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peachsukii · 2 months ago

Text

₊✩‧₊ ⎯ denial is all that I've known

content // bakugo x fem!reader. emotional comfort; 20 somethings. mentions of death (of a family member). grief is weird. soft bakugo being there for you. not proof read.

You'd had an aching feeling in your chest throughout the day, but couldn't give it any proper meaning. Nothing was wrong - work went fine, the sun was shining...but that anxiety didn't lift from your shoulders. Something was in the air, it was only a matter of time before the reasoning slapped you in the face. Your intuition was never wrong about this kind of thing, much to your dismay.

Then came the text, 6:57pm. A fucking text, of all things.

"Hi honey. So sorry to text you this, but your uncle has passed away. Not much else known right now, but I'll let you know. Love you."

No, you read that wrong. That's not true...it can't be true. Someone must have the wrong number. A poor attempt to convince yourself when your eyes drift up to the contact name, painfully reminding you that it's your mother and not some stranger mistakenly informing you of a family death. It feels like hours pass while staring at your phone screen, the words beginning to intermingle with each other and become gibberish through hazy vision. When you come to, and somewhat accept that this is in fact real, your eyes gravitate to the time. It's only 7:05pm - he's still at the agency. If you hurry, you'll catch him in time.

You don't remember lacing up your sneakers or throwing on a hoodie before bolting from your apartment complex, storming out into the busy city street toward the office. Did you even put the dinner you reheated back in the fridge? It's all a blur, too engrossed on heading toward the one person you knew would catch you before you fell in too deep.

Rounding the corner of the final block - you stopped counting how many you'd sprinted through - and the agency skyscraper was in your sights. It's faint, but the glow to Bakugo's office is visible from the side of the building. When did you memorize its placement from outside? You don't wait to catch your breath or finish your thought, you can't stop now. If you do, you'll collapse on this dirty sidewalk around strangers, frozen in time and left alone with your heartache.

The security guard sees you racing toward the entrance, recognizing you with a wave before stepping out of your way, taken aback by the gust of wind that follows you as you zoom inside. There's no time for the elevator, running past the set and bursting through the metal door to the stairwell. Swinging off the landing to each floor, skipping steps and pulling yourself up by the railing has you reaching the fourth floor in no time at all, hurrying through the second metal door with a loud bang. When you skid to a halt outside of Bakugo's office door, it swings open before you get a chance to knock.

"The hell?" he speaks aloud, confusion written all over his face as he watches you pant frantically, a pitiful attempt to catch your breath. "Did you fuckin' run here?"

The dread starts to sink in, an anchor dragging you into that abyss of affliction you were trying to avoid. The panic creeps up your spine, the inevitable breakdown approaching - time's up. Breathing suddenly feels foreign, your limbs trembling with the stress of your run as it starts to catch up to you. You barely notice Bakugo move and gently guide you by the shoulders into his office, shutting the door behind him quietly.

"Hey," he mutters lowly while grabbing your wrist to get your attention. "What's goin' on? Y'haven't said a word, you're scarin' me."

Shit, you haven't said anything? Did he try to have a conversation that you don't even remember?

"Y/N," He crouches down to be eye level, forcing you to look at him when he grabs your chin. "Answer me, what's wrong?"

Words unexpectedly fail you when you try to speak, a head full of white noise too distracting to properly find what you want to say. Bakugo's head tilts with worry, brows creased and the train of thought behind his eyes apparent, desperate to find a way to get you to talk through your state of shock.

"Did somethin' happen?" Bakugo pauses to evaluate whether or not you're hurt. "Y'don't look injured. Ya gotta tell me so I can help."

It comes out of nowhere, like bile rising in your throat, when you finally blurt out "My uncle died."

His shoulders deflate, the breath he was holding exhaled in one swift huff. "So instead of callin' me to come over, you barreled over here like a bat outta hell?"

All you can do is nod in response, hot tears beginning to spill out of the corners of your eyes, resolve officially broken.

"...wasn't thinking straight," you choke out, barely audible. "I need you, Katsuki."

The final syllable of his name hardly has the time to leave your lips before he's pulling on your wrist, letting go of your chin and awkwardly tugging you into him as he stands to his full height in the same motion. The warmth of his embrace floods over you, strong arms caging you solidly against his chest, shielding you from any further harm and letting you unwind - to grieve. You wouldn't be here if you could handle this on your own, and he knows that.

"Idiot," Bakugo jokes before squeezing you tighter when he hears you hiccup between sobs. "I can blast over to your place faster than your attempt at an Olympic sprint."

Everything pours out of you, all the tension, denial, hurt and sorrow welling inside of you on full display for him to see. One of his hands threads through your hair, cradling the back of your head lovingly.

"Y’know that you could call me once an hour for a whole night for an entire week and I wouldn’t give a damn about losing sleep if it meant you’d feel better. As long as I'm around, I'll never let ya cry alone, alright? That's a damn promise."

The material of Bakugo’s shirt balls in your fists when your grip tightens, the only response you can provide is to hold on to him for dear life.

“S’okay, just let it out. I got’cha.”

And you do, staining his shirt with tears and snot until you’re too tired to cry any longer. You’re not sure how long the two of you stand in the darkness of Bakugo’s office. The thrumming of his heartbeat soothes your nerves, feeling yourself relax as the rhythm replaces the static in your head.

“Thank you.”

⇢ bkg & all tags // @slayfics @maddietries @starieqq

@liluvtojineteyam @jays-adventure3 @simp-plague

@napbatata @Yoyolovesdaiki @catsoupki

@queenpiranhadon @kirishimaeijiromyman @strwbrrykthv

@hayatoseyepatch @awkwardchick87 @stunies @sakufilm

⇢ network; @pixelcafe-network

#☆.rei writes #bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou comfort #bakugo comfort #soft bakugou #katsuki bakugo #katsuki bakugou #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia comfort #tw death #tw grief #cw loss

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lovelyhan · 2 years ago

Note

enemies to lovers prompt #10 "I'm not driving home with you..." with mingyu, thx <3

— vices & virtues ⟢

being from one of the most opulent families in the city, you're used to getting everything you want. but when you realize that your hot bodyguard is strictly off-limits, you treat him like anything else you can't have: with unbridled hostility.

★ FEATURING; bodyguard!mingyu x reader

★ WORD COUNT; 5.4k words

★ TAGS; enemies to lovers, unresolved sexual tension, smut

★ WARNINGS; alcohol consumption, cigarettes, implied/referenced drug use, self-destructive behavior in general, (probably inaccurate) discussions about drug poisoning, graphic sexual content (MINORS DNI)

★ NOTES; when i tell you i speedwrote this just in time for mingyu day,,, eugh i love you so much gyugyu and thank you to the anon who sent this in a while back!! this prompt was so tasty to work with!

★ SMUT TAGS; unprotected sex, couch sex, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, dacryphilia, size kink, mating press, overstimulation, creampie

★ SVT TAGLIST; @wonderfulshinee - @misssugarlips - @yourfavoritefreakyhan - @jeanjacketjesus - @just-here-to-read-01 - @hanihans - @venusrae - @taestrwbrry - @minnie-mouser22 - @dreamhannies - @thvhannie - @kkooongie - @gae-uls - @lenireads - @gaebestie - @ryusha-rose - @enhacolor - @ilyvern - @woo8hao - @spk93 - @tommolex - @stariightjoyy - @asjkdk - @horny4hoshi

★ MINGYU TAGLIST; @ @renjunphile - @acgyu - @potatofrieswithketchup - @pluviophile-xxx - @pretty-trustme - @zeenanigans - @noveniadelia

When the tiniest sliver of consciousness slips into your inebriated brain, you feel the cold tile of the bathroom floor being pried off your face. Well, more like you're being gently lifted off it, and into the arms of someone warm.

You nearly lean into their embrace until you catch a whiff of that familiar, musky cologne with hint of something like pine. It takes you some effort to keep yourself from bolting out of his grasp and retching your guts out in the toilet again.

You deign to squint your eyes despite the harsh fluorescent light razing your vision. Looking down on you is none other than Kim Mingyu, gaze as indifferent as ever. Unfortunately, you're too drunk or high to figure out how he even found you here, but you know there's no weaseling your way out when your father's little lapdog has tracked you down.

"What're you doing here?" you still ask even if you knew the answer.

It's my job to take care of you.

"It's my job to take care of you," he says the words in the same way you imagined him to—apathetic. Indecipherable.

"Fuck you. I don't need you to take care of me," you scoff. "My friends'll drop me off at my apartment like they always do."

Mingyu rolls his eyes. "You mean the same friends who called me because they're tired of having to clean up after your shit? I don't want to be here either, princess, but I'm actually getting paid to keep you in line, if you hadn't known that yet."

There's something so unfairly attractive in the snark in his tone, and you fucking hate him for it. Mostly, you hate yourself for even thinking that anything about Mingyu is remotely alluring.

In the end, you just tell yourself that you're an objective person. You have eyes, and it won't cost anything to admit that Mingyu is conventionally attractive. Even if you did hate his guts.

Not that he'll ever hear you admit that aloud, though.

You're vaguely aware of how the hem of your too-short dress rides up your thighs as Mingyu rises back to his full height—having no problems carrying you out of the bathroom bridal-style.

Under normal circumstances, you would've struggled. Proved that you could very much handle yourself despite being obviously hammered. But your head is spinning, and your limbs feel like they'll disintegrate any second.

Eyes closed, you press your face into the fine fabric of Mingyu's suit—breathing in the same scent that repulsed you not five minutes earlier in an attempt at anchoring your consciousness.

As Mingyu maneuvers you out of the bathroom, the loud bass blaring from the speakers at the frat party you've decided to attend last minute rings in your eardrums. You don't have to see your surroundings to know you've got onlookers. Those unsubtle comments are clue enough to know you're being watched.

Who is that? Her boyfriend?

No, idiot, that's probably her bodyguard or some shit. Her family's loaded as fuck.

So lucky. If I had a bodyguard like that, I'd totally let him smash.

The real question is: would he let you smash?

Fuck you.

You want to flash them the most disgusted look you could muster. As if you'd stoop low enough to fuck Mingyu, of all people. Don't they know who you are? You could easily let any man or woman you wanted on their knees for you.

You were supposed to stick to your regular routine of getting railed into the next day after a few drinks and sticks, but you obviously got a little too excited about the new strains your friends snuck into the party. Now you're being princess carried by a man you absolutely despise, too shit-faced to even be remotely desired by anyone else at the moment.

Still, never in a million years would you consider having this guy as a bodyguard lucky.

You can tell you're outside when the music starts to fade in the distance and the cold starts to prickle your legs and arms. A somewhat coherent part of you recalls leaving your designer jacket in the coatrack of the frat house, and if you weren't so fucking shit-faced, you would've yelled at Mingyu to go back and get it.

But just before you can consider asking him somewhat nicely, you hear him unlock a car that definitely doesn't sound like yours—making your ears perk up, and your consciousness flood back in much faster.

"What are you—?"

You thrash in Mingyu's arms until he lets you down on the ground—throwing him a stone-cold glare right after. The fact that your pedicured feet are in direct contact with the asphalt makes your rage spike further. How dare this asshole leave your Valentinos behind? He might as well have just left you at the party altogether!

"I'm not driving home with you," you growl.

Mingyu's expression doesn't even budge. "You're not driving. I am."

"Don't try to be fucking smart with me. I'm high, not stupid."

Folding your arms across your chest, you try to pretend that you're not in the middle of the street, arguing with Mingyu as your blood pressure rises to unimaginable heights.

Unfortunately for you, this isn't the first time your friends have left you in the quote-unquote capable hands of your bodyguard. But every time he did, he would always drive whatever car you chose to bring for the occasion and drop you off at your place.

When he brings a car of his own, however...

"You're bringing me straight to the old man," you grumble. "You think he'll appreciate seeing his daughter all wasted at three in the morning? You think he'll be happy with you when he finds out you let me sneak out like this? Are you stupid or do you actually want to get fired?"

"And who told you I was going to bring you to him?" Mingyu shakes his head, letting out a long-winded sigh. "Like I said, I don't want to be here either. The last thing I need is even more overtime after your father sets you straight."

That makes you pause, eyes widening with a hint of mistrust. Mingyu listens to every word his employer says. He's the perfect little lapdog. So perfect that sneaking out for these nightly escapades of yours have grown increasingly difficult with how good he is at finding you and bringing you home.

So hearing him practically say that he won't tattle on you...

"How can I be sure you're not fucking with me? That if I fall asleep in the car, I won't wake up in the courtyard of the old man's stupid mansion?"

"Do I look like I have the energy to deal with both of you at the same time?" he replies sharply, opening the door to the passenger seat with a hint of finality in his actions. "Just get in the fucking car so we can all head to bed before sunrise."

The sound of the house party still in full swing echoes in your ears from the distance. Your skin tingles a little beneath the heat of Mingyu's mildly pissed off gaze, and you let out a shuddering breath to keep yourself from giving the feeling a name.

"Fine."

...

Good news: you made it safely back to your apartment without anyone alerting your father about your true whereabouts.

Bad news: Mingyu just won't fucking leave.

He insisted that you get yourself refreshed with a shower first before he talks to you in the living room. The same guy that right-out said that you should hop in the passenger seat of his car so you'd both be asleep before the sun rises. The clock is already pushing past four in the morning, and Mingyu still insists on lecturing you before he leaves?

You of all people know how obstinate he can be. He's even more stubborn than you are, if you're being completely honest. So even if it wounds your pride to play along with what he has planned, you head back to your living room right after slipping on your usual nightgown—flashing Mingyu a look to remind him you're not at all pleased with whatever bullshit he wants to talk about.

However, your irritation ebbs a little when you see a plate of your favorite cookies sitting on the coffee table, along with a glass of water and a sheet of Advil.

Your gaze drifts from the snacks to your bodyguard, who looks more dressed down than usual. His coat is folded neatly, hanging off one side of your couch, and the first three buttons of his dress shirt are undone.

You gulp, prying your eyes off the sliver of chest he's willingly exposed before seating a respectable distance away.

"What did you want to talk about?" You try to sound casual as you leaned forward, reaching for a cookie and the glass of water without as much initiating eye contact.

"You smoked a few joints at the party, didn't you?"

You take a bite, washing it down with your drink before replying with, "So what if I did? A little kush isn't going to kill anybody, Mingyu."

"We both know 'a little' doesn't exist in your vocabulary, princess," he points out, crossing his arms with an unimpressed look. "Anyway, I'm not your father, so I typically don't care about what drugs you're taste testing every night—"

"Are you implying that you suddenly care now?"

"With a new poisonous marijuana strain circulating in the underground market? Of course I do."

You do a double take on that, staring at him hard as you begrudgingly swallow your cookie, "What? Underground market? And what do you mean poisonous?"

Mingyu lets out another sigh when he leans forward to reach for the box of cigarettes and a lighter you left strewn across your coffee table. You're even more surprised to see him lighting himself a stick and taking a drag than you were when he prepared some snacks and water for you.

"Some Columbian drug cartels thought it would be funny to infiltrate surface-level drug transactions. Long story short, they invented some fucked up strain laced with belladonna and smuggled it into the market under the impression that it's a new sativa strain."

You absolutely have no idea how Mingyu even got ahold of this information, but realizing the implication of his words has your stomach sinking with dread. If what he's saying is true, it's no wonder you were out so fucking quick tonight.

"I'm not gonna die within twenty four hours, right?" you half-joke because, Jesus, you're adventurous with your drugs, but you wouldn't willingly take something that can actually kill you.

To your relief, Mingyu shakes his head. "I don't know the science behind it either, but I was told sativa tones down the poisonous effect of belladonna by a huge margin. The worst you'll experience is a fever and a nasty cough if you don't do anything about it."

"Gee, way to be reassuring."

Mingyu scoffs before taking another drag of his cigarette. Your gaze is riveted on the cut of his jaw as he inhales the smoke with eyes closed. It's only when he flicks the ashes in a small ashtray you left by the small table beside the couch that you realize he's pushed the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows—exposing a good deal of his toned arms.

You immediately take a huge gulp of water, not wanting such unsavory thoughts about an unsavory person to surface now, of all times.

You might be more refreshed after your shower, but if you're starting to ogle Kim Mingyu, the strange joints you've been hitting all night might've messed with your head more than you thought.

"That's why we're going to the doctor tomorrow—"

You scowl. "Like hell I'm going to pay Doctor Yoon a visit. That guy's the biggest tattletale in the world. He'll definitely tell the old man. Oh, and I actually have classes tomorrow if you're forgetting, Mingyu."

"You're pretending to attend those now that it's convenient for you?" He smirks as he breathes out another puff of smoke. "Nice try, princess. But don't worry your pretty little head about it. I'll take you to another doctor I know—someone who won't get us both in trouble by telling your father that you've been smoking bad weed."

"Again, way to be fucking reassuring."

