#it's been on the verge of collapse for years it was only a matter of time

[adventuringblind]

With Me Forever [Remastered]

Reader/Lando/Max/Charles/Oscar/Logan AND Reader/Eventual Ex!Original Female Character AND Sebastian/Lewis

Chapter Summary: Something about how a picture is worth a thousand words...

WARNING FOR THE ENTIRE SERIES: Underage Sex (both consensual and not consensual, NOT BETWEEN READER AND DRIVERS), Mentioned past abuse (sexual, child neglect, child abandonment, physicaly, mental, verbal), medical malpractice & medical inaccuracies, Violence and gore, stalking, cults and witches (Reader is a witch with super cool powers tho-), Kidnapping at some point, some pretty hefty age gaps

Author's Note: I didn't realize how varied in word count the chapters are until deciding to also post the fic here-

Series Masterlist

Chapter Four

Max sits across from her at the dinner table, recounting tales of his summer break that mostly included his new teammate, Daniel. The Australian seems like he would do insane things, like skydiving, and Max would follow him wherever. 

Seb had called it puppy love. Then promptly told her never to repeat that. 

Seb and Lewis are looking at them, but not with the fond eyes she is used to. No, Seb is staring her down like she’s just committed a heinous crime of some kind. “Alright-” he folds his hands on the table and Lewis rolls his eyes at it. “-You are going to tell us about this future seeing thing.” 

Panic seems to be the only emotion she can come up with at this moment. Her lip wobbles, stomach twisting in knots. She’d done so good to avoid anything having to do with the subject only to get cornered. 

She tries to look like it doesn’t matter, shrugging it off. Seb narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “The nosebleeds are worse and you are already predicting this season.” 

“Not much of a prediction given Lewis-” 

“Not the point!” 

She flinches. The tense air and anxiety creeping in threaten to overwhelm her. She looks at Max who is somewhere between angry at Seb and concerned for her. “It’s… it’s hard to explain.” 

Seb reaches his hand across the table, offering it up for her to take without pushing. “We are worried for you, schatz. You are tired and pale, your nose bleeds so much I’m running out of dish rags… Help me out here, please?” 

“I’m different.” Admitting it is scary, but what else is she going to do? The worst they can do is send her back to her father. She’d probably just kill herself if that was the case. “Mom was a witch, and so am I, I guess.” She’s not sure she can elaborate more, her head is pounding and hiding under her blankets sounds nice right now. 

Everyone blinks at her, almost unbelieving, if it weren't for the fact she has no reason to lie and there isn't any other explanation. 

Max looks at her and smiles wide. “Well, I think that's awesome! Is there, like, a way to control it?” his Dutch accent comes out thicker now, excitement bleeding through. “Will you be able to do other things? Can you bring people back from the dead-” 

That question has her zoning out. If only Max knew the half of it. Bringing someone back would've solved her problems back at her fathers warehouse. 

He's still asking even if she's not listening and part of her is endeared by it. 

~~~~~

There is a shift around the garage that she doesn't know how to react to yet. Nico retired, Max gets to start with Redbull this Season instead of halfway through it. She should feel Excited! 

Except for the part where she is being replaced–because Daniel is cooler and older and- 

Is it normal to feel this distraught over something so trivial? She went thirteen years with no friends for fucks sake, how is this any different?! 

She pokes at her dinner plate while Seb and Lewis gossip about paddock drama. Her doctor says she's not on the verge of collapse now, but that doesn't mean food isn't hard. It's the easiest way to punish herself.  

��Dove? Something on your mind?” Lewis has always been gentle with her, slowly teaching jeer things about the world that she didn't understand before. Like how his and Seb's relationship isn't public because it's frowned upon in most parts of the world and in places they travel to. 

She shakes her head no and goes back to pushing food around her plate. They don't try and get anything more from her, based on doctors instructions, and she can't help but feel grateful for it. 

~~~~~

Seb and Lewis go back and forth on the prospect of therapy for a couple of months before finally asking her. She says no, obviously, because the idea of speaking to a complete stranger terrifies her. 

It feels like an argument without the amount of yelling there normally is. Something about it feels inherently wrong, like she should have said yes even if she didn’t want to. Because apparently Kimi doesn’t count as a friend and Max is too busy with his own career and Daniel to pay any attention to her. 

It’s weird, having someone close only to lose them again. Even if he’s still right there, a five minute walk down the paddock and she could be sitting in his garage instead of trying to do math with Seb’s engineers. 

She prefers math over reading. Her father didn’t care much for teaching her that part, only the things that mattered to him, but she has a suspicion there was more purpose to it then that. She can do basic English sight words. Even German is easier than that since that’s the language Seb knows best. 

Kimi comes around the corner and spots her staring at Seb and Lewis, making a valiant attempt at reading their lips. “You know you can’t avoid them forever?” 

“Worried about me.” Her lips twitch downwards into a frown. She had been naive thinking leaving her fathers house would make everything better. Sometimes she wonders if all she did was make life worse for someone else. 

~~~~~

She wouldn’t say she’s lonely. She knows that feeling well and this isn’t it… but it also isn’t a happy feeling. Putting it into words is difficult; it’s almost as if she’s watching life happen around her and she has no part in it. 

Dove withdraws herself from any interaction possible. She leaves Kimi alone, tries her best to only bother Seb when it’s absolutely necessary and goes back to limiting her use of words. It’s not like they need to hear her talk. It’s probably annoying anyway, that’s what her dad used to say at least. 

She tries to wave hello to Max again, but that’s the extent of their interactions until Seb forces him over for dinner. His dad has been getting more violent and everyone can see it. Last time she tried to ask him about if he told her to fuck off about it. 

She didn’t cry about it. At least not until she was alone again. 

~~~~~

“Dove, why are you asleep on the couch?” Lewis comes around the corner rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s an early riser, likes to get a jump on his day where Seb likes to sleep in the extra hour. 

She just shrugs her shoulders, because telling him she wet the bed because of nightmares doesn’t sound appealing. Normally, she would strip everything right there so they would never know it happened. They’ve been under the impression that she’s getting better and she’d like to keep it that way. She just didn’t have the energy after whatever the hell her mind had subjected her to last night. 

It’s fine, she’ll fix it when they are gone-

Lewis comes to join her on the couch and hands her a glass of water. He opens his arms so she can put her head in his lap and then the exhaustion of everything seems to hit at once. 

It’s still weird, crying over trivial things. She used to never cry about anything because it’s not like it ever got her anywhere–merely a waste of time and energy. 

But she sobs until her throat goes dry, her eyes numb, the hitching of her breathe becomes suffocating, and even then it doesn’t stop. 

~~~~~

Okay, so she might have been more tired than expected, but Lewis makes for a comfortable pillow and she hadn't really slept in a week. She cannot be blamed for drooling all over him and making him miss his workout given the time on the nearest clock now reads that it's the afternoon. 

She yawns and tries to scramble off him when she hears him and Seb clear their throats. “Taube, we need to talk, please.” Seb hands over her notebook and pen and panic begins to register somewhere in the back of her mind. 

There is a letter on the table in a yellow envelope. She has a stack of those letters sitting under one of the loose floorboards in her room. She’s received one everyday since January first and has refused to talk about them. 

She makes sure that she is the one to get the mail everyday and has managed to convince everyone that she’s the same as a dog going to get the daily paper at the end of the driveway. It took a while, but she managed and nobody suspected a thing. 

The worst part is that the letter is opened. Probably because it’s addressed to her in scary looking handwriting and in a manilla envelope–all reasons a normal person should be concerned.

Leave it to summer break to ruin everything-

“This letter came for you today, do you know anything about it?” Seb is using his dumb gentle parenting voice that she knows all too well now. The same one he uses when he has to scold her. “Our delivery man says he’s been bringing the same letter to you for a while now-” 

Well, there is no avoiding it now she supposes. She was going to tell Max when the first ones started coming, but he was too busy really integrating himself with redBull and she didn’t want to bother him. 

She runs up to her room and can hear Seb and Lewis trailing behind her. She reaches the door and sees her bed made and the smell is of freshly done laundry and not of urine and–She’s going to cry, actually. 

“Darling, you don’t have to hide things from us. It’s okay, really-” She turns around and throws herself into Seb’s arms. 

“I can’t sleep… because he’s watching.” 

He strokes her hair and hugs her tight. It’s the same way she does when she has a meltdown because her senses are in overdrive. It lessened after she discovered noise cancelling headphones, but then it was all the little things to-

She pulls away to move the floorboards she’d so carefully loosened and pulls out the stacks of letters from the unknown sender. 

Seb and Lewis exchange glances as she pulls out a little over seven months of daily letters. All of them written in the same messy scrawl. 

They don’t talk about it much for the rest of the day. Instead they watch movies on the couch and Seb makes hot chocolate 

~~~~~

They move the following weekend to an apartment in Monaco with good security. It’s one of Lewis’ and also in the same building as Daniel… And also Max. 

She tells Seb that Max is too busy for her, but still ends up dragging her to go and knock on his door to see if he’s home. 

He doesn’t answer, as she expected–probably up a couple of floors spending time with Daniel. Whatever, she’s not jealous-

~~~~~

Lewis hands her a small box on her birthday, away from where Seb and Max can see. They are out grabbing something to eat. Probably not trainer approved for them, but approved for her since she’s stopped eating all together since the visions have gotten worse. The anxiety has been making her vomit recently and the insane amount of blood loss with each one isn’t helping. 

She opens it and finds a really nice camera inside, it makes her insides feel fuzzy, but she doesn’t really know why yet. “I want you to start documenting things, anything you want. Think of it like a diary, but you don’t have to write anything because it’s all pictures.”

The first picture she takes is of her and Lewis together, smiling. 

~~~~~

In the early months of 2018, Dove spends majority of her time with Seb in Maranello. She always has her camera around her neck and most of the team expect to end up in her pictures. 

Lewis says she has a good eye for catching the moments others might miss. He also prints them out for her and buys her journals and Seb takes her to go pick out things like colored pens and stickers. 

They say her stories don’t require words. It makes her feel seen.

She’s working on some online reading and writing lessons that Seb and Lewis have her doing to at least help the skill. Math comes easy and she’s fallen in love with statistics, but that doesn’t help her know what the hell anything says. It’s hard to determine how to interpret data if she doesn’t know what the data is for. 

The new social media admin and her daughter are also sitting in the cafeteria. She looks about Dove’s age, maybe a little older if anything, with blonde hair and brown eyes. She’s a bit pretty, actually- 

The girl makes her way to where Dove is sitting surrounded by Seb’s laptop, her camera, a journal and pens, and the whiteboard she’s been using to communicate because words are too damn hard. 

She sits down across from Dove and smiles. Her soft features have an elegance to them and Dove almost feels a bit intimidated by it–femininity is hard to achieve since she’s been surrounded by males her entire life. 

“Hello, I’m Cassandra but nobody calls me that. I prefer to go by Cassie!” She chirps, incredibly cheery for it being eight in the morning. 

She writes down ‘Dove’ and then flips it around for Cassie to see. “Dove, that’s a pretty name!” She points to a woman who looks similar to her, the new social media admin. “That over there is my mom. It’s just me and her, so I’ll be around alot. Maybe we can be friends? I’ve seen you around while we were getting introduced and stuff and Sebastian says you’re also American, technically. Kind of nice to know I’m not alone.” 

And while her instincts scream to run in the other direction, the allure of having a friend is too good of an opportunity to pass up. She’s getting kind of lonely now, admittedly, without Max. 

