#mucid | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hauntedelation · 4 years

Text

Seize The Throne

(Picture found on Google, I don’t own.)

Description: He was always so reckless, drawn and following the darkest paths in life. You can’t help but chase after him with stars in your eyes and a bizarre thrill churning your gut. Maybe this time things were too heavy for you.

Pairing: Black Female Reader x Will Shaw

A/N: I recently watched one of my favorite mob movies, Goodfellas, and fell back in love with that gritty image. A good friend of mine, @hope-to-hell, had already created her world of Mob!Will and has several parts out featuring him and his chaotic ways. Part one, part two, and part three explore so many depths to him and that heart-pounding life. I strongly suggest reading!

Her writing of this version of Will was my most favorite and I really wanted to try to pay homage to that. I hope I did good love, 🥺💗

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, gore and blood play, minor character death, reader sustains injuries, some fluff if you squint. I do not recommend if you happen to be sensitive to these topics. Please heed the warnings.

Proofread as much as I could, Please enjoy guys!

➽─────────────❥

The bottle is sat down next to your leg with a soft clink. Sand and sporadic rocks mold around the glass, holding the claret drink inside upright.

You feel your body hum pleasantly. The vibrations stem from the top of your head, down through your thighs, and settle in your toes, which are currently sunken into the warm clasp of the shore.

Salt and a hint of cinder brush your face and press through your hair, tousling the tight ringlets out of your eyes and behind your ear. You take in a breath while the wind dies down. To the very depth of your lungs, you allow the night to enter you.

The water is cool; blue as can be. It just about matched the sky earlier that morning, save for the bunching of storm clouds trailing toward the horizon.

It’s a wonderful feeling against your feverish skin, but it doesn’t fail to sting the cuts on your feet. You don’t move a muscle, not any closer to the swirling foam, but you ponder, maybe it will help.

You're unwound and you had been ever since you came closer to the sand. Head dancing blissfully and filling with each drop of the piquant wine, your visions were growing far more spirited than they had been for the last several hours.

The deal with Holford went to shit.

➽─────────────❥

You weren't sure why you were strung along with this one. Will had been disrupted, true, but he was always that way whenever a deal this significant came along. The other guys were unknown, fresh in the game but garnered enough reputation to be talked to. He insisted that you were to not be left at the house, too much risk, he couldn’t see you.

Much of the originally agreed amount was lost, the usual inquiry and loaded threats were slung from either side. Forty thousand was at stake, and the bastards dared to show up with only a quarter of that.

You were there resting two rooms down in a decaying office, listening to those voices, Will’s, Syverson, and maybe another. There was a restive silence, before a guttural shout and a bang was sent out, followed by an explosion of more. You felt your heart throb clear in your throat.

It was difficult to keep track, and the walls of that building were already so abysmally thin. There was a good possibility that if a punch was thrown, it would put a hole right in the plaster.

Bullets went through the drywall and sprinkled chalky dust into your hair. You had the right mind to jerk away and hit the floor. The concrete was chilly and layered with the filth that reminded you of a public subway. Upon impact, you were no doubt painted with inky marks on your knees and elbows.

You didn't cry out, none of it could be heard anyway. Yet, you did a fine job keeping whatever you wanted to scream out on the inside. You held your breath and ducked your head to the lowest point of the room.

It all tumbled over, that composure, soon after witnessing the man protecting you get his insides blown out.

From under the table, those projectiles continued to whizz in and out of the walls. Daniel, you think the kid’s name was, though he was only four years younger than you he had the face of a youth. He was always polite, getting you whatever it was that you wanted, afraid of disappointing.

They should have known he wasn't ready, wasn't skilled enough for any of this.

The door was kicked at, the brass lock weakening and soon falling away. Daniel whipped around, his machine gun tucked against his armpit and trembling finger on the trigger. He let out a few shots at a sharp speed, laying more holes in the door before dashing to the side.

He was panting, his big brown eyes glancing to you before pulling out another magazine from his pocket.

A deafening boom went through the wood, and the door flew open revealing colossal-sized boots stomping in. You don’t recall a second shot. Everything had been stunned, from your ability to move to any volume in your ears. All that was, had been ringing.

That gunshot indeed came, because you saw the kid fall back.

Crimson rained down over you and you felt the warmth dot your skin, covering the shade of your nail polish. Your eyes reopened and picked up far more carnage—tiny pieces of him all over the vicinity. Bone and flesh, some landing near your hands on the floor.

His body toppled to the ground. You remember how he landed, head smacking against the solid concrete and his eyes opened wider than saucers.

He was in shock, gurgling and spitting up blood down his chin. His fingers desperately scrambled for the handle of his machine gun, but it was kicked far out of his reach.

The faceless gunman placed Daniel’s chest under his boot, crushing the torn hole in his middle and forcing more distressed wails from the young man. Before the kid was able to cry any longer, he was cut off by another boom.

There wasn't much time to respond then. Your longtime guard was desecrated, all the life drained from him the instant the third shot was sent from the twelve gauge.

And all that you continued to hear, was ringing.

As that cliché says: time slowed to a standstill. Bullets pelted the surfaces, nonstop and in every direction. Devastation surged, wood chips and old papers swept up, and heavy footsteps trudged all throughout the concrete floors. You spent your lifetime under that table, cowering away from the turmoil.

