#it felt like my spine was going to collapse in on itself | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pretentious-blonde · 3 months ago

Text

discovery

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: both you and steve discover some information that really should have remained buried

warnings: therapy, canon stranger things lore, so violence and death, lowkey blackmail???

a/n: i got a distinction on my essay so gets go!! here we are into the story's real drama, where i wanted this to go from the start so sorry if it's a little shorter, but it's only the beginning.

series masterlist

Steve quickly slammed his car door behind him, his nikes hitting the tarmac floor. He was five minutes late and knew his therapist wouldn’t really chastise him—still, the knot in his stomach refused to unravel as he rushed toward the entrance.

He blamed you, in the best possible way, for those extra minutes he’d spent tangled in bed. Your pout had always been impossible to resist.

He’d claimed that he had to see Robin for breakfast the following morning, and he was grateful you never questioned the odd shiftiness in his tone. You had to work the next day, making it the perfect excuse. But the second you looked so disappointed that you couldn’t come along, wanting to pick up the conversations from the other night at the bar, he caved and stayed the night.

Those big, pleading eyes of yours were gonna be the death of him.

That turned into sharing coffee over the covers, lingering kisses that inched from sweet to teasing, and hush-hush morning bliss under rumpled sheets. Next thing he knew, he was barreling across the car park, hair still mussed from where your fingers had combed through it not even an hour prior.

And now here he was—running past the receptionist without so much as a nod, abandoning their usual routine of morning pleasantries.

He pushed open the familiar door with more force than intended, breath hitching from the sudden stop. Dr Avery was already on his feet, adjusting the sleeves of that soft wool cardigan, the kind that looked completely at odds with the decor. Beneath the bright overhead lighting, the doctor’s polite smile glowed.

“Steve,” he greeted, pleasantly unruffled. “Good to see you.”

He bent forward, hands on his knees like he’d just run a sprint.

“Hey—Hi. Sorry I’m—uh—late. I got… tied up.”

He cringed internally the moment he said it, cheeks colouring at the memory of exactly how he’d been tied up—not literally, but definitely preoccupied. He cleared his throat, straightening up in a way that hopefully didn’t look too sheepish.

“No worries,” the doctor assured him, ushering him inside. “Come on in.”

The door clicked shut behind them, the sound sounding in the empty hallway. The room itself was the same as always: soft yellow lamp in the corner, plush chair facing Dr Avery’s own seat. A bookshelf lined one wall, books stacked neatly with spines that looked barely touched, and not a single family photo anywhere.

He always found that strange—like it was a stage set rather than a personal space.

He collapsed into the chair, sinking deeper than expected, exhaling a bit too loudly. In the reprieve, he could hear the dull hum of the building’s ventilation.

“Feels like it’s been longer than a month,” he remarked to break the silence, raking a hand through his messy hair. He had made a mental note to smooth it down in the car ride over—though it was probably too late for that.

“That tends to happen when things are changing,” Dr Avery responded smoothly.

They both knew the significance of the last few sessions. Steve had been talking about you—gushing, would be the more accurate term—and the doctor seemed more than happy to help him navigate this new chapter.

“Yeah, they are—changing, I mean,” his voice trailed off. He felt a small smile growing on his face at the idea of talking about you—like he hasn't done enough of that already.

“Tell me,” the psychiatrist pressed gently.

He let out a short laugh, rubbing his palms on his thighs. He felt fidgety, like a teenager about to confess a crush. Maybe because that’s exactly what this was—he was still completely infatuated with you. The emotions he felt at the start were almost identical.

In fact, he would bet now they were even stronger.

“It’s official now,” he started. “Like, we’re together. We had that talk.”

He tried not to let his mind stray to how that conversation had truly started—hot breath on his neck, you on your knees, the laugh you’d made when he blushed deeper than you’d ever seen. Absolutely not something he needed to share right now.

Some details were private, no matter how relevant the story may be.

“That’s great to hear.” Dr Avery’s eyebrows rose fractionally, a small, pleased smile touching his face. “You’ve been hoping for that, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted, his grin turning almost bashful. “I mean—I didn’t expect it to actually work out, but… here we are.”

Here he was.

His heart thumped harder, excitement and nerves all tangled into one bigger emotion. He laughed awkwardly, brushing at his hair again—a gesture Dr Avery probably recognised as his default anxious habit.

“She’s just… she’s so good,” he went on, losing himself in the new memories. “Like—I just like being around her, which is what it’s supposed to be, right? I dunno. Probably start making her sick of me soon.”

He was practically glued to your hip these days.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Dr Avery said, always encouraging.

“Yeah.” He ducked his head, trying and failing to hide the ghost of a smile. “Hope you’re right on that one.”

The two men paused, letting that optimism breathe. Then Dr Avery clicked his pen, the soft snick loud in the stillness.

“So… how’s the actual relationship going so far?”

Steve felt his chest tighten as he recalled your shop—cinnamon and old books—and the sparks that flew every time you looked at him. How you still were looking at him.

“Also good,” he said, automatically grinning. “It’s still early days, but… I introduced her to Rob, which was kind of a big deal.”

He also decided to leave out the rest of the details from that night—once again, that part was just for him. Besides, he didn’t even want to imagine the doctor’s reaction to the way he’d acted. Probably would’ve been thrilled.

That was some real fucking progress.

“I’m also trying to get better at—y’know—explaining how I’m feeling. I still suck at that sometimes.”

“What makes you say that?” Dr Avery tilted his head, pen hovering over the notebook but not yet touching paper.

“I mean—it’s not like I’m not trying, which I think she gets.” He takes a moment to figure out the correct way to phrase it. “She’s been really… patient. Wants me to open up more—and, like—I’m getting there? Well, at least I think I’m getting there.”

He felt a flicker of pride in himself. He really was making progress—less flighty, more honest about his struggles, more willing to trust someone with the darker parts. Hell, he was actually sleeping through the night now.

Still had nightmares—sure—but he hadn't felt one coming on in a while. Not one that had him half-cognisant, clutching at whatever was closest to him, not one that made him terrified to open his eyes.

That was when the pen finally met paper. The faint scratch of it felt louder than it should.

“That’s promising, Steve. Really promising.” The elderly man nodded, not looking up from his notes. “So tell me, what else have you two talked about?”

Steve blinked, rummaging mentally through the many conversations you’d shared—movie nights, your favorite authors, those silly debates over what to have for dinner.

“Uh… just stuff. Life stuff. Movies. Books—obviously. I try to keep up, but she’s pretty damn smart—feels like I learn something new every time she opens her mouth.”

The positives of dating a bookworm.

“Anything deeper?” Dr Avery pressed, that same mild tone in place.

Steve felt a sudden unease at the question.

“I mean—not really.” Self-consciousness twisted in his stomach. “Not like… real real talk. She knows I don’t like to get into it. She’s cool about that.”

For the most part.

He could practically see Dr Avery’s ears perk. The man never pounced, he just… waited. The pen still hovered. The blank page, waiting to be filled. His throat felt dry.

“Uh…” he continued, shifting in his seat, the silence drawing the words out of him. “I told her a little bit. About my old job, at the mall…”

“Starcourt,” the man clarified, writing something down.

“Yeah. Just that it, you know… burned down.”

“And what else did you share?”

A prickle of defensiveness rose along his spine. The memory of it all—Starcourt, Russians, the Mind Flayer—flashed through his head, but of course he’d never told you the real story.

“That’s it,” he said firmly, crossing his arms slowly. “Just that it happened. She doesn’t know the weird parts.”

He also neglected to mention you’d teased him about the sailor uniform he used to wear, but that was hardly the point. He definitely hadn’t told you about vent-crawling with Dustin and Erica, about the secret lab beneath the food court.

Those secrets he’d rather bury if he had to.

“Alright.” The pen kept scratching.

His gaze lingered on the ballpoint gliding across the paper. He felt a creep of discomfort—the same sensation as finding out you were being watched through a camera lens.

“What are you writing?” he asked, voice tighter than he’d intended.

“Just keeping track of progress,” Dr Avery answered lightly, not looking up. “It’s a good sign that you’re opening up.”

“…Yeah, but it feels like I’m being graded or something.”

The man paused, lifted his eyes. He kept that soft, almost paternal smile.

“I assure you, Steve, there’s no grade. Just documentation.”

Documentation.

The air felt heavier at the word, a thump of anxiety in Steve’s stomach. He shifted again, foot tapping on the waxy floor.

“You don’t usually write stuff down,” he insisted, voice nearly catching.

Not like this.

“This is a new development,” he explained, placid calm in every syllable. “A relationship is a significant emotional step.”

There was no warmth in his voice, no congratulatory tone—just an observation that felt clinical. His palms started to sweat and he curled his hands into fists, pressing them into his knees.

This was strange.

“She doesn’t know anything,” he said, jaw clenching. “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t put her in danger.”

Dr Avery blinked, pen tapping quietly against the pad.

“Danger?” He repeated, mild as a summer breeze. “Who said anything about danger?”

Steve’s mouth went dry.

“You’re right, of course,” Dr Avery continued, setting the pad aside. “But you see why it’s something we have to monitor. These things, they could have consequences.”

“What do you mean?” he managed, voice rasping.

Dr Avery finally met his eyes, no trace of the earlier, kinder smile.

“Relationships end. Sometimes amicably. Sometimes not.”

A sharp sensation punched through Steve’s chest. He thought of you, how you were the last person on earth to betray him. His therapist wasn’t entirely wrong about people—he had lost friends and lovers in messy, painful ways before. Though that was years ago, and surely something this big wouldn’t be twisted into a form of vengeance.

That would be downright cruel.

“You think she’d talk?” he asked, though he already knew the answer in his heart.

You wouldn’t. You weren’t like that.

But fear is a nasty thing, and it bloomed in him anyway.

“I think people say things they don’t mean when they’re hurt,” Dr Avery said, leaning back. “And if someone were to repeat details about certain… incidents, we’d have to intervene.”

That word—intervene—landed in his chest like a weight. Vague, but heavy as lead. He clenched his hands tighter, nails biting into his palms.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he repeated, half to reassure himself. “Not really. Just that there was a fire.”

“Good,” Dr Avery replied calmly. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Silence stretched, thick and charged. Steve could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears. The golden light in the corner lamp seemed too harsh all of a sudden.

“You’ve come a long way,” the doctor added, posture relaxing—almost like he was switching back to his normal, friendly mode of business. “You’re building something here. Stability. A job you care about. A life.”

Steve’s throat constricted. He thought about the second graders who always drew him stick-figure pictures with hearts around them. He thought about the paycheck he needed to keep up his home. He thought about how nice it felt to have you in that space now, in his bed, in his arms.

“I’d hate to see you lose that progress,” Dr Avery said lightly. Almost as if he were discussing the weather.

It took him a moment to register the subtext.

Lose that progress.

Lose that job.

Is this a threat?

A chill went up his spine, memories of government men in uniforms from years ago stirring in the back of his mind.

“Yeah.” He swallowed, forcing a tight nod. “No—of course.”

He didn’t stand up. He stayed planted in his seat, but it felt like the floor was tilting beneath him. He dropped his attention to his jeans and started picking at a loose thread, anything to occupy his trembling fingers.

He knew the session wasn’t over. He couldn’t exactly bolt. He was too polite, and he had to keep going.

This was supposed to help him. He’d made so much progress. He needed the psychiatrist to sign off on it.

“So,” the older man said with an air of near nonchalance, “is there anything you want to work on with this session?”

He blinked, staring at the pen still perched in the desk. He felt like a turtle retreating into its shell. Something in him just… closed off. Suddenly reluctant to let anybody into his head.

Outwardly, he only gave a stiff shrug, forcing his knee to stop bouncing. The tension hung in the air, so heavy it nearly choked him, but he managed to keep his face carefully composed. Even if his insides were twisting in knots, he’d learned over time how to mask it—how to fight through the fear.

He cleared his throat, voice coming out quieter than before.

“I—uh… yeah, I guess we could… talk about my… coping strategies.”

As he said it, the spark in his eyes had dimmed, the floodgates of honesty closed a fraction. Right now, the only thing he could focus on was that single, ominous word echoing in his mind.

Intervene.

You push open the heavy wooden doors of the Hawkins Public Library, letting a small gust of morning wind in behind you.

Your scarf feels a little too warm in the heated interior, so you tug it loose as you take a few steps forward. You clutch the strap of your tote, you’d told yourself you’d come just for research, but it’s not exactly your standard brand of casual reading.

No, you’re here for answers.

Tunnels, national labs, and the unsettling stack of government letters you found tucked away in Steve’s hallway table. Maybe you’re prying, but you can’t let it go. He’s been so cagey, and you care about him too much to ignore the little hints.

Archives first. Some old newspapers, maybe some town records from the 80s, see if there’s anything about that fire at Starcourt Mall. That would be the starting point.

You mentally rehearse your polite request, even It still sounds weird in your head. You imagine the librarian’s puzzled expression and you debate claiming you’re writing a paper for a local history class. It would make your story more believable than the reality, the one in which you are purposefully going behind your boyfriend's back, digging up his traumatic past in order to settle your own mind…

The more you think about it, the worse it sounds.

Your steps slow as you notice a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision. Someone stands between two towering shelves in the fiction section. At first, you can’t make out their face—just a short, choppy bob, flannel tied around the waist, black combat boots squeaking softly on the shiny floor.

You squint. Then it clicks.

Robin?

You halt, your eyebrows arching in surprise. Robin, who was supposed to be at breakfast in the diner across town. Yet here she is, half-hidden behind the 800 Dewey Decimal section, looking anywhere but at you. She’s clutching a book to her chest like she’s trying not to be seen.

Suspicion runs through you, but you brush it aside. This might be nothing. Maybe they had breakfast before, and now she’s just here on her own. Either way, you’re intrigued enough to veer away from the front desk and head in her direction.

The silence of the library only amplifies your footsteps, and you try to be gentle. You don’t want to startle her—but it's too late. She’s already glancing up and sees you approaching. There’s a flash of panic in her eyes as if she’s been caught in the act of something scandalous.

“Hi, stranger,” you say softly, letting a little amused lilt into your voice.

“Oh—hey!” She fails to act surprised, leaning on the shelf feigning nonchalance. “Sorry. You scared me.”

You doubt it.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” you say, a friendly smile tugging at your lips. You feel a pang of sympathy for spooking her—she seems wound tight, as though she’s mid-espionage.

She exhales and recovers, offering a slightly awkward hug. You catch the faint scent of peppermint gum and laundry soap clinging to her form. It's oddly comforting.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, pulling away and brushing the hem of her shirt as though trying to smooth her nerves too.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Your tone remains playful.

You don’t want her to suspect you know about the alleged breakfast meeting with Steve—not yet. Nor your true reasoning for your outing when you're supposed to be at work yourself.

“Oh, just… browsing,” she says quickly, glancing at the row of books as though they might offer backup for her story. “For books. Y’know—in the library.”

Hmm.

“You do know I sell books for a living, right?”

She flushes, a wash of pink creeping up her neck.

“Yeah—yeah, I do—sorry.” She clears her throat. “Traitorous impulse.”

“Unforgivable,” you tease, rolling your eyes in mock indignation.

She laughs, the tension in her posture easing a fraction. But then, almost on reflex, she shifts the book in her hand to her side, like she’s trying to hide the title from view. You notice immediately—part of your job is noticing what titles people pick up or avoid.

“What you got there?” you ask, nodding at the paperback pressed against her thigh.

“What—this? Nothing, really.” Her voice is quick, a little defensive. “Just looking.”

You tilt your head, taking a small step to see the cover. It’s a stylised image with a bold title you recognise.

“Is that Written on the Body?”

He eyes flick from you to the book. She hesitates, clearly torn between doubling down on her lie or coming clean.

“...It is.”

Interesting.

“Jeanette Winterson, right?” You smile, careful to keep your tone nonjudgmental. “That one’s… intense.”

She studies your face, as if checking for any sign of disapproval.

“You’ve… read it?” She ventures.

“A couple years ago,” you say with a slight shrug. “Borrowed it from a girl I was trying to impress.”

You hope she is catching on to the insinuation. Her guarded posture softens marginally. Eyes sparking with interest, maybe a little relief.

“Did it work?”

“Nope,” you reply, a wry grin curving your lips. “But I kept the book.”

Her laughter comes easier this time, a huff of amusement that leaves her shoulders looking looser.

��Steve didn’t tell you?” she asks, the question surprisingly gentle.

“Tell me what?” You tilt your head, though you have a vague idea.

Robin shifts her weight from foot to foot, hugging the paperback closer to her chest. Her voice drops a notch, tinged with vulnerability.

