#murder murder kill attack bite gnaw bite

[carbonateddelusion]

FAMILY, am I right?

[murdocking]

„ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ”

-a chishiya series ch4 ch6

masterlist

warnings + notes: sorry i took forever >< just mentions of alcohol and weed… idk what else tbh i made this at 3am lol bye

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰɪᴠᴇ

- THREE OF CLUBS

you’ve been tapping the heels of your feet onto the floor for nearly 30 minutes, replaying a rhythm you are unable to remember. to others, it just plays off as though you’re enjoying the party music that assaults your senses- but in actuality, you’re arguing with it. though you try, you cannot combat the obnoxious noise that shakes through your body.

“hey” his slightly raspy voice makes you jump, but chishiya seems as though he was aiming for that reaction.

“dont sneak up on me like that…” you’re holding your hand to your heart while he smirks, sitting on the beach chair beside you in front of the pool

“it was a perfect moment. what are you doing here? shouldn’t you be sleeping?” hes right, its still dark outside- and you’re not exactly thriving in the club areas. you’re not exactly sure why you’re not in your room either, or possibly exploring the resort.

“i just wanted to not be alone i suppose”. it seems sadder than it is, but you like the feeling of being alone, not being lonely. and if sitting by rabid beach members alleviates that loneliness- then you’ll welcome it gladly.

chishiya plays it off like he understands, but he honestly doesn’t. he thrives off of his own self, and he rarely can tolerate being around more than 3 people at once, let alone a crowd. to him, he has no benefit from being around others- especially if they’re overbearing like the majority of those in the beach. it just simply isnt his scene.

“if you say so.”

neither of you speak, simply sitting there beside each other as the wind blows tougher, and you can sense chishiya has ran back to the comfort of his own mind. its odd, he seems to always be in thought- but youre too freshly involved to get to ask him what it is he’s debating inside.

chishiya knows he’s ethically wrong for this, he took an oath to do no evil, yet here he was- sitting beside you as though he is your friend while mapping out an idea that will most likely get you killed for his own benefits. and he thinks he’ll start to take advantage of the things you’re opening up to him about. it doesn’t make him feel too good, but he stands up and looks at you before speaking

“come with me.”

chishiya leads you up a wounding tower of stairs, and you secretly wonder if he decided not to use the elevator just to make fun of you losing your breath over climbing up multiple stories. eventually, you hit the top of the stairs, and he forces open a metal door, leading straight to the roof.

“oh wow!” you’re impressed. the view from the roof is beautiful, and the people downstairs seem so small and little. from here, you can see the greenery attacking the city- and somehow it is comforting.

however, you get the feeling chishiya hasn’t led you up here to show off the new world to you. the air is tenser than before, and uncertainty runs deep inside of you.

he notices the atmosphere as well, and moves a bit closer to you to whisper, as though the people on the ground can hear his words.

“hatter will want to see what you’re capable of soon. i know your visa has days left, but he needs to know what you can bring to the table.”

“i didn’t know i needed to audition for some guy. and we had a game together, can’t you just vouch for me?” you’d rather not get thrown into another murderous game so quickly- you have only had such little time to recover mentally, and now you had to join another potential bloodbath? you don’t bother to look at chishiya, you’re already becoming absorbed by the mass possibilities of what this future game will present you with. he just observes you, noticing how you begin to bite on the inside of your cheek and cracking your knuckles in front of you.

the actions bother him, your anxious mood making him furrow his brows and gnaw on his lip, and after a long silence- chishiya betrays his own self by replying to you

“i’ll find a way to get us together when the day comes.” though the sentence is short, and the blonde immediately begins to walk away after speaking, you know in your own way that chishiya wants to give you his support.

the days leading up until your next game go by fast, and chishiya notices how uncharacteristic he begins to behave. he actively searches for you throughout the day, and with every small moment you learn more about him.

he tells you about how he mainly practices in a pediatric hospital, but strays from the conversation of his own younger memories. finding that you have a unique interest in reading, you both begin to venture for books within the conference rooms of the resort. you admit that your confidant helps you with the budding anxiety of the inevitable game- and you’ve been able to branch out to others as well. kuina has been a common late-night partner of yours, with her it feels as though you are meeting a friend in the true world. your conversations are light and airy, but you both connect on an emotional level as well with ease.