She nods her head yes and watches Cassie beam. 

~~~~~

She shouldn’t google her biological dad. She shouldn’t read the headline articles that pop up when she presses enter on the search bar. But she’s going to because she can make out some of the bigger words now. 

And Cassie had talked her into it–which doesn’t help because apparently she’s an impressionable young teen just like Seb said and fuck this is such a bad idea. 

She’s not here right now but she’s put the idea out there and now Dove can’t stop thinking about it. ‘Have you ever googled yourself?’ she’d asked, ‘It’s kind of fun to see who else shares your name and stuff!’

It was funny when Cassie did it, but now she’s googled her dad and the first words on her screen are: Major Cult Leader Arrested. Good to know that apparently she was religious without ever realizing it. 

Had that been what all those men were over for? Was she the thing they were worshipping? Is that why they wanted her blood all the time? Most importantly, is that the reason she has these weird healing abilities she doesn’t know how to use and can see the future?

Her head hurts. 

Seb rounds the corner and comes into his driver room to find her crying over his laptop. “Taube-” 

She turns the computer around to him, tears brimming her eyes, and waits for him to read them. “Love-” He crouches down onto the ground, closes the laptop and pulls her into a hug. “Whatever he was, isn’t what you are, if that’s what you’re worried about-” 

“No! Nothing makes sense!” She tugs on her hair to self-soothe while Seb settles them into a comfier position. “All the–the memories!” 

Seb rocks them and waits for her sobs to quiet down before he tries to talk to her again. Which, good on him, because it’s hard to hear over the sound of her own sobbing. “I had a feeling that whatever happened wasn’t good, and whatever you’re ready to talk about, remember that I’m always going to be here. I won’t hurt you, and neither will Lewis, okay? You can scream and cry and throw things if you want, if that’s what you need. Just know I will always be here for you, when you’re ready.” 

Maybe not yet, because sometimes crying is easier to do than talking, but soon.

[alackofghosts]

not me pining for my country house stay during my holiday, only for mom to tell me the bathroom ceiling collapsed 😭

[oceantornadoo]

ch5 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: more mild dubcon groping and fingering

masterlist | next

It’s been a while since John Price woke up with a woman in his arms. He can’t say he hasn’t missed it.

Your skin is soft, the addicting smell of lilac radiating off you in waves. You’re tucked into the nape of his neck like a cat, curling the rest of your body around him like you’ve been doing this for years, not days.

Gaz was right. He’s fucked.

The penthouse bed is a King, taking up half of the room. The two of you went to sleep on opposite sides, a chasm between you, but in the late hours, you’d somehow met in the middle. He wasn’t going to force you to consummate the marriage. John Price is many things, but not a rapist. He figured you’d get to know each other a little, at least respect one another, before doing the deed in a clinical matter. If he needed sex, which he didn’t really, he could go somewhere else. 

Except since the night at his club, he hadn’t been able to think about any other thighs but yours. Any other pair of tits, glistening with sweat and alcohol. That terrible tramp stamp, his mark on you like he was your owner. He didn’t know what to make of it, but your continued proximity worsened the issue with each passing day. It was worrying to think it would get worse every time you woke in his arms. He’d have to manage; it’s not like he’d let you sleep in separate beds.

John probably should get out of bed and do his morning workout before you wake up. Except the moment he tenses his muscles, preparing to slip out quietly, you whine. A pitiful sound. Such a needy kitty, he thinks absently. You hitch your thigh higher around his hip, nuzzling into his neck forcefully. He doesn’t think you’re awake unless he’s in some alternate reality where you stopped hating him overnight. The physical touch is…nice. Something he hasn’t had in a while. Can’t remember the last time he fucked something that wasn’t his hand, let alone cuddled in bed.

His arm rests possessively over your hip, the other one free at his side. Taking a chance, he reaches up to brush the soft skin under your eyes. No rhyme or reason to it, pure instinct to touch the sleeping face of his wife. His wife.

Maybe he should sleep in a little more. It’s something Gaz is always nagging him on. A man’s due some rest on his wedding morning. With that decided, he shuts his eyes, his thumb still on your face. A part of him memorizes the feel in case you never let him that near again.

-

You wake to a harder pillow than normal. Your body tenses on instinct. There’s no way. You slept on opposite sides of the bed. Right?

“Before ya scream, I hav’ a proposition.” It’s him. Under you, over you, his hand on your waist like a chain. The feral part of you whines at his raspy morning voice, the overwhelming warmth of his body, his bare chest, and the morning wood that’s poking your thigh. Maybe that’s why you only say, “Ok.”

He doesn’t comment on your newfound timidness. His other hand is on your face, stroking the skin of your cheek absentmindedly. It practically lulls you back to sleep, and you must still be drunk to let him continue without a reprimand. “Clean slate. For today, a honeymoon period, and after tha’, friends. Or friendly, if friends is too hard to manage. ‘Ve got too much on my plate t’ worry ‘bout my wife poisonin’ me at breakfast.” Friends. When was the last time you heard that word? Everyone you know is family or enemy, no in between. Price was firmly in the enemy category, but you’re not naive enough to think that hasn’t changed.

Conceding to your contract amendments. Rescuing you in the garden. An annoying argument at the club, but also guaranteeing you were safe. Taking you for a break at your wedding, making sure you were fed and not on the verge of collapse. Not forcing you to consummate your marriage. Not caring if you weren’t a virgin.

It’s all the bare minimum shit you’d expect from a regular man, a regular boyfriend. But nothing about this situation is regular. You know tens of mafia men worse than John Price. Your father, to name one. One’s that would take advantage of you without a second glance, wouldn’t give a damn about your bookstore or thoughts on children. Your childhood indiscretions aside, John Price seems to be a good man. It’s not like he’s asking you to love him or anything else out of the realm of possibility. Friends is good. Friends can be married, have sex, raise kids, and still be friends. There’s an example out there, it’s just not coming to mind.

-

“You sayin’ you only want to be friends because you’re too busy? What a glowing vote of confidence.” He sighs against you. He should have worded it better, but your proximity is throwing him off. It’s making him think of lazy Sundays and discovering what’s under your silk pajamas.

John went into this thinking you were a brat, another entitled mafia princess. It’s clear you’re much more. Having the gall to negotiate your marriage contract and sticking firm with your business. He’s seen the love you have for Ghost and Soap; a deep-seated dedication he knows must not be easy with your family history. And of course, he can’t forget your drunk confession at the wedding. How you blame him for some stupid thing he said as a teenager. Under all your bravado, there’s clearly a hurt little girl. Some part of him, the part he thought died when he shot his first kill, wants a real marriage. A real partner. 

John’s got no clue if you’re willing to give him a try romantically, but it’s worth a shot to at least be friends. He needs someone to rely on that’s not Gaz or Laswell. Someone he can let his guard down around and not get shot by.

-

“I worded it wrong. Friends ‘cause tha’s the only way this will work. Friends ‘cause we’re both now livin’ with a stranger, an’ we migh’ parent a kid together. Friends and partners.”

“Frenemies.” You respond automatically, thrown by his admission. He squeezes your waist, and it’s a sullen reminder that you’re wrapped around him like an octopus. You move to unwrap yourself, but he holds you tight with a scary show of strength. “Friends.” He repeats firmly. You’ve already agreed in your head, but he has to work for it.

“Do friends give honeymoon gifts? I’ve been expecting a gift for putting up with you and have yet to see one.” His hand stops swiping over your cheek, and you can’t control the frown that emerges. He dips lower to press his thumb against your lips, pushing hard until it meets your teeth. It’s strange and sends a shock down your spine. “Friends an’ you’ll stop whinin’.” His voice is harsh, but it’s countered with how his hand now travels the length of your jaw, back and forth hypnotically. “Friends and we order breakfast.” Finally, he nods. That’s it. Friends.

John lets you escape to the bathroom while he calls room service. Even after using the toilet, brushing your teeth and splashing water on your face, you still feel off-kilter. Your skin is hot, hands trembling. A honeymoon period? What the hell does that mean? You hate how your core clenches at the thought of having a real honeymoon with him. It’s a terrible fact, but you’re attracted to your husband. And by how touchy he is, he’s clearly attracted to you. Clean slate. It’s barely taxing to forget your prejudices against him, tucked away in a far corner of your mind. You square your shoulders, giving yourself a nod in the mirror. Friends that are attracted to each other. Nothing to it.

When you walk back into the bedroom, John sits up in bed, the room service tray on the side of the bed. The sheets have fallen to his waist, giving you a view of his delicious upper half. He clearly works out, but not to the point where he’s a bodybuilder. His pecs and torso are hairy but maintained, the perfect combination. As you approach the bed, he gets up with alarming speed and snatches you off your feet, propping you in his lap. It’s terrible and you try to squirm out of it but his grip is too strong, pulling you in further. “Honeymoon period.” He growls in your ear, to which you finally settle down. Guess this is what he meant. At least you’re sitting sideways and not straddling him. You’d never recover.

“This is not friendly, John. I can’t reach the food this way.” All he does is hum, bending over the side of the bed to look at the spread before you. Waffles, pancakes, fresh fruit, yogurt, eggs, and scones call your name. “Open.” When you blink, there’s a piece of egg on a fork in front of your face. “That’s not-,” he doesn’t let you finish, shoving the food into your mouth the moment it opens. You moan at the taste, ignoring how he stiffens beneath you. “Oh my god, that’s the best scrambled egg I’ve ever had.” John picks at another piece, securing it on the fork, before turning back to you. This time, you open your mouth obediently, rolling your eyes when he takes longer than a second to reach you. “Hurry up, I’m hungry.” He shakes his head, eyes glinting with mirth. “Magic word?” You huff, turning hangry. You grab the fork, but he’s got unmatched reflexes, holding it high over your head with a raised eyebrow. The motion pulls at the rest of his face, highlighting his beard and wrinkles. It’s terribly attractive. In a friendly way.

“Please, John, will you feed me like the incapable adult I am?” Your words are dripping with sarcasm but it’s enough for him. You moan around the fork again, and you both politely ignore his half-chubbed cock under your thighs. The cycle repeats, John switching from eggs to waffles to fruit. It’s taken you nearly a half hour to eat but he’s so insistent it’s hard to say no. Every time you swallow, he acts like you’ve solved world hunger. It’s doing terrible things to your ego.

“You’ve hardly eaten.” You murmur. He shrugs, finally settling the fork down. That fork deserves to be thrown into a fire and never seen again. It’s a torture machine.

“I’ll eat now. Go shower an’ get ready.” You pull yourself off his lap and he let you, hand dragging across your skin until you’re completely out of his reach. “Nah, think I’ll sleep a bit more. This awful man was snoring all night.” He snorts and it’s so unbecoming you snort as well. He doesn’t dignify it with a response.

“Goodnight- hey!” Instead, he’s stolen the covers from under you. You did marry a manchild.

“Shower an’ get ready. Ya wanted yer honeymoon gift, ain’t tha’ righ’?” A gift? You might be determined that he’s an asshole, but you are not strong enough to turn down a gift. With all the money he spent on the wedding, it better be something good. “Fine.” An hourlong shower ought to set him straight.

-

Two hours later, you’re finally ready.

Your mission to annoy your husband is successful. He’s been huffing under his breath the last half hour, checking his watch and texting on his phone. He threw on a spare suit from the closet, looking immaculate despite the gun you watch him tuck into his waistband. 

Meanwhile, you take the absolute most time to do your makeup. In fact, you switch out your jewelry three separate times. He told you to dress casually but you also cannot trust the words of a man, so you slip on a sundress and grab a cardigan in case it gets cold. At least Aunt Riley packed you plenty of options in the bags that were sent up. Against your better judgment, you slip on a pair of lace underwear. For confidence purposes only. You forgo any shorts under.

“I’m ready!” He grunts, picking up your purse before you even have the chance to. “Finally. Driver’s been waitin’ fer twenty minutes now.” Well, now you feel bad. “I would’ve hurried if I knew he was waiting. Your fault for not telling me.” He shrugs, hustling you out of the room with a hand on your back. He guides you into the elevator, and although it’s demeaning and infantilizing, a small part of you warms. 

“Can’t take off work fer the week so this’ll be y’r one-day honeymoon. Sorry about tha’, sweetheart.” You shrug, tilting your body slightly so he can’t see you smile at the endearment. At some point this week, it’s turned from venomous to heartwarming, chipping away at your campaign against him. “It’s ok.” He rests his hand on your waist and for a heartstopping moment, he leans in. He’s about to kiss your forehead. You both realize at the same time, pulling away to opposite sides of the elevator so his hand drops. Luckily, the elevator dings. You don’t know what would have happened without it.

He warns you it’s a long car ride. You both sit in the back seat, opposite sides, and you slip off your sandals to curl up against the car door. Using your cardigan as a pillow, you watch him through heavy-lidded eyes. He makes phone call after phone call, his accent getting thicker with irritation depending on the caller. John speaks English, but he says so many code names and unfamiliar locations that it sounds like a different language. The comforting sound of it lulls you to sleep, dreamless and peaceful. When you wake up, there’s a mansion outside your window.

“Is this…” You freeze, taking in the sight before you. Is this your new prison? You were hoping to postpone your new reality a little longer. He shakes his head as he opens your car door, shooing the driver away. “‘S a friend’s, not mine. He’s lendin’ us a building f’r tonight.” A building? His friend must be some kind of royal. The grounds are sprawling and well-kept, sparkling in the warmth of the sunset. John leads you down a path through the gardens, and you walk slowly to take it all in. They’re all native plants, at the end of their blooming season. Their scents make the air thick, a natural perfume, and you sniff each one individually. John doesn’t rush you, stopping every time you do. You swear he’s hiding a small smile under the beard, but he looks away whenever you squint at him. Half an hour later, you make it to the building he’s been guiding you to. It’s an observatory, a rounded glass ceiling visible from the outside. The sun is fully set, and as the clouds clear, stars start winking at you. A perfect night.

“Don’t get impressed yet.” He murmurs to your awed face. Instead of explaining why, he presses a silver key into your hand. Even though you were cuddling this morning, the shock of his touch sends a shiver down your spine. Mistaking it for cold, he nudges you towards the door. It unlocks smoothly, revealing a small entryway. It’s bracketed by dark wood on all sides, with old and uncomfortable furniture. He keeps pressing you forward until you stop at a large door, curved at the top like in a castle. “Open it.” He says when you don’t move. Hand shaking, you turn the knob, and almost faint at what’s revealed.

“‘S a remake of-” 

“The Admont Abbey Library in Austria.” The world’s most beautiful library. Instead of being made for public use, this one is for comfort. 

There are two, no, three stories of books on every wall. Instead of a fresco on the ceiling, its glass, giving you a direct view of the stars. Books line every nook and cranny, surrounded by a lighter and more appealing wood than the one in the entryway. There are chairs and sofas every few feet, worn but well-loved. A few steps further reveal a fireplace with a mountain of chairs surrounding it, a place to invite friends to discuss books over tea. A large clock hangs over it, chiming at every hour. There are staircases and ladders to reach the books on high shelves, and a closer look reveals they’re ordered by subject. Books from centuries ago and recently purchased ones mesh together in a wonderful rainbow of colors. 

“You like it?” He’s still standing by the first couch, almost awkwardly. A mafia man in a full suit with his gun tucked into his waistband, and yet it seems a library is what makes him look small.

“John, it’s- I don’t even know what to say. It’s perfect. And all mine for a night?” He shakes his head at that in a confusing manner. “Not jus’ a night…” No.

“John Price, did you buy me a library?” He has the nerve to look ashamed, cheeks pinking as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “My friend’s quite old, can’t go up an’ down the ladders anymore. He’s givin’ it to ya fer free, ‘s long as ya don’t sell anything. Can come ‘ere whenever you like.” A library, just for you.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You attack him with a hug. A friendly one, with your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. “Got it after th’ night in the garden. Figured I’d give ya a new home since I’m takin’ yer old.” A stray tear falls at his consideration. “Thank you.” You whisper this time, throat thick with more tears. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Go explore.” You nod, climbing out of his arms. His thumb reaches out to wipe away a tear and you let him, granting yourself a reprieve from the exhausting practice of hatred for one night. “Go’on.”

-

You explore for hours.

John makes calls from couches, occasionally walking around until he spots you. You’re like a kid in a candy store, running from shelf to shelf with a grin on your face. He was worried it was too much, but it seems to have finally cleared the air between you two. The phantom weight of your hug clings to his skin, a memory he can’t shake off.

He didn’t admit to you that this is his manor, the one he goes to when he needs to get away. The way you hesitated when getting out of the car with fear in your eyes was unbearable. He didn’t want this to feel like another gilded cage. There’s only staff around anyway, and they’re under strict instructions not to say anything. As far as he’s concerned, this whole building is solely yours.

When he’s finally done remotely managing a crisis at one of his clubs, he ventures off to find you. It’s near midnight now and the stars are shining bright under the glass ceiling. When he finds you on the second floor, you’re bent over a desk, reading while standing like you’re so enthralled you couldn’t be bothered to properly sit. It’s the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

Bent over, your dress barely covers your ass. John takes a silent step back on the staircase and sure enough, he can see a black scrap of lace cupping your cunt. He thanks your aunt for not packing shorts.

“Givin’ a man ideas standin’ like tha’.” It escapes his mouth before getting permission from his brain. John blames the whiskey he found in between calls. You snap your book closed at the sound of his voice, turning around and standing ramrod straight. “I stand or sit in weird positions when I’m reading. You’ll have to get used to it.” Instead of answering, he approaches you until there’s only an inch of space between your chests. You don’t flinch, a show of trust. Ever the challenger, you tip your chin up until your eyes meet, defiance sending a rush of blood to his cock.

“Turn around.” You do. Slowly. The book you were reading is still clutched to your chest like a shield. “Show me how ya were standin’.” He steps back to give you room. To his disbelief, you comply, bending over until a bit of lace peaks out. “Read t’ me.” A rough finger reaches out, touching the edge of the lace separating him from your cunt. He traces the seam of it, the outline of your folds straining against fabric. John decides to push the limit as far as he can during this honeymoon day, to make you want him as much as he wants you.

“‘But strange and marvelous as she was, a wisp of silk in a forest of black wool, she was’- John!” His finger had slipped under your lace underwear. You were so wet, dripping over his hand, and he wondered if you got off on this more than he did. If this was one of your secret fantasies, fucking in a library. “Tell me t’ stop.” You’re silent, too proud to ask him to continue, but too desperate to ask him to stop. Unperturbed, he starts swiping up and down like he’s familiarizing himself with the feel of your cunt. “Go’on.” You take a deep breath and continue.

“‘Not the fragile creature one would have her seem. In many ways she was as cool and competent as Henry’- oh fuck.” He’d pressed his thumb against your clit, hard. “Feel good?” You nod, barely keeping your head above your shoulders. “If this was our real honeymoon,” he moved his thumb down to your fluttering hole, dipping it in lightly for emphasis. You drop your head down to the desk, exhaling harshly. “I’d-” Ding!

The clock struck twelve. The end of your honeymoon period.

John removes his thumb slowly, putting your underwear back in place with care. He kisses your back, over where your Sharpie marks are, before pulling back completely. “Driver’s ready whenever you are, sweetheart. No rush.” And he’s gone, walking down the staircase.

He’d only continue if you asked him to.

-

i hope this isn't moving too fast but i really wanted some fluff and smut. if yall couldnt tell, this was inspired by that scene from beauty and the beast.

also the semester is starting back this week so my posts will become less frequent, pls bear with me :)

fifty points to who can tell me what book she was reading!!!

-

@heretoreadanddrinktea

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@burrowedinnature77

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@ashy-kit

@aikojwhpa

[mercwiththem0uth]

small drabble because i can't stop thinking about wade letting his guard down and completely relaxing around you </3

like look at him he's just so soft 😭

he'd come home from a long day of fighting and collapse on the couch next to you. if it was a particularly long and difficult day he would barely have the energy to lift his head to rip his mask off, before throwing it carelessly to the floor. he'd reach over his arm to loosely grab on to you, just wanting to feel your touch but with moving as little as possible. you'd shuffle closer to him and wrap him in your arms, encouraging him to lay down against your lap. your hand would stroke over his head whilst the other rubbed against his suit-clad back. he'd eventually let out a big sigh as you felt his body relax, finally completely stress-free and in his safe place where he doesn't need to make a hundred jokes per second or speak any thought that entered his mind.

as much as he loved to talk to you and try to make you laugh, and would sometimes yap until you couldn't take it any more, he would also enjoy to just be in a comfortable silence with you, especially after a hard day. you'd been together for a couple of years now, you knew absolutely everything about him that there could be to know, just the same as he knew you. eventhough your relationship thrived off of quick-wit and long chats, you appreciated these gentle moments where he clearly just wanted to be wrapped in your arms and feel safe and loved.

he would ask a few questions about your day, voice hardly raised above a whisper. and as you spoke gently in response, he would gain the energy to let out "hmms" and sighs in agreement. showing that he was listening, even whilst being on the verge of sleep.

he doesn't like to admit it, but he can really struggle sometimes to constantly make jokes and talk all day whilst at work. he's more comfortable with you than he is with anyone, so he knows that he can just be quiet when he comes home and take a rest if he needs to, because he knows that you love him for HIM, even without the humour and self-depreciating jokes. it took him a long time to learn that, but when he finally realised he didn't need to talk down about himself all the time around you, or make a joke out of anything and everything, he knew you were the one.

he'd eventually sit up after a while, give you a soft kiss, and venture into the bedroom, before returning in his comfy clothes like hoodies and sweatpants. or some sort of hideous pair of unicorn pyjamas. he'd sit as close to you as possible and lean his head against your shoulder, his hand intertwining with yours as his thumb rubbed circles against your skin. your arm would be wrapped around his shoulder pulling him close, and occasionally dropping kisses to his head. when he felt like talking he'd tell you about his day, commentate on the movie you're watching, or just say random things about random stuff, and you'd just look down at him with pure admiration in your eyes. eventually he might drift off to sleep cuddled against you, but never before mumbling about how much he loves you.

he'll fall asleep whilst thinking about how he can't get over how much he appreciates and adores you. someone who loves him for any version of him. his talkative, loud, full-on, sexual self, or needy, clingy, quiet self... the side of him that only you get to see. someone who doesn't care what he looks like and makes him feel loved no matter what. someone who matches his crazy but also his calmness. someone who loves spending time with him and would do anything by his side but also allows him alone time if he needs it. you're just perfect to him. and he doesn't know what he'd do without you.

<3

a/n: [ have had a deadpool smut in the works for a while, will hopefully be uploaded soon ;) ]

[zara-renata]