Along your cheeks, and falling to your hands you saw the clear, salty liquid bend and mix with that young man’s blood

The make-shift shelter lasted a mere five minutes, then it was flipped over. Glasses and other items shattered onto the ground and spread to every corner of the room.

Directly after, your wrist was snatched in a viselike grip.

He had nails, this beast holding on to you. They were long, jagged, and digging far into your flesh. You sucked in the mucid air, holding back everything in your throat: bile, sobs, whatever it was. The man dictated something in your ear, along the lines of,

‘Keep that pretty fucking mouth shut before I pack it full with lead.’

It was more than a motivator. He adjusted his hold and dragged you toward the entryway of the room, pushing aside Daniel's lifeless body. Your free hand braced against the ground, but your legs were left dragging. It was grueling, finding leverage to move with the man.

With each manipulation the brute had on your body, each step of his feet and yank to your wrist, your legs caught shards of the glass and were sliced open. Amid this, the lacerations on your wrist gradually formed under his nails and began to drip hot down your arm. He was moving with purpose until he stalled right near the doorframe.

More bellows and pops of machine guns echoed against the stone.

The man was waiting, probably for the next cue. Or, maybe he was considering that last threat to you, should he go through with it?

How could you know?

After a while, you couldn’t feel anything at all. You couldn't feel the barrel of the gun pressed against your temple, your vein pumping against the hot surface, and the circulation around your wrist anymore. Your skin grew cold, vision drawing away. The lights in the room dimmed and you finally lept in a dark tunnel.

The weight between your shoulders slumped toward the ground.

It was shortly thereafter, seconds later, that those same voices came much closer than before. Your wrist ached but no longer were you under that crushing grip. The steaming metal of the shotgun was absent from your skin, though the pressure would forever be burned against your skull.

The only sensation that remained were calluses grazing against your skin.

There were no longer any gunshots, no more footsteps, or even glass shattering. The masculine tones in your ears surfaced and started to be particularly familiar. Those hands on your body, the clammy palms securing your jaw, it was real.

You felt how damp the thumb pads were and the sticky residue that was left behind along the line of your cheek.

Opening your lids was taxing, but you saw dark curls stuck to a creased forehead. A fresh gash was drawn on an eyebrow and dozens of bruises on that handsome face. A pink lip painfully split nearly in two.

The light was beaming around his head and the source was different than the one in that previous room. There were more windows. Natural light revealed one side of his form, highlighting his dewy skin and the dampness of his shirt.

The deep red splotches covering his body.

Your pupils dilated and centered on his face. He was panting, tongue swiping at that cut on his bottom lip. His voice read a steadied, but fraught question.

‘Hey—hey, Doll. You’re here with me, yeah?’

Will’s focus was dashing across your face and the rest of your body. His breathing jolted when he caught your pupils, but never did he lose grip of that solid poise. He reached up and his fingers smeared more pungent liquid on your face, forcing the iron-laced odor into your nostrils.

You coughed, grunting at the rough scratch along your throat. Your lips pressed together before you forced your head to nod weakly. You were sore, and you didn't really wish to move your legs at the moment. The hairs of his arm grazed against your fingertips. With a flex to your good wrist, you took hold of him.

You were breathing. You could see, you could hear, and while every bit of your nerves flared and pinched—you...were alive.

Will released a sigh low within his chest and out of his nose. The strain in his shoulders released a fraction, yet the muscles in his back maintained the stiff shape. His eyes were cognitive and lingered keenly on yours. He didn't choose to say anything else, and neither did you.

Your throat and your lungs felt as if they were packed with dust. And, what was there to say?

He dismissed a question that was brought up by a ragged-looking Sy. The veteran stopped his pacing by a blown-out window and shook his head. In a blur behind Will, you saw him remove his cap and use his stained shirt to wipe at the sweat on his buzzed head.

The air around Will's head was spiraling, the remnants of the firefight clinging to the air around you. You squinted and looked past the fog to see mutilated bodies, with thousands of bullet casings littering the floor.

Limbs twisted around, mangled, with pools of blood swallowing up each of the remains.

Every member of the Holford group was dressed in matching tan-colored suits, the corpses' jackets now drawn with scarlet. You weren't sure if you could answer the question, which man had been the one who grabbed you? Who killed Daniel?

Maybe he was one that slipped away.

Your braids moved from your face, the soft hairs by your forehead pushed back and smoothed away. Will's fingers, thoroughly slick with blood, left behind glistening streaks in their wake.

Following a short phone call made by Syverson, you three and the remaining number of Will’s men vacated the building. Duffle bags of cash and anything else that was of importance was secured.

While you made your way out of the structure, you caught the sight of armed workers, nudging the bodies of Holford’s group and aiming the end of their guns down at their heads.

The pops that rang out were sent past your mind. The air outside washed over you, fresh almost jarring. Under the occasional shots fired in the building, you could pick up the hum of insects and birds.

Your eyes fluttered under the tepid sunlight, and instead, you occupied yourself with the feeling of that. Just for those short seconds, you were under those rays.

