#like you can see it’s bones through the blue parts of skin. either as a threat display or courtship

[puppppppppy]

Big cat

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 4 masterlist

-

At the quantum level, an electron can behave as both a wave and a particle. It is the act of observing it that confines it to a single form. The electron that once could’ve passed through multiple openings at once is forced to choose a single path when observed. 

Because what the eye sees becomes—

“—real,” you whisper, staring up at the face hovering in the window beside your bed. His smile doesn’t waver. “You can’t be real.”

“Sorry about the other day,” he says, instead of answering. “I got a bit lost after you left.”

Again, you pinch the soft skin of your thigh to wake yourself up and twitch when the pain sets in. The reassurance that you’re still awake doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you. 

“This isn’t real,” you repeat to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and breathing heavily out through your mouth. “This isn’t real.”

Your words are met with a silence so profound that it almost feels as though you’ve plugged your ears, until you open your eyes and he’s still there, waiting right outside the window.

The blue lights around the inside of the window glow soft against his dark skin. You can make out the finer details of his face up close—the smoothness of his skin; the faint scar on his cheek; the fine grooves in his plush bottom lip. Too beautiful to have spent the last several days without food or water or sleep or fresh oxygen. You, with access to all of those resources, feel grimy; gritty. Skin tight against the bone, and hollowed.

“Was that you? Before?” you ask, thinking of the astronaut you saw drifting out in the distance, so lifeless and limp that you imagined the body within it long expired. 

He nods. The motion is slow, deliberate; still that sluggishness analogous with zero gravity. 

You wait for him to volunteer more information, but he just smiles wordlessly at you. It’s difficult to know where to begin. You’ve always been the kind to break a problem down into smaller, more manageable parts, but with this you don’t even know where to start. Its bigness is all you can focus on. The enormity of it. 

“Where did you go?” you ask instead. “You weren’t—…you were gone when I came back. We couldn’t find you.”

He blinks. “Elsewhere.”

“You can…move around out there?” 

“I can.”

His deliberate evasiveness frustrates you. Ostensibly one-dimensional with his glib charm and easy smile, but with an unplumbed depth. His response provokes more questions than it answers, and you can tell that it’s intentional. 

But again you’re prescribing an internal locus of control to an apparition that has been proven to exist only in your head. It can only supply you with information that you already have. 

And that’s the real quandary, isn’t it? The thing that has you whispering softly to yourself oh no oh no oh no oh no in the quiet of your room. Your body knows that the front door of your mind lies on its side, ripped from the hinges, dirt mounds blackening the entryway. And now outside stands a man, waiting to be let in. 

“How am I able to hear you?”

He smiles. “You must just want to listen.”

You huff out a breath through your nose. There it is again. 

“Who are you?” you ask, and you know that his answer won't matter. It won't matter because it won't be real. Because it's just you in your head and the words are too loud and whatever sickness is in your mind has crystallized in the body of a man that stares at you with a gaze too intense, too penetrating for what he is.

“You can call me Gaz,” he says simply, teeth peeking out from behind his lips when he enunciates the name. Glinting sharp like bone in the blue light. 

His answer makes you blink. It doesn’t seem like a name that you would come up with, but the mind works in mysterious ways. You didn’t think it could conjure up a person either, and now look at what’s happening to you. And it is happening to you, of that you’re sure. 

“Are you going to let me in?” he asks before you can open your mouth again.

He presses his gloved hand to the window. The folds in the fabric spread with his fingers, the pads of his fingers flecked with dust and grime, worn from years of use. 

You give a curt shake of your head. 

“Love…” Gaz says warningly. 

In the few days since he first appeared in the window, you’ve never heard him use that tone. You’re not too proud to say it frightens you. Whether he’s real or just in your head, so far Gaz has been perfectly affable, and you’re not sure you’re willing to face the implication that he might not always be that way. 

“I need to sleep,” you plead. “T-tomorrow—I’ll…I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

You press a button on the wall that drops a panel over the window with a quiet shunk, blocking Gaz from view.

When he knocks again, a shiver ripples down your spine. Guilt twists your insides up in knots. All you can do is pull the comforter over your head and block your ears. 

By morning, the temperature in your room has dropped a degree. You bundle up in a thicker sweatshirt and boots before going for your morning cup of coffee, but for the first time since takeoff all those months ago, you head for your work station instead of sipping your coffee in the cockpit. 

You start to hear him no matter where you are on the ship, a window no longer necessary. Always it comes after two solid raps against the hull of the ship, the sound jolting your heart into a frantic beat, pulse fluttering wildly under your skin. And then his voice, muffled through the layers of aluminum and titanium alloys, but intelligible despite the impossibility of it all. 

Sometimes, you respond. Just a few words to acknowledge his existence, even when the wall separating the two of you is impermeable, only his voice accessible to you. 

That makes it worse somehow though. Displaces his voice from his body, forcing you to reckon with his presence like a symptom of a bicameral mind, your own thoughts projected from you into the world. What difference is there between his voice and an audio hallucination? You should know better than to indulge in it. 

You’re beginning to understand the real root of the problem. The crux of it all. There’s a box in your mind labeled psychosis, and in the months of prolonged isolation and discomfort, you’ve inadvertently unshelved it, pulled it out of its storage space and peeled the lid open, all of its contents now released into the world. 

The thought is terrifying. You wonder if you can even trust your own mind, if everything is now compromised. Can you even trust what you see in front of you, or have you made it up as well? The thought is so disturbing that it paralyzes you in your bed at night. 

You’ve taken to sleeping in the medbay because it’s one of the few rooms without access to any exterior walls. Several other crew quarters separate it from the hull, while the main corridor runs along the other side. It’s the only place where you’re able to get a decent night’s sleep, though the lights stay on, fluorescent white at all times, programmed to stay at full brightness in case of an emergency. 

Even the sight of your own reflection makes you flinch until you realize it’s just you. 

One twenty-four hour period cycles into the next, pulling you into its embrace like crossing over an event horizon, your future self already distended out in front of you. 

In an effort to finally put you to good use (you try not to resent the implication when it’s framed like that), Farah tasks you with conducting pressure checks on the fuel tanks and lines around the ship while she continues to focus on the issue with the cruise control. You’re tasked with attaching a pressure gauge to the tank and increasing the pressure while keeping an eye out for any leaks or drops in pressure. A task simple enough that even the uninitiated could perform it. Busywork. 

You shut down the part of you that beats on your chest and demands that you leave. That this isn’t your job; you were brought aboard for a particular purpose and this isn’t it. You could be conducting your own research instead in the comfort of your lab, ensconced in data on antimicrobial resistance in space or microgravity-induced orthostatic intolerance. Not checking fuel tank pressure.

Someone raps their knuckles against the wall nearest you from the outside of the ship, startling you. 

“Shit,” you curse, the pressure gauge slipping out of your hand and clattering to the floor. You sigh when you bend down to pick it up and wince when you notice a crack in the glass where it hit the floor. 

“Love? Is that you?” Gaz asks from the other side of the wall, voice muffled.

Ignoring his voice doesn’t keep your heart from beating harder. You try to focus instead on the task at hand, pressuring the tank to fifteen hundred psi and waiting for the needle to stabilize on the gauge. Nothing abnormal. You jot it down and move on to the next tank, removing the gauge and starting the process anew. 

Another thump against the hull, the sound sending a jolt through your body. 

“I know you’re there.” He sounds amused. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

How could you avoid someone in your head? You almost say as much but then catch yourself on the verge of opening your mouth. You turn back your task, scrolling down the checklist on your tablet. 

There’s an edge to his voice the next time he speaks. “This is starting to annoy me, love.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” you whisper, finally breaking, the stylus nearly slipping from your clammy hands. Brows scrunched, eyes shut tight. Another breath out to stabilize yourself. 

“Ah, there you are,” Gaz hums. “Thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

Just ignore it, you think, breathing in and out again. 

“You’d rather talk to Farah than me,” he says when you don’t respond, almost accusatory, and you nearly brush it off until you register what he said.  

“How do you know her name?” you hiss under your breath, turning your head to stare at the panel that his voice emanates from behind. 

“I thought I was just in your head,” he says, amused again. Voice lighter than a moment prior. Easygoing as ever.

You worry at your lower lip until the skin threatens to break. “Yes, but—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Your head whips around at the sound of Farah’s voice. You hadn’t heard the cargo hold doors open, but she stands in the doorway, staring at you with an unreadable expression, shoulders squared and hands on her hips. 

Your instinct is to ask her how long she’s been standing there, but that won’t serve you in the long run. You almost want to ask if she heard his voice too, but you don’t think you could handle her confirming to your face that Gaz’s voice is all in your head. 

“…No one.”

Her face hardens and you wonder if you made the wrong call choosing to lie to her. But what else should you have said? The wall behind you remains conspicuously silent.

The next few seconds under her gaze feel endless. Eventually though, Farah pivots on her heel without another word and leaves the way she came, the doors sliding shut behind her. 

The room bellows its cold ire. Only the sound of your own breathing reaches your ears. 

An hour passes. Possibly longer. The stress eats away at your insides. Though you don’t cross paths with Farah for the rest of the day, you can’t help the way every sound makes you flinch and glance towards its source. Jumpy; paranoid. 

You make yourself dinner when the galley is still empty and eat in the medbay instead of with the rest of the crew. The peppery aftertaste is more prominent than usual while you eat; you almost have to choke your food down. Almost metallic, like antiseptic. 

It happens again on your way back to your quarters. The lights cycle with the night and dim in the hallway, a soft pale glow like a low-hanging moon illuminating the floor in front of you. 

You catch him in the corner of your eye this time, no knock to signal his presence. Just an astronaut hovering outside the window, nearly translucent with the absence of light. The fear that overcomes you is almost animalistic until it settles into the folds of your skin like an ointment rubbed in, and you turn to face him. 

It’s the same but different. You know what he wants. What he’s waiting for. 

“I don’t think I can let you in,” you whisper, looking away from the window to the other side of the hall. His gaze seers into the side of your head.

“Why not?” It’s the first time Gaz’s voice has sounded cold to your ears. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. 

“I’m worried you’re not real. That maybe you’re just in my head. And I can’t—” You bite your lip, swallowing the warble in your voice. “—I can’t let them know I’m crazy.”

Let them know. As if it were a foregone conclusion. As if you’ve already passed the point of no return. But what other conclusion could you draw from your observations as of late? The constant disappearances and reappearances, his voice in your head only when you’re alone. His voice in general, somehow audible despite there being no medium for it to pass through. You’ve been ignoring his anomalous properties because you’ve been desperate to believe that your mind hasn’t been compromised. That you aren’t a danger to the people around you—a voice in your head telling you to open the airlock when there’s nothing out there in space. 

When you turn your head, he’s still there, eyes stony behind the visor of his spacesuit. He tilts his head and the visor glints black for a second, suddenly opaque, obscuring his face.

He looms like a figure straight out of death, imposing even from the outside of the ship. Your arms hang limp at your sides, locked in place under his gaze. Even the thought of moving fills you with dread. 

But he isn’t real; he’s just in your head.

When Gaz lifts his head again, his visor clears and his smile is pleasant again, back to what it once was.

“I’ll prove that I’m real. Wait for me, love.”

And then he’s gone, the view beyond the window night sky black. Gone between one blink and the next; faster than light.

[mixolya]

ᓚᘏᗢ — rin itoshi: in the in-between !

synopsis: after an accident leaves you unconscious for days, you wake up in a quiet hospital room to the soft light of morning and the even softer sight of him by your side.

rin itoshi x reader ⭑ fluff / hurt + comfort / mutual pining / slow burn likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

wc: 705

you wake up slowly, like resurfacing from the bottoms of a still, deep lake.

everything is muffled at first. the hum of machines, the cotton weight of your limbs, the soft ache in your chest. light spills in through half-closed blinds, warm and golden, brushing your skin like a memory. the scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, faint and sterile, but not entirely unpleasant.

you blink. once. twice.

the room is quiet, so quiet, you almost miss the shape of him.

his head is resting on the side of the bed, one arm folded beneath it, the other draped limply over the edge. there's a soft furrow between his brows, a faint crease of exhaustion that even sleep can't erase. his hair falls over his forehead in messy strands, a little longer than usual, like he's been to busy to remember to care.

rin itoshi.

fast asleep, here, next to you.

you don't move. you barely breathe.

there's something oddly surreal about it, like you're still dreaming and this is the part your mind made up for comfort. but he's real. real in the way his hoodie sleeves are bunched up over his forearms. real in the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders. real in the way his pinky grazes yours, so close, you can feel his warmth without touching him.

a knock sounds, gently.

you turn your head.

a nurse steps in with practiced quiet, clipboard hugged to her chest. she sees you, offers a small, knowing smile.

"you're awake," she says softly. "finally."

your throat is dry when you try to speak. "how long...?"

"two days," she replies, adjusting something on the monitor beside you. "he's been here the whole time."

you glance over.

rin doesn't stir. his posture is slack with sleep but something about it still feels tense, like even in unconsciousness, some part of him is still waiting. watching.

"he refused to leave," the nurse adds, her voice a little lighter now. "slept right there. barely touched the food we brought him. i think he was worried you'd vanish if he blinked too long."

you don't know what to respond.

so you don't.

instead, your gaze returns to him, his arms draped so carelessly, fingers twitching in sleep. the corner of his mouth soft. a strange, quiet part of your heart curls inward.

you whisper, "idiot."

maybe he hears it. or maybe some part of him feels your voice. either way, he stirs.

his lashes flutter. his hand shifts. and then those blue-green eyes blink open, unfocused at first. his expression shifts when he sees you. like watching clouds clear from a sky that hasn't seen sunlight in days.

"you're awake," he says.

his voice is raw from sleep yet steady. warm. filled with something that almost feels like a relief.

you nod, a small, tired smile pulling at your lips. "barely."

he sits up a little straighter. stretches his fingers, then curls them into fists. you can tell from the look on his face that he wants to say something, something smart or biting or sarcastic, but he doesn't.

he just exhales.

and stays.

you don’t ask why. not yet. not when he looks like he hasn’t breathed in two days and just remembered how.