Supernova | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Caleb's POV of the events of the previous part. Non-canon compliant, as I started this fic before he was released, and it turns out Caleb and mc were in the shelter together after the chronorift catastrophe, whereas I have them meeting at their gran's house for the first time in this fic. I also wrote Caleb and mc only being one year apart, unlike in the game, where they seem to be 3 or 4 years apart. Otherwise, I've tried to incorporate everything we've learned about him so far into this fic. This story contains: obsessive, possessive, jealous behavior. codependency. angst. yearning, mutual pining. some sexual fantasy on Caleb's part. I lean fully into the yandere Caleb that infold gifted us with. i hope it's enjoyable!

He is a star, just on the edge of going supernova. His rage at his lack of control, the voice in his head predicting he’ll become as destructive as a black hole someday, the mass of his emptiness and the twinned want for it to be filled—always on the verge of crushing his soul.

You are his twin, his other, his only, in his binary system, anchoring him with your gravity—your pull, the defiance of physics, as your force on him prevents him both from careening out alone in the dark and from imploding into himself, collapsing into the black hole he knows his truest form to be.

He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

When it becomes too much. When the feelings inside him feel too big for his skin. You have always been there, a steadying force, a constant companion as he burns through the universe, through life. He is shaped, contained, filled by you, as you are carved, eroded, sculpted by him.

One bright day, Gran brings you home. Introduces you to your new big brother. You look—naked. Exposed. All of your feelings, right on your face. Your fear, hesitation, pain, all clear as the bright sunny day for him to read in your big, bright, sad eyes. He doesn’t know why, but it hurts his heart, to see how scared you are of his reaction to your presence in his home, now yours.

He smiles wider, offers you his hand.

The moment you reach for him, big eyes never leaving his, and he feels your soft skin against his palm, he somehow knows it’s over, and just beginning.

Perhaps it’s his evol. The fact that he can bend, control, subdue gravity, gravity which is so closely linked to time. Because the moment that you touch his hand contracts and expands, stretches—everything narrows to his skin against yours, to this point in time. Perhaps his evol allows his future, past, parallel selves to infuse him with knowledge, because he somehow knows he will never escape you, the pull of you, no matter what the rest of the world says, from this moment onward, suspended in time—your hand in his, a butterfly smothered in sap, hardened into amber. Amber that he carries in his hand, when yours isn’t there to fill it.

Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Something in him, recognizing something in you. Your fear. Your hollow eyes. The anger, underneath the fear. You’re so, so pretty. Like a living doll.

You take his offered hand, despite your fear, the pain in your eyes, and Caleb feels for the first time like he has a purpose. Value. Something he can control, in a life that has spun out of his control more times than he can count. He’s not just a threatening black hole. He can look after you. Keep you safe. Remove that fear from your eyes. He can nurture, instead of only destroy.

He’s a boy, offering a gentle hand to a scared girl, who needs him. And in the offering, and her acceptance, his own need comes into existence, a bright flash in his dark universe.

He shows you around, friendly, earnest for the first time in a long time, chattering about anything he can think of to keep your eyes on him, you listening to him, your attention on him. It feels so, so good.

But he has to go to school. He has to leave you behind, during the day. He spends his days lying, pretending to listen attentively, pretending to be interested in the same things his friends are interested in. He mimics the laughter of his friends, smiles his empty, useful smile, as he thinks of all the ways he can alleviate the pain, the fear in your eyes. As he imagines your hand in his.

He finds you in closets, curled up on yourself, a tightly furled flower. He doesn’t want to pluck you from where you feel safe.

He just wants to change what makes you feel safe. A gardener, repotting a rose. A rose he knows that has thorns as deadly as his own.

He squeezes in next to you, in the dark. Puts his arm around you. Chatters again, telling you stupid stories, making stuff up, anything to help you relax, distract you from what haunts you, melt into his side. You eventually let him lead you from the dark, into the light. You curl up next to him, as he puts together a model airplane. Your eyes watch his hands as he fits the pieces together, as he carefully glues them.

He pauses, holds one hand up. When you just stare at him in confusion, he gently takes your wrist, and pulls your palm to his.

Already, his hands are bigger than yours.

I’m bigger than you. So I’ll always be able to protect you.

He gently sets your palm back into your lap. You snuggle closer to him.

He feels so, so good.

But there’s something wrong with you. Gran sits him down at the kitchen table, looks earnestly at him. She tells him about your heart. 

It’s our job to take care of her. Can you help me?

He knows what she is asking.

He knows about her migraines. How hard she works. He doesn’t know why, or what she’s doing.

He just knows that she’s telling him what he already knew, from that first moment. He needs to look after you.

But she didn’t even have to ask. He has already been doing this, from the moment you took his hand. It is easy for him to nod in response to Gran’s question. Of course.

For the first time in his life, he has something of his very own, giving him purpose. He can nurture, instead of destroy. Is it selfish, if it gives him so much pleasure? Seeing you slowly unfurl, and come to depend on him.

You start seeing your doctor, taking the pills to stabilize your heart. You always come home exhausted, drained, from your appointments. He sits with you, sharing a thick blanket in his room with the big bay window, and reads to you. Books from Gran’s library. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he feels like he’s flying, like he’s finally not alone, for the first time in his life. The more time you spend reading together, the more you begin to speak, giving him your thoughts on what you are reading.

You give him the gift of seeing the world not only through his own eyes, but through yours.

The medication is horrible for you.

He understands what Gran was asking, the first time you choke on the pills. The first time he finds you vomiting, huddled over the toilet.

It feels like a part of himself is in pain, watching you in pain. He hates it.

He hates it, but he loves it.

Soothing you. Comforting you. Watching your face, drawn in a frown of pain, relax under the wet cloth in his hand, as you manage to swallow, under his palm on your throat.

As he cares for you, carries you to bed in his gangly, too long arms, he isn’t a black hle, destroying anything, everything. He’s nurturing. And he also doesn’t have to control his face, hide his feelings, pretend to be normal and interested in normal-people things. He’s just himself, taking care of what’s his.

Slowly, slowly, the medication is adjusted, you’re no longer sick all the time. He’s happy to see you regain strength, color in your face.

He takes you for walks, out in the sunshine, under the open sky, in the fields of wildflowers beyond Gran’s house. You cling to him, complain of vertigo, staring up into endless blue. There were no skies, in the labs where you lived for so long.

His heart aches. He thinks of lifting you into the air, letting you experience flight, the flight he yearns for, the only time in his life he ever feels free. Before you came. But now, having you at his side, feels like flying.

But he doesn’t want to scare you. He pulls you down with him, to the earth, surrounded by so many living things, so different from the lab that kept you caged for so long. He thinks such a lovely rose deserves the soil, the fireflies, all the growing things as companions.

He pulls you down into the wildflowers, and he tells you about his dreams of flying. He wants to share this part of himself with you. He holds your hand in his, index finger pointing, and names the types of airplanes that fly overhead.

Later, you’ll ask him to make you fly, and he will. Your body weightless, in a field of flowers, as you laugh, one of the few times you actually ever smile. A smile only he sees. A laugh, and a smile, that belong to him, only to him. In a world where he’s never had anything to call his own before, he now has your smile, and your laugh.

One night, he comes to check on you, as he often does when you’re sleeping. But you’re not huddled in your bed, long lashes sweeping across your soft cheek. The window is open, curtains whispering in the chill breeze. He finds you on the roof, shivering. He doesn’t know why you didn’t bring a coat. He just knows that you are cold, and he is big, and his body is warm, and already what’s his, is yours. He wraps himself around you, feels you melt against his chest.

He tells you about the stars. Again, he holds your hand in his, index finger pointing, and names the constellations, the bright planets that look like stars.

The night you begin dreaming about flying, high in the sky, amidst the stars, he begins to dream about you. His anchor. His north star. The point around which he revolves.

When you finally start school, he’s so excited. Helps you pick out your backpack, your school supplies at the corner store. But he can tell, from the moment you walk into the crowded hallways, how overwhelmed you are. You revert to that strange frozen stiffness you had, when Gran brought you home. He hates it. He looks around. Finds a quiet classroom. He uses his size, his presence, to wrap you in safety, resting his elbows on either side of you against the classroom wall.

Look at me. Look only at me. 

So what, if what he wants is selfish, and gives him what he wants, if it helps you too? If its primary purpose is to calm you, soothe you, help you at school, in every aspect of your life? 

Caleb is hungry, selfish. He knows this. As long as he can control it, it’s okay. As long as his selfishness aligns with helping you, it’ll be okay, right?

You calm down, as he tells you to look for him, anytime you’re overwhelmed. That he’ll be there. A promise he’ll always keep, forever.

He sees how the other kids respond to you. They see your unsmiling face, your quiet, ever-vigilant stillness, and they immediately recognize you as different. Strange. Their base animal instincts are to distrust anything that’s other. 

Caleb is a star, the rage fueling his core, boiling. He still smiles. Charms. Draws people in with his wholesome apple boy mask. He learned this, long ago—to get what you want, to control what happens to you, means controlling other peoples’ perceptions of you.

He wears a mask, like he wears his school uniform. As easy as breathing, most of the time.

When he sees people bothering you, he flies to you. Smiling. Putting his arm around you, guiding you away. He will protect you from the entire world, including other children—they were simple props before. An unavoidable reality, to charm, neutralize, recruit to his side so ease his path to the future, his path to escaping this school and this youth where he has so little control. But now, he considers them hardly more than animals, as he watches them scent you, and begin to growl.

Are you his sister? Why do you walk home together all the time? What’s wrong with you?

He intervenes. Draws you into his side, pulls you close. No, she’s not my sister.

Despite how much he already loves you, how close he feels to you, he balks at the idea of you being his sister.

He crushes the soda can in his hand, no evol necessary, the first time it occurs to him that if he accepts that you’re his sister, like the adoption papers say, like Gran says, like the kids at school say, then one day he won’t be the most important person in your life. He’ll just be your brother.

He can’t stand it.

He has friends at school with siblings. They complain about their annoying little sisters, their jerk older brothers. They joke and laugh and pester each other, and also defend each other when someone else is doing the bullying.

Caleb could never, ever complain about you. He has never found you annoying. He already knows that he is prepared to crush anyone who would dare look at you strangely, let alone bully you.

He wants to spend all of his time with you. He wants to keep helping you grow. He wants to be the soil in which you flourish.

Even as a boy, he knows that he’s not satisfied with being just your brother. He wants to be everything, if it’s to you.

He knows that he hurts you, every time he denies that you’re his sister.

But you’re more. He can’t explain it yet, or claim it yet. He tells himself: he’ll tell you, when you’re older. When he has more control of his own life, and can do even more than just making sure your life is as easy as possible, as he cooks for you, cleans for you. As he helps you wash, care for your hair, his rose, his doll. 

He hopes you can forgive him, in the end, for carving out this future for the both of you, where he’s not just your brother, and you’re not just his sister. Brothers and sisters part ways. Move into their own houses. Marry other people.

He tells himself that he’ll make up for every grievance you have against him, every time he hurts you when he denies you as his sister, when you’re both older, when he can actually do something about what he knows is his fundamental truth.

You’re not his sister. He’s not your brother. 

You’re just his, and he is yours.

Time passes. Each day, he gets to walk with you to school, holding an umbrella over your head when it’s raining. Handing you his aviator sunglasses when it’s too bright. He gets to see you in the halls, across the meaningless crowds.

Holding your hand through it all. 

One spring day, as you’re walking home from school together, you find a cat, mewling pathetically from the bushes. It has crawled underneath, hiding in the thick foliage in an effort to protect itself.

It’s hurt. Caleb is sympathetic, but he would have kept walking. He has his own injured creature to care for, after all. But you—you’re absolutely distraught. You beg him to pick it up, carry it home wrapped in his jacket.

You never need to beg. But he doesn’t mind when you do.

As he lifts up the scruffy cat, which doesn’t scratch or bite, seemingly resigned to its fate or too scared to resist, it reminds him of you, the first day you came home. Your pain, and your fear. Your rage, banked for fear of retribution.

He carries the cat home, wrapped in his jacket.

You consult Gran on how to care for it. You do so, diligently, getting up at all hours in the night to check on it. Which is the only reason it doesn’t manage to escape.

Finally, Caleb gets fed up with the ridiculous thing trying to slink away while it’s injured. Trying to avoid the care you’re so faithfully offering it. Foolishly rejecting what’s best for it.

He buys a collar with his allowance, and a bell. Slips it around the shivering thing’s fragile neck.

It occurs to him how pretty you’d look, with something similar.

He’d hear you, wherever you were. In the night, crawling onto the roof alone. Vomiting at the toilet, alone.

Walking in the halls at school, surrounded by so many people in the world who do not matter. Who simply present a barrier, when he’s trying to maneuver through their mass of bodies to get to you when he can see you freezing, withdrawing into yourself. When he knows you need him.

He wants to put a pretty collar with a bell on you, and listen to the tinkling, meant for his ears, and his ears alone.

Thanks to the bell, the cat heals. As it frolics away, free at last, Caleb watches it go, a twisting, painful sensation in his belly. He turns, looks at you. You’re not smiling, but your face is shining, your eyes bright. He can see that you’re happy with the work you both did for the cat.

He hates himself, for the feelings inside of him. 

He wants to reach over, put his big hand around your neck. Loosely. Just to feel your heartbeat in your throat under his palm. To reassure himself that you’re still here. That you still need him. That you’re not going anywhere, and that you won’t be leaving him alone, anytime soon.

He’s so, so selfish. He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

Time passes. 

One morning, he finds you thrashing in bed, breathing heavily, an animal panic choking your lungs. He thinks it’s a normal panic attack for you, is prepared to help you breathe, to walk you through it, as he always does, but then he sees the blood in the sheets.

He’s read about this. He paid attention in health class. He needs to know everything about you, your body, how it’s different from his, and how to care for it, if he’s to look after you properly.

Gran isn’t always around. In fact, she’s away more often than not.

In her bedroom, with a migraine. Or working so hard, on something she can’t talk about.

You’ve had your first period. 

He’s heard boys talking, joking, jeering at school. It disgusts him, how they talk about girls, as if girls aren’t people too. He looks at you, and all he sees is a person—pretty as a doll, but full of life. Of fear and dreams and the longer you’re with him, you feel safe enough to demand anything, everything of him. He hates how the guys at school talk about girls. Because you’re a girl, and you have a whole universe inside of you, one that he’s so happy to discover every time you open your mouth. Every time you discover something new that you like, or hate, or annoys you.

How can you, as a girl, and your body, experiencing something outside of your control, be fodder for a joke?

He strides into your bedroom, grabs your wrists. Look at me. Don’t look at the blood.

Your breathing calms, as your big, bright eyes stare into his own.

It feels so, so good, as you relax. As you look to him, for help, for comfort, for soothing all of your fears. He wants, needs you to know how good it feels for him, to be able to do this to you, with you. You’re so, so good.

Good girl.

Your face does something funny, when he says these words. He thinks that the look on your face right now mirrors the feeling in his chest, when you listen to him, rely on him, let him open the pickle jar, let him smooth the way of any obstacles you have. When you smile for him, and no one else. When you allow him to nurture, instead of just destroy.

He helps you with the laundry. Finds himself regretting dumping the stain remover on your blood, stuffing the sheets in the washer. Your blood is a part of you, as much as your beautiful hair, your soft skin, the sharp tongue in your mouth.

Caleb thinks there might be something wrong with him, with how much he wants to keep your sheets, just as they are, tucked away somewhere in his closet. 

He resists the urge, just barely.

Later, after he’s bought you pads with his allowance. After you walk around the house with a strange gait, like you can’t stand to bring your legs together, he teases you. You throw the apple at him, eyes bright—defiant, annoyed. He enjoys watching you take the bite, because he told you to. He loves it, every time he tells you to do something, and you do it, no questions asked. 

Proof of how much you trust him. How much you need him.

Just like he needs you.

Later, at school, he catalogues the boys who make jokes about girls, and periods. He watches, listens. Lies through his teeth, chummy and just a normal teenage boy himself, of course. He notes the worst offenders.

It’s unfortunate, how they trip. Down the stairs. On nothing. Rumors start going around the school that there’s a ghost haunting a particular flight of stairs, right outside of Caleb’s homeroom.

He loves you so much, it hurts. He enjoys passing the pain along, to others who also deserve it.

He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

Years pass.

You become accustomed to the confined chaos of school, interacting with so many people. You seem calmer, in the busy hallways. You snort, joke, even if you don’t smile at school, when he has to leave you for awhile, so he can continue his wholesome apple boy lie. Student council president, captain of the basketball team, MVP for the football team, medal winner in track and field. He lifts weights after school, is diligent about his diet, his protein intake, each week new gains bulking out his already tall body. He must do everything possible to lay the foundations for his future success, so he can provide for you. Be a constant pillar of strength for you. Continue giving you everything you need.

You come to him, when you’re upset. When everyone, everything begins to overwhelm you. He holds you. He jokes with you. He tells you stupid stories. He cooks for you. He feels satisfaction, deep in his blood. 

And then, somehow, maybe while he wasn’t looking—although he’s always looking, so when would that even have been? He hasn’t stopped looking at you, from the first moment you came home.

But from one day to the next, you are a girl—pretty, cute, still, solemn.

And then—you are still all those things, but you are also beautiful.

Beautiful in a way that turns his brain into mush. A pretty living doll, but one that he wants. Not just to care for her hair, feed her, rock her to sleep. He wants all that, and more. 

His heart races when you come close, when he can smell the scent of your skin, your shampoo, your sweat, your breath. You’re so beautiful, it hurts.

For the first time, he wants more than to hold you in his arms.

He wants to put his mouth on you.

He wants to put his hands all over you, not to check to see where it hurts, but to check where you feel good. Where you like to be touched the most.

The size of his want terrifies him.

He tries to control it. To laugh, and joke, to pat your head, mess up your hair. He wears a new mask, over his old one.

Wholesome apple boy, who has never once imagined putting his tongue in his sister’s mouth.

And then, one night, you have your first nightmare. About what, you never say. You tell him you don’t remember. He doesn’t know if he believes you. It drives him insane, not knowing. 

He hears you, your hoarse cry, in his sleep. He jolts up in bed, hears it again. Gran will sleep through it, as she always slept through the side effects of the pills, slept through when you had the flu.

It’s up to him, to go to you.

He stands in the doorway of your room, and feels so big. A looming monster, his shadow stretching across your bedroom floor, blanketing your small body. You’ve always been small, but this time, the first time you reach for him in the night, body and nightclothes wet with sweat, you feel so fragile to him, in his big arms. He could crush you. 

It terrifies him.

It turns him on.

He’s a liar, and he’s so, so selfish.

He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

He clutches you to him, makes another selfish decision. Instead of stripping your bed, helping you put on new sheets, tucking you back in, he takes you to his own bed. Pulls you close against his body, under the covers. Blanketing you with his own smell, his own arms. His.

You fall asleep like that. He stays awake, his body aching painfully with want. If you notice how hard he is in the morning, tucked against your back, your ass, you never say anything.

Your worst nights are his favorite nights.

He’s so, so selfish.

After so many years together, you have fully come out of your shell, when you’re with him. Not only do you turn to him for comfort, reveal your smile, only to him, you also show him the full spectrum of your inner world, your feelings. From sorrow, fear, need—to frustration, rage. You hold it in at school, carefully blank, until you get home, and then you explode. 

He loves it.

It’s a fireworks show that only he ever gets to see. He’s relieved that you have so much fire inside of you, after spending so long being afraid to express it.

He feels a sense of accomplishment, for being the soil in which you could flourish in all of your explosive colors.

Only he gets the privilege of watching your face, watching you throw things, screaming about your stupid schoolmates, your stupid teachers, the shit you hear people still saying about you.

He notes names. He catches the plates, the glasses, the vases. He absorbs it all, a gravity field pulling everything into him, into the hungry black hole at the heart of him. Whatever you have to give, he’ll take. He’s strong enough for the both of you.

After you seem to lose steam, he pulls you into his arms. I wish I could create a world with just the two of us. He savors how you melt into him, let him get so close to you, when you don’t even seem to be aware of anyone else in the world unless they draw your attention to them by being mean to you. You’re perfect just the way you are.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t like the fact that your attention is drawn to the people who say things about you.

So he’ll fix it. For you. And for him. He wants you to pay attention only to him.

He’s so, so selfish.

Do you feel better? He’ll ask, as your breathing slows, your heart rate lowers. You nod into his big chest, and it feels so, so good.

Sometimes, he pulls you to him too quickly, before you’re done exploding. You’ve bitten him, more than once.

The first time, you bit so hard that the mark lasted for weeks. Deep red marks from your cute, sharp teeth, buried in the meat between his thumb and forefinger.

He jerked himself with that hand, multiple times, every night, until the marks faded. Each time, he couldn’t take his eyes off the proof of your teeth in his flesh.

He wants to mark you in turn.

The size of his want terrifies him.

He is a black hole, and he is hungry. And you are the only thing that can fill him.

The kids at school who made the unfortunate decision of shit-talking you, of pulling your attention away from him, find items of contraband in their lockers that they never put there. They find themselves being accused of plagiarizing on extra credit papers that they never turned in. Their boyfriends, or girlfriends, break up with them, claiming they have a crush on someone new. Someone really popular, who unexpectedly paid so much attention to them that they felt like they were the only people in the world.

Sad really, that once they had broken up with their partner, he seemed to lose complete interest in them.

He is selfish, and he is a black hole, and he is hungry.

But once people learn not to fuck with you because of his efforts, your fits of fury become less frequent.

He misses them.

He wants you to explode all over him, like you used to.

He begins to intentionally provoke you, telling himself it’s healthy for you to be challenged, pestered, to face adversity, feel all your big feelings, and then safely let them go, into his gravity well, the deep well of his want.

When he eats your ice cream, he ends up hurting you much more than he intended. Denying you as his sister, again.

He hates it. He hates that he hurts you, every time.

He has to hope that you’ll forgive him, someday. That someday, you’ll understand why.