“That me and Vic… we… y’know.” She swallows, waiting for your reaction.

You’d had your suspicions—maybe even put two and two together when you noticed how often Robin’s name was tied to this mysterious Vicky in Steve’s stories. So you’re not exactly shocked. More like pleased you were right, and also that she trusts you enough to say it out loud.

“No.” You give her a warm smile. “Guess he figured you’d tell me yourself.”

Her relief is palpable, like someone unclenching a fist around her throat.

“I do trust him. It’s just—” She glances away, exhaling. “He has this thing where he blurts stuff out and then immediately regrets it.” There’s a real fondness in her tone, but also exasperation. “He’s great for the most part—don’t get me wrong—but I’ve learned half of the town’s gossip from what he lets slip after parent-teacher night.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. You picture Steve in a little second-grade classroom, animatedly chatting with parents. You can just hear him reciting what their kid had been up to in his company. All big gestures and wide smiles, maybe an occasional detail about other students because he’s that excited to share.

There’s something endearing in that mental image—Steve with a heart so big it can’t contain all the stories.

You feel guilty for being here in the first place.

“I can so see that,” you say, shrugging off your apprehension. “Does he also keep you up to date on the politics of second grade?”

“Ugh, yes.” She groans good-naturedly. “Who knew eight-year-olds could be such a soap opera? It’s like a never-ending stream of who’s got a crush on who, who fell off the monkey bars and demanded a duel… It’s concerning.”

You chuckle at the idea. It’s a perfect fit for him, actually. Caring for a bunch of hyper little ones, returning home with comedic tales of playground drama. You can practically feel your chest tightening at how well he’s found his calling.

Peace after a life of trauma.

Peace that you’re threatening to disrupt.

“Thanks for telling me, though,” you say, gently drawing the conversation back to the reason she’s been acting so secretive in the first place. “Next time, if you want any more queer fiction, you know where to go. Friends and family discount applies.”

Robin brightens, her grip on the book relaxing a little.

“I might take you up on that,” she says. “I’ve been trying to be… less cagey. It’s easier with people who don’t make it weird.”

You can only imagine what that’s like.

“I’m not going to make it weird,” you promise.

“No, I know.” She nods, glancing at the cover like it’s become a security blanket. “I just—sometimes I still brace for it. Old habits.”

A sympathetic understanding settles over you. You reach out and give her forearm a gentle squeeze.

“Makes sense.”

She shrugs, but there’s no dismissiveness in it—just acceptance that this is part of her journey.

“For what it’s worth, I think you have great taste in books…” You glance up at her, gauging her reaction. “...And friends.”

Your eyes lock. She knows you’re referencing both Steve and maybe yourself.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “You too.”

You let her words settle, you feel safe with the validation she’s offering. She’s someone you always sensed was a fiercely loyal friend. She’s been a rock for Steve—maybe she’ll be one for you, too. If the need arises.

You could see yourself growing to care for her the way your boyfriend does, and with that comes a deeper respect for him too. For her to entrust him with something so personal, she must think extremely highly of him.

A thought nudges at you. The reason you first approached, the clearly false breakfast date. You decide to test the waters, keep it casual in your questioning.

“So… any other plans for the rest of the day?” Your tone is light, only the faintest undercurrent of curiosity so as to not give away your true motive for asking.

She pauses, then lifts the book slightly, as if that explains everything.

“Nope. Just me and my… well, my lesbian trauma reading.” She flushes faintly, but there’s a playful glint in her eye as she says it.

You both burst into laughter, the sound of which draws a disapproving glance from someone behind the next aisle. You muffle your giggles, pressing your lips together, and she does the same.

The moment is human—two people letting their guard down. Though this interaction has only left you with more questions. As you calm, you file that little discrepancy away. Robin isn’t meeting Steve. She’s definitely not at any diner right now.

So why would Steve say so?

And if he’s not with Robin…

Where is he actually?

You watch her leave and force a casual smile as you step up to the librarian’s desk, heart pounding. The woman was in her fifties with neat grey hair and glasses on a chain, she glanced up. Her eyes flick over you, polite but probing.

“Hi,” you say, keeping your voice light. “I was wondering if you have any public records or newspaper archives from the eighties? I’m doing a little personal research on the Starcourt Mall fire. Just local history stuff.”

That sounded believable enough.

She tilts her head, a hint of wariness in the lines around her mouth.

“That’s not a very cheerful topic.”

“No, but kind of fascinating, right?” A half-laugh slips out, and you shrug. “My boyfriend mentioned it, and I realised I don’t actually know anything about it. Figured it was a pretty big deal.”

At the mention of the fire, the librarian’s gaze switches—like maybe she remembers that day, or at least remembers the number rumours that once engulfed the town. Her expression softens a fraction.

“You’re looking for newspapers, or…?”

“Newspapers mostly,” you say, pushing your shoulders back in a show of confidence. “But if there’s anything about building permits or public works around the mall site, that’d be amazing. I’m… kind of a nerd for this stuff.”

She studies you, then gives a short nod. Opening a drawer beneath the counter, she removes a heavy iron key and places it in your outstretched hand. Cool metal presses into your palm, and you realise your fingers are a bit sweaty from the tension rising under your skin.

“Archives are down in the basement,” she says. “Back left corner. Bring the key up when you’re done.”

That was easy.

Relief edges into your chest.

“Thank you. Really.”

She just nods, returning her attention to something on her computer screen, as though she’s already dismissed you. You turn away and slip the key into your jacket pocket, hyperaware of its weight. A guilty thrill shoots in your stomach—like you’re about to dig up something you absolutely shouldn’t.

The stairs leading down are narrow and creaky, each step sounding with a groan. The air grows noticeably cooler the farther you descend, the scent of cardboard and dust wraps around you. It reminds you of the back corner of your own bookshop—where neglected boxes sometimes wait for sorting, usually with the help of your boyfriend nowadays…

A row of lights hang overhead with a low electric whine. In the gloomy space, time feels distorted, like the clock upstairs doesn’t quite apply here. The silence is thicker than the quiet you’re used to in libraries, completely devoid of another person's presence. You catch your reflection in a dulled metal panel—your eyes look sharp, and there’s a trace of apprehension there too.

You already feel like you don’t belong here.

You pass rows of metal filing cabinets, their labels faded at the edges. Oversized newspaper folders line one wall, stacked so tall you’d need a stepladder to reach the top. There’s an ancient-looking microfilm reader in the corner, the plastic shell yellowed with age.

You set your bag down on a rickety wooden table and carefully pull out one of the large bound volumes:

Hawkins Post — 1985.

Seems like a decent enough place to start.

The cover is cloth, frayed slightly. It’s heavy, so you ease it open, scanning the dates on the top of each page until you land on July of that year.

A headline you have been searching for leaps out on the front page:

“Gas Leak Causes Deadly Explosion at Starcourt Mall — Four Confirmed Dead.”

Your eyes skim the blocky print. The paper is slightly brittle; you take care not to tear it as you turn the pages.

“A faulty gas line and electrical overload are believed to have triggered the explosion…”

“Authorities are urging citizens to remain calm. There is no long-term danger to public safety…”

“We are working closely with federal partners to determine the exact cause…”

You notice the name Police Chief Calvin Powell quoted beneath a photograph of the rubble. The corners of your mouth tighten.

Federal partners?

Since when would a run-of-the-mill mall fire require federal aid? Even as an outsider, that strikes you as odd, it’s too formal.

Orchestrated.

The article feels sanitised—curated words like “gas leak,” “electrical overload,” “containment.” No real emotion from the reporter, no heartfelt quotes from eyewitnesses—just a neat, glossy narrative. It sounds almost robotic.

You lift the edges of the page and shift them gently, scanning for more details or follow-ups. Another small piece catches your eye. In the same volume, just a few pages later, tucked away in a smaller column of the community news section, you see a brief update. It’s dated five days after the initial report.

“Further Details on Mall Fire Unavailable”

Your pulse quickens as you read.

“At the request of federal authorities, the Hawkins Fire Department has declined to comment further on the incident at Starcourt Mall.”

“Residents are advised not to speculate or spread misinformation while the investigation is ongoing.”

The room around you seems to close in, pressing against your ears. The basement feels darker, though the lights haven’t changed.

Well, that just makes no sense.

The complete lack of information about a fire that massive is absurd. Wouldn’t their first priority be putting the town at ease? There’s a clear warning not to spread details—a red flag if there ever was one. What could possibly be so out of the ordinary here?

No official story, no explanations. Just silence.

The whole thing reeks of something being buried.

Fuck, Steve. What are you hiding?

Setting the newspaper volume aside, you hunt for anything labeled “Starcourt” among the older building permits and public records, there had to be something more at play here. Eventually, you come across a thick, dust-streaked folder.

“Starcourt Development / Expansion Plans.”

You tug it free from the shelf, coughing as a small cloud of dust billows around you.

You find folded-up blueprints. The paper is stiff and smudged with dark grease marks at the corners. A quick scan of the top page shows the mall’s recognisable layout—wide corridors for shops, a large food court, loading docks.

As you peel back the layers, you spot something more:

“STARCOURT COMPLEX — Site Development Plans, 1984”

Arrows and lines scrawl below the main building. Your mouth goes dry. There’s a sub-level beneath the mall. Narrow corridors designated as “ACCESS ROUTES” and “UTILITY” passages.

Then, In red ink:

"RESTRICTED: NO DIG ZONE — PERMIT WITHHELD (INTL.)"

The corridor extends off the edge of the blueprint, vanishing into a blank expanse of white. Not just under the food court, either—farther, reaching what looks like the edge of the property line, maybe even toward the woods. There’s no note explaining the restriction, just that cryptic note.

Permit Withheld (INTL.)

International?

Your stomach twists. The rest of the plans look standard—retail square footage, ventilation routes, plumbing grids—but this corridor is… different.

No dimensions. No annotations.

Just a thick red stroke and that vague, bureaucratic warning.

The idea that a foreign entity might’ve had pull in the construction of a Midwest shopping mall is equally absurd. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Whatever this place was built over, someone didn’t want it disturbed.

Not the city. Not the state.

Someone else.

The realisation sends your stomach twisting.

Should you even be looking at this?

Your eyes return to that bold, red-ink “NO DIG ZONE.” You can’t help imagining men in suits telling construction crews to skip certain areas, never explaining why.

These pieces of information didn’t explain anything—not even close. If anything, they only raised more questions.

Steve had made it all sound so cryptic, but the papertrail matched his version of the story perfectly. He said he’d stuck his head where it didn’t belong, found something he was never meant to see.

But how old had he been when it happened? He couldn’t have been more than twenty…

That was young.

Too young.

Barely out of high school, probably still figuring out how to do his own laundry—and already carrying something like this.

What had they done to him?

The uneasy feeling inside you still felt unsatisfied, it was clear there is more to this story. If it was this censored, it meant that something big had occurred. Something you were even more desperate to understand.

You find yourself flipping through folder spines again, now looking for any mention of the next year—1986—scanning for local headlines. Maybe there would be some new information a little further down the line, perhaps a rogue reporter uncovering something new.

Your fingers land on a battered red folder. Hawkins Post — 1986.

What else happened?

You open it up. The first few pages are mundane—ads for local car dealerships, a brief mention of a new pharmacy. You’re about to give up when you catch a bold black headline stamped across a newspaper clipping.

Earthquake Rocks Hawkins: Dozens Missing, Entire Town Evacuated.

Earthquake?

Nobody ever mentioned a natural disaster before, something the town was clearly not interested in bringing up if the title is anything to go by. You run your fingertips across the grainy newsprint, reading each line slowly.

“Officials confirmed a natural fault line ruptured beneath Sattler Quarry, leveling several blocks of East Hawkins.”

“Emergency services have reported over 50 injured and multiple fatalities. Residents are advised not to return to the fracture zone.”

A pang tightens in your chest.

Why did Steve never mention how devastating this was? Or Robin for that matter, she would have been a resident here too.

“One local student, Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson, identified as prime murder suspect...”

That name. Eddie Munson. Something about seeing it spelled out in official print makes your gut lurch. It’s a snippet, a half-buried footnote. You have no idea how murder tied to this event, but the language feels similar to the Starcourt articles, aimed at stifling real questions. Another big tragedy in Hawkins, another clipped explanation that doesn’t quite add up.

Why was Hawkins the site of so many horrors in such a short span of time?

Your eyes scan the rest of the article. There’s no mention of secret labs or mysterious tunnels—just damage, rescue teams. You see a pattern in the phrasing, residents advised not to speculate.

Sound familiar?

You swallow, a metallic taste on your tongue.

This reads like another cover-up.

You decide to make a snap decision, folding the clipping into your notebook. This is technically theft—yes—but what choice did you have?

You didn’t have a camera, nor the time it would take to write out every sentence piece by piece. You also didn’t know if you could access these archives with as much ease next time. This felt like a justified crime considering the circumstances.

It’s not like anyone’s going to notice.

The next pages in the folder are mostly more coverage—pictures of shattered streets, interviews with sobbing residents. But something near the back catches your eye.

You find a single, highly redacted document. The black bars are fresh and bold, blocking out entire paragraphs and lines of text. A small logo near the top—smudged and half torn—looks like it might belong to the Department of Energy, or perhaps some other federal agency.

You gently flatten the page beneath your palm, trying to read what remains.

At first glance, you see only scattered fragments:

“…seismic event registering 7.4… multiple fractures… pattern incongruent with standard tectonic profiles…”

Your breath catches. You skim deeper, eyes darting across the page.

“…unconfirmed sightings of anomalous flora, potential contamination risk…”

A knot forms in your stomach.

Anomalous flora?

What the hell did that even mean?

The silence around you felt suffocating but you couldn’t look away. Your eyes raced across the barely legible text, the dim lighting doing nothing to ease the mental strain as you tried to make sense of it all.

Every fragmented detail added another twist to an already labyrinthine mystery. You pushed on, desperation motivating you as every new discovery felt like another obstacle.

You see a name repeated in the tiny corner of a clipped paragraph:

“…missing individual: Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson (status: presumed fatality). Further details withheld at request of…”

That name appears again—Munson.

You glimpse it, a jolt firing through your nerves. He was plastered over that old newspaper article you found not ten minutes ago—the local student turned murderer. The next lines are almost completely blacked out, except for a single snippet:

“…survivors displayed acute stress responses, some presenting with inexplicable wounds or testimony.”

Your temples throb with an uneasy question.

What happened to these survivors?

Another black bar covers the rest. Carefully, you tilt the paper toward the meager light, hoping to glean even a faint silhouette of text beneath.

Nothing.

You flip to the back, where you find a small note pinned with a rusted staple. It’s typed, minimal, and partially redacted, but at least you can make out a few more lines:

“…secondary injuries observed among multiple local residents… site infiltration suspected…”

You feel sweat bead on your temple.

Site infiltration?

By who?

Your gaze drifts down to the final paragraph. Half of it is still blacked out, whole lines swallowed by darkness. You’d just been trying to make sense of it—events, scattered names, pieces of something bigger, something twisted you thought you could piece together into a puzzle with edges.

But then you see it.

Three fragments, set apart by a bullet point, still visible in the wreckage of the page. A name.

And not just any name.

A name you’ve whispered in half-sleep, murmured with laughter through the phone, gasped in the dark like a prayer. A name that’s fallen from your lips with care, with tenderness, with certainty.

And now it’s here. Cold. Formal.

Clinical.

Filed and formatted between voids of black ink—the same blackness that clouds his mind, the same blank spaces he’s tried so desperately to protect you from.

SUBJECT: HARRINGTON, S.

Status: [REDACTED]

Observed: [REDACTED]

A tremor tears through you. Your eyes snap back to the text.

Harrington, S.

Steve Harrington.

Steve.

You blink, but it doesn’t change. No matter how much you stare at the page.

His name.

Your Steve.

Buried in more secrets than when you first entered the basement.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fic #stranger things series #teacher!steve harrington x reader #teacher! steve harrington #teacher!steve harrington #teacher steve harrington

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st4rg8te · 9 months ago

Text

A Captured Dragon (BL)

Yandere! Half-brother X Crown Prince! Reader

[tw: graphic depiction(s) of violence, obsessive behaviour, betrayal, imprisonment, gaslighting, non-con kissing, incest!!!, teeny tiny bit of feminization]

✦✧✦✧

“You have done nothing to deserve that title. You were only lucky enough to be born the King’s son.”

A lot of things in life were beyond your control.

But fate had been kind to you, gifting you a life that most could only dream of. Born into the royal family as their beloved Crown Prince, the world bent to your will from the very moment you drew your first breath.

Spoiled, indulged, and never once tested by struggle—perhaps you were destined to fall from the start.