kuina has helped you to meet others as well- like the boy with the cap you saw in your last game, who’s name you’ve learned is tatta. with him, he seems to follow more of ann’s directions- you can’t blame him, she’s probably one of the least intimidating executives the beach has.

you can hear the horns and yelling downstairs, and you recognize it as the time for the late night games. soon after, there’s a knocking on your door. you don’t have to think about who it is, and you only pray that he managed to get you both in the hellsent game together.

when you open your door, chishiya’s face is unreadable. he observes you from under his white hood, zipper head grazing his lower sternum- and is that eyeliner…?

he just nods his head as a greeting, giving a low wave you as you mumble a “hi” and close the door behind you. you hid the bottom of your swimsuit with the sweatpants you had worn before, and an athletic jacket ontop. chishiya doesn’t wait for you, and starts to walk towards the elevator on your floor- speaking without bothering to look at you.

“i tried my best, tatta will be joining us.”

this is all he says to you, he doesn’t even reply to your thanks, simply staring forward at the elevator doors. you get a sense of deja vu from the experience.

if you thought the silence from your room to the lobby was killer, the ride to the game itself made you claustrophobic.

you could feel the alcoholism from the man sitting in the passenger seat, emanating from his breath and marinating into the roughened seats of the car. his loud guffaws while he told some falsified story of his previous games to the stoned girl that sat beside you in the backseat who simply egged on his already high ego. chishiya sits on your right side, but stares out the car window with his music playing- and tatta drives the car stiffly. you can read the nervousness in his eyes when he looks into the rear mirror and sees your face before quickly paying attention to the road once more.

you’re rather uncomfortable, shuffling more towards chishiya once the girl next to you begins to start talking with her hands- and making obscene motions. chishiya practically hugs the car door so you dont touch his shoulder, and you try your best not to. the air is stifling, and you just resort to closing your eyes while shaking your leg to try and calm yourself. you can faintly hear chishiya’s music that he’s been blasting in his ears, and try to focus on that instead of the drunk dude in the front talking about how he screwed some chick a day ago.

secretly, chishiya notices this- he sees how your leg starts to bounce to the rhythm of his old music, and your breaths have gone into harmony with his own. he simply just raises the volume more, ignoring the slight discomfort he begins to experience from the loudness.

when you arrive, the game arena simply seems like a recording studio. its when you grab a phone the counter, that you notice something is different. the phones are protected in casing- and the individual mic room has metal flooring and rusted metal walls. tatta stands beside you, following your line of sight and also seeing the thick metal hinges on the bottom of the other room, unlike the red carpet of the studio where you are directed into.

there are buttons and microphones lodged into the silver counter in the studio, a mesh cover sits over a thick, soundproof, glass window into the other room, joined by a thick metal door on the left.

the girl speaks, her hair moving upwards as she begins to clip it up. “is this going to be some sort of skill game? we doing karaoke here or something?” she laughs, and the drunken man shakes his head- quickly sobering up as compared to his behavior in the vehicle not too long ago.

“something’s up, that door is too thick for something as trivial as that.” he’s right, the door is to protect those in the room- or maybe , hold whatever is in the other room back.

GAME REGISTRATION CLOSED! THERE ARE FIVE PLAYERS, THE GAME WILL NOW BEGIN.

you can hardly pay attention, because the tiny arena begins to creek loudly- and as the feminine robotic voice continues her spoken instructions, you lift your head up to view the studio.

the recording room’s metal floor has begun to open up, and water rises to meet the hinges of the flooring. there is no light, just dark water in the opening of the floor.

DIFFICULTY: 3 OF CLUBS!

RULES: FIND THE CODES AND INPUT THEM INTO THE CORRECT ORDER. THE SET WILL BE FOUND UNDERWATER, AND THE ORDER IS WITHIN THE CONTROL STUDIO. YOU HAVE TWO CHANCES TO PUT THE CORRECT CODE ORDER IN. AT LEAST TWO PEOPLE MUST BE IN EACH ROOM AT ALL TIMES. AFTER 30 MINUTES, IF NEITHER ATTEMPT IS CORRECT, IT WILL BE A GAME OVER AND BOTH ROOMS WILL BE GASSED.