Will was hot on your heels with a vigilant hand on your lower back, his other arm providing support for your shaky footfall. He was still running on hot, that look in his eye reflecting off far away from here.

He directed you toward a black truck and carefully helped you slip into the back passenger seat. After clicking the seatbelt over your lap, he dragged his eyes over you one last time, persisting on your wounds. He drummed his fingers on the palm of your hand and parted from you a promise,

‘It will be a little while, but I will be back. Sy will be taking us back to the house...we're gonna get you cleaned up.’

Through your lids and out the window of the vehicle, you observed the men’s work. Their actions were swift and it was clear to see that disposal of certain events was in their expertise.

A few of the guards were gathering red gallons of gasoline, entering the building, and dousing every surface on the interior. Others were negotiating with Syverson and Will, the latter man speaking with venom falling from his mouth. The last worker exited the archway and tossed the red bin in behind him.

Your legs ached. Minutes trickled by, and at first, you withheld moving. But it was as if each laceration was prying open. You took your eyes from the scene outside the truck and grit your teeth to readjust your body.

The window bore the weight of your head.

Will took a prolonged look at the decrepit building, his arms crossed and locked over his chest. The tendons in his jaw were spasming like a coiled knot and his mouth set at a firm line.

Whatever thoughts broke down in his mind, they were intensively racing and reflecting the failure of today. He sent a final nod to Sy before turning and making his way to the vehicle you were residing in.

Another man fished a lighter and cigarette out of his pocket, adjusting the strap of the rifle on his shoulder. He then flicked open the metal casting, lighting the end of the stick. Without closing the lid, he threw the lighter into the broken window of the building.

That drive was long. Despite the many twisting roads and turns, you noticed the flames shredding their way through the sky several miles away.

There behind you, Will's lips pressed to the crown of your head, with your body tucked into his chest. In your lap, you watched his torn knuckles flex. He formed a fist and would do so every couple of seconds, tremoring and taut. Eventually, he would ease up and relax those fingers, still shaking, but it would return.

Repeatedly, open and close...

open and close,

open and close.

➽─────────────❥

You flinched as Syverson carefully picked the glass out of your legs. You were sat on the granite countertop, bruised knees hooking over the edge and your foot resting in his camo-clad lap.

He was in a chair located directly in front of you, with his cap sitting on the counter and an assortment of tools surrounding it

Your wrist was the first that was looked at. It was throbbing, hardly able to be moved but the bleeding clogged. He cleaned it as much as he could and set it into a makeshift splint. Syverson then notified you that you most likely suffered fractures.

He would have a friend come tomorrow to properly take care of it.

The tweezers were skinny and almost disappeared under his thick fingers. He had his palm wrapped around your calf, and with an attentive eye, he leaned closer to dislodge more shards from your skin.

You wince as a jagged edge is plucked from your calf.

"Stop squirmin' little lady."

You tilt your head to the side and cradle your injured wrist in your lap. Your braids tangled and fell just over your shoulder. In a corner of your mind, you thought about a hot shower, scrubbing your skin, and taking the damn things down. To wash everything away.

It was absolutely anticipated.

Sy resumed his work, wetting his lips and holding back that vexatious grin.

The only sound resonating throughout the kitchen was the clink of the splinters hitting the plastic bowl, and the music of a film playing on T.V. Here and there you could make out Will's voice in the other room, his timbre suppressing an unhinged man.

How could he not? You knew how much today went south, it wasn't expected, but you didn't make an attempt to eavesdrop anymore.

Really, you didn't venture to do anything but sit and wait until the soldier at your feet was finished.

Will had entered the house before you and with not another step further, he conveyed to his partner that same pithy look. The point of your shoulder was gently tapped and under his bushy beard, the southern man offered you an apologetic look.

Sy was nothing but meticulous. He had a way about his movements that indicated his substantial experience. While he was working, your eyes glanced over that brawny man, taking in the thick slabs of muscle on his shoulders. You had to figure he possessed more scars than five men combined.

He had the look of a man who had seen a lot in his life and could destroy everything in his path, but to you, he was the sweetest he can be.

You withheld a moment longer, additional pieces of shrapnel were dug and removed from your limbs. He pulled back and sat down those tweezers, promptly moving his fingers to wrap around a cheap bottle of alcohol.

He doused a fresh white cloth with the clear drink and patted each of your opened wounds.

"Mwell...You're lucky you don't need any stitches, sweetheart," he husked.

Your lip quirked at his tone. He peered up at you with a ghost of a sanguine reflection in his eye. Remarkably, he was always the one to find a smile out of you, always after those wearisome days. You decided to indulge the man, forcing a curl to your lips. You then turned away and watched the images flash over the television screen.

His fingers lingered on a bigger cut on the top of your knee, clearing his throat. The muscles of your thigh tensed, like acid on flesh. Your nails clutched the surface of the granite and scratched shallowly.

Sy's thumb rubbed at the outside of your leg in return, applying a little more pressure to the wound before ultimately removing his fingers.

Your attention drifted away from the screen, you knit your brows down at your legs. You were sure that you would adorn some scars from today, the unfortunate memory coming in at each glance to your body.

The bottle of alcohol was placed between Syverson's legs, tucked close to his groin. You clocked your eye from his face back to the container. He was occupied wrapping bandages over your wounds, soon finishing off the last one before catching your look.