✦✧✦✧

It’s getting harder to tell the days apart.

The world around you blurs into a cycle of sleepless nights. Your mind is a fog, heavy with the weight of guilt and fear. Each hour blends into the next, until time itself feels like a punishment.

The nightmares don’t help either.

Every time you close your eyes, they come—haunting, vivid dreams where blood stains the corridors and screams pierce the air. The sounds of blades slicing through flesh, of bodies collapsing onto blood-soaked floors, echo endlessly in your ears. It is relentless.

You see the palace engulfed in flames, your servants and people—those you’ve known your entire life—crying out in terror as they are cut down by the cold steel of soldiers.

In every dream, you stand helpless, watching as they beg for mercy. Your people reach for you in desperation, their faces twisted in agony, but you can’t move.

In every dream, at the center of it all, is him.

Daewon.

Your half-brother.

While you grew up in the limelight, basking in the affections and adoration of others, your half-brother was cast into the shadows. Born from a lowly maid, his very existence was a blemish on the royal family's image. He was the son who would never be acknowledged by his father—neither loved nor remembered.

Despite that, you had treated him kindly.

When did everything go so wrong?

After the slaughter, you were taken away and imprisoned. The room you were kept in was dark and empty—there was no light, or any warmth. It was a far cry from the luxury you were used to.

Occasionally, food and water would be brought to you—a guard would come every few days, sliding bowls of stale rice and cloudy water across the floor without a word, without so much as a glance in your direction. You felt like an animal.

But worse than the silence of your captors were the visits from Daewon.

You hated those days the most.

“Brother.” His deep voice sends a shiver down your spine. You can’t make out his face within the shadows.

So you bury your head further into the damp pillows, hiding from the monster in the room.

It isn’t long before you feel the bed dip under his weight, the chain on your ankle rustles against the sheets. He kneels beside you, leaning close enough for you to smell the faint traces of blood still lingering on his robe.

“You haven’t been eating,” Daewon’s voice was soft, almost tender, but you could hear the dark amusement laced beneath it. “Is the food not to your liking?”

You keep your eyes shut tight, fists clenched under the thin blankets.

It'll all be okay. Soon enough, he would leave you alone.

Cold fingers brush against your cheek, and you flinch. He chuckles at that, a low, mocking sound that makes your skin crawl.

“Did you know that these meals are what I had to eat as a child?” He whispers, his breath hot against your ears.

You briefly open your eyes, glancing at the food scattered across the floor, remnants of your earlier fit of rage—destroyed, just like everything else in your life.

“There were many days when the servants never even came. My mother often gave me her share, just so I wouldn't starve."

You grit your teeth—

"Why don't you just kill me already?"

The words hang in the air, and a suffocating silence stretches between you.

But then, Daewon's firm hand suddenly grips your chin, forcing you to meet his dark gaze.

“Kill you?” A cruel, guttural laugh escapes him, sending a shiver down your spine. “But death would be far too easy.”

“No... you have to live. You’ll live and endure. Just like I did.”

He had lived a life of invisibility, where no one cared to look beyond the stain of his tainted blood—no one, except you.

And the thought of it drives him mad.

His hand falls from your chin, trailing down until it rests against your chest. With that simple touch, your spirit breaks just a little more.

You hate him—hate him more than you’ve ever hated anyone.

Without any warning, you feel the press of his soft lips against your own. His body heat seeps into yours as he forcefully pulls you closer and presses you flush against him.

You are too tired, too hungry to resist.

"No, stop—" You protest breathlessly, the words barely escaping your lips as your mind reels, still foggy from the kiss. A dizzying mix of shock, confusion, and disgust floods your senses.

"This is wrong, we can't—"

"They will never fully accept a half-blooded bastard like me as their king."

“What?” You swallow hard, blinking up at the man.

"But surely, they'll accept a 'bride' from the royal family.”

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut.

Before you can react, his lips crash against yours again, harder this time, more possessive. The taste of him—bitterness and control—invades your senses completely.

A twisted smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and you finally understand.

This is a debt of suffering, a price he intends to collect over and over—until you were broken.

"Don’t worry. For everything you’ve done for me, I'll repay your kindness tenfold."

✦✧✦✧

[A/N]

This was not proofread, sorry for any mistakes!

#tw yandere #male reader #yandere male #yandere writing #reader insert #x reader #yandere #x male reader #yandere oc #yandere x darling #yandere blog #yandere x you #male yandere #yandere x reader #oc x reader #yandere imagines

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syrecjh · 28 days ago

Note

hihiii!! i wanna say that i like your writing style! it's interesting to read hehe :3

i was just wondering, would you be open to writing a katsuki x afab!reader comfort work where the reader gets really bad cramps while on their period and ends up fainting bc of it? lwk projecting my problems onto reader bc it's not fun and having something comforting to read would be cool

if the req isn't something you'd like to write about, then it's okay! tbh anything works for me :P

thank youuu!! :D

──.✦🥀♡ In the Ache, He Arrives

˚🎀༘⋆ || katsuki bakugo x AFAB! reader, pure fluff

You knew it was coming. The ache had started like it always did—low and stubborn at your spine, curling inward and tightening like a storm winding itself up beneath your skin. The kind of pain that warned you: This one’s going to be bad. But you'd been pushing through it, teeth gritted, shoulders squared, pretending you could out-stubborn your own body.

It always came like this—hard and heavy, unforgiving. Your period never whispered; it roared. Some days were bearable. Today was not. Today, the cramps twisted through you like something trying to carve its way out, merciless and sharp. Your vision swam, pulse thudding in your ears like distant thunder. You didn’t even remember collapsing—you only remembered the moment before it: the cold edge of the sink against your palm, the way your breath caught halfway through a plea for it to just stop.

Then darkness. Then warmth.

You came to slowly, blinking against the light. Something firm and steady was holding you, heat radiating from it like a fireplace. Your cheek was pressed against fabric—rough, familiar, and smelling faintly of sweat and smoke and safety.

Bakugo.

“Hey.” His voice was low, rough with worry, but steady. A grounding kind of sound. “You back with me?”

You nodded—or tried to. Even that small motion felt like too much.

“Should’ve told me,” he murmured, tucking the blanket closer around you. His hand hovered for a second before brushing a knuckle down the side of your face. “I would’ve come sooner.”

You realized then: you were on the couch in the common room, a heating pad tucked under your lower back, a cool cloth on your forehead. There was tea—steaming softly on the table nearby. You hadn’t made it.

He had.

“I thought I could handle it,” you managed, voice fragile.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, gently adjusting the heating pad so it pressed closer to your stomach, “I thought you had more damn sense than to push through something like this alone.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue—and honestly, you didn’t want to. Not when his hand settled over yours, warm and careful. Not when his thumb brushed slow circles across your skin like a silent apology for not catching you faster.

Katsuki Bakugo, with his explosive temper and hard shell, had a way of softening only for you. A way of becoming quiet in the face of your pain, of trying to fix what he couldn't punch away.

He shifted beside you, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “Next time, you call me. Got it?”

You gave the smallest nod. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since you hit the floor.

For a while, he just sat there, holding you through the tremors that still rolled through your body. Whispered curses under his breath at your uterus. Muttered something about tracking your cycle for you so this wouldn’t happen again. And when your breathing finally evened out, when the pain dulled just enough that you could close your eyes, you felt his lips press against your temple, barely there.

“I got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

But he wasn’t done.

Later, when he was sure you wouldn’t pass out again, he shifted you gently onto the cushions with every ounce of care he usually reserved for detonating high-risk traps. “Stay. Don’t move unless you’re about to hurl,” he grunted, before disappearing into the kitchen.

You barely had the energy to lift your head, but when he came back, there was a fresh mug in his hand—steam curling in soft spirals, warm cinnamon and ginger drifting through the air.

You blinked. “You... made tea?”

“Tch. Searched it up. Some herbal crap. Said it helps with cramps.” He set it down on the table, avoiding your eyes. “Put honey in it too, ‘cause you like it sweet, right?”

Your chest hurt a little—but not from pain this time.

“Bakugo...”

He turned away like he was suddenly very interested in fluffing your blanket. “Don’t make it a big deal,” he muttered. “Just drink it while it’s hot. I’m not makin’ another cup.”

You smiled, small and soft. “You Googled it?”

“Shut up.” His ears were red.

You sipped. It tasted like comfort. Like cinnamon warmth and ginger spice and the sharp sting of being cared for in a language you never had to ask him to learn.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He didn’t respond—just draped another blanket over you and settled in beside you again, arms crossed, watching over you like a storm waiting to shield rather than strike.

And you knew, in that quiet little corner of the world you’d carved together, that this was love. Not loud. Not perfect. But steady. Fierce.

The kind that brings you tea when your body betrays you.

The kind that catches you when the sky folds inward.

The kind that stays.

------------------------🌼

Here’s your request—hope you love it as much as I loved writing it!

I honestly had so much fun bringing this to life. Thank you for trusting me with your idea, it made my heart happy to write it for you. Can’t wait to hear what you think!

Sending you lots of love and cozy vibes—xoxo 💜

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camficdiner · 4 days ago

Note

GIRL am I having the day of days... I need some protective nature to read right now. Why must insecure men/orgs come after successful women/women run orgs?

Also, your writing keeps me going during the day on my breaks.

Could I please get:

[1.1][2.14]->naturally need an older woman age gap (6-year anon here)[3.6 Fluff-Angst-Comfort][4.3]

Basically: You're in an established long-distance relationship and after a cozy long weekend visit to Van in season you get called back to the office earlier than anticipated because a local org (municipality maybe) is trying to hijack part of your job and what you do and you need to stand up for your org (and yourself at a public meeting). You explain to Quinn and head back early not expecting anything more than what he can give from distance in season (good luck text, delivery of your favorite drink, etc). Lo and behold after the biggest cross examination of your life where you're drained, who is in the back ready to pounce on the dunces coming for you? HIM. Whether or not he maintains a professional demeanor is up to you. You get home and just collapse into him from all the emotions of the days leading up to the meeting and the meeting itself.

This is so long OMG if it's too much I totally understand, just needed to put it out there.

☕️ cams fic diner — order 083

🍒 thank you: To every woman who’s ever had to defend what she built. You shouldn’t have to — but when you do, this one’s got your back.

I really hope i made your day slightly better angel

💬 The Quiet Things He Does

✨ description & prompts:

• Quinn Hughes

• Age gap, older woman (6-year difference)

• Fluff • Angst • Comfort, soft smut

• Established long-distance relationship

• Bonus trope: Wearing his jersey in the kitchen

• wc ~ 2k

✨🧁🍒🛼

You’re not even supposed to be here.

Not in this windowless city hall chamber, not in heels that ache like old regrets, and definitely not with your voice cracking as you speak on behalf of the women who’ve built everything alongside you.

Your long weekend in Vancouver — three full days with Quinn, finally, finally — was supposed to extend until Wednesday. Slow mornings. Lazy kisses. That moment in his kitchen when you wore nothing but his black C jersey and he leaned in behind you, sleepy and shirtless, arms around your waist while the kettle hissed on the stove. The kind of visit that kept you going when the distance between you felt more like a canyon than a calendar issue.

But then came the message:

A local org — one that hadn’t even shown interest before — was suddenly trying to leverage their connections to take over half of your project’s funding. Not out of innovation. Not out of ability. But because they saw women doing it better, faster, and louder.

And the municipality was listening.

So you booked the next flight home. You explained it to Quinn in his hallway, still in the socks he loaned you, still smelling like his sheets.

“I need to be there,” you said, trying to sound braver than you felt. “They’re not taking what we built.”

He didn’t fight you on it. He just pulled you in, kissed your hair, and said, “Tell them who the fuck you are.”

You laughed. You cried. You told him not to worry. And then you left.

⸻

The meeting is brutal.

Patronizing questions. Interruptions. A city liaison who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re talking about but loves hearing himself do it. Your voice is steady — practiced — but your spine aches from the effort. Your name gets twisted. Your work gets misrepresented. And at one point, someone even suggests that your org “lacks the infrastructure” to handle the volume of success you’ve had this year.

You stare at him. Calm. Controlled.

“Maybe you’re confusing infrastructure with influence,” you say, voice low and dangerous. “We don’t need your structure. We have results.”

Murmurs. Silence. A few faces glance across the aisle.

That’s when you see him.

At the back of the room — suit jacket over a hoodie, hair still damp from the rain, standing near the exit like he’s been there all along.

Quinn.

He meets your eyes and doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just nods, once. Steady. Unshaken.

Your breath catches. But you can’t stop. You finish what you came here to do.

⸻

Later, you don’t remember the commute home. The adrenaline fades, and all that’s left is the throb of tension in your temples and the ache behind your ribs.

Your apartment door opens. Quinn’s already inside. He must’ve gotten your spare key from your friend, the one who keeps it in her bag “just in case.”

The lights are dim. There’s tea on the counter. Your favorite takeout container sits on the kitchen island.

He doesn’t say anything when you step in. Just pulls you into him — slow and warm and full-body — and presses his mouth to your temple.

“Don’t say anything,” you whisper. “Just—don’t. I’ll fall apart if you do.”

So he doesn’t.

He just holds you. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other stroking slow, heavy lines down your spine. Your tears come quietly. His shirt absorbs them. He rocks you just barely, like he’s grounding you through motion alone.

And when your breathing finally evens, when the worst of it passes and you’re limp against him, he cups your face and murmurs, “You shouldn’t have had to do that alone.”

You close your eyes.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you say.

He kisses your cheek. “I booked the flight while you were in the meeting. Had a few words I wanted to say to that guy in the grey tie. But I figured your way was stronger.”

You laugh, hoarse and wrecked. “That was your professional demeanor?”

“Almost got kicked out,” he mutters. “Worth it.”

⸻

That night, he sleeps facing you.

One hand curled around your waist. Thumb brushing your ribcage every few minutes like he’s reminding himself you’re real, and here, and his.

He doesn’t say much. Just lets the silence stretch between you like balm over a bruise.

And in the morning — early, before the sun warms the skyline — you walk into your kitchen wearing nothing but his jersey again. Hair mussed. Skin soft from sleep. No makeup. No defense.

You boil water. He wraps himself around you again, bare chest pressed to your back, voice still rough.

“You looked like a goddamn storm yesterday,” he says. “I’ve never been prouder.”

You exhale slowly. Lean back into him.

“Still scared.”

He hums against your shoulder. “Then let me be the one thing you don’t have to be strong about.”

You nod. Eyes shut.

And for the first time in days, you let yourself believe it’s not all on you. That even when the world takes aim —

you’re not alone.

⸻

Steam curls from the mug in your hand, sweet and citrusy and exactly how he remembered you liked it. You’re quiet — the good kind. Loose-limbed, finally relaxed, jersey hem brushing your thighs as you lean against the kitchen counter.

Quinn sits at the small table a few feet away, watching you with the kind of gaze that makes heat crawl up your neck. His fingers tap slowly against his mug, but he hasn’t taken a sip. Not really. His focus is on you — entirely, silently, absolutely.

You lift your eyes. “What?”

He shakes his head, a slow pull of a smile playing at his mouth. “Nothing.”

You raise a brow, and he leans back in the chair, spreading his legs a little wider like he’s daring you to ask again.

So you don’t ask. You walk toward him — slow, deliberate. His jersey shifts over your skin, brushing your bare thighs, sleeves slipping slightly over your hands. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. Just tracks your every move like he’s memorizing the details.

You settle into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, warm skin on denim. His hands move instantly to your thighs, sliding up with reverence, thumbs circling gently.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft against the quiet. “You. In my jersey. In my space.”

You tilt your head. “That a fantasy, Hughes?”

He shrugs. “A need.”

Your heart skips, and it’s stupid — you’ve been together long enough to know the feeling, but it still gets you. Every time. The calm of him. The way he doesn’t chase, doesn’t grab, just waits — lets you give him everything on your own terms.

You dip your head, pressing your forehead against his. He lets out a breath, then kisses you — slow and deep, his hands squeezing your thighs as you shift on his lap, just enough to tease. His hips twitch under you.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth, voice strained now. “Don’t start something unless you want me to make you late again.”

You smile, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. “I thought I had the day off.”

His grip tightens.

“Even better.”

You press your chest to his, the soft jersey fabric catching between you. His hands slide beneath it, over the curve of your hips, your waist, your back — palms big and grounding, like he’s trying to anchor you to him.

“You’ve been holding it together for days,” he whispers, kissing your jaw now, your neck, slow and reverent. “Let go.”

And you do.

You grind once against him, slow and subtle, and he groans into your skin, hands cupping your ass to guide you. The kiss deepens — less about heat, more about connection, the kind that unfurls through your body like a slow burn.

