press his chest against her back, “None of that either” he pulls her hand from her mouth, “I want to hear how desperate you are for me”

With her cheek flush against the table, she had to only move her eyes to look at him. Glazed over with the pupil blown wide, it betrays just how much she may or may not want it, she still doesn’t want to show him. She’s almost annoyed at his cockiness, until she feels just how big he is, teasing her ever so slightly at her entrance.

“Now let’s see what pretty noises you can make for me, hm?”

He pushes against her, parting her folds, pulling her hips towards him to sink as much inside her as he can. His heart beats faster as he feels her pussy choke him tightly, every single ridge feels like fucking magic against his cock, he feels like just finishing inside her right there. She chokes a moan, his curved member rubbing up inside her at all the right angles the further inside he goes, until he kisses the end of her with the tip, reaching places she could never with her own fingers in the Box. Her back arches slightly as he bottoms out inside her, his fingers so tight on her hips they will definitely be bruised tomorrow.

He doesn’t give her time to adjust, not even a second, as he pulls all the way out, his length covered in her slick and slams back inside with a wet smack, watching how the flesh of her ass ripples when his hips meet it.

“Oh you’re bad…” he purrs, setting a brutally quick pace. Her eyes softly shut, her front rubbing almost painfully against the stainless steel table with each hard thrust.

“Gonna have you on every fucking flat surface in this ship” he breathes, his voice hurried from the effort and how she tightens around him at his words, “you’d like that wouldn’t you….everyone watching how much of a slut you are”

She yelps out in a pained moan when he slaps her ass, gripping it after to emphasise the burn, “Answer me”

“Yes-yes…” she manages through hurried breaths, trying to control her volume but rapidly failing.

Every time he fucks into, the sheer thickness of him pushes the air out of her lungs every time, her walls stretching against him to accommodate. Ettore smirks down at the view. She lets out between a sob and a moan when she feels his spit on her puckered hole, his thumb rubbing circles against it and spreading his saliva over her sensitive skin.

It feels so right and wrong at the same time. And when he pushes a thumb inside, only making her feel more full than she already does, she can't help but buck her ass against him, wanting more friction, pleasured tears falling down her cheeks. It really had been a while since she last had sex, obviously. But nobody had been this forward and rough with her before.

“See? I know you like this…knew you wanted to fuck me the second you saw me” he mocks, giving one hard, deep thrust inside which has her squirming against him with a desperate whine, his thumb sank all the way inside her ass, the movement of their fucking aiding in stimulating that as well.

He thinks, one day he'll claim that hole of hers as well.

But not today.

He pulls out quickly and instantly tugs at her hair, turning her over so that he can see her face. She’s sat weakly up on the counter, thighs held apart for him by one of his hands. Poor thing looks tired out, he thinks, looking at her watery eyes and flushed cheeks, her head lolling back against the counters with a thud.

“Are you fucking crying?” he grins, softly slapping her cheek and grabbing her face so she looks at him, “really has been a while, huh? That’s a bit pathetic”

He practically rips the shirt off her, not even bothering to take the bra underneath off and just tugs it to the side, freeing her breasts. He groans at the sight, perky, rosy and stood to attention in the now hot office, smelling of pure, unadulterated sex. They fill his palms perfectly, and he tugs at them with his fingers, revelling in the low, chesty mewl she lets out.

It’s no effort at all the way his cock just slides into her again, slowly. Too slowly.

She feels the curve of his cock, different in this new position, every vein and ridge. His thickness splits her open until he hits the end of her, pounding mercilessly into her, making the cupboards jolt in place with each snap of his hips against her thighs, which he is keeping in his palms wide apart. Ettore grins down, watching at the way his cock disappears into her over and over, at the ripple of her soft, soft skin each time.

She arches her back against him, warm, pleasured tears pricking at her eyes the closer she gets to that tight, hot pressure in her tummy bursting. He laughs as she clenches noticeably around him,

“What is it, hm?” he sneers, “or have I fucked you stupid?”

Her moans are so desperate she really does look pathetic, “fuck…I’m gonna-”

“You gonna cum for me?” he taunts with a wide smirk, all of this just doing wonders for his ego, “now, why would I let you do that?”

“...ne-need it…”

He never lets up his pace as once hand curls into her neck, tugging her forward so that her eyes are solely on him. She moans softly at the rough action.

Pathetic.

“You gonna be a good girl and be quiet?”

She nods as best she can, his hand tightening only slightly around her neck, trying to will her voice to come out between the deafening smacks of their fucking.

“Yes..”

“Say please, then”

“Please-I need it” she begs in a horse voice.

He shoves her back roughly, smacking her head against the cupboards, watching her tits as they bounce. Truthfully, he can feel himself getting close as well, but more than anything he wants to watch her come undone on his cock. Show her just how much fun she could have with him if she just let herself.

Her cheeks are pink and her chest is dotted with warmth as the air in the office is hot and thick, even more so at the pleasurable lack of oxygen his hand around her neck gives. It makes it harder for those strained moans to pass her lips.

Every drag through her hot, ridged core sends sparks of pleasure through him, crawling up his spine. 

You first.

She sucks in a breath when he lets go of her neck, allowing his thumb into her mouth. She sucks on the digit greedily, using her tongue to coat it with saliva. Ettore almost moans at just the sight of her.

He'll have that mouth too, he thinks.

A string breaks between her mouth and her thumb as he presses it suddenly against her clit, hard. She gasps at the painful pleasure of his rough actions, swirling his thumb over her bud to bring her to that precipice first.

Her hands grip his shoulders, but he quickly tears them off him, "I didn't say you could touch me" he snarls in between devastating thrusts, drawing figures of eight on her clit and watching as she squirms.

Her hands brace the counter either side of her legs, needing something to hold onto, "...m sorry…"

"You will be fucking sorry. Stupid bitch" 

If it's possible, he moves himself into her faster, bullying that rough patch inside her with such severity that her eyebrows furrow together, her mouth open in a silent scream. She contracts around him at the combined pleasure of his cock and his stimulation to her bud, knuckles going white at her grip on the counter.

"Such a perfect pussy…never fucking using that Box again…not when I have this…" he breathes pressing his body against hers so they are flush, his nose running up the side of her neck.

"Ettore, please…"

It's not really a request, just something that passes her lips. And he knows the second he feels her clench so tightly that she's done for, when her back arches towards him and her body goes rigid for a split second.

Her teeth sink into his skin at his shoulder, muffling the scream of pleasure that threatens to escape. He knows that will be there for days and it will most definitely hurt in the morning.

A gush of arousal soaks his cock and he continues to pound into her through it, pressing his thumb into her clit, extending her little death into a devastating abyss of warmth and rapture. Her walls quiver with overstimulation around him, and he can feel the wetness of her tears on his shoulder, her desperate whines.

"Fuck-shit" Ettore pushes inside once more, hard, with a barely stifled groan, huffing a pleasured laugh at the feeling of stuffing her with his cum and the warmth that surrounds him.

He wants to stay like that forever, keeping his cum inside her with his cock. Her thighs shake slightly, and he delights in the fact that she might not be able to walk afterwards. To remind her who she belongs to, now that he's claimed her.

He calms his hurried breathing just enough to pull his rapidly softening cock from her, earning a low whine from her once she pulls her teeth from him. Her tits move slowly with her breathing, thighs still shaking ever so slightly and parted to give him a good view of the mess he's made of her.

Her arousal combined with the cum that's leaking out of her activates a primal part of his brain and he's tempted to fuck her brains out again, but knows he wouldn't be able to.

Another time.

"Look at my filthy little doctor" 

He pulls her thighs close to him, teetering on the edge of the table, and all she's able to do is make a sound of surprise, eyes widening as he sinks to his knees between her legs.

"No-no, Ettore-" she protests quickly. Her hands going back to bracing the counter tightly when she feels his warm, wet muscle lapping against her soaked folds, a combination of her climax and his swirling over his tongue with such lewdness it makes her flush bright red.

After such a recent and all-consuming orgasm, she flinches when his tongue swirls over her clit, the vibrations of his low moans against it feels much too overwhelming now.

"Please-too much-"

He runs his tongue flat over her core, groaning at the combined taste of them and lapping up whatever leaks out of her. He could spend fucking days between her legs if she tastes like this all the time. Her arousal is so sweet and tart, musky when combined with his. Mixed with his cum, he thinks, she's made to be fucked by him. Made to be filled.

Fucking her with his tongue through her fluttering walls, her hand cards through his hair, tugging. To push him away or to bring him closer, she's torn between the two. The warmth of his mouth against her is just too tempting to want him to stop and when he moves his face side to side, his sharp nose nuzzling against her already over-used clit…

"Fuck! Please-"

The orgasm that rocks through her body blazes every nerve in its path, all the way down to the way his tongue is still lapping and sucking her juices, as if she's the best thing he's tasted since boarding this hellscape of a ship. He takes every bit of essence, sighing and moaning, with a grip so iron on her thighs, she can't move even if she wanted to.