30 minutes to move in the dark? were these codes supposed to be divine messages from some guardian angel ?

chishiya wastes no time, quickly moving a swivel chair as the phones begin to count down from 5 minutes- 5minutes to decide who will be in each room.

he begins searching the room like a maniac- even though tatta shyly calls his name.

“chishiya… we need to uhm, figure out how this is going to work.” he simply lets out a gruff “uhuh” while tossing some old vinyls in a box to the floor.

“well nice to know youre helpful! now i’m not that great at swimming- i grew up on the countryside so i dont think im the best bet for this. how about you eh?” the drunk man nudges the younger lady- her eyes dizzy with a reply to his taller stature.

“well… i did middle school swim club … but that was before i moved away-“ he wastes no time, grabbing her wrist and forcefully dragging her towards the metal door despite her protests. “then you’re perfect for the job! who else?!” he scans the room, landing his gaze on you. “can you swim?”

theres about 2 minutes left on the countdown and you resist letting out a laugh in his face. “so are you determining people’s roles now? it seems like you’re just trying to deflect having a role in this altogether.” you say, avoiding answering his question.

he seems ticked off, sneering as he walks closer to you- making you look up at him but your stare doesn’t waver. “you know what, i recall someone saying this was hatter’s game run for you…” he eyes you, looking down at your body and back at your face “so who better to fill the empty spot than you..!”

you can feel your heart drop a little, but internally- you know you should’ve expected it. chishiya eyes you from the side of the room, subtly nodding his head and you know you’ve hit a wall.

the gravity of the situation doesn’t hit until the countdown ends, and the metal door slamming against the wall and locking shut isolates you and the other girl from the three men in the other room. it is silent, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot hear those in the control room.

the girl’s arm is shaking, and you’re not exactly confident in the abilities she has to carry this game to its end.

in front of the glass window, is a table with two headsets- and you hand the girl the other one. chishiya looks at you from his seat behind the control panel, eyes behind the mesh cover of the glass window. he has pity for you.

GAME START

[sarawritestories]

His Nightmare Part 2

Nash Wells x Female Reader

Her nightmare

His Nightmare Pt 1

His Nightmare Pt 3

Summary: Eobard is keeping Nash's body hostage, Y/N is frustrated with the potential threat about losing another person she cares about, and the one thing she dreads most returns.

Content Warning: Angst, Rage, grief, blood, death, murder, zombies?(it makes sense, i promise). Dark Nightmares, a symptom of a panic attack but is not named. Cliffhanger, no happily ever after yet.

Word Count: 1590

Tags: @eonash @twilightlover2007 @yetanotherwells @achromaticerebus

Y/N was sitting in the cortex as Barry and Cisco were in the pipeline talking to Eobard Thawne, who possessed Nash’s body. She was gnawing on her bottom lip as Frost walked in, “You alright, Y/L/N?”

The younger meta shrugged, “Define okay.” She released a sigh, looking up at Frost, “I was finally feeling as though my life was getting back into place. When Earth-2 was destroyed and not being able to tell anyone that Harry was gone, my family was just wiped out. And the Monitor made it where I couldn’t speak whenever I wanted to bring it up. It was crippling in more ways than one. I felt extremely alone, and Crisis took so much from us. My home was a constant reminder of what I lost, and Nash never questioned that I wanted to stay with him. Never faltered when I had my first nightmare and the numerous ones that followed it. I finally got to this point of feeling like my old self again of being happy with myself and happy in his company.” Slamming her fist against the table in frustration embers sparking from her fingers, causing Frost to jump and take a step back. “And Thawne went and fucking ruined that for me, again!”

Y/N looked at frost orange, consuming her irises in her eyes. “I’m tired of his games. He will not take Nash from me.” With that, she storms out of the cortex, leaving Frost to notice the scorch marks Y/N left on the table.

Storming to the cortex to see Barry and Cisco, arms crossed the evil speedster leaning toward the glass when his eyes glanced up to find Y/N at the end of the hall, her eyes bright orange, “Hello, Sweetheart. You can get closer, I won’t bite, hard.”

“I would suggest keeping your mouth shut before I do so for you in a permanent fashion,” Y/N snapped, being consumed by rage.