When he finally lifts you from the chair, carrying you toward the bedroom with your legs around his waist and the jersey still on, he doesn’t rush. He lays you down like something sacred, presses kisses over your collarbone, your thighs, the soft curve of your stomach.

“I just want you warm,” he whispers, sliding the hem of the jersey up with steady hands. “Safe. Here.”

You nod, eyes glassy, throat tight.

“I am.”

And for the next hour — bare limbs tangled in sheets, his breath in your ear, his hands never leaving your skin — you are.

#camficdiner #qh43 x reader #qh43 #qhughes #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes

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rosemariiaa · 9 months ago

Text

~Holding On~

˖˙ ᰋ ── pairing- Paige x Azzi

˖˙ ᰋ ── rosie’s note: not really much to say.. but this was kind of sad to write. I’m taking requests for a while until I start on something new , so send what you want to read lovelies 💌

˖˙ ᰋ ── request: • can u write pazzi oneshot where paige has thanatophobia and has panic attack and azzi id there to comfort her •

˖˙ ᰋ ── theme: fear of dying

enjoy!!!

The apartment was quiet, but inside Paige’s head, it felt anything but. Her breathing was shallow, erratic—her hands trembling as her mind spiraled down a dark, endless tunnel. The walls felt like they were closing in on her, the fear wrapping itself around her chest like a vice. She was trying to keep it together, but it was slipping, all of it slipping.

She couldn’t stop thinking about it. The end. That moment when everything just… stops. What if it came sooner than she thought? What if she wasn’t ready? What if she left everything and everyone behind?

Her chest tightened, her heartbeat thrumming too fast, too loud. She pressed her back against the cool wall of her room, gasping for air that didn’t seem to reach her lungs. The world felt like it was fading, like she was falling, and she couldn’t stop it.

Azzi wasn’t supposed to come over tonight. Paige had tried to be normal during practice, tried to laugh and joke like always. But the moment she was alone, it crept back in. And now it was suffocating her. Somehow, through the fog of her thoughts, she heard her phone buzz. Azzi. She didn’t have the strength to answer it.

Then, the door opened. Paige’s breathing hitched when she heard Azzi’s voice, soft but concerned. “Paige? You didn’t answer my texts. You okay?”

Azzi’s eyes immediately landed on Paige, crumpled on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if trying to hold her body together.

“Oh my God, Paige,” Azzi whispered, rushing to her side.

Paige couldn’t even speak. She could barely breathe. She felt a cold sweat trickling down her spine, her vision swimming. Her mind was racing, chaotic and frantic, screaming things she couldn’t control.

Azzi dropped to her knees beside Paige, her own panic rising, but she pushed it down. She needed to be strong right now. Gently, she cupped Paige’s face in her hands, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Hey, hey… I’m right here. You’re okay. Breathe with me, okay?”

Paige’s eyes were wide, unfocused, but she tried to latch onto Azzi’s voice. It was like a lifeline, a rope pulling her from the deep end, but it was hard. Everything was hard.

“I can’t,” Paige managed to choke out, her voice raw, broken. “I can’t… Azzi, I… it’s like… I can’t stop thinking about it. I feel like I’m going to die. I— “You’re not going to die,” Azzi said firmly, though her voice cracked with emotion. She wrapped her arms around Paige, pulling her close, holding her as tightly as she could. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Paige’s body shook as she collapsed into Azzi’s embrace, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Azzi held her, one hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing circles on her back. She didn’t say anything for a while, just let Paige cry, let her panic run its course. The weight of the fear was crushing, suffocating.

“I’m scared,” Paige finally whispered, her voice so small it almost broke Azzi’s heart.

“I know, baby. I know,” Azzi whispered back. “But you’re not alone. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

They sat like that for what felt like hours, the weight of Paige’s fear slowly lifting, little by little. Her breathing started to even out, though the trembling in her hands remained. She could feel Azzi’s heartbeat against her own chest, steady, grounding her in a way she hadn’t thought was possible.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Azzi asked quietly, her fingers still running through Paige’s hair.

Paige didn’t answer at first. She didn’t know where to begin, how to explain what it felt like to be so terrified of the end—so terrified of something inevitable. Finally, she whispered, “I think about it all the time. About dying. About not being here anymore. It’s like this… weight. I try to ignore it, but sometimes it just… it takes over. And tonight, I just—” Her voice broke, and she clutched Azzi tighter. “It’s too much.”

Azzi closed her eyes, trying to keep herself from crying. She hated seeing Paige like this, so vulnerable, so scared. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” she said softly. “I know it feels like you’re carrying it all by yourself, but I’m here. Always.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Paige whispered, her voice barely audible.

“You won’t,” Azzi said, her voice fierce, determined. “You’re stuck with me, okay? Forever, if I have anything to say about it.” Paige gave a shaky laugh, though it was more out of exhaustion than amusement. “Forever, huh?”

“Forever,” Azzi confirmed, leaning down to press a kiss to Paige’s forehead. “We’re in this together.”

Paige nodded, her breathing slowly returning to normal. She didn’t feel okay, not completely. The fear was still there, lurking in the back of her mind, but it felt… manageable, at least for now. With Azzi holding her, it didn’t feel like it was swallowing her whole.

“I love you,” Paige whispered, her voice soft and fragile.

Azzi’s heart swelled, and she kissed the top of Paige’s head again, pulling her even closer. “I love you too. And I’m going to be here, no matter how hard it gets. You don’t have to be scared alone.”

They stayed like that, tangled together on the floor, the world outside their small apartment fading away. For now, it was just the two of them, holding onto each other through the storm. And for the first time in a long time, Paige didn’t feel quite so afraid.

————-

tags: @thaatdigitaldiary @patscorner 💌

#asks ❣︎#pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #rosie fics #rosie’s works 🎧⋆｡ °⋆

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suku-enthusiasts · 1 month ago

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Sorcerer Sukuna (one shots series)

main masterlist - Can You Listen to Me?

❛ ❜ sukuna ryomen x f!reader || sorcerer au

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. slight hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

chapter warning ; sukuna licks the readers blood from an injury

Beside the title of the chapter will have an 🅴 next to it ;) - other chapters in main masterlist

You and Sukuna were living in a quiet kind of bliss, tucked into the cozy corners of your new shared apartment. Seven months into your relationship, and everything felt strangely… balanced. The kind of balance no one would expect from a man like him and someone like you. You were calm, soft-spoken, but firm when you needed to be. Sass in your tone, fire in your spine, and a softness in your hands that healed both curses and hearts. You knew how to stand your ground—but more importantly, you knew when to yield. When to offer peace. When to love a man built from war. And Sukuna… Sukuna was war.

His history was ancient, violent, soaked in blood and hardened by centuries of betrayal, war, and power. He had seen the world rebirth itself a hundred times, each era more twisted than the last. In your early days, he was rough—short with his words, crude with his touch, always distant in his gaze. But something in him had changed. You had changed him. With you, his words softened. His touch became featherlight. His eyes, once cold and calculating, now lingered on you like you were his only tether to humanity. But that gentleness was reserved for you and you alone. When other men so much as looked in your direction, his jaw would clench. His hands would flex. He was protective—possessively so—and while others found him brutal, you knew that underneath the armor was a man who had never once been protected himself. You didn’t know everything about his past. He kept it locked away behind silence and warning looks. Until today.

“Sukuna, please,” you whispered, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Baby, listen.”

“No.” His voice was cold. Final. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“Suku, please…” you begged softly.

Yaga had assigned you to an upcoming mission—one you were meant to assist on, not fight in. Your job was to be there for the injured sorcerers. But Sukuna had heard what this mission entailed. He’d seen what kind of curses you’d be near. And his silence turned to fury. “I said no,” he snapped, pulling his hand from yours.

“This is my job,” you pushed gently. “I have to be there. If someone gets hurt—”

“I can handle it!” he barked, eyes blazing. “I don’t need you there. I can’t protect you and fight at the same time.” He was trembling. You could see it in his jaw, in his shoulders. He was barely holding himself back from shifting into his true form. He hated using it—it made his thirst unbearable. Made the darkness inside him louder. Stronger. He’d been keeping it at bay for months, for you, but it came at a cost: a weaker state, a slower reaction time, and more risk. Still, he refused to become that monster again. You stepped forward, placing a hand to his chest. “Sukuna… you’re going to need me there. Please trust me.” But he turned, jaw clenched tight, and walked out the front door without a word. You didn’t see him again—not until the mission.

The battlefield was chaos. Curses swarmed in every direction. Sorcerers called out for cover, backup, reinforcement. From a distance, you spotted him—Sukuna—his expression dark, drawn tight with exhaustion and rage. He hadn’t noticed you yet. Until you sprinted from your medical tent, sliding beside Megumi who had collapsed, wounded. You called his name—his real name. “SUKUNA!” His head snapped back. And that was when it happened.

The transformation was instant. Smoke billowed around him. His body expanded. Four arms. Four eyes. Fangs bared. You had seen him angry before—but this? This was the King of Curses you’d been told stories about as a child. The one who tore kingdoms apart. The one who devoured people whole. This was the part of him he hated, and he’d become it again—for you.

“Fuck, he’s shifting—Suguru, contain Ryomen!” Gojo shouted from across the field, stepping into his own domain, but it was too late. The curses around him didn’t stand a chance. He ripped through them—biting, clawing, tearing them limb from limb. The air itself seemed to bleed, and then he turned toward Gojo. “Sukuna,” you cried. “Remember what you want! You don’t want this—!” You ran. You didn’t think—just moved.

But a curse got to you first. It tackled you from behind, slamming you into the ground, shards of glass slicing your arm open. You screamed.

The curse didn’t last two seconds. Sukuna obliterated it with a single strike. Then he was towering over you—breathing hard, fangs slick with blood. He looked down at your bleeding arm, and something primal flashed in his eyes. Hunger. Rage. Need.

“You stupid woman,” he hissed, scooping you into his arms. “You never listen. Is this how my wife shows obedience to her husband?” You stared at him, breath caught. Then he lifted your bleeding arm, and dragged his tongue across the gash—licking it clean with a groan, his saliva carrying a healing charge that sealed your skin instantly. Satoru and Suguru froze. No one had seen him do that before.

“You taste good everywhere,” he said darkly. “Now I’ve tasted it all.” A swirl of smoke wrapped around you both, and when it cleared, he was back—tall, two-armed, tattooed, smug. Your palm smacked his chest. “You vulgar man.”

“And you’re mine,” he smirked, kissing your temple. “Oh my fucking god,” Gojo finally blurted. “You guys are married?!”

“Shut up, Satoru,” Sukuna snapped. “You’re lucky she still gives a shit about you. I would’ve ended you.”

That night, you returned home. Showered. Wrapped in towels. Wine glasses in hand. Finally breathing again. “Sukuna…” you said quietly, curled against him on the couch, your legs draped over his lap. He took a slow sip of wine. “Alright, alright… I know what you want to ask.” You nodded.

Your fingers traced his knee gently. “You know that scar on my knee?” He looked down, brows furrowing. “Yeah. From the first night I came over.”

You exhaled. “When I was seventeen… my dad tried to—he tried to hurt me. My mom wasn’t… right. She chased me, cut me, beat me until the neighbor pulled her off. My dad’s in prison. My mom’s in a center. I don’t talk about it because I’m not looking for pity—I just want us to be honest. I want better than where we come from. We deserve better.” You cupped his face, letting him see your heart laid bare. His voice was gravel-soft.

“When I was young… my parents tried to kill me too. My mother hated what I was. Called me cursed. She wasn’t wrong. I killed them both. Then I killed hundreds more. No… thousands. I became a monster—cursed by my own power. And for a thousand years, I lived that way.” You didn’t flinch. You just kept your hand on his. “But now…” he whispered, “I’ve got this life. You. A woman who chooses me. All of me. Who lets me be soft, and still fierce. Who lets me feel peace.” His teeth clenched. “I still crave violence. Still crave blood. But I fear hurting you more than anything. That terrifies me.” You kissed his hand, running your fingers up his inked arm. “You don’t scare me, Sukuna. I don’t care what you were—I care who you are now. You are mine. And I am yours. Always.” He swallowed hard, brushing your curls from your face. Then he leaned in, kissed your forehead, and pulled you into his lap.

As you curled into him, his hand stroking your back in slow, lazy lines, Sukuna closed his eyes and thought to himself, So this… this is what peace feels like. And for the first time in over a thousand years… He let himself rest.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #ryomen sukuna fluff #sukuna fluff #true form sukuna

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prettyshinnythings · 7 months ago

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Resurrection Chapter 2

pairings: Sauron x Reader, Adar x reader

Warnings: This is for readers 18+. This chapter contains mentions of smutty activities. There will be smut in the next part if anyone wants that! Please do not read if you're under 18.

This is my first fic on this blog.

Chapter One

Chapter Two:

My breathing hitched in my throat as I stepped from the outside world and into the tent where Adar kept his prisoner king. Inside the tent, there was barely any light, what little light there was came from a dim lamp beside the support beam keeping the tent from collapsing in on itself. Cautiously, I hold my bag to my body, my fingers gripping the sturdy leather of the bag. It had been my idea to bring something to treat whatever wounds the king sustained in Adar’s interrogation. I knew that he could get quite rough whenever he felt the situation called for it.

Breathing a deep sigh, I take a step further into the tent, allowing the flaps to close behind me, and making the room darker.

The prisoner doesn’t say anything as I softly walk along the uneven dirt ground. He does not even bother to acknowledge me until I sit on the stool resting in front of the support beam. I set the bag down before sitting on the stool, my eyes finding the man sitting across from me. He has dark brown locks that fall just past his jaw, and his face is handsome, even with the bruising. He lifts his eyes to meet mine slowly, his stubble-covered jaw lifting up in defiance of the pain that I know he’s in. When he looks at me, an undetectable look flickers in his eyes. A moment of recognition that I could not understand. I had never seen this man before, but there was something about him that felt familiar. Even with a cut on his lips, he still manages to smirk up at me.

“Well, look at you…”

His gaze intensifies as he looks at me over. The dress Adar had suggested for me to wear fit along my body like a second skin. The dark black fabric made me look like I was a member of a lavish court in a wealthy kingdom. The lower cut of the dress seemed particularly interesting to him.

“... Adar sent in someone pretty to look at. Tell me, love, are you supposed to get me to talk?”

My eyes move from his handsome face to the chain around his neck. Seeing him like that sent a curious shiver up my spine and I was not entirely sure why. Did I like seeing him in chains? I try to shake the thought from my head and force myself to meet his gaze once again. The look on his face has changed slightly, as if he had read my mind. A dark chuckle escapes him as I attempt to remain focused.

“I simply want to ease your suffering, your Majesty. I know Adar can be quite rough when he feels like he is not getting what he wants.”

My voice is small, and reserved, as I look at him. I attempt to focus on my breathing whilst I do this. Whoever this man was, I felt this pull that I had never felt before. Like the man from my dream.

My words bring about new amusement on his handsome face. Again, as if he knew what I’d just thought.

“Have a lot of experience with Adar’s roughness have you? What exactly is an elf doing with a Uruk who is terrorizing my people? Do you love him?”

I feel my stomach turn at his questions. The latter half sounded almost angry as if I was his lover who had betrayed him by being with Adar. I cannot discern what it is exactly that has upset the king, but I do not bite the bait.

“I simply wanted to help you. If my presence is a problem then I will let the guards continue to do what they do to get answers out of you. Though I would hate to bring any more harm to you, your Majesty.”

Remaining calm, I reach down for my bag and attempt to stand up from the stool. I knew it had been a bad idea to try and get him to talk. But the second that I stand from my spot, he breathes a pained sigh.

“You do not have to go. Forgive me, I am just curious. You do not have to answer if you do not want to.”

The smirk remains on his face as he says this. His eyes watched me closely to see if I still decided to go.

Cautiously, I dare to move closer to the king of the Southlands. I sit beside him, placing my bag on the ground near my feet. I do not speak as I reach into the bag and pull out a cloth and a bottle of gin. Opening the gin I take a swig of it and sigh in contentment as I feel the warmth of the gin cascading down the back of my throat. A welcomed sensation that contrasted with the coldness of the tent. I give the king a small smile as I tilt the bottle in his direction, offering him a sip. Hesitantly, he lets me put the bottle to his lips as I pour the gin down his throat. Once I feel like he’s had a few decent swallows I pull the bottle from his lips.

We lock eyes for only a moment when I pull the bottle away, his gaze seeming to darken at my closer proximity. I feel my breathing hitch and I have to force myself to look away. Turning my attention to the cloth, I pour a decent amount onto the cloth before daring to speak to him.