He took his hands from your legs, and palmed the neck of the bottle, unscrewing the cap. He tipped his bushy jaw back and poured the biting liquid down. Sy offered the drink to you with a crinkle of his nose. It was unspoken, but you chewed on your lip.

"Do we have anything else?"

➽─────────────❥

The bubbling of the ocean, that sparkling shore, and the break in the clouds, all of it was transfixing. You wanted to see the moonlight, to breathe the fresh air, and genuinely feel that you were alive.

So you slipped into something willowy. You couldn't pinpoint where it came from exactly. The tag was black and stitched gold in a foreign language, far too small to discern without a magnifier. From a closer look at the skew of the words, you could guess it came from somewhere in southern Europe.

The fabric was silk, completely pearly white with a sheer design layering over your chest. It was revealing, rightfully so though it was currently the dead of summer.

Moreover, it worked well to not agitate your wounds.

You passed by the living room where Sy had his feet kicked up on the coffee table, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The man was slumped as far as he could on that couch, all grime, perspiration, and fatigue.

You made sure to not close the glass-sliding door all the way.

Behind the sepia-colored bottle, you scanned about your surroundings. The palm trees strewn about the property swayed lazily in the wind, welcoming, disclosing to you: It's alright, you can relax now.

There was a blur of grey standing against the greenery, men in slacks with glimmering metal-encased by their arms. Those silent watchdogs weren't new to you, their presence would vanish from your mind from time to time. And even more so, the image of them called: It's alright, everything is okay now.

Except it wasn't, it wouldn't be for as long as you would remember today, but ever since arriving at this location you had been trying to convince yourself otherwise. Best practice was to acknowledge, right? You wouldn't pretend that today never happened, that you didn't come a hair's breadth away from perishing.

Being wasted away far before you should.

It's not hard to think about. This lifestyle, the outlook, and the expiration date of it all. You've known about it ever since you were a teenage girl.

The missing people that would show up in undisclosed locations, how strict your mother was with making friends, the luxury items in your home, and all of the days your father would be away, it didn't make sense until much later.

Securing all of your family's secrets followed quickly with your adulthood.

You think back to before everything split apart before you broke away. And now you stand outside of a clandestine house in God-knows-what country, you reflect.

It was never meant to last forever.

These nights you thought about many faces, strangers to the person you are now but people that blotched their fingerprints in your brain. Your mother comes around, stops during those times when you grow the most imaginative.

She would adorn a knowing look on her face but waited until you asked her for advice.

If you could just talk to her now. She'd probably kiss her teeth, cross her arms, and her heart breaking the longer she watched you. The dismay gone—no, she'd never forget what you did to the family, how you could give away your father like that with no further thought.

You hope that she would find it in her to understand, that she would look into you and see why you did everything.

If you opened your eyes and saw her standing before you in the sand, you'd take her hands in yours and ask her—just how to navigate. How do you go day by day and still feel alive?

For the first time in your life, you had no clue what she would reply with.

You were close to lifting your foot off the stone porch and making your way through the sand until the slide of the patio door reached your ears.

He sauntered out wielding a cup of amber, hair damp and pushed back from his forehead, his clothes changed to something fresh, new. He had just as much gauze wound around his body as you did, but he walked as comfortably as any man.

Will was born for this life.

He sat down by the outdoor dining table, placing his glass down and stretching his legs wide and relaxed in the chair. His fingers slid down the length of his shorts, stopping at his knees and staying there.

You wrapped the gown around your body and brushed away the bumps rising on your skin.

There was a gale that blew through whenever he was near, more submerging than the humid air around you. Something close to those storms that frightened you as a child, the imminence and the pause between claps of thunder.

Yet, every time that they came, you ever ran away to hide.

Will's brows creased, and he removed his attention from the undisturbed tide straight to you. His right hand moved back on his leg and pat the top of his thigh,

"Come here."

You were slow with approaching him. The bottle in your hands was replaced with his shoulders, the container clinking dismissively close by his drink. Will's arms opened up the moment you stepped between his thighs. His head tilted back, peering up at you. He wound his fingers behind your thighs and settled you astride his lap.

The way that you drew into him, there wasn't much helping it.

You could feel him on your neck, your cheeks and your lashes, Will's breaths, and his utmost tutelage. Maybe this was your favorite. From your position, you could look down at him just right, draw the light in his covert eyes.

You were able to capture all of the lines on his face, the shade of his skin, and those dots that appeared after being out in the sun. You could study this man, searching for whatever you wanted. Each and every time you tried discovering something new.

With all of the secrets he locked away from you, there were about a dozen escaping every other day. Tales whispered amongst the other members and strangers, lingering eyes on Will's back whenever he walked by. He carried himself as if he was grasping at direction, but it was well known how untamed he used to be.

No, he was still a wild animal in his soul, you knew that part about him wouldn't ever change. You bet if you took his hand in yours there would still be dried-up blood stuck under his nails. You knew this but here you are, towering over him and you still can't quite read the shadows in his eyes.

These times? Unfortunately, they were few and far between.

Right now, he held onto you like you wouldn’t be slipping away anytime soon.

“Y/n.”