Ettore rises to his feet, giving one more flattened lap over her core, sucking at her clit, which makes her twitch. Her glazed over, wettened eyes meet his, the blue almost entirely encompassed by black. He looks like an animal who's just tasted blood again after a long time of being caged. She doesn't entirely know why, but it makes her throb with desire, and it frightens even her to know that such a dangerous man, a criminal no less, is making her feel this way.

It makes her think, is she any better for enjoying it as much as she did.

He looks down at her, almost entirely bared to him, his reddened marks blossoming over her skin in early bruises. Her fucked-out face, a mix of lust and confusion, with that tell-tale pink to her cheeks.

A dangerous grin widens across his face.

"I meant it you know…" he says, dark and low, "...I'm not using that fucking Box ever again"

General Taglist: @risefallrise @valeskafics

Ettore Taglist:

*Let me know if you want to be added to any taglist! Bold means I couldn’t tag, if I can't tag you you can always turn on notifications for when I post. DM me if you wanna be removed besties

[crappy-writings]

Keeper of Shadows

Wanda MaximoffxReader // Series

Series Summary: An odd series of fatal attacks in Upstate New York piques your interest, especially when they seem to be related to the strange powers you received when you were 10 years old. By some stroke of luck or misfortune, the Avengers too are investigating the case, and you are their number one suspect. In a temporary alliance, you work together to discover why people are dying, unraveling a line of love, secrets, and betrayal.

*Image is not mine, credit to the creator

Chapter 1: The Agent, The Witch, and The Sword

(Chapter) Summary: With a strange rise of murders in the outskirts of New York, Natasha and Wanda are sent to investigate. While scouting the scene, they meet a rather curious figure, one they have not determined if they are friend or foe.

Trigger Warnings: descriptive murder details, crime scene details, guns, blood, injuries, cannon typical violence, I think that's it

Word Count: 3,714

A/N: This has been on the backburner for about 2 years, I think, and only now got around to writing it. Like, there’s a whole 10 page doc about this idea. I don't know if its any good but hopefully it makes sense.

Also, there’s a line here that feels topical and I wanna say Free Palestine.

Chapter 2 →

KoS Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Reblogged Fics

Wanda’s room at the Avengers Compound still felt rather… uncomfortable. She had spent months trying to find authentic Sokovian trinkets, crafts and cultural items to remind her of home, but they were hard to come by out here in the states. She filled it with other things, generic room decor like blue candles, and blue shaded lamps, a small hourglass with red sand, and a globe that she had added red push pins to, marking the places she had been to. A guitar with a stand and sheet music laid beside her bed.

She has a pin board that hangs over her desk, salvaged photographs of her family reminding her of a life short lived. One was a family photo, her mother carrying a four-year-old Pietro while her father carried a four-year-old Wanda, bright goofy smiles over the children’s face. Another, an image of her mother holding a baby Wanda and baby Pietro,  as well as a photograph of a young Pietro, a mess of toys and household objects scattered about.

She hoped that keeping mementos of home would bring her comfort. Instead, it brought waves of bittersweetness and nostalgia. Although there was comfort in home, she was also reminded that she would never return there. There was nowhere to return to. Where once stood a war-torn yet proud country remained a pile of ash, and rubble, and death.

She sighs deeply, dropping her clothes in her hamper, having had swapped it out for a somewhat loose fitting, black, repurposed S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. She finished adjusting the standard issue gauntlets and belt, before sitting down on her bed to put on her boots. A soft knocking came from the door.

“Come in,” Wanda’s accented voice calls out as she laces up her boots. “You ready?” Natasha asks as she poked her head through the door. 

“Yeah,” she replies as she stands from her bed.

“Alright then, let’s go, Hill’s contact is waiting for us,” the red-headed assassin says as Wanda approaches her. Natasha also wore a similarly fitting S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, except she wore her own customized gauntlets and belt, along with her usual weapons. 

“Why exactly did we get called in by the FBI?” the brunette asked as both women walked through the corridors of the Compound. 

“Well, one of Hill’s old contacts called in a favor. They’re working a case that seems to be… more aligned with our type of work,” Natasha says cryptically. “You mean aliens, godly beings, Hydra experiments and genocidal robots?” Wanda asks at an attempt at humor.

“Yep, just about sums it up,” Natasha gives her a small smirk as they walk towards the garage. 

“Is there anything we know about the case?” Wanda asks as both Avengers approach Natasha’s Black-colored Corvette.

“There’s been a series of murders at one of the national forests. Fourth body was found about three hours ago. Here’s the file,” Natasha opened the driver’s side door, and handed Wanda a yellow file folder as she sat in the passenger’s seat.

“Since when do we investigate murders?” Wanda asks curiously as she takes the file from Natasha’s hand.

“You’ll understand once you read the file,” she sighs as she begins to drive out of the Compound. 

The file details a series of gruesome attacks, most of them having taken place just a few miles away from the Finger Lakes National Forest, the investigation being led by Special Agent Gregory Miller. All of them had happened in the span of the last four months, each body was found approximately 25 miles away from each other. The file included the postmortem reports of three victims, detailing blackened scratches and long cuts throughout the victim’s entire body, as well as odd, swirl-patterned burn marks along the upper body. Bruises circled the victims’ necks and one of the victims had a sprained ankle, believed to have occurred as they attempted to run from their attacker. The file included forensic photographs of the victims, much to Wanda’s discomfort.

Interviews with the victims’ kin all described them to be acting angry and erratic, before leaving without notification. No victim was known to take any illegal substances, nor were they diagnosed with any ailments that could potentially cause their sudden change in behavior. 

Forensics reports that the attacks seem to be almost animalistic. The blackened nature of the wounds was not due to decay and were not consistent with regular burns. They did not exactly understand what it was. The official determined cause of death for all the victims was strangulation.

Lastly, the report included newspaper clippings describing the attacks to the general public:

Bear attacks or murder? Odd series of fatal attacks in Upstate New York confound authorities

Concerns among citizens of the Upstate area rise as another body is found near the Finger Lakes National Forest. 

The body of Elijah Brown, a 46-year-old accountant from the Upstate area, was found 10 miles away from the outskirts of the National Forest. This is the third victim to be found in the area.

Local law enforcement informed investigators that the injuries and cause of death for the three victims are consistent with bear attacks. Citizens voiced their concerns over the wild creatures making their way to residences and potentially hurting them, their loved ones or neighbors.

Despite this, private sources indicate that authorities are considering it may be due to a new potential serial killer, despite the allegations of the deaths being caused by bear attacks. All three bodies have been found within approximately 25 miles away of each other, all within a four-month time period. 

When confronted with the allegation that it may instead be a serial killer, officer Davis stated, “We are currently waiting on the coroner's report of the victim to determine whether this was a tragic accident or a potential murder. Our investigation team is waiting on these results before determining what is going on.”

Investigators learned from the victim’s son that Mr. Brown was not known for hiking or hunting, putting into question why he had been out in the forest in the first place.

As the community waits for answers, Park officials and The U.S. Fish and Wildlife department advises hikers to remain on clearly marked paths when out and to wear bright or reflective clothing, and hunters are urged to take every necessary safety precaution, including staying in designated hunting areas, avoid refuge areas, and to make sure your certifications are up to date.

“This is…” Wanda interrupts the comfortable silence they had been riding in the last 30 minutes.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, her lips pressed tightly.

“I can see why he called in the favor,” Wanda comments as she closes the file, “do they have any leads?”

“Don’t think so, they would’ve included it in the file,” Natasha answers with a slight shake of her head. Wanda watched as they zipped through a winding road, a lush, autumn-colored forest stretching both in front and behind them. Up ahead, she notices a large “Finger Lakes National Forest” sign, along with other road signs nearby.

“Do you have any idea what it could be?” Wanda presses tentatively.

“Honestly? No. I’ve never seen anything like this,” the Widow replies.

Wanda hummed in acknowledgement. Both women carried on a pleasant conversation, talking about Wanda’s training progress before settling into a comfortable silence as they approached their destination. 

Natasha begins to drive off the main road, following a marked-out path into the forest. The car hit a few bumps as they drove through the beaten path. “I should've taken one of Tony’s cars,” Natasha muttered, earning a silent laugh from Wanda.

After about five more minutes, both Avengers saw the FBI trucks, agents spread throughout the forest in front of them. Natasha pulled up behind one of the trucks, leaving a generous amount of space between them.