“Can I touch you?”

I whisper, momentarily daring to look at him once more. He swallows hard and nods, unable to speak suddenly. With his permission I lean in, my hand holding the cloth on his bloodied lip. He does not flinch when the alcohol touches his skin and I start to clean the spot as gently as possible. I move the cloth from his lip after a few moments before pulling it away from him, the blood almost completely gone.

“I am sorry that he has hurt your people, my lord. He does not tell me what he does once he leaves the confines of our shared tent. He thinks I am too weak to handle the truth of what he does. What he has his children do.”

I pour more gin on the cloth and move it to wash his face, clean his face, and softly exfoliate any potential cuts he may have received. Not once does he look away from me, his gaze calculating as he anticipates what I will do next.

“Adar saved me when I was a younger elf maiden. My parents were both slain and I was the only survivor. He has taken care of me for a long time. I know our pairing seems odd, but he was the first one to care for me and keep me safe.”

I pour more gin on the cloth and then turn my attention to his hands, carefully cleaning them. He has strong hands. I wonder what they would feel like around my…

I mentally shake the thought from my head before letting it fully form. His voice cut through the silence that had befallen us once again.

“You look like someone I knew once. You could be her exact copy…”

He pauses as I finish my work. He waits until I put the lid on the bottle and put it back into my bag with the cloth before speaking.

“... Would you come closer?”

He asks the question quietly but it is my willingness to comply that shocks me. Without speaking a single word I stand up and move my body to straddle his. Our eyes locked together as I sat in his lap. I am unsure of why his question compelled me to do this, but here I was. Here, mere inches away from his face.

His eyes move from mine to my lips, the smirk he had worn earlier slowly creeping back onto his face.

“Show me your chest and torso.”

My breathing hitches as he says this, my mind in a compliant haze. Without any hesitation I pull my arms out of my sleeves. He licks his lips when I pull the fabric down and reveal full access to my exposed breasts. I feel my heartbeat quicken as he watches me pull the fabric further to show the top of my torso. I had been born with scars along my chest and torso. It looked like I’d been cut deeply by something very sharp. My whole life those marks had marred my skin, to the point where I did not wear certain clothing because the scars were so unappealing to look at.

He seems deeply transfixed by my scars as his bound hands reach out, stopping before making complete contact with my flesh.

“Can I touch you?”

He asks as I had only moments before. Without thinking twice I nod, watching him closely. Slowly he uses his fingers to lightly trace over the marks on my torso, his brow furrowed as he does. I could not quite understand what the look on his face meant, but there was a pain etched into his expression like I was some ghost he never thought he would see again.

“I know…”

I start breathlessly, my body suddenly on edge. I feel a chill move up my spine and my stomach turns in anticipation of what he will do next. A wetness started to form in between my legs. A dark chuckle brushes past his lips, seeming to note the way my body has changed beneath his touch.

“... I know they’re ugly to look at. I was born with these markings. My parents used to try and cover them up because they are so unsightly.”

His fingertips are light along my body, so light that I almost feel like I imagined them. My comment causes his brow to furrow as his eyes flick up from the markings to my face. His bound fingers lightly move from the marks on my torso to the one on my chest right above my heart.

“You’re beautiful. Your birthmarks do not take that away.”

My heart skips when he says this and suddenly I am all too aware of how close his lips are to mine. There is an arrogance that moves across his face when he sees that I have fully taken in our current predicament.

“What do you know of Sauron your majesty?”

I whisper, his lips ghosting over mine. My eyes flutter shut and he chuckles. I am trying to stay on task now that I realized how much I had quickly played into his hands. I was in his lap with the whole top part of my body exposed to him. This was certainly not what Adar had wanted.

Adar.

“Call me Halbrand.”

He rasps and kisses me deeply, my lips are powerless to deny how good he feels against me. I am quick to return the kiss with as much passion as he offers me. I gasp when his bound hands grasp my breast, his thumbs toying with my hardened nipple. He shudders against me when my hips roll against his. My body is desperate for friction. I can feel myself getting caught up in this heated exchange. I would give myself over to this man without a second thought… well until I thought of Adar once again. This time when I think about him I break the kiss and look at Halbrand. My heart is beating so fast that I am surprised that he cannot see the outline of it thumping in my chest.

“Halbrand… Please tell me about Sauron.”

I pull my head back to look at him, my body’s desire for him reflected in my face. I wondered what he thought of me at that moment. Did he think I was an easy fuck? Or did he feel it too? This strange connection that I could not understand. A dangerous look pulsates beneath the surface of the smile he gives me. He tilts his head back against the wall and I feel the frustration boiling within me at the smug look that overtakes his face.

“He is closer than you could ever imagine, Sweetling.”

My eyes widen at the nickname and instantly I remember being called Sweetling before…

In my dream.

How could he have known about it?

“Is this funny to you Halbrand? Do you enjoy being locked in here? If you tell me what you know I can speak with Adar. I could convince him to let you go without you befalling any more harm.”

At this, he looks at me with a raised eyebrow. He looks me over once again, amused that he has given me nothing but I was here partially naked before him.

“How will you convince him, hmm? Will you suck his cock and tell him how much you love him? Will you let him fuck your pretty little pussy? Is that what you will do? Meanwhile, Middle Earth is suffering, but I bet that does not matter to you as long as you are his whore.”

When he finishes speaking all of the wind in my lungs feels as if it has left my body. Halbrand looked back at me like I had done something awful to him. As if I had betrayed him in some personal way. I cannot stop the tears that form in my eyes at his words. Instead, I get up off of his lap and pull my dress back up over my exposed chest, concealing myself once more. I refuse to look at him as I bend down to pick up the bag, but when I do his hands grasp my arm. I want to pull out of his grasp but find that I cannot. I am too overcome with emotion to push him away. No one had ever said those words to me before. Sure, I knew what the uruks thought of my relationship with Adar. Some loved me, others did not. I knew what people thought of me when they found me standing at Adar’s side. But no one had ever voiced those feelings out loud.

“Halbrand.”

I whimper, forcing myself to look over at him. The tears in my eyes have softened his expression as he watched me cautiously.

“What is your name, Sweetling.”

He asks, his tone careful.

“(Y/n).”

I feel like a child who has been scolded when I speak to him as if I was in trouble.

“(Y/n), Sauron has taken a new form. I know not where he resides, only that he does not look the same as Adar remembers.”

The information he provides does not have a moment to sink in before Adar’s voice sounds from behind me.

“Halbrand, do not touch (y/n). She is mine.”

My blood seems to freeze when Adar calls me his. Suddenly, it did not feel as comforting as it had this morning when I had awoken in his bed. Halbrand does let go of my arm and when he does I reach down to grab my bag before walking over to Adar’s side. He peers down at me with an unreadable expression. Almost as if he knew that I had gone too far. As if he felt the shift that had happened the moment Halbrand’s lips were on mine. He pulls me in against him, his hands on my waist. Adar’s lips find the side of my face, but there is no comfort that I feel from the action.

“She was someone else’s at one point was she not lord father? Or at least someone whose likeness she shares. But you knew that already didn’t you?”

Halbrand’s voice breaks through the uncomfortable tension that had manifested in the room. At this statement, I peer up at Adar in confusion. What could Halbrand have meant? I take a few steps back from Adar, my eyes wide as I look at him. A deep sigh escaped my lover before he glanced past me to Halbrand.

“During the first age, Sauron had a messenger who became his mistress. The name Morgoth gave her was Thuringwethil. But she was known amongst the uruks who served Sauron as a different name. (Y/n), was the one he loved more than anything. He would have done anything for her, but on the night of his coronation, something terrible happened. He had sent her to take one final message and during that journey, she was killed when she came across the hound of Valinor. Sauron never learned of her passing because I killed him before he was able to learn the fate of his mistress…”

I feel my skin crawl at his words. Not because I was disturbed by them, but because they felt familiar to me. As if my body could recall every memory he recounted. Adar’s gaze finds mine, his lips pulled into a tight line.

“...When I found you I was shocked by how much you looked like Thuringwethil. Every single part of you is her perfect likeness, apart from the fact that you are an elf. You have her face, her hair, her body, and those same scars that Morgoth had etched into Thuringwethil. When I found you I knew that I had to have you. That having you was the perfect revenge against Sauron and what he put my children through. If Thuringwethil was his true love in his past life then I wanted to make sure that, he would never have her again.”

When he finishes speaking, he takes a step forward, his hand outstretched to take mine in his. I am in shock by everything he has just said, so much so that I just stare at him. My body is unmoving as if I had turned into a statue. Everything I had known to be true had been flipped on its head. Every piece of my relationship with Adar seemed to pass through my mind like a demented illusion. And worst of all, it hurt because I had believed that Adar had loved me for me. Not because I looked like someone he had known. Not because of his anger with Sauron.

“How do you even know that I am her? What if I just look like her?”

I ask in quiet desperation, pleading for some sort of explainable reasoning. Adar gives my hand a squeeze and nods.

“Sometimes, when you dream you say his name. His true name that not many know. You said it this morning when you woke up. I do not believe that is a coincidence.”

My brow furrows as I think back to the name of the man from my dream and I feel my heart stop. Cautiously, I look up at Adar before mumbling feebly.

“Marion.”

#halbrand x reader #halbrand smut #charlie vickers #sauron x reader #annatar x reader #annatar #the rings of power #trop #halbrand

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system-to-the-madness · 1 year ago

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Cherry Blossom Rests 🌸 Inumaki Toge x Reader

Pairing: Inumaki Toge x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: fluff Word Count: 1 223 Warnings: mentions of wounds, blood Summary: After a mission, Toge and you rest under a tree

Sakura Festival Masterlist - Masterlist

“Toge, can you move your arm away? My neck hurts.”

“Okaka.”

“Asshole.”

With a groan you sat up enough to be able to grab Toge’s arm and move it away from where your head had been resting on it. Any other day you would have appreciated him offering his arm up as your headrest, but not today. You were sore all over from the mission you had just returned from. Your body was littered with small cuts, dust stuck to your skin and your sweat drenched clothes, and every muscle in your body felt like it had been robbed of any and all strength.

The mission itself had not really been dangerous, only exhausting. So much even, that you had fallen asleep in the train back home, and as soon as you had made it up the sheer infinite number of steps to the school, Toge and you had collapsed under the closest tree, not even bothering to make it back to your rooms. Here, on the school grounds you were safe from the prying eyes of public, so you had not made the effort to go further, and instead decided to rest here for a moment. Or a few moments. You had been laying underneath the blooming cherry tree for almost an hour now.

Toge protested loudly as you flopped back down, spread out like a starfish, but without the support of his arm this time. You knew he considered it his sacred duty as your boyfriend to always make sure you were as comfortable as possible.

“Toge, my neck hurts, stop it,” you protested as he tried to wriggle his hand back under your neck. “I just want to lay like that for a moment, okay? We can cuddle later.”

At your side, he whined, but pulled his hand away. You sighed quietly, focusing on the way your spine seemed to stretch out on the ground. It felt like a weigh was being removed. Experimentally you turned your head, trying to stretch out the tension in your neck, when suddenly something warm and heavy flopped down on your chest.

If you weren’t so familiar with this exact sensation, you might have been startled, but you knew what had happened, and so you just groaned a little from the way your chest got compressed by the suddenly added weight. Toge had thrown himself on top of you, arms around your waist, head resting on your chest, his bright hair tickling your chin.

“A warning next time,” you grumbled, but brought your hand up to his head anyway, running it though his strands. They were sweat and dirt coated. It had been over an hour since the fight had ended, but his body was still warm underneath his by now chilly clothes.

“Saamon Tsuna,” You should have seen it coming.

“You’re such a spoiled brat,” you sighed, craning your neck to press a kiss to the crown of his head.

Toge turned his head, resting his chin on your sternum and glanced up to you, indigo eyes scanning over your face as if he was uncertain whether you meant it. Of course, you didn’t, and he knew that, but sometimes you couldn’t shake the feeling that he still doubted your feelings for him. Was it really so hard to believe that you loved him? That idiot. But he was your idiot, and if you had to, you’d reassure him of your love for him until he got sick of it… which was a bold statement considering he always insisted he could never get enough of you.

“Okaka”, he pouted. I’m not a spoiled brat. “Takana-zuke.” You are.

“Oi,” you complained. “What did I do?”

Toge just kept pouting, giving you a moment to take in his appearance. You had been too exhausted to give him a proper once over, earlier only having made sure he was not injured too badly. Like yours, his skin was littered in cuts, his uniform dirty and still wet from sweat. At the corner of his mouth, he had missed a droplet of blood, that had by now dried and turned a dark shade of brown against his pale skin. He had used his technique too much, again. Over the past months he had gotten quite good at estimating how long he could use it, and how the impact of different commands shortened that time. But there were still moments where he went over his limits, and you hated it, hated seeing him hurt.

Reaching up, you ran your thumb over the corner of his mouth, trying to brush the dried blood away, but instead Toge turned his head to kiss your thumb.

“Hold still,” you demanded, “you have some blood there.”

Toge just rolled his eyes and pouted, but let you clean the small stain away, before looking at you expectantly.

“Tsuna Mayo,” he requested.

You furrowed your brows. “What do you want me to do?”

He rolled his eyes again, signaling you that he had expected you to understand him, before he pushed up on his hands and shifted himself so he could kiss you on the lips.

Something about Toge’s kisses always took your breath away. Sure, there were the heated kisses you shared in the privacy of your rooms, but even the smaller, almost innocent ones always made you swoon. His lips were soft and warm, his breath fanning over your cheeks in a familiar way as he pulled back after a moment to look down on you underneath him.

“Okome,” he whispered, making you smile. I love you.

“Okome,” you repeated to him, and satisfied you watched as a smile of his own spread over his face.

“Sujiko,” he smirked, lowering himself down again, so he could rest his head on your chest again.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” you complained. “You can’t make fun of me for saying I love you when you were the one who started it!”

“Shake.” Yes, I can.

“You’re awful,” you whined, your hand immediately finding its way back into his hair. “Why am I putting up with you again?”

“Takana-zuke okome.” You love me.

“Yeah, unfortunately.” You picked a cherry blossom petal out of his hair, the colour of the petal almost identical to that of his strands.

“Okome.” And I love you. Toge’s voice had gotten quieter, heavy, and you knew he was about to fall asleep.

“I know,” you whispered, carding your fingers through his soft hair. “And I’m so happy you do.”

Toge only hummed in affirmation, his eyes fluttering shut as he kept his ear pressed to your chest, listening to your breath and heartbeat. Warm sunbeams fell through the branches and blinded you, making you close your eyes too. Rationally you knew you should get up, go back to your room, shower, get patched up and write the mission report. But you really didn’t want to disturb your sleeping boyfriend. Besides, when would you get the next chance to cuddle with him on a spring afternoon under the blooming cherry trees? You sighed, relaxing against the ground. Nobody would mind if you took a little longer with that report. And if they did… their offence, no matter how big, could not compete with the feeling of peace that flooded your body from feeling Toge sleep with his arms wrapped around you.

@delzinrowe

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hexsichord · 15 days ago

Text

Post canon jayvik where after the rune implodes Viktor loses his human body and his soul instead finds a home in Jayce (stream of conscious ficlet/drabble that I may or may not flesh out more later into a proper fic)

Everything happened so quickly. The rune and anomaly collapsing in on itself, the idea of where he ended and Viktor started, the apprehension of the end before a peace settled into his bones and he feels a sense of wholeness Jayce hasn’t felt in a while. Overwhelming light followed up unending darkness.

And then he wakes up. Takes a minute to find the strength to push himself up into a sitting position and take in….everything. He’d no idea what happened, where he is, what he is. Alive? Dead? In limbo? He looks around and recognises nothing. Goes to thumb over the rune stone and feels nothing.

They did it. They finished it. It’s all over. Piltover’s safe. Everyone’s safe. Viktor’s safe. Viktor. Where’s Viktor?

He rushed to his feet, stumbling, feeling like a newborn deer, not right in his body. Feels a pain shooting through his leg but doesn’t pay any attention to it. He’ll be fine once he’s found Viktor, he just needs to find Viktor. He calls out to him, desperately looking around for where he could be. They were together at the end he knows it so the other has to be around here somewhere. “Jayce?” He hears him but there’s no sense of direction to the sound. The voice is just there. “Jayce, you need to calm down.” Jayce can feel his panic spiking before there’s a flood of calm. It’s not his calm. He knows it’s not. There’s no way he could be calm in a moment like this.

“Viktor? What’s going on?” Why can’t I find you he wants to say but he can’t say the words out loud. The calm doesn’t stop and he swears he feels the ghost of a touch on his wrist when the rune once sat, tracing over the iridescent scarring that’s been left behind.