Will was mindful of your wounds, fingertips gliding over the sides of your legs and taking a cautious hold of your bound wrist. The bruising feeling shot through the crushed bones. Will gingerly placed his lips along the top of your thumb and followed the bandage wraps down your wrist.

"How're you feeling?"

He didn't blink, and for an important reason, you wouldn't look away from him. He wanted from you, your reply, whether or not it was one-hundred percent.

"I'm okay."

Your coils moved with your head, a chary nod. You knew that you shouldn't think too deeply about that question. You were patched up, scrubbed clean from all of the stains today, his skin was there and warm under your hand.

So you scooted closer to Will, brushing your chest against his, and laced your fingers around the back of his neck.

He focused on your natural hair, how the tresses flowed down your back and framed your face. You made good on your promise to yourself on cutting the old-style away. There wasn't anything quite like that feeling, that weight falling away and nothing but an utterly new look.

You turned your eyes toward the horizon, catching the distant twinkling of fishing ships and airplanes. The red and white were faint, and sometimes those lights blended in with the stars. But never had they been any closer than several dozen miles.

On the shell of your ear and down your jaw, Will's facial hair started stroking and prodding.

"Doll…"

Your lips pulled tight. You carded your nails through his damp ringlets and twirled a few strands around, fidgeting.

"Don't you go soft on me."

His fingertips sunk lightly into the flesh of your lower back and bottom. You heard him sniff quietly. For a second there, you thought he was going to apologize to you. Though, Will's thumb hooked under your jaw, caressing with a tender stroke before leading you to him.

And he kissed you, real slow.

More than he ever had with you. Will was always messy—greedy, a palm on the nape of your neck and draining the oxygen from your lungs.

He kissed you as if you were about to fall into pieces. You pulled away from him after a long while, still dazed. It was before you could slide off that white gown and unlace the waistband of his shorts. All in front of those men in the shade. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last.

He was reluctant, his palms residual on your body, but you slotted your fingers through his and detached them from your hips.

Will carried somewhat of a smile slanting his face. In the low light, you can catch a glimpse of it, how his cut lip stretched. You braced your hand midway on his chest and lifted yourself up from him. You then palmed the wine in one hand, tossing a look from over your shoulder before setting on your way.

He didn't get up or try to chase after you, but the movement behind his eyes did.

You went on to do what you originally wished to, feeling the salt and the sand. You had been neglected of this for forever it seemed, months, years maybe. Just like through the window of the bedroom there was still a spell of sorts being cast on the beach, you weren't going to fight it.

All the way to the mouth of the shore you went, taking in sips of wine and filling your vision with the stars.

Never did he take his eyes from you.

"How's she holding up?"

Sy stood about two feet away with a towel draped around his shoulders and his back leaning against the patio door. Will turned his head to glance at the soldier, before returning to you.

"She's... she'll be alright."

Will sat up in his chair, sweeping his eyes through the backyard once again.

"We lost five guys today, three including the guys from the inner circle, two others were regulars...Still have over 27K to retrieve," Sy reflected.

He set his elbow on the armrest, rubbing his fingers over the stubble on his face and surrounding his lips.

"It's a shame what happened to that kid. I'll take care of his grandparents...send them a severance."

Christ, he was actually feeling a bit of guilt, more so with how the kid went out. But, he knew what this job was. He was told about the repressions and what was expected.

Daniel was a few months shy of his next birthday if Will had that right. And, now he wouldn't even be able to have an opened casket for his funeral. Not that this mattered in the end, though.

He wouldn’t have a casket at all.

"...They've fucking lost it if they think this is all forgotten."

Syverson nodded his head, already preparing his mind for any possible retaliation. No doubt much of the next few days will be filled with planning, making calls, and ordering more supplies. Maybe a few all-nighters just to get the deal straight, spending money just to make triple the return. He thinks that he might phone up Walker, the caliber of this situation had blown up in that man's range anyway.

"You have guys surrounding the perimeter?"

"Don't you go sweet on me, Will," Sy laughed. Of course, there were men around the perimeter. Not one spot was left open.

Will wrapped his fingers around the glass and took a small sip of the drink. His jaw twitched once again at that phrase, it just about mirrored yours, "I'm not."

There was a brief silence between the men, Will wasn't looking at Sy but both of them had somewhat of the same thought winding through their worn-out minds. The soldier followed his partner's eyes, down the shore and to where those tan grains disappeared in the water.

"Then why are you sitting outside, watching her like a hawk?"

Will did not say anything in return. His tongue prodded again at the cut on his lower lip. He slowly lifted his glass and knocked back the rest of the liquor in his cup. The water and the trees moved in the wind and the sound filled their ears. Those low clouds were picked up by the gust and eventually revealed the moon.

That cool blue light spilled down and radiated off your bronze skin. It was like you glowed, drawing Will's unreadable gaze.

You were pushing your feet toward the ocean, just barely letting the water touch. Your fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, not moving the container but, letting your nails pick at the ridges in the glass. Will stared at how your head tilted to the side, and your lashes closing, taking in the breeze blowing through you.

There he was dwelling, fingertips tapping on his knee and another bracing on his face, ruminating through those long corridors in his mind. As he watched you he couldn't help but think in the past, back when he first laid eyes on you and took in that fear entangled in your soul.