“you stayed,” you murmur.

he looks away.

“...someone had to.”

and maybe that’s all he’ll give you. maybe that’s all either of you can handle right now, in this strange haze between the terrifying and the tender. but it’s enough.

he doesn’t say what you already feel in your bones.

that he was scared. that he didn’t know what to do. that something about seeing you like this, hooked up to wires and monitors, split something inside him.

you both say nothing for a while.

the silence isn’t heavy. it’s soft and patient. like the in-between of a breath.

then, gently, his fingers brush yours.

your eyes meet.

neither of you pulls away.

and in that moment, in the quiet echo of machines and half-said things, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, this is how it starts. not with a confession. not with a kiss. but with this.

a hand half-held.

a heart almost spoken.

and someone who never left your side.

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[azullumi]

trying different types of kissing with scaramouche?💔 like forehead, neck kisses, hand or anything at all....

“say yes to heaven” ; wanderer/scaramouche

summary — ultimately, he really does just want to be loved, behind the many layers of him to hide all that yearning and longing. but how can he say it when love, for him, was a synonym to forgiveness; alternatively, different kisses with him, with each one signifying a progressing relationship.

pairing — scaramouche/wanderer (w/ gender-neutral reader) ; could imagine this with either but i wrote this with wanderer in mind

tags — established relationship, fluff, a little bit of angst, not proofread, 1.1k ; ficlet

note — i needed an excuse to write a fic that is just all about kissing him and also comforting him (but still, i hope u like this nonnieee!!)

i. hand

You hold his hand and press small kisses on his knuckles, a little bit ticklish it was for him but he doesn’t retract. The feeling of it makes something in his chest ache with an unfamiliar sensation, and he knows it’s not his heart because he never had any.

You kiss the back of his hand, an intimate gesture, like devotion, like he was something—or someone—that should be adored.

“I am no god.” He was no deity to be worshiped so why are you so gentle to him? He wasn’t made of glass nor is he fragile; he was born from ashes of a burned home, he was carved out of war and winter storms and everything that you could ever pray against, he was a symphony composed of nothing but bad luck and conflicting melodies—he was not the kind people would choose to be around, much less adore.

And as if you bear a part of him in your mind, you understood what he was trying to say, could hear the questions that tormented him, could see the conflicted look on him as he looks at you with a gaze that seems to scrutinize your being when only he is looking for an answer. He tries to look for a crack, a gap in your expression, so that he can look through it and see what you’re really thinking.

“You don’t have to be one to be loved.” You press one last kiss on his hand just as you finished speaking, looking up to him. Indigo blue orbs met yours in a gentle gaze, eyes filled with affection only for the other to drown in. If he could put all that he was feeling, all that he was asking and seeking an answer to, into a simple word, it all condenses to: why?

“Do you still have doubts?” You ask, despite knowing the answer. He opens his mouth only to close it again, looking for the words that he should say but chose to be silent instead. And you smile—not a beaming grin nor a subtle paint on your features, but something gentle and comforting as if you’re assuring him: it’s okay, I understand you. I know you.

“You’re not unloveable.”

Loving him wasn’t the hardest thing to do, it came to you naturally as if breathing but the man thinks otherwise. A burnt child who loves the fire will only hear the fact that he is loveable, people just choose not to.

“How do you know that?” You know him well enough to hear the way his voice trembles at the effort to allow himself to be vulnerable. Long was the fall of the tall and formidable walls that he built around him.

“You’re not unloveable.” You repeat, taking hold of his fingers to kiss his hand once more. “Am I not enough proof of that?”

ii. forehead and cheeks

You cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead, an unspoken language of tenderness in which he took a long time to understand. When love and affection has finally been given to him after decades of yearning, he’s unsure of how to hold it in his hands—does he gently hold it with both? Every bit overwhelms him to the bone, the gratifying yet intense feeling seeps through his being and settles inside of him in a way that it slowly consumes the crevices of his mind, until all that is left of him is nothing but a starved man who only longs for the feeling of your skin against his own.

There was a flicker of warmth in his expression and he closed his eyes as he relished in your kindness, your hands cradling his cheeks with warmth that coaxed his entire existence, your lips pressing against his forehead softly. Then, you started to pepper his face with small kisses and the man could only surrender to your touch, a dance of vulnerability and intimacy as he crumbled into your hold.

No one has ever come this close to him (a closeness that was a stranger to the pages of his past, a tender note composed solely for him), no one and nothing.

You spoke, murmuring against his skin and close to his lips: “Sunshine.” Humor weaves through your tone, teasing the absurdity of the mismatched title and the man who wears it with subtle grace.

“Don’t call me that.” He snarks yet no bite. It’s ironically funny how you use that nickname on him despite him being the complete contrast of it; he stands as the living paradox of the word itself.

The sound of laughter bubbles up in your throat and you answer, “Why not? It suits you perfectly, don’t you think?”

What else should you call the man who grasps the warmth and tender light in his chest only the sun could give? To be with him was to sit in the autumn sunlight, to sleep in the comfort of your sheets when the rain patters against your window, to walk barefoot on the sand even if it feels like shards of glasses against your sole, to be with him was to simply exist; you’ve never met anyone who had the sun for a soul and he has never met anyone who had the stars in their eyes, and while you had the universe etched on the palm of your hands, he has your name engraved on his.

iii. lips

Your lips ghost against his own, albeit in a tantalizing manner, teasing and quite slow—but he wasn’t a patient man.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?” He whispers and you don't waver at his straightforwardness, having been used to this note. There was no hostility in his tone, just pure and raw desperation and desire to feel you.

You could imagine the eye roll he would give you had he not had his eyes closed at the moment, could imagine the frown on his expression while he spoke and could imagine it faltering soon when you finally kissed him, slow as if to savor the softness of his lips and how it reminds you of spring; he could not properly express the warmth on his chest at the thought of how you love him when he still tasted of heartache and war.

You part from him but remained close, foreheads pressed against one another, breathing heavily, and looking into each other’s eyes. You wanted to tell him that you will find him in every lifetime, but the silence between you two was enough to convey such strong affections that you could hear him respond: And I will love you in each one.

(And he somehow finds himself thinking at the same, this is what he deserves. He’d do these, these vulnerable moments where he lays himself bare for you to touch and hold even if you’ll see the scars and cracks on his skin, the falling and getting hurt despite the fear, the burning and constant searching for something, he’ll do it all over again—if it’s you.)

If someone were to ask him what forgiveness tastes like, he would utter your name—everything that he has ever longed for came in the form of you. And he fears that this longing will last forever even while you’re here, that this longing will grow even when he crumbles to dust, that this longing will outlive this body and weave life into the earth that swallows your existence.

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[venomvalley]

LOCK THE DOOR BEHIND YOU

ada wong x afab!reader / 3.7k words

summary: A part of you wonders—with abject, heartbreaking horror—when her lipgloss started to taste a bit like home.

tags: 18+ only! lesbian sex, pining, emotional constipation

notes: man idk she just makes me crazy

-> read on ao3

She comes to you in the dark, a shadow bleeding red. Blots out the candlelight in your bathroom as she strolls through the door. Limping—barely, covers the hurt well, but you notice the way she favors a leg.

“Room for one more?” she asks, leans back against the counter to unzip a thigh-high boot.

This… situationship remains a weird constant in your life, almost comfortable if you think too hard about it. She stops to visit when the sun dips, fucks you to tears, then leaves your sheets cold and wrinkled the next morning. If you're lucky, she stays the weekend. And while you both find different meanings in the skinship, the result is the same. It’s satisfaction and pleasure and forgetting, just for a little while.

You pull your legs toward your chest and your gaze follows her hands as she undresses, the reveal of mottled flesh bloomed upon a hipbone, a knee, a deep cut on her bicep. “What, no hello?”

“Not really in the mood.”

A snappy comment surges up your throat, but your teeth bite down just before it escapes: you never are, Ada. That’s not fair of you, really. You know what this is so you have no reason to ask anything of her. Especially not the gift of her thoughts or emotions or… anything at all aside from the shallow depth of orgasm.

She settles into the steaming bath with a sigh then slots her feet on either side of your hips. The water barely covers her chest, dusky nipples peaked from the chill of the air.

You wish so badly to lavish her neck with kisses. Maybe a bruise or two—a part of you that she can take home with her, a marking of flesh not borne from violence.

“Rough day?” you ask, fingers encircling her ankles, thumbs massaging at the bird-small bones you find there.

She says nothing. Simply slips open her eyes to glare at you. A stupid question, then (you already knew).

That’s how this always goes, doesn’t it? A steady tension, the weightlessness before the fall, burning and boiling and settling hot beneath your skin. You tease her and she hates it and she eats you up with her gaze until tension shifts to action.

Your palms smooth along her calves, careful with the bruises that smear over bone like fresh, sore-blue paint. “I wish you’d be more careful.”

She scoffs, elbow perched on the lip of the tub. “Don’t tell me you actually care.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

She leans forward, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the tub. “That’s not what this is about.”

You cross the distance and kiss her, and her lips are plush and soft, and a part of you wonders—with abject, heartbreaking horror—when her lipgloss started to taste a bit like home.

Nothing you say could budge her worldview, a woman foundation-built upon action (you can't trust half the shit she says), but the attitude she once held crumbles as your palm cradles the back of her neck, thumb teasing the wispy hairs at the base of her skull. Her shoulders relax, face tilting to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing as you part her lips.

Here's the thing about Ada: what she thinks she needs and what she really needs are antithesis to each other. She says one thing and acts out the opposite. She is comprised of juxtapositions. And the mystery of her drives you mad in the best, most infuriating way.

You pull away to grin, a thin trail of spit following, and tuck a strand of thick hair behind her ear. “See? You don't have to be an asshole all the time.”

“I beg to differ,” she says, a wrinkle forming between her brows. But you note the relaxation of her posture. The fight against a smile.

You did that. As much as she argues the opposite, she allows her guard to drop around you a little more each time she stops by. You never expect her to bare her belly, to trust you completely, but your pride fogs up your head a bit.

“Ya know, you can admit you don't hate me,” you say, coaxing her back against the edge of the tub. Fingers teasing as they ghost up her outer thigh. Every part of her is silken and soft.

“I'm afraid it might kill me.”

But she leans into you regardless, head tilting to bare the side of her neck and the deep bruise curling up from her shoulder blade.

Just as your lips part to press a messy kiss to her pulse, she mutters something so softly you almost fail to catch it: “You know that if I hated you, I wouldn't be here.”

But you hear it.

God, you hear it.

You reward her for her own ribcage flaying. Her neck remains sensitive as ever, and she sighs as your tongue trails down her pulse, as you press suctioning kisses to the thin skin. The places beneath your lips bloom pink and blotchy.

So soft beneath your mouth. Sweet enough to consume. Your teeth nip at the curve of her shoulder and her thighs part beneath the water, knees widening as much as the tub allows. But the position is awkward, almost painful, and your knees threaten to slip out from under you as bubbles congeal at the bottom of the tub.

“Why don't we go to bed? A bath isn't the best place for this,” you say, hands greedy as they massage the flesh of her thighs and hips and waist. Secretly bracing yourself against her body.

You can hear her eyes roll. “How thoughtful of you.”

“You have no room to talk. I had to throw out that chair we broke.”

She scoffs, leaning forward as you make room to stand. “Which I reimbursed you for.”

Your lips twitch into a grin. “A reimbursement I never asked for.”

She glares at you beneath the overhead light, marblesque in the way water drips from her, falling back into the tub like a drizzle of tiny little dewdrops. A lean body shaped by an active lifestyle, subtle curves that you wish to memorize again and again until you can reconstruct her in your sleep.

She's beautiful, and for tonight, she's yours.

You take the time to dry yourself off, a shoddy job given the drip-wet state of your shoulders, but Ada doesn't care about the water she trails into the bedroom or the damp patches she leaves on the sheets. She spreads out on her back, limbs starfishing, heaving a sigh toward the ceiling.

You kick a towel over each watery footprint and she turns her head to stare, lidded-eyed and pouty. So pretty bathed by warm lamplight, curves and hills and valleys enhanced by shadow.

“Hard few weeks?” you ask, abandoning the towel at the foot of the bed to crawl up beside her, stretching out on your stomach, the sheets soft and cool against your cheek.

“You have no idea.”

After cooing praise about your new set of pillows, you manage to coax her toward the (much more comfortable) head of the bed where you both cuddle up beneath your comforter, sharing tired kisses and lazy touches. Her eyes close shortly before your own.

You wake the next morning confused and hungry. A turn of your head reveals Ada curled up beneath the sheets beside you, a head of dark hair on display. You'll never tell her this since you value your life, but each inhale makes a tiny little snore at the back of her throat.

Well. So much for your usual plan of sex then homemade food then more sex, but she clearly needed the rest. So did you. There's something… comforting about her laying beside you, naked as the day she was born.

A few hours later, she rises, sour-faced and shuffling into the kitchen.

You grin from your place at the sink, drying the dishes from a late breakfast. “Good afternoon, sleepyhead.”

She hums, curling your blanket tighter around her form. The curve of a naked shoulder sticks out. Her hair needs a quick brush, eyeliner smudged over her lids.

With a frown, she leans against the counter a few feet away. “Do I look that bad?”

God, she couldn't look bad if she tried. You've always envied that about her—the kind of beauty that makes men fall to their knees. (Literally. You saw it happen once.)

But it's more than that. She stands before you unkempt, half-asleep, vulnerable. Something stews in your chest, burning hot and bittersweet. So unbearable you force yourself to look away.

“You always look beautiful.” A deep breath fills your lungs, and the exhale calms your heart a few beats. Still, you fail to meet her eyes. “I saved you some leftovers if you're hungry.”

She exhales an almost mocking laugh. “Maybe next time we'll do breakfast in bed.”

Next time. Even she struggles to hide her doubt.