“I think you can’t find me Jayce because I’m not here. Physically at least.” Oh maybe he had said that out loud. “You didn’t say it out loud Jayce.” What the fuck is going on?

“What the fuck indeed.”

Viktor’s body was indeed physically not there.

“Perhaps since fusing with the hexcore my body was seen as an extension of the arcane and thus went with the rune and anomaly.” Viktor theorises. It makes sense Jayce thinks. The Herald was a symbol of dabbling in the machinations of the arcane. If everything attached to the rune no longer existed then neither would Viktor’s body. Viktor’s beautiful imperfect human body. Once again destroyed by Jayce’s selfishness. Jayce thinks this is it, that he’s finally slipped into the ever looming insanity.

“So I once again kill you and what, get haunted by your ghost till the end of time? Is that how this works?” His final punishment. That ghost of a touch is there again against his skin and he hates how it soothes him. How it feels like Viktor’s here with him but he’s not. “No no, I don’t think I’m a ghost. Not corporeal but not dead.”

“Great, fantastic, real helpful there V.”

They decide to stress about whether Viktor is or isn’t a ghost later and work instead on getting Jayce somewhere safe. It’s a struggle and takes him far longer than either of them planned but he finally finds a cave to rest in. Viktor lists through the numerous issues Jayce has physically; leg, his left eye and ear, his left wrist. Each location tingles upon the mention, like Viktor is physically examining him and it makes Jayce want to scratch beneath his skin and grab at whatever essence of Viktor he can grab. Pull him out so he can hold him and smell him and have him here. Actually here.

His leg brace is fine for now they decide, and he can make a temporary splint for his wrist for the time being. His sight and hearing is another issue.

“I have an idea, if you’ll let me?” There’s a nervousness in Viktor’s voice and a tremble that he feels down his spine that he can tell is a reaction from the other and all he can do is nod in agreement. He’s hit with a headrush and the side of face feels like it’s being cradled and then everything clears up. The world comes in sharper than before, louder than before and he’s overwhelmed. “Viktor what did you do?” He can feel his body trying to spiral into panic but the calm from before comes back and Jayce feels like he’s going to suffocate with it all. It’s all too much and things go back to being softened.

“Sorry, I didn’t think it’d be that big of a difference for you.” “What did you do Viktor?” “I’m letting you see and hear through me Jayce. I just miscalculated how accustomed you are to everything, I shouldn’t have uh…cranked it?” “So you’re possessing me? So you are dead.”

It takes Jayce a while to get used to Viktor helping with his hearing and sight. The sharper senses make him more alert. More on edge. He can’t tell what sounds are real and what’s fake. Sees things out of the corner of his eyes and questions if they’re actually there or not. Viktor helps. Checks in on him, ensures what’s real and what’s not. Including himself. He’s real and here. Just not in the sense they both wish. They hypothesise how exactly Viktor came to be in this state. Viktor talked about how when everything disintegrated in on itself and nothingness he was left afloat. His body gone and he couldn’t see Jayce anywhere. And then something pulled him through, pulled him out. Held him close and safe and he was prepared to die. And then Jayce woke up and Viktor woke up with him. In him.

“God we’re so fucked up.”

Despite how absolutely fucked the situation really is if you take too long to think about it they get used to it. Jayce gets used to lending some control of himself to Viktor. Appreciates the efforts he goes to to comfort Jayce when he needs it. Appreciates the closeness they share. Literally. Viktor appreciates Jayce trusting him after all he’s done. There’s struggles with it all. With the mix of emotions, memories, of working out who’s who in the moment. There are times though when Jayce absolutely knows they’re feelings from Viktor. Phantom pains in his leg, his back, his chest where he shot him. His heart clenching sense of guilt when he catches what he looks like in a body of water. Fingerprints branding his forehead, his left eye an amber gold that matches Viktor. It doesn't matter how much he tries to insist to him that it’s all okay really the guilt never leaves. But Jayce guesses it matches his guilt. Guilt for dooming Viktor’s soul to living in a body that isn’t his. Guilt for wanting to keep him a part of him.

The one issue though of being two souls in one body is trying to keep things in private. Feelings, memories, nightmares about traumas you’ve been through. They’ve plagued Jayce since his time in the ravine and now is not different. He knows they affect Viktor but he doesn’t talk about them. Can’t talk about them. And Viktor doesn’t ask about them. He doesn’t have to really. He knows enough. Jayce knows he knows enough. Until one night they stop. He feels the start of them, the pull of fear and terror he’s come to expect but then it dissipates. And then there’s a sense of comfort. A feeling of fingers gently scratching his scalp and a mumble he can never discern through the fog and sleep. After a week of no nightmares he asks Viktor about it.

“I thought I was helping. If you want me to stop I can. But you need your rest Jayce.” The thought of Viktor keeping him safe in his sleep warms his heart. So like Viktor to help others where he can.

“What about your sleep though?” “Oh. I don’t really need sleep in here.”

Oh.

The other thing that seems to be impossible to keep private however much he wishes he could is his bodily reactions. He’s a man after all. “You can just tell me you need space Jayce it’s perfectly alright.” “Viktor I’m not gonna tell you when I want to…crank it.” There’s a part of him that wants to though. He want Viktor to know how he feels, how he makes him feel. Wants Viktor to know that those 7 years of yearning and wanting were reciprocated even though it took him so long to realise. He wants Viktor to watch him, to tell him what to do, to make him feel good. He wants to make Viktor feel good somehow too. He wants Viktor and he wants release and he-

“What, you want me to watch you put on a show whilst I tell you what a good boy you are for me?” Feel a flush of heat run through his whole body and he knows it’s not just him feeling it.

“God Viktor, yes, yes I want that. Please.”

God they’re so fucked up.

They never find people. They find abandoned towns in worse and worse states as they go along. It feels familiar to Jayce and that sense of familiarity only grows until one day he sees it. A puppet. One of Viktor’s puppets. “Oh god.” He knows where they are.

The puppets grow in numbers but this time they don’t chase him. Don’t move at all.

Neither of them like it there. Both feeling more than they can explain. It’s understandable really. The outcome of their devotion to each other would be difficult for any person to process. But if they’re in ruined Piltover then maybe, just maybe there’s someone who can help. Although now Jayce doesn’t know how he’d be able to cope without Viktor with him, in him. And Viktor doesn’t know if he can ask himself to give up his body so he can continue to live on with Jayce.

They search for him though. The old mage that saved Jayce and thus doomed the world. Viktor hates to admit he’d do it again and again in a heartbeat. There’s a lingering guilt for everything he’s done but he’s grown too selfish to truly care now Jayce is his. So selfish that he hopes they don’t find the mage.

#laurie's jayvik rambles #jayvik #jayvik post canon #jayce talis #viktor #ficlet #fucked up freaks i tell you i love them #honestly i think they'd find mage viktor and i do think he'd give his body to his other self so he can finally be at peace #and you damn well know they'd instantly be at it with the nastiest fucking of their lives #the can finally hold each other probably and they'd go absolutely feral

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sircantus · 9 months ago

Note

Techno had been exploring a cave system with Phil when he felt it.

A rumbling vibration traveling through the rock too deep for humans and several types hybrids to sense.

It took Techno a moment to realize what it meant. And when he did…

“Move!” Techno roared. “Back to the surface! Now!”

Phil startled at the unexpected shout, but they’d known each other for too long to hesitate even if the danger was unknown.

Phil sprinted back the way they had come, Techno only a few paces behind him.

Phil held a torch aloft, and Techno a sword. Techno banished the sword to his inventory as he ran, but had no time to do the same for the pickaxe strapped to his belt.

As they ran, the rumbling increased in volume and intensity, there was no way anyone could miss it now.

How far was it to the exit? How deep had they been?

The cave had started to show deep slate, so perhaps sixty blocks below the surface.

That didn’t account for how far they’d travelled in any other direction, though.

They had entered the cave from a deep fissure in the earth, traveling into the cave network from there.

They were near halfway back when Techno heard the rock breaking above their heads. Diving forwards, Techno shoved Phil as far as he could.

A flash of pain in Techno’s abdomen as he hit the ground was quickly buried by the stone that slammed into his back, crushing force pinning him to the floor in a shower of dust and smaller rocks. The impact knocked the breath out of him and Techno wheezed, gasping at the stone dust filled air for breath.

The cave had collapsed, blocking off the direction the pair had just run from completely, catching Techno on the edge of the newly formed barrier.

“Techno?” Phil must have come to check on him while Techno was still regaining his breath. Phil had set his torch down near Techno as he checked his pulse.

“Mate, can you hear me?”

Techno’s response was a wheezing cough.

“Okay, okay, can’t talk?” Phil had grabbed the torch again, and lifted Techno’s chin, holding it close to one of Techno’s eyes, then the other before settling the torch aside.

Next Philza grabbed one of Techno’s hands.

“Can you squeeze my hand?”

Techno squeezed it.

“Squeeze once for yes, twice for no.”

Techno squeezed Phil’s hand again.

“Are you bleeding anywhere? Can you tell?”

Phil must not be able to see most of Techno what with him being covered in stone at the moment.

One squeeze. Yes.

The pickaxe attached to Techno’s belt felt like it had decided to introduce itself to his intestines, so he was most definitely bleeding from it.

“Alright don’t worry mate, we’ll get you out. If I move enough of this we should be able to get you walking.”

Two squeezes. No.

Philza frowned. “Why no? Wait, are your legs hurt?”

Techno- couldn’t actually feel his legs. Or his hips. And he really hoped that wasn’t a spine injury, but it probably was. He wasn’t sure how to tell Phil that, though, so-

Yes. One squeeze.

There was no way Phil would be able to get Techno out of here on his own. Cave-ins like this were dangerous enough on their own, but the first one had been caused by an earthquake, and there could still be aftershocks.

Here with Techno was just about the most dangerous place Phil could be right now. Techno had to convince him to leave.

He gathered his breath.

“Go.”

“What? Techno, no- I can’t leave you!”

Techno tried again.

“Go. H’lp.”

“Oh.” Phil said, looking to study the stone above Techno, “This is definitely a two person job, maybe three. I can ask Niki or Ranboo-“

A pause.

“Promise me you won’t leave me.”

Techno couldn’t suppress a snort of amusement.

Techno couldn’t go anywhere, he was trapped under a literal ton of stone.

But he knew what Phil meant.

“Pr’mse.” Techno managed to get out, knowing it was probably a lie as he said it.

But Techno needed Phil to leave, to be safe.

Techno gave Phil’s hand one last squeeze, and he hoped Phil knew what it meant.

For you, the world.