“Here, put this on,” Natasha tosses Wanda a navy-blue jacket with yellow letters spelling “FBI” in the back as they get out of the car. “Hill’s contact wants us to blend in as best we can when we get here. Doesn’t want the public finding out that they had to call in the Avengers.” “And the S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform?” Wanda questions as she puts on the jacket. 

“Won’t stand out as much among the other uniforms, and Tony isn’t really funding clothes for missions. We make due with what we’ve got,” explained Natasha as they leave the car and head towards the crime scene.

Bright yellow police tape was wrapped around the trees surrounding the victim. Evidence markers were scarce, whatever evidence of who or what did this was near non-existent. People in white hazard suits investigated the body, taking samples and photographic evidence of the area and victim. Outside the police tape, some agents checked the perimeter, others were working away on laptops. Other forensic investigators seemed to be preparing to transport the body.

Natasha spotted Hill’s contact, a tall, brown-haired man with pale skin and a lean build. His hair was combed back, he wore black framed glasses, and he wore a large jacket, similar to the ones Natasha and Wanda had on. “Perfect timing. Special Agent Gregory Miller, thank you for offering your help,” the man introduced himself with a pressed smile, extending a warm hand to both women, “forensics is finishing up their investigation and sending the data to base as we speak.”

The man subtly cocks his head to the side and lets out a short chuckle. “What’s so funny?” Natasha asks, cocking an eyebrow at Gregory.

“No, no, it’s just,” he gestured to the Avengers’ uniforms, “if S.H.I.E.L.D. was still around, this case would’ve been taken off our hands a while ago.”

“Based on the information you sent us, definitely,” Natasha agrees.

“Yeah, well, anyways, this is James Gutierrez, age 34. A group of hunters went off the designated hunting area and found him. Wounds are consistent with what we’ve seen on the other three victims. Burns, bruises, scratches, all of it. We’ll still need to wait for the coroner’s report to establish the cause of death, but it will most likely be strangulation, just like the rest.”

Wanda was supposed to be listening to what Gregory was saying, but she was not. He repeated everything that had been in the file and although he was discussing the details of the fourth victim, they had still not gleaned any new information. 

Wanda looked around the scene as Gregory continued to talk. She saw the forensics team discuss something between them, and a few were putting away some equipment. A different forensics team was preparing to bag and transport the body. Other agents stood outside the bright yellow tape, discussing things Wanda could not hear from this distance, while others seemed to continue to verify the perimeter.

There was one agent that caught her eye, though. She could not see any distinguishing features from this distance, but she noticed they wore a black hat and jacket, printed with big white letters spelling “FBI.” She tilted her head to the side curiously as she observed the figure that simply stood there, alone. 

The figure seemed to be observing the crime scene, before pulling out a notebook from inside their jacket and writing something down. 

“Who’s that agent, the one in the hat?” Wanda asks out loud, interrupting Gregory from his monologue. “I’m sorry, what?” he asks, his eyes landing on Wanda.

“The agent up there. Their uniform is black and white, not blue and yellow,” Wanda explains.

Natasha follows Wanda’s gaze and clocks the figure immediately.

The figure approached the yellow tape but did not pass it. They subtly craned their neck, observing the victim, before writing something down again. 

“That’s the incorrect uniform,” Gregory says, furrowing his brow.

The figure looks up and accidentally makes eye contact with Wanda. A sudden rush of cold runs up Wanda’s spine, making her shiver involuntarily. They stare for a few moments, their head subtly cocking to the side in curiosity. 

Until something pulls the figure’s attention away as they suddenly look off to their right. Wanda follows their gaze but sees nothing. 

No, not nothing. The trees to the figure’s right were oddly distorted, moving from side to side in small, short waves. Best Wanda could describe it would be that it resembled heat waves radiating off hot pavements and cars. Wanda furrowed her brow in both confusion and curiosity.

But in the blink of an eye, the distortion disappears, the trees standing still behind the crime scene.

“That’s not one of my agents,” Gregory states. 

Wanda watches as the figure quickly puts away their notebook and begins to back away, their eyes never straying from whatever they saw to their right. They turn around and begin to hike up the small hill in front of them. Wanda saw out of the corner of her eye as Gregory reached for his communicator.

“Wanda, go from the right, I’ll take the left,” Natasha commands easily as she begins trailing the suspect.

Wanda nodded as she began running, circling around the right side of the yellow tape. The figure was already up the hill by the time they began their pursuit. Wanda found it odd, though, as the figure did not seem to be running away from them. Their faces gave away no signal of being caught, instead, they had looked at her in curiosity. Their focus was entirely placed on something beside them, beside the crime scene. They did not seem to be running towards something either.

No, they seemed to be leading something away.

Natasha and Wanda ran as quickly as they could, doing their best to avoid tripping over tree roots and rocks, the loud crunch of dead leaves sounding off with every quick step. The figure was fast, maintaining a good distance away from Natasha and her. That was before the stranger came to a sliding stop, staring at something in front of them. They stood quickly and backed up a few steps, their head raised as they stared at something slightly above them. 

Wanda herself began to slow down as she watched the figure do a subtle hand motion, followed by a bright light. A white light flashed in the figure’s hand, a sword magically appearing in their grip. The same cold shiver settled at the base of Wanda’s spine. 

The figure swiftly raises the sword as if to block themselves from something. She watched as the sword was met with brute strength, making it swing to the side forcefully. The figure backed up once more, before throwing an uncoordinated strike at something Wanda could not see.

Wanda tried focusing on whatever the figure was fighting, and suddenly the odd distortion, similar to the one at the crime scene, reemerged. The distortion was large, seeming to be at least three feet taller than the stranger they were pursuing. It moved swiftly, as it seemed to take a swipe at the stranger that stood in front of it, but the figure jumped out of the way just in time.

A low, bellowing sound resonated through the trees, but it sounded faint and far away. Wanda turned her head towards Natasha, “did you hear that?” 

“Hear what?” Natasha looked at Wanda with furrowed brows.

“There was this sound, and there’s something, over there,” Wanda stammers through her words as she turns back to watch the figure. They swing their sword again, and this time, it looks like it made contact with the odd distortion.

“I don’t see anything,” Natasha replied, giving Wanda a confused look.

Wanda continued staring as the distortion seemed to rise and come crashing down over the figure.

They yelled as it fell on top of them, knocking them onto the ground forcefully, their weapon falling out of their grip and their hat falling off their head. Whatever was on top of them had them pinned down as they were struggling to get up. They placed their feet firmly on the ground, attempting to squirm out of the distortion's hold to no avail. They begin kicking up into the air, as if hoping to get the mostly invisible creature off of them.

Wanda hears as Natasha takes out her gun and sees her point it forwards. Her finger hovered over the trigger but did not shoot.  

The figure suddenly screamed in pain, but Wanda could not exactly see what was happening. She watches as they struggle to reach for their sword, the weapon a few inches away from their fingers. The figure still kicked their feet up onto the air, but the distortion would not budge from place. 

Another faint, bellowing noise was heard, followed by the figure’s pained groan. Wanda’s irises flash a dark red color as she extends her hand out, urging the sword to fly into the stranger’s hand.

The figure’s head turns towards the sword, before gripping it tight and stabbing it into the air above them and twisting the blade. The figure kicked up into the air once more with a forceful yell, digging their weapon deeper into the creature’s presumed wound.

Wanda hears the creature roar again, this time louder and clearer than the other times. For a split second, Wanda swears she saw something. An inky black mass that almost resembled a giant canine, but as quickly as she saw it, it disappeared. She almost assumes she imagined it.

The distortion seemed to bob upwards, no longer pinning down the stranger. They crawled backwards quickly, sword still in hand.

“Shoot,” Wanda said suddenly, glancing between Natasha and the odd display in front of them.

“Shoot what? I can’t see anything,” Natasha said, a mixture of confusion and frustration subtly ringing in her voice. 

“Straight forwards, about 5 feet over the suspect,” Wanda instructs, her eyes staring sharply at the scene before her. Natasha shot off two bullets and Wanda watched as the bullets disappeared into thin air. “Hit,” Wanda reports.

The figure jumped up to their feet, not looking back at the two Avengers that stood a couple of feet behind them. They slashed their sword twice into the distortion, and Wanda can only assume that they hit it.

The distortion moved and Wanda saw as it was about to come down on the stranger once more. They swung their sword upwards, the blade facing up to defend themselves from whatever was about to hit them.

The creature made an impact with the sword, the force strong enough to make the figure scream and buckle under the pressure. The same bellowing sound came again, this one louder than the one before. “Shoot, two feet above the suspect’s head,” Wanda commands, watching as the figure rightens themselves and backs up a few steps.