The silence finally settles as you nibble contemplatively on the snacks he brought for you. You're can say for sure that you're most certainly sober now, so Mingyu's words have got you thinking.

But it's a little difficult to think about the state of your health when you've got a sort-of uninvited guest manspreading right next to you on the couch.

"Aren't you going to leave?" you ask. "Just text me what time we're going to visit that doctor friend of yours."

"How would you feel if you got told to scram while you're in the middle of a smoke?" Mingyu flashes you an annoyed look. "For the third time, I don't even want to be here, princess. At least let me have this as compensation for saving your sorry ass."

He's so fucking infuriating.

The rough undercurrent in his voice. The perpetual upward curve of his lips as if he always has the upper hand. His beefy arms. His built chest.

...Not to mention his unexpected thoughtfulness when he decided to stick around and inform you about what you might've gotten yourself into instead of leaving you to fend for yourself. He even brought out your favorite cookies for good measure.

You never really know what to do with Kim fucking Mingyu. He stirs up all sorts of confusing feelings inside your chest at any given time, and frankly, you've had enough of it.

You allow yourself to relish in the pride that swells in your chest when he nearly drops his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray the moment you crawl on top of his lap.

Mingyu's mouth quivers with some sensible words his job description probably requires him to say, but you rob him of his ability to speak when you steal the cancer stick from his fingers. In one long breath, you smoke the cigarette down to the filter—killing it on your ashtray before leaning down to press your lips to his.

With how stunned he is, it doesn't take a lot of effort to pry Mingyu's mouth open, breathing the smoke into his mouth. Once you're satisfied, you pull away with a triumphant smirk.

"Now you're done," you say, making the motions to get off his lap. "I'm heading to bed. Don't wake me up before noon for that doctor's appointment or else I'm going to slash your ti—"

You don't even get to finish that sentence. Mingyu suddenly flips you over so that your back is pressed against the couch and he's lying on top of you—both knees planted on either side of your hips as he gazes at you with an ireful glare.

"W-What are you doing?" you whisper, but in spite of the protesting nature of your words, you can't help but feel a pang of white hot desire shoot straight through you when you feel just how big he is now that his body is pressed against yours.

"Teaching a bad girl a lesson," he whispers, grabbing your face roughly. "You can't just pull off shit like that and expect to walk away from it unscathed, princess."

Fuck. That nickname he always uses never fails to get on your nerves on any other day. But when he sounds like that and has you under him like this...

"What are you gonna do about it then?" you ask.

Mingyu chuckles darkly, as he squishes your face with his big, long fingers. You nearly shudder at the thought of what those digits could do to you if you just pushed the right buttons.

"You'll just have to fuck around and find out."

When the pressure of his strong grip leaves your cheeks, confusion paints your features. Mingyu's weight eases off your pliant body almost immediately as well, leaving you to scowl at him incredulously. He doesn't even look at you as he collects his coat from where it hangs off your couch.

But before he can even think about putting it back on, something not so different from a growl resonates deep in your chest as you sit back up—tugging on the collar of his shirt to smash your lips together.

Mingyu all but groans into the kiss, but you're not sure if you can even call it that. There's nothing but hunger fueling the both of you as your tongue slides alongside his, mapping out each other's mouths like your lives depended on it.

You vaguely hear his coat fall to the floor as Mingyu goes back to crowding you against the couch—one of his strong arms circling your waist as he grinds his hips against your middle. It's nearly embarrassing how willing you are to receive his advances.

You, the same person who told your bodyguard you refused to drive home with him, are now making out with said bodyguard at four in the morning.

But then again, who fucking cares?

"You have no idea," he whispers hoarsely against your lips and you let out a stifled moan when you feel the outline of his erection rut against your clothed pussy, "how much you drive me insane. You're such a fucking handful, you know that?"

"I'm glad to know I make your life miserable," you bite back despite the fact that, when Mingyu brings down the straps of your nightgown to expose your breasts to the cool air, you do nothing about it.

Mingyu lets out a harsh laugh. "You're probably into this, aren't you, princess? You like riling me up so much so that I'd snap and teach you a lesson?"

You want to tell him that he's being fucking full of himself if he thinks you've planned this that far back. But with how massive he feels through his trousers alone, you can't say that you don't want him inside you right this second.

It doesn't help that he's giving your chest a generous amount of attention—suckling at your nipples in a way that has you twitching beneath him with sensitivity.

"So what if I am?" you say, testing the limits of what he'll let you get away with. "You talk big about teaching me a lesson but you're being awfully careful with me. Aren't you going to shove your cock down my throat to get me to shut up?"

Mingyu chuckles with a quick shake of his head, like he isn't even taking your words seriously. You let out a sharp yelp when he bites down on one of your breasts—leaving a distinct imprint of his canines on your skin before staring into your eyes.

"I can choke you with my cock next time, princess. For now, I just want to make you come until you're crying for me."

Fuck.

Mingyu wastes no time. He immediately sinks to his knees on the floor, hauling your hips closer to the edge of the couch so that he can hook your thighs over his shoulders. When he realizes that you're not wearing any underwear underneath your flimsy satin nightgown, you swear the noise he makes is near animalistic.

"Don't get f-fucking cocky," you stammer, nerves alight everywhere his lips graze your inner thighs. "I don't usually wear underwear before going to sleep! This wasn't for you."

"It is now," Mingyu says before licking a long stripe from your leaking hole to your aching clit. He holds your thighs far apart as his lips latch onto that little bundle of nerves, alternating with delicious licks at your sensitive folds.

He practically smothers his face into your cunt as he continues his relentless assault on your clit. By the time Mingyu starts to tease his tongue along your entrance, your fingers have found their way into his unruly hair—moans falling from your lips with little concern about appearances.

Mingyu pulls away for a moment, and you nearly snap at him from that alone until he eases one of those thick fingers into your wet channel—dark eyes trained on you as he stretches you out with a hungry gaze.

You don't even feel any semblance of shame when you start to ride that single digit, wanting to feel him go deeper and spread you wider. Fortunately, your bodyguard is more attentive than you think, and it doesn't take long for him to ease another finger into your needy pussy, curling them just so once he's sure he's found that spot that'll render you an incoherent mess.

The sound he rips out of you is unholy and Mingyu growls again before his mouth finds its way back onto your cunt—getting lost in the taste of you on his tongue.

"Where's the fight you've been putting up against me all this time, princess?" he taunts just before those stupidly thick fingers graze that sensitive patch of flesh inside you again. "Are you that desperate? You've fucked yourself up so much tonight that you couldn't bring anyone back home. Your bodyguard's gonna have to do, huh?"

You know you should be affronted by how offensive his words are. Mingyu might be an expert at getting on your nerves, but with how good his fucking mouth feels as he laves at your cunt like a man starved, you can't even let yourself feel any modicum of annoyance.

"M-Mingyu," you gasp as he suckles on your clit again—steadily building your orgasm from the ground-up. "I'm gonna come, f-fuck!"

Three. Mingyu slides in three fingers at your admission, and you nearly cry with how wide he's stretching you out. This time, he switches from sucking at your clit to rapidly flicking his tongue against the sensitive pearl.

Your toes curl with oversensitivity, thighs nearly crushing his head as you frame the syllables of his name in another wanton moan. When Mingyu curls his fingers inside you one more time, the tension that's been building in your stomach snaps like a rubber band.

Once you teeter off the precarious edge of release, you feel a gush of slick surge out of your cunt and into his awaiting mouth. Mingyu laps it all up—his sinful tongue catching every drop of your tangy essence. If you didn't know better, you would think he's desperate for you as much as you are for him.

It takes a while for your mind to fully come back online after that first orgasm, chest heaving almost painfully with how Mingyu took your breath away with oral alone. When you finally have your wits about you, your bodyguard surges forward so that your faces are levelled, and you nearly groan when you see the way his mouth and chin glisten with your juices.

"So fucking delicious for me," he rasps. "Gonna let me have a taste of this pussy every time now, princess? Want my mouth on you before you sleep?

"Do whatever you want, Gyu," you mewl, tugging him closer as you position yourself horizontally on the couch. "N-Need you so bad."

He sighs, unbuttoning the rest of his dress shirt as he drinks in the sight of you all fucked out and compliant because of his mouth and fingers alone. Your lips are parted, eyes glistening with tears or desire—Mingyu can't say for sure just yet.

But if he can get you this wrecked from oral, he can't fucking wait to see what you'll look like after he gets you to cream on his cock.

His shirt falls to the floor and you can't contained the awed gasp that leaves you at the sight of him. He's built like a fucking sculpture—all lean muscle and hard toned abs. It would make sense for Mingyu to be this well-built, being your bodyguard and all, but the thought of having his body pressed against yours as he fucks you into the couch is sending your mind into overdrive.

"You're so adorable," he chuckles, but you know the words are anything but a compliment. "A moment ago you were challenging everything I said and did. Now you're suddenly an agreeable little thing. Are you that cock-hungry, princess? Want something to fill that pretty pussy?"

"Yes." You don't even hesitate. "Yes, yes, yes. Want your cock in me. Want you to fill me up, Gyu. Please..."

Fortunately for you, Mingyu isn't one to tease. The moment you've given him the green light to rearrange your insides, he steps out of his tight trousers and boxers at the same time, pumping his thick cock in one hand as he nudges your thighs apart once again.

You practically salivate at the thought that you're about to take all those delicious inches inside you. Mingyu doesn't miss the starry look on your face, but doesn't take the time to gloat about it. Instead, he leans all the way forward so that your thighs are squished against your chest—easing your legs across his shoulders in a position that's not so different from when he ate you out earlier.

"Gonna fuck the attitude out of you, princess," he promises before pressing a kiss on the corner of your mouth. "You ready for me?"

You nod a little too eagerly, forcing his face into the crook of your neck as you wrap your arms around his head. "Gyu, please..."

"Alright. Since you asked so nicely."

He doesn't even give any forewarning when he bottoms out inside you in one languid stroke. A choked up noise gets caught in your chest with how sudden he was, how full you feel in such a short amount of time, but Mingyu doesn't give you any time to think, or even to breathe.

Before you can even get a single word out, he's pulling his hips back—making you feel every inch of his thick cock before slamming his hips forward with a powerful thrust that drives you further into the sofa. You let out a long-winded moan, unable to do anything about it as he pounds into you with the vigor of someone who's been putting up with your shit for a better part of the year.

"Pussy's so fucking tight for me," he growls. "You're squeezing my cock so good, princess. Is this all I had to do so you'd stop driving me crazy? Eat you out a little and dick you down 'til you forget your name?"

You can't even process what he's saying right now—too lost in the sensation of his cockhead grazing your cervix with each forward stroke. He's reaching into you so deep that you might really just forget everything but the letters of Mingyu's name by the time he's done with you.

"M-Mingyu," you drawl dumbly as he peppers your neck with bites and bruises—unrelenting with his deep strokes as your cunt flutters around his length. "Fuck. L-Love your cock so much—oh!"

You let out a gasp that Mingyu quickly muffles with his own mouth as he adjusts your positions on the sofa—easing your legs off of his shoulders in exchange for spreading them wider on the cushions. How he manages to do that without his cock slipping out of you is a testament to your flexibility, and he's already cooking up what he'll do about that information for next time.

Mingyu continues kissing you all while he plants one foot on the couch and the other on the floor. When he tugs your hips even closer it's only then that you realize that the lunatic has you in a mating press.

"How long have you been thinking about me fucking you like this?" he whispers, deciding to drag it out with slow, deep thrusts that only serve to frustrate you. "You wouldn't have let me go this far if you hadn't thought about it at least once, princess."

I've wanted to fuck you since the old man introduced us, is the correct answer but you've still got some shred of dignity. If Mingyu wants the truth, he's going to have to work for it.

"Fuck me again after this, and I might give you an answer," you rasp, meeting his lazy thrusts with some of your own to get the point that you want him to ram into you across.

"There she is," Mingyu laughs. "My nasty, sharp-tongued princess. Thought I lost you for a sec."

"You will if you don't fuck me until I black out."

"Oh? All you had to do was ask, you know."

Then and there, Mingyu makes good of that interesting position he'd unknowingly lured you into—plunging that fat cock even deeper into your pussy if that's even possible. It felt heavenly, taking all of him while your legs dangled off his shoulders, but there's just something about having your legs spread impossibly wide as he drills into you with the full intention of making you come until you're crying that does it for you.

As each second passes, Mingyu's thrusts become more erratic—hips snapping with hard, calculated strokes so fucking good that tears are starting to glisten along the lines of your lashes like he promised.

You mewl his name like a string of prayers as the sound of your cunt squelching with every thrust rings in your ears. It's insane how close he's driven you to the edge in the span of thirty minutes, and you're starting to grow fearful of how addicting it feels to have him inside you like this.

At this point, you'd rather get off on Mingyu's cock than get high from some shady sativa joint. Something tells you he'd rather have that, too.

"Where do you want me, princess?" he whispers into your ear, reaching between your legs to give you just the right pressure you've been missing on your clit. You have to bite back a sob when he presses his thumb against it.

"Inside," you whimper as he continues plunging his engorged length into you. "Fill me with your cum, please, Gyu. I want it—want it so bad."

Mingyu hisses when you clench around his cock, large hands undoubtedly about to leave bruises on your thighs come morning. When you hear that deep, sexy laugh in your ear, you know it's all over for you.

"Come on my cock first, princess. Then I'll give you what you want."

He punctuates the words by drawing quick, tight circles on your clit all while keeping up the cadence of his thrusts. With the steady stream of stimulation he's so willing to give, it's a no-brainer for another orgasm to blindside you yet again.

You cry out with bliss as you screw your eyes shut—tears running down your cheeks in cascades as you fall apart on Mingyu's cock. He fucks into you despite the overstimulation, his own high not far behind because of the expression you're showing him.

"That's it," he rasps, leaning down to kiss the tears away. "Fucking cry for me, princess."

You're not sure if you're just too blissed out to comprehend it properly, but you're pretty sure that Mingyu just triggered another orgasm from you when you feel him twitch inside—your tight channel being covered in his white hot emission.

It doesn't help that your insatiable lover continues to fuck his cum deeper into your abused cunt, taking full advantage of this position while he can.

"M-Mingyu," you beg, fingers raking across his back as he punches the breath out of your lungs. "Too much. T-Too much."

You thought he wouldn't heed your words, but surprisingly, Mingyu halts every movement to gaze at you with a hint of concern lining his gaze. Wordlessly, he eases himself out of your sore cunt, wiping the tears off your eyes before pressing a kiss on your lips.

"Sorry," he murmurs before gently fixing the straps of your nightgown. He even tugs the hem down despite the fact that his cum is currently leaking out of you. "You want me to tuck you in?"

You nod, lacing your fingers around his neck, the overstimulated mess you are. Mingyu breathes out a quiet laugh before carrying you into his arms again.

"Alright, princess. Let's get you to bed."

You don't have the heart nor the energy to protest. Besides, it's his job to take care of you, after all.

⟢ end notes: reminder to not take any of the medical indications abt drugs that i included in this fic seriously. i made all of those up. oh and this should go w/o saying but don't fuck anyone while under the influence of anything AT ALL !!!

that aside, happy birthday to everyone's favorite puppy boy mingyu! i ended up loving him a lot more as i stanned svt, and i hope everyone else gives him the same love as well! god knows he has lots to give to both his members and his fans ueueue

++ if you spotted a few errors here and there, please don't tell me or i'll die of embarrassment ^_^ this wasn't proofread bcs i wanted to drop this exactly on his bday (i am 1 hour and 34 mins late!) HEHEHE i was sposed to write an ending scene in the morning where gyu wakes up and sees her wearing his shirt while making breakfast but that'll make this too long :| i'll just leave that to ur imagination!

#seventeen smut #seventeen fanfic #mingyu smut #mingyu x reader #seventeen x reader #kim mingyu #svt smut #svt fanfic #lovelyhan #🎲 ask games #full length fic 📚#💭 request

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ddarker-dreams · 2 years ago

Text

Smoking Gun.

Yan Johan x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, Johan being just unpleasant to be around as always. Word count: 2.1k.

When you walk into your apartment, a premonition hangs over your head like a low storm cloud.

Nothing is amiss at first glance. Every detail is just how you left it, from the pans you used to make this morning’s breakfast soaking in the sink to the blanket you forgot to fold strewn over the couch. There are no flickering lights or low groans of a floorboard in another room meant to warn you of impending danger. You only have your raw, human instincts — unrefined as they may be — to work with. You close the door noiselessly behind you, leaving it open just a sliver in case you need to bolt.

Water droplets drip down from your closed umbrella and onto the wooden floor. For once, you’re uncaring of the mess that and the mud on your boots are undoubtedly leaving behind, your focus honing in elsewhere. You take slow, cautious steps into your living space, eyes crawling over every visible inch for signs of disruption. Finding nothing, you inspect the bathroom next. It’s in a similarly insignificant state.