You set aside the drying towel and move to enter the living room, but she stops you with a tender hand on your wrist.

She makes you small, pitiful, puttied up on the inside. Your enamoration evokes shame sometimes, especially during moments like these. Then other times, when you're under or over or bent in half by someone and your thoughts stray to her. A few months ago, you broke up with your last girlfriend after Ada stopped by, then you spent that entire weekend in bed with her. The decision was easy—too fucking easy.

“What is it?” she asks, head tilting, red-painted fingernails sparking gooseflesh along every bit of skin she touches.

Part of you wonders how much of your assumptions are just projection. That she truly means what she says. She's hard to read on her best days, and you aren't sure what sparked this insecurity but it festers and burns marrow-deep.

“Not sure, honestly.” A white lie at worst. You don't know how to explain your feelings or the though process that haunts you.

She sees through it all. Some preternatural sense perfected by the nature of her career (you don't know the specifics, but you know of its danger—the injuries speak words her mouth refuses to).

Because it's Ada, she leads you back to bed then freshens up in the adjoining bathroom. When she returns, her makeup is gone, hair smooth and shiny, mouth tasting like the mint of your toothpaste.

Yes, she has her own toothbrush at your apartment. A matter of convenience, you tell yourself.

She's quick to spread you open, her hips high in the air as she eats you out like she seeks to rip the thoughts from your head. And it works. Her tongue licks long swipes over your clit, slick and wet and soft, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs, and you could die so fucking happy like this. A blistering heat curls just behind your pubic bone, sharp enough that you tilt your hips against her mouth.

Your head presses back against the pillow, hand a loose fist in her hair as she makes a mess of you and herself, and she's noisy about it. Moans into your pussy, the vibrations jolting your legs, and if not for the buffer of her hands you would have absolutely kneed her in the head.

This is how her visits go, not that basking in each other's presence, non-sexual intimacy bullshit you pulled last night. Maybe the stark one-eighty in routine threw you off, made you think too hard about this little arrangement. You know your place and so does she. Nothing more to think about, nothing left to dissect. You make each other cum and that's all this needs to be.

She slides one finger then two into the slick velvet of your cunt (poor baby, she says, I don't think one will be enough), and you can't bring yourself to care about yearning anymore. You're just fine with keeping things as they are if the wet heat of her mouth and the plush of her lips is your reward.

A long suckle to your clit leaves colors dancing behind squeezed-shut eyes and you exhale a pitiful whine, hips grinding against the flick of her tongue, insides clenching. The hand on your thigh shifts before her forearm presses you down, a silent warning to stay put. She pins you further with a white-hot glare, dark eyes the only feature still visible on her face, makes you pause your panting in exchange for a smile. Teasing, a bit vengeful at the edges.

She pulls away with a slick pop, the skin around her lips shiny, hair messy from the grounding plight of your hands.

“Don't be a brat,” she says, though her tone holds no malice. Neither does her touch, the warm palms that she smooths up and down your belly (you say nothing about the wetness she spreads, growing sticky as it dries). Your muscles twitch, rejoicing in response.

Just beneath the skin, she simmers with her own brand of want.

“Can't help it. You bring it out of me.”

She scoffs, a pitiful display of defiance when her eyes burn so warm, and she leans forward to curl her tongue around a nipple. Your hands find her hair again, combing through the strands as she hums and suckles and presses closer to you. She smells of lavender from last night's bath, the bite of wind from her trip here, the detergent you use on your sheets, and you could drown in it.

“Fuck.” The word leaves your lips breathy, more heaving sigh than syllable, as she straddles one of your thighs and—god, yeah, she’s wet. Hot and slippery between the legs, the thatch of hair on her mound a neatly-trimmed triangle. Perfect juxtaposition to velvety skin.

You bend your knee just enough to grind against her, a steady pressure that leaves her pulling away to catch a breath.

“Not fair,” she says, voice tipping toward a whine, and your heartbeat staccatos in triumph.

“I can do better,” you reply, pressing a hand to her side before she rolls onto her back.

She's a little breathless, eager to spread her legs to make room for your head. All of her is beautiful, here especially. Smooth as silk, so wet her thighs glisten beneath the lamplight, a deep blushing shade when you spread her open with two fingers. Your mouth waters at the smell of her, an earthy tang that melts in your mouth when you lick a long stripe between her labia. She hisses, thighs closing around your ears.

“Been a while?” you ask, voice muffled against her, and she presses your face closer with a hand to the back of your head. You voice your complaint with a whine that shudders through her, makes her tip her chin toward the ceiling.

“That's better.”

A bone-deep need settles at the base of your spine, blooming out to burn white-hot between your hips. She traps you in place, grinds against your mouth and—

She's never been this wet before. You could drown in it and, god, what a fine death that would be. Surrounded by her taste, her smell, your hearing muffled by her thighs. You find the swollen bud of her clit and circle it with the flat of your tongue, a slow rhythm that twitches the muscles of her legs.

You don't mean to tease, but Ada has no patience when it comes to sex. Too proactive, determined. She hates all the frills and the intimacy, and you know that if you ever referred to it as lovemaking her head might explode. But sometimes you wish to take your time, to map out her body, to become acquainted with erogenous zones and freckles and scars.

But that's not who she is.

She grinds against your tongue and hisses a breath through clenched teeth when you slide two fingers into her, cunt fluttering around the stretch. It's heaven. A direct portal to the throne of god.

This is what worship feels like.

Once you find the perfect rhythm, she's quick to cum, muscles clenching tight around your fingers, thighs squeezing at your head, lungs frozen on a held breath. Pride licks a solid stripe up your spine, and you smile against her when she melts into the bed with a heaving sigh. Against your ear, her femoral artery pulses fast and heavy on the comedown.

She's less… volatile post-orgasm. Smiles at you with rose-dusted cheeks, tells you how good you were, that there's a reason she keeps coming back. She always kisses you slow and deep afterward to taste herself on your tongue—a possessive type of behavior that strokes your hindbrain to purring.

She shoves you by the shoulder, and you roll over onto your back. She's mean when she gets between your legs. Mocks you for being so wet for her, so needy and sensitive when she slides two fingers into you and your hips tilt off the bed. But you can't help it. Gorged yourself on her pleasure, got all sensitive between the legs at the sound of her moans.

Her teasing from earlier sends you to an early peak, a staccato burst of heat that tenses up your body. That arches your back and seizes up your lungs. You cry out as she hums against your pussy, doubling her efforts to prolong your pleasure.

The heat in your belly slowly dissipates, and she parts from you.

She wastes no time getting dressed, before the afterglow of your orgasm even wears off. Your thighs still twitch, ears still muffled with cotton, and yet you’re alone once more.

You aren’t sure why you keep doing this. Why you let her in—to your house, your body, your heart. Maybe because there’s a part of her, however deep it may reside, that craves the skinship and the affection and the care. Waking up to a warm body, a readied breakfast, a hug.

But she refuses to acknowledge it. The world has been unkind to her, and in turn, she rejects the things that keep her grounded. The things that remind her she’s still a person, with feelings and wants and needs.

She leaves through your window (an endless lover of the dramatic) without so much as a glance in your direction. She couldn't even be bothered to tie the ribbon on the back of her dress.

You roll your eyes.

Next time, you're bolting your doors and windows shut.

(You know that's not true.)

.

.

.

The past few weeks at your job have been grueling. Impossible hours, a new insufferable coworker, and a manager hell-bent on making your life as horrible as possible have led you to a breaking point. When you aren't working, you're sleeping, and between those two activities you're lucky to catch a quick bite and a bathroom break, and between those, you manage a shower.

Your final straw is walking in to your apartment to find the front door unlocked and the balcony door wide-fucking-open. A windy chill suffocates the living room, and you look around for signs of a break-in. Anything out of place, missing money, knocked-over furniture.

You cannot afford a fucking break-in.

What you don't expect (probably at the bottom of your possibilities list) is Ada Wong stumbling out of the bathroom, furrow-browed and pallid. Dressed more for a dinner party than her usual work: red cocktail dress, golden jewelry, stilettos.

Two emotions swirl through you: relief and frustration. On one hand, thank fuck it's just her and you're so glad she's okay, but also? Rude. Rude as hell.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

She brushes past, heading for your dresser on the opposite side of the room. “I left the front door open for you.”

Your face contorts into a simmering rage, and while you realize that most of it stems from unrelated circumstances, she's effectively broken something within your glass-fragile psyche. Just a little. “That's not what I asked. Ada, I thought somebody broke into my apartment. You can't do this when I'm not home.”

“And you can yell at me later. For now, I just want to sleep.” And she sounds exhausted, fragile at the edges.

You blink as she finds a worn shirt, oversized for her frame, and proceeds to strip in the middle of your bedroom. The three concealed knives she lines up on the nightstand peak your interest.

“Don't touch those,” she says, stretching out beneath your sheets. “They're sharp.”

Before you can think up a reply, she's fast asleep.

Once the confusion wears off, you ready for bed. A snack, your bathroom routine, a change of clothes. You turn off lights as you weave through the rooms then close your balcony door.

Okay. Another shift in routine. Her visit is… god, months early. Stopped in just to sleep. But why? Why here? She must have a house she lives in.

Maybe you were the most convenient stop on the way home. Maybe she—

No. Ada doesn't miss people, especially people like you: forgettable and boring.

You slide in next to her beneath the sheets, air already warm from her body heat, and she cracks open a tired eye. Stretches out a hand for you to take.

Unless that's your appeal. A reliable contact, stable and safe. Direct opposition to her lifestyle.

Maybe that stability is what brings her back. She always knows you'll welcome her no matter how angry she makes you, no matter how many times she pushes you away. At first, it was the fantastic sex, but now? Now, you aren’t so sure.

You're a fucking idiot, but so is she—your souls woven together by this infeasible search for connection. Two sides of the same dilemma-coin.

Her palm fits nicely against yours, and you try not to think too hard about it. Her warmth, the half-asleep squeeze she gives to your fingers. Don't think you can handle anymore disappointment this week when you wake tomorrow to an empty bed.

Then she gives you a small, lazy smile. Mutters, “I sleep better when I'm here.”

And the sky collapses.

[yawnderu]

Lamb of God — Nikto x Medic!Reader | Part I

Shot, stabbed, beaten... Mikhail has been through hell countless times, yet no amount of training or experience from years in Spetsnaz could ever prepare him for what Victor Zakhaev did to him. 8 missing nails, multiple new wounds on his already scarred body, and a face so disfigured he could no longer recognize himself— not only was his body broken, but so was his psyche.

His first visit was with the medics, wounds in desperate need of cleaning even with infection starting to set in most of them, the chemical burns on his face already blistering and itching despite being scolded by the medic multiple times for scratching himself. He was a difficult patient to say the least— not wanting anyone to touch his injuries or even look at him, only accepting treatment from the only person who dared confront him.

“'Stop that.” Your request comes in a sharp tone, not wanting him to itch his blistering injuries and make the scarring worse than what you knew it would be. A mumbled ''don't tell me what to do'' makes its way to your ears, though you decide to ignore it when he puts his hands way, adhesive bandages decorating his fingers where the nails had been ripped off.

“Sit up for me.” The man is an aggressive dog that defends himself with fangs bared, yet he somehow listens to your commands— even when he scoffs or grumbles before finally doing what you ask. Your gloved hand goes to his chin as you examine the red skin on his face, noting it was washed when he was first rescued, no residue of the acid left. He mumbles something and you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to repeat himself.

“Is it gross?” His deep voice asks, accent even rougher with the raw emotion he's feeling. He knows for a fact it's gross, he saw it himself— he has blisters covering over half of his face, still remembering the acid dripping down his face from Zakhaev simply wanting to cause him pain.

“I've seen worse— at least you still have a face.” Being a medic for the military allowed you to see both human cruelty, and the extends injuries could go. You've seen multiple soldiers missing their face, skin pulled and bones poking out of their bodies— Mikhail's injuries aren't the worst you've seen, not even close.

“Your nose doesn't look too weird either, even when I was told it was broken. Your eyes still work, all your limbs are still attached... you'll recover from everything in no time.” You try to keep a positive attitude despite the way his baby blue eyes are staring holes into your head, pupils looking tiny despite the dim light in the room.

“I'm mostly worried about what's going on here.” You tap his head softly and he doesn't take long on pushing your hand away softly, a small smile making way to your lips when you notice how he avoids eye contact for a second before he's back to staring at you. You stare back for a while, trying to decipher what he's feeling before going to grab a cloth, filling a small bucket with cold water and making your way back to him.

“This might hurt a little bit, let me know if you want me to stop and we can take a break.” He looks down at the bucket of water and the cloth you're dipping in, squeezing the excess water as you wait for his approval. He gives you a nod in affirmation, flinching slightly as the cold cloth makes contact with his face. It doesn't hurt as much as he imagined— if anything, it feels almost soothing, the previous ache and itchiness disappearing even if only for a very short while.

“Заканчивай быстрее с этой хернëй.” He mutters under his breath despite how good it actually feels on his injuries, not wanting to get any pity from you.

“Be patient.” It almost feels like he's getting scolded by his nana, faint memories of the old woman cleaning his scrapped knees come to mind, holding onto them to try and stop the bad thoughts from flooding his damaged brain.

“Mikhail.” Your soft voice slowly brings him back to reality, feeling an odd sensation all over his face. His hand goes up to feel his cheeks, only now realizing that you already dressed his wounds. He looks utterly confused, not even remembering you getting gauze, everything happening too suddenly. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't remember most of the heli flight back home, too busy thinking about... what was he even thinking about?

“Mikhail.” You repeat, one of your gloved hands going to his shoulder in attempts to make him look at you. He's still staring blankly at the floor, just as he has been doing for the past 20 minutes, not responding to his own name.

“Quiet, I hear enough voices.” He brushes you off, finally getting up from the medical bed and quickly leaving your office despite the small limp from the beatings he took for days.