Natasha aims and takes a few seconds before shooting, taking the necessary precautions to not hit their only potential lead. 

She shoots off three more bullets, and Wanda sees as they ricochet off of the distorted creature. The stranger then charges, sword at the ready and seems to stab at the creature. They yell as they try digging the sword in deeper, and then forcefully drags the blade to the side. The figure did not stop until the blade no longer felt any resistance and cut freely through the air. A low, guttural sound reverberated through the forest and the distortion suddenly fell with a hard thud, the figure swiftly moving out of the way before impact.

The two Avengers watched as the figure breathed heavily, staring off into nothing. After a few moments, they groaned loudly, their free hand flying over to their shoulder, their sword in their other hand. Wanda could see as crimson began seeping through the stranger’s fingers. They turned and stared down at where Wanda last saw the distortion on the ground and nudged it with their foot. 

Oddly enough, Wanda could no longer see it, the ground and the trees of the forest remaining as still as ever. 

The figure continued to stare down at the ground, lowering their sword, the tip of the blade touching the dirt and leaves of the forest floor. With a sudden flash of white light, the figure drops the sword into the ground, the blade no longer visible. For the third time, a familiar cold shiver ripped through Wanda’s body.

The figure slowly turns and makes eye contact with Wanda and Natasha, fatigue evident in their face. They continued to breathe heavily as they stared. Without breaking eye contact, they extended their free hand off to the side and made a subtle circular motion. Once again, a bright flash appeared and both Avengers watched as the figure took one step to the side and dropped entirely from their view.

Natasha and Wanda looked at each other, before running up to where they last saw the stranger. Natasha bent down to the ground, running her hand over where the figure had been last, trying to find some explanation of how the stranger disappeared.

Wanda, in turn, approached where she last remembered seeing the distorted figure. She reached out and her hand came in contact with something. She startles and backs away slightly, not having expected to feel anything. 

She shakes her head, throwing away the nervousness and hesitation, before feeling around again. She feels it again, an odd, slimy, sticky texture that makes her grimace. “Natasha, there’s something here,” Wanda announces as she retracts her hand from the invisible creature. 

“What is it?” Natasha asks as she approaches the young brunette. “I-I don’t know, it’s sticky,” Wanda replies, cringing as she rubs her thumb over the rest of her fingers, still feeling the gross texture on her hand. She forcefully waves her hand downwards, trying to get any of the excess goop off of her hand.

“Today keeps getting stranger and stranger,” Natasha mutters, her brows furrowed together, having reached out with her index and middle finger to touch the invisible creature herself. 

“They left their hat behind,” Wanda comments as she notices the piece of clothing laying on the ground.

“We’re gonna need forensics over here,” Natasha announces as she backs away from it.

“And find that person with the sword,” Wanda adds. 

“I know just the right person who can help us with that,” Natasha replied as she pulled out a phone and made a call.

Chapter 2 →

[acoraxia]

gela do you like character design? Cause you're constantly popping off over here. I feel like only someone who likes character design can cook like you do

(and maybe you could teach your ways? A little bit? I would love to learn o7)

HAHAHAHA—no. I like watching it and studying it! I love analyzing character design but drawing it? I’m being held at gunpoint

When it comes to OCs I have to design them otherwise it’s hard to get the point across as to who I’m talking about, how their design translates via text, etc. when it comes to, say, Erlang and Sun Wukong it means a lot of character analysis and figuring out whether or not their outfits work… and then realizing the limits of my skills (I hate armor but armor is VERY MUCH in character for these two designs)

I tend to do SOME form of research into my character designs — this ranges from looking at the original sources (FSYY, JTTW) and then modern depictions of them (Nezha Reborn/New Gods, Dyslite (?), Lego Monkie Kid, etc) and studying how their designs work.

I love New Gods rendition of Erlang but that reads more to me like a.. teenager? Young adult? Version of Erlang rather than the aged post-fsyy soldier we see often depicted in JTTW content

I also have a lot of story telling done with color for their outfits:

You can see hints of green for Wukong (Nuwa) and how there’s bits of red in his hanfu — but it’s not overpowering. You can still see gold and even in his makeup there’s teal. You can tell this is SWK in an outfit that was coordinated to suit him for a specific area/god/etc.

But then with Erlang we see him engulfed in red. The same type of red that resembles wine or drying blood because this is an outfit that (ahem) Su Daji picks out for him. The only bit of gold is the belt/sash holding it all together. This, along with the jade skin and dark blue hair, makes it seem like he’s not human. That’s the point! He’s a demigod and he’s often depicted with unnatural skin color (at least in animated versions):

And then of course there’s accessories! We have Sun Wukong’s iconic cudgel and honestly LMK’s design of it is already very well done that I don’t feel the need to adjust it for my au.. so instead I designed him a mask:

This allows for some of his personality to shine through more! And it is far more intimidating than canon!lmk!swk!!

To put it simply: I don’t like character designing because it is VERY hard for me to translate my thoughts onto a canvas but I enjoy the finished results (most of the time) too much to not try and do it. That and when it comes to my favorite characters I will ALWAYS have fun designing outfits for them 🧡

[lotomber]

INCUBUS BSD MEN x virgin needy fem reader 😉😊😀

Just saying...you can do whatever you want with that...but...

please add chuuya ❤️

Incubus! Chuuya just makes me feel things😳😵 so I just thought about making a threesome with Incubus! Dazai.🫣

Deviant night!

Pairing: Incubus! Chuuya x Incubus! Dazai x Virgin Fem! Reader

Warning: Nsfw, Dub-con, Threesome, their bite has the effect of aphrodisac , slight mentions of Blood, Degradation, Oral, pussy slapping, anal, piv, double penetration, mdni, not proof read

It was finally the end of the semester exams so your friends decided to go clubbing you were not really the party type of person cause you find them tiring but for once you agreed to go with them. The place was full of people dancing intimately with each other with a lingering scent of sex and alcohol. After dancing for a while with your friends you went to have some drinks. As you sat there waiting for your drink, two man came and sat besides you "Seems like you came here to enjoy with your friends!" said the brown haired man, he had chocolaty brown orbs with long lashes and beautiful face. He was accompanied by a shorter handsome man with red hair and deep blue eyes. You were awe struck by their captivating appearance.

"Ah yes, our exam finished today so my friends wanted to celebrate." you replied swirling the drink in your glass.

"Hmm but it doesn't seem like you're enjoying yourself that much?" said the redhead.

"Oh! By the way I'm Dazai and this here is Chuuya, you can also call him doggy if you want to."

"Oi who the hell are you calling doggy you stupid freak!" you couldn't help but chuckle a bit seeing them bicker.

"I'm (name) Seems like you both are good friends" you said sipping your drink.

"Hell no! hmm let's just say this chuuya here is a colleague of mine."

"So you came here to have some drinks with your colleague?"

"Hmm no but we both do come regularly here. But you still haven't answered our question, you don't seem to be enjoying here as much as your friends?"

"Ahh does it seem that way to you? It's just that I don't usually come to places like this so I feel a bit awkward."

"Well there's nothing there to be awkward about here. It's just a club where people come to mingle and enjoy themselves. A perfect place for night! But if you want we can show you something more fascinating" Chuuya leaned closer to you whispering the last part in your ear. You gulped a bit "What do you mean by fascinating?"

"Oh cm'on Darling we both know that you're not that naive! you very well understand what we mean." Yes you very well understood what they meant. You should've refused but maybe it was the alcohol acting up in your system or it was just something so alluring and bewitching about them that you ignored the dangerous glint in their eyes and agreed to them.

Both Chuuya and Dazai are incubus and feed on the sexual energy of humans, a club is the perfect place for them to find their prey and feast on them on a daily basis. But since the moment you entered the club, both of them had their eyes on you cause they sensed you were a virgin and it's rare to find a virgin to feed on so despite their aversion to each other they both agreed to share you.

After that you don't really remember how y'all ended up in a hotel room, the only thing you could feel at the moment were their gentle yet firm touches on your body making you crave for more. As you felt dazai's tongue clashing with yours for dominance while chuuya striped you naked, spreading your legs apart. You twitch a bit as you felt the cold air on your bare pussy but chuuya's grip on your legs remain firm as he leaves dark red and purple hickies on your thighs moving towards your core. You groan as dazai suddenly bares his fang deep in your shoulders as your blood trickles down but instead of pain you felt a sudden rush of heat throughout your body as your breathe gets heavier. You try to clamp your thighs on chuuya as you felt your core aching for a release.

"Tch Doll don't be so impatient we are just get started or are you just a desperate little slut?"

"Mm..m No I..I ahh~" you were cut off by dazai as he starts biting and nibbling your nipple, while kneading your other tit a bit forcefully. You let out a sultry moan as you finally felt chuuya's tongue on your dripping pussy.