That leaves your bedroom down the hall.

Your breathing is growing more labored with each bit of the gap you close between you and your final destination. Light from the setting sun streams in from the eerily silent room, causing you to wrack your brain over if you did or didn’t close the blinds this morning. You can’t remember for the life of you. One second you think you may have, the next, you’re convinced the opposite is true.

You wince when the floor creaks beneath your feet, right before the bedroom’s door frame. This panel’s belligerence had slipped your mind. Had there been anyone there, especially the person you think might be present, they would’ve heard that. Adrenaline courses through you when you decide to rush in, your makeshift weapon at the ready.

“Welcome back.”

That voice — whoever would’ve thought the devil spoke without malice?

Johan’s face is kind, his smile kinder, so soft that you have to squint to make out the upturn of his lips. You maintain the rigid position of your umbrella, uncertain if it’s meant to be a sword or a shield. The cracked door you left for a swift escape resurfaces in your mind. You could make it — should make it — but you don’t even lift your feet from the ground. How can you, when you catch what he’s holding in his hands, the revelation filling you with red-hot rage.

There are a million things you could ask him, or shout at him, but you eventually settle on:

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” he responds, deceit nonexistent, for he knows there’s nothing worse than the truth. “You’re home late today.”

You part your lips, only to close them, aghast by how your instinct was to explain yourself to him. Tell him that you got carried away watching a street performance and missed your regular bus. He carries himself in such a normal, organic fashion, that you can’t help but settle into any rhythm he establishes. You shake your head, hoping the action is the key to breaking whatever spell he has over you by simply existing in the same room.

Without trying to conceal it, you size him up. You note the lack of mud on the floor, despite the fact he’s still wearing his shoes, and deduce he really has been waiting here for hours. It started pouring around your lunch break and only let up recently. The knowledge he’s been here, invading your personal space while you were none the wiser, fills you with dread.

“... I’m really not in the mood to deal with this,” you lower your umbrella. You get the feeling he isn’t intimidated by it and cast it aside. Exhaustion weighs over you like an anchor pressed to your chest. The burning fury from before is more of a flickering ember, hot to the touch yet nowhere near as all-consuming.

“I remember you felt different when we last spoke.”

He’s still holding it. Your hands ball up into fists by your side. “Is that what this is about? You’re here to rub what I’ve said before in my face?”

“No. You don’t need me to bring up your words to be bothered by them,” Johan finally puts the item down, back onto your nightstand, where it once belonged. These days, you’re not so certain. He fixes it into place so that if you hadn’t found him, you never would’ve realized it was tampered with.

This rendition of the photograph is in color, as opposed to the black and white shown on the front pages of newspapers for months. You have seen this photo outside the confines of your apartment many times. Too often, perhaps. It haunted you more dutifully than any specter. When walking by vendors on the streets, or sitting across from a businessman on the bus reading his morning paper with a cup of coffee. Your waking nightmare had become just another thing for the general populace to consume alongside the daily crossword puzzles and advice columns.

The headlines flicker through your mind like reels of film.

College Student Missing from Munich. Search for Missing College Student Entering Second Month. Then finally, Elias Friedrich Found Dead at 23.

The mirth in Elias’ eyes when that photo was taken taunts you, wriggling beneath your skin like the maggots they found on his body. You had been happy then yourself, an emotion long forgotten. Suddenly, you wish Johan had turned it to face the wall, so you wouldn’t have to see what will never be again.

“You’ve been applying for visas in other countries,” he points out. You frown — you had been so careful — but you guess that doesn’t matter when Johan is involved. “You must intend to leave the promise you made to me unfulfilled.”

What he speaks of wasn’t so much a promise as it was a curse. Whether it be a curse on you, or him, you couldn’t say for certain.

“I’m assuming that since you know about the visas, I shouldn’t be expecting an acceptance letter anytime soon? You’ve got people at the embassy under your thrall too?”

The enigmatic smile he gives churns your stomach. He must assume there’s no point in telling you what you already know. Loathe as you are to admit it, you understand why, and that knowledge chills you to the bone. Johan is no longer a complete mystery to you. It was simpler when he was; you could paint him as this unpredictable bogeyman in your mind. You don’t want to be familiar with him, a realization that would’ve done you better earlier. By the time you learn how deep the water is by diving in, it’s too late to resurface without drowning.

You know why he’s here. It isn’t to kill or even threaten you — it’s to remind you. That you don’t get to go anywhere simply because he sees value in having you around. This seemingly minute fact is enough to thrust your life in permanent limbo.

“Whatever, I get it,” you mumble, walking over to your bed and sitting on the edge of it. “You made your point. I don’t even know why I bothered trying.”

It was nice, having those few weeks where you successfully deluded yourself. That’s all it ever was, a fleeting delusion, as tangible as a mirage in the desert. It’d been so long since you saw him last. You figured he had to have bigger ambitions that would push you from the forefront of his mind. Clinging to this notion was what kept you sane. Without it, you don’t know what you are.

Johan considers you for a long moment. “Would you like to know why I didn’t kill you that night?”

All it takes is the smooth utterance of that night for your senses to be transported back in a whirlwind. The cool, winter air biting your cheeks, the musky scent left behind by rain, the screams for help that roped you into a world you could never leave. Your body goes stiff as a corpse when he sits beside you on the bed you used to share with another. The very person Johan took from you, what marked the beginning of the end.

“I wanted you to see the same darkness I’ve been familiar with,” there’s something different about his tone, though you can’t put your finger on it. Honesty? Vulnerability? Is he even capable of either? “I always intended on it. Your being there wasn’t mere happenstance. It was deliberate.”

You can’t begin to imagine the expression etched onto your countenance.

“I told you that ultimately, whether you chose to do anything about Elias’ death or not, it wouldn’t matter. You promised to prove me wrong. I never said I’d mind if you did.”

There are inches between you and him, but it isn’t enough. It wouldn’t matter if he was halfway across the continent or the world itself — it still wouldn’t be enough space. He’d never fail to find a way to suffocate you in the way only he can.

“Do you…” you swallow thickly, finding your mouth terribly dry, “Do you want to be proven wrong?”

For the first time you can recall, it’s Johan who breaks eye contact instead of you. He leans back on his palms, his attention drifting to the ceiling before his blonde eyelashes flutter shut. The time that passes can’t be significant, no more than a few seconds, you wager; but it stretches on further than the horizon. You don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t think. You just stare. Wholly absorbed, wholly fascinated.

“What do you think?”

You respond faster than thoughts can form in your head. “You don’t know.”

Blue eyes regard you with muted curiosity.

“That’s right. You don’t know what you want, or you would’ve gotten it by now,” you reaffirm. You’re seeing him as much as he’s always seen you. “You said you want to be the last one standing in the world, but a day will come when you’ll even lose interest in that. Then you’ll move onto the next thing… and then the next… wading endlessly in a search for something you’ll never find.”

If you had been debilitated by a fraction of the darkness he was familiar with in its entirety, then you get it.

Knowing what to do with yourself, how to begin rebuilding, whether or not it’s even worth the effort of trying; these sentiments are your acquaintances and his lifelong friends.

You didn’t realize you were smiling until you go to speak again. “I guess it doesn’t matter if the embassy never issues me a visa, if I can connect you to Elias’ death, or prove you wrong.”

“And why’s that?”

“I might never find closure, but neither will you.”

The sky weeps. Distant pitter-patters hit like drums against a storm pipe, outdone only by the cacophony of raindrops striking your window. The sun has hidden itself behind a layer of clouds. You’re staring at one another, breathing in each other’s air. You don’t know what’s going on in his mind, and for once, your intuition whispers he doesn’t know what’s happening in yours.

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, handling you delicately, like you’re a flower. His touch lingers long enough that you don’t think you could forget it if you tried. The emotions dancing in his eyes are indecipherable. When he retracts his hand, his fingers brush against your jawline, leaving goosebumps in his wake. You know you should recoil from the unwanted touch, yet you’re hypnotized into staying still.

When Johan blinks, the unknown glaze over his eyes is gone.

Then he’s standing, turning his back to you, and walking toward the doorway you brazenly ran through what feels like ages ago.

“I’m glad I came to visit,” he looks at you from over his shoulder. “You always make it worth my time.”

You hug your legs to your chest. “Can’t say the feeling’s mutual.”

The insult is like water off a duck’s back, he doesn’t bother acknowledging it.

“The next time I visit, I won’t be leaving without you.”

You wish you could say you were surprised, but you felt this revelation breathing down your neck. He was your personal harbinger of misfortune. You weren’t foolish enough to think he was done with you, not after falling for that temptation once. Whatever comes next will be a secret you won’t be able to pry from his lips. It could be in an hour, perhaps tomorrow, or months down the line; you won’t know until he wants you to.

Something tells you the darkness he showed you that night will pale in comparison to what lies ahead.

“And if I don’t want to go?”

Johan stops, his shoulders shaking in what you assume to be a quiet chuckle.

“I’ll stop at nothing to encourage you, in any way I can.”

#johan liebert x reader #johan x reader #monster x reader #naoki urasawa's monster #yandere johan x reader #yandere x reader #yandere johan liebert x reader #yandere monster x reader #my stuff

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painted-bees · 1 year ago

Text

September 23rd 2010

i) The tide was lower than Magritte had ever seen it.

Perhaps ‘seen’ was the wrong word to use. The inky darkness of night swallowed the barren, stoney features of Smelt Bay, as well as the ocean that lapped distantly at its shore. Rather, she heard it; the white noise of the waves breaking unusually far away. All the better, honestly. She wasn’t here to swim. In fact, Smelt Bay was a terrible beach for swimming. It wasn’t just that the frigid coastline lacked in soft, warm sand; the uneven and slippery rockbed that composed the entire stretch of bay was covered, acre by acre, in countless oyster shells. They adorned almost every rock they could cling to, and their razor sharp edges could slice easily through hand and foot like a warm knife through butter. Which is why Magritte plodded along, slowly and carefully, in her brand new hiking boots.

Raf had cautioned her against clambering around the beach so late at night and, usually, she heeded his anxieties about it. It wasn’t initially her intention to scramble down the bluff and onto the beach; she had only wanted to come out and watch the seafoam crash gently upon the stones. At night, under the moonlight, the contrast between white foam and inky water enchanted her with its otherworldly beauty. However, upon reaching the beach, the tide had been drawn out further than she could see. And so now, she was looking for it.

She had the good sense not to stumble forward in the dark, using her phone's flashlight to illuminate the path in front of her. She loved scouring the beach at low tide. Countless crabs of all sizes scuttled and scurried beneath the unnatural light of her phone. Her eyes met with the occasional, chubby pink and purple starfish that had been abandoned by the retreating ocean. Both the crabs and the brightly coloured starfish were a common sight on these beaches and, while she appreciated their company, they failed to make her pause. What did capture her attention was a fat, orange blob of a creature.

What are you? Magritte stopped to crouch down for a better look, lifting her phone to shine upon it. Oh, just another starfish… Well, no. Not really. It had one, two, three, four…eight…thirteen legs! She stared at it for a moment of deliberation before extending a tentative forefinger to poke its roughly textured, glistening surface. Before her finger could get within an inch of it, a gentle blanketing wave of frothy ocean fanned out between her and the creature, covering both it and her hiking boots in several inches of freezing water.

With a startled yelp at the stabbing cold, Magritte bolted upright as she found herself soaked to the ankles.

“Aw, shit-!” She lifted one foot out, and then the other in an awkward hopping skip, trying in vain to keep her feet up, out of the rogue wave. Apparently, the tide had been a lot closer than she thought. She continued her silly, wet, hop-scotchy walk back towards the bluffs with a self-depreciative chuckle. She expected the wave to recede.

But it didn’t.

Instead, another wave layered itself on top, swallowing her calves, and then another that submerged her past the knee. The arresting shock of the cold was outcompeted by the jolt of fear that kicked her into a frantic scramble. As she abandoned caution, the forceful current of the tide rose past her waistline, shoving her forward and off her feet. The water’s piercing chill bit through her chest, squeezing a sharp gasp from her just as her head was pulled beneath the waves.

Primal terror possessed her to reach forward with her hands and find purchase on any surface she could grab. Her fingers closed around fists full of jagged oyster shells that held like cement to the stones they were anchored to. As the ripping current suddenly dragged Magritte back, the soft flesh of her grasping palms may as well have been wet tissue for how well they maintained their structure. What little air she held her lungs escaped with the muffled scream that boiled out from her throat. She tumbled like a rag doll as she was pulled backward by the powerful riptide. Her knees and elbows painfully scraped across the oyster-laiden ground in intervals that only served to further disorient her.

Panic crescendoed, blackening the edges of her vision just in time for her head to break through the surface of the waves. She treaded water with wild, unevenly flailing limbs, drawing in a sharp gasp that was quickly strangled by a fit of wet coughing. Chest, hands, arms, knees, everything burned. And what didn’t burn felt as though it were being needled by cold knives. She couldn’t stop coughing. She couldn’t draw a proper breath. Her head rushed with the sound of waves. Or blood. Her eyes were useless as strangled tears obscured her vision.

Until, at last, her coughing subsided, and she drew in one…two…three shaky, shallow breaths. She held it for a moment, the best she could.

And…it was quiet.

The sound of water lapping at her jawline and behind her ears outcompeted the volume of waves across the distant shore.

The very distant shore.

She released her breath, surrendering to over-exerted panting. But, even her starving lungs were too constricted by the freezing water to draw in proper gulps of air. Her breaths were short, sharp, and uneven as she attempted to scan the landscape for signs of the shore.

She could not see land; not even the light of distant houses. Beneath the starry sky, the world around her seemed unnaturally dark.

A nervous laugh broke out of her throat, accompanied with a teeth-clattering, quiet little chant. “F-fuck, fuck, f-fuck, fuck.”

The searing hot pain of her oyster-inflicted wounds had, at least, subsided rather quickly. She didn’t attempt to move her fingers, let alone ball her hands into fists. She didn’t even dare to look at them. She could barely feel them at all.

Experimentally, she drew in as deep a breath as she could, and stopped treading water. She felt herself begin to sink, and with more effort than it was worth, she shrugged off her jacket and kicked off her boots. Or rather, her boot, singular. Apparently, she had lost the other one already. Her feet were so numb that she couldn’t feel the difference. Shedding the remaining boot hardly made her more buoyant, but it felt like it helped.

She attempted to curl her lips into a smile. “O-okay, w…well…If I had to choose…between f-freezing to d-eath or drowning, I’d rather freeze. S-so let's focus on that, I g-uess.”

Bleak.

Was there any point in swimming when she couldn’t see the shore? How long could someone survive in water like this? Was she afraid of dying?

Not nearly as afraid as I was just a few moments ago.

She should have felt…more upset than this. It seemed strange. Maybe she was just too cold to think properly, but most likely, the reality of her situation hadn’t set in yet. After all, the situation was salvageable. A boat could come along and haul her out of the water. The tide could wash her up onto the shore. There were lots of different little islands around here, she was bound to wash up on the shore of one, right? What were the chances of that happening before she could freeze to death?

…How long would it take for the hopelessness to set in? If she could keep making light of the situation, it couldn’t be that bad, right?

“And, yan-n-no…it’s been a g-good run.”

…Hasn’t it?

Truth be told, things had only just started getting really good. Well, kinda. This year was a rough patch. Uncle Bill’s passing in late April had really…thrown things askew. But the island was a perfect escape from the fake sympathies, the incessant phone calls, the social obligations…all the stress… It was gonna give them the peace, quiet, and space to properly grieve. We were gonna start playing music again. They had only been on the island for a week. The cottage Bill had left to Raf was so nice. It had a piano. It was cute. Warm.

Of all things, it was the thought of the cottage’s little black wood stove that made Magritte’s eyes water with a sudden stab of helpless dismay.

No, why? That’s so stupid.

Why the stove? Why not the grief of her parents? Why not the fact that she’d never be able to play music again? Why not–

“Raf.” It came out as a croak that she barely even recognized as her own voice. “S-shit. I’m sorry, Raf. M-man. This was my s-stupid idea. It was my id-dea to come here, it was s-s-supposed to be so good. B-but…th-this is r-really…gonna…wreck you, isn’t it.”

There was a long pause as Magritte bobbed uselessly with the waves, trying to will her numb, sluggish limbs to move in a manner that allowed her to survey her surroundings once again for any sign of land. Maybe she should just start swimming in a direction, would that have been better? Would it make her feel warmer? Or…would it just exhaust her faster?

She was already so tired.

I don’t want to be anyone’s traumatic loss, I just want to be warm.

How the hell did this even happen? What caused the ocean to hit her so suddenly, like a river?