For now, he tries to soothe you with all of your favorite ice cream. A plan he already had in mind when he ate the last of the old stuff. You let him make you feel a little better, at least. He has to hope that someday, you’ll understand why he can’t fully make it up to you yet, because he has no idea what he’ll do if you don’t.

If you were to drift away, pull away from him, spin off into the universe without him, he would explode, collapse. The mass of his emotions—fear, anger, guilt, love, want, so much want—would implode, collapse, compound into the ever hungry black hole of his soul.

He would be lost without you anchoring him.

He’s so selfish. He hates himself. He can’t stop himself.

He is no longer satisfied, with you simply coming to him when you’re upset. Hugging him when you’re scared, and overwhelmed, recharging yourself like he’s a battery pack and you’re an empty little triple A.

He wants you to come to him when you’re happy. Because you’re as drawn to him as he is to you.

He always finds a reason to be in the bathroom at the same time you are, before school, or getting ready for bed. He brushes his teeth while you shower. He watches your blurry form in the mirror, and barely resists the urge to throw open the curtain, every time. To climb in with you, clothes on, and kiss your wet mouth. Get on his knees, and see where else you’re wet.

He hates himself. He can’t stop himself.

When he does pushups, he asks for your help. Your light weight on his back does nothing for his workout, but feeling your hands on his sweat-slick skin keeps him up at night in the same way your bite marks do.

He brings you the tiger balm, feeling so transparent, so pathetically obvious, insisting you help him apply it to his back.

He stares at your face in the mirror. Your little frown of concentration. The color in your cheeks again. He can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips along his skin. He wants to pull your hands from his back, place them on his chest, his big pecs. He wants to guide your hands lower, lower, past the hair beginning at his navel, down below the band of his basketball shorts. He wants you to take your hot little hands and wrap them around his big dick, tiger balm at all, make it sting for him, as he burns under your touch.

He is so, so selfish, and he hates himself.

He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

He knows you’re isolated, that he’s all you’ve ever really had to fulfill any, every role for you. He knows you want him, that you watch him, that the color rises in your cheeks now when he’s close, but he’s so scared that it’s just a result of your isolation, of your dependence on him.

He’s so selfish, and he’s a coward. He’s so scared that if he acts, he’ll somehow be hurting you, exploiting you.

If you accept him, he’ll never know for sure if you love him for him or simply because he was the only one there. But you never show interest in anyone else.

He’s afraid that if you reject him, you’ll also end up hating him, and you’ll spin away from him into the dark velvet night.

He has to wait. Until you’re older, until you’ve seen more of the world. So that you’re sure you want him, after experiencing other things and people.

The idea makes him want to go supernova.

But no matter how selfish he is, he has to offer you the opportunity to know more than just him. And he needs to know your feelings for him are real. Maybe that’s a form of selfishness too, as he watches in satisfaction as your want for him, his big body, makes you pant, lean toward him as if pulled by gravity, as your brow furrows, and the yearning on your face is obvious for only him to read as your frustration grows when he doesn’t act.

It turns him on, seeing how much you want him.

It infuriates him, seeing how much people want you.

And you can feel it. He can see how your body tenses, how you begin to freeze, being the object of so many gazes.

It’s the worst at track practice, when you’re wearing those tiny as fuck running shorts. It boggles his mind, how they’re part of the standard track uniform for the girl’s team. 

His teammates, the other guys, openly gawk at your long, beautiful, naked legs. At your easy, graceful gate around the track.

He wants to use his evol to yank their eyes right out of their skulls.

Instead, he focuses on your needs first.

Jogs over you, blocks your view of their leering. 

You look up at him, your big bright eyes calming as he looks down into them. He lets his hands wander, like they always want to do. Fingering the hem of the shorts. Touching you, where no one else can. Where no one else will ever be able to.

Just because he wants to let you experience the world, does not mean the world gets to touch you. He’ll make sure of it.

You agree to put on his compression shorts.

His dick is rock hard in his own shorts, as he helps you change, as you lift your legs, one by one, as his barbell-roughened hands drift along your soft thighs, clutching the slippery material in his fingers, as he inhales the scent of your body, as you stare down into his eyes with your desire filling them like unshed tears. Tears he wants to make you cry.

You’re so fucking sweet. He loves you when you’re furious, spitting and biting. And he loves you when you’re like this, trusting him with your body, your needs, pliant and docile.

All for him. Only for him.

After, you seem calm, comfortable in your own skin again. You run so fast, your hair a flag behind you, as if you’re declaring war.

He turns to the guys who were ogling you, endures their stupid fucking jokes and sleazy comments. He bides his time. Waits until practice is over, and they’re in the boy’s locker room.

He pulls an apple from his duffle, floats it in the air.

Hey.

His voice is low, serious in a way it rarely is. It echoes through the mostly empty locker room, bouncing between the metal lockers, the tiled floor. It pulls their attention, the jarring disparity between his current tone and how he normally sounds. 

Their eyes widen as they see evidence of his evol for the first time. Everyone knows he has it. But he doesn’t use it at school. He doesn’t need it to stand out. He saves its tricks, its delights, for you, and you alone.

About the bullshit you were spouting on the track. She’s not my sister. And you don’t look at her.

They glance nervously at each other, the obvious, imperious order rankling their juvenile egos.

One of them pipes up. What’s the big deal? If she’s not your sister, why do you care who looks at her?

This asshole isn’t entitled to an answer from him. Doesn’t matter. You just don’t fucking look at her. He forces calm authority into his voice. Forces himself to smile, to wear the lower part of the mask, the part that doesn’t reach his eyes.

One of the guys, the one who always says the most disgusting shit about girls, about guys he doesn’t think are masculine enough, scoffs. What’re you gonna do to us, huh? You gonna chew my ass, like you chew your dumbass apples?

The other guys exchange nervous glances, nervous chuckles.

I’m not interested in your ass, bro. He grins. It probably looks wrong, based on their reactions. I’ll just… he begins, casually. He flicks his wrist.

The apple explodes, as if crushed by hammer—the pieces of the fruit spatter the faces and chests of the guys standing around him with wet, fleshy impacts. The pieces that would have hit him fall to the ground with heavy-sounding splats.

He smiles cheerfully into the ringing silence. We good?

The fuckhead still doesn’t seem to have quite gotten the memo. He swats the apple sticking to his face, sneers. You’re so full of shit. A golden boy like you with your entire future ahead of you wouldn’t commit murder over a piece of ass.

Caleb sighs. Leans back. Shrugs. True. Killing your dumbass outright isn’t worth being sent to prison. But you know, he says thoughtfully. He spreads his legs wide on the bench. Talks like he’s just shooting the shit, waves his hand leisurely. Accidents happen, all the time. You’re throwing a baseball, and suddenly something snaps in your shoulder. It would be a shame, if you could never throw a ball again. Or say, you’re about to cross the finish line, and you step funny, you know? And you never do walk right, after that. Or you’re playing basketball, and suddenly, poof—burst aneurysm, bleeding out, right in your brain. That shit can happen to even the healthiest of athletes. Just, bad luck, man. The human body is so fragile. As fragile as the skin of an apple.

The guys stare at him in silence. A droplet of water drips from a showerhead, splashes onto the floor. Even the biggest idiot seems to be at a loss for words. 

He smiles, smiles, smiles. 

Don’t look at her ever again, and you won’t have to worry about all that. He gets to his feet, slings his duffel over his shoulder. Puts his hands in his pockets. Whistles, as he meanders out of the locker room.

Later, he’s doing the household’s laundry. He’s lifting dirty clothes out of the combined dirty clothes basket from the bathroom, and your little slippery running shorts fall out of the handful he’s trying to stuff into the washer.

He stares at them on the floor. Slowly puts the stuff in his hand in the machine, thinking.

He’s a black hole, and he’s so fucking hungry.

He squats down, lifts the shorts. They’re tiny, in his big hands. He sits quietly, listening. You’re upstairs in his room, doing homework. Gran’s at work. He’ll hear you, if you come down. You tromp through the house like an elephant. It’s adorable.

He lifts the shorts to his face, shoves his nose in them. Inhales.

He’s squatting at your feet again, in the locked bathroom at school. He’s looking up at you, your chest rising and falling with your rapid breath. He can smell you, the intensity of your excitement at the proximity of his face to where you want him the most. As he opens his mouth, as he extends his tongue to the built-in underwear of the little slip of fabric, he imagines that he’s back in that bathroom, leaning forward, bringing the flat of his tongue between your legs. He imagines that you thread your pretty hands in his hair and pull him closer, urging his tongue deeper into you. He imagines, as he fills his mouth with as much of the fabric as he can, breathing through his nose, that you come on his face, with your soft noises of pleasure echoing through the tiled bathroom.

He comes in his pants.

He hates himself, as he pulls your shorts out of his mouth. As he places them gently into the washer. He hates himself, but he can’t stop himself. He knows he’ll do this again, and again, until he can have the real thing.

That was towards the end, of everything.

Even as he was packing his bags, he didn’t see it coming. 

He made you so many promises that he, in all of his youthful hubris, believed he could keep. About how often he’d be home. About how often he could be in touch. About how close he’d still be able to stay to you, through time and distance.

He lifted you with his evol in a field of wildflowers, watched your lovely hair float around your beautiful face, and he came so close to losing control, and kissing your soft lips.

He made you so many promises, and he broke one the first day he was gone.

Because when he arrived for basic training, they took his phone away, and didn’t give it back for six weeks. Something about fostering camaraderie with his fellow cadets. Bullshit.

It got worse from there. Basic training. Specialized training. Combat missions. Flight missions. He was either out of range, or the op required radio silence. He was determined to reach the highest ranks. To be able to best provide for you. But that required confidentiality, restricted security clearances. More and more things he couldn’t talk about. More and more important holidays and events he was forced to miss.

And then one day he came home, after having been away on a longer-than-usual undercover mission, and instead of his still, quiet girl with the serious face, who only smiled for him, who crawled all over him, and treated him like her personal servant, who blew up at him, bit him, screamed, threw shit at him, and was the sweetest little thing, soft and pliant in his arms, only for him, waiting for him, he found…

You. Wearing a mask so obvious that he could see its ribbon tied through your lovely hair.

By the time he finally made it home again, he had already lost you.

You smiled at him, and it didn’t reach your eyes. You smiled at Gran. You smiled at the checkout boy at the corner store. You smiled at random fucking strangers on the street.

You smiled, smiled, smiled.

You smiled, and it looked wrong on your lovely face. Not the smile of when you’re flying, when he would make you fly.

Something artificial, and empty. Your smile was a pot, filled with a plastic flower instead of a living rose.

You talked about your friends at school. Your sudden, numerous extra-curricular activities.

You smiled at him so politely, with such empty eyes, he wanted to flip the fucking table.

You treated him like a stranger.

No matter what he did, no matter how much he poked you, teased you, tried to corner you and interrogate you about your sudden change, you slipped away, with a false, cheerful laugh.

He wanted to crush his own eardrums, instead of hear that fucking fake laugh again.

And then he had to go back to the DAA.

He had to keep leaving you, and the visits in between became fewer, and fewer, as his training intensified, as he failed psych eval after psych eval, despite his perfect marks in everything else, his perfect mask that drew people to him like flowers to the sun.

You stop responding to his calls, his texts. 

He can’t get you to respond, but he can use his newly acquired hacking skills, his new security clearances, to keep track of you even if you won’t even say hello.

When he gets back from one particularly grueling, strange mission in the Deepspace Tunnel, he reconstructs your movements of the past few weeks based on your phone’s location, your socials. He sees that your phone spent the night at an unfamiliar address. It’s not one of your new friend’s places. You’ve never done that before. You stay at your dorm. You stay at friends’. You stay at Gran’s.

He breaks so many security regulations, civil rights laws, identifying the person who lives there.

Some random guy, who is built just like Caleb. Big, tall. Handsome, dark hair.

Caleb sits on his bunk, his hand over his mouth.

He feels like he needs to vomit.

He has never vomited after the highest g-force training required by the DAA, but he needs to vomit imagining you letting someone else touch you, exposing your most vulnerable self to him, while wearing your fucking mask.

Caleb wanted your first time to be soaked in pure, overwhelming love. To be with someone who’d watch every single fleeting expression on your beautiful face, who would kill himself to make you feel cherished, to make you feel as good as physically possible. To feel safe enough to wear your real face, the whole time, safe enough to tell him what you want, so he can give you everything you deserve.

And Caleb knows that he is the only person in the universe who could give you that, in the way that you deserve. He was built to protect you. His purpose is to love you. You are his anchor, his twin star, the only thing keeping him from exploding into blinding supernova light, collapsing into his own devouring dark. He knows you best. He knows everything about you, and he would use that knowledge to make you feel like you were flying as he made love to you.

What if that fucker hurt you? What if he made you cry? 

Caleb rushes to the toilet, vomits for the first time in years. 

While Caleb was hallucinating about the past, present, future, lifetimes that haven’t happened yet, reliving strange memories of being in a lab, observed through glass, as he was adrift in deep space during his last mission that so quickly went sideways, dying from oxygen deprivation, you were having your first one-night stand.

You fucked a guy that looked just like him.

The only thing that prevents that motherfucker from suffering a terrible, unfortunate accident, is the fact that you ghost him, after. 

Caleb knows, because he tracks every fucking thing you do, after that, every time he is within range in Skyhaven.

He forces himself to check, to look at your socials, to see who’s posing in pictures with you.  He forces himself to know, when your phone starts to spend time at random peoples’ places, almost every weekend. 

Each time, a different guy. Each time, they look like Caleb.

Each time, their lives are spared because you ghost them.

He tells himself that there’s still time, a chance, to salvage things. To make up for every single grievance you have against him. To make up for every promise he didn’t mean to break.

Your fake smile tells him that he is no longer your safe space. But he can rebuild himself for you, turn himself into what you need to feel safe, protected, cared for, cherished. He did it once, when you came home for the first time.

He just has to do it again.

You’re an adult now. You’re a Hunter now. 

He comes home on a break. You politely pour him water. He smiles at you with his mask, and you smile at him with its twin on your face. He did this to you. But he will make it right.

He’s going to tell you. This visit. Before he goes back to Skyhaven. He’s going to tell you, how much he loves you, not as a brother, but as a man, and always has. How he’s finally in a place to care for you, as an adult, without the restrictions of childhood, of societal expectations. He’s going to tell Gran about how he has never felt like you were his sister.

He almost loses his shit, when he sees the scratch on your arm, when you insist on sending him to the store instead of letting him back you up while you investigate the alert on your Hunter’s watch. So desperate to show him how much you don’t need him anymore.

He breathes deeply. Says something stupid, out of frustration, about hiding your bloodied sleeve from Gran.

You say something biting to him in return, your own mask slipping a little, as your genuine frustration, your anger at him slips through. He cherishes it, feels triumph rise in him.

Yeah, he’s gonna make things right. He’s going to tell you that he loves you, and that he’s yours, and always has been. He’ll beg, if he has to, for you to say that you are his in return.

He goes into the house first.

On a bright, sunny day, filled with determined hope for the future, Caleb Xia dies in the bright, supernova flash he always knew had been waiting for him.

[idkfitememate]

I am CRYING. FURINA MY BABY YOUR TEAPOT LINES MAKE ME CRY. SHES SO INNOCENT BUT SHES BEEN SO TRAUMATIZED IT HURTS ME. WHY FOCALORS WHY.

😭😭 Furina asks us to dress up as a duo with her. And she said she’d even do our makeup. She’s trying to take back her stolen childhood. MY EYES ARE PUFFY FROM TEARS.

DONT GET ME STARTED ON THE ‘the more you let someone in the easier it is for them to hurt you’ LINE. SHES SCARED TO LET PPL IN AND IM WAILING.

I wanna give her all my love and affection!!! 😭

-🦌 anon, who is curled up on the floor crying

The Curtains Close

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : GN! Otter Reader x Furina & Neuvillette

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 1.1k

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : Angst to fluff, Furina is going through a breakdown, Neuvillette realizes he’s been distant

Forcing Furina on a bed wasn’t easy. The entire day was spent with and you having a “bonding day” and spend the day inside.

Makeup and clothes whirled past in a blur of blues and makeup was pressed into your fur. The entire day was fun, eating snacks and overall just having fun.

At least, it would be if you didn’t notice the sadness behind Furina’s eyes.

Every time she looked at you in your frilly little dress with a big blue bow around your waist and a smaller blue and gold bow around your head.

Now, you’d be a little ticked at being forced into an outfit, but seeing her on the verge of tears when you began to shake your head no - no matter how much she would deny it - you forced your pride down your throat and and put it on.

Her smile was worth it.

The entire day you could just feel her off-ness, and you’re pretty sure you know why. The events pertaining her curse and the death of that bi- I mean Foçalors had just passed and Furina was finally free.

Free to be human once more.

You, knowing the lore, knew that she had suffered with being alive - unchanging and never aging - for five-hundred-years. You knew that both Foçalors and Neuvillette understood that that would have and has had lasting effects on the poor girl.

But you knew they’d never understand. How could they? They were immortal. They had to get used to the passing of the ones they knew if they were mortal because they were literally built for it. Furina wasn’t. She never was.

And now that she was free, she was coming. Crashing down.

The curtain had fallen and the star of the show has fallen to her knees. Her tears stain the floor as the crowd leaves and her wails echo through the empty halls.

To be honest you haven’t seen much of Neuvillette around. You understood that he had new issues to attend to as the new overseer of the nation of Fontaine. But you barely see him in the halal’s anymore.

Your thoughts were immediately halted when you heard small sniffles coming from your friend.

Your head whipped in her direction only to see tears pouring down her face. You rushed over as fast as you could, wiping those tears away as you gently chittered at her, pulling her crumpled form up so she could face you. At your concerned expression, she only cried more.

“I-It’s just,” she started, “… Did she ever love me? Was I ever even worth anything to her? I played my part and danced till collapse and I didn’t even get a thank you! I don’t understand… I watched my friends die… I watched my f-family die… I outlived all of them! And I didn’t… even… get a thank you…” She broke down back into sobs, holding onto herself as she rocked back and forth.

You could only watch as she shattered in front of you. Pain and guilt rose in your stomachs as you stared. Huffing, you jumped off the bed, and grabbed your stuffed jellyfish, dragging it over and throwing it up before climbing up after her.

You gently nudged it towards her and made sure she grabbed on before jumping back down and racing through the halls.

You ran out the building as fast as your little legs could carry you, the winds of Teyvat boosting your form farther. You continued on until to made it to the Opera Eclipse and ran through there until you made it to Neuvillette’s office.

You didn’t even bother to knock before shoving to door open and rushing up to him. He stopped his writing and looked down, his eyes softening at you. He opened his mouth to speak before you grabbed his sleeve. You yanked and pulled and he finally stood up, allowing you to lead him.

Making it back home, you all but forced the man into Furina’s room, and forced him on the bed. She had stopped sobbing by this point, but silent tears still ran down her face.

She looked shocked at Neuvillette’s appearance and he looked shocked at her dishevelment. You shuffled up to her in the ridiculous dress you had on - you would later find out it perfectly match the dress Furina had on when she came into being, after being separated from Foçalors - and part her lips.

“Do you… wish for me to repeat myself?” She whispered, looking at the slightly panting Neuvillette with worry. But at your nod she sighed, realizing why you did this.

And if her Otter wanted something, who was she to deny them that.

When she parted her lips you leapt from the bed, and walked out of the room to give them privacy. You could tell she hesitated at your lack of presence, but hearing her start to speak after you closed the door, you wagged your little tail in relief.

Staring towards the kitchen, you planned on getting them both nice tall glasses of water.

And by the time you got back and managed to open the door, you were met with Neuvillette holding the girl close and shushing her, a light patter of rain outside.

“Of course we’re grateful. I’m grateful. I am so sorry my Lady that I had neglected you. I will say it until the stars and the moon itself command me to stop that you are appreciated. That I care. And though I cannot speak for her fully I can say that my Ar- … Foçalors did care for you. And she loved you. I love you. I care for you. I will never understand the trials of being human and I know that what she did is irreversible, but I do want to be there.” He continued to speak to the crying child in his arms, neither noticing you walking in while dragging the glasses of water in.

Making a small noise, the Sovereign looked down and smiled at you, though you could see the tears in his eyes. He picked you up then the glasses, handing one to Furina who was still clutching your plushy.

“And I can also say that our darling here loves you and cares.” Neuvillette mused, running a hand quickly through your fur.

You chuffed in response and licked the girls face causing a giggle to escape her throat.

Here she was wanted. Here she was needed. Here she was loved.

And you were going to do your damndest to make sure it stays that way.

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : Wanna hug her and hold her and give her kisses on the cheek and UGH- My baby໒꒰ྀི ╥﹏╥ ꒱ྀིა

I personally think she’s like… a teen. She looks like a teen. So imagine being in a mental state of an adult with the emotional state of a child and being forced to watch everyone you know and love die. I couldn’t do it she is so strong but I STILL WANNA HOLD HER MY BABY!!! ૮꒰ ˶꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ˶꒱ა

[valkyriesaga-if]

Built a few years after the Collapse, the city of Yggdrasil was meant to be a haven, a refuge. A utopia, where everyone could find their place and be equals.

But that’s the thing with utopias and ideals; they don’t last very long.

Yggdrasil was barely 20 years old when the Magi Council rose above their human brethren, firmly splitting society in two: the magi on one side, who wield privilege like a sword, and the humans on the other, whose only privilege was to stay alive and quiet.

After all, how can you deny Magi what they want, when they are the only thing protecting you from what’s outside the walls?

You’ve been living in the Helheim district for almost as long as you can remember, raised amongst crooks, conmen and criminals all your life. While this hardly seems like ideal conditions to raise a child, it was better than having the Council find out your secret. Helheim was the best place for secrets. You knew it, your mother knew it, everyone in Yggdrasil knew it.

You’re an undeclared Magi. In a city where showing the barest hint of magic can get a child taken away from their parents and chain them forever to the Council of Magi, raising a child under the watching eyes of kingpins, thieves and prostitutes was a shield, an armor. The best protection love could offer.

Every day, you live on the edge of the razor. One wrong move and your life could be upended entirely. But when your mother is on the verge of losing her house, her business, her entire life to Greed, you can’t just sit there and watch it happen.