"Ahh f..fuck doll you taste so ravishing" he mercilessly starts sucking and slurping your pussy. While Dazai rams his cock in your mouth, you gag on his length struggling to take him fully. He grips yours hair thrusting his length to the back of throat in a to and fro motion as you suck him. You couldn't help but squirm as chuuya suck and glides his fangs on your bud but dazai keeps you in place while shoving his length. Tears fell down your cheeks from the continuous stimulation and as dazai keeps shoving his cock deep bruising your throat. You felt him throbbing in your mouth as he lets out low groans and grunts, cumming in your mouth as you swallow his thick, hot seeds. After a while you also came squirting all over chuuya's mouth as he let out a satisfying moan.

You pant heavily as chuuya pulls you in his lap your back on his chest supporting and helping you calm down from your high. You were still feeling the effect of dazai's bite as you try to rub your hips on chuuya's length trying to gain some friction.

"Hngh You are just a needy slut aren't you! All desperate to whore herself out." You felt your pussy throbbing and getting more aroused from how chuuya degraded you.

"Ha ha Looks like this whore really does like to be humiliated huh" the brunette said as he spread apart your legs aligning his cock on your wet entrance. You mewl and whine as he grinds his tip on your folds.

"Ahh Mmm please d..don't tease me I..I can't take it"

"Oh princess then tell us what you want, beg for it like the desperate slut you are!" Your could have never expected yourself doing something like this but right now you were just desperate to be relieved from this agonizing pain in your cunt.

"P...please i...i want you" you whisper as you tried to hide your embarrassment. Dazai slaps your pussy hard "Say it loudly princess or else you won't get what you want" slap* slap*

" Ahh Ahh w..wait I...please I beg you please fuck me" not waiting anymore dazai slides his cock in your pussy slowly stretching you out. You whine and moan all while adjusting to his length. Dazai's eyes roll back as he grunts keeping your thighs open with a hard grip. As dazai bottoms out chuuya lifts your hips a bit adjust his length on your butt hole.

"I can't take two of you!" you try to protest but chuuya's grip remain firm on your body.

"Oh don't worry you can take it doll, We'll make sure you do!" your weight fell on chuuya as you felt his and dazai's cock barging in your butt hole and pussy at the same time.

"f..fuck ease up a bit darling, you're squeezing too hard does it feel that good?"

"I..I can't help ittt" you let out a dragged moan as chuuya bounces you on his lap all while dazai thrusting in you at the same time. Chuuya leaves wet kisses all over your nape as both of them mercilessly rails you. Neither of them had the marcy or patience to slow down as they kept fucking you with such vigor. You felt the heat in your abdomen as the knot breaks and you come undone all over both of them. You kept chanting their name like a mantra as they kept fucking you through your orgasm. You felt your vision blurring and your body melting from all the overstimulation, you couldn't comprehend what was happening anymore and you were just scared from how good it felt! Soon you felt their cock throbbing as they filled both your holes with their hot cum. You went limp as both them halted their movements only to start moving again.

"n..no please no more I can't" you beg them to stop as they just turn deaf to your pleas.

"Shh darling just relax, and let us ruin you!"

[rel124c41]

I FEEL SO WONDERFUL RIGHT NOW. THROUGHOUT HEAVEN AND EARTH, I ALONE AM THE HONORED ONE. vox

When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

tags: blood and injury, protectiveness, strippers & strip clubs, assassination attempt, fallen angels, morality ambiguity, blood and violence, developing relationship, unresolved romantic tension, romantic gestures

word count: 6,646

i. You are a dog.

Not in the physical presence. Your teeth were soft squares instead of cutting fangs. When you got happy, there was no tail to wag back and forth. In the placement of paws, you have two hands that experience a galaxy of motions and sensations. Truthfully, you are far more superior to a mortal canine. 

But here you are starting to learn that you could be a dog. In the not physical presence way. 

“Are there going to be schedules for when I must use the bathroom too?”

If you want to be a dog, the first lesson is to learn to wait. You must wait all day until he returns and if he is late, you must learn to wait longer. 

In a gliding stroke, you move your palm down to Vark’s first dorsal fin down to his second dorsal fin. Vark descends into dark water as you lift your wet hand out the tank. Droplets bleed off your fingernails and join back into the electronic blue. Is being a shark better than being a dog?

“Do you want an invitation? Because I feel if I did extend one to you, you would just refuse to go.”

“You cannot be so certain.”

“Why I certainly can, dear. I have actually calculated,” all electronics in the room besides his face start to spin in a rainbowing Wheel of Fortune circle and, after a beat, the three red numbers shine at you, 1, 0, 0, “that there is a hundred percent chance that you would have said no to an invitation.”

You blink your eyes which have not been closed in a long time. They burn and tear up like someone has squeezed lemon juice into them. Waterline soaking, you hum at his answer and press your cheek onto the edge of Vark’s tank.

“You cannot control where I go, Vox.”

“Come now, dear. No need to be so despondent. You would grow ill stepping into one of the sinner’s clubs. That is certain.”

“You are certain?”

“Wholly reassured. Or should I say holy? Another look at the statistics?” The rainbowing wheels start to move again.

“No, no,” you chuckle. You start piano-ing at the top of the water, hoping Vark or his hammerhead brother will come back up to the surface. Afterall, they will be your only company for the five, twelve, forty-three hours that Vox could possibly be gone. “I know that you’re right.”

“Then why the long face?”

Rearranging yourself, you finally look down from your platform. Piles of folders and paper cover the long conference table but the demon busies himself with a tablet. One claw slides and slides up the touch-screen, sometimes momentarily stopping to type something. 

The room is emptied of everyone but you two. This is how most of your time is spent in VoxTech tower — a room with only you and him. You have been in rooms with Valentino and Velvette momentarily but you are kept out of sight more often than not.

Perhaps, you reconsider, staring down at the demon, you are more caged dove rather than dog.

“I need to be out,” and you do actually pull your lips into that long face he mentioned, frowning delicately. “And I have been out before! So I see no reason that if I want to come, you restrain me from coming.” You behaved those times too: blending into the dark and simply observing as per Vox’s instructions, trying to figure out the reason for your question. 

A strip club. More importantly, Valentino’s strip club. It was an entirely new environment and perhaps your answer could be unearthed there. It was a zenith of sin. If you pulled back all the grimy skin and maneuvered the oil-black bones, you might find a heart within it.

Go where sin is. Find what you are lacking. 

You were still so unsure what those words meant. They scrambled your brain like an electric current and you cried over the instructions more than once. Given a command, you obeyed. Now here you are in Hell.

“Please.”

Vox is unmoved by the polite word. Manners are lacking in Pentagon City but that does not necessarily mean they are missed. Still enamored with his work, Vox tuts, “that isn’t going to work on me.”

“You know I could walk out of this tower right now.”

It was entirely the truth. You never lied – an old habit that stuck with you. There were no deals tethering to stay like a leash and no blackmail that could command you to sit like a biscuit shaped treat.

“Oh yeah, and where would you go?” Vox asks, still distracted.

“Lucifer.”

That works on him. 

His claw stops scrolling on his tablet. Applying the brakes to all his motions like a car when a child runs in front of it, Vox freezes at your words. You worry that the tablet might be broken in his grip. Underhanded tactics left a rotten taste on your tongue. You watch the flat-screened demon finally set down the tablet and look at you. Rewards are a palate cleanser though.

Gracefully, you stand up on your platform and start to descend. Irritated, Vox walks around the conference table and marches in your direction. “You wouldn’t daRE.” His voice breaks off into a hurricane of sparks and distorted frequency. “You wouldn’t risk it.” 

When you two collide like an actor and actress embracing on a stage or knuckles on the offending face in a punch, Vox pushes one of those blue claws to your sternum. Enough where it hurts. You hold your face as his panic translates into frustration. 

“Two hours. I stay in the shadows.”

“Thirty minutes. If I even see your face on one of my monitors, all of your privileges are revoked.”

“Two hours. I stay in the shadows; not a single camera or person will see me.”

All of his anger bubbles up and you watch it ripple over him in a single wave of static. When the tide is done, he negotiates, “An hour and thirty minutes. And I can get you some more of the boring sweets from Franklin’s and Rosie’s.”

“Normal, non-cannibalistic ones, you mean?”

“Yes, yes, that.”

How could you refuse such a treat? You smile a cryptic smile that Vox hates.

ii. You are a dog, but not a dog that protects. 

This caused people around you strife. What is a loyal dog unless it does not show its fangs and attack its owner’s offenders? You could not move your body to kill any soul and you do not think you ever will be able to. This morality clause ruined your first impression with both Valentino and Velvette. 

