#like doc is suddenly dead???

[bloodgulchblog]

While I sympathize with being frustrated that your favorite character wasn't the center of a story, I must point out that he had three fucking seasons where his character arc was at the core of the show, that was probably the best of it, and maybe it's fine somebody else got one that wasn't even particularly good.

[gravedwe11er]

Mecha AU Deadlock angst? Mecha AU Deadlock angst!

Or, I saw a post mentioning that someone is gonna have to explain human lifespans to the bots, and my brain ran with it. Based on the @keferon mecha AU.

CW: Discussions of death and mortality

Human and cybertronian lifespans are such wildly disparate things. Deadlock struggles with this newfound knowledge.

Forty local stellar cycles. Maybe fifty, if he’s one of the lucky ones.

Now, even before his crash-landing on this planet, Deadlock knew enough about organics to be aware they’re generally not as long-lived as mechanical species. Comes with being so breakable all over, if he had to guess, but-

That’s barely half a fragging vorn.

Even if he gets lucky, even if, for once, Deadlock doesn’t fail at keeping the people he cares about safe, the little organic medic is going to be dead in half a vorn. ‘That’s just how things are, for humans,’ Swerve said. ‘I’m sorry,’ Swerve said.

Slag, and what about Roddy? Deadlock’s pretty sure the pilot is younger than Ratchet, but still- that gives him, how long, a vorn? Less? Even the very thought of it just feels so damn wrong. The little guy’s so bright, how could anyone with an EM field like a fucking Prime have the lifespan of--

Deadlock desperately wants to shoot something.

Instead, he drives towards Ratchet’s workshop, transforming the moment he’s out of sight and heading straight for the doc once he finds him in the garage. It’s yet another testament to the man’s caring nature that he lets himself get picked up with only token grumbling, throwing a concerned look Deadlock’s way but not pushing the matter.

The human medic has always been scarily good at reading him. In moments like these, Deadlock can’t help but be overwhelmingly grateful for it.

Hugging the man to the side of his helm, he soon feels a small, calloused hand running gently down one finial. Deadlock wants to scream. The injustice of it all making his processor spin, his spark thrumming with pain and fear and overwhelming grief. How can he bear to lose all this so soon? He’s only just found him, the first glimpse of something like peace in eons, and he can’t deal with the thought of him gone, he can’t-

Ratchet grunts in his servos, knocking loudly on one of Deadlock’s fingers, and with a jolt he realizes just how tight he’s been holding the man. Immediately, he loosens his grip, gently petting down the doc’s back in silent apology. After a moment, a warm ser- hand pats his cheek.

“Feel like telling me what’s eating you, kid?” Ratchet asks, before lightly pushing against Deadlock’s face.

Responding to the wordless request, Deadlock pulls his cupped hands away from his helm, just enough so he can look into the human medic’s opti- eyes. He scrambles for a way to express his racing thoughts, vocalizer hissing with static, before abruptly spitting out, “Are you dying?”

To his surprise, the man bursts out laughing. “Shit, where’d you get that idea?” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Now, as much as I’m sure a bunch of my previous employers would love to dance on my grave, let me assure you that I’m perfectly fi-“

“But you’re not!” Deadlock almost shouts, engine growling. “He said- decay of organic components, and human lifespans are-“ his voice gets stuck in his throat, vocalizer jamming, and he offlines his optics for a moment. Tries to get his slag together, at least a little.

When he turns them on again, all the mirth has left his human’s face. The medic’s eyes are serious, a sad sort of expression on his face, and Deadlock wants to curl himself around the man and never let go.

“Right,” sighs Ratchet, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I was sort of hoping you knew about that already.”

The last flutter of hope he was harboring vanishes. “So he was right? You only live for- eighty, ninety of your years?”

“Afraid so, kid,” says the man, suddenly looking so fragile in Deadlock’s palms. “Look, I know it’s not a lot to your kind, but-“

“And there’s nothing to be done? Can’t you- figure something out?”

He’s reaching and he knows it, but the human looks so- accepting of it. Like it’s a perfectly normal thing, to barely get to live at all before your body breaks down and dies, just like that!

Ratchet shakes his head with a wry smile. “Not how that works. People have been trying, sure, but nobody ever really got anywhere. And even if we did manage to drastically expand our lifespans somehow, the psychological effects it would have… we’re just not made for that, Deadlock,” he says, patting Deadlock on the nearest finger; a ghost of a touch, but still comforting. “I, hah, appreciate your faith in me kid, but not even I can do miracles.”

“I just don’t- how the fuck can you be so alright with that?” Deadlock asks, feeling utterly miserable.

The man snorts. “What else is there to do? It’s not like worrying about it would fix anything, and I’m not going to waste my life thinking about my death.” Then the human’s gaze softens, and he stands up to be more optic-level with Deadlock. “Listen to me. I know this is a hard pill to swallow, but there’s nothing you, or anybody else, can change about it. The only thing you can do,” he says gently, reaching a hand towards Deadlock’s cheek, “is make the most of it.”

Deadlock exvents, suddenly feeling deeply tired. “Right. Right, I guess I just- gotta make it count, then,” he mutters, carefully leaning into the contact and the comfort it brings.

Ratchet smiles at him. “That’s the spirit. Have fun with Roddy- safe fun,” he quickly adds. “Take him on drives, or, hell, feel free to bum around my workshop as usual, if that’s what you want. You know I don’t mind the company, provided you behave yourself,” says the doc, his words punctuated by a mock-threatening look. “Just… try enjoy the time you have with us, okay?”

“Mkay,” he answers, voice still choked with static, before pulling the little medic to his chestplates. This close to his spark, he can read the human’s odd, tiny EM field with perfect clarity – concern, quiet affection and a deep kind of care rolls off of him in waves. Sometimes, Deadlock wishes he could tangle their fields together properly, synchronizing their frequencies in an embrace only possible for his kind, but- this is good too. More than good, really – it’s something unique to the two of them, and that makes it perfect as far as he’s concerned.

“Now, I’d really like to know which tactless bastard just dropped all this on you,” jokes Ratchet, the vibrations of the man’s voice tickling pleasantly against his plating, “so I can go brain them with a wrench for it.”

Despite himself, Deadlock snorts. “I think Swerve might be a little outside your size class, doc.”

“Oh, don’t you underestimate me, kid!” the medic grumbles, but he’s laughing too, and the return to the usual banter eases some of the weight on Deadlock’s spark.

Forty stellar cycles, maybe fifty.

He’ll make those years count.

He’ll make them be enough.

(Maybe, if he repeats it a few hundred times more, he’ll make himself believe it, too.)

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine, I kept thinking about a Kamisato Ayato in a modern day AU in which him and the reader were going through a divorce because things are not going the way it was supposed to be and the marriage is just not working out anymore. When suddenly, suddenly he had an amnesia.

Imagine instead of his mistress, it was you whom he kept looking for, demanding to see upon waking up after the accident. Leaving his mistress baffled and confused just as you are upon arriving at the hospital, hoping that little shitty of a husband dead only to find him demanding and desperately looking for you in the midst of this messy and chaotic moment.

"Anata." His voice soften in contrast to his shouts earlier before you enter the room, doctors, nurses and his mistress all inside. "Anata." He called out again but you just stood there as he desperately tried to call your attention. "Anata, who are these people inside the room? What's happening?" He called out and question you, you knew he was calling you because he was looking at you, not anyone but you. Which is pretty funny because he haven't called you that for years, ever since the marriage started falling apart.

"He must have hit his head pretty hard Doc." You spoke nonchalantly, not in the mood to deal with all this bullshit. "It's been years since he called me like that. Can someone explain to me what's happening with my husband?" "Husband? Then who-?" "His mistress." You replied. "As I'm saying- asking rather, can someone explain to me what happened to this guy over here?" "... Very well, Mr. Kamisato over here is involved in a car accident and had brain concussion. As we can see..."

Imagine walking into the room, not that you want to. But upon walking into the room, you are quite surprised to find him alone in there. You were quite expected him to have his mistress with him but turns out that was not the case. "Who's that?" "Who's who?" "That person who was here earlier calling me her lover." "Oh. Well she is exactly who she said she was, she's your lover." You answered, sitting on the sofa inside the private room. Looking away and pulling your phone to check out your notifications. Because goddammit, how dare he look so hurt by those words?

"She what-? Why? Tell me you're joking." You have never seen him look so confused before. Looking back and forth to the notifications on your phone and to the man right in front of you. You sigh, causing him to flinch. "The doctor told me you can be dismissed in two days because you're still under observation. And while you're current suffering from amnesia, they said there was still a possibility of you regaining your memories so don't treat her pretty harshly. I know it could be confusing at first but you'll het over it." You explain and then stood up, "Then, I'll get going now."

Imagine glancing at him only to see him look so broken, like he was waiting, begging for someone to wake him from his dream, from his nightmare. You look away, it's not like it hurts to see him like that. It stopped hurting years ago. Nevertheless, once again you sigh. "Anata-" "I can't have children." "It doesn't matter-" "Well it does now, Ayato." You smile softly at him. "And that explains everything." You added before turning your back at him and walking towards the door. "Oh right, please sign the divorce paper. You wouldn't want your future child to be labelled illegitimate, no?"

Imagine hearing him call out- scream after you but you just kept walking without looking back. You ignore his cries and call with all your might, and walking past the corridor, "Go on, comfort him." You said as you walked pass the woman. "I'm sorry." She said, sounding like she was about to cry and you couldn't help but to smile a little, "No, I'm sorry." You replied as you continue to walk your way out of the hospital.

Imagine going inside the car, your cachuffere already waiting for you inside. And in the middle of the ride, "Want to smoke?" "Nahh" You declined as you look at the city lights. "Are you sure you wouldn't regret this?" "What are you talking about." You chuckle. "He might remember everything one day." "He won't. And even if he did, he wouldn't be able to do anything by then." You answered. "He would hate you." "Then much better." You replied.

"Is it?" "Hmm?" "For the better?" Well in comparison to the amount of suffering he has to go through cause by his elders just because he has yet to produce a heir to the clan, questioning and criticising his title as the chairman and chief of the Kamisato clan, it would be much better to get rid of his one of only flaw. His spouse that couldn't give him a heir. Closing your eyes, this is nothing, "Yeah, for the better." I'm sorry, my love.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: I'm getting a hang of this crocheshit. Ily may pasok na ko bukas yawa ayoko na pumasok. Also, this imagine escalated real quick like no sht. I was writing this for fluff but???

[thewinchestah]

"PREY" - Alastor x reader fic

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Tags: One-Shot, 18+, Smut, NSFW, edging, begging, overstimulation, Alastor does what he wants, there's plot if you squint really hard, alastor in heat, breeding kink, degradation kink, praise kink,

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Word Count: i lost count. it's big.

  | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

A/N: Helloooooo!!! I write a lot but i never publish it! My lovely friend and also biggest inspiration for this fic @smallershorteranduncut ordered me to post this and i'm nothing but her loyal servent! I hope you guys enjoy the fruits of me writing 10 google docs pages today while i was enraged. Also english isn't my first language, no beta we die like men here yadayayfayada! enjoy <;3 (UPDATE!) Part 2 is now up!

-

Everything about the Radio Demon seemed to be designed to make you desire him, want him. Many times in ways you weren’t even ready to admit to yourself. You haven’t been in Hell long, that’s true. But ever since you manifested here you felt like someone had picked your brain open to make Alastor the perfect bait to lure you into even more sinful, sinister paths. 

He had an inexplicable magnetism around him, a piercing presence that made your eyes stuck on him when he worked a room. He had you bewitched and you hadn’t share more than polite pleasantries with each other since you became a guest at the hotel.

Today, again, you were transfixed in his gaze. Sitting in the corner of the hotel lobby, trying to make your embarrassing attraction to him go unnoticed while Alastor waltzed across the room explaining more of his wicked plans to Charlie. God, how you wish he had his wicked way with you. 

He seemed more… on edge today. His red eyes  glowed a little brighter, his nostrils flared a bit more, static filling the room more often, he was smiling with almost barred teeth, and everyone seemed to be avoiding him. Even Charlie was trying to politely dismiss him, the general feeling of uneasiness inside the hotel  just growing larger when Angel stationed himself near your little corner of the room. 

“Don’t go near that creepy motherfucker today, he’s about to lose it.”  Angel alerted, almost whispering, a pair of his hands making the “crazy sign” near his head 

“Isn’t he always creepy and about to lose it?” Husk added, staring at the exchange between the radio demon and Charlie.

“I’m telling you toots, I know that guy definitely isn't normal, but today he is borderline a mass extinction event. I swear, he’s just waiting for someone to give him the excuse” Angel replied, confirming your suspicions. Something was off.

“Uh. Well, about that, I think it’s time we rescue Charlie” 

As if on cue Charlie turned to the corner of the room, gesticulating really hard to be taken away from the small commotion her conversation with Alastor was becoming. 

“Hey Charlie, do you remember that thing with the hotel’s… personalized stationery you asked me to help you today? Let’s do it!” Said angel gently guiding Charlie away from the Radio Demon.

“Guess that’s my cue Alastor! Greaaaaat chat! As always! Have a nice day!! Byeee!” Charlie’s overly chirpy tone giving away her uneasiness. 

Suddenly it felt like all the air was taken out of the room. Alastor’s neck turned into an ungodly angle, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Static grew around the group, almost suffocating. As your vision went blurry from the sheer power that was being evoked, you contemplated if there was another afterlife. Preferably one where you didn’t inherit a death wish from your previous ones.

And as quick as it started, it was over. 

Alastor just said a creepy “hm” turned on his hell, and walked away. 

It almost felt like it was all in your head, but your friends standing perfectly still and dead silent next to you gave the reality of the situation away: everyone just had a near death-death experience. Maybe it would be a good topic for Charlie’s bonding exercises, who knows with this place. 

“I told ya’ll. Mass. Extinction. Event. Stay out the psycho’s way”

Angel’s voice became background noise in your head, your eyes focusing on the spot where Alastor just threatened everybody’s life without saying a word. As the voices dissipated around you and normalcy slowly returned to the hotel, your mind sank deeper and deeper into the mystery that was the Radio Demon. 

-

They were so oblivious, so naive. Thinking he wasn’t listening what they said about him behind his back. Thinking he was unaware of him being the topic of the discussion when he wasn’t looking. He could bathe in the smell of their fear, and he was relishing it. 

Alastor stared at the new pretty little thing that arrived at the hotel. Oh how pathetically sweet and innocent she was, thinking she was being subtle about her infatuation with him. Thinking she could hide her interest in him, when she was nothing but a doe caught in the headlights of his eyes. Oh, she was just the perfect prey for him, wrapped in this lovely red bow she wore on her hair. 

Angel was right, he was just waiting for an excuse, and she just offered him one on a silver platter. And alastor was everything but a coward. 

-

You cursed a little bit louder than you intended when you saw the blood dripping from your finger. “Stop. making. a. spectacle. of. yourself” you mentally screamed. You still could not figure Charlie’s “special stationary stapler” out, so stapling your finger was bound to happen. 

Even though it was not much, the silly little cut was stinging like a bitch, and your best efforts to stop the bleeding were futile, considering the mess on the hem of your skirt. Still high on the adrenaline from earlier, your shaking hands searched for something, anything to put on your finger so you could continue your work without anyone noticing. Everyone already had enough for one day, it was fine. 

“My dear, did you just hurt yourself?” Alastor’s voice invaded your ears. Oh, fuck. That’s it, he was going to murder you for being so incompetent with the damned stapler.

Turning to face him, you meet his piercing gaze, not sure if you should run and scream for help. “Oh no worries alastor, it’s just a small cut, i can manage!” you give him your most confident smile. 

Alastor’s head tilts, eyes burning red as he watches the small droplets of your blood make their way down your index finger.  

“Nonsense, I can't have my staff running around with injuries and bloodied clothes. We are in hell, but we are not savages, dear” He seems transfixed by the blood, and you are too scared to move, too scared to anything other than hold the weight of his gaze and hope for the best. Your lizard brain is screaming for you to run, ask for help. Maybe Charlie isn’t too far away, could you make a run for it? Somehow your survival instincts override your brain, maybe all those hours watching true crime back on earth weren’t in vain, and you decide against running. Let him initiate first. 

He catches your wrist, trapping it inside his deadly claws. His face, towering over you, comes all the way down to inspect the offending finger. You can feel his breathing on your skin. 

Your breathing stops. You swallow an imaginary lump. He’s gonna bite off your fing-

“Would you be a doll and let me take care of it? Blood being unnecessary wasted truly abhors me” 

You must have said yes at some point, you don’t really remember, now you are holding the red handkerchief he handed  you, answering his request to “please follow him”. Trailing behind the Radio Demon, both of you walk through the large corridors. 

This might be the time to scream for help. the voices inside your head warn. With every step of his feet you hear his microphone going tsk tsk tsk where it touches the ground. You are walking the death row, the paintings on the wall chanting “dead woman walking, dead woman walking”. 

“Keep pressuring the wound darling, we are almost there” he gently commands you, too gently… it feels almost… soft, pleading. The way Alastor goes from 0 to 100 is giving you whiplash. 

He slows down, reaching for the door knob of an unknown room. Ever the gentleman, he gestures for you to enter first.

the door locks behind you.

 if i’m being murdered, at least i’m being murdered with class. 

“Don’t be silly, I’m not going to murder you” Alastor says, almost singing the last part of the sentence. 

“Oh fuck, i said that out loud, didn’t I?” you blurted out 

“Yes you did. And yes, I also noticed your lovely doe eyes on me every time i’m in the room” 

Your brain short circuits. That 's it. You are dead. He’s not going to murder you (apparently), but you are going to die of embarrassment. It will feel like murder. He knows, fuck, he knows. He knows about your crush (?) and he’s going to drag you for it. You are going to be so dragged the angels will pity you and bring you to heaven. A creative way to be redeemed, Charlie should know about this. Your thoughts are going downhill as a big snowball, there are too many of them and you can’t follow a single coherent train of thought. You don’t even want to know how you look in the middle of this. You must look pathetic, truly like a doe caught in headlights. And then you hear your name once.

Twice now, in a sing-song voice.

Your eyes fly open towards the sound, breaking from the anxiety induced spell as you realize the Radio Demon had just called you, by name. He knows your name???

“Ah hahah! You’re back.” Alastor says, as he starts to circle you like a predator. Your eyes, as always, follow his across the room.

 “I don’t like to repeat myself, little doe. You heard what I asked?” 

Again, you don’t really remember answering, your brain is going AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA as you watch him pace around you, eyes burning red, demanding your attention. Teeth slightly barred, voice on the edge of something. Was that “X” on his forehead always there?

“I asked if you know what you are doing to me” static fills the room as he finishes speaking. Alastor’s clawed hand trapped your bloodied finger dangerously close to his grinning lips. Your brain is doing flips as he stares deep into your soul, and when your thoughts land you make the connection. Alastor is horny. Alastor is horny for y-

“You see, little doe, I know what your eyes hide when you desperately lower them everytime I come near you. I know how you feel you can hide in plain sight if you stay quiet enough. But I can taste it. Your fear. Your lust. In the air. In your blood.” He has a white knuckled grip on your wrist now, same with his microphone. You lower your guard, eyes going from startled to lustful. “Good thing right now there’s nothing more i want in this godforsaken pit than your lust, pet”

You want this. There’s no point in lying to yourself. You want Alastor to fuck you. You’ve fantasized about the Radio Demon taking you more times than you can count. More times than you would like to admit to yourself. This feels deeply wrong, but you crave it. 

Fuck it, you are in hell, there’s nothing to lose. Alastor is still watching you, impatiently. For the first time today you realize you actually forgot to say something. He’s waiting. Alastor is waiting for your permission. 

“Take my breath away, Alastor” 

Your permission might have been really loud, it felt like you were screaming the words. But you can’t be sure, it might have been a whisper. Either way he didn’t miss it, what happens next is fast, angry and delicious. 

Alastor pounces and licks the blood on your finger, something clicks inside him as he tastes the red liquid, because he lets go of his microphone instantly and his arms grab your waist aggressively, so forceful you wouldn’t be surprised if it breaks skin. You shouldn’t be so turned on by this, by the sight of a psychopathic demon drinking your blood. But you are, and there’s no going back. 

“Strip” he orders. You want to say to him that you can’t take your clothes off your person with him holding you like this. He must have realized the conundrum: if he wants you naked, he has to let go of you. To Alastor, letting go of you right now is simply unthinkable. So he doesn’t: you feel his claws cut the bodice of your dress open, sending the most delicious shivers down your spine. Another claw rips your skirt apart, and you are almost fully naked in the Radio Demon’s arms, pressing your body hard on his still impeccable dressed body.

It’s humiliating, it’s dangerous, it’s hot, it is delicious, to be at his complete mercy, just how you always wanted.

Somehow both of you made your way close to the enormous bed in the middle of the room. Alastor cornered you, so the only way you could escape was walking backwards towards the bed. The brilliant bastard. 

You feel your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and Alastor breaks away.

 Pity, your mind complains. Get him back to touching you again. right. now,.

“Now now, we should establish some rules for this, pet” Alastor’s hands might have stopped touching you, but his piercing eyes never did. He knocks you on top of the bed, you lay there sprawled open just for him. His hands move up to do a quick work of his bowtie

“Rule one: you will take what I give you. Nothing more, nothing less. What I give you is enough. You might feel like you can’t take anymore, but you can. You will take it, I will make you take it” He takes his tailcoat off, his frame towering over you, even with your body completely flat on the mattress and his in front of it. 

“ Rule two: every ounce of your pleasure is mine and mine only. Mine to give, mine to take. And you will give me everything. I want to hear every sound, to feel every touch, to know every nasty thought that runs inside that pretty little head of yours. You will not suppress anything, I wanna hear your moans when you make a mess of yourself as I take everything I desire from your delicious body. I will relish on your desperate screams of pleasure.Nothing outside these walls matter” He is climbing on the bed now. You hold the weight of his gaze, underneath your demonic lover’s eyes your skin burns.

“Rule three: don’t you dare cum without my permission, good girls earn their orgasms and you will be a good girl. Or else…” static starts to pick up around the room, you are seeing the blackest black that ever was, his shadows enveloping you both. Nothing outside these walls matter. “Understood?” Alastor says as he pins your hands on top of your head, against the fancy headboard. His hand cups one of your boobs and he is worrying your nipple between his sharp claws. finally finally, your mind sings. You feel a surge of magic binding your wrists in green chains, attached to the headboard. It’s overbearing, it’s ridiculous. His magic feels like him, another part of him for you to take.

He pinches your nipple particularly hard and you moan softly, pleasure and pain consuming any other sensation. You forgot to answer him, you realize. You’ve barely started and you are already being bad. “yes alastor, yes.. but please don’t stop” the soft whimper leaves your lips.

“lovely.” he replies, and with that his mouth is on your nipple, sucking it while he administers his wicked ministrations to your other one. His sharp teeth prickling on the edge of breaking skin, and you already feel like you won’t be able to take all of him. 

His hand trails down to aggressively grip your thighs, his tongue sucking the neglected nipple his fingers left. Your moans become frequent and messy, if he’s already making you go insane with the beginnings of foreplay... You might pass out and die when he starts fucking you, but you don’t care. Let him show you the true meaning of la petite mort.

“My my, what do we have here” his hand leaves your thigh to trace the wetness of your panties. A clawed finger rips it apart, the last barrier between you and total consumption by the Radio Demon. He takes the finger between your glistening lips, not entering, just teasing 

“I don’t think i will get enough of this pretty little body of ours anytime soon, pet” he says as his finger finally enters your sex, He moves his digit with an expertise you didn’t really know he had in him,  making you whimper his name, ooohs and aaaahs, your hips start threshing from the pleasure. If you continue at this pace, you will be  begging for permission to cum too soon. Pathetic. you think to yourself. Because you know how hard this building orgasm will be,you don’t know if he will grant you more than one orgasm. And will you murder you yourself if you don’t feel his cock inside you tonight. You take a deep breath in between your moans and will your hips to stay in place, your nerves to calm down. 

Alastor adds another finger, and it takes all of your willpower not to become a puddle of wetness right there. You bite your lip so hard you taste blood. 

“you do make a mess of yourself, don’t you? you just can’t help it” he says as he curls his digits inside you. Your hips start thrashing hard again, and you sink them deeper into the bed. The chains on your wrists shake with the effort to hold back. As if alastor wasn’t going to notice. “no no no what did I say?” he snaps angrily, he’s eyes flash red at you and he takes his fingers out with a wet “pop”, you feel like crying at the emptiness. “please please alastor, don’t stop” you plead. His hands leave you entirely, you are left with just his piercing gaze, the one that makes your skin burn. “did I say you could hold back? don’t pretend like you aren’t a common whore for me, that you love how pathetic it feels that you are creaming yourself and we haven’t even really started” 

his condescending tone just makes everything even more sublime. It’s so wrong how good being told you are nothing more than a common whore by the Radio Demon feels. But you never felt anything close to this. “please Alastor” you beg again, nothing but a small whisper

“I would love to taste this pussy, so red already for me, but since you broke one of the rules… i’m afraid I will make you understand that are nothing but my pretty cockslut the hard way” 

Punishment? His punishment sounds ever better than his praise right now. You moan at his voice. He laughs. 

His knees cage you, as he lifts his upper body from you and starts undoing his zipper. He is taking his cock out. Oh fuck, he’s gonna fuck you without anymore foreplay. And he’s not going to be gentle about it either. You shiver. 

Alastor pumps himself a few times, his cock is big, thick, and an angry red shade, flush red like that, because of you, just for you. He’s gonna make you pay: pay for holding back from him, pay for making him feel like an animal and almost losing his hard constructed control. 