Her two best friends turn their expressions, shifting from confused to fear at her glowing eyes. “Oh shit,” Cisco muttered. As she approached the cell, Cisco grabbed her arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “He can’t hurt you, Y/N.”

“He’s right, I can’t hurt you physically,” he gave her a sly wink, “But one swift motion and I can take one more person from you, can’t I, Angel.”

Y/N became blinded by rage at Thawne’s use of Nash’s nickname for and lunged for the cell, Thawne not even flinching as Cisco and Barry held her back. “You, Son of Bitch! Bring him back, you Bastard!”

Thawne laughed as he pushed away from the glass as Y/N pushed her friends away, flames kissing her fingertips. Anger and pain overtaken her senses. She turned back, “Open the doors.”

“Y/N,” Barry slowly approached his partner, “I need you to calm down.” Moving closer, he noticed that her hands were shaking, “I know it hurts, I know you want Nash back. We all do, but that look in your eye, you want to kill Thawne, I’ve been there, I know what that feels like. Killing him will not bring Nash home.”

“Maybe not, but then Thawne can let me have peace finally.” Y/N gritted out through her teeth.

“I know, but Nash and the Council of Wells wouldn’t want that. They wouldn’t want you to kill on their behalf.” Barry cupped her cheek, her eyes slowly going back to her normal eye color, rage slowly dwindling as Cisco closed the door, cutting off Thawne’s view on the moment. Y/N looked at Barry and embraced him. Sobbing in his shoulder, she could feel Cisco wrapping his arms around her from behind, soothing her as she let out the tears she had been holding in all day.

The trio stayed in that position until Y/N sobs turned into soft hiccups, and Cisco led her to the med bay, where he insisted she lay down and get some rest. Not having the strength to fight him, she did what she was told, and she fell into a deep sleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

Y/N startled awake S.T.A.R Labs dark and empty, getting up she walked over to the cortex the sudden metallic stench assaulting her nose, and losing balance from a slippery substance on the floor, causing her to fall. Pain shooting from her head, she lifted her hand to see her hand covered in blood. Looking to her left, her eyes were met with Cisco’s eyes lifeless, and the light snuffed out of them

Y/N scrambled to get up and took a moment to regain her balance and take in the sight of the cortex with a sob, the bloody hand going up to her mouth in shock. Team Flash scattered across the room bloody, bruised, and lifeless. Her friends gone, why had she not been awake? Hands gripped her waist, and her body froze as the warmth of someone’s breath brushed against her ear. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, Sweetheart.” Thawne’s low register caused a shiver down her spine as he gripped her tighter with the assumption that she was going to flee. He pressed her back against his front and gave her a tender kiss on the head. “Now, I can have you all to myself, and no one can stand in my way.”

Y/N did everything she could to keep the bile from crawling up her throat. Swallowing it down, her throat extremely dry, she whispered, “You killed them all, just for me?” she looked at Barry’s body his limbs twisted in every direction, a small trickle of blood poured from his mouth pooling beneath his head, Y/N could hear every drop of blood hitting the floor as if she gained super hearing overnight.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

She closed her eyes, and Thawne’s voice drowned the dripping blood.“Well, Barry surely had it coming, and to be fair, I did recruit some help.” At that electricity lit up the room, she opened her eyes and gasped and began wriggling in her captor’s arms, trying to break free as Savitar and Zoom loomed over Iris and Caitlin’s limp bodies.

She managed to turn and face Eobard to find Harry’s face. His lips and skin tinged blue from death, “You could have saved me, Princess.” She looked back to see zombie forms of the Council behind him, “You could have saved all of us. You let him kill us.”

“You abandoned us, Kitten.” H.R. spoke in a lifeless tone that scared the young meta. Getting out of Harry's arms, she created some distance to get her breathing back in order.

“You left me at the hands of Thawne, my body no longer mine to control, and it’s all on you, Angel,” Nash’s voice rang out.

Y/N fell to her knees, not caring that her knees cracked against the concrete or blood stained her dress. She wrapped her arms around her waist and began to rock herself in hopes it would calm her down. But she could feel the approach of the two speedsters grabbing her and lifting her and bringing her back to her feet. Her head hung low, guilt, shame, and grief, overtaking her ability and willingness to fight. The familiar sound of a hand moving rapidly caught her attention, but not enough to look up.