He hears voices? His next stop will have to be with the provided psychiatrist once his body recovers a little bit to test if he's still fit to be part of Spetsnaz, leaving your heart filled with worry until you move onto the next patient, making a mental note to check on him later.

A/N: Mikhail is Nikto's name in this fic, the person he used to be before turning into Никто.

[mx-pastelwriting]

Liquid Silver | Thrown Blood Part 2

Carlisle Cullen x GN! Reader

Summary: Being pregnant with Carlisle still new things to learn from having a hybrid child.

Warnings/Tags: Established Relationship, Pregnancy, Vampire & Human Relationship, Being sick, Crying/Tears, Blood bag

First Part: Thrown Blood

Bruises spread across your skin as you lay on Carlisle home hospital table, needle in arm connected to a blood bag. Being the only way your baby could survive after your baby realized you needed to eat food was what Edward had said after hearing their thoughts.

Trying to drink the blood again came to be futile as your body rejected it like the first time, but you were not void of the other troubles that came.

Watching as Carlisle turned away from your new X-rays showing you broken bones, "I don't understand," he says quietly as he walks to you. "They heal the others, then break more," he explains, looking back at the many newly broken bones.

Being as confused as him, your bruises were new from yesterday; it was as if the baby wanted you alive, having an understanding of your fragile life. "Maybe they know I'm not like them," you say, making Carlisle look up at you as his gears turn. Edward wasn't here to tell you about what they knew.

Carlisle said nothing, only walking to an ultrasound machine, pulling it to you, grabbing a bottle of gel then putting a cold blue gel down. Feeling the chill run through your warm skin as he began to move the wand over your stomach, looking at the screen, you see nothing but static.

Frantically, he pushed buttons while running the wand over and over the same spot, finally seeing the image of your baby looking as if they were fully grown. It had only been a month since your findings. Looking at Carlisle's face, seeing the mix of shock and relief, only guessing what he made of it.

Finally, he turns to you, showing a quick smile before gently wiping the gel off of your stomach, then putting away the machine, watching as he grabs another blood bag before walking over to you. Gracefully, he switches out your empty one for a new one. Feeling as your body falls into euphoria with tears running down your face, Carlisle sat next to you, taking your hand with you both used to the occurrence, but quickly he lets go.

Cutting your moment of bliss, you look at him as his face turns with shock and confusion, taking your hand once more watching as tears of venom run down his face. Spilling like liquid silver, an impossible occurrence, Carlisle wiping one as they can down, looking to you. It was as if they copied yours, but a crush came to the moment as pain flooded your body, setting your new family into motion.

Part 3

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI.

Fanfiction is protected under copyright law when plagiarism is involved. If you plagiarize my work, either a piece or whole in any language, I will take legal action. Inspiration or the same idea does NOT apply to this, only word-for-word plagiarism in any language.

[refeverie]

you complete him.

angst & comfort. gn!reader × wanderer. wc 1.6k

note. it is the second and final part of only with you. it can be read as a standalone if you don't mind not having context.

summary. nudity & non-sexual intimacy; mentions of hanakotoba (the japanese language of flowers).

☆ based on orange blood—orange flower (you complete me), still monster & mortal—by enhypen.

it is getting dark—you notice as the fiery orange sun is gradually being replaced by a pale waxing crescent moon in the sky. bone-chilling water lacks color now. it is challenging to grasp where the stream ends and the field of flowers begins; where your body starts to blur with his. 

you believe that being in the gloomier ambience makes wanderer appear more at ease. perhaps one can not scrutinize his body well enough, or he can let himself take his mask off untroubled, or rather it is because he is not able to lay his eyes on others, to feel the immense feeling of guilt due to his immoral acts of the past. 

wanderer used to believe, no, was coerced to believe that he is different, exceptional; that his formerly meaningless life could be of use for ruling. his body can take on more than the average human—that is, of course, if you say he is one—meaning, he could be made into a god; deity, worshiped for who he is rather than forsaken. he would be needed, called upon for guidance and remedy. he would offer his undying body to subjects of his beliefs. he wants to be loved and valued like the rest, too. 

give him time. time to comprehend that being vulnerable is a natural way of humankind. wanderer does feel vulnerable somewhat perpetually. he is as harsh on himself as much as on others, that much he can understand and admit to himself undoubtedly. it is people pointing that out to him that he does not take well. to the point that wanderer might spiral deeper into self-deprecation, ignoring signs of rage and compulsion building up to the brim of his core. either way, no matter where he goes, his sins will be unavoidable. he learned that the hard way. 

as it became even more darker, neither of you could see the art from flower tints on bare skin. you were shivering by yourself—sumeru refreshing winds did not mix well with evermoving waterfall splashes of the night. 

you ask wanderer to let you bathe him. does that mean erasing the tiny crimson-colored heart on his chest, he quivers. you know, well, you like to believe you know his thoughts as you shake your head slightly. is he relieved? 

you pour the water from the palm of yours down his neck, shoulders, and back. it runs slowly, soothing the non-physical pains of his. your hands are soft, gentle, moving in circles to rinse color remainders of you; your work. despite that, his world does not feel empty without them because you, by yourself, are the colors dyeing wanderer entirely full. you are the blooming flower of his heart, and you speak in the language of flowers as well. 

as he goes through his memory of this very evening, he understands the connotations of each meticulously chosen flower for dye markings.  

you used bright pink camellias to show your tender love and unique beauty of his. pale pearly lotus petal to reveal the purity of his heart. dainty lilac primroses for your admiration towards him. sunny yellow daffodil to show him respect and hope for his future. cherry red poppy to wish him to go on with his life with fervid passion. indigo violets to remind him that sincerity and hope will come to him shortly. cobalt blue cornflowers were to make him feel free of impurities. 

wanderer remembers that you always talk in flowers while gifting them whenever you feel like it. he reminisces about how you gave him the sole sunflower the other day. he read in the book that you mean to only look and see him. the wisterias of last month were to evoke his memory that you will not let him go soon and he appreciates that. the light pink sakura twig on his kigumi table whispers “don't forget me” every morning as he goes out. 

yes, you are truly his beautiful flower of life, to say the least. 

you are cautious of his slight movements while washing him. he is attentive to how you help him—so he can be of service to you as well. two of you trade places, you move closer to the waterfall, going under that shower of nature. wanderer’s fingers gently brush through your wet hair. you smile. 

waterfalls are said to symbolize prosperity; cleansing, letting go of negative thoughts and feelings that have become lodged in one’s mind and heart respectively. you do feel free of it, still, all you care about right now, does wanderer feel the same. 

he did learn to distrust and loathe the whole world at the very early stage of life; he did make mistakes and wickedness, built on told lies; he does feel a swarm of cynical, pessimistic, and obstructive emotions. so, does the waterfall purify his judgement of mankind? does the waterfall purge him from evil? 

you were so at peace, that you did not notice how unhurriedly and tenderly his hands were caressing upwards your body, soaking it. wanderer is careful, it does send tingly sensations all around your skin. it was just another moment of sensuality between you both. 

you look into his eyes. they sucked you in deep, like into the abyss, and yet, they looked soft and shadowless to you. he knows the truth and he is mildly confused—how can you be so kind to him; how can you look at him lovingly like that, like nothing happened because of his actions; how can you let him touch you as he did not have any blood on his hands. 

to tell the truth, you are aware of everything. you know he is open to dislike everything at first; to spit the honest words harsher than he should; he is opinionated; he lacks genuine self-worth; he holds grudges; he is naive, be that as it may. yet he is effortlessly thoughtful; ready to help if anything does go the wrong way; resilient; cooperative; accepting of his sins and trying to repay them (even if they can not be undone). 

so yes, you would say you know him well enough to be that close to him without any fear. the past does not define a person, only helps them shape who they are now—each one being a white papered-book at first and filling themselves with a vast collection of past experiences along the way. 

wanderer was forgiven many times. over and over again (and he does value those lessons, he does value learning). forgiven yet not forgotten. not how he wanted to be anyways. for all that, he is somewhat of a monster. a monster everyone made of him, he made of himself. is being evil truly the opposite of being a god? he is still noticed by the public, still in need for balancing the world. the devil is on the other side of eternity. one would need no gods, no rulers if the world had no evil and no discords. 

you felt clean; cleansed with the same hands of his that he had hurt another. it was an exchange of feelings through fresh water and flowers between you during that prolonged precious moment of the night. 

later that twilight, you found yourself lying on the soft dewy grass of the very same flower field of gandharva ville. wanderer learned to imitate human breathing long ago and, although he had no natural body heat, you did feel warm when feign exhales from his lungs reached your moon-illuminated face every time. 

tonight is as pretty as the picture. the sky is not cloudy, the sea of constellations is so bright it begins to etch itself into your eyes. wanderer looks at you—how mesmerized by the stars you were, not knowing that secretly you wished to be the star yourself, the one he would want to look at, despite not believing the concept of them. 

you see the stars as something heavenly and full of tales of the teyvat, wanderer, on the other hand, is convinced that they are futile to pay attention to for their existence is not eternal. they burn down as mortals close their eyes someday, too. thus, if you were a star of this universe, you would perish nonetheless. you will still meet your end when your bloom withers. 'the only thing that is immortal is mortality.' and wanderer himself. 

once it happens, he will experience a certain deja vu, another one of his betrayals. does he even keep count of them anymore? he might start it anew. 

wanderer desired to be human so desperately that he disregarded that the beauty of living is not what he considered meaningful. it is not the name nor a heart that is the essence of his life, but something else. someone else. you. 

perhaps, he lived on that regretful and shameful path so he could find you when engulfing darkness sucked him empty; when you appear willing to tend to his scars, guide him to see himself as someone worthy of attention and care, and being alive. you are his hope for embracing self-doubt and fragility eventually. he is conflicted as he clings to you like a lifeline. 

you spent some time observing the clusters of stars while drifting to sleep. he kept looking, not at the sky, at you. he was reflecting. you look so sweet in your slumber that wanderer realizes that bitterness is not the only flavor he tasted through his existence. 

wanderer’s soul is tainted with curses. not solely of immortality—of sins, of finite time to wander together with you. he does worry about it yet does not at the same time. he learned to enjoy the little things silently and by himself. he decided to live on, as of now. 

through the night, wanderer stayed close, body to body while you rested. when the sunrise began to show its first bright orange rays of shine, he left you snuggled in. all alone. it is fine by you since you will reach out to him and he will find you the next day for sure. 

because you complete him.

[skxllz]

streets , doja cat 𝄢 ☆

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18+ , suggestive themes , more lime than full on smut , sadism/bdsm ???, sub paul + dom fem! reader

a whining, frustrated yelp echoed throughout the depths of the dark, sunken pit that was the cave―home of the vampires, guest room of a certain human.

david, marko, dwayne were out n’ about to do their usual rounds of terrorizing pedestrians, scarring tourists and searching for even a scrap of the perfect, desired meal that'd satisfy them for the night. they decided to head out after paul, your beloved boyfriend and mate, decided to piss you off by making a snide comment and practically coaxing the lion out of it's den.

mistake on his part, 'cause you've been itching to find something that'd subside the irritation that's been circling around you all day.

and the hyper-active blonde knew he fucked up beings as though he tried to wedge himself between marko and dwayne when they started to leave, hoping to successfully escape unscathed―but unfortunately for him, dwayne snatched him up by the back of his coat and threw him back to the wolves.

or wolf, i guess you can say.

―... more like relentless pantheress.

either-or, paul was fucked, landing at the feet of his ravenous mate that loomed above him, a crude grin stretched onto her scarlet-painted lips.

an hour later and she was still wearing that same grin, only it was now twined with a rather twisted, adoring pleasure from seeing her boyfriend's eyelashes wet with tears. starburst pink lips parted and wet; a single thin, flimsy string of saliva blowing out from the parted space each time he exhaled heavily from the addicting torture he's been receiving.

he was aching―his body was flushed, burning with an annoying throb that felt sickeningly familiar to the body aches he experienced from sickness when he was a human. only, unlike then, that pain came with the price of twisted enjoyment. something so scarringly enticing that it was considered mad; a madness that sunk into his bones, making him want to just jump, hiss, lunge, bitebitebite-

but he couldn't. not when his girlfriend, his mate, was above him with a fucking flogger that was woven with a certain fabric strangely akin to the smoothest splinters of maple wood. he didn't even know such a thing existed, but she's a witch, of course she'd have access to shit like this.

“ b-baby, come o― ” paul's attempt at panting out a plea was silenced by the crack of the leather stinging across his erect cock once again. he cried out, bared fangs now biting down and grinding against each other, his abdomen tensing as his hips jerked upwards.

fuck! was she trying to kill him by fucking blue-balling him now?!

“ did i say you could speak, mutt? ” your sharp voice cut through his whimpers and shuddering breathes, a singular brow raised, daring him to say something else―to step out of turn yet again, even though you had the upper hand in this situation. “ well- it sounds more like a chirp, really. I've broken you down enough to where you can't even fuckin' speak properly― ”

the smirk that stretched across her face would've frightened him if it weren't for the fact that his insane, vampiric mind corked off that logical part of his brain and replaced it with mind-numbing, forbidden lust. you're the only woman that could get away with this―reducing him to a pathetic, speechless state of precum, reddened skin and bubblegum whines.

and just seeing you crouch in front of him, the black fabric of your knee-length skirt bunching, sliding up and parting further left at the slit on your right thigh, smirking all cockily and crude-like; it left his head spinning. paul was blinking, his vision clear, but his mind foggy, too enthralled with the idea of finally feeling your warm pussy around him- hugging his shaft, dragging your velvety walls along the long vein trailing up the underside of his cock... shit. he couldn't focus at all.

“ ―and it seems like you're ready to lose conciseness too, huh, womb bat? ” you laughed loudly, a sound so melodic but so ominous at the same time. if it weren't for the fact that you slapped the tips of your fingers over his bobbing, leaky dick―which earned a gasping whimper from him―he would've thought you were actually going to be generous and let him succumb to the blanked-out-fuzz taking over his head.