The look on his face says it all, he’s gonna take it out on you and you can’t do nothing about it.

You don’t have much time to think about the repercussions, in one swift motion his tip is already inside you, stretching you deliciously. Your brain short circuits again, the feeling of his cock inside you is everything you imagine and more. Depraved, heavenly, delicious. You struggle in your binds again, you want desperately to touch him. To feel his skin beneath your finger, to scratch him, mark him. But oh well, he’s the Radio Demon, he’s the one in charge and you are his prey.

Alastor starts to slowly enter you, he’s trying his best to hold back. He knows if he does this too fast it will hurt in a way he doesn’t want you to feel. And by the look on his face going slow is as torturous for him as it is for you. tantalizing inch after tantalizing inch he spreads the walls of your cunt apart. You understand now why this is punishment, it hurts in a perfect way, it hurts even more that he is doing it slowly, and not just thrusting like you imagined  he would, if he had more time to work on you. 

You become a mess of moans and incoherent words. His cock is halfway inside you now “HoLY FUCK ALASTOR” you scream. It’s already too much. 

“There’s nothing holy about this my dear. I’m going to breed you. I’m going to break you” and with that he buries himself to the hilt inside you. Now you truly scream in pleasure and pain “you won’t be able to walk straight for days, you will feel me in every step, and you will thank me for it”. His thrusts pick up at breakneck speed, the bed shakes from the sheer force that Alastor is using to fuck you. Every snap of his hips you moan more and more. 

The sound you make when he takes everything out and enters you at once is so obscene that it would make Angel Dust blush. He’s growling now, his antlers growing bigger as he fucks you like his life dependend on it. As he fucks you like he hates you. 

Alastor pushes your hips higher, and suddenly he’s even deeper. His other hand holding your waist in a bruising grip. The strain on your pinned hands will bruise too. His lips graze the skin of your collarbone, he looks so feral you are scared he will maul, the thrill of not knowing adding to your fucked up sense of pleasure. 

He seems to pick up on your fear, and bites down on your collarbone, hauling as he tastes your blood and buries himself inside you again and again. Moans turned into screams, and the only thing coming out of your lips is his name, spoken like a profane prayer. You would give everything you have to Alastor, and he doesn’t even have to ask.

Your orgasm has been building for a while now, the coil on your belly becoming tighter and tighter, like a supernova about to be born. “Alastor, please please let me come” you beg. His unfocused eyes stare down at you, as he takes a moment from feasting on your sweet blood to address your desperate, sweet pleas.

“Don’t. You. Dare” he says, punctuating every word with a sharp thrust. As much as you want, you are not sure you will be able to hold any longer. “I beg you alastor, please let me cum, i will let you do anything you want. but i need it so badly, please please”

You sounded so desperate when you begged, so beautiful.

“Don’t strike deals you don’t know you can fulfill, pet” his voice is low, a warning. You ignore it. “I promise Alastor, anything”. Alastor laughs.

 his finger touches your clit as he finally allows your sweet relief “you may come now, sweet doe” and that’s it, you are off, you are dead. You see stars, you see the entire universe as you scream out and climax. Walls tightening around Alastor’s monster cock, eyes rowling, his name a scream on your lips. You ride out your wave slowly, but Alastor is not slowing down.

Instead he is picking up his pace, maneuvering your hips even higher, your chains are stretched to the limit. You can feel them start piercing your skin. Thrust after thrust the sensation becomes too much, you are too overstimulated to go through all of this again.

“i can’t take it, i can’t take it!”

Alastor doesn’t care. “I told you not to make deals if you can’t hold them, didn’t I?” You don’t answer, you can’t. you can’t to anything but let him fuck you as hard and as much as he want. “but you are such a little cockslut for me that you can’t help it. What a shame” 

He is gripping your hips so hard it breaks skin, tiny trails of blood on his claws. “you will take it. You better take it, or I will make you take it” static picks up as he threatens the last words. You know you are spent, you know how bad it hurts, you know how bad his words sound, but the lines between pleasure and pain are so blurred that you can’t think coherently. Even this  pain of being broken feels good. 

Still, tears fill your eyes and you start crying, from pleasure, from pain, you don’t know anymore. What Alastor is doing to you has no precedent. No one can do this like he does. He knows torture too well, and he is tortouring you in the most decadent, delicious ways possible. “alastor i want to, i want to so bad but i just can’t” the tears sting your eyes and stain your face. 

Alastor sees it. He slows down just a bit, his voice softening “oh my dear doe, but you can. Just this once more, just for me. One more” his voice is so maddening soft it acts like fuel to your tears. Your skin tingles and you feel giddy, somehow your throbbing hot, wet cunt seems to find the right amount of relief, and you can feel only pleasure again.

Alastor continues to fuck you, your moans returning to normal, you are being so loud now, making a mess of yourself, just like he said, and a big hand comes to cover your mouth. 

“Oh we can’t have you being this loud can we?” his voice goes to that delicious mocking tone. His thrusts are slower now, but as deep as they can go. “what would you friends say if they found out that you moan like a common whore for their feared radio demon.. hum,.?”

You start to feel the pit of your belly tightening again, and alastor doesn’t stop humiliating you. The degradation feels just the right amount of perfection. You are exactly what he says you are. A common whore when it comes to him. “weren’t you ashamed just a few moments ago? trying to hold back the sinful sounds you make when I touch you? I already gave you one orgasm. I’ve been way too generous for my liking. I should stop right now since you feel so conscious about this”  Alator’s breathing is becoming erratic, his thrusts sharp, hard, and out of the breakneck rhythm he was torturing you before.You start moaning even louder through his hand. “ungrateful little pet. You are just so greedy for one more orgasm, you don’t even care that everyone downstairs can hear you hm??”

You can’t think straight. you feel on the edge of glory, this orgasm threatening to be harder than your previous one, as if it is possible. “alastor i’m so sorry, i know i don’t deserve it” you muffle behind his hand, he hears you speaking and takes if off “but can you please let me cum? just this once? just for you. Please Al” his thrusts are truly erratic now. He’s close too, even though you are too wrapped up on your own sensations to notice 

“please” you beg, nothing more than a whisper. Already making peace with the fact that you are going to come without his permission and he will probably never fuck you again

“Good girl, you can come now”

instantly as you are granted his permissions your world explodes, blinding hot pleasure takes over your body, the waves of pleasure making your heart beat so fast you feel like it’s going to stop. The petit mort is coming, and her sweet embrace envelops you, specially now that you feel Alastor’s cock twitching and spilling his seed inside you. You scream his name. Maybe you hear him screaming yours too. You don’t know anymore, your nerves are singing from pleasure unheard of back  when you were alive. Pleasure so great it could only be found in hell. The most heavily, depraved way of torture. 

You come down from your high, still dizzy, your body going limp. You are not dead, but you are positively spent. You give in into the warm and fuzziness of sleep. 

The last thing you remember is the softness of a blanket, a gentle kiss on your cheek.

“Oh my dear, I knew you had one more on you,spending yourself this way just for me! What a truly precious thing, doe”

You might be dreaming now.

-

You weren’t dreaming. Alastor praises you, knowing his words will be the last thing you hear before a night of peaceful, deep dreamless slumber. He makes sure to put the softest velvet blanket he owns on your body, not to make the damage you gladly allowed your body to take for him an inconvenience. Tomorrow you will wake up to fancy letters of praise and sweet chocolate covered strawberries. And no one will know how Alastor found the perfect doe to breed as he pleases during the height of his mating season.

[mrs-weasley-reid]

HUNDRED TWO POINT THREE

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader

Synopsis: as they say, in sickness and in health, but Aaron Hotchner seems to take sickness too seriously. WARNING: a whole lot of nada (i hope). all fluff. overprotective!aaron (duh). not proofread !!!! Word Count: 912 A/N: THIS IS A REPOST of a req from my sweet, sweet lumi @egdropsoop when i was sick. i had to mourn accidentally deleting the original post. it felt so heart-wrenching. and i couldn't find the draft in my docs for almost a week, so it was another type of panic and heartbreak. this writer is such a dummy sometimes, but i hope rereading the fic in case it pops in your feed isn't so bad

 This week’s case, by far, has been the most difficult you have yet to experience. 

 Besides the buzzing summer heat of Los Angeles and the loud commotion in each corner of the local precinct, not only did you have to bring back sticky sweat and ringing ears, but you also brought back a mind-numbing body temperature of 102.3 degrees.

 With Emily’s driving and Spencer’s constant rambling, by the time you guys arrive at the airport, your body is creaking with chills and joint pain. 

 “Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

 You feel Hotch’s hands lay atop yours, prompting your brows to clash and your head to turn to your side where he towered over you. “What? I’m trying to make tea.” You say disorientedly, breathing quite ragged.

 It’s his turn to knit his brows. “Sounds reasonable, but don’t you think your cup has enough hot water?” You follow where he’s looking at your blushing red hand, steaming with heat. “You’re going to burn your hand at that rate.” He adds, lifting his gaze back at you. 

 He reads you for a moment. Your pinkish cheeks, heavy breathing, and disoriented state told him enough to make a deduction. They tell tales that are similar to those of a small Jack Hotchner after a venture in the rain or dry sweat over a fun visit to the park. 

 “You have a fever,” He informs you sternly.

 “No, I don’t.” Your nose crinkles, shaking his hands off yours and straightening up. The simple movement alone brings your head to spin, pushing you against the counter. You close your eyes, “M’kay, maybe I do.”

 Everything seems fuzzy, but you feel Hotch’s gentle hand over the small of your back, and you’re suddenly being led to one of the two couches in the jet, momentarily seeing a pouting Spencer Reid, woken up from his slumber as he mumbles to another seat.

 Hotch wraps his jacket around yours, squatting in front of you. "Honey, why don't you lay down? Get some shuteye." His voice is gentle in your ears. He squeezes your hand in his while the other brushes away loose strands off your burning face.

 “You okay, mama?” Derek turns from his seat, “Want some cocktail with that fun swirly straw you and Penelope love?” He jokes lightly in hopes that humor will lessen the throbbing in your head.

 “It’s not the time for jokes, Morgan. If you’d like to help, maybe stay quiet in your seat.”

 The entire jet shuts up.

 Emily and JJ’s low whispers halt as they shift their gaze from where Hotch blocks Derek’s view. Spencer tries his best to stifle his laugh, but Rossi only shakes his head.

 “She has a fever, Aaron. Not cancer. Let the lady sleep in peace.” Rossi interjects in defense of the team’s eye candy.

 Hotch ignores him, rolling his eyes. He maneuvers back to the kitchenette in search of some cloth and a bucket to fill with tepid water. 

 Derek settles back in his seat with a look of disbelief, “I thought I was dead for a second.” He mutters under his breath. “He’s gone full papa bear mode on her.”

 They watch as Hotch pulls heaven and hell in your favor. He makes tea. Even finds a can of soup from somewhere in the cabinets, wondering why none of them has ever seen that before. He goes back and forth, placing a cloth over your forehead.

 His goal is to get you out of feverish delirium by the time the jet lands back in Quantico. And Hotch is quite the mission-oriented guy.

 "Aaron..." You mumble almost unheard if only everyone isn't eavesdropping.

 "You need something, hon?" He gently blots the cloth over your face. His sleeves are rolled past his elbows, and a rivulet of sweat is over his temple from all the movement he's made in the past ten minutes.

 "Stop fussing and let me sleep, hmm? Go drink some scotch with Dave or something." You shoo him with one hand and steal the cloth from him with the other.

 Hotch shakes his head as if your eyes haven't been shut tight for a while now, prying the cloth off your hand. "Come on, now, sweetheart. I can't just leave you alone." He coos, successfully repossessing the damp fabric.

 It takes a toll on your body when you sit up, yanking the small towel a second time from his grasp, more aggressive this time.

 "Hey, be careful—"

 You raise a hand to shut him up, "Aaron Hotchner. Take a break, or I swear you won't have a bed to sleep in when we get home." You huff, willing your facial muscles to look as intimidating as you possibly can at your state. "And Jack will not side on you. We both know I'm his favorite. So get." You point at Rossi's direction.

 He sighs in defeat, leaving a kiss on the crown of your head. "Fine. But tell me when you need something—"

 "Start walking, Aaron," You shake your head, giving him a stern look.

 The unit chief trudges to the seat next to Rossi, where the older agents offer a glass. Before Hotch can even decline, you voice rings in the jet.

 "You better take that glass."

 He rolls his eyes, but does as you say.

 Everyone fights their will not to burst into laughter, or they just might get pushed off the jet.

hotch masterlist | masterlist

[tapenbreak]

𖦹. “𝐈 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇, 𝐘’𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖?” — (𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐀𝐑)

𖦹. — 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. honestly, he’s never intended for things to turn out this way because as they say—curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it? too bad, he likes what he’s seeing too much, huh? 6.2k words.

𖦹. — 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . . . bitch boy kylar’s pervasive ways of being an absolute freak, jerking off, scent kink as in the loser disgustingly sniffs at his own pre-cum stained underwear, voyeurism through a screen, unsuspecting camboy! reader (amab) using his favourite fan’s flesh-light, massive parasocial relationship, kylar purely getting off to the mere fantasy of you so lovingly fucking his mouth full and slobbering all over your cock. wow. shit, that’s gross.

𖦹. — 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬, doc? “my brain is actually on fire.”

Undoubtedly, he’s intricately aware of the baseless rumours currently circulating throughout the school due to him. Not that he pays it much mind, as a loner himself—there’s not much that comes forth from uselessly dwelling on ushered statements whispered amongst each nosy student attending the worn establishment.

Especially when he’s grown accustomed to the unfair treatment sent his way, preferring to concentrate on the positive aspects of his measly day-to-day life instead, no matter how minor those details may be. Practically nonexistent in comparison to the absolutely negatives—if anything, but. . . unwavering optimism is a virtue, correct? More or less.

“Did you see him? You’d think he won the goddamn lottery or somethin’—“ One would randomly perk up out of the blue as the other’s words seamlessly tumbled forth from between their lips. “Stop shitting with me. Think that freak has anything to smile about?” And as predictably expected on their part, doubtful silence filled the daunting atmosphere before the overly harsh cackling of laughter soon followed after.

“No way!!”

Right. Hurtful as it may be, wasn’t any less further from the truth to confidently proclaim that Kylar’s life was utter shit from start to finish. From an accumulation of numerous events that notably stemmed from mere bad luck or perhaps, as he so effortlessly believed so himself—a dreadful curse one had so cruelly placed upon him and the rest of his beloved family for. . . God knows what, how would he know anyway? Maybe it was due to an unforgivable sin he’s unknowingly committed in his distant past life or, from sheer, utter hatred on a stranger’s bitter end.

Solemnly beginning with the inexplicable loss of a treasured, cherished childhood friend of, he’d rather not utter the name itself—only to bitterly finish with the concerning changes in his parents questionable behaviour, not to mention the physical morphs in their formerly human appearances. That is, if they’ve managed to retain any semblance of consciousness from their lives previously shared as a family.

And to be honest, it’s a miracle he hasn’t suddenly dropped dead from the sheer amount of stress the outside world brings him. Hurt after hurt, mindless insult after another ruthlessly hurled towards his retreating figure in the school’s stuffy courtyard by snickering classmates.

At times like these, wordlessly thinking back to the gleaming knife occupying the depths of his baggy pocket does somewhat soothe the dull pain aching within his chest.

Somewhat.

Regardless, seething with misery and tainted despair is what he should’ve rightfully remained so, for the entirety of his pathetic life. Least, that was the intended plan on his end. Fortunately, most things don’t ever go as planned in life, do they? And neither was the accidental discovery of your surprising existence, too. One which he repeatedly thanks the divined heavens from above for so generously gracing him with your perfect being—even if not physically there, as you’re merely hidden away behind the greasy, smudged surface of his unprotected, cum-stained screen.

Yeah, he does periodically forget to neatly wipe those unceremonious accidents of his away. . . Mostly the embarrassing bit where the freak is unpredictably shooting forth his fat load all over his tousled bedsheets and of course, his dimly lit, previously discarded phone screen that merely happens to be consequently lying nearby—at the edge of the loner’s unmade bed. Somehow neglecting to absently clean his disorganized room, rotting for none to see due to his inborn laziness or better put, sheer lack of motivation to truly do something about the grimy mess irritably found at his feet.

Crummy wrappers from whatever unhealthy, overly sweetened snack he’s ingested for the day, used socks filled with. . . well, you’d know the typical stereotype of what lonely, unloved boys do in the desolate tranquility of their bedrooms anyway, unwashed clothes laid askew; you name it.

Although, it’s partially your fault for purposefully making your streams so very tempting—practically impossible to stubbornly last till the bitter end if he’s so much as given the slightest glimpse of your pretty cock, mere sound of your wistful sighs and voice carefully articulating his username amongst the hoard of just as eager viewers.

What a shame, he’d just about care more for the dire state of his dirtied room if it meant somehow impressing you in the process. Like the loser would ever be so graciously given the exquisite chance to timidly invite you to his sore excuse of a room, lest he found you for real and, y’know—committed a few illegal acts or two to drag you towards that desired place of his choice. Selfishly kept you to himself for an undetermined amount of time, preferably forever and ever actually. . . !

Oh, he does dearly promise he’d take good care of you. That’s for sure.

Speaking of, he’s always possessed the annoyingly obsessive tendency to easily fall for a fictional character on the other end of a layered screen, but. . . Certainly not like this, no. Since you’re a real, existing person, are you not? A living, breathing human with his own life he’s blissfully unaware of—foreign details and such, are wholly unnecessary to him, because your self is solely what he’s truthfully interested in, really! Sorely convicted no one could ever hope to pitifully understand the true reason as to why he’s been recently sporting that idiotic grin plastered amongst his usually aloof features.

Distractingly sketching more and more admittedly good, yet messy drawings in the private remnants of his notebook’s torn pages. Immediately squeaking at the sudden presence of his english teacher’s. . . what’s-his-name, mister Doren(?) hovering over his hunched shoulders to questioningly quip up as to what may be so important for him to childishly doodle during learning time, huh?

Well, you see—fairly, it’s quite simple, if not entirely self-explanatory when thoroughly observing his recently odd mannerisms and gestures.

Y’see, most would reasonably laugh dead in his face at the sickeningly sweet answer, though what need is there to hide it? It’s evident what the local school’s favourite punching bag has been shockingly struck with. As cheesy as it may be to discreetly gossip amongst one another, the sole undeniable fact that—

“The freak’s obviously in love and crushing on someone or somethin’, no doubt about it. I mean, look at him! He looks like he’s just about ready to float off the earth!!”

“Fuck, don’t word it that way. That’s so fuckin’ gross. Y’a think he actually likes someone—? Like, here? In this school?? Stands no chance. What’s the use of liking ‘em if they’ll run at the sight of you anyway?” Seldomly wrong on that part, there’s no way to precisely tell that identity of yours if your face is disappointingly out of view in each of your films! Therefore, he’d like to take note of it someday, y’know. . . Instead of, ah—humiliatingly jerking off alone to the hazy thought of your faceless body. Not to say, that isn’t disgustingly hot enough on its own. Fucking pervert that he is, plenty to get him off on.

“Hey, now don’t be so mean. He could hear us over there. . . Didn’t you hear what he did to that one girl in class cuz’ she tried to take his shitty sketchbook? Heard she’s stuck in the hospital for a month because of him. Crazy stuff.”

Unsurprisingly so, a scornful pout would’ve expectantly found itself upon his chapped lips at those stray comments if it were any other day of the week. Frustratingly clutching at the worn edges of his school bag hanging limply from his small figure from the seething urge to impulsively retort back. However, what use is there to miserably wallow when your favourite show is bound to showcase itself on screen soon enough? And what he so innocently refers to as some ‘show’ are those naughty streams of yours he’s been regularly keeping up to date with, without missing a single one for that matter—you should be proud of him, really. Is starting soon, as per usual—in about. . . ?

Oh, luckily he’s got plenty of time to wordlessly settle himself in his spacious bedroom before your precious recordings commence. Methodically checking the numbers displayed on his cellphone to indicate the countdown till the sole thing he’s been excitedly looking forward to for the past few, dwindling months, does eventually begin.

Since today is a special day, indeed—is it not?Thoughtlessly humming to himself at the expectant treat patiently awaiting his arrival at home, much to other passerby’s apparent discontent at the rather. . . horrible sound being sung throughout the pathway to his forgotten, desolate manor. Singing melodic notes, especially at the Temple’s choir never was much of his forte for that matter. That’s alright, though! Fortunately enough, he’s confident he can painfully endure anything that this insane town throws at him today. And ‘course, that stupidly includes the dirty looks shot in his direction, too.

Because today. . . today is a special day, yes—he gleefully repeats so, to himself. Y’know, like some maniac.

And akin to how a mechanical key automatically turns itself within the depths of a narrow lock, routine settles in thickly at the back of his mind as his feet instinctively shuffle themselves through the doorway of his beloved house. Less beloved in the sense that it isn’t exactly properly maintained, as obviously proven by the multitude of stains abandoned about upon every wooden surface, it seems. Uneasy floorboards bound to eventually collapse underneath the meager weight of his lanky body, which is a miracle that it hasn’t already by now, actually.

Not to mention, disgraceful cobwebs precariously hanging from below each cornered ceiling, but there still retains a semblance of charm to the place, a little—he thinks. Personally. Majorly due to the familiarity it instills within his boyish brain and it being his lone sanctuary where he feels remotely at peace, unperturbed from outsiders prying eyes.

“I-I’m home.” Timidly calling out to the single place that’d welcome him so, in a hushed, open embrace. But, as per expected, no pleased response comes forth to counter that shrill, little voice of his—having progressively grown accustomed to announce his eventual arrival to what he still sheepishly refers to as his parents, at least, even if they might not outwardly reply with a normal chime of their own. Perhaps he’ll be met occasionally with a hiss or two, yet he doesn’t really dare to enter any further into their territory without loads of garlic necklaces clumsily hooked along his delicate neck. Coward, he is—even in the face of his own mother and father, although it does possess its perks when it comes to avoiding trouble at school or notably, that filthy blonde’s presence.

That is to say, there’s no point in uselessly ruminating any further about an establishment that bores his bare unhappiness, right? Briefly stealing a glimpse to where his parent’s doorway restlessly lies partially accessible, surely aware of his newfound return—judging by the bored clatter of their glinting, metallic fangs concealed below the extended bed. Oh, they’re waving at him, clearly! Least, he positively thinks so if he hasn’t been ruthlessly attacked yet, so far. Unlike certain intruders skittering ‘round the mansion, that being rats. Ah, merely envisioning the little creatures draws a shuddered breath out of his wrinkling nose, jolting shivers coursing throughout the curved length of his spine.

There are far more important matters presently tending to his current attention, however. You, you, you—your upcoming stream. You, you, you . . . Obviously. Occupying the vast majority of his brain and, as for the last remainder—it being the sheer embarrassment of his progressively growing hard-on straining against the rough material of his ripped jeans. Oh, and now he’s popping boners purely from thinking about you?? Like he hasn’t done so before in class either, bitterly reminiscing over the painful memory of skittering away to the boys bathroom for a quick. . . tending to, as in pervertedly pumping his cock full in the tight confines of an unkempt stall. Shakily whining out your name (more like username, really) between muffled whimpers as sweet release mercilessly found the loner and he, ungracefully so, spilled the entirety of his sticky seed along the rest of his rumpled school uniform.

. . .Yeah, he’s definitely got a vast amount of issues to deal with. But, he can helplessly worry about that unimportant part later.

The continuous pitter patter of his feet carefully made up to the balanced stairwell—where his meticulously made shrine of you remains still, by the way—endlessly carries on. Opposite to how the insistent, rhythmic pumping of his discomposed heart feverishly beats with each huff drawn forth of the outcast’s hitched sighs. Creaking floorboards noisily squeaking beneath each incessant footsteps made towards his own private room before finally. . . finally, soundlessly shutting the oaky door with a resounding click and an exhaled breath of relief.

And so, it begins.

Familiar, shrouded darkness envelops his figure whole all at once within the restrictive bounds of his exclusive chamber. Movements seamlessly acted out on an automatic everyday-thing as he so thoughtlessly—to his mattress’s strained annoyance—flings his worn bag containing practically nothing, save for his sketchbook and a singular, used pencil—upon the squeaking, cushiony surface with an audible thud! Well, he’s always been somewhat irresponsible when it came to his possessions in hand lest they held some semblance of emotional attachment to him in some shape or form. Fortunately, he withholds an acceptable excuse for his hasty behaviour this time, yeah, swears it’s an adequate one! Of course it’d perpetually be when it comes to you, his esteemed beloved, his one and only. (To what he’s thoroughly deluded himself to blindly believe so.)

Ah, how unbridled excitement quells within his chest with each shaky step forward to his unattended, cluttered desk. Smiling gleefully to himself in absent thought at the six, available monitors at his disposal—who’re poorly reflecting the sight of his eager expression at the moment, too. Oh, he doesn’t mean to appear like a frantic puppy in heat right off the bat without having even received his sweetened treat.

Though, can he be possibly faulted for it when he’s hardly a few seconds away from being so lovingly graced with your company on the other side of a limited screen? Helplessly devoted in the woeful sense that simply a single snippet of your soothing voice renders him blissfully breathless, weak in the knees bound to soon buckle beneath your honeyed words? Has him torturously aching downwards to where his dripping wet cock tents against the layered fabric of his pants?? Perfection couldn’t even begin to accurately describe your being devoid of any flaws.