A hand gripped her chin and forced her head up as she was finally met with Eobard Thawne with the face he was born with and not the stolen face of Harrison Wells. A smirk ghosts his lips, “Goodbye, Y/N,” with his parting words, she watched as he shoved his hand through her chest.

Gasping, Y/N sprung from her mattress sweat, glistening her forehead as Barry startled from the chair. “Hey, what happened?” Barry shook off the grogginess as he saw his friend struggling to breathe. He approached her and guided her head, between her legs, “Take deep breaths. Inhale,” she inhaled along with him, “Exhale.” She exhaled, and they did that for a few moments as Y/N’s breathing went back to normal. Barry rubbed soothing circles on her back as the tears stained her cheeks.

“Did you have a nightmare?” She sat up, looking at her friend she nodded. “The same one?”

Y/N shook her head, and her voice came out strained, “Worse, so much worse.” She laid her head on Barry’s shoulder as he just soothed her.

~Meanwhile~

Nash was struggling in his bonds as Thawne began to pace back and forth. “Did you see how mad she was back there? I thought she would have killed me on the spot.” He got down to Nash’s level, “She does like you a ton though doesn’t she. I’ll make sure she has no memory of you when I have her back in my possession”

Anger flooded through Nash as he lunged to head but him but Thawne reacted just in time to avoid the strike. Nash groaned through the gag, his hands and wrist slick with blood from rubbing against the rope to break free. He tried to say, “Don’t you dare touch her!” but it only came out muffled.

Thawne held a hand to his ear, “What was that? Make sure to annunciate, Nash. I might have taken that as your blessing to do as I please with your little angel.” Fury flashed in Nash’s eyes as Thawne walked away with a wave. “I’m sure you will be seeing her soon. They are planning something I can feel it.” The speedster turned and gave him a wink, ”Sweet Dreams, Lover Boy.”

To Be Continued...

[zehecatl]

They call him dog, more often than not.

Jak doesn't mind. Doesn't give a shit, because he's been worse than some loyal pet, and dogs bite, like him, so maybe it's a fitting enough thing to be called. Better than monster, or freak, or murderer.

Torn doesn't like it.

He's fucking obvious about it, bristling and glowering whenever he hears the word whispered, hushed. It's funny. Cute.

"It's true," he says, one day, when a single touch might snap Torn in half. Snaps his teeth, fangs against fangs.

Torn glares at him, then. Looks put out, annoyed, like Jak is being purposefully dumb, which, maybe. He could dig down, could peel it apart and find the sore spot Torn is gnawing at, but this is easier.

Quicker, too.

He raises his eyebrows. Spreads his palms out, fingers splayed. Goes "woof."

He knocks Torn's knife aside with the back of his palm. Laughs. Avoids the hand going for his throat, and flips over- feels the crackle of dark eco roaring through his veins, feels the spark of it between his claws.

The side of Torn's foot catches him, and he spins across the floor, gets his hands up just in time to nick claws across scarred skin, as Torn pins him down.

"You're impossible," Torn says, palm warm across his collar, and Jak could tear his throat out, could dig his claws in. Could kill him, could do it, just like this-

"You're not some fucking animal, Jak."

His arm drops.

Jak thinks he might have flinched, hard. Feels an ache in the back of his head.

"Shut up," he croaks, throat locking up, breath hitching. He feels small. Torn's barely got any weight on him, and still he feels trapped.

Torn leans back. Easy as that. Removes his palm, his weight, and lets Jak turn sideways, lets him curl up on the floor.

He doesn't leave.

Sits down beside him, instead, legs touching, just so, so Jak knows he's here. It's infuriating.

(it helps)

Torn doesn't say anything. He sits there, on the dirty floor, and lets Jak dissociate through a panic attack, because apparently he knows to do that. Apparently he knows Jak well enough to hit him where it hurts, just to get the fucking sick out.

He hadn't even realised it was starting to rot.

[confused-robot-cat]

The Acceptance of Violence in the Wizarding World

I haven't played Hogwarts Legacy, but I've heard a lot of people talk about how nonchalantly the player character murders people in increasingly fucked up ways, and nobody in-universe seems to give much of a crap. I'd like to explain why that might be perfectly in line with the way the wizarding world works.