Which is why the limousine feels as cramped as a rat trap. 

Hands clenched on your thighs, you try to avoid eye contact at all times. Down, your eyes observe the tiny crescents cut deeply into your palms. You are butchering your skin like a manic secretary snapping a paper-puncher into overdue documents. Hunched over like you have been scolded, you do not even give a reaction when Valentino purposefully blows red smoke a whole 150 inches so it curls around your face and up into your hair. 

Accept and learn to swallow abuse. You only have to endure this another few miles then you can teleport into the club.

Right now, you try not to focus on the words Velvette had pierced at you before you and the trio entered the limousine: “Why are we bringing rubbish to this meeting? Vox, does your pet need to follow you everywhere?” Well, those words had not been the ones to cause you to wilt. Though the entire conversation was unpleasant.

Timidly, you shifted your weight. The chauffeur was of similar deposition as you, head bent down and one hand opening the door, he too shifted his weight uneasily. He probably moved more out of restive than worry. 

“Velvette, did we not all agree that they can come and go as they please?”

The red-haired woman shimmers at the reminder. In the beginning, she advocated for tying you down with a contract, making you truly palpable to any of their whims. She shoves the shoulder of Vox and snaps her teeth in his face. “Yeah, but not on a big night like this.

“We’re making our footing as the Vees. You’re being interviewed by Katie Killjoy tonight. Valentino is debuting that spider pornstar on stage. This is a heavy social media hitter tonight. Are you really jeopardizing that so they can play Sherlock fucking Holmes?”

You would admire her for advocating for what she wants, if it did not affect your plans. 

“I have to agree. A night like this would be busy. We will not be able to keep an eye on our little angel.” Valentino flirts his teeth at you in a rising smile. You shuffle your eyes back to the pavement. Why cannot they have this conversation in the limousine – you cannot enter unless the three overlords entered first.

At the mention of that forbidden word, Vox points at a claw up at Valentino’s face. “If they want to come, they can. Can you name one incident where they have jeopardized anything?” He turns his eyes towards Velvette, challenging her in addition.

A pregnant pause hangs in the air, the two trying to rack their memory. When they turn up empty, Vox whirls on his feet in a burst of New Year's sparkling energy. “See. Trust in me.” He moves into the space that you and the chauffeur have made by the door. Not once offering you a look of acknowledgement. 

Still Velvette wants to make her displeasure known.

“They won’t protect us if something goes wrong. We provide them with protection and get what in return? Nothing?” Finally they all start piling into the limousine, a dance of limbs ending in claws and delicate legs. Demons do truly move like oil sliding into water. “There isn’t even a contract in place to ensure they won’t act out.” 

This is a complaint you have heard numerous times before. You enter last, head bowed.

Contracts, contracts, contracts. The most saccharine that any of the three Vs had been around you was when trying to rope you into a contract. Hand-feed fruits like blueberries and kiwi slices, caressed in four arms in a lover, or dissected apart by sweet nicknames. Those failures of seduction always made you amused because they repeatedly did them. Did they really think that you would fall into temptation or indulgence? 

All the gilded splendor of their offers were proven to be rusted as you already knew they all collectively wanted you on a leash. You earned trust by being benevolent. Yet, their complete faith you will never have. Honestly, you doubt the trio fully trusted each other. 

Always ready to backstab. What a sad environment to live in. The phantom pain on your spine grows heavy and itchy. Grateful that everyone has climbed into the car, you take a seat. You sit behind the divider between you and the chauffeur. A position where all three of them could keep an eye on you. Valentino takes the opposing head of the limousine, directly across you with Vox on the right and Velvette on the left. Twin cat demons slink into Valentino’s lap and an incubus throws his arm over Velvette’s shoulder. A bunny demon leans her weight into Vox’s side.

“They’re obedient, not protective,” he reminds Velvette. “We place faith in them to eventually pay our numerous favors in turn while providing exceptional protection. Think back to when we were human and put trust in people. Try to resurrect that part of you.”

Velvette huffs and steam floods out her nose. Having seemingly lost the argument, she begins to turn her attention to her phone. Merciless in her preparation for this night. The Vees are still newborn fawns in a pasture of grown deer. This is a critical stepping stone.

That was multiple turns and roads ago. Now you are waiting and waiting to arrive at the club. Valentino had already sent the tallest twin to lounge against you. All so he had a show of you squirming in discomfort. Then, Vox grew agitated and sent an electric current through the bunny demon’s ear; she too sandwiched your other side, not out provocation but protection. Not that you would protect her. So you sit like a taunt ball, fingers clenching and just wanting to teleport away.

You yank your neck away when the yellow-furred cat starts to press kisses across the thin covered larynx, afraid the taste of your skin will burn her tongue. You expect no one to say anything until –

“Valentino, call back your cat,” Vox snaps, hyperfocused on his phone. 

“Oh come now, they don’t mind~”Valentino grins slyly at you. “You don’t, right, love?” He forces a tiny pout as if your rejection of the cat demon’s affection will break his heart.

Vox sighs out in a fizzling tone. Still not looking up from his device, he instructs, “(Name), go on ahead. Remember to avoid people but cameras especially.” You do not need to be told twice, grateful for the escape. You straighten up and try to gauge the distance from the club along with a location free of people or cameras. Following the thread of allure, you think you finally find a spot until Vox interrupts.

“And (Name).”

“Yes?” You do not why but you think he sounds like he will wish you good luck.

“Only an hour and thirty minutes.”

“Of course,” your physical form disappears in a clap of gold light. Where leather had hugged the back of your spine, you fall into the embrace of sheets. Hair billows around and under you. The embrace of those two women were gone. Pink light finds you alone and lays itself over like a lover. Staring up at the ceiling, you murmur your reminder and last connection to your old life, “Find what you are lacking.” 

iii. You are a dog. You were once a stray though.

When you arrived in Hell, like everyone else, you had no home to call your own. There was no benevolent greeting man to guide and explain this discord and its system. You were equipped with nothing, bare-backed and face streaked with grime. Thrown into the den of lions, you would have to figure it out by yourself. 

You figured out one thing early on: the type of dog you were was not coveted. Standing in the middle of reds and blacks, your wide eyes watch as one then two then three citizens of Pentagon City peeled their sticker-like selves off the background of this unknown place and raced towards you, trying to kill you.

You ran until the bones in your throat hugged the last bit of oxygen out of you. Spent, you crashed into an alleyway and slept. Tomorrow, you will search like you were instructed to, tomorrow.

News spread quickly: an unknown angelic presence had fallen into Pentagon City. Not an exorcist angel – that was certain as they (you) were unarmed. Even without wings, witnesses had testified repeatedly that it was an angel that had landed. Stable on their feet, witnesses said, unlike how sinners collapsed like unwinged bugs to the brimstone below. An undeniable presence of holiness leaking from their pores. It was an angel, flightless and apparently defenseless too. Pentagon City had never been abuzz with such intense excitement before.

It made sense that the one who would find this angel would be an overlord with eyes on every street of Pentagon City, through every camera, television screen, and pinged cell-phone. 

It made no sense that this overlord would offer you a place of sanctuary when you offered nothing in return.

It made no sense that this overlord would not immediately harm or sell you out to Lucifer.

It made no sense that this overlord would look upon you so kindly.

iv. You are a dog. 

You bite.

A dog eventually does bite when provoked. In the past, under heavenly orders, you easily and proudly crunched your teeth into those who had made God upset. Being untethered to God now, you had forcibly put yourself on a muzzle. A dog must learn to act only when given orders.

This though, you agonize, sliding down from the bed, has been an awful time without orders. Sad eyes glance around the empty bedroom. You had been given an order long ago and clenched it to your heart like an asthmatic with their inhaler. At least you knew you were behaving when you were searching – which is why you glance forlorn at the room.

The bed is covered in billowing pink and white sheets, frills and all. A heart-shaped bed-frame rises up and kisses the wall. The only other object is a bare nightstand with three drawers. Should those be searched? You are starting to figure out the reason for this odd bedroom when you glance at the hued lighting of delicate crimson. 

You trail one finger on the hopefully clean blanket and start to kill the angelic presence inside of you. Flickers of it usually came when you teleported so you had to do this first and foremost.

All species released a susurrating aura of human, angelic, or demonic energy. The stronger the individual, the more consistent and powerful this spiritual humming was. In Hell, you had to learn to bottle the raging riptides of yourself until the point where you felt you could fall into comatose. Snuffing that angelic presence felt like killing yourself, lowering your heartbeat to a lethal turtle pace.

Oh, how you hated being here. Perhaps you should not have bargained when the four angels came to –

The door clicks open. You jolt and turn towards it. Laughter dies down in a trickle as you all observe and gauge each other. Two demons – one male and one female, leaning amorously into each other. You make no move to move until the male says, “Ha, two for the price of one. Looks like I picked the right room. Lucky me.” 