It doesn’t make sense. What if this is just a really bad dream? I could wake up in bed, soft and warm, and held…coffee...and…eggs. Over easy in front of the wood stove. Pyjamas…slippers, but like…not the linoleum kind, it needs to have enough structural integrity for breakfast…to support the…workload and drive me to the–

-PIFFF-

Magritte hadn’t realised that her eyelids were closed, but the sudden explosive hissing that erupted right beside her caused them to snap wide open. For a second, she thought that something had fallen off the top shelf of her closet. But almost as quickly as she imagined that, the biting cold water encroaching on the corners of her nose and eyes reminded her of where she was.

-FIFFFFF-

The same sound again, slightly further away. Panic rejuvenated her for a brief moment until she saw the source of the noise. A jet of pale mist erupted from the surface of the water, and in its wake, a dark, triangular silhouette glided smoothly downward. The wet, rubbery flesh glistened in the moonlight before sinking beneath the rolling waves.

Whales.

Magritte attempted to lift her head enough to see if she could spot them again. Sure enough, three or four more of the creatures surfaced silently. The ghostly silhouettes of their dorsal fins were all that gave away their position. These must have been the orcas the neighbours had mentioned. Even Raf once managed to catch a glimpse of them from the shore, but Magritte hadn’t been with him to see it. She had wanted so badly to look at them…

“Oh…well, thanks for showing up, guys.” Her teeth weren’t clattering anymore, but she could hardly bring her voice above a whisper. For some reason, her throat felt so tight. “Please don’t toss me around like a seal… I’ve seen what you do to them…on t.v.”

The whales responded with a series of loud, spouting breaths; some nearby, others further away. As she recalled the image of a half flayed seal rag-dolling through the air, anxiety blossomed in the pit of her stomach, Magritte turned her gaze upward and hung it on the three bright stars of Orion’s belt.

If making noise is encouraged as a way of deterring bears from harassing hikers, maybe the same was true for whales and swimmers. I can be weird and loud, can’t I?

She attempted to sing a song. Her strangled voice rasped, fruitlessly struggling to be heard above the sounds around her.

“What are you hunting up there in the stars?

Is it beasts, or demons, or old battle scars?

Do you remember the warmth of my palm in yours

Is it buried in rubble from all of those wars?

You’ve lost yourself so far, far away

Searching for ghosts and impossible prey.

You’ve flown too far from the earth and the sea,

Please come back…come back…

…Come back to…”

As her words drifted, so too did she; down, down, into the cold, quiet void.

And it embraced her, lovingly.

ii)

Raf’s eyes opened to the sound of ocean waves and a dull ache in his neck. Light poured out from the cottage windows, pooling warmly across the sprucewood deck and the white, woven hammock that cradled him. An earbud filled his left ear, but no music played. Either his iphone had come to the end of his playlist, or it had run out its battery life while he slept.

With a tired groan, he sat up and stretched, gingerly tilting his head to loosen the painful knot in his neck. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but he should have expected it after a relaxing joint and some quality tunes. He wasn’t sure what had woken him up. Perhaps it was the chill. It wasn’t cold enough for his breath to hang in the air, but it was chilly enough for him to wish for a sweater–rather than a t-shirt–beneath his jacket.

Or maybe it was the concussive sound of the waves.

The ocean wasn’t visible from his cottage. There was a strip of dense forest that lined the property and separated it from the bluffs. Still, the white noise of the ocean could always be heard through the trees. The salt could be smelled on the breeze, and it could be felt collecting in his hair. It must have been exceptionally turbulent out there tonight, for he could hear the waves crashing with an unusually loud clarity.

Raf lifted his phone and turned on the LED screen to check the time. Its battery life was still good, but as he had suspected, his playlist had played through to the last track.

1:34 a.m.

The corners of Raf’s mouth twitched.

Magritte hadn’t woken him up to herd him into bed when she came home. Was she pissed off at him for declining to walk with her?

In fairness, he had been…difficult to manage the past half year. And it became increasingly obvious that Magritte’s bountiful patience had been running thin over the past month or two. She had begun to adopt his defensive snippiness–not at him, but at the things she knew infringed upon him. Phone calls, text messages, the gestures of concerned friends and colleagues reaching out to see if he was okay. The cold, prying interrogations–thinly veiled by hollow sympathies–querying for available pieces of his uncle’s estate.

The man’s body hardly had time to grow cold before Ephrem representatives began hounding Raf about the company shares he had inherited. His family in Monaco had gone so far as to request the retrieval of Uncle Bill’s body. “He should be put to rest on home soil”–but his will had detailed what was to be done. By his request, Uncle Bill’s body was kept here, in British Columbia. Raf had to take care of it all; the estate, the funeral, and the vultures.

All he wanted to do was hide.

And, in a way, that’s mostly what he did. He managed as much as he could, but once the funeral had been concluded, his energy and willingness to keep on top of things dissolved. He just couldn’t…deal…with the people. Any of them. At some point, they had all stopped resembling human beings, and felt more like a pack of feral dogs with no purpose greater than to sate their gluttony. Every interaction bloodied him with clawing, hungry teeth.

Magritte picked up the slack for him. It was…beyond her ability, honestly. But she did her best, at the expense of indulging her passions. While he isolated and avoided the torrent of his unwanted responsibilities, Magritte had lived those months constantly on the backfoot, attempting to hold things together and never quite managing to see any of it through properly. It was simply too many balls for her poor little arms to carry, and as she tried to pick up the ones she had dropped, more always spilled out.

Last month, it had finally driven her to tears.

Raf had been woefully inadequate at showing his appreciation for her efforts and, even as he watched her sob in frustration, he found it difficult to provide any meaningful comfort. Nothing broke his heart quite like seeing her cry, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to promise any fun distractions. He couldn’t tell her, in earnest, that things were fine. He couldn’t give her the reward of knowing that she had been able to make everything right and good for him. He could only tell her that he knew she was doing her best, that he was glad to have her with him, and that he loved her.

More than anything, he loved her.

Talk was cheap. He knew that better than anyone. But living in ‘survival mode’ left very little in the way of emotional resources, and he had become very cold, irritable, and distant. Still, Magritte sought out his company. She wished to share good experiences with him and did her best to take care of him despite his diminishing reciprocation over the past few months.

Retreating to Cortes Island had been her idea. She had never visited the place before, but when Raf described it as a tiny, isolated little community with no supermarkets nor chain restaurants, no hospitals nor police stations, and with the population of a small school, her eyes lit up.

“It’s perfect! We could just disappear there and take a year–or five–to just…recover from everything!” Her tone had taken on a conspiratorial tone when she added, “We don’t have to tell anyone.”

She had underestimated the scope of work that accompanied ‘disappearing to a small island for a year’. In contrast, the workload was all his mind could fixate on. But– a body of water separating him from the relentless chaos of the mainland was appealing enough for him to commit to the move. And so, they made their hasty preparations, packed up, and left without a word.

A week had passed since they moved into the small cottage, and Raf had to admit that the quiet calm of the island was…a relief.

He had asked Magritte for a month. A month of nothing; no outings, no plans, no obligations–just rest. It was the closest thing to hibernation he was ever going to experience, and she had agreed to it. It didn’t stop her, though, from inviting him out for walks, and to see the ocean with her. It was the bare minimum, and he should have obliged her more often than he did. But truly, all he wanted to do was stay home, smoke weed, listen to music, and sleep.

And that’s what he had chosen to do when she invited him to watch the waves with her, some time after 10pm. She didn’t seem bothered when he lazily declined to accompany her, but perhaps she had grown cranky about it during her time out. Seeing him passed out in the hammock, she probably left him to endure the natural consequences of his poor choices, and went to bed without him.

Honestly, catching a chill and a sore neck was negligible punishment compared to the guilt of disappointing Margie. On the other hand, he had asked her for a month–just one month–to be as lazy and absent as he wanted to be, and she had agreed to it. So if she was pissed off at him–

Her shoes were not at the front door.

Usually, Magritte kicked her boots off before entering the house, and rarely brought them inside. Raf opened the door, expecting to see them on the shoe rack, but they weren’t there either. Nor was her jacket strewn over the back of the couch as it should have been.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and marched quietly up the steep, narrow little staircase to the second floor. Down the short corridor, his bedroom door was still open and he could see through to his window and the night sky that overlooked the foot of his bed. Peeking his head in, the blankets laid smooth and undisturbed across the mattress, folded over to expose the neatly arranged pillows.

Raf pulled himself back into the tiny corridor with a bewildered frown. “Margie?” It wasn’t a yell, but his voice projected loudly enough to be heard throughout the small cottage.

There was no answer, only the gentle hum of the fridge downstairs, accompanied by the rustling of leaves in the breeze outside. And the crashing of waves upon the unseen shore.

With an agitated groan Raf dropped back down the stairs, towards the front door, and hastily put on his sneakers. Something at the beach must have captivated her. Maybe some weird sealife, maybe partying campers. Either way, she had lost track of time, and now he had to go find her. At least she couldn’t be disappointed with him if she had chosen to stay out at a worryingly late hour.

The beach wasn’t more than a fifteen minute walk away, and all he had to do was follow the gravel road down the slope, onto Potlatch Road, and then down to Smelt Bay. There were no lamps lining the street, and so Raf found himself relying on his phone torch to light the path ahead of him. Despite the darkness, it wasn’t an eerie nor dangerous walk by any means. Accompanied by the singing of crickets, he was comfortably familiar enough with these streets, trusting them even with a lone, wandering Margie.

As he made his way briskly down the long, paved length of Potlatch road, his curiosity was tickled by just how close the sound of lapping ocean waves seemed to be. Perhaps it was the way it echoed off the treeline, but it sounded as though it were almost right in front of him.

Raf rounded the broad corner towards Smelt Bay–and stopped.

The pavement directly beneath his feet had become gradually more wet, as though a heavy rain had passed through recently. That would have been strange enough on its own. He’d have definitely noticed if it had been raining, and there wouldn’t have been such a clear, sudden border between dry ground and waterlogged asphalt. He lifted his phone light to shine it further down the road, and frowned.

Ahead of him, the street was covered in a thin layer of water, seafoam lapping over concrete and into the grassy ditch. As he continued a tentative pace forward, the water wasn’t quite high enough to spill over the rubber soles of his shoes. He walked until Potlatch met with Smelt Bay Road, where he was granted an unobscured view of the beach. The ocean’s waves broke over the bluffs, flooding the street and the grassy plots of land that faced the open bay.

“...The hell?” He muttered, barely above a whisper.

The ocean had to have risen a fair few feet in order for it to breach the bluffs. Was it possible for the tide to get this high? He watched as an empty bottle, tangled within a plastic bag, washed across the street alongside a random toque and a mess of uprooted reeds. Debris, both natural and unnatural, lined the waterlogged road. An enormous, sea weathered piece of driftwood that had spent years as a reliable landmark on the stony beach–now sat wedged askew in the ditch. A flash flood?

Tsunami.

Wait–

Anxiety closed its claws around his gut, and twisted.

“Margie?!” He barked out her name in the direction of the beach.

He took a few automatic strides towards the submerged bluff before halting, and he turned his phone over in his hand. Opening his contact list, he hit Magritte’s number and pressed the phone to his ear. Cell coverage on the island was spotty at best, but to his relief, the call connected. As it rang, he paced, his feet kicking up cold water into his shoes.

“Come on, answer your phone. I’m not gonna be mad at you, just answer your damn phone.”

He let it ring until the robotic voice of the phone operator made him hang up.

And then he tried again, to the same result.

What the hell could he do?

What was he supposed to do?

Don’t catastrophize, it’s not the worst case scenario, it never is.

Immediately, his brain had filled him with thoughts of Margie getting bowled over by enormous waves and dragged to sea. But, based on the fact that no one else was out inspecting damages or lamenting their losses, things probably hadn’t happened as suddenly nor as violently as his imagination pictured it. Realistically, she likely saw the tide start to come in and watched it from a distance, perhaps with some other folks who were hanging around the area. Plausibly, she was at a campsite somewhere, talking about it over smores and cheap booze. Or something like that.

But then, why didn’t she answer her phone?

Raf had already turned around and began walking in the direction of the camping lots. All he had to do was find one that still had a fire going at this time of night. But, as his feet left solid pavement and marched onto the dirt road of the Smelt Bay campsites, he found that the tide had flooded this area as well. The inch of water blanketing the ground turned it into a muddy mess. There were no tents pitched in any of the lots. No campfires, either. Two or three of the lots housed a parked RV, elevated off the ground. Dry, and oblivious to the seawater beneath their tires. None of them showed any signs of waking life. Magritte wasn’t here.

Coming upon one of the empty lots, Raf found a sturdy tree stump that had clearly been fashioned for seating, and dropped himself down on it. He buried his face into his hands with a fraught sigh. There had been tents here, he knew that much. The inhabitants likely packed up and abandoned the lots in favour of finding a dry place to spend the night. If the RVs and trailers were still here, clearly there couldn’t have been much of a panic. The waterline hadn’t risen catastrophically.

Still, Magritte was missing.

He tried to call her one more time, and was greeted unhelpfully by the operating system once again.

What if she had gotten home after he had left to find her?

The thought pulled Raf back onto his feet, and what started as a swift walk home hastened into an anxious jog.

The tide, he noted, was slowly receding. A length of road that had been submerged when he first arrived was exposed once again to dry off in the chilly night air. For some reason, the sight of it relieved his anxiety somewhat. There was nothing inherently dangerous about the strange tide; it wasn’t any kind of disaster. Likely, Margie was at home, worried and waiting for him. Her phone battery must have depleted. It would explain why she wasn’t calling him back.

It wasn’t long before he was walking down the long, rough, unpaved driveway; under the boughs of spruce and cedar trees and into the clearing of the cottage's wild, grassy property.

Approaching the house, he called out her name across the yard to no answer. The lights were still on in the living room and kitchen. He climbed the two steps of the porch up to the front door and, calling her name once more, he opened it.

No response.

Before stepping inside, he kicked off his muddy shoes and then closed the door behind him.

“Margie.” His volume was conversational as he scaled the narrow flight of stairs to the second floor and diligently checked each of the bedrooms.

No. She wasn’t here.

Then…where was she?

Not the ocean. Not the ocean. Not in the ocean.

Sitting down on the foot of the bed, Raf stared at the floor and tried to fight off a wave of despair.

There was no way.

There was no fucking way. It would have been beyond cruelty to leave him like this. He wasn’t gonna be able to…it wasn’t something he could handle.

Steadying himself with a deep breath, he scooted over to his side of the bed, took his laptop up off his night table, and unfolded it on his lap. A phone jack tethered it to the wall behind the nightstand and provided a serviceable internet connection. He opened a browser and typed into the search bar; “How long to wait before making a missing person report?”

Apparently the answer was “not at all”.

Raf looked up the appropriate number to call, picked up the phone, and dialled. >>part iii, iv, and v<<

#Hi-Note #this is just the beginning...there is more to come dw haha #Cortes meet-cute lmfao #if u can call it that #Rafael #Magritte #Cortes

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sparrowrye · 8 months ago

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Demi Demon || Alastor x Reader, A2 part 12

Synopsis: It’s been over a year since we were brought under Alastor’s watchful eye. We’ve unlocked our Demonic powers, discovered our own talents, and began building the Safe Haven with Charlie and co. Alastor seems increasingly interested in the power we hold as one and intends to use it properly.

Previous part

Part 12: creeping shadows

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Striker grabbed Reagan by the throat and held her close to his face. I fought against the white rope trapping my limbs against my body, but it did nothing. My magic was gone from my grip and the rope kept me entirely immobile.

"You thought you could get rid of me that easily?" he taunted, eyes flickering over to me. "I'll haunt your dreams and your every waking hour. Just wait and see." He withdrew a white knife and plunged it into Reagan's heart.

I yelled and bolted upright from my bed. I fell off the side, covers trapping my legs, and tried to stand up. I choked on a sob and untangled myself. I needed to find Reagan. I needed to make sure she was okay. Who knows what magic could do, what Striker could do?

Alastor's warm presence surrounded me but he was nowhere to be physically seen. I involuntarily touched my mind with his and felt him come closer to my shields. It helped bring me back to reality.

I opened the window and slipped out in my Dragon form. I knew exactly which hut was Reagan's and hid in the shadows the full moon was creating. I reached my magic to feel her soul and found it anchored perfectly to her body. I couldn't feel any distress from her either. She was safe.

It truly had just been a nightmare.

I let out a shaky sigh and flew back to the house. I found myself unable to lie back down and paced my room instead. Alastor's presence was still there and he gently brushed against my shields. It wasn't invasive or aggressive, just there.

I forced myself to sit back down and tried to read to get my mind off Striker. I felt warmth trickle down my spine and my muscles relaxed. My heart slowed and I let out a deep sigh.

However, when I nodded off, Striker's face came back just as strongly as the first nightmare. This triggered a horrible string of events. Sleeping, no matter how light or deep, turned into a horrible nightmare. Most of it was Striker but others were random people with nasty wounds that looked like it should've killed them.

The whispering grew louder when I was awake. It was a constant noise in the background and I could never make out what they were saying. It left me horribly restless and jittery.