Being hired to steal the Eyes of The Watcher, the most precious gems in all of Yggdrasil, located right in the heart of the Council Chamber, didn’t seem like such a bad idea, at the time.

Genre

Post apocalyptic, urban fantasy, heist

Content Warning

The story will be 18+ for violence, potential sexual themes, explicit content and gore.

Fully customizable MC: name, gender identity, sexuality, appearance, personality and demeanor

Interact with a varied cast of NPCs

Shape your relationships with your fellow gang members, from lovers to platonic besties, all the while keeping in mind that they are all criminals and liars, just like you.

Experience the Nightmares™

Engage in highly illegal, highly dangerous activities, and maybe some light rebellion and overthrow of authority on the side

Polish your skills such as stealth, combat or knowledge, and discover more about your magic

Spend some time in the luxurious streets of Asgard and other delightful places such as a Helheim fighting ring, the city sewers or a defunct meat factory

Hallucinate?

Pet the cat

The selfish mercenary - Lònan [M, he/him]

Money is the only thing that matters to Lònan. He has made that very clear since the beginning. Obviously, he doesn’t seem to care that much about his own life, otherwise he would have found another way to make a fortune. One that doesn’t involve going into the heart of the enemy territory to steal the most valuable and well guarded artifact in town, for example. Just a thought.

The disgraced Magi - Yugō [M, he/him]

Magi have virtually everything they might want. Money, luxury, and an unending hoard of lackeys to cater to their every need. So you can’t help but wonder what might lead one of them to hide amongst the rats in the dark alleys of Helheim, and Yugo is not inclined to answer your questions.

The unwelcome guest - Halloran [M, he/him]

No one really knows who Halloran is or what he wants, but he seems to keep inviting himself in your dreams, taking great pleasure in playing with you and your sanity. Only he is a cat playing with a mouse, and you can only hope that he won’t eat you whole.

The estranged friend - Mavis [F, she/her]

Back in the time you lived in Midgard West, you and Mavis used to be friends, practically joined by the hip. While she remained as kind and gentle as you remember her, there is a hard edge to her eyes that wasn’t there before.

The mysterious outsider - Koyal [F, she/her]

A courier from outside of town, you’re not sure why she joined your ragtag group of criminals. Calm and quiet, she mostly keeps to herself, but you can’t help but feel her watchful gaze on you every time you have your back turned.

The disembodied voice - Morgane [F, she/her]

You’ve never met her in person, your only contacts with her being over the phone, as she gives instructions to you and the rest of the group. She seems to be the only one in direct relation with the person who hired you for some trivial B&E in the most secure facility in Yggdrasil.

Lònan/Yugō and Koyal/Halloran are potential poly routes.

TBA

This is my first IF and English is not my first language, so feel free to send any constructive criticisms and corrections my way.

This is very early development, so many things are subject to change as i work on the story

Asks are welcome and reblogs appreciated!

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I started doing sex work while still living with my mom?

Warning for sexual mentions(nothing heavily explicit though)

I (18F) can't get a typical job like working in customer service or physical labor because of a mix of reasons. I'm both physically and mentally disabled, for one. I have chronic pain & chronic fatigue so extensive physical labor or any job that requires being up for a long time is out of the question for me, as it would cause me a lot of pain and put me at risk for collapsing or falling asleep due to exhaustion. I also have heavy social anxiety and sensory issues, and despite being in therapy since I was around 11, this hasn't gone away. I still have problems with stuttering when talking to people I don't know, and feel on the verge of panic the entire time. I also can't handle loud noises well- I carry around a pair of headphones constantly but that does mess with my hearing so I couldn't really use those in a customer service focused environment. I'm a full time student as well, and will be for several more years, as I'm going straight into college out of high school. On top of all that, I can't drive yet, as the process was delayed due to concerns that my health issues would make me a hazard on the road, so I won't have my full license until late this year.

I've tried looking for other job types before, but nothing I've been able to find works. I've tried doing art, but it's not easy to get people to actually commission you- I've only gotten 1 so far and I've had commissions open for almost half a year. I've tried content creation but have yet to build a platform big enough to make money from it. I've looked for online focused jobs such as creating captions or proof-reading others work but realized very quickly I'm not equipped/qualified for that job due to my problems with processing audio correctly, and my problems reading and writing correctly first try- I often have to re-read things many times over and re-type things at least once to get it at all correct, as words and letters get mixed up in my brain sometimes or I just accidentally skip over entire words or even sentences. And even then I sometimes still get it wrong. So I'm a pretty slow worker with things like reading, and something that requires listening to something and then writing what was said took so long it wouldn't meet the time requirements a lot of places are looking for in workers for that (that I've seen).

So the only idea I have left for making money so I at least have something to help pay for college and to go towards me being able to move out someday is some sort of sex work. I'm not planning on doing anything super risky, like meeting up with real people or anything that would show my face. So I wouldn't be worried about this bothering my mom since she's not really sex negative or strictly against sex workers or anything if it wasn't for one thing. I'm not sure if this will work either. I have a lot of acne problems all over, and problems with picking at my skin that leave scratch marks in a lot of places. And I'm not sure anyone would be willing to pay to look at that. It's not something that bothers me on an individual level, it's just a part of me, but that doesn't really change what other people do or don't find attractive. So it just kind of feels disrespectful to be selling that kind of thing in my mothers house if it's not even going to be significant enough for it to matter financially. And, of course, there's always the risk my mom could see it, and I worry it would upset her to see her daughter selling that kind of thing. But I don't see other options left for how I could make enough money to not end up drowning in student loans down the line, or end up living with my mom for many years into adulthood- which wouldn't be fair to her since she's not financially well off either. I don't plan for it to be a permanent job, just something to help me through my college years till I can start working in the field for what I'm getting a degree in or until my issues get well enough I can work a more typical job.

WIBTA?

What are these acronyms?

[werewolfoffeverswamp]

tbh i dont know if i’ve ever made a single piece of art i actually like in an academic setting. they’re always haphazardly done last minute and the subject matter is always so. hm. it’s a little boring. the only times i think i’ve come close to making something i was proud of in school is when i was pushed to my mental breaking point and i just started fucking doing whatever i wanted. so today i’m rating them

in my sophomore year i was in sculpture class and had to make a smooth plaster sculpture. the amount of manual labor required to sand down a sculpture that had to be at least 3 feet in some direction is not something i wanted to deal with. as you can see my sculpture is not smooth. the design i was happy with— the sculpture itself i was not.

it was titled “Mistakes” or something along those lines. my classmates stood up for me in critique when my professor said it was lazy and unfinished. not one of my peers said a bad thing about it. we smashed the sculptures apart behind the building when critique was over. i still want to cry when i think about it, it was an extremely special experience for me.

10/10 i actually wish i still had it and i have been meaning to make a tiny version out of clay. such a special piece to me, very formative

this piece was made at the end of my college career when i first started testosterone. i wanted to make some sort of tribute to it for my final piece— i’m of an extremely divided mind when i think about it. there are parts that look clunky and not developed properly… thrown together, as i believe my professor Jason said. i am, however, happy with certain technical aspects of the piece! the formation and shading of the hand and the syringe is something i really like, and did a lot of layering to achieve. i used a paper cutout to make the repeated syringes on the bottom left, another new technique i tried and was happy with the results of.

the text WAS thrown on last minute in an effort to spice up the piece but it’s a reference to the song Crosseyed and Painless by Talking Heads. it’s a song i’ve always identified with in a gender way, with the first few lines being “Lost my shape, trying to act casual./Can’t stop, I might end up in the hospital.” i felt on the verge of collapse constantly in the early days of my transition. it was like i had lost my shape and was destined to end up hurt in some way. i wish the text was more well thought out, it could have been done in a more uniform way and i think it would have looked a little better.

the wasp head is also a reference to an old oc of mine, who was a man with a wasp head named Gene. i wish i would have used different colors, the black and yellow i used should have been warmer. mars black instead of ivory. whatever again it’s technical stuff.

6.5/10 i could technically go back and fix this one bc i still have it, but i have better things to do rn.

the hand dino came into the world in a fiery manner. for the final project we had to make a piece with the dimensions of minimum like 4ft by 4ft, and by this point i was burnt out and the most exhausted with art i’d ever been (besides maybe sophomore year ig 🤔) and i told my professor i couldn’t do a project that big. he made the mistake of telling me to do what i could manage, which ended up being a roughly 12in by 12in piece of oil painting paper.

in many ways i like the concept of this piece. the idea of it. it’s fun! it’s combining realistic elements with cartoonish ones in a way i enjoy.

however. looking back, i genuinely think it would have been a cooler concept on a bigger scale 😭 which is so frustrating.

7.5/10 i wish i’d had it in me to do it better.

and how could we forget dear body horror babe? made in my first semester of sophomore year and done with ink and charcoal and conte crayons, it was an assignment one of my more eccentric teachers wanted us to do where we randomly splattered ink on a paper using ink-covered coins and tried to come up with a drawing just from the happenstance of where the ink coins landed.

i chose a more abstract route and basically turned every ink splat into an eye and tried to come up with somewhat distorted body imagery to evenly fill all the space on the paper. you can find a lot of stuff going on in this piece.

11/10 but also not done at my lowest point, just during the steady decline.

ok can i be frank for a second. i fucking hate this piece. so what you’re seeing is an 8ft by 4ft thin block of particle board, carved by hand in low relief to ink and print on old bedsheets.

my professor for this relief class was strict about the theme of the class, which was political art. she insisted we make art relating to a political topic and our beliefs on it. and this isn’t to say political art is bad in any way, but it’s truly not something i want to FOCUS on creating necessarily. the fact that it was MANDATORY is the issue here. one of my classmates refused to make purposely political art and instead chose to make a beautiful piece of the sun and moon as lovers. i wish i had just done the same and refused to make strictly political art. if i’m honest i just wanted to make an epic wood carving scene of a dark and eerie night outside draculas castle. instead, as you can see, i chose (somewhat arbitrarily in an effort to make the project into something i could enjoy carving) environmentalism.

technically i don’t mind this piece. the composition is fine and the detail in some areas i’m very proud of. other areas not as much. my teacher also forced me to do what i think is over-carve some areas to fill the piece with texture. i do not like it and i wish i had kept some areas fully un-carved, even if it didnt print right. i don’t care.

also what’s worse about the whole experience of this piece is that it was part of an event called Blocktoberfest and my school partnered with a local state college to make and print these huge blocks on their campus. the reason this is bad is bc the state college students did whatever the hell they wanted for their designs and we saw some really cool subject matters, from aliens to occult symbolism. and their school’s art department had a couch in it and ours didn’t. :/

also blocktoberfest was an insane amount of physical work bc rolling those big ass rollers in ink and then a giant block and then ink and then the block and ink and block was a lot of effort. i was sore after it. and it lowkey felt like me and my classmates were doing all the work and like maybe 5 people from the other school were helping. whatever. whatever anyways

1/10 genuinely pisses me off to look at. wish i would have just done draculas castle

^i also think it’s worth mentioning about this professor: no one really liked her. she made it very clear that she thought there was a right and wrong way to create art. and she fully believed she was right about everything bc she was old and wise. and she was also gay so maybe she had some credit. but her art to me always felt a little uppity and she was also really rich. she let us visit her studio and we did our final critique there of a piece i made that i absolutely hated everything about. i dont even have a picture of it bc it pissed me off so bad. she also was lowkey racist towards a few of my classmates so i really don’t like her.

anyways that’s all the pieces i want to review currently. let me know what you guys think about em if you want. i hereby ask for you to critique my art.

the difference between making art for a deadline vs making art purely bc you enjoy the process and outcome is so crazy. it actually makes me sick with sadness. i don’t have the resources to create freely yet. anyways art under the constraint of academia is so frustrating for me specifically. like whatever. whatever

[fatuismooches]

HIIIIIIYA BB THE BRAINROT HAS BEEN HITTING THESE PAST FEW DAYS IDK WHAT IS IN THE AIR BUT I KNEW I HAD TO RUN TO YOU!!!!!!!!

okay so its kinda basic honestly. but do NOT think about pantalone returning home to you in snezhnaya after being stationed in liyue for like half a year or so, the longest he’s ever been away from you. he wasn’t one to leave the region at all, but at the tsaritsa’s orders, he had business to conduct at the northland bank. do NOT think about jumping into his arms as soon as you see him, how tightly he’s squeezing you to his chest, his familiar scent engulfing you once again, making your eyes misty because LORD YOU HAVE MISSED THIS MAN‼️do NOT think about how much he’d spoil you with his attention and touches and literal stockpile of gifts he’s bought you while abroad and lastly. do NOT think about how hesitant he’d be to leave your side after that. clingy clingy pantalone :’)

okay byeeeee hope youre doing amazing always 🫶🏻!

HELP NOT THE AIR😭 BUT OMG THANK U FOR GIVING ME THIS BRAINROT I'M LOVING IT SMMM💕💕

I am NOT!! thinking about Pantalone realizing how much he misses and craves your presence while he's away. Like, when he first received the mission, he was quite disappointed and knew he would miss you. But when he's been stuck in Liyue for only a few weeks, it really sets in and hits him that he actually can't see you for months. He thought he could bear it, he's been alone since childhood, but he's finding it harder to keep his composure when he's going to sleep in a fancy Liyuean bed without you by his side.

I am NOT!! thinking about Pantalone honestly being obvious about his clear pleasure about finally being able to return home, like the soldiers can see it easily. Don't get me wrong, he's a master of hiding his true emotions, but... his smile is a lot bigger, he has a bunch of soldiers carrying loads of gifts for you, trailing behind him. (They are on the verge of collapsing but if they dare let one of your gifts touch the ground they'll be executed later 😭) A conversation between them goes something like : "Which of these do you think [Name] will prefer?" "Why not both, sir?" "An excellent idea." (+ He has a calendar in his temporary office, with a bunch of important business dates etc circled. And then he has the day he finally departs from Liyue circled and an estimate of the day he finally returns to Snezhnaya, with a picture of you near it ;)

I am NOT!! thinking about how you have been seated by the window for hours on the day you receive news that Pantalone is finally back in the country. You have your boots, coat, gloves, hat, all at the ready to pull on in record speed as soon as you see his carriage in sight. You're literally pacing back and forth, heart racing, while your attendants reassure you to the best of their ability. And when he finally pulls up to the front of the mansion, and he steps foot out of it and looks directly, and gives you that particular smile, the one reserved specifically for you, you just. Race into his arms nearly tripping (luckily the snow is shoveled every day near the mansion)

I am NOT!! thinking about how you say his real name very very softly so that he is the only one that could hear it. And his heart just. Melts. <333 You bury your head into his chest, the fluffiness of his coat tickling you, his strong arms wrapped securely around you ;) Meanwhile the regular Fatui and attendants are just like 🧍‍♀️ with their eyes glued to the ground. They know better than to disturb you for the rest of the day. You could spend literal days opening his gifts and you still wouldn't be done 😭

I am NOT!! thinking about how he probably has a stack of paperwork left in his office from his absence, but he's refusing to even think about it and merely sends away the Fatui soldiers who remind him of it, that there are other people waiting on the documents that need his approval. He tells them very simply that he is busy with "other matters" (other matters being you, spoiling you, spending every second with you, telling you stories about Liyue [he saw Childe fooling around too much and lowered the amount of money he gets 😭], listening to you tell him everything you did while he was away, etc... the point here is obvious)

I am NOT!! thinking about how you're probably the one who has to convince him to go back to work again (you're starting to feel bad for the antsy Fatui soldiers, and kind of scared that one of those blue-haired men is gonna pop up again 🚶‍♀️) and the response you get is a groan (his morning voice is insane 😭🙏) and tightened arms around your waist. With lots of very gentle hair stroking, kisses, and encouraging words, he very begrudgingly gets ready to leave and finally take on his very boring duties again. He is not happy about waking up early and leaving his beloved alone in bed again... but such is life. You make it up to him by visiting his office during his breaks and giving him lots of smooches and attention 🥰

I am NOT!! thinking about how you two probably have separate boxes where you kept the letters you two exchanged while he was away. And you tried to hide it from him because you were embarrassed but it turns out he did the same thing, so you just put the boxes next to each other so either of you can read the lovey-dovey messages again ;)

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Jason Comforting You

Jason Voorhees X FemReader

Rating: T+

Warnings: Mentions of death, panic attack, no escape, mentions of drowning

Word Count: 814

Part 1: here

(A/N:) Happy spooky season!! My time has come once more! I have lots of horrific goodies planned and I can't wait to share them all! So enjoy the treats, the frights, and nightmares as I start getting back into the groove of writing! Until next time happy reading! ~Countess

You awoke suddenly, to misty sunlight streaming through a severely cracked window. Your surroundings were unfamiliar and the bed you were placed in had seen better days many years ago. It creaked and groaned as you turned your head. You had been brought to a shack as the memories of last night suddenly flooded into your head, rushing headlong into the forest as the strange masked killer kept a tight grip on your wrist. You jolted up with an audible gasp and tumbled from the musty mattress. Hearing the thud of you hitting the creaky floor, Jason eased up from the chair he had been occupying in the darkened corner. You almost released a terrified shriek when he stopped. His head cocking to the side as his eyes watched you carefully from the holes in his mask.

"Why?" You asked after gaining a little bit of courage.

He continued to stare, refusing to move as he just breathed breaking the silence surrounding the shack.

"Why me? You killed everyone else why would you spare me?"

Still he didn't say a word, but this time he did step forward coming closer to you. You flinched bringing your legs to your chest. He stopped before turning away. You relaxed a little, ready to flee if you needed to. Though you were sure it wouldn't matter if you did try to run. Everyone else in the camp had ran and their demise happened anyway. He searched through a bookcase that was on the verge of collapsing, junk fell to the floor, each thud and bang making you jump and twitch. He turned back around holding out his hand. You flinched, scooting backwards. But still he persisted. A crumpled nametag fell from his discolored fingers. Slowly you reached for it and plucked it from the dirty floorboards. It was severely damaged and it looked like it had been soaked in water at one point. But you could still make out the name.

"Jason," you looked back towards him. "Is that your name?"

He nodded eagerly before looking down again at the nametag expectantly. You took another glance, noticing something else written under his name.

"Voorhees. Is that your last name?"

Once again he nodded and you realized he was the victim of drowning all those years ago. It was the counselors fault of their negligence and it had cost one of the children's lives. The camp had been closed for a long time afterwards until someone bought the land and tried to open the camp back up. Only for tragedy to strike once more. You were forced by your parents to volunteer at Camp Crystal Lake as they tried to open it again. Once again it ended in a horrific scene and it seemed like now you were the only survivor. Now you were trapped face to face with the boy who drowned in that lake a long long time ago.

"Why did you take me," you wanted to make sense of it all. Fighting down the panic you tried to stay as still as you could as he knelt down in front of you. With a timid finger he stroked your warm cheek. Fighting tears as your emotions overwhelmed you.

"Can I please go home," you pleaded as Jason leaned down closer. The depths of his eyes searching, trying to understand why you were so upset.

"I don't want to stay here and I promise I won't tell anyone about you."

Jason only stared. You decided to take a chance and slowly stood up. Jason did the same never getting more than a foot away from you. You couldn't figure out what he could possibly want as you stepped backwards towards the shack entrance. Jason realized quickly what your intentions were and grabbed you quickly. You screamed, sobs wracking your throat as you struggled. He hugged you tightly, his scent surrounding you. He smelled of murky water and his skin felt cold and clammy. Like he had been steeping in the water of the lake for so very long.

"Please," you shouted. Repeating the same word over and over again until you couldn't bear the turmoil inside. You fainted, going limp in Jason's careful but tight embrace. Your body shook uncontrollably as he carried you back to the creaky bed. He laid you down gently, tucking the strands of hair behind your ear. He couldn't explain why he took you and he didn't want to lose you. You were a treasure that he refused to let anyone else have. He lost a lot already and losing you was not an option. He dragged the chair to the bedside where he could watch you sleep and planned everything you two could do together. You slept fitfully as the nightmares tortured you in the dark abyss and you knew if you woke up another terror would take it's place.

[queserasora]

DOFLAMINGO X FEM READER, NSFW WORD COUNT: 6.2k CONTENT WARNING: Mean ass Doflamingo strikes again. He is so mean, we already know this but I have to say it because I don't need people crying about him being mean. THAT'S JUST HOW HE IS. Dom!Doffy, consider this a dark romance~~ if you may, it's a bit toxic guys so like I don't recommend but that's just how the cookie crumbles, actually it's pretty damn toxic, like maybe this is on the verge of yandere doffy, idk you tell me, unprotected sex (please wear ur party hats in rl), biting and lots of degradation because Doffy loves talking shit, like it's so much shit talking it's half the fic, biting a lot of it, like everywhere, anal play, so much teasing, pussy slapping, he likes to tie people up because he finds it hilarious so bondage lite, blindfold???, yeah that too, lots of cum, it's everywhere A SUMMARY: Y/N (aka Butterfly aka Six) knows she doesn't have many weapons to use against Doffy so she tries depriving him of her undivided attention. Doffy lasts two whole days before he snaps.

PART ONE | PART TWO

He thinks two hours of hanging from his canopy bed by the wrists should be sufficient. If you hadn’t learned something by then, Doflamingo simply could not help you. There was only so much he could do, in his unending benevolence, to assist you in learning the skills needed for survival. Had he not taught you enough throughout the years you had known each other? Had he not been an attentive, and detailed instructor?

Had you, really, learned nothing?

He wanted to blame himself for this. Perhaps you had inadvertently exploited a weakness, he himself didn’t know he had. Doffy thought, if he should find it, he would cut it out of his body with his own capable hands. Too irate to face you, he sends two officers to cut you down from his canopy bed.