Your feet have never carried yourself faster before. My apologies “I was just rearranging the room for you. I’m not part of the entertainment.” You might not be hellborn or a sinner, but your naivety has long since vanished away, thanks to Vox’s guidance. “Enjoy the service,” you sing and try to slip past the pair.

“Now, now, surely I can have –” the hand going to touch you is drawn back, fingertips smoldering. 

You reel back in your angelic presence, thankfully slipping past them. You are entering a labyrinth with cameras but it is entirely better than staying in a wine room? Champagne room? Agh, whatever Valentino called them. “Enjoy the service,” a cryptic and gentle smile pulls up your lips. 

In an instant, you contort yourself to disappear into the shadows. 

To be frank, you had been searching endlessly for what God deemed you were lacking. The specifics were so hard to nail down. Emotionally, physically, mentally, monetary, company, etcetera. Was a spiritual deficiency your ailment? God had peered at you and noticed a hole.

In one frenzied night, you shoveled holes all around the outside premise of VoxTech’s tower. You dug into the dirt and tried to unground the roots of your miserable brain. Vox took your soil hands, wiped them down with a wet rag, and then employed Public Relations to cover up the incident before someone gossiped about the enigmatic holes. Another day, you ventured into Cannibal Colony on your lonesome to dissect the organs laid upon the streets, feverish in your efforts. When you did succumb to an actual fever, Vox brought medicinal products to you.

The point was, you had been trying for a very long time to find what you were lacking. Success was not coming easily. As you snake through foggy ropes of cigarette smoke and tunnel past barely dressed sinners, you worry that you might never find what you need to reconnect with God.

Condemnation had enshrouded you for quite some time. 

You dodge a security camera in the ceiling and continue on your route. 

The outline rules of tonight are that no cameras or people must interact with you. Or at least to avoid interaction with a person beyond the time where they might be able to remember the characteristics of your clothes or the shape of your features. Shifting into a darkened corner of the bar, you decide you could safely spend thirty minutes here before relocating. 

Do not order anything that is attention-catching, not too suspiciously bland or suspiciously expensive. (How well behaved you are.) You order a margarita and shift your attention towards the stage.

The horns on the gazelle-mimicking demon are gorgeous. The black ridges swooped elegantly and curled like a handcrafted blown glass-piece. Fragments of magenta light cover them. When she pirouettes, amethyst jumps to join magenta. When she dips her body, amber crawls sleepily into the raised bits of the black horns. It is a magnetizing sight that no other sinner seems to be appreciating.

Your original animosity towards sinful things had withered after such long exposure. You could not keep prejudice close to your heart forever. Beauty was in all of the created and fabricated world, you learned that it could even be found down below. 

Admiring art did not bring back your angelic status. 

You sit admiring the dancers that come and go. As they strip down to bras or boxers, you take measured sips of your margarita – not too fast nor too slow. 

Around the time you order a second one, the Vees have arrived into the club. Silently, you watch the three trickle in. Valentino strides in first with that newly contracted spider-mimicking demon on his arm. Yet in front of all of them is the cameraman of Katire Killjoy, walking backwards as the crowd parts for its sinful Wise Men. Animatedly, Killjoy is walking side by side with Valentino, lips rapid in their motions and waving her microphone, flanked by Velvette and Vox.

You squeeze your lime into the clear liquid, observing.

They move like this: in the heart of the club, talking and positioned to stand in front of the stage; towards the bar as the spider demon poses for the camera; Killjoy moves onto Vox and their interview starts; they walk down the center of the club again, and then still talking, all six (the Vees, Valentino’s new contractee, Killjoy, and her cameraman) spill into a VIP room, out of sight.

It has been thirty minutes. You leave money on the bartop and find another shadow to cloak yourself in. Avoiding cameras is a difficult task when Vox puts them on almost every inch of the places he is affiliated with. Grace is an angelic trait so you manage well enough for another thirty minutes. 

An anonymous and fleeting face to all who see you and invisible to the security footage always. When an hour has arrived, you decide to check in the VIP for what you are lacking. You snake past the bull-mimicking guards and find a corner to evanesce into. 

Shadows are comforting like enshrouding wings. They blanket your skin and sleep on top of you lightly. You lose yourself in the comfort until – huh? A gunshot – those were normal in Hell but why so incredibly close?

“Vox!”

“Fucking shit!”

“Shit shit shit!”

Your eyes snap towards the cacophony. The scene bleeds into your eyes. Where Velvette and Valentino once lounged lazily on the leather couch, they lean forward with more curses falling off their lips. Pink spider demon reels back though on his seat, one leg up as if judging if he should bolt. Katie Killjoy is in the same pose, leaning back as her cameraman freezes. She stands across from Vox – Vox – Vox –

His screen is shattered. A piercing of black lodged into the bottom right corner of his screen. Something you can visibly see through. Spindly branches of cracks drift up his face to shock eyes. A few dark, lifeless fragments fall into his open right hand. 

The assassin who shot him moves out of his own shadow and darts between Katie Killjoy and her cameraman. Imp, hellborn, relatively short but was obviously making up for it with speed. He raises his gun.

Your heart spikes. Your orders! What were your orders in a situation like this – Stay in the shadows. Stay in the shadows. Stay in the – you peel yourself off the wall like a sticker and teleport towards your G – towards Vox. It is instinctual and that worries you. The past turtle tempo of your heart crescendos. You explode into the scene with a bright gold clap.

When you arrive in the middle of the duel assassinaton attempt and interview, you are crouched on the ground, one hand pulled to the back of your spine, grasping at nothing. 

The room's atmosphere twitches and explodes. 

You had released too much of yourself and burnt half of the assassin’s face. Spiderwebs of charred flesh crawling across the left as blood leaks heavily through the cracks like a molten cake. His expression is stricken, arms wildly failing as he reels back from what had burnt him. No one has truly computed you in their mind besides Vox. Even though snowflake holes are starting to burn into the skin of Katie Killjoy and the cameraman, Vox is stunned instead of harmed. He knows that it is you he is staring down at but he cannot find it in himself to believe it.

At least, until he sees that cryptic, gentle smile on your face pointed towards the assassin, and with a panic snap of his fingers, Vox kills every electronic in Valentino’s club. 

It all moves as slow as your usual subdued heart. A symphony of glass breaking rains over the air. The camera explodes into blue bursts, happy gold fireworks snow down from the ceiling as lightbulbs pop one by one, cell-phones hum and die into blackening coal. Night colors the stage in an instant. Shrieks splatter the messy painting. 

You feel God in your ribcage, beating happily into your sternum. Your heart swells in its pace. Your soul pushes and pushes, reaching until you finally are able to grasp it.

In the nebulous, indistinguishable black, a glowing gold, pointed oval leaf lights up the scene. In a rapid move, the gold drags itself through black in one broad, crescent stroke. Losing its form and turning into a racing comet of light. As quickly as it came, it leaves. 

Hand emptied of your spear, you reach out into the black and put two fingers into the new mouth you have just ripped open in the demon’s throat. The squish of his larynx and torn muscles are warm. Like sticking your finger into a fresh loaf of bread, pleasant and heavenly. In a static current, you send yourself – the essence of your soul – into the bleeding cavern and the assassin dies. 

Flesh, bone, and skin explode in one quick burst. You leave no evidence of his existence. Incinerating him down into the ground until nothing remains but a black, smoking spill on the wood where your presence accidentally burned. 

Softly, as if dazed or sleepy, you blink open your eyes. They water gently and you blink out the burn. Hm? Father? You stumble on your feet and turn, open-mouthed from your heavy breaths, to stare at the only light source available: the monitor of Vox’s face, where he is in a similar stupor as you.

You have been with them (him, after he picked you up from the streets) for three years, eight months, and fifteen days. Not once in that expanding time had you acted out in a hostile manner. 

Croaking, you question the man, ““V̴̥͔̠̠̺̲͕͓̓ͅő̴̤̗̪͈̥̲͕̝̣͙x̷̡͍̳͕͖̙͓̭̖̩̺̞̀̓͛͋̔̕?” 

v. You are a dog. Your owner means everything to you.

Your previous owner was your Father before … before you had started to lack something. Never once did you question him. Never once did you disobey him. Never once did you have the audacity to suggest anything to him. Unlike your younger sister Sera who once openly suggested the exterminations and your older brother Lucifer who once openly suggested giving humans free will, you remained tight lipped and docile. Gabriel begged for you to propose anything – even a new species of insect for the human world.

“Start out small, insignificant. Something that won’t even cause a ripple. Please, just suggest something for this meeting; we’re worried about you.”