After the second day of no sleep, that's when it got really bad. I started to hallucinate. Striker would stand in the corner of my room and just watch me. No matter where I was in the house, he was in the corner. He was waiting to jump, waiting for me to drop my guard, waiting to snuff out my soul.

Alastor was the first to know anything was wrong. He tried to talk with me but I locked myself away in my room when the hallucinations started. When it grew dark, more random shadows started appearing in the corners and under my bed. Most of them were relatively small, children seize, and their yellow eyes glared at me.

The bathroom wasn't safe either. The bright light did nothing against the pitch black shadow figure standing in the corner. It didn't move. It didn't even have eyes. I tried hiding by the window but another figure just appeared and watched from my the other side.

I curled up on the floor in the middle of my room and covered myself with my wings. I kept up a magic shield around my mind and physical body. If I didn't see them, maybe they'd go away.

"Darling."

I lifted my head at Alastor's familiar voice. The morning sun broke through the window and the shadows moved away from the side of the room he stood in. For the first time, I felt a wave of relief at the sight of him.

He knelt down in front of my curled form. His eyes scanned my body and that was when I noticed I was shaking uncontrollably. I couldn't keep anything still, not even a finger.

"You must tell me what is happening, dear," he said.

"They're...they're everywhere."

"Who is?"

I sat up but kept my wings tight around my shoulders. I glanced at the shadows hiding under the bed and standing in the far corners of the room. I was afraid they might jump at me if I revealed them to him.

"I-I don't know," I replied. I could imagine how I looked right now. My hair was a mess, I couldn't stop shaking, my eyes were probably red and deep in my head from a lack of sleep, and I was looking at nothing. It had scared me when Husker said he couldn't see the people I could so obviously see.

"You haven't slept in days, darling. Maybe you ought to—"

"No!" I interrupted. I covered my mouth a second later at his surprise. "I-I'm-I'm sorry. I didn't...I wasn't...I can't sleep. It's worse." I covered my ears as the whispers grew louder. "I can't understand any of you!"

"Perhaps we need to pay a visit to Rosie," he offered.

"I can't...I'm not...she won't...ugh, just shut up! I don't understand!" I turned over my shoulder to look at the shadows. "Go away!"

They suddenly lunged at me with a terrifying scream. I jumped back into Alastor as they flew overhead and dissipated. The smell of cedar and sweat filled my nose and warmth spread through my body. I hadn't realized how cold I was until we touched.

"I'm sorry." I pushed off him and backed away on my knees, wrapping my wings around myself again. He straightened himself back up to a kneeling position.

"Darling." He lifted my chin so I would meet his red eyes. "Come with me." He stood up and held out his claw, patiently waiting for me to accept.

I pulled my arm from my winged blanket and let him help me to my feet. He snapped his fingers to dress me in my usual outfit and led me down the hallway. I kept my eyes on my foot claws and focused on the energy zipping through us. He kept his mind out of mine but he was still close to my shields. It was reassuring.

It felt strange to have his claw wrapped around mine. His was much larger than mine but they were practically the same color, minus his red tips. He led me to the teleportation symbol and let go of my hand to wrap around my waist. I threaded my own arm around his back and closed my eyes when we teleported.

He sat me on the stairs outside Rosie's store and told me to wait. A few minutes later, he came to find me and pulled me into the usual meeting room. Rosie didn't bother with pleasantries, instead grabbing my hand and closing her eyes.

I let her pass through my shields and went with her into my mind space. I found myself surrounded by dozens of shadow figures all yelling at me. I couldn't understand a single one, except Striker. His dark shadow stared at me from an opening of the crowd. His tail whipped around behind him as his yellow eyes glinted and narrowed.

"Let Alastor in." Rosie touched my shoulder. I let out a shaky breath and reached my magic out to him. He melted with mine like locking hands together and slipped past my shields.

"It's a trick of your mind," he said in my ear. I notice his hand had replaced Rosie's on my shoulder. We tried building another shield like I had done previously, but it did nothing.

Panic was rising in my chest and the shadows came closer. I curled in on myself and they drew further in. Alastor stepped in front of me and pulled my chin up to look at him.

"Keep your mind strong," he instructed, "They're feeding off your fear."

"What are they?" I was growing frantic.

"I'm not sure. We're trying to figure that out."

"Let's pull out. One at a time," Rosie announced. Alastor left first, then she did, and finally I followed. I blinked my eyes open to the white and pink room, instantly finding the shadows that still lingered in the corners of the room.

Alastor stood to the side closest to the windows. There were no shadows watching me from the other side. They seemed to not like him, staying far from the hideouts near where he stood.

I noticed Striker stood the furthest. But he didn't stay that way. As Rosie and Alastor spoke, he moved from corner to shadow to wall. He was trying to get closer. What could he do? Could he take my soul? Could he mess with my mind? Was this what the girl from Alastor's dream saw before her magic ate her?

That fear settled in my stomach. All the shadows moved at the same time, quickly closing the distance. I hastily grabbed Alastor's wrist and they all froze, but didn't recede. Their eyes were yellow and unblinking.

Alastor gently pulled me to my feet. He said something to Rosie and we headed for the door. I couldn't turn my back on the shadows, watching them continue to stare at me. Rosie stood in the middle and completely unbothered by the things that surrounded her.

"Where are we going?" I managed to ask. I practically glued myself to his side as the shadows manifested in different places outside. I was worried that we were headed back to the house, unable to fix whatever was wrong with me.

"We're visiting someone else." We stood over the symbol and appeared at Hell's palace a moment later. Were we visiting Lucifer?

The guards were immediately on high alert. They sent a servant to find Lucifer but we had to wait outside as they did. I couldn't stop turning my head left and right to watch my shadows. So long as I was touching Alastor they couldn't hurt me. Right?

"What in Hell do you wan..." Lucifer's demand fell off as his eyes found me. I couldn't see his expression as I kept watching the different shadows. "What's wrong?"

"We must speak privately," Alastor insisted. Lucifer nodded and showed us inside. I wasn't really paying attention to the extravagant hallways or personal decorations. Striker was following us every step of the way. His body moved slow, somehow staying in perfect time with us.

I was led into a dusty little room off the huge library. It looked like some old office that hadn't been used in centuries. A desk stood to one side and velvet leather couches on the other side. Books lined the wall behind the rich looking couches.

"What did you do?" Lucifer accused Alastor, slamming the door shut and locking it.

"Why do you assume I'm at fault?" Alastor demanded.

"Our previous conversations lead me to believe you had a hand in it. Probably meddling with her Angel power like you shouldn't have."

"I did no such thing," he lied through his yellow teeth, "but there is something happening to her mind that I don't understand."

Lucifer crossed the room to stand in front of me. He was a few inches shorter than me but his hard stare made up for it. I noticed the shadows were all standing in the corners of the room and that was it. They weren't hiding under the desk or behind the couch. He had pushed them even further away.

His eyes took in my disheveled appearance and unsteady eyes. He tried looking at where I was looking and the shadows disappeared before he could.

"Come sit down." He took my other hand and I forced myself to unwrap my sore fingers from Alastor's wrist. Lucifer lead me to the couch and sat down beside me, a hand reaching up to hover above my forehead. "Tell me what's been happening, sweetheart."

"Th-there's shadows." I muttered, my mouth suddenly going dry. "And whispers. I can't sleep."

"Okay." He pressed his palm to my forehead and I felt a trickle of sweet, smooth magic weaving through my blood. My muscles relaxed and my eyebrows stopped furrowing. I didn't think it was possible to relax so quickly like that.

Alastor explained the instance at Rosie's, making the King of Hell hum in confusion. He moved his hand from my head to the back of my neck. The same sweet magic covered my spine and I felt the strain of sleeplessness fade away. My shakiness went with it.

"Let's take a closer look, shall we?" Lucifer said. He drew his hand back and held both of them palm up to me. "Do I have your permission to go through your mind?"

I swallowed but nodded, placing my hands on top of his and allowing him to hold them tight. I wondered what his hands looked like under the black gloves.

I felt him enter my mind but this time I couldn't go with him. I felt a strange sense of no control over anything. I stared at his closed eyelids as I felt his presence weave through my mind and memories. It didn't feel invasive but it wasn't exactly pleasant. I had no idea what he was doing but the shadows in the corners of my vision disappeared one after the other.

My eyes were forcefully closed and I found myself in my mind space again. Lucifer stood in front of me still holding my hands. "We're going to build another shield. A different one this time," he explained. "First, we need to push all these souls away from you. Use your own energy."

He moved to stand behind me and lifted one of my hands. I opened my fingers and imagined pushing all these shadows away. It felt like I had a different kind of energy coursing through my body. My confidence grew as the souls tried scrambling against the force that was pushing them.

With every turn, each group of shadowy souls was pushed further and further away. Then we came to Striker. I felt the confidence slip away as easily as it had come.

"He's no different," Lucifer said from beside me.

He was harder to push away. It took several tries before he was moved just a foot away. I took a step forward, imagining my energy and muscles coming together into my single hand. He yelled something inaudible.

"Good. Now the shields." Lucifer moved his hand swiftly in front of him. A ring of gold light encircled us, effectively separating us from the shadows. He guided my outstretched hand low and slowly raised it. I felt my energy merging with his raw power as the shield grew taller and taller. It gradually turned from a bright gold to a deep purple at the top.

As soon as it closed at the top, I was pulled out of mind and returned to my physical body. I swayed to the side and both Lucifer and Alastor jumped to keep me from falling. Alastor was faster and lowered me down so I was lying on my back on the leathery couch.

"You're gonna be exhausted for awhile." Lucifer's tone was apologetic. It surprised me when it switched to anger less than a second later, geared directly at Alastor. "What is wrong with you?"

"I am not to blame for this." Alastor stepped close to the king so he could lean over him. "I do not know what triggered this."

"Exaclty. You don't know. She could've lost her mind if you hadn't come to see me."

"Tell me precisely what happened," Alastor growled. Lucifer wasn't deterred by his towering figure.

"She's a mixed breed. She has Demon and Angel power." He held both hands up, one holding a black ball and the other a white one. "I thought they couldn't be combined but obviously they can now. Which means her powers are combining too." He brought the balls together so they melded into a funny color, neither one willing to give in to the other.

"So what was happening to her?" Alastor pressed, voice lace with venom for the king.

Lucifer let out a sigh and looked over at me. I was still awake, listening to the conversation, but unable to do much else. I was shocked at how physically exhausted I was after a mind exercise.

Lucifer pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I really don't want to tell you this information because it's you, but she deserves to know and you'll just find out one way or another."

Alastor remained silent, waiting.

"Angels have the power to move and borrow energy from souls. As a Demon, I'm guessing she can hold onto these souls for however long she wants. But I don't think she did this on purpose."

"Why do you say that?" Alastor prompted.

"Because when I looked through her memories I saw something interesting. When she kills someone, and she's done that a lot, the soul merges with her. After she killed that one Demon that she's so terrified of, it was probably too many souls for her to handle."

Alastor was quiet for a moment, registering the information. His back was to me and he was unmoving. What was he thinking? Was it bad? Manipulative? Was he coming up with ways to use this power?

"I'm a deal maker?" I rasped from the couch. That made Alastor look over his shoulder at me.

"Not quite," Lucifer answered, moving to kneel beside me. "Deal makers trap living souls. You're holding onto souls that have already passed."

"So they're not...they're in purgatory?"

His smile faded. "I suppose."

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back down. "How do I let go of them?"

"Well, that's something I'll have to figure out."

"You?" Alastor hissed.

"Yes, me." Lucifer was quick to stand and challenge the Radio Demon. "This is Angel magic, something you know nothing about. And if I leave her in your hands, who knows what'll happen to her mind?"

"You're speaking to one of the strongest, longest standing Overlords. I can handle a little Angelic magic."

"Clearly you can't!" Lucifer pointed a finger towards me. "She has no idea where to even begin to understand herself. And you know only one kind of magic. I am the closest thing to whatever she is. And if you'd like to keep your soulmate alive and sane, I will be working with her to keep her mind from breaking."

Alastor was visibly bristling. His antlers had grown and there were little X's all over his limbs. He had no response for King of Hell. So many times I had heard him hang my sanity over my head so I would let him train me. Now it was being held for his head.

Alastor brushed past him with what sounded like a mumbled "Fuck you" and came to kneel beside me. He slid his arms under my legs and behind my back, hoisting me up and facing the King of Hell.

His earthy smell instantly filled my nose now that my senses were no longer blocked by my panic. His sweet warmth ran up my spine and my head dropped on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. I barely remember him teleporting back, or walking into the house, or putting me in my bed. The only thing I knew was that his warm presence stayed close to my shields.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

I loooooved writing this one. Let me know what you think

please

#demi demon #alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #soulmate au #soulmates #reqs open #helluva striker #hazbin lucifer #lucifer morningstar

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magpiepills · 7 months ago

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En El Mar

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Joel Miller x f reader

Word count: 727

Summary: you and Joel on the beach just like in that scene in From Here to Eternity.

Warnings: smut. Sort of non con? No express consent is given and both parties have just washed ashore from a shipwreck. They are traumatized, but horny! PWP, PIV, kissing. Javi’s curls.

A word from the author: This is a repost! Y’all saw that SAG awards shirt, right? And you know the black boxers from that one leather jacket selfie, right? This is like those things combined. Also An Affair To Remember tidbit in there and if you spot it you get a kiss.

He drags you to shore and begs you not to die, not here, not now. He’s only just felt the warmth and the weight of the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his arms, it’s too soon to lose you. When you open your eyes, he kisses you and doesn’t stop kissing you until he realizes he’s grinding his cock against you. This isn’t him. He’s a gentleman. He needs to wait, to woo you, make you love him. The salty water laps at your bodies, though and he feels there may never be a dinner to go to.

Overcome with lust he rips your shirt open and kisses your chest and up your neck. You’re still delirious from nearly drowning, limp in his arms as the sun sparkles on the crystal blue water and glints off the white sand of the pristine beach. Despite the tropical heat, your nipples pebble, drawing his lustful eye. He drags you further up the beach, the sand shifting beneath you when he repositions to draw your peaked bud into his warm mouth.

Your weak moans mingle with the crash of waves and the call of seabirds. He is helpless to resist you, the arch of your back and the adrenaline urge him on, easily tearing the fabric of your shirt the rest of the way off. He pauses, unable to believe that he is alive and so are you, the beautiful and charming stranger from the doomed ship. You cup his scruffy jaw in your hand and pull him to your lips, parted and waiting like petals of a drowsy rose. He kisses you deeply, soundly, the way he wanted to the moment he laid eyes on you. As he licked into your sweet mouth, you pull at his white shirt, half unbuttoned and hanging open, tearing it from his broad shoulders, exposing his strong, golden chest.

Impatiently he unzips your shorts, tossing them to the dry sand. He presses his chest to yours and rolls you on top of him.

The full length of his turgid member throbs against your own aching core. All inhibition lost along with the wreckage of the SS Consitution, you roll your hips suggestively, and run your fingers through the beautiful man’s thick, graying curls. You sweep them away from his forehead and trace his sloped nose with your lips, kissing his face while his strong hands anchor your hips just above his own.

No words are spoken, silent understanding passes between you. You may die together on this remote island all alone, but you have right now. He lifts his hips and pushes down the tight black briefs that kept him from you, then gathers the scant lace of your underwear in his thick fingers. Teasing at your slit with his knuckles, he looks at you, and tells you his name before joining your soft, supple body with his hard, aged one. The first word you speak to him is a staccato moan of his name. “Joel!” He’s slow and languid in his motion, holding you with firm yet gentle hands on your hip and cheek. Your knees and toes slip in the wet sand. You’ve no choice but to take every solid inch of him.

You can’t keep your eyes open. You’ve never felt so full, he coaxes you to move, he needs to feel you as you surrender yourself to him, your beautiful tits, the nipples he longs to tease swaying so erotically above his face. Your throaty moans drive his hips upward, fucking into you with abandon as you find your own matching rhythm, grinding your clit into the coarse dark hair beneath you. You’re overtaken by your orgasm, it bolts up your spine and down every nerve, rendering you nearly drunk on his cock. He can feel the ripple of your pleasure pulling at his own, and he can’t stop until he has filled you with his seed.

He doesn’t let you go. He can’t. He pulls you to his chest, bodies joined, breath escaping you both in ragged pants. As the tide rises and the sky darkens, he holds you, kissing your face, your hair, your lips. You stroke his chest, twirl a lock of his hair around your finger, and vow to live the rest of your life, however short it may be now, with him.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character smut #pedro pascal characters #bat writes #joel miller tlou #joel miller

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keepswingin · 1 month ago

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"How many fingers am I holding up? ... I don't have six fingers." —skz

"Fuck," Seungmin spits, fear nearly choking him as he pulls the prince closer to him. This wasn't supposed to happen, not like this, not because of him. "Jeongin-yah, look at me."