Your arms had started to grow numb. The uncomfortable tingling soon becomes painful. You kept shifting your weight on the bench bed, as if that would help alleviate the ache in your arms, or the throbbing of the small nicks and cuts of your wrists. At the sound of the door creaking open, your heart jumps. You turn your head quickly, but it is not he who walks through the door but two officers you know well. 

Shame heats your body before it grows deathly cold. 

It is apparent they’re fighting off embarrassed smiles as their mouths twitch. Their fingers move about carefully, as if they feared the repercussions of touching your skin for too long. What belonged to Doflamingo, belonged to him for the extent of its life. Although your body collapses as soon as you're free, a weight coming from it you didn’t know you possessed–you’re not dead yet.

You hold onto this realization as strong arms help you down from the bed bench, and half carry you out of his bedroom. You grip it tightly, like the air between your hands, until your nails bite into your skin. If there was any pride left in your war torn body you’d use it, despite the possible repercussions.

Your acts of rebellion are limited in range, so you do the only thing you can do–you deny him of the tiny bits of intimacy he craves from you. When he peers over his shoulder at you, you do not make eye contact. You look past his broad shoulders and to the intricate paisley pattern of the wallpaper in front of him. When he tries to make small talk, something you know he detests, you keep your answers short, clipped, monosyllabic if possible.

It is childish, you know this, but it is all you have. A blunt weapon was still a weapon. With enough force behind it, sometimes it could kill.

Six was being childish. He had put up with it for two days. This was as far as his immeasurable patience went. Doffy had half the mind to grab her by the hair and make her submit, no matter how many men were currently present in his office. Her usual soft, and pliable mouth was spread thin into a harsh line that made him frown. Her shoulders pushed back stiffly, as if she was busily carrying the weight of something.

That something, whatever it was, he would smash it to pieces.

Baby 5 is talking, and Doflamingo brings a hand up in the air. He curls his fingers in a quick snap of his wrist, grabbing onto thin air. She silences immediately. Her gaze follows Doffy’s to find it behind him, on the girl he affectionately called Six. Baby 5 had asked him once, defying common sense, what he meant by that.

He had laughed, and laughed and laughed.

Six, for the amount of steps she was to stay within him. Six, because he sometimes forgot her name.

Whether that was a lie or not, Baby 5 had no intentions of finding out. Just like she had no intentions of staying behind to see whatever sick twisted games Doffy was about to begin. She knew that smile well enough to know her time was up. She begins to make her exit wordlessly as the rest of the men in the room are already departing from the room.

“Lock the door,” Doffy says as she reaches the threshold of it. Her hand hovers on the doorknob and she gives one last look over her  shoulder. You make eye contact with her, and she notices the tension in your jaw, the way you suddenly bore holes through her forehead. A sensation close to pity settles in her chest, so she leaves quickly and locks the door as she was commanded before a conscience can begin to grow where one had already died before.

You stand silently, hands clasped in front of your stomach. His presence growing closer to your body was almost enough to melt away all your resolve; brick by brick, you had laid them one after the other these past two days. It all threatens to come toppling down when his fingers graze your chin. He clasps it with a clammy hand.

“Don’t make that face,” he says calmly, tilting your chin upwards. You follow his hand’s command with a small frown. “You know how much I hate it. You have been ignoring me. I can’t forgive you for that.”

You say nothing. What was there to say? You had been ignoring him in hopes of hurting him on some kind of level. You turn your face away from him, freeing your chin from his grasp. Doffy tuts, and steps closer, breaching whatever miniscule space was left between your chests.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” he says calmly. Doffy’s hand reaches for your face again, and you turn to face the other way. His fingers tangle in your hair, a curling lip is the representative of the last vestiges of his patience. His free arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you towards him until you are flush against his hardened body. Your breathing quickens. You despise the way your body warms up against his. It was such an easy, predictable thing. A flimsy paper that couldn’t even hold the weight of your convictions. “Your punishment,” he concludes when you still give him no reply.

You can’t help the way your eyes narrow. It is foolish, you know, to feel anything akin to injustice. You think to blame it on your still fading bruises; the ones on your skin and on your ego. You continue to think this when you utter your next words: “Punishment for what?”

“Six,” he says, tone growing impatient. The tangled fingers in your hair give a tug–an unspoken reminder to keep your eyes on him. His voice is short. His fingers dig into the skin of the small of your back. “Do I need to spell everything out for you? You’ve committed a grave sin.” Doffy brings his face close to yours. He presses his nose against your cheek and inhales noisily. The heat of his breath on the apples of your cheek is enough to have shivers coursing through your spine. You grab onto his mostly open shirt, tug on it as if it would bring you to your senses. His tongue runs flat up against your cheek, leaving a trail of hot saliva in its wake. 

Six was a nickname he used when he felt particularly mean. You flinch when he licks your other cheek, expecting the worst. 

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says against your ear, fingers still knotted in your hair. The hand on the small of your back travels slowly over the curve of your ass. His fingers are devious, and unapologetic. They are used to always getting what they want, so they settle for digging into the supple muscle of your derriere. For their affront, they pull a small gasp from your lips. Doffy smiles besides himself. “You know I loathe being ignored, don’t you?” His teeth bite down on an earlobe. A whimper lays to rest in the back of your throat as you crush it down. “You of all people should know better.”

There’s a fluttering in your heart you want to squash. The pained sound in his voice, feigned or not, tugs at your heartstrings. You consider giving in, letting him have his way, and getting it over with. There was no use living at odds with Doflamingo. It wouldn’t benefit you in any way. 

“You’ve injured me,” his words are breathy, strained, as he brushes his lips against the line of your jaw. Your eyes close at the feel of his breathing scorching your skin. He kisses down the side of your neck. Kisses so wet and hot, it clouds your reason. There’s a slickness slowly seeping into your underwear. You become more acutely aware of this as the fingers on your ass move to slip between the waistband of your pants and your waist. “Now you have to pay the price.”

You nod, blindly agreeing to anything he could possibly propose. If it was your soul he wanted, he could have it. The method was up to his diabolical whims.

Doflamingo bites down on his lip. Not because the erection in his trousers is beginning to get uncomfortable–although it was. Not because when he sucks on the hollow space of your neck you moan so deliciously it makes him want to rip your clothes off—although he did want to do that. He bites down on his lip to keep the laughter at bay. You were so predictable, so pliable, so easily swayed. All he had to do was touch you, and you unraveled around his fingers, just like string. 

He releases you. You sway where you stand, suddenly breathless and dizzy. Doflamingo moves around the desk, and reaches for the inside of a small drawer. He pulls out two pieces of pearly white silk. It drags on the floor as he moves towards you.

“You’ve been a bad girl, Six,” he says, and gestures at your hands with one of his. “Now give me your wrists. I’m taking away some of your privileges.” You blink, unsure if you had any privileges to begin with but you concede, holding up your hands together, inside of wrists touching each other. He binds your wrists with one of the pieces of silk. “And because you dared to avoid my gaze,” he says, giving the knot on your wrists a good pull. You jolt towards him, and shout as he catches you by the forearms. Doflamingo leans forward, enough for his breath to tickle your nose when he speaks: “I’ll take yours away.” A sense of fear ices your veins. Your mouth moves, words refusing to form. You think to ask for him to reconsider but his hands are quicker than your mind. He is tying the silk over your eyes, like a blindfold.

The last thing you see is his grinning mouth, and a pair of shades reflecting your own face back at you.

Darkness consumes you. Your breathing sounds inexplicably loud to your ears. You focus on steadying your breaths, making them shallower and shallower. The sound of rustling startles you. You turn your head in the direction you think it’s coming from, but his hands are on your shoulders pushing you back. You stumble backwards until the back of your thighs hit the edge of the desk.

“Don’t,” he hisses against your ear. “Move.” You hold your breath before a shudder forces you to inhale loudly. He is tugging at your waistband. You feel thick fingers press against the skin of your hip as he grips the fabric. He had instructed you not to move but your body jerks as he pulls the fabric. The sound of cloth ripping, strings being torn and undone fill the still air of the office. A cool breeze touches your hip, your thigh, and even lower as he continues to tear the right pant leg all the way down.

Your breathing quickens. White teeth dig into your bottom lip as you struggle to keep quiet. He hadn’t asked you to not make a sound but you didn’t want to try his patience. Not when his fingers were on the other side of your waist, destroying whatever was left of the other pant leg. Another forceful tug, and you’re free of your pants. Cold air kisses the back of your knees.

“I hate these pants,” he complains, kicking the remains of the clothing item out of his way. He advances towards you, grasps your hips with heated hands and flips you around. You shout, as he bends you over the desk, ass up. “Why do you insist on this stupid suit? They are ugly. I thought I told you, I loathe ugly things. I’m throwing them all out,” he insists, his large palms running over the width of your ass cheeks. “Every single one, and I’m filling your closet with dresses. And skirts,” he pauses, hands still on your ass. Dresses and skirts so he wouldn’t have to tear into them with brute force. Doflamingo brings one hand up and slaps a cheek. You cry out as the sting blooms into a burning ache.

Doflamingo goes into his haunches. You feel him panting against the back of one thigh. You breath hitches. His mouth moves lower, to an ankle. He flicks his long tongue out, and grazes the inside of your ankle with the tip of his tongue. It’s hot, and wet, enough to make you twitch. You curl your fingers tightly, trying to fight the urge to rub your thighs together. It shouldn’t have aroused you so much, but you feel the growing wetness becoming worse in your underwear

The scratchy feel of your stockings over your skin is enticing. He hates it but he can’t stop. His tongue drags up from the back of one calf, all the way to the back of a knee. He stops there, contemplatively for one nanosecond, before he decidedly sucks on the sensitive area. You whimper, and he chuckles up against your thigh. His detailed attention is on the lovely crease of your ass cheek. Open mouthed kisses, and licks leave a slippery trail that mimics the dripping wetness from your pussy.

By the time he’s done with your other leg, you feel soaked. You rub your thighs together, the stockings scratching and creating a pleasant friction. You increase your pace. Doflamingo stands up in time to watch your salacious movements. He laughs before slipping a leg in between them to stop you.

“Enough,” he says, trying to hide his humor. “You’re always trying to do something like this. Can’t you stop being a slut long enough to quietly take your punishment for once? You’re always  making me work twice as hard. Be a damn good girl,” he finishes with a snarl. “And stay fucking still.” His thick fingers seize the stocking over your ass and he rips them open. You gasp and barely have time to process that when he is seizing the band of your panties. You know what he’s about to do but you cry out all the same when the fabric rips as well, leaving you completely exposed.

He would never admit it. Doflamingo would rather be strung up, beaten, burned and humiliated than to admit it. He’d choose imprisonment or death before he admits how the sight of you bent over his desk, pussy glistening already with your arousal, has him thinking stupid, feverish, foolish thoughts.

He should fuck them out of his mind while he still could.

His teeth find their mark on the swell of one ass cheek. You cry out when he digs in, leaving bruises that bloom into pink-purple flowers in the shape of teeth. He leaves mark, after mark, until he has counted eight total. His mouth presses at the top of your crack, a soft kiss that you know could only lead to debauchery. You wiggle your hips, trying to shake him off. Doffy tightens his hold on your hips, and slams you down on the desk. There will be more bruises on top of the old fading ones but you don’t care. The only thing you care about is the way his tongue is following the path of your crack.

“D-Doffy!” you stutter, slamming your tied hands down on the desk repeatedly to try to get his attention. His hold on your hips is unshakeable. You close your eyes tightly, when they move to your cheeks. “You don’t have to do this.”

He pulls your ass cheeks apart. “Don’t be stupid,” he tells you without looking away. He frowns down at your puckered hole, two shades darker than the rest of your skin. “I do as I please and you…” he pauses to tilt his head. He is aware you can’t see him but he shoots an incredulous look at the  back of your head. “Did you forget you are the one being punished? You have no right to say anything.”

With his case spoken for, he turns his attention to your hole once more. With your ass cheeks spread, he dives in, his tongue flush against your crack. His tongue circles your hole in a way that deeply shames you. The tickling pleasure makes your toes curl, and you try to keep quiet, try to still the small twitches of your belly as pleasure builds inside you. His circles become tighter and tighter, faster. Your neck pulls your head back. You cry out, a long soft moan hanging in the air.

Doflamingo pulls away to look at your sweating forehead. He grins. “Heh,” he chuckles, pulling your ass cheeks apart once more. “Look at you. You keep forgetting your place.”

He takes a rattling breath, nose wrinkled. Doflamingo hacks and spits into your hole. A glob of foamy white saliva hangs on your hole before it slowly drips down to your bright and puffy pussy. He leans back, fingers still digging into the supple flesh of your ass. You feel him let go of one cheek, and his thumb moves towards the middle. There's a protest forming in your mouth. It tumbles clumsily out of your lips, but he’s pressing his thumb against your hole regardless. He presses it further in, tip sliding in even when you try to speak again.

You cry out as he makes it past the first knuckle. He moves it inside you, soft wide circles. Your hips buck as you try to get away from him, a building pressure around your asshole. You whimper, and moan, the sensation so intense and so strange it scares you. He laughs when you ask him to wait. He laughs again when you sigh in relief when he pulls out his thumb. He laughs, lastly, when he inserts index and middle finger instead and you cry out. You’re banging your hands on the desk again, words almost unintelligible flying out of your mouth. You hate the way your folds are slick with your arousal, how your moans don’t stop no matter how many times you command them to go away in your mind.

“Oh?” you hear Doffy say, your fingers gripping the edge of the desk as he thrusts his fingers into your hole, time and time again. He is rough enough to shake you, to keep your hips pushing and bruising against the hardwood of the desk. “All of a sudden you can speak? How interesting. Should have done that two days ago.”

He reminds himself he is merciful, sometimes, and pulls his fingers away when you give a painful cry. Doflamingo looks down at his fingers, a frown heavy on his brows. He reaches for the back of you, and wipes them clean on your crisp white shirt, careful to go under the fingernails.  “You know,” he says, looking down at your dripping pussy. You’re so wet you’re soaking down the inside of your thighs. Shiny folds greet him, beckoning him for a lick or two, a good suck, a good fuck.  “You kept saying it was dirty while I was fingering you but you’re the dirty one. You’re fucking soaked.”

Doflamingo isn’t a man who kneels. He grabs your hips and pulls you up, helps you fold your legs so that your knees are on the desk. You lean forward on your elbows. Your breathing is loud, and erratic. The heat circling around you feels suffocating. Sweat covers your neck, and you feel it slipping down between your breasts. You can’t see him, but you feel him moving behind you again. His mouth hovering over your pussy. You take a deep breath, as the high of expectation seizes you. You’re desperate. You want to feel his mouth on your pussy. You want him to lick you and suck on you until you cum but Doflamingo has other plans.

He touches your entrance lightly with the tip of his tongue. Just as lightly, he traces your entrance. You flinch, and whimper. You move your hips, trying to follow his mouth. Doflamingo tuts and grabs your hips. “Six,” he says testily. “If you don’t stay still I will stop being so kind.”

He licks lightly over each lip. “You need to come to terms with this already,” he says breathing against your clit. He puffs hot air against your sensitive nub. Your toes curl in pleasure. Doflamingo brushes his closed mouth against your swollen clit. “I know what you want, and you’re not getting it. That’s my justice.” He kisses the opening of your pussy before kissing your clit. “Now just take it.” He parts his lips and bites down on your clit.

The heat of his mouth disappears. You whine, feeling cheated and petulant. Doflamingo slaps your pussy for your brattiness. “Apologize,” he says sharply. “You haven’t uttered a single apology. Did I not say you’ve injured me?” He slaps your pussy again. The sting is shocking, humiliating. You grip the edge of the desk so hard you fear your fingernails will split. “Apologize, Six,” he growls and slaps you one more time. You cry out, feeling pleasure jolt down the inside of your thighs. You’re dripping wetter and wetter. Your body is trembling as you struggle to keep yourself up in this position. Your biceps are burning, your thighs quivering. 

“I’m sorry!” you mutter quickly. It is the best you can manage at the moment but it appears dissatisfactory. Doflamingo slaps your aching cunt again. “I said I’m sorry! I'm so sorry!”

“Good,” he says, rubbing his hand roughly over your pussy. You moan, almost purr, as he slathers your slick all over. “Now thank me.”

You gasp, and turn your face around. You don’t understand what he says at first, so he repeats himself. Still you splutter: “What?”

Another slap to your sensitive puffy pussy has you arching your back with a cry.

“I said, say thank you,” Doflamingo mutters over your ear. You feel his body leaning over your back. “Don’t forget your manners. It should be considered a blessing that I'm even touching you.” He slaps your pussy one last time. “And you say?”

You mumble it at first. He can’t hear you so he grabs your cunt tightly. “What did you say? Enunciate, Six. Do you know how to speak?”

“Y-yes, sir. I said thank you. Thank you so much,” you breathed out, lungs burning from the effort. He chuckles lightly against your ear.

“Better. Much better,” he says before kissing your ear and pulling away. 

Doflamingo seizes your hips, and swiftly flips you around. The sudden movement causes your stomach to dip, and you cry out, arms flying out to grasp anything. You feel his shoulders, and grip tightly. Doflamingo shakes you off without finesse. He pushes your back on the desk, and pulls you towards the edge of the desk by the hips. He pulls your legs up, until your thighs are flushed against his front. Your knees bend, and your lower legs drape over his shoulders.

“These,” you hear him hiss around your ankles. Doflamingo’s nose brushes against the top of one foot–exposed by a kitten heel. “Are also atrocious. We’re throwing these out too. Every single one.”

He takes them off your feet quickly. You wiggle your toes, taking advantage of the only freedom you have currently. Your silent moment of victory is short lived. Doflamingo is tearing at your stockings against, revealing your feet. Your breath catches in your chest as you feel a hot wetness on the inside of one foot. It tickles pleasantly. Still, you wiggle your toes.

“Stop,” he growls against your foot, moving his mouth to your toes. He sucks on them noisily, one at a time. Drool slides down in between your toes, and you crinkle your nose. It is an odd sensation, but you refuse to pull your feet away. This temporary moment of discomfort was not enough to make you risk his wrath. 

He tires of your feet and at your lack of reaction. He tires of the way his breathing is ragged, how heat has forced him to sweat right through his shirt. He tires of the way his erection is throbbing in his pants. 

Doflamingo fights against it by seizing the front of your shirt. He pulls in one go, buttons ripping from their seams. They fly out in different directions, zooming past your face and his. You feel one hit your forehead. Another bounces off one of the lenses of Doflamingo’s shades. He cackles, amused by his own little stunt. He is laughing still as he leans forward, your legs bending with his actions. You feel his hardened cock press against your heated pussy. You’re maddened at the thought. You want the fabric separating you to disappear and curse your lack of strength. You are so consumed with your desire to have him inside you, deep and hard, that his bites barely register. He is nipping over the swell of your breasts.

There is no delicacy or tenderness to his actions. He has pointedly reminded you, time and time again, that this was not done in pleasure. This was your punishment. So he clamps down hard on your tender flesh, and covers your tits in dark pink bruises. You cry out each time, body trembling from a mixture of pain and ecstasy. Doflamingo loses interest when there’s no more room to mark so he shifts to your belly. He bites and sucks where he can. He leaves his imprint on your skin, for you to see later in solitude and think of him; only of him.

Your ribcage calls his name and he drags his tongue up and over it. He counts each ribcage in his mind, and leaves a bite for each one.

The assault is endless. The desk becomes an altar with you as a sacrifice. Doflamingo lights a fire, tall and full of rage, with every drag of his sharp teeth, with every desperate suck against your skin.

His mind is a mess. He can only think of tearing you open. He can only think of digging inside you, to rifle through your insides to see what was crawling in there that did not belong. He wanted to see himself in every part of you, slowly consuming you until there was nothing left but the spirit of him.

You; his carnal legacy. 

His tongue drags at a painfully slow pace over your nipples when he pulls your bra down with a wild tug. Doflamingo draws shapes that he has no names for over the swell of your breasts. His fingers pinch your erect nipples, and he lets your cries guide him. You moan when he flicks them with his thumbs, and he knows this is punishment. But what good was a punishment that punished him? He couldn’t hold out any longer.

He dives against your breasts, his mouth sucking in a nipple with viciousness. Your back arches as he bites town and tugs. Pain makes your nipple throb, and you aim at his shoulder with your tied hands. He deflects you and pushes you back down on the desk.

There is no apology, no words to soothe you or pacify you. You didn’t expect any anyway. Instead, he lifts your breasts to lick the underside of them. His hands knead your breasts as he pushes against your heated core. His erection is enticing, and you move your hips against him. You hear his breathing against your ear picking up speed before it disappears.

You breathe through your mouth, quick little pants that make your chest burn. You hear a buckle, and a zipper coming undone. You swallow thickly, fingers twitching where you’re holding them against your chest.

Doflamingo looks down at you as he pulls his cock out of his underwear. It bounces against the flat of his belly. A hand moves to  grasp it, and it pumps it lazily. His eyes are too busy devouring your body instead. You are a mess on his desk. There is your arousal leaking out of you, pooling under your ass. Your skin is bruised and battered. Your chest rises and falls in rapid succession. He smiles.

You are pathetic. You are a mess, and you are all his.

He presses the angry tip of his cock against your entrance. You clamp down on your lip, and before you can fully ready yourself, he snaps his hips and bottoms out inside you in one move.

A cry gets stuck in your throat, and your mouth is open but no sound comes out. Your back is arched, even as he pummels into you relentlessly. His cock feels divine. It is thick, pushing against your walls, a stretch so satisfying you wish you could feel it time and time again. Everytime he snaps his hips you can hear the loud slapping of his balls against your pussy.

You’re whining, and moaning, thrashing in place. The sounds almost overpower the sound of wetness. The squelching sound of your pussy makes him smile. He holds on tightly to your knees as they’re folded over his shoulders, busily watching his glistening cock slide in and out of you. 

“Oh, now you really have a lot to say, huh?” he grunts as he increases his pace, his hips slamming against your ass time and time again. You whimper, feeling your pussy starting to get sore but the fire inside you continues to build. The pain is not enough to make you want to stop. “Now you want to give me your goddamn attention.”

Not that he’d stop for you. Not when he’s like this.

You’re being far too loud for his liking. It is driving him mad with lust. He reaches out to the desk, his hand pawing blindly as he continues to snap his hips. You’re so tight around him it makes him clench his teeth. His fingers touch moist fabric, and he grabs the sad remains of your panties. 

“Be quiet for a second,” he tells you and shoves the panties in your mouth. You gag, and cough. He hears your mumbling against the fabric, but it is muffled. He chuckles in delight. “Better. Much better.”