You did not see your ideas as mediocre rather as unnecessary ideas. As a council member, you should have openly expressed yourself but your tongue blocked your words like heavy metal bars. You saw no reason to bark, just to listen and obey.

And this saddened your Father, enough where he sent four of your brothers and sisters to – Suddenly, you stumble in both your thinking and footing, falling into bed with Vox. 

The flat-screened man groans under you, a shaken bundle of pained frequencies of varying pitches. His screen flashes an error screen and you wince in sympathy. Wildly, you search the ground for what you tripped on. With a shake, you manage to detach yourself from the tangled net of leather straps of a BDSM bondage top. Ugh, why is this the only room without cameras and devices?

With haste, you turn back to Vox who you had quickly dragged away from before Katie Killjoy could press you for questions. His breathing is glitched and uneven. His eyes are pinched in pain which worries you. Chest to chest, you lean over him and dig your hands nervously into pink and white billowing sheets by his monitor. 

“Vox? Vox?” You hesitate on shaking him because you would rather not be striked in the face. But he grew so quiet and cold when you grabbed his hand and a worm named worry is squirming around in the apple core of your stomach. “Vox? Are you okay? Answer me please.”

A dog is useless without its owner.

Gripping the sheets tighter, you rattle them and plead, “Vox, do I need to call an ambulance? Do you want Valentino or Velvette here?”

“Don’t … Don’t let either of th-th-those fuckers see me right no-ow.”

The worm in your stomach stops writhing around at the sound of his glitched yet alive voice. With a sigh of relief, you push your lips into a tight smile. “Copy that.” You are grateful that Vox is finally starting to open his eyes. It takes a few blinks until neon blue pupils are locked onto you. Your gratefulness is ripped apart when he springs up and shouts. 

“Get off me!”

Obeying, you fall off the bed. It is an entirely innocent position to you as you really have no sexual desire written in your code. To Vox however … you leaning over him, hands pinning him on both sides, and then to add whip cream to the shit-sundea, you had a knee up on the bed and your crotch resting on his leg … you sent an entirely different message into his hard-drive of a brain. Seeing the disgust in his eyes, you fall back at least two feet from him.

You two rest in ballooning silence, afraid to break it. Guilt twists your hands in painful circles. The technologized demon groans as he starts to slide up into the bed, rising up. He scans the champagne room you had brought him into and then intelligently moves to slide off the bed. 

He stumbles and his screen flashes a worrying rainbow. With a yelp, you run forward and gently push him back to his feet when his knees give in. This time you will have to disobey and refuse to let him go. You tightly grip on his left arm and scan him over.

The crack on his screen is Worry Central for you. You have yet to see an overlord injured and Vox being the first one leaves an unpleasant feeling on your tongue. That must be your angelic roots, your sympathy is a bottomless bottle that can make rivers into lakes into oceans. Softly, you stare at him as he stares back guarded. 

“You never answered my question.”

“You threw so many at me.”

“Are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“An ambulance will attract the media’s attention. You were smart to get my attention to shut down the cameras. Someone will be able to fix me up at VoxTech.”

“But are you okay,” you press, frowning. 

“I’m fine.” His claws are tightly gripping your arm as if he is afraid you will slip through like sand. You can feel that electric pulse of his dead heart and you see the nervous white flickers breaking off the top of his antennas. 

“I am a seraphim,” you confess. You wince at your wording momentarily, “Was a seraphim. I know that you, Velvette, and Valentino had placed bets … though that was three years ago … on which type of angel I used to be. So, whoever said ‘seraphim’, um, congrats.” 

His claws relax. The needle pokes he had drawn into your flesh start to paint five, delicate, cherry colored tears down your arm. You ignore the flame of pain to gently smile at him.

“Fuck, I had thought dominion angel.”

“H-Had you?” You laugh, smile growing.

“Yeah, can we just say you are dominion if they ever ask you. There was a lot of money and contracts riding on that bet.”

“Yeah, I’ll say dominion instead of seraphim.”

“Thank you.”

You are so shocked that Vox would use any manners that you accidentally rip yourself away from him. Oh, that is not good, you realize, watching the smile you had just gotten to grow delete itself off his monitor. Simultaneously, his body also seems to jolt away from you. Floundering, you say, “Sorry, I–.” You just effectively crushed that entire milestone. 

There is a deep desperation in you to regain that short-lived kindness from Vox. He was kind sometimes. It was as rare and as brief as a shooting star.

“No, it’s fine.”

Vox banishes the atmosphere with a wave of his hand. His dismissal hurts. You blink as an awful thought dawns on you, had you been imprinting on him? Did his approval start to mean something along the way? Before you can chase the idea, he starts towards the door, a self-assured voice returning, “Well, I got a mess to clean up. The head of Public Relations will need to be called if Velvette hasn’t already done it. Ugh, that bitch Killjoy is going to be such a headache. Hypnotism should be easy though … cunt always on her phone.” He grasps the doorknob. “And Valentino’s going to bitch about the lights and those fucking tacky carpets. What a mess. Assassin should've been better at his goddamn job. And –” his voice scratches and he suddenly turns around, the blue outlined eye growing in size “-- and you’re a seraphim.”

You jump at the static in his voice. The back of your thighs met the disorganized sheets of the sex-scented bed. Should you have kept that secret – he is an overlord of Hell – that type of information is valuable even if you were a fallen seraphim – what was he going to use it for – what would he be doing with you now – is this !

“That makes Lucifer your brother?”

Should you call it off? After three years of companionship, was this the moment where you needed to run? 

“Yes.”

“Then, haven’t you gone to him? Wouldn’t he – do you think he would kill you?”

Firmly, you shake your head. “My brother and I were close. If I was to go there, I am sure that I would be provided a home but –” You had considered leaving before but – “but if I were to live with him, he would shelter me away from Hell. I was told to find something here by our Father. I need to find that before I return to Heaven.”

This Vox knew. This Valentino and Velvette knew. You were ‘sent’ to Hell to find something that you lacked. Velvette had joked a fun personality was what you were missing and Valentino had hypothesized that you were lacking a proper sex life. Vox never guessed though, thinking it boring.

None of them had faith that you would actually be returning to Heaven.

You still dream of it vividly: the day of your voluntary fall from Heaven. 

Four of your siblings were sent to severe your soul from God and end your life. Originally, even you were under the impression that you would accept it without resistance. You were a good dog. You had kneeled and accepted the order. When Sera had brought down at her claymore to cut your head from your body, instinctual will pulled you to teleport away from the swinging blade. You never expected it and neither did the four of your siblings.

To think you had a stronger will to live than to obey your Father brought you close to hysterical sobs.

With that boiling sensation under your skin, the sting of holding back tears inflaming your nose, you cut down all four of the seraphims sent to kill you. Into their red stomach, your blade had fallen and sliced. Never deep enough to kill but immobilize. You darted, leapt, swung under, jumped above, and all around danced in a hurricane of blades and thumping angelic power. Not one hit landed on your skin.

Upset that you were acting out, you stood in the aftermath and cried, “Father, how can I make you forgive me!”

“Go where sin is. Find what you are lacking, (Name).”

Cutting all six wings over your back was agonizing but it was no worse than hearing your poor little sister Sera, caterwauling after you, your name mournful on her lips as you voluntarily fell into Hell. And the closest you had felt to Heaven after three years of living in Hell was when you killed that demon this afternoon. To protect –

You risk a glance at Vox as he stares at you as if he is seeing you for the first time. “I – I just need to find what my Father said I was lacking. Lucifer would want me to stay though. I do not hold any hard feelings for my older brother and would go to him if I had to.”

“And you haven’t gone to him yet? After everything?” He talks like you are mentally impaired, disbelief surfing in his static. 

You understand what he is referring to – the abuse from Velvette and Valentino, the underhand tactics to get you roped into a contract, and the hatefulness of Vox. All of it really should have repelled you away. You should have been gone from the Vees’ resisting grip before it had driven you to kill someone, hellish or not. Though, you did kill someone for someone.

With a gentle, angelic, almost cryptic smile that only seraphims are capable of, you say, “I happen to enjoy the company I keep.”

Vox short-circuits with a grumble, appalled at the very idea of you and your inane ways. You close in towards him. He turns his face down, running a clawed hand across it. Offering up the hand that he had previously pierced, you say, “And why have I not been banished? After everything?”

He does not take your hand, staring at it incredulously, and replies, “The company … yours is exceptionally less awful than Velvette’s or Valentino’s.” He lifts up his face, red hovering over a bluish-gray screen. Anger or embarrassment probably. “Though it is troublesome.”

When he walks out the champagne room to fix the numerous plights of the night, you follow, faithful and obedient.