The prince's eyes had closed after his mumble of an answer, and he's not responding to anything else. Seungmin has never felt so terrified in his life.

He's ruined everything, let every single lie he's told been seen, and now the one person who was meant to pay the price from the very beginning has left a mark on Seungmin's life that he won't be able to replace.

What has he done?

"Jeongin," he calls again, louder this time, one palm pushing hard against his cheek in an attempt to wake him back up.

Rain drips from his hair, mixing with the blood that sits at the top of the prince's clothes, watercolor against his pale skin. Seungmin's chest hitches, and the sob that tears from his throat is nearly inhuman.

"Jeongin, please," he begs, thunder swallowing his words and spitting them back out until it's the only thing he can feel. He thinks he's crying. He thinks he would rip his heart out and offer it to the sky on a silver platter if it would reverse time. He thinks he would give his life to go back and stand in Jeongin's place before the younger could beat him to it.

The blade was meant for him, after all.

The shouting from the castle has grown quieter as soldiers march into the distance after a culprit that's long made his leave, unaware that the threat to the crown sits within their own ranks, an imposter from the very start. Seungmin has never thought himself dangerous, but for some reason he feels deadly, sitting here with someone's life hovering in his hands.

He looks to the wound again.

He's tried to clot it the best he could, but between the rain and what's already been stained, it's hard for him to tell if it looks any better. Jeongin needs to wake back up for him to have any type of hope in this situation.

He hates this. Hates himself for not seeing what his people were planning, the way they were so eager to use him as a red herring because that's all he's ever been good for. Was it ever a home, if he was simply used because he was smarter than the rest?

You know, you could stay. If you wanted.

Seungmin leans forward, and presses his forehead to Jeongin's. His heart is beating fast, and the rain doesn't slow. One hand clutches at the torn sleeve of Jeongin's shirt like it can anchor him as he closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

It can't end like this. Anything but this.

I don't belong here.

"Innie," he whispers, desperate. "Wake up. Please wake up. Come back." He hesitates, his next words on the tip of his tongue. Is he allowed to say such a thing, when all he's done is lie? Jeongin doesn't know who he really is.

If he looks close enough at himself, Seungmin doesn't think he knows who he really is either.

"Come back to me."

The next bout of thunder feels like it shakes him down to his very core. The sky is alight with a branching bolt of lightning. There's shouts closer to where they rest, just outside the prince's window. If he lifted his head, he'd be able to see the royal lien blowing in the storm's breeze, curtains curled around the windowsill. Maybe they've finally realized who the real threat is, and how he's holding the prince like he's something that's about to break.

I think that you do.

"I'm sorry for everything, Innie. I'm sorry for lying. I'm sorry for not being who you think I am. I'm sorry for - for getting you hurt."

He can see the blade clear in his mind's eye, the moment replaying over and over. Jeongin's hard glare at the stranger suddenly before them, inching closer to Seungmin and spitting nonsense.

Jeongin stepping in front of Seungmin without hesitation.

Jeongin's quiet gasp, the stutter of his breath. His hands clutching at the wound as if that alone would be enough to stop the blood flow. Seungmin moving to catch him before he hits the ground, arms wrapping desperately around his waist, shock propelling him forward.

"Your people need you, Innie," he whispers, the words poison against his throat. The same people who had run him from his home, the same kingdom that had looked at him like was no better than the very dirt on the ground - but no, not Jeongin.

Jeongin was different than his people, and he was different than the king. He was kind, and curious, and greeted strangers with an open palm. He was the change everyone was afraid of, the change Seungmin's people didn't understand and feared.

The change he was supposed to kill.

"I need you, Innie," he murmurs, heart pounding. He lifts his head and stares down at him like the words themselves will reanimate him, and waits. One heartbeat. Two. Three.

You don't know anything about me, your highness.

"Get away from him!"

Arms callously wrap around him from behind and violently yank him back, Jeongin's sister shrieking his name as she falls to the her knees beside his limp body, her nightgown smearing with dirt and gravel.

She's shaking her brother's shoulder far too roughly, Seungmin thinks, before he's thrown backwards, face hitting the ground. The storm grows worse as he's held there, arms wretched painfully in a way they shouldn't twist, rope tied tightly around his wrists. Maybe they'll hogtie him and leave him out here to drown in the storm.

He'd deserve it, wouldn't he?

His sister turns to Seungmin, tears streaking down her cheeks. "What did you do?" she cries, holding her brother close to her chest. His blood stains the front of her gown. Seungmin's stomach churns. "Tell me what you did to him," she all but begs, hiccuping, far from the prim and posed princess she is supposed to be. "Please!"

Mud and tears clog his throat. His chest heaves with a breath he cannot push out. The guards don't bother to pull him up, instead sending for the doctor who lives on the cusp of the village, far out of reach.

"Seungmin-ah!" his sister shouts amongst a clash of thunder. "They'll hang you for this! Don't you care?"

She stares at him, lips trembling. The cold has chilled Seungmin by now too, his own limbs borderline numb. Or maybe he's just shutting down now that he's failed the one person who meant something to him.

Seungmin's eyes slip back to Jeongin's face. His sister isn't covering him well enough, rain trickling across his lax features, the sharp curve of his jaw.

Seungmin would cover him.

"Not about myself," he whispers as the prince's sister turns back to him, shaking him once more.

He closes his eyes, and wonders what Jeongin would think, when all was said and done. Would he be kind still? Or nurture a hatred even Seungmin couldn't touch?

"Take him away," the princess sobs, curling closer to her brother. "Please."

Jeongin's soft laughter rings in his ears, a memory he can't forget. The knowing curve of his smile, the brush of his warm fingers against Seungmin's skin. The words he whispered after leaning in close to his ear, almost as if they were meant for just the two of them.

I think I know just enough.

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elysiaheaven · 2 months ago

Text

𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥-𝟏𝟒-(The Fox's wedding)

Words:2010

Jiaoqiu continues to look at the mirrors, trying to find one that suits your taste and the ambiance of the house. As he's about to make a decision, a small child runs up to you, eyes wide with curiosity. "Hello!" the kid chirps, reaching out to touch the fox mask on your face. Before you can react, the child snatches the mask and bolts away, laughing as they run.

You can't help but giggle at the child's mischievousness, the act briefly lifting your spirits. But when you turn back to the mirror you were inspecting, your laughter dies in your throat. The reflection staring back at you is not the vibrant, alive you. Instead, it's a decayed, spectral version of yourself—ashen and hollow-eyed. The image is so hauntingly real that it sends a shiver down your spine.

Jiaoqiu, noticing your change in demeanor, turns to see what has startled you. His eyes widen as he catches a glimpse of the mirror's reflection and then immediately turns to you. You, overwhelmed by the sight, turn and run out of the shop, desperate to escape the vision that haunts you.

You find yourself in a narrow alley, the walls closing in around you. You collapse against the wall, tears streaming down your face. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you clutch at your hair, trying to ground yourself amidst the overwhelming fear and sorrow. The alley is dimly lit, and you feel utterly isolated, the weight of your emotions crashing down on you like a wave.

Jiaoqiu follows, his concern growing with each step. He finds you huddled in the alley, shaking and crying. Without a word, he kneels beside you, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions. "Is this why you hate mirrors?" he asks gently, his voice filled with understanding rather than judgment.

Your sobs continue unabated, but you finally manage to choke out a response between gasps. "I... I hate mirrors because... they show what I've become. They show how... worthless I am. I don't want to see... that."

Before you can say more, Jiaoqiu's hand reaches out to touch your cheek, his fingers brushing away your tears. The act is tender, but his eyes are filled with a deep, unspoken emotion. Without warning, he pulls you into a kiss—soft, urgent, and full of raw emotion. His lips press against yours with a fervent intensity, conveying a depth of feeling that words alone could never capture.

The kiss is both comforting and electrifying, a balm to your shattered self. For a moment, the chaotic world outside the alley fades away, and all that remains is the closeness between the two of you. Jiaoqiu's embrace is firm and reassuring, and as he pulls back, his eyes meet yours with a quiet determination.

He doesn't say anything more.g to normal as you draw comfort from his presence. In his arms, you feel a flicker of hope, and although the pain and fear are still there, they are now softened by the warmth of his support.

Jiaoqiu, having witnessed the raw vulnerability you displayed in the alley, gently tries to comfort you as you both make your way back to the shop. "Did you eat any rice cakes today?" he asks, his tone laced with concern and a hint of curiosity.

You pause, suddenly realizing the underlying reason for his frequent kisses. As a divinity, your touch allowed him to taste the foods you consumed—something he couldn't experience otherwise. The realization strikes you like a dagger, the bitter truth of your situation dawning on you. It's a cruel irony that his way of connecting with you, through these kisses, was rooted in a form of longing for something he could never truly have.

A wave of sadness crashes over you, mingling with a deep sense of frustration and self-loathing. Tears start to well up in your eyes as the weight of the revelation becomes almost unbearable. The bitter taste of your own tears seems to mirror the bitterness you feel inside.

Feeling overwhelmed, you push Jiaoqiu away, your emotions spiraling out of control. "Don't be kind to me!" you cry out, your voice trembling with anguish. "You hate me, don't you? Just... just be bitter and leave me alone!"

With that, you turn and run, the raw pain driving you away from him. You dart towards a nearby river, desperate to escape from the turmoil inside you. Once you reach the riverbank, you see your reflection distorted by the rippling water. The sight triggers a torrent of emotions, and you begin hurling rocks at the water, each throw a manifestation of your rage and sorrow.

As the rocks splash into the river, you scream into the night sky, the sound of your cries echoing in the emptiness around you. "Stop it! Stop it! Just stop it!" you shout, your voice breaking with each anguished cry. The reflection in the water seems to mock you, a twisted image of yourself that you can't escape.

Your sobs come in harsh, gasping bursts, and you collapse to the ground, clutching at your chest. The rawness of your emotions leaves you feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Jiaoqiu approaches you slowly, his eyes filled with an intense mix of sorrow and determination. He gently takes your arm, his touch surprisingly warm and reassuring despite the turmoil of the moment. "Y/n," he says softly, "your twisted form... I don't care about it. I know it's only happened because.."

"Shut up! Just shut up!" you plead, your voice breaking as you grip his neck tightly. Your attempt to intimidate him falters as the depth of your desperation becomes apparent. You're not trying to scare him; you're reaching out for something, anything, to hold onto amidst the chaos.

Instead of retreating, Jiaoqiu pulls you closer, enveloping you in his embrace. His hold is firm yet gentle, a grounding force in the midst of your emotional storm. You cry out loudly, the sobs wracking your body as you let everything out. Your tears soak into his clothes, but he doesn't say a word, just holding you with a steady, comforting presence.

In your frenzied state, you find yourself kissing him urgently, almost desperately. The kisses are frantic, filled with a mix of need and confusion. Jiaoqiu responds to your fervor with a deep, heartfelt kiss, his hands gently cradling your head. The kiss is tender but filled with an unspoken promise of understanding and care.

The intensity of the moment finally begins to shift. The chaotic energy that had driven you to kiss him so fervently starts to transform into something softer, more poignant. As the kisses slow and become more deliberate...

You pull back slightly, your breaths coming in ragged gasps, and look into Jiaoqiu's eyes.

Jiaoqiu's response is sudden and intense. Without a word, he flips you gently but firmly, his lips crashing against yours in a passionate kiss. The force of his kiss pushes you back slightly, but you quickly respond, deepening the kiss with equal fervor. It's a storm of emotions, each kiss laden with unspoken words and a desperate need for connection.

Your hands find their way to his face, holding him close as you both lose yourselves in the kiss. Each touch, each brush of his lips against yours feels like a plea and a promise. "Will you kill me gently?" you whisper between kisses, your voice trembling with vulnerability. "Will you push your hate on me?"

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he continues to kiss you, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that speaks louder than any words could. The kisses are fervent and consuming, each one seemingly trying to convey a myriad of feelings all at once. The mix of desperation, tenderness, and yearning is palpable, and it's clear that he's trying to show you something through his actions.

His hands find their way to your head, his touch both firm and comforting. He gently holds you in place, his fingers brushing against your skin with a kind of reverence. His kisses become more deliberate, more filled with an unspoken message of care and devotion. The kisses are now a mix of praise and adoration, a silent declaration that you are his salvation, his source of hope in the midst of the chaos.

You feel yourself growing weaker with each kiss, but in a way that is soothing rather than debilitating. His touch, his kisses, they all seem to be drawing out the pain, replacing it with something more profound. You're held close, your hand resting on top of his as he continues to kiss you, his love and care evident in every movement.

He kisses you again, his touch is tender, yet it carries a weight of emotion that is both overwhelming and comforting. You feel yourself sinking into the moment, the world around you fading away as you and Jiaoqiu become the only two entities that matter.

The kiss is more than just a physical connection; it's a deep, soulful exchange that signifies a new beginning, a chance for healing and understanding. With each kiss, the barriers between you dissolve, leaving only the raw, unfiltered emotions that have been building between you.

When the kiss finally breaks, you're both left breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

You look into Jiaoqiu's eyes, your voice trembling but resolute. "You'll kill me in the best way, right? With a kiss... and a stab..." Your words are a mix of desire and resignation, the image of the intimate, yet painful, ending lingering in your mind. "Make it a perfect ending..." you whisper, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

Before you can say more, Jiaoqiu's lips find yours again, silencing you with a fervent kiss. His kiss is passionate and urgent, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that matches your own. The kiss is a mix of tenderness and desperation, a way for him to convey the depth of his feelings without words.

He holds you close, his hands gripping your face as if he's afraid to let go. His kiss becomes more intense, his tongue dancing with yours, coaxing out all the emotions and fears you've been holding inside. The kiss is a way to express his own tumultuous feelings, a way to show that despite everything, he's still here, still caring for you deeply.

He kisses you, you can feel the sharp edge of reality and fantasy blending together. The intensity of his kiss, the way he's holding you, it all feels like a prelude to something more profound. His actions are both a promise and a plea, a way of showing that he's willing to embrace whatever comes next, even if it means the end.

In the moment, you feel a sharp, searing pain as he presses a hidden dagger against your side. The pain is immediate and fierce, but it's accompanied by the warmth of his kiss, creating a disorienting mix of sensations. His tongue continues to explore your mouth, his kiss never faltering as he completes the act.

The world around you seems to blur as the pain and pleasure merge, creating a surreal experience that's both heartbreaking and beautiful. You feel yourself growing weaker, but there's a sense of peace that settles over you, knowing that you're not alone in this moment.

When the kiss finally ends, you both pull away, breathless and teary-eyed. Jiaoqiu looks at you with a mix of sorrow and resolve, his own eyes filled with a depth of emotion that speaks volumes. Despite the pain, there's a shared understanding between you, a connection that transcends words and actions.

You collapse into his arms, the pain and exhaustion overwhelming, but you feel a strange sense of contentment. Jiaoqiu holds you close, his own emotions a tumultuous mix of grief and relief. In this final moment, there's a profound sense of intimacy and acceptance, a testament to the deep bond you've shared despite the tumultuous journey.

#honkai star rail #hsr fanfic #honkai star rail fanfic #hsr x reader #hsr jiaoqiu #jiaoqiu x reader #jiaoqiu hsr #jiaoqiu

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sephirthoughts · 5 months ago

Text

Vincent's New Kid Just Dropped CH 11: Present Day With Short Deepground Flashback

NOTE: It's not a time skip in the Deepground section, it's just to frame Nero's physical trauma more. All that story is still going to be told!

Rating: Mature

WARNINGS: torture, captivity, phantom pain, PTSD

NOW WITH @siringadev's beautiful father-son art!

⚰️🕷️

father and son trying to out-edgelord each other but who is winning

it's vincent

After the Restrictor came, and they implanted those chips in everyone, they sedated Nero and carried him to a dark, cavernous place, in the lowest sub-level of Deepground. Industrial power tools whirred and shrieked. He awoke feeling the vibrations in his skull.

Men were locking heavy shackles onto his wings, at six points. The shackles, they attached to the type of chains that are used for boat anchors; made of iron and as thick as a man’s arm. The chains were hung through huge, steel rings, bolted to a massive support pillar, and hooked up to a construction winch, on the other side.

The Restrictor turned the winch and drew the chains tighter and tighter, laughing while the teenaged boy screamed in agony, pulling Nero’s wings higher and spreading them wider apart, till his shoulder blades felt like they were about to be dislocated, and his feet couldn’t properly rest on the ground.

That was the position he was locked in. Splayed against the gigantic support pillar, like a butterfly pinned to a display board. Muzzled and bound in a straitjacket. Chained by his wings, to the literal foundation of Deepground.

The only way to relieve the pain of bearing his weight on his wings, was to push himself up on tip-toe. He could only do that for so long, before his legs began to tremble with fatigue. Try as he might, his strength would eventually fail, and his legs give out. Then his wings would catch his full weight, and he would scream in agony again.