He thinks back to your inconceivable proposition, you were on your knees for him, begging for a chance to show him what you got. You were dead serious in the end and you slid to him that folded up paper with the keys to the universe.

He shook his head and scratched at his hair, Will's brain repeated those words that your father said to him. Through grit teeth, spitting, and bloodshot orbs, his voice echoed that foreboding line up to Will.

‘Listen, son, you fall asleep at night with the visions of the world twirling in your palms. You are hungry for it and you run rampant with the darkness that resides in every man. You don’t lock yourself back and you will stumble. The time will come where your dominion crumbles and knocks the crown off of your head. And when you wake, a phantom won’t take you, but you will be rasping for it when you watch everything you breathe for get torn to shreds.’

➽─────────────❥

Taglist: @feralrunaway @inlovewithhisblueeyes @emyearns @mansaaay @cavillryarchive @thetaoofzoe

➽─────────────❥

#henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill fanfic #Will Shaw #henry cavill x black!reader #black reader #woc reader #will shaw x reader #will shaw imagine #henry cavill x you #will shaw x you #henry cavill x black reader #the cold light of day

111 notes · View notes

catcorsair · 5 years

Note

19 😬

SO I tried to write a ficlet but this is 2500 words? Unedited, so bear with me. I’ll likely pop this up on ffn tomorrow or some other time idk don’t rush me

For @tasteofthebitchpudding – I didn’t even write smut! :O

19. Things you said when we were the happiest we ever were, or:

Reflection

Tonight she didn’t look to the painted ceiling as she so often would when the Angel spoke to her. Looking up, as if she could have found me there among the dusty, gas-lit candelabras and carelessly carved plaster rosettes. Looking up, as if in truth I weren’t so deep below. My sweet girl, my ingenue Christine, devoutly kneeling, her face upturned, and palms like molded porcelain clasped beneath her chin. She often twisted the beads of her rosary between her restless fingers even as we sang––as a supposed man of God, I did not know how to tell her to put the damnable thing down.

Tonight the beads lay forgotten upon the shining mahogany of her dressing-table. In the tremulous silence following her bold declaration, Christine clutched her white knuckles together and listened for her Angel’s reply.

Behind that cursed mirror, I was certain she could not have said what my treasonous ears suggested. Now the distant Angel regarded her in holy quietude, or so it must have seemed to her. The monster’s own depraved, mortal heart could not be so easily stilled.

“I love you,” my girl repeated, all humble timidity, to her voluptuous, silken lap.

Those forbidden, enchanted words, pouring out from between her parted lips, exalted lips bitten red like sweet berry-wine. For me.

“As you must love the holy messenger of the lord, my faithful child,” I said––perhaps with greater asperity than intended after far too extended a pause––careful to cast the Angel’s voice to floating about the hanging gas lamp above her bowed head. Away from the mirror. Not behind the mirror.

I am not here, good, charming girl, the Devil behind your dressing-room mirror. I am an Angel, look up. Look up.

On her little vanity-stool Christine sniffed an exhale out that fine upturned nose and buried her unquiet fingers in the warm, mounding silk of her lap, and with her watery gaze, studied their writhing paleness upon the fabric as if she held no control over their movements.

Her painted-ivory cheeks flooded with prurient, brilliant color. Hot to the touch, certainly. My indulgent fingertips found the shadowed glass of the mirror’s reverse to trace the pleasing curve of her bent-forward spine. Realizing what foolishness they enacted, I snatched the detestable things away.

And yet, the corpse was quickening.

Again my tender sweetling spoke to her dancing fingers. “For so long, Angel…it has been difficult for me, you know. Without Papa.“

“Yes, my dear,” I said gravely, well-pleased with my audible, if not actual, collectedness.

Her twilit gaze shot toward the mirror and again to her lap. I spread my fingers before me in a violently terse gesture of silent frustration.

Not behind the mirror! Never behind the mirror. The lamp, the ceiling!

“It’s just, everything was so…dark, really, if you can even understand…as if all the lights in the world had simply gone out and for all my searching I still could not find a match…” continued the beautiful child, her delicate chin lowered humbly, her voice tremulous, puerile, perfect, “until you.”

Normally I stand as we sing. More conducive to proper airflow. Better control of the voice. Less destructive on the knees, on my zibeline trouser-fronts that surely would object to any collision with the black filth that coated the floors, walls, of this cavernous passageway. This demon’s path to Hell.

Now on achingly senseless knees I pressed my bare palms flat upon the dust-warped vision of her, my delicious girl, all fluttering tension as she perched atop that little stool. She chewed her ripe lip. Waiting, again, for her Angel to speak.

And tell her he loves her in return.

I cooled my wasted forehead upon her shadowed afterimage, her untouchable apple of a silhouette; I closed my mismatched eyes.

“My child, that is enough––” I spoke, as tenderly as was possible and unfortunately, not at all with the Angel’s typical composure. My hot breath steamed upon the icy mirror-surface, heating and wetting my mucid flesh in the dank cavern.

I heard my sweet girl’s breathless protestations and strangled an ungentlemanly groan upon the glass. My repulsive fingers clawed absently at the bones of my thighs.

“Angel––” she tried.