And then Phil was running towards the cave entrance on his way to get help.

~~~

It was only a few minutes after Phil left that Techno felt the rumbling start again.

The aftershock caused a second collapse, sending rocks falling down on Techno’s shoulders, arms and head. At least one rock must have made its mark against his skull, because Techno’s awareness missed the rest of the rockfall.

When he came back to consciousness, it was with the weight of stone pushing in all around him, pressing him to the floor. It was oddly comfortable. Techno could still feel the pickaxe in his belly, shifting slightly every time he breathed, but now the feeling was only strange, not painful.

Part of him was aware that it probably wasn’t a good sign to be devoid of any pain, but he already knew how things would end when he sent Phil away, so really the lack of pain was a nice bonus.

The torch Phil had left with Techno must have gone out in the second collapse, because Techno couldn’t see anything.

There was nothing for Techno to do except think. Had Phil made it out? He should have had enough time if the rest of the tunnel was unobstructed, and he could probably fly out of the fissure that was the entrance.

Techno really hoped Phil made it out.

It felt like the debris on top of Techno was slowly increasing in weight, or maybe Techno’s strength was failing. Either way, it was getting harder and harder to draw a full breath.

Techno concentrated on that now, on getting from one shallow breath to the next. How much time had passed? He didn’t know. Everything seemed muddled and far away.

“Thank you.” A voice said, cutting through the nothingness that surrounded Techno and filling it. “You kept my husband safe.”

Techno had never heard the voice before, but he knew who it must belong to. Knew even in his soul as surely all things did. Kristin. And if she was here that meant-

Techno hadn’t noticed before, but he now realized that he wasn’t breathing, and he couldn’t feel his heartbeat inside his chest. He didn’t think he had a body anymore, but he could feel Kristin holding him.

“Do you want to watch over my husband with me?”

Techno did. Phil had no sense of self preservation and could use all the help he could get. And Techno had told Phil that he wouldn’t leave him just yet.

“Well then, let’s be off.”

OH MY GOD?? (DEVESTATED) OH MY GOD!! (Delighted)

I adore this. Its painful but i adore it, especially since theres Kristin showing up ten out of ten im absolutely thrilled to have had read this

#sircantus asks

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nevertheless-moving · 7 months ago

Text

Angsty Continuation of this Crack Szeth/Kaladin Time Travel AU:

"Sir, may I speak with you? It's a matter of some importance."

Dalinar looked up sharply, locking eyes with his Captain of the Guard.

Some of the clerks he had been meeting with had bristled, affronted as ever by what many saw as the unreasonably jumped up dark eyes. His intrusion into the room with barely a knock probably hadn't helped their opinion.

Dalinar ignored them for the moment, choosing instead to maintain eye contact. A chill ran down his spine.

Stormfather. When had the Captain started looking so…worn out? The man's gaze had always been strikingly intense, tired shadows kept at bay by a fiery rage. But now… Dalinar had perhaps seen that expression before, in a dying Chasmfiend. Embers of an unfathomably immense blaze, finally burning itself out. The heat it gave off still enough to scorch a man, but dying nevertheless.

He felt a twinge of guilt. Surely… he hadn't done that? Almight knows he asked a lot of the young man, too much perhaps. But storms… no, something must have happened. He had just seen the man, what, yesterday? Perhaps it had been a week since they had spoken more than in passing, but still. A week of overwork didn't burn through a person like that.

The Highprince cleared his throat. "I assume this has something to do with security?"

Captain Kaladin nodded firmly.

"Very well. Zaninel, Sherath, you're dismissed."

They left without a word, and barely a glare. Perhaps they had also caught something in the Captain's expression.

Kaladin closed the door behind him as he entered. He proceeded to the table, then all but collapsed into the chair across from the Highprince.

Dalinar raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

The darkeyed man rubbed a hand across his forehead, palm seeming to linger across the brands there. He started, sitting up.

"Sorry sir," he said hoarsely. "I forgot myself."

He pushed his weight forward as if to stand, but Dalinar waved him back.

"Its alright," he said. "I'm not one to make a soldier stand when hes clearly on his last chip."

The Captain sagged back.

"I apologize for the breach in decorum, I… last night…" He sighed, squaring his shoulder's and seeming to steel himself. "Well, sir, there's been vital matters I've been debating how to best present to your attention, but now one aspect has come to a head. Bridge four had… a visitor to our fire last night, scared the light out of my men. I've been trying to figure out what to do with him all night."

"A visitor?" Dalinar frowned. "This man is a security concern?"

Kaladin barked a humorless laugh. "It would be fair to say that, yes."

Dalinar waited for more of an explanation.

Kaladin sighed heavily. "I'd like to make a request sir."

"A request."

"That you not immediately put this man to death."

"Not…immediately?" Dalinar felt like an idiotic river spren, only able to mimic words/ But for the life of him, he had no idea where this conversation was going.

The captain nodded, drumming his fingers on the table. "I think he's of more value alive than dead, sir. And… I swore to try and help him regain some measure of his sanity. I can't do that if you kill him on sight."

"Kelek's Breath!" Dalinar said with some disbelief. "This madman if yours, he's truly so alarming, that you think I would do such a thing?"

Kaladin nodded, and Dalinar felt dread pool in his stomach.

"Who is this man?" he whispered.

"His name is Szeth."

"Szeth."

"Yes sir."

"That sounds like a Shin name."

"It is sir."

Dalanir stared down at the Captain, uncertain at what point he had stood up.

"Captain Stormblessed," he said with calm he didnt feel. "I can think of only one Shin man that I would desire to kill on sight."

Kaladin winced, then looked up locking those exhausted, burning eyes with his. "Yes."

"The assassin in white is here." Dalinar stated flatly.

"Yes."

The Highprince took a deep breath to steady himself. "The assassin who killed my brother?"

"Yes."

"The assassin who has been killing world leaders, throwing kingdoms into chaos."

"Yes."

Dalinar grabbed the lapels of Kaladin's jacket, towing him up with an enraged growl. He breathed heavily for a moment , attempting to restrain himself as he stared at that tired, dark expression.

"I trusted you," he hissed. "I trusted you with everything I had, everyone I loved, and you've been working with the Assassin in White."

Storms, did he feel tears in his eyes? Surely this betrayal couldn't hurt worse than Sadeas, but the dagger sharp pain in his sternum said otherwise. Had it all been a ruse? The tower, the retreat, Oathbringer…all one large, intricate lie to trick an old fool?

"No." The captain said firmly, meeting his unsaid questions with a steady, inarguable honesty.

"No, your maj — Sir. No, I have not been working with him. No, I had nothing to do with your brothers death — I was a child at the time, and Szeth and I hadn't even met. When we did first meet, I fought him. Then we fought again. I thought I killed him. I… I actually did kill him, from what i understand."

Kaladin Stormblessed's expression went very far away, but his words continued with that discordant lighteyed crispness he had had from that start.

"He was brought back by… a higher power. I'll explain what I can, but honestly, there's a lot a don't understand. He still very disturbed, but he is trying. He's taking another step along the journey, each day. Szeth is only a danger to himself now."

Stormblessed paused, then looked pained anew.

"Well…mostly. He's prepared to serve you, including as a killer. And…he's indicated that he's similarly willing to listen to my commands. He trusts me, sir. It…I realize this puts you in an uncomfortable position."

Dalinar felt his fingers unclench, and he lowered Stormblessed gently to his seat. There was no question in his mind if he could accept the Captain's word on this, he knew as instinctively as ever that this mans could be trusted.

Knew it more now than ever, seeing in those eyes a man who would rather break himself than break his oaths.

The pain of betrayal ebbed away, leaving a mess of emotions and thoughts in their wake.

Dalinar sat back heavily, rattling the maps and folios on the table.

"Storms!" He scrubbed a hand across his face. "You realize how mad this is, right?"

Kaladin laughed humorlessly. "Very much so."

"I —" Dalinar didn't know where to begin. "Where is he right now?"

"My office — my quarters in the Bridge Four Barrack."

"And he's under guard?"

"I have the Lopen and Rock switching off with him, but like I said, hes rather not a threat to anyone right."

"The Lop— wait, isn't Rock your cook's name?"

"Yessir. And you’ve probably seen Lopen before, he's hard to miss —small, loud, Herdassian."

"The one with one arm? You have a cook and a one armed man guarding the most dangerous man alive? Guarding a known shardbarer?" Dalinar found himself standing again, voice close to a shout. He forced himself back down.

Kaladin smiled weakly for some reason. "He gave me his shardblade, actually. As part of his surrender."

Dalinar glanced at Kaladin's hands, as if to find a shardblade he hadn't noticed.

The Captain opened his mouth, but Dalinar raised a hand. "…I'm not going to enjoy your answer on the location of that either, am I."

"Probably not, no."

Stormlight AU Masterlist

#stormlight archive #stormlight fanfic #my au #stormlight au no 31 #kaladin stormblessed #nevertheless cosmere #Kaladin: Keeping him alive is your best chance at reforming the knight's radiant #Dalinar: you want me to have him teach my men??#Kaladin: No i'll do that. but my help is conditional on keeping him alive and letting me treat his mental health.#Dalinar:#Kaladin: ignore my men's snickering about treating him #Dalinar: I think you might have forgotten to mention something #Kaladin: I've been working on a way to help so called madmen — Drehy if you don't stop laughing I'm throwing you in a chasm #Dalinar: the knight's radiant. you teaching how to be a radiant.#Kaladin: ...I mean I DID say I beat him in a duel to the death. I don't know how I was supposed to do that without surgebinding.#Dalinar:...#Dalinar: I think it might be time for that longer explanation #Kaladin: Yeah that's fair

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simpsarcade · 4 months ago

Text

this was posted on my old blog as a Halloween fic. this is a different one, no dialogue and no names mentioned. so despite it being written with Oliver in mind, you could read it thinking of whatever bulky dark haired fave you have. also it has a plot, but the plot is mostly smut. and seesh despite all that has been happening to me, I deliver 5k words for Halloween, that's a lot. show your appreciation in the tags, or in a reply, it really helps keep the writing fire alive.

summary. a stupid bet sees you visiting a haunted cave to prove to your friends that ghosts aren't real, but when you go back home, something goes back with you, and it always finds you in your dreams

pairing.Oliver Aiku x F!Reader

wordcount. 5k

warnings.nsfw, kinda noncon but mostly dubcon, ghost fucking I guess, a cameo of tentacle like appendages

unwanted hitchhiker

Ghosts didn’t exist. That was an inarguable fact of life. Ghosts did not exist. The only thing going bump in the night is the wind. The strange noises in old houses are just the weakening structure slowly coming apart. And the strange shadows people saw are most likely a gas leak. Ghosts simply did not exist.

Then why were you sweating cold from just entering a stuffy old cave?

It was a stupid bet. A stupid, stupid bet one of your dumbass friends proposed when you - correctly - informed them that ghosts didn’t exist. You were all at a bar after work talking about the beach trip you’d all be going in a few days, when someone commented that there was a forest near the lodge you’d be staying that was supposed to be haunted.

A couple of your friends seemed spooked by the notion and you laughed it off. Ghosts don’t exist, that is what you said. When you die, you die, and that’s the end of it. But they insisted, they argued, until they proposed a dare. It was stupid, and since the burden of proof fell into those claiming the existence of something, you really had no reason to accept it. But being one too many beers in, you accepted.

The dare was stupidly obvious. At nightfall, you were to follow the marked trail into the haunted forest, and on the first fork you’d turn left, and head into cave that was said to be the center of the haunting. Inside, you’d have to walk to the collapsed remains of an entrance to an old shrine that now laid buried under the rocks. Once there, you just had to take a picture of your hand touching the rocks and you were free to go.

Simple and straight forward. There were no dangerous animals in the forest, the trail was well marked and lit up, and not even bats lived in the cave. Get in, get out, then profit. Nothing to worry about, nothing to fear.

Then, why did your spine tingle the moment you stepped off the trail and into the rock that made up the cave?

Maybe it was just how noticeably cold it was in this dark, damp cave. Or maybe, you were actually afraid, it wouldn’t be weird to feel fear when entering alone an ancient gaping hole in the mountain range. Where the trail before now had been well lit and clean - unsurprisingly, this beach was a tourist hotspot - the short path to the cave quickly lost it’s well kept appeal. With a quick glance back you told yourself you had to get on with it.

Stepping further into the near pitch black cave you felt that same shiver run up your spine again. You wouldn’t dare to blame it fully on fear though, not with how this place seemed to suck up all the heat around. The air inside the cave was noticeably a few degrees colder than the outside, chill seeping into your fingertips as you lifted up your phone to use as a flashlight.

When light hit your surroundings, you finally caught an idea of what it looked like. The cave seemed to suck up even the cold light from your phone, but it was still enough to see something. The space around you was vast, stretching large and long, the solid floor glistening wet, with water pooling here and there. Looking up, you found yourself surrounded by rock as ancient as the mountain itself, cracks littering the ceiling, and water dripping from some of them.

Suddenly you could find sense in your fear. This place had been carved into an old mountain, and the shrine at the very bottom had already been buried under rumble from an earthquake long ago. You were probably feeling the rock shift, vibrations that resound so low the human ear can’t pick it, but the body can still sense them. The infamous ghost frequency, where the brain, without a way to find the sound, can only translate the vibrations as a this strange foreboding danger.

Knowing this gave you no peace, however. Where logic often served to quell your fear of the unknown, this time it failed. Maybe it was all the humidity in the cave turning the air heavy and dense, making breathing a difficult task. So difficult that it felt like a hand grasped around your throat, or that you had a whole body lying on your back. Creepy shit.

Shaking your head you forced yourself to move forward, with the flashlight you could see the outline of a rope on the far side wall, that was your destination. Gathering all your courage you pressed on, wet sounds ringing through the cave as you stepped on a large puddle. Out of instinct, you pointed the phone down, catching sight of a slither of green - lichen, growing on the rock floor. Curiosity made you wave your phone, illuminating more tendrils of green, the lichen seeming to grow in the direction you were going.

Step after step the air felt heavier, your heart beating faster and faster the closer you got to the rock wall, the smell of water, moss and musk intoxicating to your nose. The tendrils of lichen growing thicker and thicker until they fused with each other, gathering at the collapsed entrance, slipping inside the old shire through cracks in the rumble. Or maybe, were they spreading out of it?

Here, water seemed to drip from the rocks more abundantly. Perhaps this was the reason why the lichen seemed drawn to this place. And yet, despite the overbearing humidity and unstopping movement of time, before you stood a long stretch of thick hemp rope. It seemed old - old enough to be actual hemp. Much, much older than you, but it still seemed solid, as if held together by a force beyond nature.

You shook your head again, you were letting yourself get caught by the situation. The long stretch of rope adorned with folded white paper surrounded what once had been the entrance to the old shrine, now closed off by fallen rubble. Scattered over the rock were paper talismans, you couldn’t really tell what was written on them, or what they were supposed to mean, but this wasn’t your main question. Indeed, you just couldn’t help but wonder how the glue hadn’t worn out after so long.

No time to think, this was the place, only one thing left now.

Taking a deep breath you tried to calm yourself, this was it, it was already over, only the last step and you were free to go. The air you inhaled helped in nothing though, it crashed heavy and warm in your lungs, like something was breathing in your face. Best not to dwell on it. Fuck this place, just take the picture and go.

With a hesitant step, you came face to face with the rock, the imposing rope standing eye level with you. Yet again, a shiver runs down your spine, so you just decide to get it over with. Hastily, you lift your left hand and place it over the rock without thinking where. It lands under the thick rope, fingers brushing over one of the talismans, the paper feeling strangely dry to your skin.

You pull up your phone, select the camera, frame your hand, and snap! Your flashlight flickers for a second before coming back on again. With the same haste you pull back your hand, but when you do, the talisman under your finger follows. Shit, you probably just desecrated a historical place. Stupid ass bet.

However, just as the realization of your mistake sinks in, a gush of cold wind blows through the cave. It brushes against your skin, making the chill burrow into your flesh and creep through your veins. For a second, you feel as if something long frozen slipped into your body. But just as it came, it was gone again. The wind died out and you were back to normal.

Fuck this place, you were getting out of here.

When you got back to the lodge you shoved the picture in their faces. There were no ghosts, you told them, mystery solved. Someone said you were brave, another that you were no fun, and someone else snickered, laughing as they said you should be careful, maybe a ghost could follow you home. Sure, as if.

Your trip to the beach with your friends took three days, and you did the dare on the last one. As you’d told your friends before, you weren’t willing to catch some weird cave disease and spend your whole trip in bed sick for a stupid fucking dare. No goddamn way.

The last night you spent on your trip went well enough. You drank, you had fun, you went back to your room to get ready for the return trip the next day. All going on like normal, no shivers through the night, no shadows on the edge of your view. All quiet on your front. Except, when you laid down to sleep, you had strange dreams.

You would not dare call them nightmares, but they sure weren’t your usual. You were more of a dreamless void type of sleeper. But this time you dreamed vividly, maybe not in sight but in feeling. It all felt real, weirdly real. Maybe more real than reality in itself.

The way your skin tingled, the warmth of someone’s breath on your neck, the feeling of hands all over your body. You couldn’t see anything but somehow you knew you were back into the cave. The water feeling cold to your touch, the lichen pricking your naked skin, the rock hard under you. And yet, there was a warm body pressed against your back, hands rough and hot all over your body. They kept the cold at bay as they moved closer and closer to your core.

You struggled, or at least you tried to, fighting back to for control over your surroundings. But quickly you found yourself overpowered, arms and legs being bound in a strange, warm and wet embrace - like the lichen was binding you to the rocky floor. The large hands on your body traveled further towards their destination, one landing on your exposed breast and the other finding your pussy. You were naked, body and soul, and ready for the taking. And whatever force held you down, it felt hungry.

The hand on your breast squeezed hard, fingers sinking painfully into your flesh. The one on your pussy found your clit and carelessly worked the little nub to it’s pleasure. There was so much heat seeping into you and the air felt so heavy, bearing down on your lungs. The same smell you felt before filled your nostrils again, moss, water and musk.

You tried to scream, but it was to no avail. If anything, it seemed to spur the hands to work faster. The one on your chest moved away, fingers slipping into your mouth to shut you up. The one on your pussy positioned its thumb over your clit, three other fingers sliding inside your wet hole. You wanted to scream, but you couldn’t. Still, you tried to struggle, fighting your hardest for as long as you could.

But this was a losing battle, and it didn’t take long for the fight to be fully lost. You were growing tired, and the pleasure was growing higher and higher until it overpowered your will. A shock ran through your body, coiling every muscle and shaking your convulsing core. You wanted to scream again, and this time the hand on your mouth slipped away, letting your voice be heard. Whatever was holding your limbs let go, and the last thing you felt before waking up was one of the hands softly caressing your face. You woke up in the morning to the wind softly blowing past your window and into your bedroom.

That had been four nights ago. For four nights you’d been having the same dream, and every night you woke up wet with sweat, and something else. You brushed it off as a weird hick of the mind. It could be like that. You spent most nights in a dreamless sleep, but sometimes, if something weird happened, you’d spend nearly a week having strange dreams. It would pass - and yet, it felt different.

The dream was always the very same, the place was always the cave, and whatever touched you always felt like the same thing. Always the same dream, except for how it escalated every night, getting more and more intense. You never saw the face - or anything for that matter - of whatever plagued your sleep, but you felt it, you felt it so clearly. And on the last night, the fourth night, you were sure you felt the outline of its dick rubbing against your pussy.

This was the fifth day, well, had been, now that dusk had settled, it was the fifth night. And by god, you were starting to get antsy just from the need to fall asleep. This was insane, it made no sense at all. It was just a bad dream - then, why wouldn't it just stop? You refused to believe there could be anything more to it, and the fact that it happened after your visit to the cave was just coincidence. It was nothing, it had to be.