The Restrictor often lingered nearby, watching him go through this process, drinking in the boy’s tormented groans and cries of distress, with lascivious glee. But he also observed the boy growing stronger and stronger…and more dangerous.

Nero curled up, as the lightning bolts of pain racked his body again, mouth hanging open, a clear stream drool running out onto the floor. Where was his muzzle? Where was his straitjacket? He’d had some kind of cotton jersey shirt on his top half, but he had clawed and torn it to shreds, and it now lay in a purple pile on the floor.

He heard a noise behind him, but he didn’t have time to work out what it was, before he felt the darkness react to something, like a dog jumping in excitement, when its master walks in the door. Weiss! It must be Weiss! he thought, deliriously. Tears of joy leaked from the sides of his eyes, even as they were squeezed shut against the pain.

“W—Weiss…” he rasped, as the darkness reached out toward his beloved. His only one.

He was hauled up to a sitting position, and strong arms wrapped around him from behind, like bands of iron, compressing his crossed arms on his chest, in that familiar position. He was pressed tight against a stone-hard body and lifted to his feet, but…something was wrong. The darkness was curling happily around the person, but making no connection. Not Weiss! his mind screamed.

Enraged, Nero gave his lithe torso a sudden twist, like a snake, trying to wrench himself free, but the arms held him fast. “What the fuck!”

“Calm down,” a smooth, deep voice said, right in his ear. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Fuck you! Let me go!” he snarled, thrashing harder, still to no observable effect.

Vincent sighed. “Nero, I know you’re in pain. Let me help—”

“I don’t need your help you bastard!” he roared, kicking his legs, trying to throw this human monolith off balance. He may as well have struggled against the planet itself, for all the man moved. Panting and shaking with fatigue, from even that brief effort, he gave up and hung limply in Vincent’s arms. “I h—I hate you. Fucking die.”

“I can’t.”

As Vincent said this, the room exploded into a whirling, crimson blur, and suddenly, they were atop the roof of the house. Nero’s bare feet stood on the sandy grit of the roof tiles, and blowing wind brought the scent of rain, from the rolling, grey storm clouds, that were obscuring the moon.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, in real bewilderment.

“I think I can help, with your pain,” a rasping, resonant, entirely demonic voice answered. “But I can’t try it inside the house. My wings are too big.”

Chaos. The demon’s familiar aura sent shivers of elation up Nero’s spine and made him sick to his stomach, at the same time. He felt bloodthirsty, resentful, filled with rage and grief and underneath it all, a deep, hollow ache. A longing as fathomless as the abyss.

“How do you know I’m in pain?”

“Sephiroth explained, after you went upstairs.”

“Can he ever mind his own business?” Nero grumbled, under his breath.

Acting entirely without his input, Nero’s darkness tendrils suddenly burst out of the black markings all over his body and plunged directly into Chaos, connecting them, like it was plugging him into a power source.

Horrified, Nero tried to make them come back, but his knees buckled and his vision went blank, just then, his brain shorted out by the sudden exposure to unfiltered Chaos energy.

When his vision returned, the demon was still holding him, the same way—Nero’s arms restrained in straitjacket position, and his bare back pressed to its midsection—steadying him on his feet, so he didn’t fall off the roof.

He was trying work out what the hell Chaos was playing at, when he felt it. A dizzying rush of relief, pouring in through the wing brackets on his shoulder blades and coursing through his body. Lack of pain so potent, it was ten times more intoxicating than the headiest pleasure.

Involuntarily, Nero’s head dropped back onto Chaos’ chest and he gave a shuddering moan, as he began to unfurl the demon’s huge, membranous wings, slowly and stiffly, spreading them as wide as they could go.

Tears poured unchecked down his ashen face, weeping openly, as he stretched and folded the wings on the demon’s back, savoring every movement, feeling the contorted phantom segments straightening out, the excruciating knots loosening, the throbbing tautness unwinding.

Nero’s body now felt relaxed and comfortable, being held tightly in Chaos’ arms. Actually, he hadn’t felt this good since…well, in a long time. Now that they believed everything was back as it was supposed to be, the formerly tormented nerves were humming with vitality. Suddenly, the urge to use the wings he’d missed so sorely, was so strong he could taste it.

Nero’s own wings had nothing to do with his ability to defy gravity, so it was something of a shock to him, when he gave Chaos’ wings an exploratory flap, and the two rocketed into the air.

He jolted and cried out in alarm, as the ground fell away and the rooftop shrank below them at a dizzying speed. Chaos, however, appeared patently unconcerned, only taking control to give his wings a few beats (to stop them plummeting directly back out of the sky, and to gain some height for safety reasons), then returning control to Nero.

Nero wasn’t afraid of heights in the least, but he didn’t particularly want to smack into the earth like a meteor, so he scrambled to flap the massive wings. With an effort, he got them under good enough control to keep aloft, then gingerly began to try changing direction.

He was uncoordinated, and kept going awkwardly off kilter. They tumbled and veered multiple times, before he actually began to get the hang of it. But by the time half an hour had passed, Nero was able to fly in relatively steady circles, above the Valentine-Highwind property.

All this time, not a single word passed between himself and the ancient demon, whose body he was essentially sharing, at the moment, but at times he could feel its wordless intent, guiding him. Spread. Glide. Tuck. Bank left. More thrust on the right.

It occurred to him, with a series of complicated emotions, that his father was teaching him to fly. Just like a real father teaching his real son to ride a bicycle. Patiently and calmly, ready to catch him, if he fell. He felt something deep inside him, begin to crack.

Nero, being Nero, bridled and balked. Furious with himself, for being so soft and stupid, and letting himself be taken in so easily, he sullenly withdrew his control from the wings and let them fall, till Chaos lazily caught them and swooped back upward, with effortless elegance, as if it were no more difficult than breathing.

That drew Nero right back out of his morose ruminations. He had thought he’d been doing well, but he clearly had no idea what flying even was. Chaos used far fewer wing beats to achieve the same height and speed, and seemed to be exerting ten times less effort. What the hell? How was it that much different to what he’d been doing?

Spinning like a corkscrew, the demon rapidly ascended, higher and higher, till they emerged from the storm cover in the clear, black sky, where the air became thin and icy-cold, and the the moon shone pure and bright over the sea of clouds.

Nero was staring in undisguised awe at the tens of thousands of glittering stars, when Chaos tucked his wings tightly against his body and dropped abruptly into a freefall. Nero’s stomach flipped and he had to choke down a cry. They fell faster and faster, the wind beating furiously at his face, making his eyes tear up, as they plunged back into the grey clouds, plummeting earthward at terminal velocity.

Just above the treeline, Chaos extended his wings partway and used the downward momentum to shoot forward like a bullet, speeding over the blurred tops of the trees.

As if on cue, thunder rolled and lighting crackled, as the heavy clouds burst, at last. The cold water droplets lashed Nero’s face and his bare torso, as they flew at that logic-defying speed, but he was actually rather thrilled by it. He wasn’t bothered by cold, and he’d never felt rain before.

Apparently sensing that the weather didn’t trouble his passenger, Chaos kept going, soaring nonchalantly through blinding sheets of rain, doing spectacular loops and dizzying barrel rolls, throwing off spirals of water as they went.

Nero had to force down the swell of mirth, that bubbled up in his chest, at the idea of this apocalyptic demon playing around in the rain, to amuse itself. Chaos was having fun, and it showed. If he could have admitted it, without gagging to death, so was Nero.

More than two hours evaporated, and soon they were circling back around toward home—er…toward the Valentine-Highwind house. When they got in close, rather than landing, Chaos did that teleportation thing with the whirling crimson, and they were simply standing in Nero’s room.

Nero hadn’t got his sea legs yet, and turned around unsteadily to blink up at Chaos, who was Vincent again, in his slashed up black jeans and crimson henley, with that stupid headband, as usual. He was also perfectly dry, as opposed to Nero, who was soaking wet, from head to toe, black hair pasted to his white forehead, and quickly creating a puddle, on the wood floor.

Conveniently, Sephiroth (because the world had gone thoroughly insane, and the hero of Wutai was now some kind of super-housewife) had left folded bath towels on the dresser, and put the fresh linens on the bed, while they were out.

Before Nero could say anything, Vincent picked up an oversized bath towel and spread it open, holding it up between them, like a privacy screen. Not quite understanding the prudishness of the gesture, Nero peeled off his soaking wet jeans and underwear, then let Vincent wrap the plushy towel around him.

He still had no idea how to process what happened, tonight. No idea what it meant, or how to react. So he just stood there, dazed, while his father carefully rubbed his long hair, with the other towel.

Fatigue settled on him, with the warmth and the weight of the gentle touch. Now that the pain was alleviated, he was exhausted, down to his bones. Without realizing it, his eyes drooped shut, and his head began to tip forward, by degrees, till it was resting against Vincent’s chest.

Darkness tendrils slithered out of the black markings, all over his naked body, and coiled themselves around Vincent’s arms and waist and neck, like affectionate boa constrictors. If they could purr, they would have, fucking embarrassing things.

“Nero.”

“Mm?”

“The next time you’re in pain, don’t wait for it to become unbearable. Come to me, and I’ll help you.”

…

“Mn.”

THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING TO SAY:

nero the wet cat: *HISSSS GRRR HISSSSS* cat dad vincent: *pats dry with towel* nero the dry cat: …. *purr*

LINK TO NEXT CHAPTER:

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violettduchess · 1 year ago

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A/N: Cyran and Gilbert tied for second place in my poll. I was originally going to put them together in one headcanon but the styles were too different and it felt very disjointed, so they each get their own little fic.

Suitor: Gilbert, prompt: strawberry

An entry for Aqua and my Summer Days Sultry Nights CCC

WC: 854

Oh how excited you are, running through the dark stone halls of Obsidian, your treasure cupped in your hands. An angel on a mission, flying on invisible wings. Up the winding staircase you go, heart hammering, breathless with anticipation at showing him your miracle.

You burst through the dark Mahogany doors of his study. He’s at his desk, black quill in hand. You can tell by his posture he’s been here for hours: the tired roundness of his shoulders, the lax lay of his left hand beside the parchment he's perusing. The sound of your entrance turns his head and the sight of you is like the warmth of a sunbeam through glass on a cold winter’s day. He sets his quill aside without a second glance, holding out his arms in invitation.

“My Häschen comes bearing gifts,” he murmurs as you slide onto his lap, hands still cupped protectively. He anchors you against his body with one arm, bowing his upper body to rest his forehead against your shoulder, breathing in your scent like it’s as essential to him as oxygen.

“Look, Gil.” Although he could stay curled against you for eternity, he raises his head to look down at what you have brought him. Slowly you open your hands to reveal the riches you’re holding: A single, large, perfect strawberry. It still glistens from the water you washed it with, its size and ruby red color speaking volumes about the abundance of flavor it carries. He also knows the other reason you are smiling so brightly.

“It…..is from here?” You nod eagerly. You have been experimenting with gardening, working hard to try and find a way to get crops to grow in the arid Obsidian climate. How many nights has he come to bed to find you asleep, surrounded by botanical treatises and guides and lexica. Determination drove you and now you have managed to unlock the soil’s secret to provision. At least for strawberries.

“For you.” You hold it up in offering but he tilts his head. “Have you tried any yet?” Your silence confirms his suspicion. He reaches for the precious fruit, plucking it from your palm with deft fingers. “Seeing as how this is the first one, I believe the one who devoted so much time to its care should be the first to taste, oder?”

His eye is an even richer red than the strawberry and all you can do is smile in sweet defeat, knowing he won’t take no as an answer. Your gaze never leaves him, as if you were nothing but a speck of iron drawn by magnetic force. Not even when he raises the strawberry to your lips. “Open,” he commands, although his voice is practically a purr, soft and near the edge of rough. Your lips part and he holds the fruit to them. He watches, a man hypnotized by the white of your teeth as they sink into the flushed, succulent fruit, pale red juice immediately running from the broken flesh, over the curvature of your lips, across your tongue.

“Mmmm,” you sigh as you’re hit with the full-bodied taste of the strawberry. It’s the sweetness of summer, of sunshine, of long days and warm nights. It’s cool wind and cooler water. Shoeless feet tickled by green grass. It's fireflies and full moons. It's bare skin and sweat. Your eyes close as you savor the sensation. Gilbert watches your face, the euphoria that has your body going lax in his arms, the way your eyelids drop, stealing your gaze away from him. Your soft exhale of pleasure. Something hot and jagged suddenly bolts through him. He doesn’t want you looking like that, sounding like that, for any reason other than him.

He takes the half-eaten strawberry and sets it on his desk, rising suddenly, with you lifted into his arms. Startled, you cling to his neck as he carries you over to the large black velvet couch. “Gil?” Ever so slowly, he lays you down on your back, his expression alight with sharp intent as he leans over you. “I will have my taste now.”

You’re about to tell him that he left the strawberry on his desk when his body drops to press you into the softness of the sofa, his hands sliding up to hold your face as he lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours with all the swift resolve of a triumphal conqueror. He licks the leftover juice from your lips languidly, leaving not even a millimeter of them untasted. You gasp as he guides you, tilting your head so he can plunder your mouth, devouring you until he has lapped up every single essence of strawberry that lingered there. He is merciless, chasing that ghost of summer flavor until you are left breathless beneath him.

He breaks contact for a moment to look down into your face, now painted in shades of want and yearning and red-hot desire. And he smiles, satisfaction riding the blistering current of pleasure that rushes through his body.

Much better, he thinks. And then your hungry hands are in his hair, pulling him back to you and all thought is abandoned, much like the poor, half-eaten strawberry.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly @joiedecombat

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #gilbert von obsidian #ikepri gilbert #ikemen gilbert #summer days sultry nights ccc #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #violettwrites

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kaywavy · 9 months ago

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transforming soffits reorganizing keys formalizing immersion joints justifying kick extractors advising aggregates managing elbows recasting connectors achieving aluminum trowels officiating disks exhibiting absolute spigots progressing coil hydrants jerry-building reflectors informing casters inventing rubber hoists performing wrenches judging chalk adapters upgrading ignition paths

regrowing flashing recommending ratchets approving barriers sweeping impact fillers sewing mirrors detailing collectors enforcing measures distributing systems presenting plugs interwinding registers piloting ash diffusers gathering cranks supplying eave pockets undertaking scroll stops accelerating straps designing fittings protecting diamond boilers logging downspouts correlating shingles uniting mallets qualifying electrostatic lifts sharing clamps obtaining circular fluids ranking foundation gauges sensing miter brackets originating space networks translating drills regulating guards selecting gable padding utilizing pellet dowels reconciling artifacts altering pulleys shedding space filters determining vents representing mortar remaking flash rakers supporting funnels typecasting rotary chocks expressing junctures resetting auxiliary vises professing strip treads inlaying matter trowels questioning drivers forming edge fittings sketching blanks overshooting spark breakers rewriting controls playing tunnels inventorying buttons enduring joint handles effecting ratchet bibbs unwinding couplings forsaking vapor conduits defining sockets calculating heaters raising grids administering tiles measuring resources installing ignition remotes extracting corners manufacturing ventilators delegating consoles treating mounting stones enacting jig deflectors intensifying alleys improvising cargo pinpointing bobs prescribing arc masonry structuring metal chucks symbolizing lathes activating plumb kits adapting coatings fixing channels expediting cordage planning compressors enlisting hangers restructuring keyhole augers shearing ridge hardware collecting reciprocating bolts maintaining corrugated dimmers whetting hole collars conducting mandrels comparing assets compiling sealants completing paths composing equivocation wheels computing dampers conceiving electrostatic treatment ordering cotter grates organizing ties orienting ladders exceeding materials targeting thermocouples demonstrating emery stock expanding latch bases training wardrobe adhesives overcomming[sic] fasteners streamlining storm anchors navigating springs perfecting turnbuckles verifying gate pegs arbitrating arithmetic lifts negotiating outlets normalizing strips building surface foggers checking key torches knitting grinders mowing planers offsetting stencils acquiring bulbs adopting rivets observing avenues ascertaining coaxial grommets slinging wing winches instituting circuit generators instructing wicks integrating pry shutters interpreting immersion lumber clarifying coils classifying wood bits closing cogs cataloging matter strips charting holders conceptualizing push terminals stimulating supports overthrowing shaft spacers quick-freezing connectors unbinding ground hooks analyzing eyes anticipating gateways controlling proposition rollers converting power angles coordinating staples correcting benders counseling joist gaskets recording gutter pipes recruiting drains rehabilitating rafter tubes reinforcing washers reporting guard valves naming freize sprues nominating rings noting straps doubling nailers drafting circuit hoses dramatizing flanges splitting framing compounds refitting stems interweaving patch unions placing sillcocks sorting slot threads securing mode cutters diverting catharsis plates procuring load thresholds transferring syllogism twine directing switch nuts referring time spools diagnosing knobs discovering locks dispensing hinges displaying hasps resending arc binders retreading grooves retrofitting aesthetics portals seeking stocks shrinking wormholes assembling blocks assessing divers attaining lug boxes auditing nescience passages conserving strikes constructing braces contracting saw catches serving installation irons recognizing fluxes consolidating fuse calipers mapping shims reviewing chop groovers scheduling lag drives simplifying hoists engineering levels enhancing tack hollows establishing finishing blocks

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fantasyqueen502 · 1 year ago

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Happenstance

Word Count: 1,650

Summary: What if Daryl didn't meet Leah during his time outside of Alexandria's walls looking for Rick? A short story idea that most likely has grammatical errors. Let me know. Feel free to comment, like, and enjoy.