So! From an early age, witches and wizards are likely exposed to a something that may negatively affect their sense of empathy. Paintings. Paintings are like some Who Framed Roger Rabbit shit, animated characters complete with personalities able to interact with the real world. If Walt Disney had been a wizard, they'd have cinemas by now.  Paintings and even photographs in the wizarding world move around within their frame, and some can even travel beyond. They can speak, they can react emotionally, and can even be trained to mimic the person depicted like training an AI to pretend to be a dead celebrity. The magical community learns early on that no matter how convincing a depiction of a person is, they're not alive. So things that look like humans aren't necessarily sentient or sapient.

But pictures are just one thing, right? That's not much of a connection to real living things. Well, let me introduce you to a lovely book written by Newt Scamander. That's right, it's Fantastic Beasts time! The movie series that would have been much improved if David Yates hadn't cut all those important scenes because when you read the screenplay they're ten times better than the Harry Potter movies ever were and the decision not to continue the five part saga is grounds for a terror attack on WB studios. Wait, what were we talking about? Oh yeah. Animals.

  The wizarding world is full of creatures that look like humans to some degree! And I don't just mean vampires and centaurs. Gnomes are pests in the wizarding world. Imagine walking out into your back garden and there's a bunch of tiny naked fat men running around shitting on your lawn and gnawing on your house's foundations. They're a serious pest in the wizarding world, and while they appear humanoid and can even speak, they're non-sapient and it's perfectly legal to get rid of them by setting loose a magic talking weasel on them. Then you can take a photo of the weasel devouring your tiny man-pests and hang it on the wall to replay the event for all eternity. The weasel is, of course, also non-sapient despite its power of speech.

  There are also Doxies, tiny naked people with extra limbs and wings that hide in your curtains and bite you with venomous fangs. They and fairies both have developed languages, and both can be killed with insecticide if you want to get rid of them because they're considered non-sapient and have no rights either. Pogrebins, ogres, trolls, erklings... So then, why is it so strange for wizards to just accept House Elf slaves? Their bigotry against goblins, centaurs, and mermaids definitely doesn't seem all that strange for the world in which they live.

Finally, I'd like to talk about Conjuration. Wizards and witches can wave their wands around and poof an animal into existence. A whole fucking animal. Now, if one reads Miranda Goshawk's Book of Spells, they'll find that conjured animals aren't real and will fade away after a while. This amount of time is indeterminate. Some can last until the caster them self passes away. But they look so real!

Ultimately, wizards and witches are surrounded by things that look like them, sound like them, and act like them but aren't even sapient. They're also surrounded by things that appear alive but that life is a matter of illusion. Indeed, even otherwise inanimate objects can appear to develop personalities over time (see: Arthur Weasley's Ford Anglia). But they're not alive. In a world like this, the magical community can easily become detached and lose a sense of value for life, because so often life turns out to be nothing more than an illusion. So when 20th century wizards are happily throwing around buzz-saw flying discs that can take people's fingers off, it's not too surprising that 18th century wizards might turn each other into barrels of gunpowder and yeet them into a crowd.

[cherokeegal1975]

Unexpected Cargo, Ch. 1 Part 2 by Meriah Smith (author's note below as well)

Johnny's heart sank. A royal visit in the middle of nowhere couldn't be good news. Out h ere, the king could get away with murder and worse without polite society knowing any wiser.

Laughing and gaming with cards or dice, they would sometimes try to torment him by offering him food or water then denying it. After the second time, Johnny just ignored them, laid down and tried to rest as the night cooled uncomfortably.

He didn't know how long he lay there, shivering as the temperature continued to drop as the sun set. His only company was a single bored guard that glanced frequently at the others gaming with longing.

Sometime later, he heard his guard say with a nasty chuckle, "Have a drink!"

Johnny opened his eyes then rolled out of the way barely in time to avoid being urinated on. The guards all laughed at him and cheered his antagonist as he put his private parts back into his loos-fitting grey pants. They laughed again when Johnny doubled over in pain as he lay on his side, biting back a cry as his lower belly cramped up. They mysterious attacks never lasted long, but they left him sweating and sick to his stomach. So far, he managed to avoid vomiting and was grateful to be spared that indignity at least.