So idiotically hooked that the perverted freak is already slumping himself atop the accommodating, swivelling seat of his chair—instinctually placing his connected headset onto the unkempt strands of hair naturally curling around the indented shape with a pleased hum. Y’know, just to be safe. Potentially due to the considerable awkwardness of if he were to accidentally play a pornographic stream aloud, beyond the confidential walls of his room.

Last thing he’d like to bashfully admit outwardly to his parents is how hopelessly infatuated their son is for another boy who isn’t even remotely aware of his flickering existence. Besides the frantic amounts of fanboy comments the loner usually leaves behind, majority of it containing the sheer euphoria of witnessing such a pretty boy as yourself—so boldly displaying himself for thousands upon thousands, possibly more granted the frustratingly recent spike in your growing popularity, to see. Solely perceived as an overly enthusiastic fan that consequently happens to be attending each and every stream of yours, in a vain attempt to someday, be supposedly noticed by his dearest idol.

Undeniable trepidation restlessly courses through his veins, jittery fingertips grazing amongst the crumb stained keys—which, he never thoughtfully bothers to sanitize, exactly—before ultimately typing in the uh. . . ah, it’s still considerably embarrassing to be navigating through a raunchy, naughty site filled to the brim with erotic content. Not to say, he hasn’t especially skimmed through some. . . exceptionally questionable ones in the distant past, but none seemed to wholly satisfy him nor brought him such disgustingly heated interest like your live recordings either. Hah, he’s just so utterly down bad for you—it’s mildly flustering.

Another which he’ll soon be given the meticulous chance to joyfully witness in the gloomy atmosphere of his bedchamber, if anything else. Arrow pointed key impatiently hovering over the strikingly red button labeled for newcomers to ‘join on in’ to where your stream is bound to usually begin. Yes—he’s memorized your neatly made schedule of commencing your tapes every Thursday afternoon, around thirty minutes after he’s finally released from the sorrowful imprisonment of school. And. . . the gleaming ‘live’ signal should be surfacing any second now. Precisely in five—four, three, two. . . and, one.

Click.

[Now recording.]

“Oh— ahah, god. 200 viewers already? No, it’s climbing up to 254 now. . . You guys are already that happy to see me, huh?? I’m flattered.” Whether to necessarily fixate upon your rosy, moving lips deeply articulating each syllable with a musing grin of your own, albeit a shame that’s about as much as he’ll be able to savour and see of your concealed face positioned above the reserved range of your quality camera. Or, the seamless lull within your effortlessly attractive voice reaching the depths of his attentive ears is beyond the dark haired boy’s enraptured attention, truly—because, hah. . . there’s something else, something else much more special eventually coming up, isn’t there?

Chipped nail upon his thumb being subconsciously chewed at in faux thought, that. . . you look stupidly good today (not that you usually don’t) with that casual wear— yes, even something apparently simple as some loose jeans, not all that much different from his own too, and an onyx black turtleneck compatibly added to the mix—looks pleasantly nice on you, enough so to hurriedly draw all breath from him.

Light conversation ensuing as if you aren’t thoroughly conscious of what the viewers unabashedly desire within this very moment. Him included, to be frank. “What have I planned for today? Well, now—you know, it won’t be any fun if I reveal it immediately, but you’re right, I do have something particularly special planned for today’s stream.” And he can tell, with how the influx of notes rapidly increase at the mere mention of a tell-tale surprise, no doubt brimming with utter curiosity and excitement at the sheer, mind numbing prospect of a carefully thought out present from you, that it indeed works. Sweetened chuckle naturally tumbling forth from your parted lips drawn up in a lighthearted smile in return. “Oh, you wanna know so bad? Fine, fine. Bunch of perverts already pressuring me right into it— haah, but I guess I’m no better for getting off of the attention like this either. . . Alright then, I’ll bite.”

Right, estimating the passing time he’s suggested it beforehand, it should’ve certainly arrived in the mail by now. Peering curiously towards the endlessly flowing stream of enthusiastic comments filling up the area at the bottom right of his dimly lit screen.

“Just so happens I’ve got a new one to test out here. Courtesy of a subscriber’s recommendation, y’know. See how much I actually listen to you guys? You degenerates should be grateful I’m even showing you anything, really— oh, c’mon. It was just a joke. Lighten up, will you?” Musing delightfully in response before promptly presenting a faintly rose coloured—oh, oh! it really is his that you chose!—pussy pocket into view, or generally known as a squishy flesh-light solely made to dutifully suck at awaiting eager cocks. Crimson flush coming forth to deeply stain his cheeks so, gasping momentarily to himself at the shocking outcome and maybe just, the idiotic yearning of intricately wanting to be that toy instead.

Ah— god, what he’d inevitably give to be the one you’re sensually sinking your flushed, oozing tip into, breathlessly groaning at the dizzying tightness swallowing your twitching length whole.

On one hand, he’s tried out quite a few, negligently forgotten in some stash hidden within his creaking closet, although ever since he’s been given a minor glimpse of your fat cock since day one—well, he’s come to long a certain. . . other type of treatment altogether. Notably, the disastrously sickening urge to be fucked full to the brim within an inch of his life, filthy masochist that he deceptively is, nothing could potentially compare to your pretty looking cock truthfully.

“Well, then,” Instinctually following forth with the passages of your hands—those too are pretty, actually. Like every inch of you isn’t, physically drooling at the slightest sliver of your exposed skin being gradually bared to his heated, emerald gaze. The edged curvature of your delicate knuckles down to where your slim fingertips connect to your leathered belt, smoothly unbuckling its constraints with a distinct jingle before it ultimately, drops downwards to the floor with a muted thud. His own loosened pants shortly accompanying your gestures soon after in a clumsy haste.

“Why don’t you sick fucks just sit back—“ A tug of your elastic boxers and he’s being suddenly greeted by the addictively sinful sight of it. Flushed cock weeping glistening beads of pre-cum, immediately springing forth from its confine to then, audibly smack against your bare tummy. “relax, and enjoy the show, yeah?”

Ahah, there it is—there’s your admittedly. . . tasty looking cock he’d waste no effort in slinking down to his knees to suckle upon, coat in slippery wet saliva and gratefully swallow down in nigh worship like a mutt starving for a treat. If you sensibly possessed any sort of idea, how well he’d treat you, the boy of his dreams. Hungrily lap the slicked surface of his warm, moist tongue along your balls heavy with seed in an intimate display of unending devotion—obsession, damnation to be gleefully chained and bound to your feet. Or so, he’s steadily scattering the remnants of his needy mind to those nonsensical blurry daydreams of his again.

Along with that artistic mark the loner meekly recognizes as a tattoo permanently etched into the tender flesh of your left hip, inked encryption slithering upwards, beyond the portion that your jeans can possibly conceal if shown on the spot.

“See this?— haah, fuck.” Hitched breath suddenly interrupted with a muted curse at how you merely hover the toy’s softened hole above the leaking tip of your heavy cock, wordlessly pulsing in the camera’s direction—his direction, to be more precise. Silently affirmed as nothing more but a wistful yearning on his part. “The way it just. . .” Oh, he’d so hopelessly, truly never tire to repeatedly listen upon your angelic voice again and again, how it subtly trembles and delves further into a series of rapidly made huffs along with a mix of heaving groans. Beautifully falls apart, tearfully breaks in an instant from the sweet suckle of the makeshift pussy heat steadily sucking in the veiny girth of your aching length. “. . .Effortlessly sucks me inside? So fuckin’—shit, tight. Like I’m fucking a real cunt actually.”

And yeah. . . Yeah, it really is—god, instinctively yearning for the insatiable need that those were his pouty lips instead, thoroughly enveloped around the sheer thickness of your perfect cock. Depthless, expanding pupils deliberately following the trailing path of pearly droplets profusely dribbling out messy pre-cum. Past the stuffed flesh-light’s warm folds—down the curved edge of your neatly swallowed cock to where it ultimately, descends and lands atop your balls with a startling drop.

Seemingly, the slight twitch in his pants at the dizzying demonstration is explanation enough on its own probably.

Quite pitifully so, it’s natural instinct, it’s all, he promises! Stealing a glance downwards to where his own excited cock stands upright and throbbing in the stretchy material of his chosen underwear for tonight’s occasion—one which he can easily slip off at a moments notice, impatiently strip down to his spread knees like an unashamed whore practically begging for it.

Guess it wouldn’t hurt to just. . . rub one out quickly, right? It’s what you’ve so generously taken the effort and time to do so, right?? So the freak—amongst many others delightfully viewing, how annoying—can disgustingly get themselves off to the addled sighs, sickeningly wet smacks! from the teasingly slow roll of your hips upwards, easily tumbling out from his monitors screens.

Timid palm tentatively reaching towards the overly evident, straining hard-on tented underneath the seams of his boxers, earnestly palming himself—or better put, the outlined length bulging through the fairly thin fabric—with a shaky gasp. So embarrassing, how minimal stimulation on his end renders him utterly breathless, silently stunned at the sheer amount of pre endlessly leaking out from his swollen, red hot slit. Inconveniently stains the greying colour in a deeper shade to mindlessly gawk at for future notice. Because currently, he’s unfairly too busy from solely grinding the heel of his softened palm against his cock’s dripping wet head, isn’t he?

Although, it’s not enough. Not enough, just yet—

Certainly, it wouldn’t truly be sinful to shyly go further, bring himself to the very brink of his teetering limit, huh? Fluttering lashes discreetly shutting close maybe due to the dizzyingly hot embarrassment accumulating within his tensed tummy. There, yes there; that’s the spot. . . Ah. Shuddering gasps uncontrollably spilling out of his beautifully open, wanton mouth shaped into a perfect ‘o’ at the clumsy passage of his inexperienced hand downwards, below. Hah—‘inexperienced’ , he sullenly thinks as if the dark haired boy doesn’t steadily fist his cock raw to the mere, increasingly blurring thought of you like a daily routine set into stone, never meant to be carelessly missed.

An unrestrained addict is what he fairly is, for all its worth. Amused grin simultaneously cracking upon his features at the unsurprising realization, insistently tugging at the corner of his now moist lips—disgustingly shiny in his own spit too, now—as scarred fingertips momentarily caress along the curved outline of his twitching cock before impatiently sliding off the sticky undergarment down the length of his perched legs.

Shit, shit. . . Chilly, cooling air mercilessly kissing at the warm, trickling tip of his flushed cock head now openly free from the boxers helplessly limiting bounds. Outwardly hissing at the sudden rush of temperature surrounding the surface of his readily exposed, quivering length. And here he is, already subconsciously humping, desperately bucking at the air—hips spontaneously settling into a rapid pace to fuck into his fist, but oh—your soft skin would be so much warmer to the bare touch, y’know?

Irrefutably better if it were your skillful hands indecently pumping his slippery cock, though you’d only need a single hand to do that, wouldn’t you? Ultimately bigger than his pitifully smaller ones in size, unable to fully wrap around the pulsing thickness of his cock unlike yours who’d effortlessly encompass him whole. Tease at the whorish slit ceaselessly dripping translucent, sloppy pre-cum with a press of your thumb atop the puckered opening all the while fisting himself.

Ah—ah, damn it. “Mmngh. . .”

Invasive, needy hands struggling to grasp for something—anything, will surely do to dull the burning, aching throb of velvety blood rushing south to his taut balls and unsurprisingly so, the pretty flush that comes to visibly stain the surface of his cheeks. Similar to a picture perfect portrait professionally painted by an eccentric artist, that is, if he had any semblance of self-esteem somehow hidden in there.

Predictably so, like some unjust pervert, the experimental tip of his jagged nails curiously grazes against the stretchy texture of his underwear now awkwardly slung down to the freak’s knees. Forgot those were still loosely hanging there, admittedly. Pearly, shiny patch of staining pre boldly glinting back towards his half-lidded gaze as if to elicit an enticing. . . no, the definitely worst idea he’s potentially had.

But, something to just get the ball rolling sometimes, you know? That’s all. Nothing more, nothing any further than his lone tendencies to uselessly clutch at something in a placid need for comfort—for it could be a worn pillow that’s unfortunately out of reach, sweaty used hoodie meant to wholly fill his scrunched nose with the strong lingering musk or even, his pre-cum stained boxers. However else that can be reasonably judged, as no normal person would be feebly bringing their underwear up to their heated face. Deeply inhaling his own stupidly salty scent, crudely burying the tip of his curved nose within fisted briefs restlessly held in the cup of his palm.

Shiiiiitt, it stinks like hell. So, shouldn’t be so devastatingly erotic and spur him on further—shouldn’t have his aching cock incessantly yearning for some form of release, albeit in a fucking pervasive manner.

“So perfect. . . hah, y-you’re so—pretty.” Incessantly drawling forth from his bitten lips, crimson stained flesh absently chewed upon as the searing metallic taste fills his every muddled senses. Like a fallen mantra that’s bound to greedily consume his very being—and frankly, he’d be nothing more than earnestly grateful if he was so selflessly granted the lucky chance to have his useless, good-for-nothing, pliable body thoroughly used and ruined by you. Ah, idly wondering in the discreet back of his mind, how you’d harshly fold his slim figure in half.

Would it be fast and rough, possibly? Indecently cruel in each of your instinctual thrusts, sudden snap of your hips to fuck him within an inch of his life? Or perhaps, no—undeniably the opposite, considering your usual style Kylar familiarly knows all too well. Slow, methodical and torturous marks progressively imprinted along the curved surface of his arched back. Smooth, chilly fingertips gliding downwards till he’s greeted with the slight grip of your locked palms upon his hips. A trembling plea here and there, only to be coldly met with a sneered chuckle at the pitiful sight—heated tip barely grazing against the puffy entrance of his puckered hole as you’d utter out a singular insult.

“You fucking pervert.”

In a mere instant, as it should come as no shocking surprise, surely—that single, fleeting thought precariously tips him towards the edge before the perverted freak’s has remotely registered the immediate slackening of his open jaw. Furrowing of his brows with a petulantly long whine as sickeningly thick, white strings of seed uncontrollably spurt forth from his swollen tip, splattering amongst the previously untainted surface of his keys, bare and unclenched tummy in the cooling air and of course, the monitored screen itself.

“H-hah—I’m sorry, I’m s-so sorry. I’m nothing. . . but, a nasty p-pervert. . . ! Please—hngh, forgive me. . . !” Salaciously muttering to himself as though you’d possibly hear his ushered mewls for forgiveness, reassuringly cleanse him of his rushed and impulsive actions. Adoringly nosing along the creeping edge of his torn sleeve, pouty lips lewdly suckling upon its cotton material in an absent habit meant to momentarily soothe himself from the ongoing orgasm wracking throughout the entirety of his quivering, slackening figure—sluggishly resting atop the leathered, rolling chair.

Ah. . . Hah, doesn’t even register the all too heavy weight of his sleepy eyelids inevitably fluttering shut in a dazed slumber, head comfortably leaned back against the cushioned pillow. Carelessly forgetful of the accumulated, dripping mess now irritably found at his feet which he supposes, he’ll reluctantly clean later when he’s somehow received the faithful chance to.

Although, speaking of—isn’t he foolishly forgetting something residing in the shrouded depths of his mind. . . ? That can be, potentially dealt with. . . later, though. Maybe.

Didn’t even bother to aimlessly recall as to what it is regardless.

It wholly slipped from his drowsy mind, anyway.

— . . .

Alright, well—understandably enough, shouldn’t have tediously overslept past the overly distracting ringing of his stubborn alarm, but still. . . ! It’s not like it’s necessarily the loner’s fault for having this annoyingly irreparable tendency to listlessly pass out the second he’s satisfyingly gotten his fill. Probably, should get that checked out, however. Who effortlessly shifts to the realm of sparkling dream land after having hurriedly, finished in one fell swoop?? As in, helplessly shooting forth a fat load and considering it done and over with. Him, apparently.

‘Course, that reasonably draws its fair share of invasive consequences. Utterly lost in the bewilderment of his racing thoughts during his languid sprint towards class in the dead middle of the somewhat. . . spacious hallway, yet—not so much so that he isn’t incidentally slamming against a poor student in a troublesome haste, unintentionally tripping himself over his own loose, untied shoelaces. Oh, can’t be any more blind, can you??

Having fully expected to have painfully hit the dull, heartless ground by now—but, but. . . unfamiliar softness tentatively tugs at his blurry senses instead, confusingly warm firmness of someone else’s secure arms embracing the dark haired boy’s lanky figure in return. “Ugh, fuck—“

“. . .Sorry, are you alright? I didn’t mean to bump into you there. I should look where I’m going next time—stupid of me, really. You’re not hurt or anything, right?” Despite being sorrowfully accustomed to the normally discriminating tone most students expectantly would’ve adopted at the mere sight of him, nothing particularly prepared Kylar for that vaguely recognizable, dulcet voice faintly ringing within his stinging ears as he, so dumbly, peers from below the mopped mess of his unruly tufts of hair. One day, he’s got to take care of that nasty habit of his to be neglecting his unfairly important needs.

Strikingly stiff as a stoned, wobbling statue at the nearest temple from the intimately tender worry currently occupying your gaze—ah, what is he specifically meant to respond with in such an uncouth situation again?? Somehow missing the loosely held grasp your smooth palms have atop his hunched shoulders because, oh, he’s never been willingly touched before either—has he?

“Um, y-yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” My god, haven’t you received nothing but excellent marks in English, idiot?? Further elaborate on that meaninglessly empty statement! Inwardly cringing at the slight squeak unjustly found amidst his slurred speech and albeit, apologetic struggle not to seemingly appear like some ditzy moron right now instead of y’know—excessively nodding along to the point that, you’re questioningly tilting your head to the side.

“That’s good to know. Make sure not to run like that in the hallways again yourself, next time. Could’ve ended worse and I wouldn’t want someone getting hurt on my behalf, would I?” Momentarily stunned by that sugary sweet smile and maybe, the all too good-natured pat naturally placed upon his left shoulder that his heated breath is promptly caught in his bobbing throat.

He meant to reply back, truthfully desired nothing more than to sheepishly inquire further for. . . what? Nothing, perhaps. Anything to have your presence possibly linger longer next to his, but before he’s consciously notices—your retreating silhouette is already swiftly stepping past his dumbfounded, stranded self. Stifled curses accompanied by faintly echoing footsteps thudding against the now desolate, school hallway.

“Goddammit, where’s that blonde bastard—told me to wait for him and he doesn’t even fucking show up. Is he still pissed at me for yesterday’s shit?? I swear I should. . .”

Ah.

And, he didn’t even get to catch your name.

Guess he’ll find out through his own personal means. Stealing a rushed glimpse towards the headmaster’s shut door where they privately keep any student’s confidential files—that is, including properly listed grades too, which he’s gotten no interest for, to begin with.

Name.

Your name.

Well, he’ll find out one way or another because he always possesses a way to, doesn’t he?

[dexteri0us]

now i’m breathin' like i’m runnin' 'cause you're taking me there; don’t you know you spin me out of control?

pairing: dexter morgan x f!reader

warnings: reader is a freak, mentions of corpses, smut - dom!dexter (but he's soft<3), sir kink, oral (f and m receiving), some slapping, some pussy slapping, bondage, knife play, brush play, wartenberg wheel (all sterilized of course).

summary: you, being an annoying girlfriend, and dexter, being an incredible boyfriend. (be careful though, he might as well just off you one day if you keep asking for it).

w/c: around 7,280

a/n: no pun intended. if i forgot any warnings, let me know, my brain is kinda fried

Dexter hadn’t exactly told you that he was a killer. A murderer, a criminal, or whatever label fit his particular shade of darkness. But he also never denied it when your insinuations crept too close to the truth. He knew that you knew, and that was enough for you. Knowing that he was okay with that was enough for you. Well, until recently.

He’d given you a blurry picture of what he did to his victims. Not because he offered it, but you had a knack for prodding, especially when you sensed he was buttered up just enough. You knew a crime scene or a sample of blood brought a smile to his face, but you didn’t exactly have that kind of power to bring those things to him. You found your own ways to make Dexter smile. Leaving a post-it note on his coffee machine that read “Kill the day”. Buying him a new shirt for work or a romantic dinner. Making him a playlist for his late-night boat rides. Or you’d plan a quiet night with nature docs to stimulate his intellect.

And if you were feeling bold, you’d cook. Well, try to cook. Homemade pizza was your speciality. Your best and only. Dexter never complained, though, always giving you a small, approving nod as he chewed slowly.

Still, he didn’t give you the exact answers either. He might roll his eyes, sigh heavily, or offer a cryptic one-word response, but you could always tell when you’d hit the nail on the head.

“Do you have a special place where you do it? Like a basement or something?”

Roll of his eyes. No.

“Do you ever regret it? Like, afterward?”

No.

“Do you stalk them?”

Side eye. Yes.

“Do you talk to them first? Like, try to scare them or mess with their heads:”

...Yes?

You played this game as if it was the most normal thing in the world, without batting an eye. It was fun for you until you headed in an unpleasant direction of the questions.

“Does it get messy? What do you use to clean up? What about their clothes? Do you get them naked before getting rid of the body?”

Yes.

Oh. “…Before killing them?”

Yes.

The wheels in your head began to turn, your thoughts spiraling into uncharted territory. “Even the women?”

Yes.

Huh. Suddenly, the game wasn’t so fun anymore. You didn’t know how you felt about that. You pictured the men and women you didn’t know, beautiful, vulnerable, dead. It was stupid to feel jealous of corpses, but you couldn’t help it. It clawed at you.

For a while, you stopped asking questions. Not because you didn’t want to know, but because you were too distracted by the answers you’d already gotten. And maybe you were afraid of what else you’d uncover.

If you were jealous of them before, now that jealousy skyrocketed into different dimensions.

You were in the middle of baking banana bread, working the batter longer than necessary. It was your fourth loaf this week, and you’d already had to give a few away to Deb and Joey, because you weren’t capable of eating all of it.

You were happy that Deb and Joey appreciated it because Dexter didn’t even like banana bread that much. He ate it because you made it. Which was sweet. But still, he seemed to enjoy talking to naked strangers more than eating your baked goods.

What the fuck is his problem?

“Another banana bread?” Dexter’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “You know, it’s gonna lose its sweetness if you keep mixing all the frustration into it.”

Normally, you’d snort at the deadpan delivery of his stupid joke, but now was really not the time to remind you of the mood you were trying to suppress.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked is all seriousness now, coming over to you and leaning one hip against the counter. You didn’t look at him, keeping your focus on the batter. “Okay, you’re not. What can I do?” he asked, waiting patiently for you to open up.

“Nothing.”

He stood there and you felt his eyes on you, probably trying to read you. You still didn’t acknowledge him, but his presence pressed against you and it was starting to make you uncomfortable. He knew better than to push; it would only make you more frustrated, but he wasn’t one to just walk away either. Besides, he knew you’d crack eventually. And you did, dropping the spatula into the bowl and turning to face him.

“Why don’t you like my banana bread?”

He squinted his eyes, trying to decide if you were joking or not.

“I like your banana bread. Just… an appropriate amount. Not five loaves in a week.”

“Four,” you corrected.

“Five,” he countered, not missing a beat. “You made two yesterday, one on Monday and one on Wednesday.”

Shit, he was right. But could he blame you? He was driving you nuts. Well, you were driving yourself nuts, but it was because of him!

“Hey, I know my brain is limited, but is that really what’s bothering you? Will you help me out, or should I try to piece it together on my own?” he said softly.

He always did that, giving you space but never giving up on saving you from the sea of worrisome thoughts, never ignoring your closed off behavior. He’d always told you that you were like a puzzle to him. And he claimed he liked puzzles.

But you didn’t want to be a puzzle this time. You knew keeping him guessing wouldn't be healthy, so you spilled it out. You told him about your stupid insecurity and the stupid jealousy, the anger and frustration that boiled over when he told you about how he stripped his victims naked. And he couldn’t have had a more baffled expression on his face

For the first time, he told you a little bit about his hobby without you having to pull it from him. He reassured you that there was no sexual motivation behind it whatsoever. None. That the people he killed were disgusting and vile human beings who didn’t deserve even the faintest semblance of intimacy. Well, not that kind of intimacy. They deserved nothing but to die.

“I promise,” he said as he brushed his thumb over your cheek, “the only body I admire is yours. It’s an unhealthy obsession, really. Unhealthier than the other one.”

And with that, he finally made you laugh and roll your eyes at him. You gave him a playful shove, making him smile as you turned back to your batter. He moved closer one more time, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. As he stepped back, he gave your triceps a playful pinch, leaving you to your baking.

You didn’t have a reason not to trust him. Even though he held onto a big secret, he never outright lied. He just never told you the whole truth, and you respected that. He’d told you it was better this way, something about plausible deniability. And yes, you made it a little hard for him, but what can you say, you were nosy.

Later that night, he went out of his way to worship your body, to prove that you were truly his number one obsession. He looked you in the eye as he fucked you, making you see how you made him feel and showing you every ounce of devotion he had for you. When he put his tongue on you, he didn’t stop eating your pussy until you had to push him away.

Afterward, you lay on your stomach while Dexter rested beside you, propped on one elbow, his other hand tracing invisible shapes on your back.

He let you guess what he drew or wrote with his fingers, and you both giggled when you guessed something ridiculous when he drew something completely simple. It was your favorite kind of peace, lying in his arms, your warm skin against his. You almost couldn’t believe that these same arms were capable of something else.

It wouldn’t be you if you weren’t greedy, though. And sometimes, when your mood was just right, that greed turned you into a bit of a brat.

You were on your way from the farmer’s market, the basket of fresh carrots and strawberries balanced on your lap as Dexter focused on the road, one hand casually resting on the wheel.

You were just telling him how you wanted to have a garden of your own one day, grow your own fruits and veggies, maybe even have a little flock of chickens.