“ i'm not done with you, paulie. ”

through fresh tears that bubbled at the corners of his eyes, paul watched as you stood, this time grabbing a wand-like device off of the crumbled mattress to his left; the familiar noise of a loud buzz filling his ears as you switched it on. realization dawned on him and those blue eyes of his widened, filling with an excited panic that made his heart race, and body twitch.

“ you claimed i'm not exciting enough, right? ” the way you turned towards him, eerily calm, those blazing irises of yours just screaming mischief―paul knew he was fucked.

mentally, physically, quite literally fucked.

“ w-wait- babe, come on, i'm sor― ”

“ shut the fuck up. you want satisfying, so i'm giving you satisfying, pretty boy. ”

◦◦◦◦◦

erm... did this do any satisfaction to my year overdue writing? 😃

[twst-drabbles]

Grim 6

Summary: You finally caught the little creature that's been lurking around your house. He did not come calmly, that's for sure. But, all it took was a can of tuna for things to quickly turn around.

(More kitten grim but in the house pet au, because it's pretty suiting.)

When you initially spotted this little cat-like creature, you didn't really do anything about him. You saw him, he saw you, and you just left him alone because you had assumed this cat-beast was part of some kind of bigger colony. Or perhaps a traveling one. Either way, you weren't under the impression he was some kind of domestic magical creature that you can just randomly take in.

But, of course, that was back when this blue fire creature was on the fat and plump side. But then you spotted him one day, laying down at the foot of a charred tree, fur missing in places and the bones of his spine barely poking through the skin. The fire that always billowed out of his ears? It was barely stronger than a candle's light. You don't know what happened, all you can assume was that he probably lost his food source.

So, you quickly grabbed him by the scruff and he woke up with very high-pitch, very distressing yowl. His mouth opened wide, swiping his claws about to try and both scratch and bite you. Horrible decision on your part, but you didn't have any traps, and you don't know anyone that could come quickly enough before he woke up and moved again.

Luckily, just by the feel of his skin, he didn't need to be rushed to any emergency vets.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," you walked as quickly as you could, thankful that your house was nearby, "It'll be fine, I promise."

You rushed through the gate, ignored the stunned looks of Ace and Deuce, and went to the room you had dubbed "the quarantine room."

You planted the cat's fighting self on the floor, and immediately dashed under the wardrobe. All you could see now was a pair of glowing, glaring blue eyes, ears pressed so tightly against his head it hide his flames.

"You can't even spew flames at me, huh?" Not a single lick of it. "Hold on a moment."

You carefully exited the room and swiped a can of tuna from the kitchen. After speaking with Crowley in the backyard and getting a small bottle of blot, you went back to the room. This creature has not moved, still warily watching you for anymore acts of betrayal.

Then, you pried open the can. The minute the metal tab cracked the lid, the cat's pupils went wide, and his little nose poked right out from beneath the wardrobe.

"Time to blow your little mind," and you uncorked the bottle of blot and poured it over the tuna can. Smelled horrible, like burnt fish oil. The cat rushed out, but stopped awkwardly in the middle of the floor when he probably realized what he was doing. Claws dug into the floor, head stupidly big on his tiny body as his fur stood on end as if you were the one that forced his legs. "You ain't the smartest huh? Here."

You put the can down and slid it to him with a light kick. Before the can could fully stop before the puffed up cat, he pounced onto the can and buried his face in it. His too-big ears moved and twitched with every ravenous bite, whole body trembling as you heard that classic, angry myan myan myan noises as he ate.

You crouched down just to watch. Briefly, the kitten looked up, face smeared in bits of tuna and inky blot, hugged the can closer and went back to eating.

Well, you guess it's about time you had another addition to the house.

"Not even gonna share huh? How rude." You got back up and dusted off your clothes. "You're staying here for now, at least until you get too big for this house. Let me go get you some water."

But, you'll have to be a little careful, you can see two little shadows right under the door, probably trying to peek in. You can see a little glimpses of little tulips and lilies. Certainly wouldn't want to agitate this blot eating cat more than you already have.

[pandoras-box0]

|| : Title : 'golden touch'

|| : Characters : aged up! neteyam x metkayina! reader

|| : Contents Warnings : male!body worship; hand job, oral - male receiving; marking; switch! neteyam; fluff; kissing neteyam's gunshot scar; Metkayina warrior! neteyam; brief cum play; newly mated, honeymoon phase couple;

|| : Synopsis : as a newly mated pair, you and neteyam can't keep your hands off each other. what's better than body worshipping your man during fertility season?

Your lips trail down Neteyam's chiseled chest, leaving purple splotches in your wake. Neteyam's chest heaves, pulling air deeply into his lungs as your lips wander him.

You can feel his abdomen quiver under your hand, as it is sprawled out across his azure skin. The bioluminescent beauty marks lead you as you plant an open-mouth kiss anywhere you see a bright freckle.

You and Neteyam are a newly mated pair, and with the breath of fertility season in the air and your fresh union in your minds, the two of you cannot keep your hands to yourself. So when he comes back after a three-day hunting session, you can't help but jump his bones. Not that Neteyam minds any, he can't get enough of you either.

You giggle at the shake of Neteyam's abdomen as pleasure courses through him. You nibble along his pecs, leaving teasing bites across Neteyam's chest. His fangs are embedded into his lips at your wandering mouth that leaves open-mouthed kisses along his skin. Your warm hand rubbing along his cock.

"feels good, 'teyam?" You ask, greenish blue eyes peering down at your lover. Your thick, paddle-like tail sways with anticipation, as your ears pivot to drink up the male's noises. He lets out a shaky breath, and his eyes flutter as the sounds of your wet hand sliding along his dick bless his ears.

Neteyam hand cups your face, where he runs the pad of his thumb over your cheek. Your chin rests on his chest as your keen into his touch, your wrist still working along his lengthy, cock. Using the remnants of his last orgasm to work his cock in your wet grasp.

Your lips are a rosy color, indents of your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. All Neteyam can think about, is how good you look as you pleasure him. Curly hair in a disheveled, sexy mess. "Yes baby, it feels good." The words slip from him with a light, throaty groan, as you massage his cock in your palm.

His eyes convey just how you make him feel. The dilation of his pupil leaves nothing but the thinnest ring of amber, giving you a dangerously lustful (yet loving) gaze. His hand is heavy on the back of your head as he coaxes you to return your mouth to his chest.

Your ears lightly press into your skull as you look along Neteyam's skin. You kiss along every freckle he has, every scar. Every mark that litters his body, you kiss along. Neteyam watches through droopy eyes, as you press kisses along his flesh. Your tail swishes through the air softly, mind filled with your lover and how content you are, the comforting scent you put out permeates through the air and into Neteyam's lungs.

Neteyam's mouth is slightly open to inhale it deeper, waiting til his lungs ache to breathe you out. You kiss along his gunshot scar, a symbol of his hardship. Shudder crawls its way up the both of your spines as your lips make contact.

Your eyes skim across his dark blue skin, where they settle on his eyes. They hold a vulnerable, soft gaze. You never touched that scar outside from times like this, where you'd be leaving kisses along his skin, worshipping the man in his whole. Every part of him, including that part.

Sprawled out on top of Neteyam's body, pooling between his legs, you let go of his throbbing cock to hold yourself up. With the hand that you have on his chest, you reach up to hold his jaw.

You cradle his face in your hand, giving him a comforting touch. Your thumb tugs his bottom lip as you trace your fingers for the bioluminescent freckles on his chin. Your eyes ask if he's okay, eyes flickering to wear your lips are pressed.

You map him like the fishermen map the stars, holding him as gently as your body will allow. He can't help but kiss the heel of your hand, nodding as your eyes give him concern, love, and comfort. He's more than fine, he's never felt better.

You worm your way down, giving a few sporadic and soft kisses to his sternum before drawing further down. Your hand makes quick work of itself, reaching between your bodies to pick up Neteyam's neglected and drooling cock.

Neteyam lets out breathy groans as you pull away to spit on his cock and your fist. You rub along the tip of Neteyam's dick, coating him in the spit that you'd given him. Your tongue swirls along the stripes of Neteyam's abdomen, sucking hickeys onto his skin when you make contact again.

You pay extra attention to the brighter freckles of Neteyam's. The ones that sit around his belly button, just above his pelvis. Your tongue pressed into the brightest one, biting where you are kissing him.

Neteyam is grunting at the feeling of your wet, warm muscle licking along his skin. His grip on the back of your head tightens as you kiss so close to where he needs you. "Lo..lower, paskalin." He practically chokes on the words, as your hands speed up. Neteyam can't help but grow needy for you, grinding up into your hand.

His eyes flutter shut, long lashes kiss his cheeks as you leave open-mouth kisses along his dick. "Oh, Eywa," his hips gyrate, itching for more as you kiss along his blue shaft. You leave small hickies along his cock.

Your pink tongue peaks from behind your lips, as you tilt Neteyam's cock to lick across the bottom of it. Tongue pressed into a vein that dances along his member, before popping one of his squishy and swollen balls in your mouth. You give it a gentle suck, watching as Neteyam writhes underneath you. His large hand gripping your braided-out curls, a sigh leaving his lips. "Fuck, yawne,"

The noises Neteyam makes when you finally take his entire length down your throat are downright sinful. The feeling of your mouth on him, the feeling of your tongue massaging his cock, it's all so much for him. Neteyam's eyes squeeze out of pleasure. You run a comforting hand over his thighs, and when they open, they met your loving gaze. Neteyam can't get enough of you and your golden touch.

2023 © Pandoras-Box0 — all rights reserved. do not repost or recommend my works on any other site. plagiarism will not be tolerated! inspiration is appreciated if credited, reblogs and comments are also appreciated. Minors dni with my content.

|| : Author's notes : I couldn't help myself lmao, I'm not a fluff writer so I don't know if this is any good. @cinetrix thank you for creating the aged up neteyam art 🙏💙 they're masterpieces.

[welcome-to-puppet-hell]

Hi! can i request of a reader who falls into Home?

a bit late, anon. sorry about that! but i hope it was worth it~

if anyone else wants to request something, click here for info.

I don’t remember much from the Before. There’s only bits and pieces, flashes of arbitrary images that I can’t really make sense of—a shattered puzzle that I’ll probably struggle to put back together for a long, long, long time. But what I do remember is the smoke entering my nostrils, filling my lungs. The struggle to move, to break free. And then, something even stranger.

A spiral. This endless loop of white spinning and spinning and spinning into a black void that seemed to carry this Hunger. For what, I didn’t know. Still don’t.

But there was no other way out. No way to escape.

So, through the difficulty to breathe, through the tears streaming from my eyes, through the pain entering my limbs and trying to shut my body down, I reached my hand out towards it.

And that, I can only assume, was enough.

.

.

.

“…Oh my gosh!”

“Are they okay…?!”

“Where’d they come from?”

Oh my god, can anyone tell them to shut up?! Some people are trying to sleep here. 

Well, if you can call this sleep, really. Now that I’m actually a bit conscious, I can actually feel the agony weighing on me. Every inch of my body is crying out in the sort of pain that will leave bruises and scars and aches for days. Either I’m having the hangover of a century or I got hit by a semi, and neither seem appealing.

A groan leaves me at the thought, my eyes moving behind eyelids. I need to get up at some point. Get to my phone. Call my—

“…Hey, I think they’re comin’ round,” a deep Southern drawl above my head. 

“Step back!” Another voice, nasally and anxious. “Give them some air!”

The shuffle of many feet makes me feel a little less stifled. With a deep breath, I force myself up on my elbows. Then grasp my forehead, feeling pain pain pain, god, ow! Feels like I was run over by a truck, shit. Did I drink anything last night…? 

Actually, what did I do last night? 

Blinking, I keep trying to remember…but it just makes no sense. I came home from work, pet my cat, went into the bedroom to greet you, and then—nothing. Nothing except the memory of smelling smoke.

All my focus returns when a huge hand lands on my shoulder. I blink again and look over to see that it’s blue and…fuzzy. 

What the hell…?

My eyes follow the length of the arm to see a huge, huge blue dog staring down at me. His brows are furrowed and his eyes seem to hold worry. And even worse, in a way that disturbs me right to my bones, his mouth parts and a voice comes out.

“Hey, buddy,” he says softly, almost comforting. “Ya good?”

A ringing starts through my ears.

(Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.)

Immediately, I push away from him and scramble to my feet. I look around, seeing all the bright colors—too bright. Doesn’t look real. The grass, the trees, the flowers, and even the houses—none of it look real. Looks too bright, too colorful. And the…the people.

Wait, no. Not people. Not with those eyes, and that…that skin? Grayish-purple, orange, y-yellow…is that a bird? A sun? And omigod, what the hell is that?

(—Not human!)

“Whoa, they, uh. They don’t look too good, Barn,” says the big green one with too many arms to the big blue dog, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“P-perhaps we can bring them some tea,” says the huge red bird, a fucking bird, her eyes soft and full of worry.

“Maybe they just need to lie down,” says a huge one with orange skin, wearing a hat. A mailman? His mouth spreads into a gentle smile as he walks over to me, his hand lifting, possibly to calm me down. “Hey pardner, just relax. Everythin’ is okay…”

(DON’T TRUST THEM.) 

And despite my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’ll burst out, despite my lungs pinched from a lack of air, I look around at all of them and scream.

“Get the hell away from me…! Who are you? Where am I? What…?”

As I lift a hand to point, I pause. A dread creeps over me, coats my back in a cold sweat. My gaze falls to my hands, my arms. My fingers are spread as I spin my hands palm up. Then they curl to stroke over each other, to touch, to feel.

(No skin. No skin, no skin, what the hell happened to my skin? It’s just. Just—)

Again, I can’t seem to breathe, my heart hammering so loud I can hear it. But then again, do I even have a heart anymore? Lungs? My hands go to my face, feel the fuzz there and a sob starts to tremble from me. Impossibly so, water flows from my eyes and down my cheeks, making my gaze blurry. Noise happens around me, like yelling but not, just voices full of worry and confusion.