Now that your moaning is not ringing in his ears, leading him away from reason, he can focus on his work. He watches your tits bounce on your chest. They jerk every time he slams against you so he goes even harder, delighted at the sight of them. He closes his eyes, focuses on the lewd sounds of your wet pussy, the way air slips in and makes inappropriate sounds. He chuckles, admiring the way your walls start clamping around him.

“You’re gonna cum already?” he asks you. “Oh. That’s right. You can’t talk right now.” He laughs at your muffled cries. Sweat is coating his chest. He feels his shirt sticking to his lower back. The heat is all consuming, and so is the heat of your pussy. It is greedily sucking him back in every time he pulls out.

He groans loudly, when he feels you cumming. Your toes curl, and spit soaks your panties. You taste the saltiness of your arousal on the fabric and breathe out through your nose, trying your best to catch your breath. Your orgasm is violent. Your body jerks as it continues to course through you. Doflamingo doesn’t let up, and he edges you closer and closer to an ecstasy that is almost unbearable. You scream against your panties, legs shaking. You’re so overstimulated you feel tears wetting the silk of your blindfold.

Your drool is slipping down your chin, and down your neck. It collects on the hollow of your neck. You catch a ragged breath, and pray–pray for release. At this rate Doflamingo will  be the end of you–or at the very least, the end of your pussy.

Doflamingo chases your high down. Demands it comes back. He isn’t done yet, despite the bruises already starting on the bones of his hips. He feels that cushiony spot inside you and he rams his tip into it, time and time again. Your legs twitch and you give another shrill cry.

Just when you think you could die, heat forms once more. A coil so tight, binds itself at the pit of your belly. You feel a strange urge, as if you desperately need to go. You try to warn Doflamingo but he’s not listening and you are too weak to fight anymore. Your back snaps, and your vision goes from black to white. You feel liquid gush out of you.

Doflamingo gives a startled gasp, he watches you soak his pants with mild irritation.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, still thrusting inside you. “There’s just no end to your nastiness. You just had to ruin my pants? I am almost done dealing with your punishment and now I have to think of another one. You are nothing but trouble, my Butterfly.”

You mumble something he can’t interpret and doesn’t care to do so. His laughter rumbles in his chest as he continues to snap his hips, on and on and on. 

“You’re mine, you know that?” he tells you and turns his face to kiss one knee. “You’re my slut.” His voice is a hoarse growl. Teeth flashing white. “You are my butterfly. My captive poor pathetic little thing. You’ll never leave me, do you hear me? I’ll never let you go. You’ll always be tangled up with me.” You whimper, and thrash in place. “You’ll never be able to leave. Not that you want to. You like this too much. The way I fuck you.”

He is right, of course. The thoughts of leaving his side were fleeting. You couldn’t picture a life without him. If it meant living in his shadow until he turned to look at you then so be it. You didn’t care about the pitiful glances people gave you or the thinly veiled words of advice. You had decided a long time ago that this is where you would be happy to die, underneath his forceful hand.

“You belong to me. You have no right to deny me anything,” he reminds you, as he leans forward to nip at your bottom lip. He kisses you, and you think you might die. It had been so long, you thought the day would never come. You moan when he presses his mouth against yours. You dare to part your lips, to seek out his tongue but he is gone as quickly as he came. “You can only adore me. You can only look at me and think of me.”

He rips the panties out of your mouth and you gasp for air, gulping and gulping. Doflamingo wraps his fingers around your throat as he continues to fuck you.

“Say it,” he hisses, his voice breaking. “Say it’s only me you want.”

You swallow and nod slightly. “It’s you. I only want you.” You say his name, over and over. Doflamingo smiles widely, feeling at the moment, victorious. 

And with this sense of euphoria, he feels himself close. He pulls out quickly, leaving you aching and pulsing around nothing. Doflamingo pumps his cock desperately, roughly, a few times before he spills all over your battered pussy. His cum is hot and you flinch as it touches your sensitive skin. There’s drops on your belly, and on each side of your inner thighs. The cum on your pussy drips slowly and eases towards your ass.

Your mind is fuzzy. Your body is still hot, and everything is aching and throbbing. He’s moving again, you feel him ahead of you grabbing things from the ground. Doflamingo wipes his hands on the ripped clothing before he drops them on your belly.

“Clean up,” he commands in a congenial tone, shoving his half hardened cock into his soiled pants. He adjusts as best as he can and zips up. “I got you a new dress for tonight. It is imperative that you wear it for dinner. Are you listening, Butterfly?

You don’t have the strength to speak. Your throat feels raw from all the crying and moaning. So you nod, once, twice.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he says. His voice sounds distant. You hear his footsteps, farther away. There’s a click at the door, before it closes. Then silence.

He leaves you on the desk, blindfolded, naked and worn out to the sound of your heart beating in your ears.

[kyndredravenstories]

Eyes of Infinity: Delirium Chapter 10

Hello, I have been posting my work on AO3 and recently decided to venture here to Tumblr. Please note: This story is 18+. No minors. Please read tags carefully. Link to AO3 below but I will also be posting the chapters here.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53564641/chapters/149322682

Pairing: Sylus/Female MC with some elements of Xavier/Female MC

Genre: Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Adventure, Smut, Porn with Big Plot and Big Feelings

Content Warning (For the entire fic): Explicit sexual content, spoilers and alterations to existing lore and cards/memories/tender moments/secret times, size kink, size difference, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, anal sex, fingering, all kinds of fingering, elements of consensual somno, dom!Sylus, jealousy, possessive!Sylus, Mephisto stalking, typical game violence, battle and combat

Summary: To love him meant stepping over the threshold and crossing into darkness. To be with him meant accepting the lure of the shadows. And to protect him from betrayal meant sacrifice. I knew not how, only that I would not let time sever our paths ever again.

Previous Chapters: Ch 1 / Ch 2 / Ch 3 / Ch 4 / Ch 5 / Ch 6 / Ch 7 / Ch 8 / Ch 9

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Give yourself to her...she's right here...so close...so very very close...

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Nearly two days after he found Ellara in the N109 Zone, Xavier stands before their shared apartment building holding his sleeping partner in his arms. Though its only been a few days, it seems like he hasn't seen this building in ages. It's a far cry from anything luxurious, but this aging building has been 'home' for several years now.

He takes a moment to collect himself, breathing deeply of the crisp winter air. The falling snow should be a relaxing sight; it typically is. But, not tonight. On this night, he can't let his guard down, can't relax yet. They left N109 and its perils behind. But, just because they've made it to Linkon doesn't mean they're safe. Eyes could still be watching. In fact, an unwelcome intruder already is.

Up above, a large crow circles and settles on a light pole. Its eerie red eyes observe his every move.

Choosing to ignore this particular development, Xavier hugs his beloved's petite body close, giving himself a moment -- just that -- to feel her warmth against his cheek. He takes it in, using it to fuel his resolve. Within his core, his Evol pulses and writhes. It eats at the edge of his awareness --whispering, beckoning -- and it takes all of Xavier's self-control to keep it in check.

He should take her to his apartment, not hers. It's only logical. She'll be safer there, on his couch, tucked against him while she sleeps. Yes, far from prying eyes. In his arms where she belongs.

With great effort, Xavier shakes off the voiceless whispers and focuses on the task before him. Right now, the priority is to get Ellara home safely. Nothing else matters. Not the mark on her neck, or the crow leering down from above, or the long-imprisoned monster now lurking in his thoughts and making its demands. Jeremiah is already working on a new Limiter. Just need to wait it out until he can get it working.

If only the last week hadn't been so harrowing. He needs sleep. And food. Medical help probably for his injuries. His body is on the verge of collapse, and losing that Limiter isn't helping anything. Breaking the collar was not something he'd intended to do. But, the battle hadn't left him much choice. Or rather, Sylus hadn't left him any recourse.

What was he supposed to do? Walk away and let that monster keep his Ellara in his claws?

Again, he shakes his head.

Escaping the N109 Zone had proven to be much harder than Xavier had anticipated, even with help from his contacts. Based on the intel he had on Noxis, only a handful of sectors and areas were free of their surveillance. He couldn't risk them catching wind of Ellara's whereabouts, so they'd had to take the long way out. Truth be told, he hadn't even wanted to take her back here.

His apartment may not be safe, either. They were watching...always watching...

No.

She needs to heal. She needs to return to some normalcy in order to recover both in mind and in body.

And, he needs time as well.

So many things will only get much harder from here. Keeping her safe will require all of his strength and fortitude. Noxis will seek every opportunity to capture Ellara's Aether Core. No doubt they want to use it to make LUMINIS even more powerful. If anything was made clear with the disaster at the Mythe, it's that Noxis isn't some two-bit upstart looking to corner the market on a simple drug. Someone is planning to do something grave with LUMINIS. This operation isn't new. It's been in play for some time, and those leading it know exactly what they're doing.

Clenching his jaw so hard his teeth hurt, Xavier looks up towards the third floor of the building. Taking the elevator seems too daunting at the moment, so he Jumps. Taking care not to jostle the sleeping woman in his arms, he teleports a few feet above her balcony then floats down until his feet softly touch the tile. The sliding door is unlocked, and he manipulates his Evol to open the door and allow him entry.

Though it's been over a week since she's been home, her apartment still smells like her. Strawberries and cherry blossoms. Sweet, addictive. Her favorite lotion from a hole in the wall boutique down in the Azure District. A pile of detective and fantasy novels sits atop her living room table, their covers full of scuffs and creases. On the couch, her Betsy doll smiles at him from beneath Ellara's favored blanket.

Everything looks as though she hasn't left. Neat. Organized. Tidy.

With one small difference.

Someone's definitely been here.

Taking great care not to wake her, Xavier lays Ellara on the couch. He adjusts her injured arm so that the sling he forced her to wear doesn't twist. She doesn't stir, sleeping like the dead. Her palor hasn't improved since he first saw her, either. He hasn't been able to confirm it, but something is definitely wrong with her Evol. Now that the collar no longer binds him, he can feel it clear as day.

A winter breeze comes through the open balcony door, and Ellara shivers in her sleep. He should lay down beside her and wrap her in his warmth. Keep her safe from the cold. But, someone's been here, and there's no telling what they took or left behind. Now was not the time to lay down arms. He needed to investigate the place first.

His gaze gentle yet alert, Xavier covers Ellara with her favorite blanket and stands up. In his hand, he summons the hilt of a golden blade, ready to engage in combat if the need arises. He moves silently to her kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. A sigh of relief; a release of tension in his shoulders. No one else is here, and Xavier takes a breath to keep his Evol and emotions steady.

He goes back to her bedroom. Her theme of gray, white, and black continues here from the living room. A cute desk stands against the wall, the cork board in front of it covered in small baubles, photo stickers, and plushies. Xavier smiles when he sees that most of the photos are of their times spent visiting the arcades in Linkon.

The bed is made, and all clothes and items are put away neatly. Not a thing looks to be out of place except for a single duffle bag sitting on Ellara's bed. It's new. Not hers. Wary, he walks up to its perch on the edge of the mattress and unzips it. Inside is a bunch of clothes packed into stacks based on use: shirts, pants, socks. Too neatly packed for his little workaholic. She always works too late on her reports and packs her things at the last minute, forgetting half of what she needs at home.

Something different about the closet, too. He shuffles to it but hesitates at the door. His instinct warns him not to open it. But, he needs to investigate. What if this is what's got him on edge? Of course. Now is not the time to hold back. He needs to ensure that this apartment is safe. Steeling himself, he grits his teeth and slides open the door.

Ellara is a frugal woman. She wears the same three sets of uniforms for work and only has a few everyday clothes that all fit neatly into bins on the closet shelves. Her hangars are usually empty. But now, something bulky hangs wrapped in a white designer clothes bag like a bright centerpiece. On the zipper hangs a slim stretch of paper with a single word on it scribbled in impeccable penmanship:

"Raincheck."

Xavier reaches for it.

Open it. Don't be a coward.

Against his better judgment, he unzips the bag all the way to the bottom. From within spills an extravagant evening dress with a stitching of the night sky stretching over a river. It's made of the finest silk and stitched with golden thread. Precious gems adorn the breathtaking scenery. A long flowing skirt ripples down to the floor. The quality is second to none. Without a doubt, it's a work of art. One of a kind.

Ellara will be a vision in this. Radiant, like a Goddess of the moon.

Shame it is not intended for you.

Anger simmers like an acid pill in his gut.

Because this item is clearly not something Ellara would ever buy for herself.

And who else could it be from but him, the same man that had dared to take her deep into the darkness, to touch her with his filthy hands, and to mark her like he owned her?

How dare he?

For centuries, Xavier had waited. Prayed and hoped. Then waited again. And at last -- at long last! -- he'd found her in a place where her life was her own. In a time when she could live as she desired and could choose him. He'd vowed not to interfere with her free will -- vowed to let her decide of her own volition whether she wanted their paths to unite. More than anything, he wanted her health and happiness, even if that wasn't by his side.

But, never had he really imagined that she might choose someone else instead.

Dizzy with fury, he stumbles back into the living room to stand before the couch. He watches Ellara sleep, his hands trembling and his heart in his throat. His nails dig into his palm as his hand clenches into a fist. He fights against the voice, so loud now. So insistent.

...she's so warm...and alive...alive at last...and mine... MINE ...

Why should he fight it? The voice was possessive, yes. Extreme, perhaps. But, it had a point. Nothing was yet decided. Sylus had played his cards, and now it was Xavier's turn. He'd waited on the sidelines long enough. He wasn't going to surrender her heart without a fight.

But, the voice was wrong, too.

Her free will mattered above all else. His vow was eternal, and he would never break it no matter how his soul cracked and shattered. He loved this woman more than his own unnatural immortal life, bought at the expense of her very heart. And it was that heart that he would protect with all he had.

From any who would harm it.

Even the monster inside of him.

As though sensing his determination, Sylus's crow flutters in through the open door and settles on a nearby bookshelf. It's crimson eyes narrow as it stares Xavier down.

Time to take care of this particular nuisance. He raises his hand, prepared to strike the unnatural thing down with his Evol, when his Hunter's watch rings with a message from an unknown number. He accepts it, grimacing when he reads the contents.

Be content with your role...or risk losing the gift you've been granted.

He types back without hesitation: "The loss will only be yours."

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Twenty four days, nineteen hours...

That's how much time passes from the moment when my life shattered on the rocks of chaos. Or maybe it wasn't a moment. Maybe it was a specific day? I can't be sure. So much happened in such a short amount of time that I can still hardly wrap my head around it all. In just a few weeks, I'd gone from living a calm and ordinary life as a Deepspace Hunter to facing one dramatic turn after another.

I'm losing my identity - my very purpose.

Who am I, if not a Hunter fighting Wanderers?

Who am I, if not Xavier's trusted partner?

Who am I, if not a lonely young woman who loves reading about detectives and fantastical new realms to a candlelit microwave dinner?

I try to think back on how it all started, wondering if maybe there was something I could have done differently to prevent this downward spiral.

Upon returning to Linkon, Xavier and I checked ourselves into Akso Hospital to treat our injuries. Doctor Zayne happened to be on shift. After hearing about my near-death experience, he was more than glad to help in screening me for any major after-effects. While succumbing to his battery of tests and inquiries, we reached out to Captain Jenna to schedule a debriefing.

As expected, the Captain was relieved to hear that I was alive and seemed to believe our story about me being injured and staying with a friend to lay low for a while. Naturally, the conversation turned to the truth about what happened in the club the night of the explosions. Reluctantly, we gave her everything we had on Noxis. There was no one better than Xavier and I to continue the investigation, and she was poised to place us at the head of it once our injuries were healed.

That's where everything started falling apart.

Doctor Zayne returned, and when he dismissed everyone from the room to speak to me, I knew something was seriously wrong. He didn't disappoint. Showing me the result of one test after another, he revealed a disturbing fact.

My Evol was gone.

Completely.

Something was blocking the Evol channels in my body, and if it wasn't resolved soon, my heart would be affected. The bouts of exhaustion I'd been facing weren't a result of the darkness in the N109 Zone. My Aether Core was shutting down, and there was no guarantee that one of these times, it wouldn't take my entire heart with it. At least, that was the theory. Not enough was really known about altered bodies like mine. Maybe Zayne was taking it too seriously; or maybe I wasn't taking it seriously enough.

Whatever the case, I asked him to keep it confidential. I didn't want anyone to know, especially Xavier. A solution was out there. I just needed to find it. Zayne said it could be temporary. If so, I just needed to figure out what would jump start my body back into its normal function. I wanted to remain positive. The alternative simply wasn't acceptable. I had too much to live for; too much still to do.

Though Zayne agreed to keep my sudden health problem a secret, I couldn't necessarily hide that something was amiss. He gave the Association a cursory diagnosis, claiming that I had a temporary disability due to my injuries. That's what we used for official record. However, the disappearance of my Evol rendered me basically useless in my former role as an S-Class Hunter. I retained my physical combat skills, but I couldn't Resonate with any of my weapons. I was more of a burden in combat than an ally, and with how fast paced and dynamic S-Class missions were, nobody could take the risk.

The first week went by in a flash of shattered hopes. I trained relentlessly, pinning everything on how weak my body was after my ordeal at the Mythe. I trained until I was ready to fall over. Yet, no matter how much I pushed my body, my Evol remained dormant.

On the second week, I was placed on extended medical leave. Suspension in all but name. Jenna wanted to reassign Xavier to a different Hunter as a partner, but he pulled some strings to avoid that. The thought was appreciated, but it did no good. Though my partnership with Xavier wasn't nullified, I was not allowed to accompany him on any missions.

After my diagnosis, he'd thrown himself into the Noxis investigations. He was determined to find out as much information as possible about the substance. We were both on the same wavelength. If my condition was caused by the LUMINIS spilling on me at the Mythe, we needed an antidote. This goal ultimately separated us for days on end, leaving me feeling useless and alone.

Tara was still in the hospital recovering after her kidnapping. She'd been transferred from the hospital in the Arctic to Akso just a few days before our return to Linkon. Unfortunately for us, she had no memory of who had attacked her. I visited her when I could, but she had her own battles to fight with physical therapy and getting back into her work at the lab.

To help ease my loneliness and help me feel more connected to what was happening, Xavier brought me to his friend Jeremiah. He was a tech genius and helped me obtain and configure a new phone and Hunter's watch. Since I was on suspension, my access to the UNICORNS database was revoked. Somehow, he helped me get past that. At the very least, I could do research now.

I started to lose hope in the third week. By the fourth, I couldn't sleep and hardly had any appetite. Worse yet, Sylus hadn't contacted me even once since we were separated on the battlefield. At first, I was worried something had happened. But then, doubts plagued me. More than once, I found myself brooding over what the twins had told me about being a prisoner or something Sylus was merely using for entertainment. A disturbing thought began to haunt me: had Sylus known about the disappearance of my Evol? Is that why he'd sent me away? Was I no longer useful to him without it?

I couldn't believe that he hadn't tried to reach me even once. The only line I had to him was Mephisto, who followed me everywhere I went. The crow's presence was oddly reassuring. At the very least, it helped remind me that I hadn't dreamed up everything that had happened in N109. Mephisto was Sylus's companion. He wouldn't have sent him to follow me if he didn't care about me. Right?

As I sit on my couch trying to understand where to turn or what to do next, my phone suddenly rings with a tone I've never heard before. I look down at the flashing notification.

Message from "Unknown". Do you accept?

I click the confirmation.

Are you tired of being on the sidelines? If you are, meet me at the Destiny Café tonight at 9PM. Come alone.

I hesitate. My hands start to tremble with excitement and fear. This doesn't sound like something Sylus would say, but who else would write a message like this?

I type back: "Who is this?"

To my surprise, my phone rings again.

What you choose to call me doesn't matter. I already told you, didn't I?

Biting my lip, I type a response: "Malakai?"

I have what you want most and a proposition to go with it. Will you wait until your heart stops beating at some random moment? Or will you come to me and make a trade? It's up to you.

I suck in a breath.

What I want most?

He can't be talking about an antidote, can he?

I jump to my feet and run to my closet. Sliding open the door, I notice a strange empty hanger I hadn't seen there before. Did Xavier bring it from his place? Shaking my head, I focus on getting dressed. I put on my Hunter uniform and holster two regular hand guns to my hips. I pull on a pair of combat boots and tie my hair into a braid. Glancing at my watch, I check the time:

2:15 PM

It's still early, but I want to go and scope out the scene before the meeting time. The Destiny Café is a very public place with many visitors and patrons. The 24-Hour venue is a popular hot spot for everyone from couples to gaming nerds who want to get away from the hustle and bustle of the every day. It has a public open bar, an internet café, and private rooms that can be rented for a fee per hour. No doubt Malakai will have rented one of these. If so, I can check the records with the staff. Though I'm on suspension, my Hunter's watch and uniform should make me look legit enough to gain some information without too much resistance. 

Would Malakai really try something under such public scrutiny? 

This could be a trap. It probably is. Absolutely. Definitely. But, I don't have the luxury to risk refusing. If Malakai has an antidote, then I have to try to get it. I don't know what connection he has to Noxis or why he was at the Mythe that fateful night, but this is a lead I absolutely can't ignore. His threat about my heart already has me sweating bullets. I've been trying to ignore Zayne's warnings, hoping that it was just his paranoia. But now, a second person has mentioned the possibility of my heart stopping. If that's true, then I'm living on borrowed time. Either I go and risk falling into a trap, or I stay here and wait for death to take me. When put that way, the choice seems clear. 

Is there anything I can do to try to protect myself, though? Jumping into the fire is something my old self would have done without thinking. But, I'm wiser now. At least, I want to believe so. I consider texting Xavier, but I hesitate. He's on a mission right now, and I don't want to distract him. But, I'd promised Sylus that I wouldn't be reckless, and I never want to see so much pain in Xavier's eyes again.

Running my hand through my hair and letting out a frustrated burst of air, I type him a quick text to let him know what's going on. Our relationship has been strange since our return to Linkon. He's been more distant than usual, though I can't really blame him after that awkward night at the bunker in the No Hunt Zone. I have no idea what he thinks of me anymore, and I'm too scared to assume. For the moment, I've chosen to stick my head in the sand until all of this blows over with my Evol.

I glance at Mephisto dozing on top of my TV and walk up to him. He lazily cracks open an eye. If I had to give an animal an emotion, I would have chosen "disgruntled" in this case. For a mechanical thing, he certainly has personality. Frowning, I clear my throat. I've haven't spoken to him in a while. Doing so always felt ridiculous. But, now...