“Can you imagine? You’d have fresh eggs for breakfast every morning, and I could make you a fruit salad to take to work.”

He glanced over, just briefly, before fixing his eyes back on the road. “You’d want me to share that with you?”

You felt a small tug of your heart. It made you reach out to gently tug the short hair behind his ear. He liked that. He’d said it was soothing when you played with his hair, especially around the ears, and you made a mental note to do more of it later tonight.

“Dex, you’re stuck with me. You’ll need to kill me to get rid of me,” you joked and he shot you a look, but you giggled at your own quip.  

Truthfully, it broke your heart sometimes, the way he thought so little of himself. Sure, he was confident, sometimes even a little too sure of his skills, and it could momentarily turn him into a smug asshole. But you worried that he’d never feel how loved he actually was. How many people cared about him.

Before you could spiral too far into those thoughts, his phone buzzed. He was being called to a scene, and he initially wanted to drop you off at home, but you convinced him there was no point. It was literally on the way, and you could just wait in the car.

“Alright,” he said as he gathered his things, “half an hour, tops.” You nodded and he stepped out of the car.

You watched him work from the car, though you could barely make him out through the crowd of people that gathered at the scene. Still, you admired how focused and precise he was, the way he was handling the camera and the lifeless body.

It was impossible not to think about how those same hands had touched you, traced every curve and dip of your skin. Fuck, you were sick. He was professionally documenting death for Christ's sake.

Still, your mind couldn’t help but wander elsewhere, wondering if he handled them with the same care. So, once you were back on the road, you couldn’t help yourself.

“You know, I thought of a way you could prove your ‘obsession’ with my body.”

He paused, glancing at you with furrowed brow, confused. “I thought we were past that.”

“Well, you know, it does something to a girl, knowing her boyfriend’s hobby involves working with naked bodies.”

“I can’t believe that that’s what bothers you about this whole situation.”

You shrugged, letting the silence hang for a moment.

“Alright, I’ll bite. What’d you have in mind?”

“I want to experience it.”

“'It'. Try to be a little more specific.”

“You know… the setup. Like, a roleplay kinda thing. You’ll be you, and I’ll be your victim. Or like a 'draw me like one of your french girls' kinda situation."

You honestly thought that it was a good idea, but you just proved to him how much little you understood about the whole serial killer thing, which he let you know quite candidly.

Don’t get me wrong, he adored you, but he didn’t have a problem with calling you out on your stupidity and reminding you how close you sometimes got to crossing lines you didn’t fully understand. That’s what made your relationship great.

“First of all, why would you think they are French?" he asked, confused by the movie reference, but you jusrt rolled your eyes. "And second of all, I actually wonder whether it’s you or me who’s sick in the head here,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he went on to tell you that it wasn't a fucking game that you played. He is a serial killer. “I actually like your body intact.”

“But you wouldn’t actually –”

“No.”

“Come on, wouldn’t you like to see me all tied up, immobilized, completely at your mercy?”

His jaw tightened just slightly before he answered. Oh?

“No. End of discussion.”

“Fine,” you groaned with a sigh, sinking back into your seat like a scolded child, your fingers idly tracing the ridges of the basket in your lap.

You wanted to be petty about it but instead, you decided to be on your best behavior. The reason? You’d definitely gotten into his head. You didn’t know if he’d started fantasizing about you like that, or if he was coming to the realization that you might actually need a psychiatric evaluation. You hoped it was the former, so when you caught him lost in thought, his gaze lingering on you as if he were in a trance, you resisted the urge to poke the bear, only sending a sweet smile his way.

The sex had gotten more… intense. Also more frequent, and you had a theory that it correlated with his early returns from his hunts. He never seemed to be satisfied, always came home frustrated with himself and he took it out on you. He’d take you against the nearest surface he could find; the couch, the kitchen counter, even the floor. You thought there wasn’t a single surface in his apartment that wasn’t defiled.

Once, when he’d gotten home before you, he threatened to take you outside in the external corridor where his neighbors could see and hear everything. Well, you wouldn’t mind, but he was a flying-under-the-radar kind of guy.

Either way, you’d struck a chord. And while you still hadn’t gotten exactly what you wanted, you couldn’t deny you enjoyed the way he’d been lately.

You just got out of shower, slipped into your pajamas and plopped onto the couch, turning on some white noise on your phone as you pulled out some notes for your upcoming exam. No, you weren’t capable of studying after you changed into your sleeping attire, but it was better than doing nothing.

Your eyes skimmed mindlessly across the words when you heard the door unlock, revealing Dexter in his khaki henley and cargos. You greeted him with a smile, sending him into kitchen where his take-out was, before turning your head back to your notes.

You didn’t register him moving closer to you, until you felt the nylon of a cuff around your wrist.

“What the fuck?” you murmured and looked at your wrist. It wasn’t your first time he used bondage on you, of course, but this was weird. You tugged instinctively at the chain, but his firm grip on the other buckle didn’t allow you much movement. “Dex, I don’t have time for this now.”

“My victims don’t really get to pick when their time is up.”

You looked at him, the confusion apparent on your face, but then when you locked eyes with him, it started to gradually dawn on you. Your eyes flicked from his face, to his clothes, to the chain around your wrist.

Was this what you thought it was? You didn’t want to celebrate too early.

And just like that, Dexter gave a sharp tug on the chain, pulling you to your feet.

“The first thing that usually happens,” he began, leading you to the bedroom, “is the weight of their tranquilized bodies pulls them to the ground.”

Before you could react, he slammed the door shut behind you and in one swift motion, your back hit the hard wood. Your other wrist was caught and cuffed too, the chain between them yanked taut as he raised your arms above your head, hooking the chain on the hook mounted on the door, leaving you stertched out.

It was too high and the position forced you onto your tiptoes, your whole body arching and making your ass press firmly against the door.

Dexter grabbed your jaw and kissed you aggressively, your teeth clanking against each other and your tongues tangling together, making your mixed saliva drip down your chin.

He looked at you with that signature intensity, eyes hooded and plush lips parted slightly. His hot breath fanned across your chin as he spread the spit over your cheek and jawline, massaging it into your skin.

You admired the way his hair curled at his forehead and around his ears, it gave him this innocent vibe that put him into contrast with those strong features of his face.

Then he kissed you again, this time more softly, snaking his arm into the space between the door and your arched back, pressing himself against you and making you feel the hardness in his cargo pants. His hand slid lower, over the curve of your lower back, slipping beneath your shirt to cup your ass firmly. His fingers kneaded your flesh before grasping the hem of your panties and tugging up, the fabric pressing tightly against your pussy.

The pressure sent a jolt of pleasure straight through you, the cloth stimulating your clit as he gave it individual tugs. You whimpered into his mouth, your body writhing against him even though it was almost physically impossible. To amplify the pleasure, Dexter's thigh slid between your legs, the textured fabric of his cargos creating a delicious sensation.

When he was satisfied with the wet spot you created on his pants, he dropped to his knees. He teased you some more, licking along the hem of your panties, placing wet kisses on your thighs and burying his nose against your heat, telling you how good you smell.

“Dex,” you whined. Your cunt screamed for release as well as your strained arms. You wanted nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and grind yourself against his mouth until the dam broke.

He had told you before that his face was made for you to sit on. Once, Deb had jokingly called him a chair, which turned out to be a thought her therapist had passed on to her. Your mind couldn’t help but wander to the nights when he made you sit on his cock as he went over his subjects. He blindfolded you each time, naturally.

And from the look on your face, Deb knew instantly where your thoughts had gone, and said that she didn’t need that mental image in her head. You both laughed about it later. Honestly, you two loved sharing your sexcapades with each other.

Dexter found out through Quinn, because of course Deb would share, especially if you gave her inspiration. And he couldn't resist taking a jab at Dexter.

“I didn’t know you were such an animal, Dex,” Joey had told him with that smug grin of his.

Dex had given you an earful about how you had kind of compromised his privacy. It was only a matter of time until Masuka learned about this, and he was already exasperating. Dexter was afraid Masuka would take it as a shared hobby, something they could finally, really talk about with passion, like two guys. Ugh, the thought alone made him uncomfortable already.

But you'd told him that Deb was your best friend, and that girlfriends just had to talk about this stuff.

“It’s like therapy.”

“Don’t you say that about sex too?”

“Depends on the circumstances. Besides, it’s good for tips. You should thank her. If you thought making me squirt was all your talent, think again.”

After that, you made a deal not to bring up your sex club discussions in front of Dexter, and Deb made Quinn promise he wouldn’t say a word in front of Vince.

However, you did joke about the chair thing often, because he did provide the best seat in the house, whether it was his lap or his face.

But this time, he wasn't giving it up so easily. He wanted to make you earn it, but you couldn’t do anything except to wait.

When he finally did put his tongue on you, he didn’t take your panties off. He made you cum with them on, licking your clit over your panties, sometimes brushing his thumb over the sensitive bundle of nerves before sliding to your hole and pushing against the cloth, to the point your underwear became uncomfortable from how soaked it was with your cum.

Then he finally pushed your panties aside, the wet material sticking to your skin. He shuffled closer, his forehead grazing your stomach and his hair tickling your skin as he looked down at you, sliding his fingers through your folds and over your sensitive clit. you begged him to make you cum again, thinking he’d finally eat you out properly, but he just used his fingers.

He stayed on his knees for a while, admiring your shiny pussy and grazing his fingernails over your clit, teasing you, before standing up to his full height and properly fucking you hard with his fingers.

He wrapped his arm around you once again, bracing himself to your side as he started snapping his palm against your clit, two of his fingers sliding in and out of you and filling the room with wet sounds.

When you started cumming again, his other hand, that was resting on your hip reached down and tugged on your panties again, positioning the crotch back between your pussy lips and pulling, wiggling it to create stimulation against your clit.

“That’s it,” he growled, his lower jaw dropping down as he admired your squirming body.

You cried out from the sensation, your head banging against the door and one of your legs bending in the knee as you pressed your thighs together, trying to escape from the overstimulation.

You were so consumed by coming down from your high that you didn’t expect Dexter to unhitch the chain from the hook on the door, making you lose your balance. You would have surely fallen to the ground if Dexter hadn’t been there, but he was ready to catch you.

He shifted your body, picking you up bridal style. You thought that he’d lay you down onto the bed and fuck you there, but instead, he opened the door and headed out of the room. And as you rested in the comfort of his strong arms, your head against his shoulder, you noticed that his shirt smelt differently. It wasn’t the usual sweat and blood, or different human remains. It was a laundry detergent, meaning he truly did this just for you. It was your night.

He carried you through the living room, making his way toward his desk where he sat you down.

Unlike every other day, the computer was gone, as well as the photo of him and Deb. In fact, it was completely cleared out.

How have you not noticed that?

He stood between your thighs, working the cuffs to separate them from each other before pulling your sleep shirt over your head, leaving you exposed to him. His hand reached out, pinching your nipple as he kissed you, sharing the taste of your pussy with you. He pressed himself against you, the button of his cargos grazing your clit and making you moan. You were still sensitive, but you loved every second of it.

He leaned into you, forcing you to lie down, the coldness of the desk hitting your back and spreading goosebumps over your skin. He positioned you to his liking, moving you up so your feet rested on the top of the desk.

“I make sure they can’t escape,” he continued his description of the way he’d done things, pulling out another set of cuffs from the desk drawer and clasping each around your ankles before cuffing them to your wrist cuffs. You weren’t unfamiliar with any of this, but then he pulled out two other clasps and attached the ankle cuffs to the D-rings built in the desk.

Were those always there?

Now, you were all spread out for him, your nipples stiff for him to feed on, your legs bent in the knees and putting the outline of your cunt under your ruined panties on full display. You were capable of minimal movement with your ankles attached to the desk and your hands dependent on the movement of your legs. You weren’t going anywhere. Not that you wanted to.

“Are you good?” he asked, making sure he wasn’t doing anything you weren’t up to.

“Yes.”

“What’s your safe word?”

“Magazine.”

You watched as Dexter moved around the apartment, disappearing from your sight to retrieve a black, flat bag. When he returned to the kitchen counter, he seemed to unroll the bag, his back to you. You had to crane your neck to see, the vertebrae in your neck squishing together as you tried to get a glimpse of what lay inside. Something steely caught the light as he pulled it out. Then Dexter turned around, a pointed tool spinning under the force of his index finger. A Wartenberg wheel.

Your throat tightened, chills coursing down your spine as your body shifted in anticipation. Nothing could have prepared you for the next set of events. You were sure the next time you and Deb swapped stories, she would be the one taking notes.

Dexter tortured the fuck out of you.

He started with the pinwheel, rolling it all over your body. The pins were sharp enough to prickle your skin as they trailed along your arms, but it didn’t hurt. At first, it was even nice, relaxing almost. Then he moved to your chest, the wheel gliding from the hollow of your neck, down between your breasts and over you stomach.

As it neared the waistband of your soaked panties, you thought he’d continue further down and toward your aching pussy. But just as it reached below your navel, the wheel disappeared, making you huff.

That was your mistake. You’d worked yourself up by stupidly thinking that he’d go there right away. Foolish.

“I cut them up.”

You flinched at the sudden sound, startled, but he didn’t comment. The pinwheel resumed its path, drawing invisible lines across your wrists, elbows, shoulders, mimicking incisions. You closed your eyes, letting your imagination take over.

“Into evenly cut pieces,” he added.

Now the tool traveled lower, grazing your legs, running from your ankle to your bent knee, then up the sensitive skin of inner thigh. You trembled under his touch, your breath catching in your throat.

You reveled in the thought of this man, this predator, choosing to worship you instead of discarding you. Who knows, maybe one day, he would snap. But the possibility only made your body quake more.

He noticed, stopping the wheel just where your thigh met your hip. “Are you scared?”

“No.” you said, though your voice betrayed you, shaking on the single syllable.

But you really weren’t. If you were truly scared, you wouldn’t have misbehaved just now.

Before you could think about what would happen next, his hand struck, his palm landing sharply against your clothed pussy, and it was just then that you noticed he had put on his gloves, the leather making the sting more searing. You gasped, your hips jerking from the impact.

“If you thought you’d get a free pass, you were sorely mistaken.” He leaned over you, his hand sliding from your core to your thigh, squeezing the flesh. “Let’s try again. Are you scared?”

“No, sir.”

Other times, if you failed to call him sir right away, you’d get a warning. Maybe a slap to your thigh, or a firm squeeze of your neck. Never your pussy. Not at first.

“Such a brave girl.” This time, he ran the pinwheel slowly from your waist toward your chest. He altered its course, pressing it against your breast, applying more pressure as he reached your nipple, the sharp points dragging over it. “See? They could never measure up to you.”

Dexter turned the wheel again, guiding it slowly down your heaving stomach. You swore one of the metallic points grazed the bow on your panties, but he halted the motion, the wheel twisting 90 degrees to trace the hem of your underwear instead. Your hips tilted upwards instinctively, a desperate attempt to bring your pussy closer to his hand, but it was useless.

He continued to tease you, switching from one thigh to another, running it so close to your center, but never quite touching it. You kept waiting for that moment, but it never came.

“This is getting boring. I’ll go get something else,” he said nonchalantly, making his way toward the counter. Fucker.

“Wait,” you blurted without thinking. “I mean, please, sir…”

His footsteps paused, then drew closer again, stopping beside your head and smiling down at you.

“Did you want something?”

“Can you please touch my pussy?”

“Of course,” he said, a mocking lilt in his voice. “I just have to make my hands free,” he replied, taking a step toward the counter again, but you were quick to react.

“No!” You immediately regretted your words as he returned to the same spot. Dexter’s hand tilted your head, his gloved fingers squeezing your cheeks. The leather was firm and hot against your face. “I’m sorry, sir,” you added quickly, your voice muffled under his grip.

He leaned in closer. “You’d better realize your place, sweetheart. Or I’ll make sure this won’t be a fun experience.”

You apologized again, not forgetting the title, and he released your face, giving you a nod.

“Can you please touch my pussy with… that?”

Fuck your pride, right?

He raised his hand in front of his face, inspecting the pinwheel as though it had just appeared in his hand.

“Oh, this?” he said, feigning ignorance, clearly mocking you. “You want me to–” He moved the tool lazily through the air above your body, stopping just over your lower half “Touch you here?”

With a swift motion, the wheel skimmed between your legs, the pins grazing your panties. You didn’t even have the time to register it before he removed it again, but the electrifying sensation that came and went made you moan as your clit pulsed with excitement.  

“Yes, please.”

His nose brushed against yours as he leaned over again, and you thought he was going to kiss you. Instead, he mocked you again, his voice dripping with condescension as he cupped your chin. “Aw, you’re such a dirty girl, huh?”

His head dropped, his hair tickling your cheek as he glanced downward, watching his hand between your thighs. He made another contact with your pussy, slowly this time, focused. A mix of relief and hunger flooded you as he ran it up and down your wet underwear, the prickling sensation shooting through your nerves. “You want me to fuck you with it too? Are you that sick, hm?”

When you didn’t respond, he stopped and his head snapped towards you. His gloved hand left your face, only to land a slap across your cheek. The sting spread across your face, your skin burning under the impact.

“I didn’t fucking hear you.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

What can you say? Slapping didn’t really work on you. He knew that, it’s the reason he did it. So he could do it again.

The corner of his mouth twitched. He slapped you again, this time harder, the leather stinging even more than his bare hand.  

“If that’s what you wanted, sir, I’d take it.” You managed to keep your voice steady despite the heat in your cheek.

His lips curved into a smile. He stood up, walking towards the counter. “Jesus Christ,” he said with a shake of his head. “You’re lucky you found me. Anyone else would’ve committed your ass to a psychiatric hospital.”

“Fate,” you commented, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t punish you. Meaning you made him smile.

Dexter returned with a knife, and he dragged it across the chains, the clinking sound of metal scraping against metal echoing in the room.

He focused on your pussy now, rubbing the flat side of the knife against your clit, occasionally tapping it against you, and you half-expected he might nick the skin of your thighs if he wasn’t careful.

Then, Dexter flipped the knife again, teasing you with its blunt edge before bringing it to your breasts. He drew circles around your nipples with the tip of the knife, sharper than the pinwheel.

His body moved again, positioning himself behind you. His face, upside down, loomed above, gently cupping the underside of your chin, tilting your head back. The leather of his gloves gave you an unnerving sensation as his fingers held you in place. You felt the cold steel of the knife at your throat, running from one carotid to the other.

“Sometimes I cut their throats. But it’s not really my favorite style,” he said, the blade left your neck, drifting downward until it hovered over your left breast, settling directly above your wildly beating heart. He pressed the tip of the knife just enough for your skin to dip under its force. He could do anything to you. He could kill you right then and there.

“I love you,” you confessed for what felt like umpteenth time.

Dexter smiled, leaning down and placing a tender kiss on your forehead, all while controlling the force he still had on the knife.

He straightened, moving to your side again. His gloved fingers trailed over your stomach as he slid the knife under the hem of your underwear. The sharp edge pressed upwards, and you felt the fabric give way with a faint snick as the first small tear formed.

He moved the blade lower, repeating the motion. Each cut widened the tear, revealing the top of your clit. He shredded the panties until they were completely off, leaving you slickness glistening in the dim light and dripping onto the table beneath you.

Dexter removed his gloves and slid his fingers between your pussy lips, coating them in your wetness, before he brought them to his mouth. He just made you cum with his mouth, surely he wouldn’t–

But before you could finish your thought, he bent down over your torso and in a millisecond, his head was between your thighs. Mouth wide open, his tongue resting on his chin as he pressed it flat against your clit, and his upper lip collecting your juices straight from the source.

It was a single, devastating taste, but it was enough to make your legs tremble, the chains stopping you from closing them.

“Shit, I might as well eat you out again.”

Yeah, he might. Without anything in the way this time.  

It was just stroking your ego. It really made you proud, how his tongue was addicted to your pussy.

He brought the final tool of the night – a small brush that looked like it belonged in a makeup kit. It also looked like the softest instrumentof the night, but turned out to be the most torturing one.

The bristles touched your clit with featherlight strokes, maddeningly soft. The individual bristles tickled and stimulated every single nerve ending, sending vibrations through your entire body.

You gasped, your hips jerking involuntarily. Dexter worked the brush in slow, torturous circles, teasing your clit to the brink. Just as you thought you couldn’t take any more, he stuffed two fingers inside your hole, wiggling them inside to massage the spot that made your eyes roll back in your head.

The synergy was overwhelming. Your body writhed against the chains, chasing the orgasm building rapidly within you. But just as the climax was about to crash over you, he stopped. His fingers withdrew and the brush disappeared, your back arching in desperation as you felt the pleasure simmer out, leaving your abdomen hollow and aching from the loss.

“Please, sir, can I come?”

“Of course you can,” he said in a soft voice.

But he didn’t let you. He edged you again and again, pushing you to the brink, only to yank you back. He was playing with you, letting you know that your body wasn’t yours tonight. It was under his control. You were his.

The brush was drenched in your juices at this point, ruined just like your panties and your throbbing cunt. A few tears slipped from your eyes, mixing with the sweat slicking your skin. So you begged, desperate for the release. You begged until he finally finger-fucked, plunging his fingers into you and pumping them relentlessly. His thumb rubbed your puffy clit, sending you spiraling into an earth-shattering orgasm.

You came hard, your juices spilling over his hand and splattering onto his watch. He only pulled his fingers out to spank your clit, amplifying the intensity of your orgasm. At one point, he reached for the discarded glove, fisting it and placing harsh smacks against your sore pussy. You screamed, and after he landed his last smack, feeling you were nearing another orgasm, he switched the rough sensation of the leather for the softness of his tongue, firmly pressing against you and shaking his head from side to side, letting you cum into you his mouth.

You could barely take it and you were scared he might pull out a vibrator, because he liked to do that when you came twice in the span of two minutes. But he didn’t, removing his glistening face from your center and standing up. You just laid there, your body a racing circuit for the endorphins and oxytocin at this point.

Dexter gave you only a few second before he undid the chains, the clinking of metal barely audible over the pounding in your ears. He didn’t let you move, though, keeping you sprawled on table as he shifted your body higher until your head hung off the edge.

He stood in front of your face, and you knew what he wanted. You reached for the button of his cargo pants, undoing them and pulling them down along with his underwear. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy. Gorgeous. You didn’t waste a moment, leaning forward, licking the bead of precum from his tip before taking him into your mouth.

Dexter groaned, the sound vibrating through you. Soon, he took over, thrusting into your throat as he held you down. One hand pressed against your neck, feeling the way you swallowed his cock, while the other pinched and tugged at your nipples.

You gagged around him, bubbles forming in the corners of your mouth as you struggled to keep up. This time, your eyes outright stung from the tears that were forcing their way out, but you didn’t stop. It wasn’t until you coughed, your throat tightening involuntarily and squeezing around him, that he pulled out with a groan.

You gasped for air, your chest heaving, but he didn’t give you long to recover. His hand gripped your neck and yanked you up, forcing you into a kneeling position on the table. You just sat there, dazed, your hands resting in your lap like the picture of innocence. Messy hair, glassy eyes, and swollen lips.

Dexter kissed them, shoving his tongue into your mouth, tasting himself and making you taste yourself again. His beard scratched against your sensitive skin, adding to the long list of stimuli.

You dared to sneak your hand away from your lap, circling your fingers around his cock and stroking him slowly. Your thumb swiped over the sensitive head and he moaned into your mouth before his head fell back. You leaned forward, your lips brushing against Dexter’s neck, sucking on his pulse point and grazing it with your teeth.

You moved your hand up and down, and Dexter’s moans and gasps grew louder and more frantic. You quickened your pace, his hips jerking into your hand as he chased his own orgasm. You twisted your hand, and he came with a guttural groan. His cum spilled onto your stomach, warm and sticky, and his hand shot out to grip the hair at the back of your neck, yanking you into another kiss as he came down from his high.

When his breathing slowed, you awkwardly shifted your legs over the edge of the table, letting them dangle as you wrapped your arms around his waist. You pulled him close, burying your face in his chest, a content sigh escaping you as you enjoyed the warmth, the softness of his body.

He cupped your head, his thumb brushing small crescents against your scalp with returned tenderness as he let out a soft sigh of his own, his chest rising and falling against you.

“Are you okay?”

You didn’t pull away to look at him, your body too spent to do much more than to snuggle deeper into his chest and squeeze his torso.

“Better than,” you mumbled.

“I know this wasn’t what you wanted,” he said.

That made you lift your head. You looked at him, your brows drawing together in confusion.

“But this,” he gestured to the table, his brow raising, “is the only table I want to see you on. The only restraints I ever want to see on you. And I need you to get it through that thick skull of yours that there’s nothing sexy about what I do.”

“In my dreams there is,” you said, your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“YN,” he warned.

“I know,” you relented with a roll of your eyes, his brows raising, daring you to be a brat in this moment. “For the record, it was better than what I wanted.”

You smiled and he kissed you again, silencing any further rebellion. When you shivered against him, he pulled back and cleaned you up before ordering you to throw on a shirt.

“Yes, sir,” you replied cheekily, adding a playful salute for good measure.

“I will spank your ass if you don’t get it in the shower in ten seconds,” he said, pulling his own pants up. Would that be so bad? You bit your lip to keep from grinning and headed into the bathroom, while he cleaned the table.

By the time you switched places, you felt refreshed, fucked out just right as every muscle in your body ached with a sweet kind of soreness. You heated up his dinner while making yourself a quick sandwich. Just as you set his plate down, he walked out of the bathroom. You grabbed your sandwich and set down, with Dexter soon joining you.