And then, yellow hands grasp my own and it all goes silent.

“Neighbor…?”

That…that voice. I know it. I know him. But how? From where?

“Jamie?”

How does he know my name?

“Jamie, look at me.”

Despite everything, my eyes lift from where he’s holding my hands and meet with his.

You’d think that it was his hair that would catch my attention first, with how blue it is and how it seems to curl in on itself  in a pompadour. But no, it’s actually his eyes. They are huge in how open they are, pupils too wide, and black like the void as they stare into my own. The smile he wears is too wide, it should be splitting his face apart, and yet I kind of know it’s not with anything malicious. He’s excited that I’m here, like he’s been…waiting for me. 

I’m both unnerved, yet drawn to the gaze, despite all the alarms going off inside my skull. Like he is slowly sucking me in—

But then in a blink, his eyes look—normal. Neutral? 

“There we go. Are you all right, Neighbor?” he asks me, his smile not as wide, but still holding warmth…I think. “That was quite a fall.”

I blink. “Fall? F-from where…?”

His eyes dart pointedly upwards, silently coaxing me to follow his gaze. For a split second, high up in the clear blue sky above us—almost too high to see—there’s a black hole with a spiral of white. But then, just as quick as I see it, it closes up and blinks out of existence. I blink again and then start actually looking around me, feeling a sickening thud through my chest. 

What…what is this place?

“I…what…who…” 

Groaning suddenly, I squeeze my eyes closed and let my head fall slightly forward, the nausea making my stomach twist. Fuck, it hurts! But why does it…?

But then he squeezes my hands again, grounding me.

“Of course not, that was a dumb question,” he says in a monotone, but still somehow sounds warm and welcoming. “Come, let me take you to Home. You can have tea there, and we can talk.”

“I’ll come with!” the huge blue dog adds with a grin, and then a grin. “Walls and I can show you ‘round afterwards.”

“That’s a great idea, Barnaby! He’s really good at explaining things, much better than I am.”

At this point, I feel so numb. I can only stare into the slightly shorter man’s dark eyes. Finally, after a beat, I dare to ask:

“Who are you?”

His expression goes blank for a moment. And then, he smiles wide.

“Wally,” he says. “Wally Darling.”

[hwanchaesong]

↗🏢 Entering 2nd floor: An encounter forced by fate, alcohol clouding your system, now you're drowning in his vermillion sheets. 🌌

🎧: Chase Atlantic - Slow Down

wc: 838

genre & warnings: smut, jealousy, angst if you squint, sprinkle of fluff ig, college setting, cursing, drinking and party, petnames, unprotected sex, mentions of cunnilingus and fingering, kind of toxic situationship with yj etc etc (yes, this is the same universe as Soobin's ver) mdni

a/n: this is a part of The Paradise Hotel series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

Your vision is starting to go dim, and it came to a point where the nasty noises are nothing more but static in your ears.

It was all hazy, sweaty, and hot but who could blame you but the man who was currently rearranging your guts.

The man who sees red whenever his demons turn into that of green and blue monsters, the one and only Choi Yeonjun.

In what way did you even manage to anger him? You have no idea, you were merely enjoying yourself in a party that you know he will be at, yet you chose to play with fire.

"I leave you alone for a while and you're whoring yourself for everyone to see." he rasps, gritting his teeth when your insides clenched tighter on his member that continuously bullies its way into your overstimulated cunt.

"Oh? You like getting called a whore?" he mocks, his thrusts neverending and harsh.

"I d-don't!" you cried out and he chuckled darkly at your weak attempt of fending off his accusations.

You really had the guts to be this courageous when you could've been his obedient little doll.

"Deny all you want babe." a hand of his that was formerly on your hips in a bruising grip snakes towards your collar bones, his finger traces the hickeys that he left on your smooth skin, "But your pussy says otherwise."

You whimpered at his degrading words, but you couldn't deny it.

How could you when you're basically dripping?

Every time he pushes his pulsating length into you, the more your juices squelch, gushing all over his vermillion sheets and his thighs.

Yeonjun really isn't in a good condition either. He's been holding back his release for hours now, and he did everything in his power to do so.

From eating you out until you're squirting in his mouth, letting him lap on your wetness, not stopping even if you beg him to stop because you're too sensitive from the prior high caused by his fingers. To fucking you into different positions just to feel more of you.

You are so fucking addictive and he couldn't get enough of you.

Since he met you through Soobin's girlfriend, you got him hooked, and he'll be damned if he can't have you in this lifetime.

His hawk eyes watched you flirt with some ugly asses in the kitchen of his frat house, and he deemed it proper to let you finish the bottle of beer you're drinking before dragging you upstairs and cornering you in an empty bedroom.

And now he has you crying out in pleasure whenever the tip of cock hits your g-spot perfectly. Begging for him to stop but the second he slows down, your eyes shoot wide open in panic. Truly, you are a statement of hypocrisy and that excites him more.

Rejecting him when he clearly knows that you're weak for him, that you can never sincerely say no to him.

"Yeonjun.. please." you mewled out his name, his snapping hips against your staggers for a bit as he was startled, but quickly regained his composure.

"You were saying, princess?" he tilts his head, his hand going over your tits to squeeze on the fatty mounds and tugging on your nipples.

"I want to cum." you mumbled, gazing into his hooded dark orbs, and his image burns into the back of your mind.

Insanely, utterly, and out of this world attractive. That's what he is.

With his messy hair, beads of sweat on his forehead, pink lips and fox-like eyes— he is magnificent.

"Hm? My princess wants to cum?" he mused, chuckling when you nodded your head.

Aren't you adorable?

"How much do you want to cum?" he asks, examining your desperate expression that made him crazy to no extent.

Your hands flew to his broad shoulders, nails raking on his porcelain skin, "So much. Please, Yeonjun, let me cum. Make me cum."

He hisses at the sting, his thrusts getting erratic while his dick inside you twitches in anticipation.

Yeonjun leans down, his face hovering over your own, his elbow supporting his weight, while the other one goes to your neck, lightly squeezing it.

"Tell me you're mine first." he orders, face dangerously hovering over yours, his warm breath fans across your lips.

The slight closing of your air pipe gave you a sensation of haziness, his words made you tingly, and his unrelenting fucking are making you feel a sensation of euphoria.

"Yeonjun.. Yeonjun." you chanted his name like you're in some sort of daze, dragging your hands to cup his face, "I am yours. All yours. I belong to you."

Yeonjun's heart squeezed, overwhelming feelings led to him capturing your lips in a sweet yet searing kiss, letting you two bask in the crashing waves of euphoria as the both of you reached utopia at the same time.

Surely, whatever color the stoplight shows, Yeonjun won't ever slow down when it comes to you, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

taglist:

@hyunjinheartbreakprince @lun4kazumii @once27 @purrplegyuu @yawnzsof @baeksofty @shakalakaboomboo

[tadpolesonalgae]

Vampire!Poly-batboys x reader: Mercy, Devil - Part 2

A/N: The poly part two to the vampire fic is here! Hope you enjoy!!

Warning: Vampirism, poly!batboys, blood, biting

Word Count: 4,154

-Part 1- -Part 3-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Thunder rolls across the perpetually stormy sky, his castle seemingly gifted with its own unique weather system. Rain lashes at the windows, criss-crossed with diamond-shaped indentations upon the glass, streaked with icy water. Lightning cracks across the dark, heavy clouds, flashing with startling light, briefly illuminating the chambers you’ve been returned to.

You swallow heavily, rousing from an empty sleep, fatigue weighing on bone marrow as you push up from the bed. The pearls have gone, replaced by a pale blue nightgown and memories of the evening you stumbled into the castle return. Right into the beast’s jaws.

Fingers trace over your throat, pockmarked with tiny puncture wounds, skin aching around the slightly swollen marks. Memories of the fear and alarm upon feeling those gleaming incisors skating across your neck rush in, the overpowering strength of his hands on your body, shoving your head to the side so he could drink deeper. The hot spill of blood as it dripped down over collar bones, the mad frenzy in previously sharp and clear eyes. He’d seemed utterly undone, at the mercy of his own hunger as he’d fed.

Your pulse spikes in your chest, fear diluting in your lifestream, breathing deepening as you hastily peer around the room. Searching for something that could possibly help keep the beast off of you. It’s a stupid thought, you know that—why would he have the means to his demise so readily available? In his own home, no less. That would be idiotic.

“Sleep well?” A low, silken voice asks, making you scream, flinching back as you snap your head to the doorway. He’d entered on completely silent feet—the door hadn’t even made a sound. “Now, now. There’s no need for that,” he chides soothingly, “you’re alive and well. No need for theatrics.” But your nails are practically tearing at the sheets with how tight you’re gripping them. Something like him—something that drinks the blood of women, relishing in draining away their youth—can be nothing but pure evil. Hell incarnate.

“Stay away from me,” you grit out lowly, back pressed against the plush cushioning of the headboard. “You have no power over me. Let me leave.”

He’s quiet for a moment, watching you intently, before lowering his head, a mix between a sigh and a laugh huffing from his lips. Raises gleaming violet to pierce into you, as if able to pin you to the bed with a glance alone. “I’m afraid I won’t be doing that,” he says amicably, still in that velvety voice of his, like satin brushing teasingly across your skin. “You see, little devil, I have lived centuries in this world. Travelled far and wide, sampled a number of women and men alike, and yet I’ve never once come across a taste quite as exquisite as yours.” Protectively, you raise your palm to your throat, as if blocking the skin from his view may serve a chance for freedom—or undo what he’s already found.

“Because of that,” he continues leisurely, as if he hasn’t turned your life upside down within the span of a breath. “I will be keeping you for myself, here, in my castle. Is everything clear?” You blink, dread sluicing through your veins.

“I’m not— You can’t do that.” You splutter quietly, incredulity and fear drenching your tone in horror. “I’m a living person. You can’t just lock me up. That’s— That’s wrong.” You manage to whisper, too shocked to bellow.

“You don’t have a choice here. Well, not one you’d like,” he muses idly, hands sliding into the pockets of his dark, tailored trousers. “What is it?” You grit out anyway, attempting to conceal your trembling fingers.

The charming smile fades from his elegant mouth, slipping into something blank and unreadable. “Either, you can agree to my generous offer and remain mine in this castle,” he says, voice turning to freezing silk, prowling toward you in the low thunderous light. “Or, I can take my final drink now, and let you pass on into the next world—or rather, into the next half world.” He reaches the edge of the bed, but you’re too terrified to move.

Even as he pulls his hand from the neatly stitched pocket of his dark trousers, you remain still. Petrified, until his icy hand settles on your throat, thumb and index finger pressing to the soft sides beneath your jaw, tilting your head to him. “You should know: I would not be kind if you forced me to turn you,” he murmurs tenderly, leaning over the bed, bracing his forearm against the headboard. “You are quite to my tastes,” he says softly, lowly, “I would hate to see you become a servant, instead of what you could be.”

“And what is that?” You manage to ask shakily, forcefully pushing yourself as deep into the headboard as you can.

Glittering violet briefly scans your features, then the edges of his mouth are curving, dipping down to nose at your throat. Sharp, piercing teeth graze the shell of your ear. “Cared for,” he answers, cold lips brushing the erogenous skin, fingers flexing around your neck. “Desired,” he murmurs softly, dipping lower, skimming the erratic pulse of your life force. “Cherished.”

Incisors scrape, and you flinch, muscles contracting with fear.

He pulls back, staring down at you from not even a breath away.

“So, my dear,” he muses, “what will it be?”

You stare at him, eyes widened, pupils no-doubt dilated with fear. You swallow thickly, overwhelmed by the intensity of him, the heaviness of his presence, the dominating sense of self rolling from his powerful figure. Pulse spikes with the thought him ending your life—would the rightness of thwarting him be worth an eternity of obeying his word? At the mercy of his absolute power?

“You wouldn’t ever taste my blood again if you turned me,” you rasp, trying to force the tremors from your voice. “You’d lose the exact thing you’re trying to gain.” Sharp eyes flash, his jaw working at your brazen answer. “Are you sure you want to test that, little devil?” He asks, voice rougher than before, anger and hunger kindling in his eyes. “I’m offering you a life of comfort and care in exchange for your compliance. Anyone can see you’re gaining much more than I am out of this agreement.”

“Which is exactly why I know you won’t turn me,” you return shakily. “Why give so much for something so unimportant, right?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw, then he’s pushing away from you roughly. “You’re being foolish,” he warns, eyes glittering with hunger. “Maybe I won’t turn you, but I believe you’re somehow forgetting I don’t need your permission to take what I want.” His fingers flex at his sides, shoulders rolling subtly before he’s sliding hands into his pockets. As if to calm the urge to pin you down and drink.

You stiffen in your place. Reconsidering his offer. If you refuse, but he decides to take anyway, where will you be kept? In some subterranean dungeon, left to lie and rot on a damp pallet of hay? Locked in some long-forgotten room, only allowed out when he wants to feed?

Rhysand senses your doubt, honing in on it like the beast he is, able to smell the indecision. “Think about it,” he says calmly, earlier hunger banished, not a trace to be found. “I have some visitors to see to, but will be back this evening for your answer,” he smiles politely, turning for the door but pausing at the threshold. “If you need a reminder of what it feels like…” You could swear his eyes darken with glee at the way your muscles contract, legs pressing together as you remain huddled to the head of the bed.

“Until tonight, then,” he grins, gleaming white teeth glittering in the low light. The door sweeps to a close behind him, leaving you alone with a choice to make. A sense of impending doom weighing in your blood.

————

You have to get out. It’s the only viable solution.

You don’t want to be stuck as a glorified chicken for the rest of your life—used until you’ve grown too old, then devoured entirely. You have no preferable choice, so you’ll have to make your own, and escaping seems like a pretty good idea.

Easing down a breath, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the pale blue cotton of your nightgown swishing softly at bare ankles. Peering around the room, you search for anything that could be used as a weapon against a…whatever he is. Some blood-sucking devil.