"Sylus," I whisper, instantly feeling like an idiot. Despite that, I keep going.

"Sylus, I don't know if you can hear me. I don't know where you are or why you haven't reached out to me at all. Actually," my ears feel hot, "this just feels really stupid overall. But if there's a chance that you can hear me, then..." I take a breath. "I'm going to meet someone named Malakai. Tonight. Don't know if that name rings a bell. I met him at the Mythe the night I was injured. He was wearing a mask and seemed to be one of the people interested in buying LUMINIS. I have no idea if this is a trap, but he made me an offer I can't refuse."

My pride churns and boils inside me, but I take another breath and continue. "The truth is that I'm helpless right now. I don't have my Evol, and even if I did..." I hesitate. Why is it always so hard for me to ask anyone for help? Is it because I already feel weak and useless? Isn't asking for help just affirming that?

Another breath.

"This isn't courage. It's desperation, and if you can hear me I surely would appreciate some backup."

Mephisto is looking at me with both eyes now, the red within reminding me so much of his master. For a moment, I let myself feel how much I miss Sylus. How much I need him. The emotion is so strong that I have to immediately bury it deep within the back of my mind. Where I'm going, I can't afford distractions. I have to assume the worst case scenario: nobody will come to help me tonight. It'll be up to me and me alone to get myself out of this mess.

I turn towards the door and check my guns and clips one last time.

"Are you coming?" I ask Mephisto. He caws in his typical annoying way and makes a fuss as he flies over and reluctantly sits on my shoulder. "Alright. Let's do this."

[crisalidaseason]

Ninth entry: Exhausting nights.

Waking up earlier and sleeping later. The exhaustion catches up to you fast. Of course, a few hours of sleep can replenish the energies just fine…if you can sleep peacefully.

Ever since Liam became Violet’s shadow, general meetings in Xaden’s room were moved to at least an hour later than usual - to everyone’s annoyance. That night would not be any different.

After making sure Violet entered her warded room, Liam finally took a well deserved shower and decided to rest for a few minutes. The events of the night set an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders, a mocking proof of everything Liam was trying to avoid. The feeling of self doubt was brewing inside him and shame settled on his stomach, he did not have time for any of that but there was nothing rational about emotions.

That doesn’t mean you can’t hurt me.

Violet’s words still rattled in his mind. No matter how subtly - or not so much - Liam tried to convince her that Xaden cared, only his brother could be the one to actually build trust. And no matter how hard Liam tried to push Xaden towards Violet, only she would be able to slither through the iron walls he built throughout the years.

But Xaden was convinced distance was the only answer and Violet was too busy trying to survive the next challenges.

The devilish eyes Barlowe sent her haunted Liam more than he cared to admit. He knew the man stood no chance against him or Xaden, but the pure hatred in that motherfucker’s eyes could not be forgotten. That would be a problem, a real one. Liam considered for a moment if he could challenge Jack since killing him on the mat would be within Codex. He would have to ask Emetterio for the challenge.

And Xaden…Liam had honestly lost hope. His brother was making a mistake like no other and it could cost Violet’s loyalty. Liam was ready to put his hand on fire to prove she would join their cause, but he also knew the woman enough to understand how detrimental hiding the truth would be. Hiding the real threat beyond the wards, the deal with her mother, hiding Brennan Sorrengail. If someone had hidden Sloane from him after years of mourning…he would be fucking pissed.

Liam shook his head, looking for his pocket knife and block of wood. His emotions were all over the fucking place.

“Liam”

The voice startled him, the shame now bubbling through his face at the startle. He was distracted. Liam bolted to open his chambers' door immediately.

“Bodhi?”

The man was leaning beside his door, hair damp and dressed in night clothes, though he was likely ready to head to the meeting. Fuck, Liam was supposed to report before everyone else showed up. He motioned to leave the room, but Bodhi pressed a hand on his shoulder.

“Xaden canceled the meeting and also your reporting. Don’t ask me why, he did not explain”

Liam frowned at that. It was odd for Xaden to just cancel a meeting out of nowhere, and even more strange for him not to demand for a full report on Violet.

“Good news is that we get some blessed sleep, Mairi” Bodhi joked.

Maybe being Xaden’s cousin probably meant that sleep deprivation was a part of their blood, considering Bodhi seemed to be on the verge of collapsing. His dark circles were prominent and the shoulders were slumped, a mirrored image of his cousin indeed.

“Thanks” Liam replied “get some sleep”

He clasped Liam’s shoulder, bidding him a quiet goodbye. He watched as Bodhi disappeared to the next corridor, leaving Liam alone in the hallway. He was about to close his door and have a deserved sleep when the door next to his opened quickly, revealing his favorite ward.

“Violet?”

Liam frowned at the sight of her, his farsight more than capable of catching changes in her appearance. Her eyes, normally a very pale shade, were almost completely black. Her pupils had been just as dilated earlier that night but in that moment they were taking over all the expansion of her amber-blue hue.

Tairn.

He thought she had it under control, she was able to do so back in the gym.

“You all right?” he asked again once her silence did not break.

Her eyes quickly focused on him. She already had a frightening stare normally, but it was ten times worse in that state…and Liam was fucking uncomfortable.

“Are you sleeping in the hallway?” her voice is strained.

Deigh, is there something we can do?

Not necessarily. It’s her dragon’s emotions, her burden.

Yes, but…she looks strange.

“No” Liam replied to her “Just hanging out here before turning in”

She assessed him, in a more animalistic version of their first real interaction months ago. Her eyes were rapidly moving over his frame…as if she was considering him prey.

Liam shivered. What the fuck was Tairn sending her?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, pocket knife and block of wood long forgotten in his hand.

“Like what?” she said, but her mind was clearly not present.

Like she wanted to eat him or something.

“Like…Like something’s going on. You don’t look like you feel—you know—like yourself”

His words seemed to hold some effect since the pale shade of her eyes grew a little, pupil fluttering like a cat adjusting their sight. Her focus less animalistic and a hint of panic spread through her features.

“I’m good! Go to bed!” she managed to grunt, closing the door forcefully.

Liam stood there for a few minutes, not a single clue of what just happened. All he knew was that Violet had been overtaken by Tairn’s emotions again…but that particular time it did not seem to be rage that overcame her. He tried to remember if Deigh had ever sent anything other than anger through him, but with no success within his memories.

Do we all look that creepy when dragon’s send unsolicited emotions?

We do have a tendency of heightening your instincts, physically and mentally. Deigh answered.

He knocked on her door, too worried to just leave her there to deal with it on her own, but she did not answer.

The little woman is safe now and you cannot run to her aid whenever Tairn overpowers her senses. Deigh’s voice rumbled inside his head, slightly irritated.

It feels wrong to just let her be. She would have helped me!

Were you not the one who promised to trust her judgment? And we shall admit you would not accept her gesture of help anymore than she would.

Deigh was not necessarily wrong. There was scarcely anything someone could do to bring Liam back from Deigh’s rage. Violet was able to separate herself from Tairn before, he had to trust she would be able to do it again. Besides, whatever that was, Liam never wanted to experience being on the receiving end. He was still shivering while closing his door, deciding that he would deal with that in the morning, after a few hours of peaceful sleep.

Though sleep was far from peaceful.

Liam had grown used to the night terrors after five years living the same flashes over and over again. He was used to how the relic burned in sync with Codagh scorching his mother in a disturbing repetitive cycle, his heart gutting at the memory of the lifeless eyes of his father, the stabbing guilt as he witnessed - for the millionth time - Sloane’s crying features as leadership ripped her out of Liam’s arms.

That night though, his nightmares learned a new face. The body that it belonged to resting on his lap, the pale familiar face with pale eyes staring at him. Liam frowned as he watched her lips move silently, mouthing the same words over and over again. Wetness stained his left hand resting on her stomach, the horror settling as the red liquid seeped through her armor.

It’s too late. It’s too late. It’s too late.

A familiar laughter called his attention. Laying on his back was Jack Barlowe, throat slit - though the wound did not seem to bother him. The fucker stood, towering over Liam and laughing quietly, a bloody knife on his hands. Liam looked at Violet once more, but it was not her face staring back.

It was Xaden’s.

Liam gasped into the early morning. The room was bathed in the blue shade announcing dawn. He continued to breathe rapidly, pumping air into his lungs and forcing his heart to beat slower. Sitting on the bed, Liam tried to shake the nightmare off of his memory before it consumed and distracted him from his duties. No good in letting the cruel images his consciousness conjured haunt him throughout the day.

The mind is a formidable enemy, do not yield to it. Deigh whispered into his mind.

Did I wake you with?…you know, Liam asked

Your panic did, though I suppose nothing can be done about such involuntary behavior.

Sorry nonetheless, he tried.

Deigh did not reply, but he could feel the comfort through the bond. The dragon was not one for comfort, but he was a strong anchor whenever Liam seemed to wander. He sent a wave of gratefulness back to the dragon, impulsed by the interaction enough to leave the bed and prepare for the day. By the luminosity of the room, it was nearly time to leave for the archives. Liam dressed quickly, making sure to slide his latest finished sculpture in his breast pocket. Buttoning the shirt of his uniform, he slipped outside of the room, already hearing Violet’s door open.

“Good morning” he greeted, swallowing at the flash of the nightmare.

He focused on Violet’s face, finding her thankfully pale eyes full of life. There were dark shadows under them and he grimaced at the thought she might have had a terrible night dealing with Tairn’s emotions once again. He felt guilty, maybe he should have insisted in helping her.

“Good morning” she whispered, a shy smile on her lips.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

She nodded, but her eyes did not meet his.

“Violet” he began “I’m sorry, I should have helped you-”

“No!” she blurted louder than advised considering there were cadets sleeping around them.

Liam startled at her tone, eyes blinking.

“Sorry” she whispered again “just don’t worry, ok? There was nothing you could have done anyways, and you already do too much”

“Did you get angry again?”

She sighed, heading to the quadrant’s library to retrieve the cart. Liam followed her, but his eyes never left her face. Violet looked at him through her peripheral vision, pale cheeks flushing a deep red - to his utter confusion.

“Not really, Liam, but I ‘m also not comfortable talking about it” she muttered “just know that I got it under control really quick, don’t worry”

He nodded, not very happy about being left unaware of something, but it was probably the irony of life considering he kept worse secrets from her.

“You seem…unwell” she told him after they retrieved the cart, beginning their journey to the archives.

Her eyes focused on him completely and he had to look ahead to avoid comparing her face to the one of his nightmare. She was alive and well.

“Way to make a man feel desired” he teased.

He took the cart from her hands, allowing his hands to be occupied to hide their trembling. He was too on edge to carve anything - and the figurine was complete anyways.

“Trouble sleeping?” she asked.

He nodded, no point in lying. That was a truth he could tell her without Xaden’s nonsense. He was not comfortable talking about the contents of his nightmare though, nor would Violet be happy knowing she was indirectly the cause of his troubled sleep.

“Standard nightmares” he simply replied “I got used to it, but sometimes I wished I had a break”

Violet’s eyes continued their assessment of him, at least she was staring at Liam humanly that time.

“I know some concoctions that may help” she replied “the ones that just knock you the fuck out”

He chuckled slightly at her suggestions. He did not like sleep aid drugs, but maybe he could use one to recover for a night or two.

“I’ll take the offer” he said “though I do have some resistance to sleeping draughts”

She snorted.

“Believe me, I know drug resistance better than anyone. I’ll get you something that puts me to sleep whenever my body flares too much”

He laughed out loud.

“I’ll probably sleep for days then”

She chuckled and he felt some of the tension dissipate from his shoulders, the remnants of the nightmare were a dim light in his head.

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[asofspades]

Listen, as someone who used to be this academic weapon, who handled living in a very toxic borderline abusive family situation for more than a decade, who balanced getting perfect grades while being the parentified oldest "daughter" and pushing through social anxiety, depression, swersidal thoughts and an ED all while getting bullied at school and being autistic without a formal diagnosis and far from having any help only got more expectations because of supposedly being gifted and also ignoring chronic pain and fatigue and pushing through it until we'll into college and now having burnt out because I pushed myself way too far I want to say that I feel kind of uncomfortable about people thinking that Nico's character has somehow been "nerfed" by Rick because he no longer does what he did during Heroes of Olympus, like, listen, that kid completely pushed himself way past the edge, he almost vanished into shadows, hes canonically dealing with so many mental issues he had to resort to Dionysus to not go insane , he literally has an unspecified eating disorder derived from all the crap he's been through. Like, of course he's not going to be doing what he was back then, he was killing himself literally, he was running on fumes, spite, the verge of mental and physical collapse anda shit ton of adrenaline. That kid definitely has long time and chronic issues derived, he's not going to be the same, and he's still extremely OP if we're being honest, he has a ton of abilities just naturally running in the background, he can now turn people onto skeletons directly and command them. One would think that he's now fully useless in combat the way people talk about him supposedly being "nerfed" in ToA but honestly I'd just be glad if that kid never had to use any of his abilities ever again and could just let himself actually rest.

It feels a bit like an attack to all of us who've been through stuff and wouldn't be able to go back to the level of productivity and the ability to handle stuff that we had in our worst moments where we were running on spite and fumes and hopes of making it out of we struggled enough and are now experiencing burn out and skill regression. Like, I feel like that kind of people are telling me I'm now useless even after all I've been through because I can no longer do what I did at my worse moments in life.

Like, I could legit run on just caffeine with no sleep or minimal sleep and no food for up to 3 days and still get good grades and do all teh household chores and homework and exercise to the verge of collapse, however I now am exhausted no matter how much I sleeps concentrating is the hardest thing ever, I do stuff half assed because I really do not have enough energy and I gave up on putting everything on my shoulders because I was genuinely collapsing in on myself. Like, this shit happens.

And maybe that's just me because if my personal situation but it really does rub me the wrong way, I'm sure Nico could pull the same bullshit again and push himself past his limits to the brink of death, the thing is that boy is tired and trying to heal and move forward and doing that would just be going backwards in his recovery. He has plenty of time ahead of himself to heal and grow stronger and capable of doing stuff without getting as exhausted but like it's been less than a year between the end of Blood of Olympus and TSATS obviously he's still recovering.

People say they wanted a story of him recovering and all that, but I feel like what they really want is just Nico magically getting rid of any real effect all the shit he went through had on him, which just isn't realistic.

[foxdev1l]

hi last time i asked for thoughts it went really extremely well and i've been six-obsessed since. i didn't even like a/b/o before but i'm crazy now. anyway you mentioned you have a/b/o notes on pretty much all characters so i'm politely shaking your brain more please 🤲

thanks for the ask <3 very sorry it took me so long to reply - i spent the last two months trying to finish a big fic on ao3, and that took up most of my time and energy. but i've finally managed to scrape together the a/b/o headcanon notes for most of the geese - some longer and more detailed than others - and i hope you enjoy it as much as the six one. feel free to add your own thoughts and opinions :]

thank you to @hollandstrophyhusband for brainstorming with me, and @uncleclam for being a dan expert and helping me come up with the second half of his headcanon!

CW: nsfw, identity issues, self-destructive behavior

A/B/O HEADCANON FOR THE GEESE

Richard – Alpha

He presents very early on, as an Alpha to his own smugness and the annoyance of anyone else. He's flourishing, unstoppable, not afraid to lean into any stereotypes. He wears his status proudly, clogs up the air with the obnoxious stench of Alpha pheromones wherever he goes. 

He's a fucking bastard, pushy towards Omegas without caring whether or not they already have a partner. And he loves to rile up other Alphas, cocky and overconfident as he is. 

It's only when he ends up pressed against a cold, stained wall – fledged, sharp teeth scraping along the tendons of his neck and a knee dug into his growing erection – that the consequences of his actions finally and truly sink in.

Julian – Beta

He's not an Alpha like his brother, strong and resilient and born to become something great. But neither is he an Omega, can't be married off to some strong, influential Alpha. 

He is completely and utterly useless. His mother despises it.

Jacob – Omega

There is an undisclosed box of suppressants crammed between a bottle of mouthwash and a pack of razor blades in the cupboard under his bathroom sink. It sees the artificial light of the bathroom twice a day before it gets pushed back into its hiding place – all the way against the back of the cupboard to make sure not even one of his nameless hookups can find it.

He can't remember the last time he went into heat, and it's not right, it's not healthy, but he can't make himself stop.

His body is beginning to fold under the abuse. It's still holding together, is not on the verge of collapsing, but it's showing in smaller, more painful ways. The inability to regulate body temperature, constant headaches, shaky hands, and recurring bouts of nausea.

What little pheromones still manage to leak through despite the strong suppressants get dampened by scent blockers. He uses sticking plasters to tape them over his glands. They make his skin red and irritated but he can deal with it – he’s fine.

Others think he's a Beta, which is almost just as embarrassing, but at least no Alpha looks down on him, mostly just ignores him – it's a small mercy.

What he's lacking, he tries to make up for in other ways. He seeks out bar after bar, fuck after fuck, desperately trying to compensate for who he truly is.

But there's an itch deep inside him, and no matter how many times he gets his dick wet and presses someone else into sheets underneath him, it's not enough to scratch it, to satiate the hunger within.

There is a part of him, longing and yearning and disgusting, and no matter how hard he desperately tries to get rid of it, it stays.

Luke – Omega

Luke is slutty, has done a lot of stupid, risky things over the years, and he's always half-expected this all to end with a child. But he always assumed he'd be the one knocked up.

A male Omega can impregnate another Omega, though it's rare and risky. That’s why Luke is so shocked when he comes back to find he has a kid.

His instincts are clawing at his insides with the vigor of a wounded animal. Being away from his child hurts, seeing it getting raised by a complete stranger – an Alpha – is even worse.

Dan – Beta

Dan is a beta. There is nothing particularly special about him, though that suits him just fine. He likes being ordinary, being able to slip through the cracks unnoticed, away from prying eyes and unnecessary attention.

He does, however, have a few things to say about their current political system, if one were genuinely interested and patient enough to listen to him – about the oppression of Omegas, the glorification of Alphas, and, above all else, the exploitation of Betas.

But all in all, he's just trying to get through life, keep his head down as much as possible, and being a Beta is pretty convenient for that.

It doesn't keep him from experimenting, of course. There are drugs, altered pheromones that, instead of giving you the kick of a high, can simulate a heat or a rut upon injection. 

Alpha pheromones are much more pricey so Dan mostly keeps to the Omega substances. It's addicting, intoxicating, and he can't help but seek it out, that pleasurable thrill, the feverish lust, if only momentarily.

It's a risky game he's playing, he knows, for the gratification of fleeting ecstasy. He's heard the stories, of people overdoing it and ending up in a constant state of heat, getting trapped in a never-ending spiral of overwhelming pleasure.

But taking drugs is always risky. He's never expected anything less.

Besides, compared to all the other stuff he's got lying around in his flat, being non-stop horny is probably the least of his worries.

Dean – Beta

Dean is a beta. His anger is neither that of a hot-headed Alpha nor is his gentleness rooted in the caring nature of an Omega. He just is. He's never cared much for his secondary gender, has never let it bother him. He's got other things he rather focus his energy on.

Driver – ???

Driver is a fucking mystery. No one knows his secondary gender, but most people aren't brave enough to flat-out ask. 

He's got that unbothered and cool persona of a Beta and the assertive, intimidating facade of an Alpha. But he can also be strangely quiet and shy, almost akin to an Omega.. Sometimes people wonder if he ever even presented in the first place.

Steven – Alpha

Steven is an alpha stuck in a constant state of rut.

Lars – Alpha

He presents late as an Alpha and spends his first rut gently rutting against a pillow, cheeks tear-stained, too overwhelmed to do much else. It's hardly pleasurable, mostly painful, and his father decides to put him on suppressants pretty quickly afterward. He just can't be bothered.

It doesn't really help though. The suppressants keep Lars’ ruts subdued but never truly kill them. He can still feel it, a straining pressure just below the surface; an itch he can never quite satisfy no matter what.

It's frustrating, irritating, keeps him on edge, and makes him fuzzy and restless, but he's too scared to quit the suppressants, the mere thought of going through another rut as maddening and consuming as his first almost unbearable. Albeit, it can't go on like this forever. The suppressants take a toll on his body, and, as stubborn as he is and as frightening as he feels, he knows he's going to have to lay off eventually.

 His next rut is going to be worse than his first, aggressive and forceful. What he needs is someone he can trust. Someone patient, understanding. Soft but firm. An anchor he can hold onto when he finally eases off the suppressants, to soften the rough edges of his rut as it overtakes him, and to hold and soothe him when all is done.

K – Omega

All replicants are designed to be Alpha's, although their DNA has been altered to make them more suitable. The strength and resilience persist, but the rough edges – the ruts and aggression and possessiveness – have been chafed away to make space for a modified, more obedient type of Alpha.

Officer K is made to be an Alpha, just like all the other models, and he does not waste much thought on it, has more important things to focus on. 

That is, until one day and without any warning, he goes into heat.

His madame has just sent him away to hunt down another old replicant gone rogue halfway across the entire city when it happens. It starts slow, a low simmering heat below his skin, a fuzzy vision, and a quickening of his pulse. 

Then it hits him all at once.

It must have been a malfunction, during his creation, while he was being processed. K isn't sure.

He barely manages to drag himself to the nearest hotel before the worst of his heat hits. The next few days are a haze, spent terrified and alone. The skin on his arms and chest is irritated and painful by the end of it, scratched raw by his nails in a desperate attempt to gain back control. 

When he gets back to the police department, he offers his madame the replicant’s bagged eye like a gift and hopes she won't ask why it took longer than usual.

He does not tell her what happened, has instead chosen to chase down illegal heat suppressants on his way back to keep most of his…issue contained. Buying the suppressants off some sketchy dealer has left a bitter taste of guilt behind but the fear of what may happen if someone realizes he's malfunctioned – is nothing but a failed product – is enough to keep him tongue-tied.

They will retire him, K has never been more sure about anything in his entire life. And so he continues to take heavy heat suppressants, drowns out the overwhelming, traitorous smell of an Omega with scent blockers.

It's painful, stressful to always be on guard, in a constant state of fear that someone will find out his secret. But K has made his decision. 

It's fine. After all, it only helps solidify the growing belief that something is truly and fundamentally wrong with him.