When you finished your meals, the two of you migrated to the couch. He rested his head on your stomach, while you draped your legs over his shoulders.

Your fingers played with the freshly washed hair, soft and silky from the shampoo. You twirled the strands around your fingers lazily, and his quiet purrs filled the room as you trailed your fingertips along the curve of his ears, scraping gently at the sensitive spots behind them. That sound, half sigh, half growl, might’ve been your favorite thing in the world.

You bent down, the movement uncomfortable and your muscles protesting as you pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. But the way it scrunched affectionately under your touch made the discomfort worth it.

[soobnny]

end of the day — law student kim seungmin x med student yn. established relationship. comfort.

you come home after a long, tiring shift to your bf (0.8k words)

warning. mentioned minor character death. hospital terms.

It’s late when you get back to your apartment from the hospital. The bustle of the city had long died down, and the only sound you could hear was from the gentle pitter patter of the rain’s leftovers, the train from a distance, and the horrifying sob of a mother who had just lost her daughter echoing in your ears from just a few hours ago.

The bleeding was too severe in her brain, and even after 36 hours, there were still no brainstem reflexes. She was pronounced brain dead after some time. You can still remember the way it hurt you—the look on her mother’s face, slowly losing her composure. That break in her features. Loss will never be easy.

Sighing, you tuck away the pain as you kick off the white shoes you’re wearing from your numb feet. You never got used to the night shift duties, and you suppose you never will. For now, you just wanted to hop into the shower, eat something, and get some sleep. You’re afraid that if you think about it more, you’d start crying.

“Hey, doc.” Your attention shifts to the voice from your living room. “How was your shift?”

Seungmin has a bad habit of hugging you even when you've just come from the hospital. And you suppose the right thing to do would be to push him away, the way you usually do, scold him for threatening himself with nosocomial infection, but after the 36 hours you had, you find you can’t bring yourself to do it.

It’s how Seungmin knows to tighten his grip around you. Almost like he knows.

(He does. He has you and your entire heart memorized.)

“Never gets easier.” You sigh, face planted on his firm chest. He’s wearing a white shirt that’s a little big for even him, and it’s a little lopsided that it reveals a bit of his collarbones. His messy hair is indicative of having studied before he heard you unlock the door. “I wish there was more that I could do.”

“You’re studying and working so hard, and that’s enough right now.” He whispers, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Have you eaten?”

You shake your head. You don’t remember the last time you were able to get a proper meal during your shift.

“You didn’t eat yet?”

Seungmin would’ve scolded you had you not been so exhausted. He had always been the number one advocate of your health, always reminding you to eat on time, drink the required amount of water a day, but he knew his scolding was the last thing that you needed right now, only quietly asking for a bit of his comfort.

“Let’s eat, okay?” He asks you, soothing your hair down and carefully leading the pair of you to the kitchen. “I cooked a lot tonight cause I knew you were coming home.”

“Am I disturbing you? You must’ve been studying.”

“Hm? No, no. I was taking a break anyway.” Seungmin reassures.

“How was your recitation about that case study?” You suddenly ask, just as he sits you down on the table.

He pops your food in the microwave, reheating it for you, and he laughs quietly to himself. How kind of you to remember even when you’d been busy. It had been something Seungmin studied very hard for, something he was anxious about a few days prior.

“It was good.” He smiles, patiently waiting for the microwave to beep. When it does, he sets the food in front of you with a glass of water before taking a seat next to you. “Eat well, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you, Minnie.”

“You must be so tired.” Seungmin frowns, brushing a few strands of your hair away from your face and tucking it neatly behind your ear.

You had shaken your head when he called you out for your exhaustion, but your eyes begged to differ, threatening to close every once in a while.

It’s quiet the rest of the time that you eat, which is only a good few minutes. Your stomach must’ve been craving for food all this time. Seungmin takes note of preparing you a few meals to bring to your next shift. He’d done it a few times, but has had to take a momentary pause due to the business of his schedule.

“Are you gonna go to bed too?” You sound guilty when you ask him, and it’s adorable the way you look at him with doe eyes. Almost hopeful, but desperately trying not to show it. It’s been a while since both of your sleeping schedules have aligned.

“You go shower first while I clean up okay?”

“No. You already cooked, so I can wash the dishes. It’s the unspoken rul—“

A kiss is planted on your lips. Very effective at shutting you up.

“Just wash up, and I’ll handle the rest, hm?”

“Okay, fine.” You start to walk away before you make an abrupt halt. “Does that mean we’re going to bed together?”

Seungmin laughs. “I won’t be long.”

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: Tim doesn’t rest, not even in Death.

It’s a heart attack that gets him, well, that and the insane amount of fear toxin flooding his system. He was dead for a full three minutes before he watches (how was he watching?) his eldest brother get his heart going again and get his unconscious body to the cave. Alfred gets him onto bat-life support and Leslie looks gravely at his family after she’s done her best to heal him. They decide to keep trying, they don’t want to believe he’s gone.

Tim watches in fury. He’s more useful than this, he’s not just going to die and let the family mourn him! Tim sets to work trying to understand what’s happened to him and he realizes he must be a ghost. Therefore, if he wants to understand ghosts he needs to go where ghosts are, and thankfully he just read a JLD doc saying to avoid Amity Park at all costs.

It’s takes him a second to get used to flying at full speed, but he finds himself surrounded by strange people in a strange town and… he notices himself becoming more visible. He’s able to interact with more and more objects, he even picked up a pencil! Poltergeist is a step forward in his plan, Tim accepts this change of pace.

Then Tim meets Danny, a normal human kid who looks like he could be brought into the manor and given a cape, who looks straight at him.

“Wait, who are you? You didn’t die in Amity did you?”

“No, I died in Gotham. I came here to understand how I’m a ghost and how I can get back to my dying body. I just need a few answers.” Tim explains, and notices that his voice isn’t his own, like it’s a different language entirely that comes out.

“Well, uh, I dunno about going back to your body but it’s not safe for you to be here. The GIW are looking for lost souls like you that people won’t notice go missing. So get back to your family and find peace. Im sorry but that’s really the best advice I have.” Danny answers.

Tim begs him for answers on the GIW. Begs him for any answers at all. Danny shrugs him off each time, tell him that he’s just a ghost and he needs to move on before he gets hurt or becomes a problem.

Tim decides if he’s a problem, he’ll probably get more answers.

Soon enough, he’s stepping into the end of a battle where Phantom is getting Skulker into a thermos, and demands answers, and if not answers help.

They brawl, and Tim’s training as Red Robin gets him farther than a lot of ghosts. And then, when he knows he’s beat and he’s about to share thermos space with the robot jackass (who he can interrogate and then build his own robot) Tim realizes something.

“You’re still alive, aren’t you? You’re Danny, black hair and blue eyes.” Tim says and suddenly Phantom is as still as the dead despite the accusation.

“How the fuck- dude. Okay, you know what? Fine. Lets go talk, you’re clearly not giving up and I need you to never say that shit out loud ever again.”

Because blackmail works in life for Tim, blackmail also apparently works in death.

He’s given all of the info they have on the GIW, he’s introduced to ghost technology and how it works with ectoplasm. He’s told about the portal (although they refuse to sneak him into the house to see it- he can handle a few lasers, ugh) and he’s told about the general sequence of events in Danny’s life/death.

And then Tim is suddenly back in his body in Gotham.

The family found a way to bring him back and he’s 100% alive, no longer ghostly, but he retained all his memories.

“We have a war against the government to start” are not the first words his family expected to hear from Tim post death.

[calcifermovesthecastle]

Sharing a Moment

Tooth Rotting Sanji Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Whole Cake Island spoilers if you squint.

2460 ish words

Warnings: Panic attacks, mentions of past trauma, mentions of burns, mentions of Slavery.

This is actually an excerpt from my self insert one piece google doc, but I turned it into a reader insert. Character is afab, uses she/her pronouns, and is described with breasts. I do not shy away from "controversial" topics and do not censor any of my work. this does not mean that I condone or agree with the things that I write about.

This is what I do instead of therapy lmao.

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Sharp, uneven breaths pierce through the silence that surrounds you on the island. Your transponder snail sleeps peacefully on the ground, your hands trembling too violently to pick it up. 

Your head swims, and each new breath you take is shorter and sharper than the last. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, scrambling backwards on the forest floor. 

"I'm gonna find you, bitch!" The words aren't real, but they echo in your head nonetheless. You press your back up against the large tree you're under, clawing at the collar of your shirt around your neck. The night seems to close further in on you. 

You weren't lost. Not at first. You started out on the beach, picking through shrubs and bushes to resupply Chopper with some fresh herbs and plants. The rest of the crew's voices had faded away, dispersing in their own searches, leaving you alone in yours. The deeper you got into the woods, the darker it got, and the more anxious you felt. The more your mind began to race. 

Suddenly, you weren't a straw hat anymore. Suddenly, just like that, the shackles tightened around your neck and wrists, and your master calls after you, screaming all of the horrible things he'd do to you once you were found. 

Your transponder snail continues to snooze on the ground in front of you, a mocking reminder that you can call for help at any time, if you could just get out of your own head. 

"When I find you, I'm gonna gut you like an animal! You'll fucking wish you were dead when I'm done with you!" 

Oh, how you wish you would breathe quieter. Your head throbs and your vision swims, the lack of air and the blood pounding in your ears making you lightheaded. At this point, passing out seems like a blessing. 

"Do you want your hands set on fire again?! Or would you rather I stick them in boiling oil?" 

"No!" You manage to gasp out. You claw more at your shirt collar, ripping the fabric apart down past your breasts. A heavy, loud sob bursts past your lips, and all you can hear is your own rapid heart beat. 

Then, clear as a bell, you hear someone say your name. 

Your eyes fly open, chest heaving as you look around for the source, and stare up at Sanji, who's rounded the tree and is staring at you with eyes just as wide. Your voice gets caught in your throat, but your body almost buckles in relief. 

You cant seem to calm yourself down, though, and your throat constricts again, the ghost of that awful collar tightening around you. You pull your torn shirt even further away from you, your hands trembling so violently you have to grasp at it multiple times. 

Sanji crouches in front of you, shrugging his blazer off, not breaking eye contact once. 

"Sweetheart, would you like to go back to the ship?" 

You nod, bawling loudly. Sanji nods, never breaking his eye contact with you. He looks at you as if you'll run from him at any second.

"Okay, I'll take you home. I need you to calm down first, okay?" 

"I cant-" You choke out, taking another short, sharp breath in.

"Okay, I'll help you." 

Ever so gently, Sanji reaches out and pulls you close, resting his chin on top of your head. He takes your hands in his and squeezes, taking slow, steady breaths that you're supposed to mirror. It takes a few tries, but finally, your breathing returns to normal and your head stops swimming. Though you're still shaking, you're back to reality, and you know that you're okay. 

"Are you ready?" 

You had no idea Sanji's voice could sound so tender. Your lower lip trembles as you nod, and he gently pulls you to your feet, draping his blazer over your shoulders. 

When he pulls his hands away, you reach out to him, your voice breaking. 

"Don't go away." 

That's funny, you meant to say "Don't let go." Sanji's eyes widen briefly, but they soften just as quick, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders as soon as he's picked up your transponder snail and put it in the blazers pocket.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sweetheart," He says quietly. "I've got you." 

Slowly, he guides you through the woods back to the Sunny. You lean heavy on him, gripping the fabric of his blazer in your hands as tightly as you can to feel grounded. 

"Please don't tell the others," you whisper. Your eyes swim with more tears as shame blooms through your whole body. Sanji squeezes you firmly. 

"I wont. If they ask, I'll just say you got lost and called me to come get you." 

"Thank you," You rest your head against the side of his chest, listening to his heart beat. 

Another wave of relief floods your body when you finally land eyes on the Sunny. Sanji helps you up the first few rungs of the ladder, then starts climbing up after you. Once on board, you follow him to the kitchen, sitting at the table. 

He doesn't ask why, doesn't prod more information out of you, he just sets a warm mug of tea in front of you, ruffles your hair, and gets started on dinner. 

The warm lighting in the kitchen helps to soothe your frayed nerves, so you sip on the tea, mindfully taking slow, deep breaths. Sanji's company proves to be very grounding as well, so while he cooks, you slip your burn gloves off and stare at your hands.

Chopper has done a phenomenal job repairing some of the scarring. He's also helped you gain a ton of function back. But the flesh is still mangled badly, and the nerve damage is majorly irreparable. You can grasp and hold things, but your fine motor skills are gone. There's no getting that back. You open and close your fingers, grateful for the movement you have gained back. 

But the damage is still there. The pain of it is seared into the back of your mind forever. you frown, lost in thought. 

"Your tea is getting cold, d'you want me to heat it back up for you?" 

You jump, looking at Sanji with wide eyes. His eyes go from your face to your hands, and you can see his brow furrow behind his hair. He puffs on his cigarette and sits down next to you, reaching out and grasping them before you can pull away. 

Since they've been burned, nobody has touched your bare hands. You've always kept the gloves or bandages on, for fear that it would hurt too much otherwise, or trigger a bad reaction in you. 

But Sanji's hands don't do either. They feel cool, and the pressure is comforting. You stare wide eyed down at where your hands are, your heart stuttering in my chest. 

"You have beautiful hands," He says quietly. Your eyes fly to his face, but he doesn't look at you, he just studies your hands, turning them over in his own. 

"Don't lie," You whisper. It's barely audible, but he shakes his head. 

"I'm not lying. They really are beautiful." He says it with such conviction it makes your heart clench. 

"Look at you, you're fucking worthless, you pig bitch. You can't even serve me right with those fucked up hands of yours. Clean this fucking mess up and get the fuck out of my room so I dont have to look at how disgusting your hands look." 

"The scars on them don't mar the way they look," He continues. "They're quite striking." 

He sits and admires them for a few more minutes, and you stare at him, your eyes as wide as dinner plates, your face flushed red. 

You can feel butterflies in your stomach as he runs his thumb along one of the longer scars, humming. When he looks up at up at up at you, he smiles. 

"I guess I just never noticed." 

"Nobody," You whisper, for fear that your voice may break again. "Has ever said anything so kind about my hands." 

Sanji tilts his head, puffing on his cigarette. When he speaks again, his tone is tender. 

"Sweetheart, you should stop worrying so much. Nobody is ever going to hurt us again. Not like this." 

He squeezes your hands, ruffles your hair again, and gets up to check on dinner. 

Us?

Wait. Us?

"Sanji, what do you-" 

"Did you want me to reheat your tea?" He asks, as if he didn't hear you. You blink, glancing down at your cup. 

"Uh, sure. That would be really nice." 

Humming, he reheats your tea for you, then pulls some vegetables out. You put your gloves back on and pull his blazer tighter around your body. 

"Sanji?" 

"Hm? What is it?" 

"Could I have a cigarette?" 

He turns his head towards you, frowning. He sees how tense you are, how shaky your breath still is, and closes his eyes. 

"Just this once. These things are bad for you, you know." 

"I know," You smile slightly. He jerks his chin up once. 

"They're in the left pocket in my jacket. Just one, ya hear?" 

You heed his words, thanking him when he lights it for you. The first few puffs you take are followed by very harsh, loud coughs, but the next few burn less in your throat and lungs. It's a nice distraction. 

The rest of the crew still isn't back by the time you finish the cigarette, but you're not ready to be by yourself just yet, so you stay in the kitchen with Sanji. You finish your tea, and eat the food he puts in front of you, and when they're still not back after you've finished eating, you rest your chin in your hands and watch as Sanji continues to work in the warm yellow glow. By the time Luffy bursts in demanding dinner, you've fallen asleep at the table. 

"Hm? What's she doing here?" He asks, prodding at you gently. Sanji smacks his hand away, shooing him out of the room. 

"She got lost and called me to find her on the transponder snail. You get out and go sit in the lounge with everyone else for your dinner. She already ate." 

Luffy looks at you, frowning slightly, but concedes to letting you sleep for now. He bounds out of the room, yelling for everyone to go to the lounge so they can eat. 

You jerk awake sometime later, the shadow of a nightmare fading from your mind, leaving in its wake a sense of uneasiness and the deep seated need to not be alone. 

There is no light coming from the porthole, but the swaying of the ship tells you that we're back to sea. You stand up, steadying yourself with the table, and exit the kitchen. 

You hold Sanji's jacket tightly around you, climbing the ladder up to the crows nest. The smell of smoke tells you that that's where you'll find Sanji. 

Sure enough, he's standing with elbows resting on the ledge of the crow's nest as he stares out at open water, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray perched next to him. You walk straight over to him and wrap your arms around him from behind. 

He doesn't say anything, but turns slightly so he can wrap one of his arms around you. You press your ear against his chest, searching for his heartbeat. When you find it, you close your eyes and focus on it. 

For a while, the only noise is your breathing, his heartbeat, and the sounds the ocean makes. You're grateful for how expertly Sanji seems to handle you when you're at this low point, how he seems to know exactly what you need. How instead of fawning over you, he stays collected and steady and oh so kind and tender. You tighten your hold on him, closing your eyes. 

"I'm sorry," You murmur.

"What for?" He responds, just as quiet. You breathe out, tears welling up in your eyes. 

"Being such a fucking mess." Your voice breaks, and a quiet whimper escapes your throat for what feels like the umpteenth time tonight. "Sanji, everything came flooding back. I'm not strong enough to pretend I'm okay, and I don't know how I'm going to hide it from everyone. I don't want to be a mess. I don't want my past to control me but it does. Just when I think I've got a good handle on it, something triggers it, and I don't know what to do to stop myself from shutting down. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

His hand reaches up to stroke your hair as you cry, and after a while he pulls away from you, squeezing an arm in each hand and crouching to your eye level. 

"Sweetheart, you cant change what happened to you. And it's still so recent for you that of course you're going to have days where it's harder for you to feel normal. You're going to have days where it feels like it's all a dream, and you're still stuck in those shackles. I saw you, that first day. Remember?" 

You nod, weeping openly. 

"You may not think so, but you are doing so much better than you were. He cant hurt you anymore. Say it." 

"H-he can't hurt me anymore." 

"Again." 

"H-he can't hurt me anymore." 

"That's right. He can't. But it's going to take time, right? You can know that there is nothing he can do to get to you. You can know that you're free. But it's going to take time for you to believe it. That's part of healing. So don't be sorry for your bad days. We understand, more than you could ever know."

Something distant clouds Sanji's eye, but it's gone before it takes form. Weakly, you reach your arms out to him, asking for a hug. He pulls you close, careful not to hold you too tight. 

"He can't hurt me anymore," You blubber. You feel him nod. 

"That's right." 

"I'm safe." 

"That's right." 

"I'm free." 

"You're free, love." Sanji tightens his grip on you for a moment, exhaling. "Would you like to lie down in bed?"

"Mhmm" You sniff. Truthfully, you'd rather stay awake with him as long as possible, but your body is so tired that you know there's no fighting the sleep that's coming. "But please don't leave me all alone up here." 

"I'm not going anywhere," Sanji says. A sharp wind blows by, causing both of you to tense. You shrug his jacket off, holding it out to him. 

"Since I'll be under the covers," You say hoarsely, "I suppose you could have your jacket back." 

He laughs, taking it and putting it back on. "I'm honored."

You smile back, getting cozy in bed. Sanji watches you, turning back around when your head finally hits the pillow. It's not long until you're out, your soft snores falling on his ears while he watches the night sky.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 3,782 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Warnings: language, blood, descriptions of injury (nothing super graphic), some mild violence Era: The Whisperers Summary: Y/N wakes up after her conflict with the Whisperers in the woods. A/N: Ohhhh boy. Shit is happenin' in this one! Hope you all enjoy!

Part 2 (previous chapter)

Consciousness didn’t consume you in an instant like it usually did. Instead, it came back as a slow drip, drip, drip. Your hearing was the first thing to return and you marked that it was almost silent. There was no bird song, no wind rustling the leaves, no cracking of branches as the pines swayed. You felt no air moving past your face or in your hair. I must be dead, you thought. But then, sensation started to come back and your body ached and burned. Your head was pounding and foggy. Surely being dead didn’t hurt this much… You were lying on something soft. You couldn’t make sense of what was happening or where you were.

You concentrated on trying to open your eyes. It felt like it took hours to get your eyelids to lift and when they did you stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Ceiling? What the fuck?

There was suddenly movement beside you, a soft rustling and you turned to look as quickly as you were able to. The man was familiar and though you’d only seen him once up close, you recognized him immediately. He spoke, sitting up hurriedly when he saw your eyes open. “Hey,” he drawled softly.

You gulped and started to panic, your eyes darting around the room and over your own body. You were in some kind of makeshift hospital or clinic and found that you were wearing only a cotton smock reminiscent of the hospital gowns of the old world.

Your heart was pounding. Fuck, your side burned. Your ribs ached. There was a thick bandage around your forearm, where Alpha’s knife had sliced you. You noted that the tip of one of your fingers was black and blue. Your mind was racing, thoughts moving through too quickly to focus on. You stared at the IV tubing going into your arm.

Daryl could read the rising panic on your face, on the sudden twitchy and feverish energy rising in you. He tried to calm you down. “Hey, s’alrigh’. Yer safe here. Yer—”

But the next moment you were on your feet, slipping off the bed onto the floor on the side opposite him. He watched, stunned, as you yanked the IV from your arm, leaving the tube dangling and dripping onto the floor.

He stood quickly, palms out in a show of good will and tried again to get through to you. “S’okay. Yer safe,” he urged, his voice and expression soft. But your eyes were still darting around the room.

You clutched a hand over your side and grimaced. You couldn’t even stand straight. Your body was hunched over due to the overwhelming pain in your side and abdomen. Your muscles felt weak and rubbery. “Where the fuck am I? Where the hell are my clothes, my gear?” you demanded, fear rising in you quickly, tightening around your lungs. Your vision began to tunnel inwards, the edges growing blurry and then black, skrinking, tightening.

“We put it aside for ya,” Daryl replied, trying his hardest to keep his voice low and steady. He could see you swirling, buzzing with nerves and something that looked like fear. “Let’s just—get ya back in bed. Ya just had surgery. Ya lost a lotta blood. Ya shouldn’t be up yet.”

You only stared back at him, your eyes sharp and intense, distrustful.

“Ya’ve got stitches,” Daryl said, taking a hesitant step toward the end of the bed separating the two of you, trying to move closer. He could see your eyes repeatedly darting toward the door. You were going to make a run for it, whether that was rational or not. “We’re tryin’ to help ya. It’s okay,” he drawled again, but he knew he needed back up. “Hey, doc!” He suddenly yelled over his shoulder. “Little help over here!”

A lot of things happened very quickly after that. Afraid that you would injure yourself further if you made a run for it, Daryl stepped around the bed and tried to block your exit with his broad frame. Then, Siddiq and Enid came running from the other side of the clinic just in time to see you haul back a fist and punch Daryl right in the face. He crumpled a little to the side, blood pouring out of his nose.

“Ah, fuck!” he growled, looking at the crimson now dotting the floor and his hands.

You tried to dash past him but suddenly your knees hit the floor. The pain in your side was exponentially worse. You clutched a hand to it, gasping, and felt something wet wicking into the cotton. Lifting your fingers, you saw a violent red spot growing on the fabric.

Daryl stood up, shaking his wavy brown hair out of his eyes and holding a bandana to his nosebleed, but not taking his eyes off you. You looked like a cornered wild animal.

“Enid,” Siddiq said quietly, “get something to sedate her. She tore her stitches.” Now, Siddiq too was stepping toward you with his palms out, cautious and worried about you making the situation worse than it already was. “We just want to help you, okay? You’re hurt pretty bad. You had surgery. Luke and Alden brought you back here. They saved your life. Let’s just—take a few deep breaths, and then get back in bed…”

The edges of your vision were starting to close in. It was like peering through a tunnel that was growing smaller and smaller. “Fuck you,” you murmured. You were surprised by how breathy and weak your voice came out. You tried again to get back up on your feet, but your legs wouldn’t hold you. You collapsed again to the floor and Daryl and Siddiq seized the opportunity and moved in, grabbing hold of you to restrain you. You tried to fight against them but what little energy you had was gone. None of your muscles were working.

“Enid! Hurry up!” Siddiq called.

The tunnel of black in your vision closed in completely. You shut your eyes, sinking slowly toward unconsciousness again. You were vaguely aware of the voices filtering in still. They sounded like they were coming out of a drain, indistinct and muddled.

“Give her the injection,” Siddiq urged. Enid rushed forward and administered the dose into your upper arm.

Daryl, his nose finally no longer bleeding, could see that you were already crashing even before the shot. He cradled your head and neck as you collapsed toward the cold, tile floor.

“How bad is it?” he asked as you went limp in his arms. The crimson stain seemed impossibly large already on your cotton gown, but he hoped it was just from the way the fabric was wicking up the blood.

Siddiq’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know. Let’s hope she only tore the surface stitches, otherwise we’ll have to do surgery again. Enid, you’ll have to check her. Grab a towel to put under her on the bed. Here—Daryl, help me get her laid down again.”

“I’ll get her,” Daryl replied. “Just go get what ya need to treat her.” Siddiq agreed and hurried off. Daryl scooped you into his arms as gently as he could and laid you down on the bed again, sighing. He stepped back with his brow deeply furrowed.

Enid glanced over at him. His face was a bloody mess and he dabbed at it again with his handkerchief, tilting his head back and again shaking his hair out of his eyes. “How’s your nose? Do you think it’s broken?” she asked.

Daryl gave it an exploratory prod, wincing as he pushed his fingers along the bridge. It was swollen, but he didn’t think it was broken. He shook his head. “Nah. I dun think so. But she got me pretty good for somebody in her shape,” he drawled.