The neatly preserved figure of gleaming armour catches your gaze—if a weapon is to be lying about somewhere, surely it would be here? With a spark of hope in your chest, you creep forward on what you hope are quiet feet. Not that you should be too concerned. Despite how silently he can move, the castle seemed intimidating in size, and you doubt he’d be able to pick up footsteps from so much as a corridor away.

Your pulse spikes as you eye the short scabbard wrapped over the waist of the armour, slightly shaky fingers pulling on the string to move it around. There’s a handle poking from it’s top, and your heart stumbles in your chest. With trembling hands, you pull the string loose, tying it instead around your own waist, thumbing the blade free experimentally. It’s so clear you can make out the gleaming wetness to wide, frightened eyes.

Breathing deeply, you return the blade to its new home at your hip, tip-toeing for the door, hoping he will have left it unlocked. Underestimating your drive to keep your own pathing. You will not have choice taken away from you.

The handle turns, and the door swings open on well-oiled hinges.

A cool wave of relief sweeps over you, pulling it open to peer down the long, stretching hallways either side. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary to be found. Except maybe the blood-red carpeting. You should have realised how strange it was, how macabre the whole setup is. Maybe it’s a lovely colour, but not one you slather your entire house in, let alone a whole castle.

Shaking your head, you slip out over the threshold, silently bringing the door to a close at your back, before making your way down the stretching hallway. You move silently, keeping to the edges of the carpeted floor—as if you’d be able to hide from him. In the pale gown, you stick out like freezing blue lips in a rose garden.

Following the path he had taken you to dinner, you manage to relocate the entrance hall, heart beating wildly in your chest, eyes darting left and right frenetically, searching for movement. It’s an open stretch. Once you’re out there, you’ll have to go straight for the door. There’s nowhere to hide yourself once you step out into the hallway.

You take in a steady breath, then step out into the open.

Silently, you make your way as swiftly as possible down the curving case, feet padding softly along the well-polished boards, trying to keep sound to a minimum. The heavy-looking door looms before you, menacingly staring as you approach. Hairs raise at the nape of your neck, but you push away the apprehension, hands shaking as you reach for the knob.

It doesn’t shift.

You try pulling, but nothing.

You twist it harder, using both your hands, but to no avail.

Mentally you curse—you’d hoped it would be unlocked like last time. He’s seemingly taken some precautions, then. You’ll need to find another way out, or maybe the keys… Where would keys be?

They could be anywhere, you realise despairingly, and in a castle this large, you don’t have the time to spend painstakingly searching for them. You’ll have to find another exit. Every home has a backdoor, there must at least be one for the servants he mentioned—there’s no way they’d be allowed entrance through this hall.

“Who are you?”

You scream, jolting away from the voice, turning to find a man at your side—he’d been completely silent, just like Rhysand. You stumble back, hands shaking at your sides as you take in his towering figure. Wearing dark leather, surrounded by the glowing red of the castle, he cuts a terrifying silhouette. With black hair that come to his shoulders, and the eyes that feel like they can pierce straight through bone, you can feel in your blood he’s the same creature as the Lord.

The blade at your hip weighs heavily, but you know from a single look there’s no way you’d be able to do anything with it. You’re more likely to end up slicing yourself open, dripping over the blood-red carpet.

His lips part in an almost wolfish grin as he takes you in properly. “Oh, I see,” he drawls, stepping closer. “You’re one of Rhys’, aren’t you?”

“Please…” you breathe, heat building behind your eyes. “I don’t—…I just want to leave…” Lungs spasm with fear, and his nostrils flare delicately, before taking a step back. The man raises his arms placatingly, exposing his palms in a sign of peace. “I’m not stopping you,” he says lowly, still baring his teeth in a smile.

Your tongue swipes out to wet your lips, staggering a step back hesitantly, then another. Never taking your eyes from his hulking figure.

Your muscles involuntarily contract with soul-deep fear as a blood-curdling snarl rips through the castle’s interiors. A wave of bone-crushing terror smacks into you, like a flash of lightening followed by the roll of thunder as something dark pulses through the building. The man’s smile widens at the sound, turning a little feral. “Better be on your way,” he warns roughly, voice like gravel. “Before the beast catches you.”

Heart pounding, you spin on your feet and run.

You could swear his low chuckle follows on your heels as you sprint from the room, nearly stumbling over your own toes as you pass over carpets and rugs, running through doorways and dodging around rich, plush armchairs and large, heavy instruments. Fire crackles in one room but you have no time for pause, feeling that power closing in no matter how far you run.

Feet slam on the polished wood of floorboards, and you spot an open door down the stretching corridor. Without care for noise, you dart inside, snapping the door to a close, hurriedly taking in your surroundings—it’s a frighteningly large library. Cases of books tower on wide-set shelves, neatly stacked but tightly packed, perfect to hide within.

Not giving it a second thought, you make for the towering furniture, darting between the aisles as quickly and as quietly as possible, keeping your eyes wide for any sign of movement. If you can just wait until you feel this cloying power pass, you can try venturing out again.

You think back over the conversation which must have been in the morning if he said he would return at night. He’d said he’d had guests to see to—that man must have been one of them, but how many are there? Are they all like him? They must be. Unless they bring humans along with them? What if there are more beasts prowling the halls for you now that signal has practically shot lightening into anything capable of breathing within the castle?

“You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

Muscles go taut, stomach tightening as cold dread ices your skin.

You turn rigidly on your heel, coming to face another man, wreathed in darkness. Silky hair gleamed in the low library light, his sharp hazel eyes pinning you to the spot with a single look. You shake your head, managing a single wobbly steps back, before he’s slowly prowling forward, gaze trained on you like he’s finally locked in on his prey.

Turning, you stumble away, running back through the tall cases, now understanding their disadvantage. He can’t see you, but you also can’t see him. Fighting your growing terror, you break from the shelves, running toward a door that will no doubt only lead you deeper into the castle, separate from the one you came in from. But he appears before you in a blur of shadow, and you smack into the stone-like muscle of his chest—utterly freezing, utterly lifeless. Death wreathed in darkness.

You still in your spot, staring up into sharp, predatory eyes with visible terror, vaguely remembering the blade at your hip.

“What are you doing here?” He asks lowly, hands kept casually at his sides, but you don’t doubt he could strike at any moment should the desire take him. “I— Please,” you beg, internally screaming for your body to move, to turn and run from the beast before you clad in the skin of an angel. “Just let me go,” you breathe shakily, stumbling back.

The man watches you silently, coldly. “You know that’s not going to happen,” he says shortly, “either you can obey and I’ll escort you back to your room, or you can make this painful.” Your eyes widen, pressure building quickly, the blade practically searing into your skin. If you comply, you’ll probably be locked up. You’ll never escape, and choice will have been taken from you. But if you fight… Even against something as terrifying as him… It will be on your own terms.

But you’re not a fighter—at least, not in the face of this particular beast. The best you can do it run.

You spin on your heel, turning for the door, but a stone-cold hand has already gripped your shoulder and you cry out in pain. His hold is like ice, stern and unforgiving. “Fine,” he mutters, making to—

“Hold on, Az,” that voice drawls, pure terror slicing through your stomach.

One was impossible enough, but two? There’s no way. You’re going to die.

The man—Az, he’d said—stops, his grip lightening by a fraction. “She’s Rhys’, Cass. We should return her.” Muscle trembles beneath his grip, neck craning to turn to spot the other man at your back, having come in through the hallway. He shrugs nonchalantly, as if the warning gleam in the shadowy one’s eyes doesn’t bother him. “That’s his fault for letting her out,” he drawls, coming to stand closer behind you. Too close.

His hazel eyes drop to yours, that wolfish smile breaking across his lips. “Besides,” he says lowly, “you know he only keeps the good ones around for more than one meal.” The man—Cass—steps closer, hands going to your waist as he lowers to your throat, pulse spiking as he noses along the smooth expanse. “This is it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your skin. “This is what I picked up, Az. She smells so good.” He pulls away, pulling your hair to the side, exposing the bare top of your shoulder and you tense, remembering how little clothing you’re wearing. How unprotective it is. “Go on,” he urges quietly, “give her a try.”

Az narrows his eyes, but relents, curiosity getting the better of him. Spine turns rigid as he dips down, nosing along the column of your throat, feeling the trembling pulse of your life-force beneath his mouth. You hear the sound of him inhaling, scenting your skin, before pulling away. “See?” The man at your back drawls. “I’ve got a good nose for these things. I told you I smelled something delicious.”

“Rhys has good taste,” the other answers flatly, “unlike some people, Cassian.” Still, his eyes remain on your throat for a little too long for your comfort.

Cassian doesn’t seem bothered by the jab, instead raising one of his hands from your hip to trace along the stuttering pulse of your heart, grazing down your neck. “I bet she tastes good,” he murmurs, and you can feel the weight of his gaze alone, hairs prickling beneath its intensity. “Cass,” the man at your front warns, voice low and cold. “She’s Rhys’. He won’t like it if you decide to put your grubby teeth all over her.”

Cassian pays him no mind, and Az’s grip on you tightens, pulling you toward him, aiming to distract the other. “When was the last time you drank?” He asks distastefully. Cassian shrugs again, “I assumed Rhys would provide a meal, and since he has such good taste,” he says pointedly, “I thought I’d enjoy myself.”

Another beastly snarl rips through the halls of the castle, and Cassian muffles a low chuckle. The man before doesn’t seem to find it as funny, the shadows at his back darkening. “What did you do this time, Az?” The man asks, lips curved with mirth.

“You’re the one who said you wanted to slip away,” Az hisses in a flash of canines. That deadly thrum of power intensifies, and you realise it must mean Rhysand is approaching. Whatever Az had done, the illusion’s over. It feels like he’s already right outside the door.

“Are you going to drink, or not?” Cassian asks, rough fingers slipping beneath the neckline of your gown, thumbing at the soft buttons at your front, slowly un-popping them in order to move the fabric out of the way of his teeth. “I don’t want to share Rhys’ meal,” Az says, a note of distaste to his words.

“Why not? It wasn’t a problem a couple of centuries ago,” Cassian drawls, challenge in his tone. “What happened? Spend a few decades fawning over a woman and suddenly all taste for adventure’s gone?” He scoffs, the taunt clear in his deep voice. “You’ve lost your touch, brother. You’re getting soft.”

A warning snarl drags from the other man’s throat, hazel eyes flicking to the door.

But Cassian sees his chance, head dipping down, incisors piercing your throat, biting down and spilling blood. Your lips part in a scream, paralysed as his venom enters your body, making your limbs feel heavy and clunky.

“Cassian,” Az hisses roughly, forcefully ripping him from you. Pain stings through your shoulder and collar bones, the only thing keeping you up being the hand at your hip and the chest at your front. Pressure wells behind your eyes at the ache, blood trickling down your skin. “What’s gotten into you? One scent catches your attention and suddenly centuries of discipline dissolves?” He snarls lowly, aware of the pulsing power that’s filling the room.

Cassian’s silent, but you can feel his body begin to tremble at your back. Fear drenches your skin as his grip tightens on you with the same display of inhumane strength Rhys had shown after his initial bite. Weakly you try to press closer to the man before you, but his attention is now trained on the blood beading at your throat, the puncture wounds already sealing over.

Terrifying hunger fills the dark hazel of his eyes, and you want to shrink away.

“You’ve got to try her, Az,” Cassian rasps at your back, voice low and strained. “Fuck, that’s the best I’ve ever had.” Wide eyes lock with hazel, silent and pleading. You’d take being returned to that room over this easily, no doubt in your mind.

The dark, raging power grows closer, reaching it’s peak. He’s right there.

Az’s lip curls back for a moment, but then he’s forcing the neckline of your gown over your shoulder, tearing at the lovely cotton in favour of piercing his canines into the softness of your neck. Your head tips back, falling into Cassian as your lips part in a soundless scream, rounding into a pained shape as he drinks, his own venom sinking into you.

Already dizziness is taking over you, but then Cassian is curving over you again, mouth parting, incisors sliding back into your skin with a now pleasurable pain. Arms go limp at your sides as their bloodlust wraps around you, completely overpowered by their hunger as hands grip and grope at your skin.

Tears push from your lashes, dripping down your cheeks as the ecstasy spins your mind, wickedly turning the pain into something soft and blissful. Making you want them to drink deeper, wanting to have their teeth in you, to put their hands across your body.

Darkness explodes through the room, rage blasting through the soft warmth of lust, pulling you from the jaws of vampiric seduction.

The world tilts a little as they pull away, but without the adrenaline of their venom you feel weak. Like you’re unable to go on.

The last thing you remember is the fierce grip on your hips, the possessive touch over your back and shoulders as icy violet brings the night to its crescendo.

Then everything explodes in glittering black.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01

[axolotlwrites]

Banging the Thing In The Dark

Male!Reader X Eldritch Being

CW: You fuck an eldritch horror, Reader has a penis, reader penetrates The Horrors™, slight horror but nothing too heavy, monsterfucking, smutty as hell, not really proofread, formatted on mobile

Heyo! I made this piece a little while back while I was bouncing some ideas off a friend of mine. It's fairly small, and not really based on any OC or solid concept, just a fun little thing I made when a stroke of inspiration hit.

It was really fun doing some more freaky and abstract stuff, so I'll probably make more.

Have fun!

(also I'm totally making a Warframe fanfic when 1999 drops and you can bet on it)

The black wax of the candles on the end tables next to either side of the bed smelled faintly of lavender, as you sat, cross-legged. You shuffled gently, as you breathed slowly, and softly. A cool breath leaves your puckered lips, before you close your eyes.

You'd done this ritual a hundred times now. It was simple, once you finally memorized the runes. Slowly, you breathe again, proceeding to speak in a silent tongue.

Silent to you, that is.

You held your own tongue, afterwards. Any words would disrupt the summoning, and any movement would ruin the sheets under you. You could see the glowing light behind your eyelids, dark and blue, like the glow of a TV screen.