I interrupted her. “Your lesson––dear––let us continue." Thowing my voice. Careful, careful. Anywhere but the mirror, abhorrent fool. A disease of a thing.

"No, please, Angel––hear me.” It wasn’t like my girl to challenge me. Bold, too much so, and yet, how charming to find her so brazen! A vixen indeed, my luscious little Christine.

A breath shuddered from my mockery of lips upon this terror of a face as I resisted the all-too-familiar desire to smash its repugnance upon the back of the mirror.

“Please…” in earnest she continued, her treasured voice like a curse in my ears as I dug my thumbnails, hard, into my temples. “It was you, Angel, who brought back the light…"

During this, she had stood––with my eyes still shut tight before the mercury-glass I did not catch her rise. At her sudden proximity to the mirror, my agitated nerves propelled me backwards within the stone cavern; I skittered on hands and knees like the fiendish thing that I am to crouch excitedly, breathlessly, against the wall opposite, my ruined trouser-legs perfectly disgusting.

Hiding like a criminal in the shadows of a room already hidden. A room the girl could never find.

With her plump, gentle arms fanned out low by her sides, Christine opened her palms––to me, surely, and yet not to me at all––as I watched her from my shameful prison.

"I need you to know how I love you,” she said to me, her eyes devotedly downcast upon her lovely little feet. Her supplicant palms trembled between us. White wrists. White ankles. White to my soiled, soiled, soiled––

“And I am grateful for your regard, my child, for it is a pure and good thing,” I said, finally, cursing my dryly stammering tongue. “What you speak of is divine, and is only your devoted love for your God,” My shoulder ached, half-crushed upon the unforgiving stone; I hated myself for a thousand loathsome things I could not name. Could not think, do.

“But it is not!” the passionate thing exclaimed, in sudden arousal. Her fervid gaze captured her reflection in the giant mirror. With a fluster of skirts she took a hurriedly impetuous step, two, toward the glass, then flung herself, breathless, at the base of the frame to press her cheek upon its surface.

Like a spider––ah, not so very far from accuracy––I very nearly climbed the wall behind me.

Her lush, red mouth dragged the glass as she continued, “it is you, you, that I love––not as I love God, for I love him too, and not as I love his holy chorus, but you––you––you––oh––,” she groaned earthily against the mirror, my gentle pet overcome. Seductive lips wetting the surface. Pink tongue tickling the glass. Rousing. Gorgeous. Forbidden.

“Angel, Angel––is it blasphemous to say the words? will you hate me for it?––for surely, you are not God, you are yourself––you laugh and think and speak, and I know you well, the person you are, the man––and it is for all of this, that I so entirely and devotedly love you!”

“Christine, please––” I breathed, begging the mordant air. I clawed at the stinking stones with my yellow fingers. Repulsive fingers. Unclean. “You are tired, exhausted––I’ve kept you too long––”

“There is nowhere I would rather be,” she told me, like a secret, and stroked the glass aside her steaming flesh with a sensuous finger. High upon the mirror plane, about her cascades of sticking curls. High, about her halo, and lower, lower, low––

“Dear girl––what you imply is blasphemous, I beg you not repeat it––” I stammered, almost reasonably, though I fell upon my foul palms and knees as zealous as a spring. A beast, ready.

“Do not be offended, my love, my Angel! Do not be angry––” she spoke as if her voice could reach me where her pink-tipped fingers could not. She caressed me with her words, delicious words that whispered and writhed and fogged upon the glass––I felt them, trembling, shivering, burning there behind the mirror. I saw the goose flesh rise upon her flesh as it did mine.

"I love you as a woman loves a man,“ my good, pure girl purred. "Not as an Angel, and I want you, need you, to love me too––as a man loves a woman––”

“I cannot love you in the way which you speak, child,” I began haltingly, though hot, shamed tears warmed the horror of my cheeks. “You mustn’t equate me to a man when I am not one.”

“But you do love me!” and then my girl added, with unbearable sweetness, “I love you for whomever, whatever you are!”

“Please. Please! Do not say such things, Christine.” In long, tortuous arcs I ground the vulgar stain of my face into the dirt beneath my prostrate form. “You know not what you say!” The black dust devoured my speech and still I whimpered out the words like a wounded animal, debased creature that I was.

“Please, my dear, dear girl,” I begged her, choking and sputtering in the bruising dust. “Nothing may come of it. I am your Angel of Music, and that is all I can ever be!”

“Then let it be so, and I will love you for it!” proclaimed my good, virtuous Christine, from there beyond my prison gate.

“I cannot be that if you must say such things to me!” I sobbed, screaming the words in foul seclusion.

She stared at her reflection as if she thought she might find me in it, but for all my carelessness my vile secret was safe. The lever, the hinge. No escape. My clever girl would not find it without the Minotaur’s aid.

“Angel, please!” Her little fist pounded upon the mirror-glass, set me to twitching about in the dark. Beating upon the unforgiving surface and whimpering her sweet ragged sounds. “Come in! Come in!” she moaned, and pressed her steaming forehead to the glass.

“I swear to be yours forever if you will only love me...” my girl promised, surrendering.