Relationship: Daryl x unnamed Male OC

Rated: PG-13

Brief strong language, brief nudity, mentions of death and injury.

Peering around the brush, goosebumps rose on the back of his neck from the eyes watching him. The shuffling of leaves triggers his bolts. Loading and shooting along the moving bushes, he loaded his final bolt, halting at a dog who barked chaotically. Whimpering when Daryl lifted his bow caused the dog to keep his distance.

The hunter drops his bow. "Dumb dog," he says, marching off. The dog follows him, leaping and jumping to get his attention. After killing a snake, the dog takes it, running away with it. "I'm going to turn you into a coat, c'mere!" He growls. Slowly to a stop, catching his breath. Looking up, the dog waits, tail wagging. Waiting for the archer to catch his breath.

Turning to leave again, the dog whimpers and whines, resulting in the dog getting a mouthful of the archer's vest by yanking on it.

Following the dog through the woods, came to the sight of a man hanging by his ankle. Walkers below were lapping up blood that dripped from his crown. The man giggles, waving his dangling hands inches out of their reach. Taking care of the dead and pacing around the swinging man, a smile was still present on his bright red face. He was surprised he had any brain cells left alive. It looks like he had been hanging for a while—maybe a day or two.

"Duck!" The man exclaims. Daryl flinches, holding his head and looking behind him. The man opens his arms out wide for the dog, who scampers over, leaping up.

Following the rope to the anchor, untying it slowly lowered the man to the ground. The dog barks and leaps about with glee, jumping up onto the hunter and licking his chin, causing the man to grunt in surprise, shoving the dog and spitting the slobber from his mouth. Paying no mind, the canine pads over to lick his master's face. The man groans, his face puffy and discolored.

"Should keep 'im on a leash." The hunter growls, yanking the man's leg, cutting the rope from his ankle, letting it fall, causing the man to wince. "He steal my kill again. I'm killin' the both of ya'." He spat. Snatching up the dead snake, The man laughs as the dog licks under his chin.

The man and his dog trek through the woods. A glimmer catches his eye, and thank God for that. As it was the metal shine of a dagger singing through the air His body acted faster than his mind, his knees collapsing and the dagger pinning the cloth of his shoulder to a thick oak behind him.

The blood left his head gasping at what could have been his death four inches to the right.

"What're you doing here?" the hunter barks, marching out of the brush. He gawks, mouth wide, as the man grabs the handle, freeing his shoulder with ease, not even giving him a second glance.

"I wanted to gift you as a sort of thanks for saving me," he stammered. Extending a handful of berries.

The hunter snares and glances down at the handful of berries. "Elderberries."

"I'd be happy to share..."

"You'd die choking on your own vomit," he grunted, turning on his heel, leaving the man who shutters the berries tumbling out of his trembling fingers at the idea of almost dying if he wasn't so focused on thanking the hunter who saved him and Duck.

Tracking back to his campsite, he was tired and disheartened, marking on the map Xs on areas along the river he had searched. He let out a sigh, fondling the large paper and shoving it into his pack.

Red

He furrows his brows at a small pile of strawberries on a cloth. He huffs, having an idea of the culprit. Scooping up one from the pile, inspecting it, and popping the entire thing into his mouth. He hums, closing his eyes to savor the explosion of sweet flavor.

Untying a dead rabbit from one of his many traps around his camp, dog snatches it. Bowing and hoping to be chased. The dog lures him. The dog barks as he comes to a hill to see his owner waist-deep in the shallow waters. The hunter halts midstep, heat rushing to his face and his heart beating in his ears. Duck barks, startling Daryl as he tumbles forward, ending with a splash.

"Fuckin'," he groans from the ache in his tailbone and the hurt forming in his raw palms, desperately trying to stop his fall. His mud-caked bangs made him completely blind.

"You?"

"Damn it." Daryl hissed.

"Are you okay? That was quite a fall. Is anything broken?" Careful hands cradling under his chin. "I'm fine." He snaps quickly, marching out of the waterhole.

Now dressed, the man picks the debris with a pair of tweezers buried in the hunter's palm.

"Stop your fussing," he scolds, tightening his grip on Daryl’s hand when he tries to pull away.

Daryl finds himself bumping into the man (most of the time it was Dog finding him, luring the man and himself to each other).

He would never admit it, but he didn't mind the company.

"How 'bout you and Dog stay here?" he mumbles, finding his feet interesting. After a moment of silence, he wills his eyes to look at a smile. "Wipe that dumbass grin off your face."

"Is "the" Daryl Dixon asking me to move in with him?" He would grin even wider if it were possible.

"No, I'm tired of saving your ass from a walker, or a cyot, or some gang." He defends.

"And so if I stay at your camp, you'll protect me." He bats his lashes.

"Nevermind." He mumbles as he gathers his weapons.

"C'mon, I'm teasing."

"Hope a bear eats you." He snaps and marches off.

"I knew it! This was a set-up so you can take custody of Duck."

"It's not my fault the mutt likes me more." He answers. "Keep calling him Duck when he’s a Dog might have something to do with it."

"I was willing to trust a pretty face."

“Don't call me pretty."

"But you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Agree to disagree."

He turns, causing the man to stop mid-step. Face blank, he grins up at the Archer.

"You annoy the ever living shit outta me. Yea know that." He says it in his face.

"Yes, but I love you reminding me." He grabs his hand as a sort of safety measure when crossing a mud pit.Daryl couldn't help but smile.

They find an abandoned cabin, and after clearing it out, the man kills two walkers with ease.

"What?" he asks, catching the slack-jawed expression on the usually stoic hunter's face. Brushing the hair from his eyes and cleaning his knife on his pants.

"Nothing." He shrugs.

The man wakes the hunter, who has nightmares of his time at the sanctuary. Holding him close, running his hand through his hair has his strong arms gripping him like a lifeline.

Mornings of making breakfast and talking about their lives before. The man has been an actor in some children's shows for many years.

"The great magician Abra Kadab, very original, I know. I loved the kids."

"What happened?"

"Some paparazzi photos leaked of me and my boyfriend at the time at a bar."

"Why does that matter?"

"It was a very sensitive network. "Think of the kids". He mocks shock and horror.

"Then the world ended, so I hope those bastards are all dead." He shrugs with a smile.

In an abandoned cabin in the woods, Duck lays at the man’s feet as he watches the hunter fill up a bowl of stew in the fireplace. He places the bowl in front of him. Scooting a chair closer to the man.

"You need to put something on your stomach." He pushes the bowl closer. "I want you to take two bites, c'mon."

He stares until the man manages a small mouthful. The spoon clattered into his bowl. He exhales a breath, rolling his shoulders. His completion was pale, dark circles of sunken eyes.

"C’mere," he instructs. Unbuttoning his shirt, a patch on his chest over his heart. Peeling it off to show a perfect bite mark. A simple walk through the woods was something they did every day. The skin around it is beginning to turn pink. The man struggles but stands. Sidestepping from side to side Reaching for his arms, he tugged on them like noodles, but he didn't budge.

"Dance with me." He whines.

"Got bit on purpose. To have me all to yourself." He grumbles.

"I've caught me."

They dance by simply stepping left and right. Daryl kept a secure hold as his grip on his hand and shoulder slipped from time to time.

"Take care of, Dog."

"Thought he was Duck."

The man chuckles weakly. "I don’t think I’ll be around to correct you anymore."

"Don’t," he says, shaking his head. "Don’t say that. You’re gonna be fine," he assures, chewing on his lip.

"Yeah," he says, playing along. "We live out the rest of our days in this cabin. Two old men and a dog." He chuckles, his eyes heavy, leaning in to touch his nose with the hunter’s. Daryl chuckles, watching the man closely and finding himself pulled in, his lips meeting the corner of his mouth. Kissing the smile, the man hums, turning his head for a proper kiss.

Duck whines, sad eyes darting from Daryl, striking a pile of dirt and dumping it into a grave. The hunter grunts until the pile is gone, patting the earth flat. Letting a tear fall, staring at the unmarked grave, taking a breath, and looking over to the dog.

"Let's go, Duck.”

#daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon #norman reedus #twd #the walking dead #daryl dixon x male reader #daryl dixon x male oc

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justwriteryan · 1 year ago

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MEANWHILE IN THE BATSON HOUSEHOLD...

Interior shot. Day. A teenage boy is sitting on the couch enjoying a bowl of cereal. He’s watching anime on TV. This is BILLY BATSON’s ideal Saturday morning. The sound of a cell phone buzzing beside him steals his attention away. Billy sees a text from his sister, Mary.

CHECK THE NEWS!!!

Billy sighs. He lifts the remote and changes the channel. News 52. The banner racing across the foot of the screen reads: METAHUMAN EMERGENCY IN KHANDAQ.

There is news footage of a powerfully built man hovering in the air above a city of tall buildings. Smoke and debris float around them. It’s a warzone. The figure turns toward the camera far below him. His eyes are glowing. Sparks of lightning dance from his fingertips. His outfit is black as night, save for a single golden lightning bolt on the chest.

NEWS ANCHOR: IF you’re just joining us, we’re getting reports of a major Metahuman emergency in the nation of Khandaq. Eyewitnesses are claiming the Justice Society were at the scene but their whereabouts remain to be seen. No information on the identity of this super-powered individual but based on their appearance and the powers they’ve displayed, there may be a connection to the flying superheroes of Philadelphia.

Billy’s jaw drops. His spoon falls out of his hand. The news camera zooms in and we get a better look at the menacing face of BLACK ADAM.

BILLY: Oh, sh-

Cut to black. A single word cuts through the dark.

SHAZAM!

Look, we all loved the Henry cameo (as futile a gesture as it turned out to be). But this would have been a much more fitting Black Adam post-credits.

#fanfic #fanfiction #creative writing #dcu #dc universe #dc fanfic #captain marvel #shazam #billy batson #black adam #post credit scene

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i-did-not-mean-to · 4 months ago

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Virginity

Only mild suggestive content for this <3

As every month, it has been an honour and a joy!

Prompt: Virginity -First Kiss

Pairing: Turgon x Finrod

Words: 1100

Warnings: Virginity, Seduction, work relationship, questionable power dynamics

Finrod was about to call it a night. He’d taken his coat and had dutifully tidied his desk to leave everything spick and span for the long weekend ahead—thus padding along the old, horrifyingly tiled hallway leisurely, he suddenly caught a sliver of light cutting across the worn floor like a blade.

For a moment, he hesitated.

After having squandered most of his youth with wonderfully enjoyable and entirely unregretted frivolities, he’d grudgingly accepted a post as a teaching assistant at the local university to placate his worried family.

Initially, Finrod had not intended to stay here long, but the surprisingly young and sinfully handsome professor he’d been assigned to had inadvertently convinced him to linger in this wholly inappropriate career for longer than he’d ever stayed in a previous job.

Pressing his lips together, he knocked on the door. Probably, he thought, Turgon had merely forgotten to turn off the lights—stupidly hoping and dreaming that he’d find himself alone with his bewitching superior on the deserted campus, as he well knew, would only lead to bitter regrets that might well ruin his enjoyment of the long drive ahead of him.

When his eyes hit the figure, bent intently over a stack of papers, Finrod suppressed a tremulous sigh.

Of course, someone as diligent as Turgon would never leave the light in his tiny, orderly office burning or omit to lock the door.

Finrod’s overactive imagination bolted, flooding his head with deliciously devious visions of utter depravity at once.

He cleared his throat awkwardly—he knew that he shouldn’t, by rights, even be here, disturbing Turgon in his late-night musings, but the idea of being caught gawking at the other man was more mortifying than to announce his trespassing brazenly.

“Oh? I thought you’d left already,” Turgon gasped when he lifted his slightly blurry gaze and tried to get his eyes to focus on the golden apparition of youthful beauty standing in front of him. “Is there a problem? Is the gate stuck again?”

“No, I…I didn’t make it outside yet,” Finrod admitted. “I saw light in your study, and I wanted to check whether…”

He didn’t quite know how to finish that sentence.

“Indeed,” Turgon said with a discreet cough after a moment of prolonged silence. “I thought you had plans for the long weekend?”

“Don’t you?” Finrod burst out, letting his eyes sweep through the room before settling his sparkling gaze on the stern, statuesque visage of the enigma that occupied and tormented his thoughts more often than he cared to admit.

“No,” Turgon admitted. “My family does not have a summerhouse by the sea.”

Something—presumably the thing that had driven him halfway across the world and from one adventure to the next—reared its reckless head deep within Finrod’s soul.

“You’re very welcome to join me! You work too much, you know? Some strong cocktails and sweet kisses by the ocean would do you good.”

“Kisses?” Turgon asked sharply.

Under the merciless glare of the overhead fixture, it was cruelly evident that his face had heated up with either anger or embarrassment.

Sliding closer, Finrod grinned charmingly. “Yeah, kisses. You know what they are, right? Otherwise, I spot a dictionary just over yonder—I can fetch it for you.”

“In theory, I’m familiar with the concept,” Turgon replied tersely, drawing up his shoulders defensively.

“I have a sister, brothers, and some of my cousins might join us,” Finrod smirked. “And—if that’s not too forward an offer—there’s also always me.”

Again, Turgon coughed. The sound betrayed definite nervousness now, which only emboldened Finrod further.

By now, he’d managed to wedge himself between Turgon and the blasted documents he kept perusing blindly as if to anchor himself.

This extraordinary feat of flexibility and grace had been achieved by purposefully throwing one long leg over the chair, to which the other seemed rooted, while pushing aside the paperwork with his perky behind.

“Have you really never kissed anyone?” he purred into Turgon’s ever so slightly pink ear.

“Maybe nobody’s ever bothered kissing me,” the captive professor murmured defiantly.

“Highly unlikely. Nevertheless, that can be changed. Would that please you? After all, your wish is my command, boss.”

Turgon’s head snapped up sharply, and he immediately lost himself in the sea-green depths of Finrod’s gleaming eyes—he found that he longed to take his mouthy assistant by his word and accompany him to the seaside to drown in that cool, sparkling colour.

“I’m waiting,” Finrod hummed gently.

“Very well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess,” Turgon said, realising too late that he was babbling—an undignified habit he thoroughly despised—and closing his mouth just in time to feel warm, soft lips brush playfully against his tingling skin.

Finrod, he learned, smelled like summer and sun, and his lips bore the faint taste of the disgustingly sticky candies he ate all day long.

Bracing his feet against the carpeted floor and surging up, Turgon dove into that careful kiss with all the unleashed, uncontrollable hunger of a man who’d been denied such a bounty for too long.

“Come with me,” Finrod pleaded, toppling off the desk and into Turgon’s lap with a muted moan. He would not have cared if they’d fallen over, because even the idea of cracking open his skull against the old, rusty radiator was a risk he’d have taken if it meant that he’d get closer to that tall, firm body he’d thus far only ever touched in his most outrageous, unprofessional dreams.

“I don’t know about these things,” Turgon whimpered as he felt Finrod’s daring hand slip between their bodies to trace the bulge of his growing arousal teasingly. “I’ve never…”

“You’ve been so good to me,” Finrod interrupted, punctuating every word with another nipping kiss. “You’ve taught me the ropes of this job. Let me pay you back—I’ll be your teacher this time.”

The incredulous expression on the other’s face made him guffaw aloud.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be more patient and upbeat than you’ve been. Please, dear Turno, say you’ll try. For me. With me!”

Mirroring Finrod’s ministrations of literal prestidigitation, Turgon bit his lip when his fingers found his teaching assistant fully engorged and straining against the smooth fabric of his light-grey trousers.

He was not only welcome—he was wanted.

Stronger minds and souls than he had succumbed to the siren call of unequivocal, unabashed desire, Turgon knew, and so he felt blameless as he ultimately nodded slowly.

“Is this your letter of resignation?” he asked, regret and anticipation warring within his heaving chest.

“Yes.”

-> Masterlist

@tolkienpinupcalendar Here's another one from me <3

@fellowshipofthefics let's finish with a cute one: First Kiss.

#og post #tpcgentlejune #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #sweet smut #Turgon #Finrod #Turgon x Finrod #Finale #Virginity #First Kiss

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