Then, slowly, you felt a weight on the bed. It defied comprehension, just like everything else about them, being both heavy and light, all at once, and never at the same time. You held your breath, as you felt its icy gaze, physically felt the void in the marrow of your bones as it laid its vision upon you. It crawled closer, arms near your sides, weight shifting as it moved.

It was here, the summoning finished. And so, you spoke. “Good evening.” Somehow, you felt it eat up the words, then spit them back up, returning the introduction in your own words, voice, and tone. Slowly, you felt the mass-less tendrils of the void, more nothing than something, graze across your already naked thighs.

You nodded at its response, hearing it speak once more, this time with the unique amalgamation of a million souls ringing out from its voice. “A pleasure, little one.” Its voice wavered and wheeled, as though it's vocal cords were only now formulating as they spoke. “An offering, tonight?”

You nodded again, silent, as you spread your legs, its mass trending up your thigh to your waiting, slowly hardening cock. You felt it hum, as it rubbed the mass against you, before ripping it away. “Good flesh. As always.” Suddenly, you feel as though you hear a million switches click into place, locking and unlocking, before it stops, as if all sound was suddenly cut. “You may open your eyes.”

You knew better than to disobey it, as you opened your eyes. Its form was made from the nothing it existed in, designed to resemble a human, but always with some stipulations. The details were never consistent, body parts changing as you saw them. It was almost impossible to perceive the fine details of its face, and the skin always seemed to sink into itself whenever you held your hands on it. The only consistent thing was the hole in its nothingness, the only thing about it that always felt the same. Well, when it was wrapped around you, that is.

It crawled over you, a shiver running across your body as it's mere presence sent your mind spiraling into submission, your body collapsing back onto the bed.

It always did like when you were helpless and malleable.

It's hand moved to your chest, collapsing against your flesh, a cold feeling running through your body. You feel as though something wraps around your heart, as it straddles you. “Pretty little thing. Easy to break…” It's “face” moved to your neck, a breath running across your skin, slathering the area in freezing cold as it finished, “...easy to consume.”

A chattering noise escapes it, as it leans back. Slowly, it's limbs contort, the abyss underneath its skin shifting, it looks back down on you. It's voice escapes, as it shivers on your lap. “Feel better moving, however. My little one.” It sounded… strained. If you didn't know better, didn't know what it was… you might have mistaken it for emotion.

Your thoughts were interrupted by its mass sinking down on you, your tip pressing dangerously close to its hole, a dripping black void slowly falling into droplets on your crotch and cock. A deal was to be made, after all, and it didn't like to be made waiting.

As it sank down, it made no noise, before finally letting out a long, drawn-out moan as it took you all the way to the base. The insides of its hole moved and clenched, as it took you inside. It was slimy, warm… and it felt better than anything you could find with a human. The feeling was deeper than the skin, than the nerves or the flesh of your cock, the pleasure stretched all the way to your soul, as you whined out in pleasure. And when it started to move, you whimpered and arched your back against it, your crotch sinking into its skin, allowing you to get even deeper than you thought possible.

It's movements were jittery, sharp, like it was attempting to ride you but could only emulate the general motion. It didn't matter, as it's hole had a mind of its own, the warmth running along your entire shaft as it throbbed with purpose. You could feel it staring down at you as it moved, silent. A lack of auditory encouragement might've stopped you to ask what was wrong, but as it moved atop you, it twitched, it's hands roaming you as it feasted on the warmth of your skin like a parasite.

It was clearly enjoying itself atop you, it's body seeming to come apart at the seams as it's twitching got faster. “This sweet feeling… ecstasy…” It's voice fell apart as it spoke, devolving into charged, violent moans. It dove into your neck, it's face settling in the crook of your neck as a strange sensation overcame you. It kept riding you, milking you as you felt its body sink into yours.

It's flesh seemed to collapse against you, absorbing your skin into itself as it collapsed in pleasure. You both kept moving, the end approaching closer. But clearly, it was already finishing, it's hole bringing you even deeper into its body as it worked through climax to finish you off.

You didn't need to ask. You already knew what it wanted you to do, already knew that it needed your cum to be satisfied. So, as it brought you to the edge, you gleefully let yourself tumble off the cliff.

You could feel your mind literally melt and clump back together, jumbled in pieces. You felt sensations that can't be described, all along your body as you temporarily became one with a beast beyond comprehension. You felt it's body collapse around yours, a black ooze covering your body as you spurted out into nothingness. Then, and only then, as you experienced what could only be described as ascension, did it allow you to pull out.

You panted and breathed against your pillow, recovering as it slowly returned to form. It removed itself from your neck, it’s face coming to rest light, oozing kisses across your jaw. “I am satisfied, little one.” It always said that, so plainly and simply, like it was always a certainty.

And knowing this thing, maybe it was.

And then, just like that, it vanished. Had you no confidence in your own faculties, and had there not been those kisses on your neck, still oozing and dark, you might have come to the conclusion that you were insane.

And then, a strangled, silent whisper reverberated through your mind. “Don't miss me too much, little one. Summon me again, in your time.” Finally, you stood. A shower sounded nice.

[st-el-la-luna]

It's Not Enough: Captain John Price x Reader

(sorry for vanishing I am mentally unwell)

An injury leaves the Task Force's Captain unable to do all that he usually does. You're more than happy to help.

NSFW 18+

➔ gn!reader ("you"/"your" pronouns, described as "pretty" once), Price is readers boss, pillow fucking, desperate almost subby Price

unedited, written on mobile in Spanish class

part two

It wasn't fair to say that the mission went south. It's not like the Task Force failed it or anything. You guys secured the intel you needed and cleared the base no problem.

Except there was a problem. Your intel on the enemy operation had been spotty and it turns out the enemy was more prepared than you all had been lead to thought.

Sitting silently in the back of the truck you all quietly lick your wounds. Soap had been stabbed, "'tis just a scratch," he had announced before taking out three men with an improved explosive. (Ghost hit him for that one) (the Shakespeare reference. Not the bomb). Gaz and Ghost both were shot, the former in the knee and the latter, grazed on the neck by a bullet that very well could have killed him. You got a little too close to a grenade and now your ears are ringing and you're covered cuts and scrapes from the shrapnel, bits of metal still embedded in your skin.

Price got it the worst though. One of the enemy soldiers managed to sneak up on him. This hulking, unit of a man who made Ghost, Ghost, look like a gangly teen.

You always wondered how Ghost, being as big as he is, could move so quietly so quickly. This enemy soldier made you think that maybe you were just loud and slow.

Not a single person realized that the soldier was there until it was too late. He tackled Price, knocking the gun from his hands then threw him, literally threw him, like a doll, over the catwalk ledge.

Price was lucky though, in a sense, because he crashed to the ground close enough to you and Gaz that you could provide him cover.

He was unlucky, or maybe just stupid, because he tried to catch his fall. His fall from three stories up.

With his hands.

Never have you heard bones snap so loud.

You glance across the truck at him. He's breathing slowly and deliberately, self-soothing. His hands resting on his thighs, fingers twitching occasionally, but otherwise motionless.

"Hey, look on the bright side, Captain," you say with a crooked grin, blinking away the blood dripping from a gash above your eye. "At least you won't have to do any paperwork for a while."

"Won't be able to jack off either," Soap adds with a crow of laughter. "Poor lil John's gonnae be black and blue... Won't even be able to feel the pain in yer hands over the straining of your–"

"That'll do!" Ghost snaps, ever the one to keep Soap in line.

It's quiet for the rest of the way back to base. It's quiet as you all head to medical for treatment. You're all drained, happy with a job well done, but exhausted from, well, everything.

Tired and sore, you decide to forgo dinner in order to catch some extra sleep. You're walking through the halls when you pass by Price's office.

The door is cracked open, which is unusual, and a rhythmic sound tumbles out into the hallway. A blend between panting and grunting.

He groans out a frustrated, "Fucking... Ah... Fucking hell!"

"Captain?" You ask hesitantly, knocking on the door. You hear shuffling inside, the rustling of cloth, soft jingle of metal. "I, uh... Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," he grits out, breathless and frustrated. "I'm just..." More rustling. "Fuck!"

"Can I come in?" You ask, already opening the door.

He doesn't say no. In fact, he doesn't say anything. Until you've got the door open and are left staring at the scene before you.

"I didn't want anyone seeing me like this..." He grumbles.

He's standing behind his desk, both hands and forearms in casts. He's struggling with a zip up hoodie, tangled in the fabric as he tries to put it on.

You fight back the urge to laugh and succeed. You fight back the urge to smile and fail. "Want some help with that, Captain?"

"Please."

This continues for the duration of his injury, him coming to you for help with tasks he can't do himself. For as long as he's in those casts, you're at his beck and call.

It's not uncommon for you to be called away from some mundane task to help the Captain with something equally mundane. But hey, at least you get to spend time with your Captain.

Your handsome, rugged, often flushed as of late, Captain.

You're captain whose casts you've wrapped before he can shower. Whose shirts you've helped put on. Whose hair you've brushed. Beard you've combed. Whose-

You keep having to tell yourself that this doesn't mean anything. The only reason he comes to you and no one else is because, well, he doesn't want anyone else seeing him like this.

So what if he blushes when you help secure his belt around his hips? Or when your fingers graze his neck as you button his collar. So what if once or twice while youve helped him dress your hand has brushed his cock (and oh, it's big), and it's jumped to attention. It's a natural reaction, really. Price never even mentions it. He's probably embarrassed. Ashamed. Nothing more to it.

But what if...?

No. You tell yourself sternly. Bad. That's your boss.

But...

He has been calling on you more. Has been standing closer. Leaning in when you speak. Burying his nose into your hair before you leave his room and inhaling through his nose, then shutting the door on you, leaving you a little dazed and more than a little confused in the hall.

Still. It doesn't mean anything. You've just never spent this much time with him. Maybe this is normal.

You're in the armory with Soap and Gaz when your phone goes off in your pocket. Price is calling.

"Captain?" You ask, holding the phone between your shoulder and ear as you continue to clean your rifle. "Everything okay?"

"I know I told you I wouldn't need anything until later, but I... I need your help," he says, his voice gruff and rumbling. "Now."

Soap mimes a blow job and Gaz snickers, shouldering him playfully.

"Could have called anyone, Captain," Soap calls out loud enough for Price to hear through the phone. "What is it you need help with that only our pretty little Corporal can do? Hmm?"

"Shut up, Soap," Price grumbles.

"Captain says to shut up, Johnny," you relay to Soap. He laughs.

"I need your help," Price repeats, his breath stuttering slightly.

"Alright," you say, setting the rifle down. "What with?"

"I'm..." his words are cut off by a groan and the sound of shuffling, followed by something clattering to the floor. "Fuck... I'm trying to..." He pauses, breathing heavy. "Tryna trim my beard and I.. Just get over here quick."

"Aye, sir. I'll be in your office soon."

"Not my office. My quarters."

You pause, holding the phone properly now. "I... Your quarters, Captain?"

Soap snickers, and thrusts his hips into the air a couple times. You flip him off.

"Yes," he says. "It's where I keep my products."

"Right, of course," you shake your head. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Good," he says, letting out a breathy sound through his nose. "I can't deal with this any longer..."

"Your beard has gotten scruffy," you muse.

"I... Just... Hurry." He hangs up.

"Getting out of work early again, huh?" Gaz asks with a grin. "Or should I say getting off work early?"

"Not you too," you whine, flipping the pair of them off as you leave the room.

You don't catch what Soap says, his words muffled by his accent and the closing door. Judging by the raucous laughter that breaks out when he's done, you figure that might be for the best.

You get to Price's room and knock, waiting a beat before turning the knob. "Hey, Captain, just a heads up, I've never actually trimmed a beard before but I–"

You stare at the scene before you with wide eyes, blood rushes to your cheeks as your jaw drops.

"Close the door," Price grunts, staring up at you from his place on the bed. On his knees, forearms braced against the mattress, his face red, jaw slack as he lets out rhythmic pants and groans.

You don't dwell on it. Instead, your attention is drawn to the clumsy, desperate movement of his hips as he ruts desperately against his pillow. His pillow which is covered in... Is that one of your workout shirts?

"I... Captain?!" You squeak in surprise, taking a slight step back.

"Soap was right," he grumbles, humping and grinding and moaning into the pillow. Into your shirt. Your shirt. This is happening. This is real. Price inhales deeply through his nose, his tongue lolling out. "Haven't... Haven't been able to... It's... I... It hurts, i... I thought this would... it worked before but i... It's not... not enough, I.. Help... Please."

Slowly, hesitantly, you shut and lock the door behind you. "Oh, so you've done this before?" You quirk a brow as you approach his bed. "Fucked into your pillow like a desperate whore thinking it was me?"

He whines, actually whines, and his hips falter for a second before speeding up. With each forward stroke of his hips you can catch a glimpse of his cock. Thick and red and painfully hard, dripping so much precum it looks like he's already cum before you got here. "Don't... Don't tease me, Corporal... Don't forget who's in charge here."

"Seems to me, Captain, that I'm the one in charge here," you hum, slowly kneeling on the bed. He looks up at you through his sweaty fringe, his breaths hot and wet when they fan against your skin. "I mean, you're the one who needs help, after all... You're the one whose job could be on the line... I doubt the higher ups would be thrilled to find you like this, all backed up and desperate for one of your soldiers?"

His eyelids flutter, he bites his lips muffling a growl that crescendos into a moan when you cradle his face. "Stop, I... I just... It hurts..."

"I'm sure it does," you hum sympathetically, running a hand through his hair. "Been too long, hasn't it?"

He keens and leans into your touch, drool dribbles from his lips. "I... Weeks, may, ah, maybe a month... Or longer... I-I need it... Please."

"Well, that just won't do," you tut, shaking your head in mock sympathy. You tighten your grip on his hair and he bows, arching his back like it's his job. "Just look at you, Captain..."

He whines and you shush him gently, hand sliding from his hair to cup his jaw and chin, forcing him to look up at you. "Don't worry, Captain... I plan to do a lot more than just stare..."

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