Truth be told you’d started fearing dreaming itself. You’d started fearing falling back into dreamland. Back into the hands of whatever inhabited your subconscious mind. Back into a state where your will was so easily toppled by this sickly pleasure. You’d started fearing falling asleep - even though a part of you felt strangely anxious for it, and you’d started fearing that part of yourself too.

Stupid, you told yourself. It was nothing, you reminded yourself. It was all in your mind, you insisted, trying to convince your own self as you laid in bed. You’d fall asleep today, and by tomorrow this would all be gone. It would be over. You were sure of it.

And with this certainty you closed your eyes, ready to plunge into Morpheus’ embrace, tomorrow this would be no longer.

The smell of moss, musk and water invades your nostrils again. You are back to breathing that heavy, dense air. Back to feeling the wet, hard rock under your legs. This time there is a hum that runs through the cave, reverberating through the rocky walls, until it lands back on your ears and makes you shiver.

It’s not a human sound, more like the wind whispering in a language long lost, but it sounds pleasured, somehow. You cannot understand what it says yet it sends a jolt through your body that tenses your muscles. But in the depths of fear, you find a sliver of pleasure.

As the sound travels through your flesh, the vibrations reverberate in the body behind yours. This time it feels more physical than it ever did. The sound waves lacing with a strange warmth as they travel from that unknown body back to you. It makes you oddly aware of the sensation of hard muscle wrapped in cloth that embraces you from behind. The feeling of soft and thick linen rubbing against your skin. The steady movement of rise and fall against your back. The fanning of a hot breath touching your neck.

It is almost human. Almost. Eerily real in a way that dreams aren’t meant to be. It’s entrancing, the sensation of rough hands traveling over your skin. The slight bite of the nails as thick fingers sink into your flesh, trying to burrow their way in. You try to fight again, to break free, but the strong arms around you only pull you closer. When did you start noticing how large those arms were?

Your struggles seem pointless to the thing holding you down. Thick arms bring you deeper into this strange embrace, and the more you try to fight, the deeper you seem to sink. There is a deep hum echoing from behind you again, and the entire cave seems to rumble. Hot breath fans over your skin, so close now that you can feel its wetness, and at the same time, wind blows through the stone walls. That’s when you realize, the cave is breathing with him.

Him?

No time to think as one of the hands finds its way down to your core again. Two thick fingers encase your clit, sending electricity up your spine, lighting up every nerve in its wake. The other hand has found your breast, pinching your nipple between the rough pads of his thumb and forefinger. He is careless, aggressive even, and it has you squirming. Whining in a way that has him responding with an amused hum that travels in the wind and echoes through the walls.

You try to muster a no, try to bargain with whatever has you on such a strong hold, but the words stick to your throat, choking the wind from your lungs. The cave rumbles together with the shaking of his chest, his breath touching your skin in short, staggered huffs. His face is so close you can smell the air he exhales, feel the shape of his jaw and the stubble running against your neck, sense his whole torso rumble. He is laughing.

His fingers squeeze your clit again and you gasp, trying to move your legs wildly to get out. It’s no use, you feel something slither up and wrap your thighs once more, this time drawing your shaking legs further apart. You try to resist but he moves the fingers on your clit in a way that has pleasure shaking your body, making your pussy twitch in need. Pleasure starts to mount in your body and eat away at reason. And that’s when you feel it.

The skin that pushes against your wet folds is warm and soft, but its touch feels hard as rock. You don’t even need to look down to know what’s pressing against your pussy. The shape and feeling of a hard cock is unmistakable. And even if you tried, something in you refused to look down - if in fear or excitement, you couldn’t really tell.

The more he presses his hardened length against you, the more you realize its sheer size. He is huge, long, and thick, overwhelmingly so, and you aren’t so sure that this is going to work. Though, you don’t really think the thought has crossed his mind.

He starts to push himself harder into your pussy, shoving his massive length into you. You try to struggle, trying to tell him it won’t fit. But your voice is nothing more than a murmur, and the cave only rumbles in response as he once more flicks your clit in a way that has you shaking in pleasure.

The creature behind you takes this chance and with a swift movement, he shoves his cock into your pussy. You gasp at the painful stretch, your walls trembling against the intrusion. Then he starts moving again, and you realize, he isn’t fully in yet.

He gives you no time to resist as he pushes himself the rest of the way in, forcing his cock balls deep, pushing you to the extreme. You cry out when he fully buries himself, a pained sound but there is pleasure mixed in it. And then he starts moving, deep and hard, and you cry out again but this time the sound is silenced by a thunderous surge of wind.

That’s when you wake up.

Violent winds blow through your windows and your eyes open in shock. You find yourself sitting in bed as thunder crashes outside, but that isn’t something you can worry about when you feel your body rock with a moan. The sensation of a cock ramming into your pussy continues, you try to move your legs but they still seem tied down, and the feeling of a body around you isn’t gone.

Awakening doesn’t seem to have ended the dream.

Your whole body shakes again and again as he shoves his cock deep into you. The pain from the stretch and violation starts to mix with the pleasure from his thick fingers on your clit. You dart your eyes around the room rapidly, not able to move your body, unsure of what is happening, of what you are supposed to be feeling. It’s strange, scary, and weirdly exciting all at once.

A moan fills your ears and it takes you a long moment to recognize it as your own, your voice echoing strange through the walls of your bedroom. They are the walls of your bedroom, that much you can recognize the moment your eyes focus. It’s hard to form any thought with the way his cock has pleasure shaking your body and fogging your mind but you try.

With what little consciousness you can muster you try to look around. You can feel his hand on your breast, pulling you flush against his body. Feel the fingers on your clit and the cock fucking you fast and hard, but you look down and you can’t see anything. Not until your eyes catch the mirror in front of your bed.

You gasp in both shock and pleasure as you take in the sight reflected before you. Where you could see nothing before now the image is clear. Sitting behind you is a large man, wearing what seems like old shinto robes, your body propped onto his lap. Coming from behind him are the green thick tendrils that hold your legs open. He has one hand under your oversized sleep shirt, the other is on your clit. And now you can clearly see his massive cock moving in and out of your pussy.

He gives one especially hard thrust and your whole body rocks, his fingers unrelenting on your poor clit. You moan out, hands finding purchase on his thick legs, feeling the rough fabric under your palm. Your mind is slipping, slowly drawing blank with pleasure, but your eyes still don’t dare leave the mirror.

Once more he gives the same hard thrust making you cry out, pussy walls coiling around his thick, veiny cock. His torso rumbles in satisfaction again, but this time there is no wind, no response from the environment, only the shaking of his body. You finally manage to fix your eyes to his face buried against your neck and you get why there is no sound.

His black hair falls messy in front of his face, but it doesn’t hide the talismans over his eyes, nor the one covering his mouth. Now that you notice it, it looks like he has those things all over his body, scattered on his old linen robe. It seems odd, curious - but you don’t get a chance to wonder when he speeds up his thrusts.

The intense, overwhelming sensation of being filled to the brim and then more washes over your body and mind. It has you whimpering and begging - if it’s for more or for him to stop you yourself don’t know. You are sure he wouldn’t stop either way. He thrusts hard and deep, faster and faster, his cock throbbing within your gummy walls. You feel it, every inch, much more than you logically should, but your mind is too foggy from the relentless fucking to focus on those details right now.

Your hands grip onto the linen of his pants, a fabric you can feel, but only see in the reflection on the mirror. The same reflection that shows you fucked out, mouth agape, tears welling in your eyes - but you didn’t even feel them there. You look mindless, completely vulnerable and small against the hulking figure fucking you from behind. And for a moment he looks back at you.

For just a second you catch a glimpse of green shining from behind the talisman placed over his left eye. A flash of color and suddenly it's gone, but a shadow of a smile crosses his features, despite the old paper covering his mouth. Then a hum resonates into your flesh, vibrations coming from deep within his body until they reach your core.

Somehow they enhance your pleasure, having you shaking, eyes rolling back as you moan from the combination of sensations. The hand squeezing your breast, the fingers teasing your nipple and that monstrous cock impaling your soft insides. The pain from his size now being overtaken by the pleasure, your body betraying your mind as it lets the invasion of this stranger win.

There isn’t much to be done at this point as he rocks you up and down on his lap, your brain focusing on nothing but the feeling of him inside you. The feeling of his cock forcing your walls apart with every violent thrust. The way your whole pussy throbs in time with the movements of his fingers on your clit.

Your core is spasming against him, your breaths growing shorter and shorter. You’re sweating, his skin feels hot where it touches yours, and it's like he is warming the entire room. Your whole body is lighting up, every nerve on fire, every muscle coiling, drawing so tight they could snap. The world around you dissolves, the fog on your mind growing thicker until there are only the rhythmic thrusts of his cock and the warmth of his body around yours.

It’s too much, too much. You babble something unintelligible, you can feel your mind slipping from you. When you try to cry out, the words choke on your throat, your breath draws short, the muscles in your chest coiling so tight, crushing your lungs. You are choking, drawing in this mix of pleasure and pain, fear and excitement. It’s too much, too strong, too good and then you snap. That pained cry finally slips from your lips until there is bliss.

To you, your orgasm feels like it lasted an eternity. Your senses dulled to the world, engulfing you in a timeless void where there is only the feeling of pleasure coursing through your body. Then your senses start returning, first picking up static before letting the world back in.

The first thing you notice is that he isn’t done, his thrusts going faster and harder. Something you wouldn’t think humanly possible. But this thing wasn’t human after all, was he? You are too fucked out and tired for this question.

All you know is the feeling of him - whatever he is - ramming into you again and again. And the way your oversensitive pussy tells you this speed must be a sign he is nearing his end. What with how his cock is throbbing violently within you, pulsating more and more intensely with every push.

The hand under your shirt pulls you snug against his body, fingers trying to burrow into the flesh of your tit. The one that was on your clit is on your hip, helping to move you up and down with so much ease that it makes you seem weightless. You curl your hands around his large arms to hold on, feeling thick muscle tense under his clothes. If he notices the gesture, he doesn’t show, keeping up the speed as you fight to stabilize yourself.

His thrusts are so intense, so fast and it feels like he is going to tear you apart. You’ve already gone past your brink but he still hasn’t reached his, and it’s way too much for your abused pussy, way too much for your still fuzzy mind. Before you notice it, tears are rolling down your eyes from the exhaustion of all these overwhelming sensations.

You feel the stubble tickling the skin of your face again, and looking at the mirror you see him move his head against yours. He pushes his face into your own, rubbing his nose over where your tears rolled. Another melodic hum resounds from deep within him. It feels somehow soothing - but he still speeds up his thrusts even more.

A whimper escapes your mouth as he fucks himself into you, fast and deep. He pulls your body impossibly closer, not letting you move a single inch away. Within you, his hard length twitches and throbs with fervor. He is going faster and harder and deeper, until suddenly he pulls you down forcefully.

His arms hold you in place, his cock buried as deep as it can go, and then you feel it, thick hot cum pouring inside your sensitive pussy. It coats your insides, filling you to the brim, warming up your body in a way that’s not natural. You feel it drip down your thigh, and when you look at your core, you see nothing, it’s strange. But your eyes finally find the mirror and there it is, clear as day, his cum spilling from your pussy to your legs, his cock still buried inside you.

Your tired gaze lingers there for a long moment, before taking in the whole picture. The arms wrapped around your body. The tendrils still holding onto your legs. The hulking figure behind you. You look exhausted, but he looks somewhat tired too, if the heavy rise and fall of his torso tells you anything, since the talismans on his face hide any expression.

But still, you notice he doesn’t let go of you. And strange as it is, you find an odd comfort in that. Part of you says you shouldn’t, but another part doesn’t care. As if sensing your gaze, he looks up from your neck to the mirror, and despite the talismans covering his eyes, you can tell he is looking directly at you.

That’s when you feel a pull, calling your hand to his face, and a thought crosses your mind. What if you removed one of those things?

from my old blog, azulock, for halloween 2024 - reblogs and replies keep authors alive! banner art from: human sacrifice!! bitch-chan by rorogi mogera

#blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #oliver aiku x reader #aiku oliver x reader #oliver aiku #aiku oliver #machine: bllk #𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀

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egotisticaleverything · 11 months ago

Note

madpat smut fic plssss (just go wild atp)

Great To Be A Liar

WARNINGS: Violence, descriptions of dead bodies, mental manipulation, gaslighting, kinda/not rlly dub-con, P in V, unprotected sex, praise kink, degrading kink, oral sex (f receives), Heathers references, sex next to a dead body, in the words of an AO3 author DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

A/N: I was so glad to get this because oml I need to make more egos content lmaooo hope you enjoy.

Word count: 1.5k

"You’ve ever taken German?" Your boyfriend perked up, still holding the gun, loose in his hand as he waved it around almost carelessly.

"No, French." You responded quickly, shooting your attention in his direction, worried by his sloppy grip on the firearm.

"Okay well, these are Ich Lüge bullets," He continued, "My grandfather snagged a shitload of em' back in WW-Two." He carried on as you listened intently, "They're like tranquilisers. Except they break the surface if the skin, enough to cause a little blood but no real damage."

"So it looks like the person's been shot and killed, but really they're just lying there unconscious and bleeding?" You ask, assuming the rest from his explanation.

"Right." He confirms, sitting back down on your bed, "See, we shoot Nate and Mark, make it look like they shot each other and by the time they regain consciousness, they'll be the laughingstock of the whole town."

"Are you sure about this?" You ask one last time, running a hand through your hair still slightly shaky.

"I've never been so sure."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You stood there shaking, unsure of how to proceed. You were stood over the body of your former colleague as blood pooled out from the wound on his neck, the shot you took wasn't pretty, It was a violent one. It was point-blank. In addition to the bullet itself causing damage, the exhaust gases trailed behind and caused additional harm. It looked like something out of a horror film, but no. No this was real. You did this. Not just you but-

"Sweetheart!" Your boyfriend called out in a sing-song voice, "I caught the runner." He smiled, dragging Mark by the collar of his uniform and practically tossing him onto the tiles.

Another wave of shock washed over you as the second man's body collapsed.

"You lied." You finally spoke, voice hoarse and weak, pathetic.

"Pardon my dear?" He asked in the same chipper tone, unsettlingly happy.

"You lied!" You practically screamed, bolting towards him and punching him in his chest. It was a fruitless effort, yet you continued punching him, repeating those two words like a prayer as if it would undo what you've done. After about a minute your punches fell weaker and your knees buckled as you collapsed into him with a soft sob. "You lied..." A final shaky whimper left your lips as his arms curled around your waist, settling with a loose grip.

"You only believed me because you wanted to Darling." He looks down at your weaker stature, "You've wanted them gone for months, you knew I was lying. You lied to yourself, even if you didn't know." his usual psychotic smirk returned to his face as you looked up, finally looking him in the eyes.

"I- No, I didn't." You retorted as you attempted to shove him off you as his grip on you tightened.

"You don't have to lie, Dear, it's me." He smiled, bringing up one of his hands to stroke your hair, "I know you, you know me." his tone made a shiver run down your spine as he continued, "You don't need to hide yourself from me."

The more he spoke the more unsure you felt, did you want this? You weren't quite sure anymore, the more words he fed you the more you believed you wanted it. The more you believed he was right. Just like he wanted, almost as much as you secretly deep down wanted them dead. Even if you never knew it until he told you, you did. you always did. As his words lulled you back into a sense of twisted security he continued to stroke your hair, loosening his grip on your waist again he stepped back slightly.

“See? Everything is alright,” He moved his hand from your hair to place it under your chin, tilting your head to look up at him as he spoke, “That’s it… Good girl.” He coaxed, rubbing his thumb along your jaw, spreading the still warm blood that covered his gloves as he leaned down and pulled you in, kissing you softly.

A weak moan escaped your lips as he moved his hand from your waist to cup your ass, placing you up on the desk as his kisses grew more frantic and hungry. Your arms reached up and wrapped around the back of his neck as he slowly made his way down, your jawline to your collar and eventually just above your shirts neckline.

“May I?” He asked, as if it was even a question at this point. He had you wrapped around his finger like the pathetic shell of a woman you were.

You frantically nodded, causing him to practically tear open your shirts buttons, leaving small bites and kisses as he went. The cooling sensation of his saliva trailing down your abdomen sent shivers through your entire body, every hair felt as if it was standing on edge. He soon found himself kneeling between your legs as they dangled off the edge of the table, he looked up once more for approval causing you to instantly undo your pants for him, granting him access.

“You’re eager aren’t you?” He teased, pulling down your pants tantalisingly slow. You impatiently whined as he did so, before being met with his hot breath against your wet pussy as he looked up at you. “So wet for me eh? Or did all that murder turn you on?” That smug look still displayed before he suddenly buried his face in your cunt not dating to give you time to think about what he said. He mercilessly lapped at your pussy, nose bumping into your clit as he did. The mixture of sensations sending waves of pleasure through your body, the low vibrations of his groans added an extra layer of energy causing you to let out an ear ripping moan. You buried your hands in his hair, pushing his head deeper between your wetness as you gridded up against him. No coherent sentences were anywhere near being formed in that brain of yours, you were practically short-circuiting as he ravaged you. Soon a tightness in your core began to build and you felt your movements gaining franticness as you approached your climax. Your thighs wrapped around your boyfriend’s head, so hard you were surprised he didn’t burst. A wave of bliss washed over you as you reached your high, cum drenching his face as you rode it out. The only thing leaving your mouth was an unintelligible string of curses and blubbering as Mad finally detached himself from you, face drenched and chest heaving.

He stood up and slowly undid his belt, “We aren’t even close to finishing.” He breathed, still slightly puffed out. His pants soon hit the floor accompanied by the metal clash of his belt, as he stepped back between your legs he loomed over you. Slowly he pulled down his boxers letting his cock free, leaking pre-cum like a faucet as it lay flush against your thigh. “Ready?” He asked one last time, a hand travelling to your hip as he spoke.

“Yesyes-Fuck yes.” You sputtered as he lined himself up before slamming into you without warning. The sudden sensation and fullness sent a shockwave of sensations through your body as he began to thrust causing you to release a loud high pitched scream from the mix of pain and pleasure.

“C’mon Doll, you can take it.” He mutters to you, pushing you back down on the table, “Atta girl, fuck you’re tight…” he continues to thrust, unapologetically hard and fast, absolutely destroying your g-spot as his sweat covered upper body wains over you like a giant, one hand on your waist and one holding him up on the table as he fucks into you. “God you’re such a slut eh’?” He teases sensually, “Letting me fuck you next to two dead bodies. Sick fuck.” He’s degradation causes you to let out another ear-ripping moan. He was right. You’re so dirty, letting a man who tricked you into killing your colleagues fuck you next to their dead bodies? How much of a slut were you?

Soon you felt the same sensation as before, you were coming close to your climax. And by the now franticness of Mad’s thrusts, he was too. As his thrusts grew more sporadic the knot in your stomach tightened before your back arched up, letting out a high pitched groan as you hit your second orgasm. Soon your boyfriends thrusts sped up even more, as he worked you through your orgasm the sudden tightness of your pussy caused his to crash through him, letting out a low groan as he slumped over on top of you.

The room fell silent, the only noise heard was heavy breathing. Soon enough Mad pulled out, quickly tucking himself away with a simple, “we’ve got to go.”

#smut #fanfic #madpat #FNAF musical #madpat x reader #youtuber egos #YouTuber ego x reader #matpat egos #markiplier #nwtb #five nights at freddy's

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