Without thought to how, or when, or even why, I had begun to crawl pathetically upon the blackened stones, dragging my senseless corpse toward her atop the corrupted mire beneath. Water pooled in the corners of my lips and I sputtered revoltingly as I spoke to her, plead with her, with the earnest helplessness of the utterly, entirely mad––

“Christine, Christine,” I sobbed, the Angelic guise abandoned as I slid like the serpent in the mud, “if I were a man, Christine, I tell you, I would love you as one!”

“Angel...” cried my girl as fog steamed from her open, sweating palms, a burning crown about either side of her perfect forehead. I drew myself, slithering, to the ground beneath her and crawled up the mirrors hidden face, to place my sickening palm upon her through the glass.

“If I were a man, Christine, I would love you as no man could hope to dream of loving a woman,” I said to her then, my familiar voice insane with passion, my own putridity a stain upon the mirror-glass. “With all the glory of Heaven above,” I swore, “I would love you, Christine Daaé, so much that you would never want the love of any other man but me again, so much that no other man, living or dead, could hope to satisfy your desire for it––”

Her fingers traced aimless patterns upon the glass. I kissed their shadows, drew my lips, my tongue atop them until the the surface shimmered with my own spit like a hot ocean rippling overtop her.

She felt the warm ghost of me upon the cold surface––upon her––I know she did, for she gasped and touched her fingertips delicately to her red lips, then returned her hands to the mirror-glass to gaze upon them in awe. I covered her palms with my own. Again she gasped, a little tortuous sigh of irresistible pleasure. She was on her knees––how red, how aching they must be––her tender, lovely body pressed close against the mirror. She drew her cheek along its surface, listening, hearing me, sensing my unseen shape so impossibly close––

“If I were a man, my Christine,” I promised her, my forked tongue silken through the glass, “I would love you until you could imagine nothing else save me and my love for you, so your entire world was only me, me, loving you––”

Upon my knees I pressed my sweating shape to hers, crushing my abhorrence upon her, as moaning sweetly she writhed against the warmth of me. “Sweet, sweet Christine, my lovely, luscious girl-love, I would remind you every minute, every second, until you hated the sound of my voice, until you dreaded the words, I love you, I love you, I love you––”

“Never,” she breathed, pressed to me like a lover, “never, never––”

“Yes––” I said, into the shadow of her ear, “if I were a man, that is how much I would love you––”

The words growled from my throat, words like a disease, words as ruinous as the foul mouth that spoke them. Words that could tear everything down, take everything away, and still were worth the risk just to speak and hear the responses spoken––

Again my sensuous sweetling groaned, as I covered her hands in my own, as I moved against the base heat of her upon the mirror, the vulgar animal at the stinking core of us––

“I would have you, Christine,” the maw of my lips promised hers, “if I could be right there beside you now, I would have you, do you hear me? As only a man can have a woman, I would have you now. As only a man who loves you can––”

Now her eyelids fluttered against the glass, as her open mouth pressed sidelong into the reflective surface. With one palm still captured by the heat of mine my disgusting, delicious girl stroked at herself madly, mindlessly atop her clothes, hot fingers following the hidden curves of her, digging and squeezing at the softness beneath the shifting fabric as she moaned into her own caresses. Hip. Waist. Breast––she rocked upon her touches, sticking, trembling flesh pressed hard upon the mirror. I was that hand, I, those fingers, tracing and discovering her beyond the blind solitude of my rank prison, the damning curse of this repugnant mask. It was me, me, learning her, pleasing her, loving her––

“Have me––” In paroxysmic abandon she growled the words, rising deep from within her throat like the most sensual secret, as she squirmed in sublime mockery of a human union upon the glass. Upon me, on me, she cried out, “Angel!”

“Call me Erik, and tell me again how you love me!” I begged her, emboldened by desperate, esurient mania. My quixotic heart betrayed me––like a fool I was finally overcome by love, the self-preservation of sense had thoroughly abandoned me––and with it, wrath, madness, fear, hatred––my usual companions, my four horsemen––I basked in the light of love, acceptance, hope, something, something, something I could not name, but, oh, oh, how something overwhelmed me––

Bliss! Bliss!

And still my fair, fallen love spoke the words, her sublime and honest words upon the ruin of me! My name, my name! She said my name!

“Erik, then, oh, holy Erik!” The sweet girl said it, again and again! “It is the Angel Erik that I love, Erik, my love, and I will love you always, Erik, Erik, if you will let me!”

“Press your lips to the mirror-glass,” I demanded, my voice heavy with ardent declaration, “and know it is I who kisses you, I, your devoted Erik, who loves you more than any man has ever loved a woman, and I, Erik, who will love you still, even after you are long dead!”

All things are fleeting, but this was a sensation I had never known and I would cling to it until its inevitable destruction. Because sweet Christine pressed her lips to the steaming surface of the mercury-glass, and mine I touched to hers. And when finally she drew away my girl brushed her pink fingertips over the succulence of her parted lips and met her own wide eyes, reflected––and so she met my eyes with them––and never, never have I seen such deliciousness, such loveliness, such pure, sweet goodness reflected back at me.

My perfect reflection. My girl, Christine.

#Phantom of the Opera #e/c #poto #catcorsair answers #catcorsair writes poto smut #phanfiction

35 notes · View notes