Enid nodded and glanced back at you on the bed. “What happened that set her off?”

Daryl shook his head and shrugged vaguely. “She just—woke up. And then started lookin’ for a way out,” he said. “I think—I think she was havin’ a panic attack.”

Enid sighed. “As much as I hate to say it, we might need to restrain her,” she said, turning her attention to the wound in your side now. “She could have really done more damage to herself.” Siddiq returned with supplies. Daryl averted his eyes and moved around the other side of the bed as Enid pulled up the gown to expose your wounds. Daryl caught just the smallest glimpse of the deep blue and black bruising blooming up your side, smeared with red.

“I’ll let ya take care of her, give her some privacy. I’ll go update ev’rybody,” he drawled, quickly taking his leave and stepping out into the open air. He pulled in a deep lungful and rubbed a hand over his face. Fuck. That almost couldn’t have gone worse.

Before he did anything, Daryl needed to clean himself up. He headed up to the big main house and sought out a washing basin, pouring in fresh water from the pitcher and washing his hands and face, inspecting himself in the mirror. His nose was definitely swollen and it was a bit hard to breathe… but it looked far better without all the blood everywhere. He wondered if he’d have the shadow of a couple black eyes tomorrow…

“God!” Tara was suddenly striding up to him, concern written all over her face. “What happened to you?!” she asked, incredulous. Alright, so maybe his nose still didn’t look great…

“Uhh—she woke up,” Daryl drawled.

“And—what? Attacked you?” Tara asked, perplexed.

“I think she was havin’ a panic attack. She just looked scared more than anythin’. She tried to run outta the damn clinic with her fuckin’ stitches and everythin’,” he replied.

“Jesus!” Tara exclaimed. “Do we need to—move her into one of the cells?” she asked, clearly alarmed.

“Nah,” Daryl replied quickly. “She was just disoriented, is all. She’ll be alrigh’. She tore her damn stitches though. Siddiq and Enid are workin’ on her now.”

Tara sighed and nodded.

“How’s it goin’ with the girl and Henry?”

She shrugged. “Okay. I think a lot of what she’s saying is bullshit but—maybe we’ll get there. She seems to be building rapport with him.”

Daryl nodded. “Yeah, well maybe if we can talk to this woman we can leave Henry out of it.”

“Maybe,” Tara agreed. “But I’m not sure, based on what you’ve said, that she’s any more likely to talk.”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Daryl’s next task was to go find Alden and Luke. They’d expressed grave concern about you when they managed to get you back to Hilltop. Considering how you’d saved them, returning the favor felt like the least they could do. If you hadn’t shot those Whisperers out of nowhere and then appeared like a fucking ghost, they didn’t know what would be happening to them now. Miraculously, they’d happened on their horses wandering home along the old highway and had been able to lift you onto one, patched up against the bleeding as best they could. Still, by the time they’d reached the gates, there was a river of crimson running down the saddle and you were pale and chilled. No one was sure you’d survive.

The story of your fight with Alpha and the others wearing the horrifying skin masks had already been told many times and passed through Hilltop like wind through bare branches. There were whispers everywhere as Daryl walked toward the trailer the new group was staying in. He found Alden and Luke standing outside with the other newcomers, Yumiko, Kelly, Connie, and Magna. They looked eager as they saw him approaching.

“Wh—uhh… what happened to your face?” Luke blurted out.

Daryl waved a hand dismissively. “S’nothin’. She woke up,” he said. “But—she tore her stitches again and passed out so Enid and Siddiq were checkin’ her. I’m not sure how bad but—”

“Wait—she did that to your face?” Alden asked, his eyebrows lifting. He blinked, surprised. “I told ya she was a helluva fighter,” he said with a wry laugh. “Even after losing pints of blood, she got a hit in on Daryl Dixon. Not many can say that.”

“Why did she do that to your face?” Yumiko asked, concerned.

Daryl sighed. “She was just scared and disoriented. She’s on some heavy meds—it’s alrigh’,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time.

“But she’ll be okay?” Kelly asked. “I mean, she saved Alden and Luke. She has to be okay. Is Tara gonna let her stay here?”

Daryl gulped and shook his head. “S’too early for all of that. And honestly, I dun think she’ll want to stay.”

“Well, why not? If she’s as good as Luke has said she is, she’d be an asset here,” Magna said. “There are walls, resources.”

“Some people—” Daryl paused and chewed nervously on his bottom lip for a moment. “Some people just dun wanna be inside walls. Some people are better out there.” He felt their eyes on him and ducked his head. “Anyway, I thought ya’ll’d wanna know. ‘M gonna go back up and see how she is. They should have her patched up by now unless it’s real bad.”

When he got back to the clinic, Enid was at your bedside. She stood as his bootsteps approached and met his inquisitive gaze. “She only tore through the outside stitches,” she said. “We got her stitched up again.”

Daryl’s eyes landed on the fabric strips now tying her hands to the rails of the gurney. “Do ya think that’s necessary?” he drawled.

Enid smiled at him and let out a dry laugh. “She punched you in the face and ripped through about twenty stitches. Don’t you?”

Daryl bit the inside of his cheek thoughtfully for a moment. “S’just—ain’t gonna win us any points with her. If we want her to tell us what she knows, it ain’t a good start.”

Enid nodded. “I know. If she can be calm when she wakes up, once she gets her bearings, if she’s not a flight risk, we can untie them. But she could have seriously hurt herself again. She had a lot of internal bleeding and she’s already lost so much blood…”

“Alrigh’. Hey—I’ll stay. Go take care of Rosita and Eugene,” Daryl said, sighing. He took his seat again at your bedside and waited. He’d hardly been sitting for two minutes, when outside the window, he caught a glimpse of a dark shape zip by.

Daryl stood and paced around your bed, coming to stand at the window. At first, he didn’t see any sign of it, but another burst of movement caught his eye and he looked up to see a raven circling overhead. He watched its graceful movements as it swept downward, riding the wind. It hovered low over the next trailer and then spread its tail wide and dropped down to stand on the roof. Daryl had the distinct feeling that it was staring at him through the window. It stood for a moment, tilting its head this way and that as if trying to figure him out. Then it lifted its head and let out a series of hoarse calls, its wings spreading slightly with each burst. Afterwards, it seemed to settle in on the edge of the roof and Daryl knew, somehow, it was waiting for you.

He returned to the chair at your bedside and sank down again. The afternoon wore away and he passed the time sharpening his knives and working on his crossbow. Eventually, evening began to fall and exhaustion started to settle over him. His mind was churning over the Whisperers, over the girl now held in Hilltop’s cell, over Henry, over Jesus…

At some point, he fell asleep slouched in the chair. He woke to a soft rustling sometime after night had thickly fallen and he shot upright, fully awake immediately. He saw you blinking yourself awake by the light of the lantern he’d lit on the small table by the door. Your eyelids were heavy and again consciousness was slow to return.

He figured he’d better try to head off your panic, if that was even possible. He stood slowly, careful not to startle you. “Hey,” he said gently.

Your arm lifted from the bed as if you were trying to raise a hand to your face, but the movement was quickly stopped by the fabric tying your hand to the bed rail. He watched your face darken with understanding and your chest began to rise and fall faster.

“Yeah… ‘M sorry ‘bout that,” he drawled. “Ya tore some of yer stitches last time and the docs are worried ‘bout somethin’ worse happenin’.”

You merely stared up at him, your chest still heaving with each breath, eyes narrowed under your furrowed brow.

Daryl awkwardly scratched at a non-existent itch on the back of his head. The silence was thick, heavy. He marveled at how small you looked on the gurney, but recalled everything Alden and Luke had told him about your fight with this supposed leader of the Whisperers, or The Shepherds as you called them. You must have fought with no small amount of ferocity.

“Where the hell am I?” you asked. Your throat was dry and your voice came out raspy. You couldn’t believe how tired you felt. They probably had drugged you with something… if not to sedate you then just the painkillers you were sure were going straight into your bloodstream would explain it. For the moment you were grateful for them. Even through your current fog, your body still ached and your side... you didn’t know how to describe the feeling but it was unpleasant. You hadn’t forgotten the pain from the last time you’d awoken and tried to get out. The panic had overwhelmed you, but the pain had knocked you to your knees.

“A community of survivors. We call it Hilltop,” Daryl said. He was studying you, studying your face, each micro-expression, trying to get a read on you… but it felt impossible. Well—except he could tell you were largely pissed.

You sighed and your head dropped back onto the pillow. You were so tired. Just staying awake was a struggle. Your eyes closed again and you took a few breaths, trying to slow your heart rate and willing your lungs to slow down too.

“Look, if ya—”

“Daryl, isn’t it?” you interrupted him. He looked almost surprised that you remembered his name. “Am I a prisoner here?” you asked him, your eyes opening again and fixing on his. “I’d like to know how saving two of your people is a fucking crime.”

He gulped. “No. ‘Course ya ain’t,” he replied gently.

“Then why are my hands tied to the fucking bed?” He could hear the panic rising in your voice again and he shifted.

“Because of what happened last time… Ya ripped yer outside stitches open on your side. Ya had surgery. That knife? It nicked yer liver. Ya were bleedin’ out when Alden and Luke got ya back here. Hell, ya were half-dead. Ya could undo everythin’ the docs did if ya aren’t careful. If ya promise to stay calm and in the damn bed, I’ll untie ya righ’ now,” he said quickly.

You stared at him with distrust still. Daryl’s hand landed on the handle of his knife in its sheath. You flinched slightly as he unbuckled the loop and slid it out, looking down at it in his hands for a long moment. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a long moment and gulped. “All we wanna do is help ya. Ya saved two of our own. Four if ya count me and Dog. And ya didn’t have to do that.” With one hand, he reached over and untied the binding on your wrist. Then, he held out the knife for you to grip the handle.

You accepted it in your now free hand, though you still peered at him with suspicion.

But Daryl seemed undeterred. He only nodded and moved around to the other side of the gurney and untied your other hand before returning to pull his chair a little closer to the bed and sit down.

You turned the knife over in your hands, not taking your eyes off him.

“Do ya need anything? Water?”

You gulped and stared down at the knife in your hands for a moment before shaking your head. “Where’s Achilles?” you asked suddenly.

Daryl’s head tilted slightly. “Achilles?”

“My raven.”

Daryl nodded. “More creative name than ‘Dog,’” he commented, nearly smiling at you. When you didn’t react, he simply cleared his throat and pointed to the window. “Last I saw, he was waitin’ righ’ out there, on the roof of the next building.”

You sighed and your head dropped back into your pillow again. You clutched the knife against your chest like it was a lifeline. Daryl watched as you purposely took in some slow, deep breaths.

“Ya alrigh’?” he asked softly.

“Is she dead?” you asked suddenly, your eyes meeting his again. Daryl gave you a questioning look. “Alpha. Is she dead? Did your people kill her after she—she kicked me in the fucking head?”

Daryl gulped and shook his head. “No. She—she managed to get away. They were more worried about you.”

Your eyes closed and you let out a heavy sigh. “I stabbed her in the fucking thigh. How did she get away?” You said it more to yourself than to Daryl. “If they could have killed her, they should have and left me to die.”

Daryl felt as if all the air in the room had suddenly been sucked out. His nerves seemed to sizzle with electricity. “Why would ya say that?” he asked softly, concernedly.

You turned away and wouldn’t say anymore. Daryl sat back in his chair and watched as your breathing slowed and deepened but your grip on his knife never loosened.

[7s3ven]

UNDER THE MASK pt 1 - collecting samples. recoms (avatar)

IN WHICH… the marine recoms find out the scientist they’ve been teasing for about a month now has more to offer than they thought.

Notes: scientist! recom! reader, a little suggestive, indecent jokes from the recoms (just a bunch of flirtatious, inappropriate jokes from the recoms tbh)

( includes fike, mansk, quaritch, brown, and lyle )

series list

—

You didn’t asked to be revived in the form of a Na’vi body. You thought the RDA was only taking a precaution when they asked you to consent to the program. You didn’t expect to actually wake up after your death in an entirely new body.

You were one of the only scientists brought back from the dead; there were seven of you in total. The rest were military soldiers.

You didn’t remember much about your old life. Though, it wasn’t really yours to begin with. You just had the memories of a woman.

Your sole purpose on Pandora remained largely the same after your revival. You continued to dedicate your life to science and medicine as the faint memories of your old life swirled around in your mind.

You were the first recombinant to be brought back. The RDA thought it was best to revive the scientists before the soldiers. They were right. You were much calmer than they expected, fascinated by your new blue skin and swishing tail. A year later, the soldiers were revived.

You were expecting to remain uninteresting to them. After all, they never paid you much attention when you were human. But you had Grace to blame for that. She always swiftly hid you when Colonel Miles Quaritch and his team walked by, knowing the Marines had a taste for women who looked and acted like you.

Unfortunately, as one of the only females in the operation, the soldiers noticed you a lot more. Ja and Prager only sent you lazy smiles as you passed, fully intent on letting you do your thing, but five other military recoms were a nuisance to your daily life.

The annoying military Recombinants—Quaritch, Lyle, Mansk, Fike, and Brown—were a rough bunch, the kind of men who thrived in the presence of violence. You were the complete opposite of them, preferring the quiet lab and rarely ever talking back. The difference between you and them couldn’t have been more obvious, and boy, did they love to remind you.

You were no stranger to wandering glances. You noticed them back when you were human. Yet, you still felt uncomfortable when the Marine recoms stared at you.

Every time you passed by their little group, they turned silently, their gazes watching your every move. Today was no different from that. You clutched the data pad in your left hand as you strolled through the base, on your way to the science lab once again. You noticed the dreaded group almost immediately; they were laughing pretty loud after all.

They were all leaning against the wall, exchanging teasing remarks. Mansk was the first to spot you. He whispered to his teammates and the mood suddenly shifted. Your ears pinned against your head in annoyance as you passed them, feeling their eyes burning into you.

They said nothing for the first second before Lyle opened his mouth. “Hey, Doc!” He loudly called out. You paused, glancing over your shoulder. You knew if you ignored them, they’d just follow you and you’d get no work done. “Looking good in that body. How about you come check on me later? I might need a… personal examination.” You didn’t have to look to know he had a snarky grin on his lips.

Quaritch deeply chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. Not necessarily good ones, though. “Careful, Wainfleet. She might take you up on that offer if she didn’t have her hands full.” His eyes roamed your body, not even trying to hide it. You felt your face heat up.

Your tail swished from side to side in frustration, which only encouraged them. You began walking again, merely rolling your eyes at the remarks. However, Mansk didn’t let you go so easily.

“Don’t be coy, Doc. You’re practically part of the team now. Why don’t you join us for some drinks?” He pushed himself off the wall and stepped in front of you, blocking your way.

“You’ve got us all wondering what you’re hiding under that lab coat.” Brown chimed in with a smirk. You lightly huffed, casually stepping around Mansk.

You wouldn’t usually reply to their biting comments but you were on your last nerve today. “I’m here to do a job.” You said, “And so are you. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate if you stopped annoying me.”

You tried to walk off but a firm tug held you back from important work. “Feisty today, aren’t we?” It was Quaritch. You pulled your arm back, lips curving into an unimpressed frown.

“I am not here for your blatant entertainment, Colonel. I’m here to get my research done.”

Despite your sharp tone, Fike still muttered something to Mansk that had them both snickering. You clenched your jaw.

Quaritch’s grin widened at your words. “You definitely find a way to keep things interesting, Doc. If you ever need a break from all that chatter in your brain, we’ll be happy to relieve some stress.” His voice dipped into a suggestive tone, and you knew what he was implying.

You took a deep breath, barely holding onto the last of your calmness. “I have work to do, Colonel.” You briskly walked away, the sound of your boots growing fainter as you shoved past the laboratory doors.

You sat at your desk for a minute, calming yourself from the annoyance bubbling up. No matter how hard you tried to stay focused on this godforsaken planet, the weight of the soldiers’ gazes and their various taunts still drew a reaction.

You knew you’d be seeing them much sooner than you liked. You were due to collect some samples and you needed someone to keep guard. Though, the RDA gave you five idiots to keep watch instead.

An hour after your run-in with the particular group of soldiers, you were forced to see them again. You trudged through the base, trying to delay the process. You saw them waiting outside, tapping their boots against the floor impatiently. They were expecting to see another scientist, a less amusing one, but when you swung the door open, they grinned.

“Let’s get this over and done with.” You muttered, pushing past them.

You hated Pandora but you could never hate the beauty of it. Sometimes you wished you had been born Na’vi so you could appreciate everything the dangerous world had to offer.

The jungle was alive with sounds and the chittering of animals as you moved carefully through the vegetation, ducking occasionally to avoid a tree branch. You stopped every five minutes to take a sample, labelling it and storing it away before continuing on your way.

You knew you weren’t alone, you had five military recoms trailing after you, and that made everything less beautiful. Their forms moved heavily through the foliage, not really caring where they stepped. The group was meant to keep you safe but they only felt like a distraction.

You were observing a particularly interesting plant before you heard the rather obnoxious voice of the Colonel. “What’s the matter, Doc? We got you all hot and bothered?”

Your ears flicked at the unnecessary remark. “Only doing my job, Colonel.” You muttered, careful not to show any emotion Quaritch would use against you.

“That all you’re doing?” Lyle piped up, the grin evident in his voice. “You should be focusing on something else. Like us.”

Oh, how you wished to throw a rock at him or shove a handful of dirt into his mouth.

You heard Mansk snicker as you straightened up, walking further into the forest without another world. You had no intent of taking part in their banter.

“Don’t be so cold, Doc.” Fike called after you as they followed close behind. “We’re just tryna keep you company, can’t have you lonely out here.”

You wished you were alone. Perhaps you should have specifically requested for Z-dog and Walker to accompany you instead.

You slowed down and that was enough for Quaritch to take long strides to stand behind you. His tall frame casted a shadow over you as he fell into unified steps. “Loosen up, Doc. This’d be a lot more fun if you did.” Again, he didn’t try to hide the way his gaze flickered to your chest. He was never subtle in the slightest.

Your grip tightened on your tool kit as your tail flicked him. “For the last time, I’m here to collect data.” You coolly said, “That’s all.”

Quaritch chuckled, “Can’t blame a guy for trying. You’re the only interesting thing out here.”

“Yeah.” Brown, who wasn’t too far behind, voiced. “Watching you work is a nice change from the military crap.” You would have preferred if they were actually doing their jobs instead of focusing on you.

You ignored them to the best of your ability but it was difficult with the group almost circling around you, their remarks growing bolder by the second.

You were scanning a tree when Lyle broke your trance of concentration. He leaned in, "You know, if you ever need a different kind of data… We’re more than happy to volunteer."

You quickly recoiled, a little disgusted at his words. Quaritch placed a hand on your lower back before you could step away. “Easy, Doc.” He uttered, “Wouldn’t want you to trip and fall.”

You held back a scoff. “Can you all just stop?” You said, the frustration seeping into your voice. “I’m trying to collect data here, and you’re all acting like animals.”

They clearly enjoyed your reaction. Mansk steeped forward, “You don’t like our attention, baby?”

You almost succumbed to the urge of throwing a pair of scissors in his face. “I’m collecting samples. If you have nothing scientific to say then leave me alone.”

Quaritch raised his hands in mock surrender yet the smug smirk on his face never faltered. “Alright, we’ll back off.” You doubted that.

The uneasy feeling of their eyes never truly disappeared. You could hear their muffled laughter and murmured comments following you, a reminder that you still weren’t alone.

Barely an hour had passed before the sky darkened. You didn’t think much of it before the first raindrop hit your nose. You tilted your head up, eyes scanning the sky. It only took a second for a heavy downpour to drench you. The droplets of water crashed against the ground with such intensity that it made it hard to see, and it almost hurt.

“Shit.” Quaritch muttered over the booming thunder. “Everyone, under the trees!”

Mansk, the closest recom to you, grabbed you by the shoulder and dragged you under the nearby tree. The canopy offered some form of shelter but still not a lot. It did little to keep you dry.

Your clothes were already soaked, specifically your thin shirt. It uncomfortably clung to your skin. Your straight hair was curling in the humidity, sticking to your face.

Lyle shook his head like a wet dog, his braid sending water flying everywhere. You covered your face to block the droplets. “This rain is something else.” He said, “Never seen such a heavy downpour.”

Mansk was the first to check up on you since the rain. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Doc, you look a little… soaked.” His eyes lingered on your drenched form while you glared at him.

You tugged at your shirt, a fruitless attempt to keep it from sticking to your skin. The fabric was nearly transparent, leaving nothing to the imagination. Mansk’s words had brought you the undivided attention of his teammates.

“This weather is really doing a number on you, Doc.” Quaritch drawled as he leaned against the thick tree trunk.

“It’s only rain, Colonel.” Your response came out sharper than you intended it to. But you knew even if you screamed at him, he wouldn’t leave you alone.

“Yeah, but it’s kind of hard not to look.” He chuckled.

Fike, who was standing on your left, smirked as you tried to wring out your shirt. “That’s one way to distract us. Keep it up and we might forget why we’re out here.”

Lyle was the next to comment. “Loving the view, Doc.”

You shot Lyle a look before forming your arms over your chest. “Let’s just focus on staying dry.” You grumbled.

“Don’t worry, Doc. We’re just appreciating the scenery, right boys?” Quarditch’s gaze shamelessly traced every curve that was now exposed by your wet clothes.

You opened your mouth to snap back but the words never rolled off your tongue. Quarditch had reached out to brush a strand of wet hair away from your face. His warm touch lingered for longer than necessary before pulling away.

You impatiently waited for the rain to stop but as the long minutes dragged by, you lost hope. It had been half an hour of a continuous downpour and you were still soaked, forced to shiver as you paced back and forth.

Quaritch and his team had settled at the base of the tree, sitting in a circle and trading jokes. They seemed unconcerned about the delay while you were basically gnawing at your fingertips.

Your tail flicked back and forth as you paced, flicking droplets of water with every step and narrowly avoiding whacking Mansk. The longer you waited, the less time you had to gather data. You were already on a tight schedule.

Quaritch noticed your unease and he parted his lips to speak up. “What’s wrong, Doc? Can’t stay still for two seconds?” He teased. You glowered at him.

“I don’t have time for this, Colonel. I have limited time and this damn rain is wasting it.”

“Relax, sweetheart. You’ll get your samples eventually.” Lyle butted in. You gritted your teeth, the tip of your tail swaying in annoyance.

“That isn’t good enough.” You seethed.

“Pacing isn’t gonna make it any better.” Fike called out.

Quaritch looked up at you, sending you his signature smirk. You despised what he was going to say next. “I’m sure we can find a way to occupy you, Doc. Just to pass the time.” There was nothing innocent about his words.

“I don’t have time for distractions, Colonel.” Every time you tried to push him and his team away, they tried to reel you back in.

Quaritch was clearly amused by you. You turned to watch the rain again, your patience wearing thin.

You waited for another ten minutes. You tried to sit still for as long as you could before you couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck it.” You cussed, grabbing your tool kit. The recoms watched as you stepped out from under the tree without a word, letting the hard rain hit you again.

“Hey, where you going, Doc?” Lyle exclaimed, though his tone sounded more amused than concerned as the soldiers watched you.

You didn’t reply as you stalked forward, determined to collect as much data as you could, even if it meant catching a cold later.

“Guess she’s serious about that data,” Mansk commented with a chuckle.

The recoms watched as you disappeared into the jungle. None of them stopped your stubborn pursuit as you marched through the rain despite the miserable conditions.

“Do you think maybe she’s just crazy?” Fike voiced.

It took you twenty minutes to trudge back to the group. You were drenched and shivering and overall not in very good condition. But at least the last sample rested safely in your kit.

Your shirt was completely see-through by this point. It offered you no protection against the frigid rain. You maintained some of your calm composure despite the chills racking your body.

The soldiers were still lounging under the tree, only raising their heads when they heard the sound of a twig snapping. They all stared at you in amusement as you finally reached them.

Quaritch immediately locked eyes with you. “Look who’s back. You look like you’ve been through hell, Doc.” His eyes scanned the small tears in your shirt.

It surely felt like you had. You were glad the soldiers weren’t there to witness you tripping.

“Shut your trap.” You sneered, dropping the sampling kit before sitting down and slumping against the tree. “I fucking fell down a hill and into a river. Hit a few trees too. Hurt like a bitch.” They had never heard such strong language from you but then again, they didn’t know you had the willpower to walk through the heavy rain.

Lyle whistled lowly, “Damn, Doc, you’re practically giving us a free show over here.”

You didn’t reply. Your ears were pinned back against your head in annoyance as you watched the rain. “Let’s just get out of here.” You grumbled, going to collect your supplies before Quarditch grasped your arm.

“No can do, Doc. The rain ain’t letting up and we can barely see a meter in front of us. We’ll get lost or some of us might fall down a hill. Again.” He grinned, showing off his fangs as he searched your face for a reaction.

“We can’t stay out here for the night.” You fired back. “We’ll get eaten alive.”

“Nah. This area is relatively safe. Good thing we didn’t go too deep into the forest.” Quaritch’s tail lightly flicked, showing he was in no hurry to get back to the base.

You tilted your head back, almost hissing in frustration. You didn’t want to be stuck out in the forest with these military imbeciles. You didn't want to admit it, but Quaritch had a point; you could barely see the next tree over.

Agonising hours dragged by as the rain poured down. The soldiers aimed to entertain themselves, sometimes throwing a few teasing remarks your way. You merely rolled your eyes at their jeers.

"Alright, Lyle, time to pull out the tent. Looks like we're stuck here for the night." You heard Quaritch mutter. To your surprise, you watch as Lyle pulls a tent from his bag. You let the soldiers set it up, knowing you wouldn't be of much help anyway.

"Ladies first, Doc." Quaritch grinned, stepping aside for you to enter. Your tail flicked him in annoyance as you brushed past him. The interior of the tent was large, tall enough to fit your avatar bodies, but it was still a tight squeeze. Your Na'vi body was well-built, your arms toned from the harsh terrain, but the soldiers were almost huge. They were tall with large muscles, taking up almost all the space.

Military gear and supplies were strewn all over the floor of the tent, making it impossible to walk without stepping on something. The heavy droplets of rainwater hammered down onto the tent's fabric, creating a sort of ambience.

Your shirt, which had taken most of the rain, clung to your skin uncomfortably. The cold was beginning to seep through, making it hard to focus. You shifted around, lightly groaning.

With a sigh of exasperation, you had reached a breaking point. You lifted your wet shirt over your head, peeling the thin fabric off. You weren't particularly concerned with how the soldiers' eyes flickered to stare at your bra. You were just glad that awful shirt was off.

As you began to wring the water out of the shirt, Quaritch spoke up. He let out a low whistle before speaking. "Didn't expect this kind of show, Doc." Oh, how insufferable he was.

The tent felt even smaller now with how their gazes lingered on you. You settled into a dry corner of the tent, wrapped in a towel. Your eyes were drooping before Lyle made a biting remark. You quickly grabbed your shirt, throwing it at him. It hit Lyle in the face with a loud slap.

The soldier yelped in surprise and stumbled back. "Watch it!" he exclaimed. His teammates burst into laughter, their amusement evident.

"That's one way to shut him up," Quaritch said through a small laugh.

You eventually dosed off, exhausted and sick of the icy cold. The soldiers stayed awake, their guns at the ready. They lowly murmured amongst themselves, continuing their playful banter.

Lyle nudged Quaritch, a grin spreading across his face. "Look at that, Colonel. The Doc's out like a light." Your tail was lazily draped over your body as you curled up into a ball to retain warmth.

Mansk leaned in, lowering his voice. He didn't want to accidentally wake you and end up being slapped in the face with a shirt like Lyle. "You think she'll be annoyed if we keep making these jokes?"

"Nah, she's out cold." Fike softly chuckled under his breath.

Brown glanced over his shoulder, grinning. "Think she's dreaming 'bout us?" He lightly snorted.

Quaritch raised an eyebrow, his gaze still focused on your still body. "Careful now. If Doc wakes up and hears you say that, she won't be so friendly."

Lyle quietly laughed, "Yeah, you don't wanna get hit in the face with that shirt, trust me."

The quiet atmosphere was interrupted by a shrill cry. It was unsettling, making the soldiers jump in surprise. The sound cut through the night enough to jolt you awake. You blinked dazedly, squinting in the dim light.

"What is that noise?" You groaned, pushing yourself to your feet. Your annoyance was apparent as you moved the tent flaps aside. You stumbled out, the rain hitting you like a sturdy wall. You shielded your face from the heavy downpour, your gaze searching through the storm. You found the culprit—a large bird the size of your long torso rummaging through the scattered gear you had dropped.

"Get out of here!" You yelled, throwing a rock at the strange creature. The bird squawked again before scrambling off, leaving your seething form in the rain.

You re-entered the tent in worse condition than before. The soldiers tried to suppress their amusement as you shook off the water.

Lyle didn't even try to hide his laughs. "You're back at square one, Doc. Might need to take your pants off this time." You ignored him, returning to your previous spot.

"We’ll have to put a bell on you so you don't end up in the rain," Quaritch added, only humiliating you more.

You slumped against the side of the tent, stuck between a state of sleep and awareness. You jumped again when the same screech erupted from outside, testing your patience.

You slowly pushed yourself up once more. The gazes of the soldiers burned into you, clearly amused. The bird had not learned its lesson from the first time, plucking up the courage to scour through your gear once more. You saw how its beady eyes glanced at you, glinting with mischief.

"I've had enough of you!" You exclaimed, "You keep interrupting my sleep! And get away from my stuff!" You launched yourself at the bird, tackling it. Its screams escalated in volume as you swatted at the animal. It tried to avoid your advances, darting and hissing at you.

The soldiers poked their heads out of the tent, wanting to watch the chaos unfold. "Never thought I'd see a scientist take on a wild animal."

"Yeah, get some, Doc!" Lyle shouted, "Beat that thing!"

Fike turned to Quaritch, lightly nudging him. "You think she'll give up any time soon?" He muttered.

The Colonel shook his head, huffing in amusement. "Not a chance."

The bird scampered off, and you turned around, drenched but victorious. You ignored the soldiers' encouraging shouts as they clapped you on the back. You were desperate for rest, even if it meant fighting an animal. Everything began to settle down again, finally, until that bird returned.

"Oh, that is it!" You screamed. Your rage boiled over. "I'm going to cook that thing!" Lyle quickly grasped your shoulder, holding you back.

"Hey, calm down, Doc!" He shouted.

"I've had enough of that bird! I'm hungry! I'm gonna cook it if it doesn't shut up!" You tried to wriggle out of Lyle's grip, ears pinned back in anger and fangs bared.

"Might wanna rethink that, Doc. We ain't in the middle of a kitchen." Quaritch spoke up.

Eventually, you calmed down. You reluctantly sat down beside Mansk in the circle, arms folded over your chest in frustration. "You look cold, angel," Mansk commented, earning a glare from you.

"No, I'm perfectly warm. I might be sweating a little." You sarcastically replied, mockingly fanning your face. Mansk handed you his jacket, but you hesitated before taking it. Slowly, you slipped it on, wrinkling up your nose at the smell of his strong cologne rubbing off on you.

As handy as ever, Lyle pulled out a portable battery heater after noticing your intense shivering. "Forgot I had this." He laughed while Fike and Brown rolled their eyes. The heater softly hummed, and you almost closed your eyes at the much-needed warmth.

The soldiers fell back into their usual conversation, keeping their voices low so as to not disturb you.

"You finally warming up, Doc?" Quaritch glanced at you with a small smile, though it was more of a smirk.

You silently lifted your hand, showing him the middle finger. He chuckled, not offended in the slightest. After an endless night of rain and exhaustion, you finally drifted off. Your head lolled to the side, falling onto Mansk's shoulder while your tail was draped over Lyle's lap.

Mansk glanced down at you with a grin, his eyes trailing over the curve of your tail. He lowly chuckled, "I could get used to this. Not every day you get a warm spot and a cozy tail.”

The other soldiers exchanged glances as they caught the meaning behind Mansk's joke. You slept soundly while the Marines kept watch, their guns nearby. They continued to banter amongst themselves while allowing you to gain the rest you desperately needed.

[maidflowery]

Pinky Promise

Jiaoqiu x Reader

You have a bad day and Jiaoqiu is there for you. But unbeknownst to you...

An extremely shitty day.

That was the only way to describe it.

Where absolutely nothing went right. When you thought it couldn't get worse, but it did.

But at least now by leaning against the table, faceplanting it, you could forget your anger, sorrow, frustration, even if just a moment.

How you wish you could just disappear.

Just then, you heard the door opening gently.

"You forgot to lock the front door again."

A smooth, silvery voice rang.

You didn't bother to look up. You already knew who that was. Besides, he had sent you a chat informing his visit beforehand.

Just then, you caught a whiff of a sweet-smelling fragrance...

...Chocolate?

You peeked through the gap in your arms.

True enough, the pink Foxian stood there, with a porcelain cup in his hand. He was your neighbor.

You found him buried in the snow, injured, but that was a story for another time. After you saved him, he moved in next door, and even gave you his key.

Ever since you learned how much of a good cook he was, you'd pester him to cook for you. As such, you didn't really mind that he invited himself into your room.

Jiaoqiu was smiling, but when he noticed your gaze, he leaned in slightly.

"Well, despite my advice, it seems that someone went ahead and pulled an all-nighter anyway."

His kind tone bore soft admonishment.

Your puffy red eyes must've been a dead giveaway. Yeah, you weren't only sad, but tired.

Under normal circumstances, you'd have countered it with, 'Whachu gonna do about it, Doc? Feed me chillies?'

By the way, he was actually a doctor. He'd often give you health advice, which sometimes went ignored.

"...There was an important presentation today." You could only muster a weak reply.

"You've mentioned. How did it go?"

"...Well, I-I did my best, but..."

"Well done."

"...But I messed up. I couldn't answer the professor's questions, and he threatened to fail me. I'll have to make up for it by doing a bunch of assignments later..."

Even though some passed it for so much less. All that effort, down the drain because the professor felt like giving you hell today. But it is what it is.

"...Well done."

Was it just your feeling, or did his voice sound softer...?

And no, it wasn't sarcasm. You knew he was far too kind for that.

You finally looked up.

"!"

Jiaoqiu's gentle smile was unchanging as always, without a shred of disappointment.

"I'm sorry to hear about the unsatisfactory result. But I know how hard you worked for it. So, well done."

The smile of someone who never stopped believing you.

Suddenly, something hot trickled down your cheek. Realizing what it was, you immediately buried your face in your arms.

"W-what about you? You never told me why you were visiting!"

"I tried my hands at making something."

Clink.

You could hear the sound of a cup being placed down on the table, right in front of you.

"This is..."

Almost immediately, you were tantalized by the rich, sweet fragrance of cocoa, mixed with the bitterness of coffee.

"Ah, the cafe that had a wonderful Creamy Coco Frappuccino shut down... How I wish I can taste it again..."

Once, you had said that in front of him in passing.

Jiaoqiu's culinary expertise was Chinese cuisine, and more often than not, traditional. Most of the time, he didn't recognize the modern and trendy dishes you mentioned. For example, cafes and their stylists drink.

But ever since that day, you found new recipe books strewn around his place. Rather than messy, it just seemed as if someone was trying to pinpoint a certain recipe, no matter how long it took.

Afterward, he'd cook the dishes you mentioned, one after another.

Sometimes, you didn't even remember bringing them up.

Yet, he remembered, kept your words in his heart, and wholeheartedly cooked them for you, one by one.

"I'm experimenting with something."

"I cooked too much. Why don't you have some?"

"I tried my hands at this."

Every time, he'd say such things, probably to not make you feel bad.

This drink was also one of them. The rim of the cup was even coated with hardened chocolate, and sprinkled with rock sugars, like in those cafes.

"Why don't you give it a try?" Jiaoqiu urged you.

Without further ado, you took a sip of the drink.

Creamy rich chocolate, bittersweet coffee, and milky caramel flowed into your mouth, pampering your taste buds. Gradually, your broken heart was being mended.

You placed the half-empty cup down, silently staring at the swirling liquid.

"How is it?" He asked with a hint of anticipation.

"...Jiaoqiu, marry me."

"...!!"

Overflowing with gratitude, happiness, and warmth, those words just spilled out.

Your eyes were getting heavier for some reason.

...Right, you didn't sleep at all last night, re-reading the materials and all.

I'm so sleepy...

As your consciousness faded, you saw Jiaoqiu reaching out toward you.

"Promise me, then."

He presented you his pinky finger.

Under the dazzling sunlight, his pink hair fluttered, reminiscent of fallen cherry blossoms. He gave you a smile just as bright, if not brighter than the sun.

So, how could you resist?

Before you fell asleep, you remembered hooking fingers with him.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

Jiaoqiu carried the sleeping girl to her room, before tucking her in.

Then, he peered into her face.

"...Jiaoqiu, marry me."

Even as he recalled it, his heart skipped a beat. It was a rare physical phenomenon for him, probably once in a lifetime. Jiaoqiu only recalled experiencing it twice. Just now, and when she nursed him to health back then.

"...Whether you spoke without thinking, sleep talked, or just joked, you've made a promise."

Golden eyes shimmered under the shadow.

"If you go back on your words, I'll chase you until the end of earth."

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

Extra

After that, with the support, afternoon snacks, and midnight snacks of Jiaoqiu, you managed to finish all the assignments, and passed the class.

But somehow, the professor who ripped you to shreds suffered from severe diarrhea and had to take sick leave for a month.

All's well that ends well?

Sequel:

Good Night, Sweet Dream

[heyhoeudoin]

i want a watcher!grian fic of NOT ANGST like can we stop being depressed for one second and think of the possibilities of a NOT ANGST watcher!grian. he would totally mess with the hermits in many ways.

like imagine watcher!grian opening an eye around mumbo and just messes with him in chat

grian: hey mumbo what are you doing grian: you missed a redstone at (coords) mumbo: how did you know that????? mumbo: YOURE NOT HERE?????

grian could literally confuse xisuma on historical information that grian shouldn't "technically" know. also, grian would totally "fix" up some of xisuma's admin codes... and even leave not-so-secret messages.

"hey x, did you know that food didn't stack back then," grian casually shared to xisuma who slowly turned to him. "oh also, did you know that zombies dropped feathers instead of rotten flesh back then cause it hasn't existed yet." xisuma blinked at him. "how do you know that? grian then pointed at the floating screen. "also, your code there is wrong. it should be—" he pulled out his own screen and started typing down a code, then showed it to xisuma. xisuma read through it, his brows slowly furrowing. "how do you know admin code?" all grian did was shrug. "who knows, exe-eye-zuma-vee-oid, maybe when you wake up tomorrow your code will suddenly fix itself." then give a mischievous grin. the next day, when xisuma checked the codes for his daily check. he saw that everything was rewritten. that caused him a massive panic and spent the next few hours checking who could've gonr through the admin code, but he also realized that his code really did fix itself... like what grian said. he then saw at the end of the script is a message written in the galactic alphabet that he knows for sure is a dead written language. it's a good thing that he's a voidwalker, but even then, he's not that fluent at reading it. "thank you for everything, xisuma, this is my gift to you," is what it said (after a few tries of getting it right).

also also, i love yhs!grian and he would totally just randomly start talking in japanese to etho and etho wouldnt even realize that he started replying in japanese until grian leaves and realizes.

also also also, grian would totally leave messages in galactic all around doc's base because he knows doc can't read any of it. doc would totally lose his mind as well because it. and grian would totally talk to doc using an eye making doc lose is mind once again. "where are you grian?! i know you're here!" and grian is actually not there.

also x4, grian could literally leave an eye with scar, out in the open, not even bother hiding it and scar would just be like "ooo new friend" and let it be, not knowing that it's a watcher thing.

also x5, i can't think of anything else but imagine the possibilities!

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Dream A Little Dream of Me | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings:

Word Count: 6433

A/N:: There’s a Sherlock reference in here… let me know if you find it!! Lol I did a “New Girl” quote scavenger hunt once, and they’re a lot of fun! So… part 2 to movie/TV quote scavenger hunt. 

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

Everything Ruby had told you was hitting you like a ton of bricks. You’d been smoking a lot more regularly over the past few days, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care that it was worrying Dean. The two of you were physically together, but you both knew your minds were elsewhere. 

The reality of the situation was that there was no way for you to save Dean. It completely shattered your heart, but you knew it was true. As much as you were trying to enjoy the last few months you had with him, it was incredibly difficult knowing what he would be facing very soon. 

However, you didn’t have much time to focus on your woes. Dean had gone out to find Sam who, to your surprise, was at a bar at two in the afternoon drowning in whiskey. You couldn’t blame him, really, given your similar condition. Dean was pacing and worried as soon as he got back to your motel room. His rampage at Sam’s poor decision making, though, was disrupted by a distressing phone call. 

***

It was Bobby. The maid had found him in his motel room unconscious, and she’d feared him dead. Thankfully, he was alive, but he was comatose. The doctors explained to you that he was physically perfectly healthy but just… sleeping. 

“Mr. Snyderson,” the doctor addressed Dean, “you're his emergency contact. Anything we should know? Any illnesses?”

Dean shook his head, looking a bit bewildered. “No, he- he never gets sick. I mean, he doesn't even catch cold.”

“Is there anything you can do?” you asked the doctor. 

“Look, I'm sorry, but we don't know what's causing it... so we don't know how to treat it. He just... went to sleep and didn't wake up.”

Your heart sank further into your stomach. 

***

You helped the brothers search Bobby’s perfectly clean motel room where you eventually found his research and newspaper clippings hiding behind his clothes in the closet. 

“Pittsburgh” was scrawled in big letters next to pictures of various foliage, maps, and newspaper clippings.

“Good ol’ Bobby, always covering up his tracks,” Dean chuckled, given the rack of clothes his research was hidden behind.

“You make heads or tails of any of this?” Sam questioned, looking over Bobby’s research. 

You plucked a piece of paper off the wall. “ ‘Silene capensis’,”you read. “Oh, god, I know that name.”

“Well, you keep workin’ on that, sweetheart. ‘Cause that means absolutely nothing to me,” Dean commented. 

“Here,” said Sam. “Obit.”

The two brothers read over the death of a doctor who’d fallen asleep and simply never woke up; just like Bobby.

You continued to think on the plant. Suddenly, you realized what it was. “Guys, African dream root. I couldn’t think of it immediately ‘cause it’s more commonly known as ‘silene undulata’. It’s supposed to induce lucid dreaming or something.”

“Alright, um…” Sam thought aloud. “So let's say Bobby was looking into the doc's death. You know, hunting after something that started hunting him.”

“Alright, stay here,” Dean instructed you and Sam. “See if you can make heads or tails of this.” He pointed to the closet. 

“And where are you going?” you asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

“I'm gonna look into the good doctor myself,” he smirked, referring to the first victim. 

***

You and Sam were silent for quite some time. Both of you were too drained to speak, it seemed. Your heart was hurting, and you knew Sam’s was, too. You tried your best to focus on researching the news clippings in front of you, but your mind would always pull you elsewhere. 

“You okay?”

You’d forgotten Sam was in the room with you if you were being honest. 

You nodded halfheartedly. 

Sam sighed. “Yeah, uh, I’m in the same boat.”

“I don’t even know what to do anymore, man,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair and throwing your notepad down. “I know there’s nothing we can do, and that almost makes it feel worse.”

“I get it,” Sam replied quietly. “And now, Bobby, and I just… why does everyone I love die, (Y/N)?” His voice cracked a bit and tears flooded his eyes.

“I wish I had the answer, man; I”m searching for it myself,” you said. “And it just… There’s nothing I can do to make this feel better. And I feel like I just got Dean, and now—” You dropped your head. “I’m sorry. Not trying to treat you like my therapist.”

Sam shook his head. “You’re not.”

“And I think the worst part is that Dean is terrified. And there’s nothing I can do or say to save him from that,” you continued. 

“Yeah, well, I wish he’d be a little more honest with me about that,” Sam remarked. 

“I’m his girlfriend, Sam,” you reminded him. “He’s not gonna wanna talk sob-story with his little brother.” You could see you weren’t getting through to him. “Take it from an older sister: we’d rather get our gums scraped than admit fear or stress to our baby siblings. Trust me, if Steven was still around, and I was in Dean’s shoes, I’d be doing the same thing.”

“Well, it’s crap,” Sam argued. “You don’t have to protect us.”

“It’s not about protecting you. It’s about being strong for you. It’s keeping our emotions at bay so that you have all the room in the world to express yours.”

Sam hung his head low. You could tell he was frustrated, but he understood what you were getting at. 

Then, your phone rang. “Hey, Dee. What’s up?”

“So,” he began, “Looks like our Doc was running freaky sleep experiments on his patients. Guy I talked to said it felt like an acid trip.”

“African dream root ‘ll do that to you,” you replied. 

“Yeah, sounds like he was putting it in a tea,” he explained.

“What’s the move now?” you asked. 

“Goin’ to see Bobby. Meet me there,” he instructed. 

***

You and Sam did as told. You found Dean sitting beside Bobby’s bed. 

“How is he?” you asked as you entered the room. 

Dean rubbed a hand over his chin as he turned to look at you. “No change. What you got?”

Sam held files in his hands that compiled your and his research. “Turns out, dream root isn’t just for lucid dreaming.”

“Let me guess. They dose up, bust out the didgeridoos, start kicking around the hackey,” Dean snarked. 

“No, jackass,” you deadpanned. “If you believe the legends, it's used for dreamwalking. Entering another person's dreams; poking around in their heads.”

“I take it we believe the legends,” Dean nodded. 

“When don't we?” Sam said. “But dreamwalking is just the tip of the iceberg. I mean, this dream root is some serious mojo. You take enough of it, with practice, you can become a regular Freddy Krueger. You can control anything. You could turn bad dreams good, you could turn good dreams bad.”

It was clear by the look on Dean’s face he understood what Sam was getting at. “And killing people in their sleep?” 

You and Sam nodded solemnly. 

Dean sighed. 

“So, let's say, uh— let's say, this doc was testing this stuff on his patients, Tim-Leary-style,” suggested the brunet. “Somebody gets pissed at him, decides to give him a little dream visit, he goes nighty-night.”

“But what about Bobby?” Dean questioned. “I mean, if the killer came after him, how come he's still alive?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know.” You stared down at the old man’s resting form. It was the only time you’d ever seen him without him seeming like he carried a tremendous weight on his shoulders. 

“So, how do we find our homicidal sandman?” Dean questioned. 

“Could be anyone,” Sam shrugged. 

“Anyone who knew the doctor; had access to his dream shrooms,” the older one nodded. 

“Maybe one of his test subjects or something?” you suggested. 

“Possible. But his research was pretty sketchy. I mean, I don't know how many subjects he had, or who all of them were,” Dean replied. 

Sam scoffed. 

“What?” you and Dean asked in unison. 

The brunet sighed. “In any other case, we'd be calling Bobby and asking him for help right now.”

Dean seemed to have a “eureka” moment, and a smirk crawled across his face. “You know what? You're right.”

“What?” you and Sam asked. 

“Let's go talk to him.”

“Uh, Dean, that conversation’s gonna be very one-sided,” you said, confused. 

“Not if we're tripping on some dream root,” he smirked down at you. 

Sam huffed. “What?”

“That’s actually not a bad idea, Sam,” you considered. 

“We have no idea what's crawling around in there,” Sam argued. 

“Well, how bad could it be?” Dean shrugged. 

“Bad.”

“Dude, it's Bobby.” 

The younger Winchester considered for a moment. “Yeah, you're right. One problem though. We're fresh out of African dream root, so unless you know someone who can score some…”

“We do, actually,” you said. “Not thrilled about it, though.”

“Who?” Sam asked. 

“Bela.”

“Crap,” both brothers groaned. 

Sam quirked a brow. “You're actually suggesting we ask her a favor?”

“I'm feeling dirty just thinking about it, but it’s our only shot,” Dean grimaced. 

You turned out of the hospital room and began clicking buttons on your phone. The brothers took the lead, and you began to follow them out to the Impala. 

“Hi, darling,” Bela said. The phone had barely rung once. 

“So good to hear your voice,” you sassed. 

“Aren’t you a sweetheart,” Bela replied. 

“Flirting’s over, though, angel, mommy’s had enough now,” you smirked, and Dean gave you a both bewildered and lascivious look over his shoulder. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Aw, and here I thought you were calling because you missed the sound of my voice,” the woman replied. 

“Promise I’ll check in more often,” you said. “Can you get your hands on some African dream root for me?” You sat down in the car, and Dean began to drive.

She sucked in some air through her teeth. “I think you know what’s coming next.”

“And here I thought you’d give me a freebie,” you sighed playfully. 

“You are a stunner, love, but a lady’s got to pay her bills. Dream root’s a tricky thing to get my hands on.”

“Well, I haven’t really got much to offer you,” you said, feeling dejected. “And it’s not just for me to trip balls on. It’s for a close friend. Bobby Singer. He’s sick.”

“I wish I could help, really, but I can’t just fork it over for free. I’ll see you around, then, (Y/N).” And the phone clicked off. 

You sighed. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Dean questioned sarcastically. 

“Fuck off,’ you replied. 

***

Back in Bobby’s motel room, Sam sat at the desk with his head in his hands. He’d likely fallen asleep about thirty minutes ago at this point, and you and Dean were reading through some of the doctor’s papers. 

“Dean, I’ve been wanting to ask,” you whispered, “were you okay with what I was saying to Bela earlier?”

He gave you a confused look. 

“I mean, we’ve never really had a conversation about exclusivity or anything, but my interest is solely in you. I love you, and I don’t want what I said to her to make you uncomfortable or anything,” you continued. 

Dean thought for a moment. “It really didn’t bother me. Thought it was hot, actually.”

You snorted. “Always thinkin’ with your dick, huh?” Just then, Sam let out a moan in his sleep. 

Dean gave you a surprised look and seemed like he was going to burst out laughing at any moment. “Looks like Sammy is, too.”

“Ew, gross,” you shuddered, scrunching up your nose.

“Sam,” Dean called over his brother’s broken moans. “Sam,” he called a little more forcefully. “Sam!” 

The younger brother’s head shot up, and he quickly brushed his cheek with the back of his hand. 

“Dude, you were out,” Dean snorted. “And making some serious happy noises.”

Sam looked incredibly uncomfortable, and he refused to look in the direction of you and his brother. 

The latter kept teasing poor Sam. “Who were you dreaming about?”

“What? No one. Nothing,” he stuttered. 

“C'mon, you can tell me. Angelina Jolie?” 

“No.”

Dean gave you a smirk before saying, “Brad Pitt?”

That got Sam to turn around. “No. No! Dude, it doesn't matter.”

“Whatever.” The older brother rolled his eyes. “Well, since Bela’s a no-go, we’ve been tryin’ to make heads or tails of the Doc’s notes. Unfortunately, he has worse handwriting than you do.”

Sam remained seated in his chair with his back to you.

Dean looked at him expectantly. “You gonna come help us with this stuff?”

Sam looked around, down to his lap, and then shifted uncomfortably to a standing position. “Yeah, yeah. Just give me a sec.”

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

You looked to Dean suspiciously and grabbed your gun from beside you. Pressing the barrel to the back of the door, you opened it a crack. To your surprise, it was Bela. 

“Hello, darling,” she cooed. 

You opened the door for her to come in, confusion etched across your face. 

“You called me. Remember?” she said, raising a brow. 

“And I remember you turning me down,” you replied. 

“Well, I'm just full of surprises,” she smiled. Bela turned to Sam, who awkwardly waved over his shoulder. 

“Hey, Bela. What's going on?” he said strangely. 

Suddenly, it hit you. ‘Oh, my fucking god. He was dreaming about Bela!’ You were definitely going to give him hell later. 

“I brought you your African dream root.” Bela handed a jar of it to you. “Nasty stuff and not easy to come by.” She dropped her purse next to the television and began to take off her coat which caused a hitch in Sam’s breath that you would have missed had you not been paying such close attention to him since your realization. 

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Dean asked her. 

“What? I can't do you a little favor every now and again?” the woman replied, slipping her coat off. 

“No. You can't,” was Dean’s gruff response. “Come on, I wanna know what the strings are before you attach them.” Bela turned to you. “You said this was for Bobby Singer, right?”

You nodded. 

“Well, I'm doing it for him. Not you.”

That piqued yours and Dean’s interest. “Bobby? Why?” Dean asked. 

“He saved my life once. In Flagstaff.” 

Dean looked down at you and you, up at him, but you ended up just shrugging at each other. 

“I screwed up, and he saved me, okay? You satisfied?” Bela huffed. 

“Maybe,” Dean replied. 

“So when do we go on this little magical mystery tour?” she questioned, looking down at the jar. 

“No offense, lovebug, but I don’t trust you enough to be in the same room with you for more than fifteen minutes, let alone Bobby’s head,” you told her. 

Dean took the jar from you and put it in the safe with the Colt. 

“And here I thought we were becoming such good friends,” she replied. “It's 2 AM. Where am I supposed to go?”

“Get a room,” Dean responded. “Ah, they got the Magic Fingers, a little Casa Erotica on pay-per-view. You'll love it.”

“You…” she trailed off, grabbed her bag and coat in a huff, and slammed the door behind herself despite Sam calling after her, “Nice to see— Seeing you… Bela.”

When the door shut behind the woman, you turned to Sam with a wide grin. “You dirty whore!”

“What? What?!” he asked. 

“Well? Does she give good head?” you smirked wickedly. 

Sam’s cheeks immediately flushed, and Dean just looked between you and his brother completely bewildered. 

***

Almost an hour later, you and the Winchesters were downing disgusting dream root teas with a strand of Bobby’s hair mixed in to enter the man’s head. 

“Feel anything?” Dean asked you. 

You shook your head. “Sam?”

“Nothing here.”

You looked down at your cup, a bit disappointed. 

“Maybe we got some bad shwag,” Dean suggested. 

Just then, thunder clapped and rain pattered the window. 

“When did it start raining?” you wondered aloud. 

Dean wandered over to the window, and you followed close behind. He opened the windows to find the rain not coming from the sky, but from the ground. “When did it start raining upside down?” he questioned. 

Then, you noticed your surroundings were changing. Next to Sam was no longer two beds, but a couch; an old-fashioned one at that. You turned back to Dean, and the window you’d been looking out of had turned into a fireplace. 

“What the fu—” you muttered. 

“Okay, I don't know what's weirder: the fact that we're in Bobby's head, or that he's dreaming of Better Homes and Gardens,” Dean snarked. 

“Wait. Wait a sec. Imagine the place, uh, without the paint job.” Sam started gesturing to the corners of the room. “More cluttered, dusty, books all over the place.”

“It’s Bobby’s house,” Dean realized. “Bobby?!” he called.

The hairs on the back of your neck suddenly stood up, and you felt as if someone was watching you. You wheeled around to the window above the kitchen table, but you couldn’t see anyone. Still, something didn’t feel right. You turned toward the stairs and whispered, “Bobby?”

Still, you were suspicious of what was happening outside. “Dean?” you called. “I'm gonna go look outside.”

Dean whispered, “No, no, no, stay close.”

“Dee, I’ll be fine,” you insisted, walking up to him to leave a kiss on his cheek. “Pinky promise.” 

He rolled his eyes, his face turning ever so slightly pink, and a smile played on his lips as he locked his pinky with yours. You loved that you could pull that reaction from the Dean Winchester with something so simple as a kiss on the cheek.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Dean told you. 

“C’mon, it’s me we’re talking about,” you smirked, walking backward toward the door and still facing Dean. 

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he remarked playfully.

You scoffed and headed outside. As soon as you opened the door, though, you found it was no longer raining. In fact, bright sunshine streamed down. 

You were confused to say the least. Walking down through what would be the junkyard if you were in the real world, you found Bobby’s station wagon. However, it looked much newer and cleaner than it would in your real life. The walkway was well-manicured, and beautiful flowers lined the path leading to Bobby’s front door. 

Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind you. You immediately spun around and tried to reopen it, but someone had locked it. 

“Dean!” you hollered. You headed over to the window that overlooked Bobby’s kitchen table and banged on it harshly. “Dean!”

Despite the fact that you could very clearly see him through the window, he didn’t react to you calling his name or hitting against the glass. Still confused, you headed down the porch. 

A beautiful little pond with flowers surrounding it came into view as you walked further into the backyard. You wished in that moment that you’d figured out a way to bring a gun or a knife into Bobby’s head before you drank the dream root tea. 

When you walked past a line of washed sheets hanging out to dry, you got that feeling again; as if someone was watching you. You wheeled around just to get hit with a bat across your chest. Winded, you fell to the ground, heaving painfully. “Motherfucker,” you wheezed. A hand to your shoulder, you pushed yourself up on your elbow to face the college-aged man who’d hit you. “Who are you?” you asked in as tough a voice as you could muster.

“Who are you? You don't belong here,” the man replied.

“You're one to talk,” you scoffed. “You're in my friend's head.”

“You got a poor choice in friends. This is self-defense. He came after me. He wanted to hurt me,” the man spat.

“Uh, if he was coming after you, it’s ‘cause you killed somebody,” you told him. 

“You should be nicer to me. In here... you're just an insect. I'm a god.”

“You’re overcompensating,” you responded dryly. “The ol' two-incher not workin’ how you want it to?”

The man’s face twisted, and he raised his bat again. “Sweet dreams.”

Before you could react, you woke up with a start back in your motel room bed next to Dean. You were actually still holding your empty cup.

The older Winchester turned to you as soon as he realized you were back in the real world. “You okay?”

You nodded. “You?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “We found Bobby.”

“You did?” you asked. 

“And his, uh, wife,” Sam added. “Looked like he had to kill her. I’m guessing it’s how he got into hunting.”

“Jesus,” you sighed. “Speaking of, we should probably go get him.”

***

With Bobby back in your motel room, he immediately began looking over the papers from the doctor’s research.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean said. “That, uh— That stuff, all that stuff with your wife? That actually happen?”

“Everybody got into hunting somehow,” he shrugged. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean replied. 

“Don't be sorry. If it weren't for you, I'd still be lost in there. Or dead.” He held Dean’s gaze with the most intensity and meaning you’d seen Bobby look at anyone. “Thank you.”

Dean’s lips twitched upward into a smile. 

Sam burst back into the room at that moment. “So, uh, stoner boy wasn't in his dorm. My guess is he's long gone by now.”

“He ain't much of a stoner.” Bobby picked up a picture of the guy who’d attacked you. 

“No?” You cocked your head to the side. 

“No,” Bobby replied. “His name's Jeremy Frost. Full-on genius. Hundred-and-sixty IQ. Which is sayin' some, considering his dad took a baseball bat to his head.” He picked up another piece of paper and handed it to Sam. “Here's Father of the Year. He died before Jeremy was ten.”

Sam grimaced at the photo. “Looks like a real sweetheart.”

“Injury gave him Charcot-Wilbrand. He hasn't dreamt since,” Bobby finished. 

“Till his whole Freddy Kruger thing,” you nodded. 

“How'd he know how to dig up your worst nightmare and throw it at you?” Dean questioned the older man. 

Bobby shrugged. “Hey, he was rooting around in my skull. God knows what he saw in there.”

“Yeah. How'd he get in there in the first place? Isn't he supposed to have some of your hair, your DNA, or something?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah,” Bobby sighed. “ 'Fore I knew it was him, he offered me a beer. I drank it. Dumbest fuckin’ thing.”

Dean laughed nervously. “Oh, I don't know. It wasn't that dumb.”

Your face dropped. “Babe, you didn’t.”

“I was thirsty?” he winced. 

Sam huffed angrily. “That's great. Now he can come after either one of you.”

“Well, now, we just have to find him first,” Dean tried. 

“We better work fast,” Bobby urged, “and coffee up. Because the one thing we cannot do is fall asleep.”

***

Two days later, Dean was losing his mind. “I mean, this Jeremy guy's not a fuckin’ ghost. Where the hell could he be?” He was sitting at the wheel of the Impala twitching a bit. 

“Dean, you sure you don't want me to drive? You seem a little…” Sam trailed off when his brother gave him a strong look. “...caffeinated.”

“Well, thanks for the news flash, Edison!” Dean grumbled. He tried to grab his ringing cell phone from his pocket, but his twitching hands fumbled. 

You took the phone from him gently and answered it. “Tell me you got something,” you pleaded.

“Strip club was a bust, huh?” Bobby asked. 

“Yeah,” you replied. 

“That was our last lead,” the old man sighed. 

“What the hell, man,” you wondered aloud. “What’s Bela got?”

“What do you got, Bela?” you heard him ask her. 

“Sorry,” you heard her say distantly. “Sometimes the spirit world is in a chatty mood, and sometimes, it isn't.”

“She's got nothing.” 

You repeated Bobby’s statement to the rest of the car. 

Dean threw his hands up in frustration. “Great! Well, I'm just gonna go blow my brains out now!” He angrily grabbed the phone from your hands, and you did your best not to scold him. Dean began speeding back toward the motel, but after a few minutes, he pulled off to the side of the road in the woods. “Alright, that's it. I'm done.”

“What are you doing?” Sam questioned. 

Dean slid down in his seat, resting his head on the back of it. “Taking myself a long-overdue nap.”

You lurched forward putting your face next to his. “Are you out of your mind?!” “Dean, Jeremy can come after you,” Sam reminded his brother. 

“That's the idea,” the older man replied nonchalantly. “Come on, guys, we can't find him, so let him come to me.”

“On his own turf? Where he's basically a god?” you mimicked Jeremy’s words from when he beat you.

“I can handle it,” he shrugged. 

“Not alone, you can’t,” you stated firmly. 

Sam reached over and pulled out some of Dean’s hair.

“Ow!” His hand flew up to rub where Sam had plucked from. “What are you doing?”

“We’re comin' in with you,” Sam said plainly. 

“No, you’re not,” the other Winchester scoffed. 

“Why not?” you asked him. “At least, then, it’ll be three against one.”

“ 'Cause I don't want you digging around in my head.”

“Dean, what am I gonna find up there you don’t want me to see?” you asked. You’d always trusted him, but you were worried about what his response would be. 

“Not you, (Y/N). Sam. There’s some things my kid brother shouldn’t know about me,” Dean grumbled. 

To say you were relieved was an understatement. 

“Too bad,” Sam responded. He had already mixed the teas and handed you a cup. 

You took it and chugged the whole thing; desperately trying to ignore the foul taste. However, nothing changed. 

“Dean,” Sam said, hitting his brother on the arm forcefully. 

Dean jerked up. “For the love of god.” He looked extremely tired and confused. “What are we still doing here?”

“No idea,” you answered. 

Suddenly, you heard a sound outside the car. 

“There's someone out there,” Sam said, on high alert. 

You walked around to the front of the car, and to your surprise, you were sitting on a little blanket with a picnic basket. She— well, you— smiled at Dean, not seeming to notice you or Sam. 

“Hey. You gonna sit down?” the dream version of you asked Dean. 

He didn’t move, he just gawked. 

“Come on,” Dean’s dream-you said. “You know how I feel about you keeping me waiting.”

Dean turned to the real you, a bit embarrassed. 

You smiled up at him as his dream-version of you said, “Dean. I love you.”

Suddenly, the whole scene began to shake. Everything disappeared. 

“Where'd she— you— go?” Dean asked. 

Just then, you spotted Jeremy coming out from behind a tree. Sam took off after him, and you and Dean soon got separated from him. The two of you called out to Sam, but it was no use. You turned back to see that the woods you’d run through had disappeared. Instead, the hallway of an unkempt motel laid before you. 

“Stay close,” Dean instructed you, beginning to walk down the hallway. The door at the end of it opened just before you and Dean reached it. An equally gloomy room appeared behind the scratched-up door. 

You could hear a clicking sound coming from within the room, and then, you saw the light on the desk clicking on and off. “Jeremy?” you asked. 

The clicking stopped, the light remaining on, and you finally got a good idea of who you were looking at. “Dean,” you breathed out. 

“Hey, Dean,” the dream version of your partner said. 

“Well, aren't you a handsome son of a gun,” your Dean smiled. 

“We need to talk,” said dream Dean. 

The two began to circle each other, and you remained in the corner. 

The real Dean nodded. “I get it. I'm my own worst nightmare, is that it? Huh? Kind of like the Superman III junkyard scene? A little mano y mano with myself?”

“Joke all you want, smart-ass. But you can't lie to me. I know the truth.”

The real Dean stopped by the desk, and the dream version stood by the door closest to you. 

“I know how dead you are inside,” the dream version sneered. “How worthless you feel. I know how you look into a mirror and hate what you see.”

“(Y/N), don’t listen. It’s not true,” your Dean assured you when he saw how your heart broke for him. However, you knew that the dream version wasn’t lying; how could he? After all, this was Dean’s imagination you were in. 

“Why do you think I’ve got her here?” the dream Dean spat. “She’s gonna get to watch the show.”

“Sorry, pal. It's not gonna work.” Despite how visibly shaken the real Dean was, he tried to smile through it. “You're not real.”

“Sure I am. I'm you.”

“I don't think so. 'Cause see, this is my siesta. Not yours.” The real Dean raised his arm. “All I gotta do is snap my fingers and you go bye-bye.” He tried it once. Then, a second time, and then, a third, and still, nothing happened. 

“I'm not going anywhere. Neither are you. Neither is she,” the dream version smirked wickedly. The door slammed shut and locked behind him.

The real Dean’s face hardened into sincerity. “Let her go,” he commanded.

“No, Dean,” the other version said. “She deserves to know the truth. She deserves to know what kind of monster she’s involved with. Like I said, we need to talk.” He raised his hand to reveal a sawed-off shotgun. “I mean, you're going to Hell, and you won't lift a finger to stop it.”

The two began to circle each other again, and you stayed frozen in place. 

“Talk about low self-esteem,” the other Dean continued to taunt, chuckling. “Then again, I guess it's not much of a life worth saving, now is it?”

Your Dean muttered to himself, “Wake up, Dean. Come on, wake up.”

“I mean, after all, you've got nothing outside of Sam and pretty little (Y/N) here.” The other version of Dean stopped walking by the desk, and your Dean stopped next to you. Your version gave you a pleading look, although you weren’t sure what he was asking you to do in this situation. 

The dream version continued his assault. “You are nothing. You're as mindless and obedient as an attack dog.”

The real one tried to smile through it, and you knew the brave face he was putting on was mostly for your sake. “That— That's not true.”

“No? What are the things that you want? What are the things that you dream? I mean, your car? That's Dad's,” the dream Dean stated. “Your favorite leather jacket? Dad's. Your music? Dad's. Do you even have an original thought?”

The real version scoffed. 

“No. No, all there is is, ‘Watch out for Sammy. Look out for your little brother, boy!’ You can still hear your dad's voice in your head, can't you?” the dream version pressed. He motioned with the gun toward his head. “Clear as a bell.”

“Just shut up,” the real Dean gritted through his teeth.

The dream one lowered the gun. “I mean, think about it.” He stalked toward your Dean, and you were still frozen in place; undoubtedly by the dream version’s doing. “All he ever did is train you, boss you around. But Sam? Sam, he doted on. Sam, he loved.”

“I mean it. I'm getting angry,” your Dean growled. 

The other version of himself refused to stop, though. “Dad knew who you really were. A good soldier and nothing else. Daddy's blunt little instrument.” His voice had gotten hard and angry now. “Your own father didn't care whether you lived or died. Why should you?”

“Son of a bitch!” the real Dean shouted angrily, shoving the other version into the wall above the desk. “My father was an obsessed bastard!”

The dream Dean tried to get up, but the real one knocked him down again. Your Dean picked up the weapon and hit the other with the barrel across the face before pinning him to the wall with it. 

“All that crap he dumped on me, about protecting Sam! That was his crap. He's the one who couldn't protect his family. He—” the real Dean had gotten so choked up, and you wanted nothing more than to run to him. “He's the one who let Mom die— who wasn't there for Sam. I always was! He wasn't fair! I didn't deserve what he put on me. And I don't deserve to go to Hell!” the real Dean had beaten the other so hard, it looked as though he was dead. Blood was splattered across his face, and his eyes were closed. 

Suddenly, the dream version awoke again. His eyes were completely black upon reopening them. “You can't escape me, Dean. You're gonna die. And this? This is what you're gonna become!” He stood up and began to stalk toward the real Dean, but just like that, you woke up. 

You shot up from your seat in the Impala frantically searching for Dean; demon or otherwise. You were relieved to find him in the front seat.

The sun had begun to come up some time while you slept. Dean was completely silent for the drive back to the motel while Sam informed you and Dean what he’d done to stop Jeremy. 

“How’d you do that, Sammy?” you questioned. 

“I don’t know, I just sort of concentrated, and it happened, y’know?” he replied. 

“What happened?” you pressed.

“I made him see his dad. And, uh, some kind of way, one hit from his dad was enough to kill him.”

“Damn,” you breathed out as Dean rolled the Impala to a stop in front of the motel. 

Sam walked ahead of you and Dean toward Bobby.

You hung back with Dean. 

“(Y/N), I don’t wanna talk about what you saw in there,” he said as soon as the two of you were alone. 

“We don’t have to,” you replied. “But when you’re ready— if you ever are— I’m here. And I still love you. No matter what.” You smiled up at him lopsidedly with your hands in the front pockets of your jeans. 

To show you he loved you, too, he pulled you forward and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. You responded by leaning up and kissing his cheek. And then, he pulled you into a kiss on your lips. Your arms wound around his neck almost like a reflex, and Dean’s arms went around your lower back, holding you tightly to him. 

Sam then interrupted your kiss by asking, “Uh, guys? Come see.” When you entered the motel room, Bobby was pacing angrily.

“What’s going on?” you asked. 

“Bela’s not in her room. She’s not answering her phone,” Sam responded. “She must’ve taken off or something.”

“Just like that? It's a little weird,” Dean said, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Yeah, well, if you ask me, what's weird is why she helped us in the first place,” Bobby replied. 

“I thought you saved her life,” you said. You had a sinking feeling in your stomach suddenly. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bobby questioned. 

“The thing in Flagstaff,” Dean continued. 

Bobby turned to look at you and Dean, who were still idling by the door. “That thing in Flagstaff was an amulet. I gave her a good deal, that's all.”

Dean’s face dropped, and the panic you were feeling was beginning to set in for him as well. 

“You kids better check your pockets,” Bobby said, an edge in his voice. 

All three of you began to feel around your jackets and pants. 

“Not literally.”

You then followed Dean’s gaze toward the safe in the closet. Dean immediately headed over, muttering, “No, no, no, no.” He opened it, and it was empty. 

“The Colt,” Sam breathed out. “Bela stole the Colt.”

Dean slammed the safe shut angrily. 

“Damn it, kids!” Bobby huffed. 

“Pack your crap,” Dean asserted, stomping over to his bag on the couch.

“Why? Where are we going?” Sam asked. 

“We're gonna go hunt the bitch down,” Dean said. 

Your anger was simmering just below the surface. You were angry at yourself for beginning to build a friendship with her and for not thinking she’d find a way to get something over on you. 

You followed Dean out to the Impala where Sam was putting his bag in the trunk. 

“Hey, Sam. I was wondering. When you were in my head, what did you see?” Dean asked. 

“Uh, just Jeremy. He kept me separated from you. Easier to beat my brains out that way, I guess.”

Dean scoffed. 

“What about you?” Sam asked. “You never said.”

Dean shook his head. “Nothing. I was looking for you the whole time.” Sam looked to you as you began to put your bag in the trunk, and Dean moved around to the driver’s seat. Despite not enjoying lying to Sam, you just shrugged and smiled lopsidedly. 

When you got down into the car, Dean looked thoughtful. You were expecting him to take off immediately, but he hesitated. 

“Sam,” he began. 

“Yeah?”

You were intrigued as to where this was going. 

Dean couldn’t look at his brother. “I've been doing some thinking, and... Well, the thing is... I don't wanna die.”

You closed your eyes, your heart saddening. 

“I don't wanna go to Hell,” Dean continued. 

“Alright. Yeah. We'll find a way to save you,” Sam said softly. 

Dean looked up at him, and you searched his expression. It was another one of those confusing looks you couldn’t quite read; somewhere between pensive and saddened, frustrated and resigned. “Okay, good.” His voice was shaky, and you weren’t sure what you could do to make him feel better; if anything. 

All you could hear was what the dream version of himself had said; “And this?” he’d spat, eyes black. “This is what you’re gonna become!”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[honeyscara]

❝ You're a reason ❞ – Chuuya. N

| Stormbringer | includes spoilers

Synopsis: comforting chuuya after the police officer was killed.

Content: fluff, gender neutral reader

-800 words

You were standing with Adam and Shirase, staring at Chuuya who was sitting on top of a very tall building.

Minutes ago, his older brother, Verlaine had killed murase, a detective in front of Chuuya. Chuuya was still in shock. His brain had short-circuited at the sight of his brother killing so many people so dear to him. He blamed himself because of what Verlaine did but he couldn’t do anything.

He felt so guilty. He couldn't save them. His mind kept replaying the same images over and over again. Lippmann's dead body falling from the car, albatross, iceman, piano man, and Doc's bodies in the pool hall where they met for the first time and the officer who was killed in front of him.

You couldn't just stand there. You had to talk to Chuuya. So you used your ability to reach the top of the building where Chuuya was.

"wait where are you going?!" you heard Adam yell but you ignored him.

Once you reached the top of the building you walked over to where Chuuya was sitting. He was sitting on the edge with his head in his hands and his feet were dangling off the side of the building. You sat next to him and placed your hand on his shoulder.

"oh..it's you" He looked up, surprised to see you there. You noticed tears in his eyes and that made you feel terrible.

"It's not your fault chuuya.." you said softly.

He didn't reply back and just looked down at the city below. You've never seen him cry before. He always acted like nothing bothered him but deep down it did. He was just a kid, like you. You felt terrible for him. He shouldn't be blaming himself because of what happened. It's not his fault. It's Verlaine's.

You took his hands in yours and held it tightly. "everything's gonna be okay."

"w-why?" he questioned, still looking down, his voice soft and vulnerable.

"W-Why did they have to die.." his voice cracked as he tried to remain composed in front of you.

"shh it's okay you can cry..just let it all out" You said softly, rubbing circles with your thumbs on his hands. He looked up at you, tears rolling freely down his cheeks now.

Suddenly he hugged you. You gasped in surprise at the sudden closeness but hugged him back. Tears began flowing freely again, staining your shirt. He gripped onto your shirt and you embraced him tightly and patted his back.

"It's okay I'm here" You comforted him while he cried.

After a few minutes, he stopped crying and pulled away from you. He averted his gaze from you feeling embarrassed.

"I won't tell anyone about this" You smiled and reassured him.

"look here," you said wiping his tears away with your thumb. A red blush dusted his cheeks at this action, and he blushed furiously.

"I don't want Verlaine to kill you too," he said in a shaky voice.

"Huh?" You were confused.

"He said he would kill anyone that would give me a reason to stay in Yokohama ....and you're one of the reasons why..." he said quietly while fidgeting with his fingers.

"what do you mean?" You asked innocently.

"It means I like you, idiot," he said exasperatedly. Then he turned away to hide his face which was bright red.

Your heart fluttered at his sudden confession. Your mind went blank for a moment. Did he say it or were you imagining it?

"oh... I-" you were still processing what he'd just said when he leaned in and kissed you.

When he pulled away you were still in a daze. You didn't know how to react to what he had just done. When you finally snapped out of your daze, he was looking at you, waiting for your response. The look in his eyes was so gentle and genuine.

"I'm sorry I shouldn't.." he began

You pecked him on the lips and smiled softly at him. "don't apologize next time"

His face lit up and his lips curved upwards into a smile. Suddenly, the two of you heard a loud voice coming from behind. You both froze at the sound and looked behind to see Adam.

"Master Chuuya finally confessed!!!" Adam yelled, clearly excited.

"What the hell man, Give me some privacy and stop calling me that!!" he shouted and tried to cover his burning face but Adam was already grinning at him and taking pictures. Chuuya glared at him while his face turned pink.

Chuuya was still embarrassed being caught by Adam but you were smiling brightly and laughing softly.

"if you two are done can we go back to discussing our plan about killing Verlaine?" another person said from behind Adam. It was shirase.

"why the hell are you here too?!" chuuya yelled

I had to write one stormbringer fic cause chuuya went through a lot. I just wished he had someone on whom he could rely and show his true emotions.

I might write a full length fic of this too. I had started one but I'm currently writing a lot so that's on hold.