He didn't know how he was going to escape in his current condition, but he was determined to try as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He attempted to make himself comfortable on the sand again, trying not to shiver, willing his stomach to settle and struggling to ignore the increasing ache in his limbs from being tied up for so long.

Then to everyone's surprise, came a sweet singing voice with unintelligible words drifted in from the dark. It was haunting, achingly beautiful and filled with such longing that tears formed in Johnny's eyes. "Oh please, Goddess no!" he thought desperately. "Fly away Little Girl!"

Even a few of the royal guards started to sniffle quietly; it would take a heart of stone to not be moved by her song. Their leader barked an order at some of his underlings to go and find the singer and bring her back to him.

A soft almost inaudible scuffling came up from behind him, followed by a tugging sensation at his wrists. He smiled in the dark and didn't know whether to praise or reprimand Little Girl and Goldie for coming up with this plan. Fear ripped through him at the idea of them being killed before he got the chance.

Goldie continued to gnaw as fast as she could though the tough ropes at his wrists from inside of his left sleeve, so the guards wouldn't spot her. It was a good thing that Johnny's sleeves were so loose fitting, because Goldie was the size of a small domestic cat. In about thirty seconds her sharp front teeth made short work of the rough hemp rope an then she scrambled silently to chew through the rope binding his feet while hiding inside his loose pants leg.

Author's note: Sorry, I have to stop here. It would be so much easier if Tumblr would stop giving me error messages every time I copy and paste sections of my manuscript. I'm out of time anyway. I think I got over enthusiastic about this idea in any case. So, I'll try out sending links again and seeing if I can have better results than last time I tried that.

This book is one year's worth of work and it took me four years to complete it because I had to drop the project for a while, but I came back to it early because I had a really bad toothache and needed a distraction from my pain. Didn't stop me from hurting, but it helped me to deal with it while I waited for days until my dentist appointment finally happened. I was in agony around chapter 14 and 15 and quite likely a ways after that. Writing helped, but anyone who's ever had a bad toothache will know what I'm talking about. Having to wait days to get if fixed was awful.

So, next time, just links. That will save me some time and effort. DeviantART is safe enough. Been there for years with no issues.

To get you started, here's the link to Chapter 1:

Unexpected Cargo Ch. 1 by CherokeeGal1975 on DeviantArt

And yes, that's my illustration. Not the best, but hey, not terrible either. I wasn't going for hyper realistic anyway.

Could anyone else see this as a beginning of an anime mini series?

Links to the next chapter are in the description of the post, as well as a link to where it can be purchased on Amazon.

[mehbzz]

Part three of Just Us. Stu Macher/Billy Loomis/F!Reader.

@polyghostfacehours @polyghostfacehours offer of all their healthiest milking goats for a part three was too good to refuse ad @looooooooomis gets one last tag because they were the kick-start to the reignition of my love for Billy and stu. Their final girl series is incredible.

There's something about making Stu into an asshole that I love.

18+ Dubcon/noncon, oral sex, abusive relationships, possessive controlling behaviour, stu being an asshole. -----------------------------------------------------

Arrested. Arrested. The word loops through your head as you sit on your couch, the eerie silence of your home only broken by the soft sound of Stu in the kitchen talking to someone on the phone.

Billy was arrested, a murder suspect. He's not actually responsible, is he? The doubt makes you feel nauseous. Stu had been nonchalant when he'd turned up on your doorstep, told you it was a mistake, a misunderstanding and he'd be released soon, but you had spoken to Tatum, and Sid. She didn't sound like she had misunderstood anything, Sid has sounded terrified. All you can focus on is the night you were attacked. Had that been Billy? The nausea morphing slowly into panic as you try to imagine it. Had it sounded like him? The hand around your throat, the way his hips had moved. Had it been Billy? Smelled like him? It can't have been.

But-, you lean forward nibbling on your thumb anxiously. But. There shouldn't be a but. You shouldn't be doubting. He could be controlling sure, demanding, even borderline rough with you at times, and he certainly enjoyed his horror movies. Did that point to him being a killer? You enjoyed horror films, it didn’t make you a killer. Surely Stu would have noticed? That thought makes your heart skip a beat, eyes glancing towards the kitchen where you can still hear Stu distantly talking on the phone. Did he know?

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to get your wayward rampant thoughts under control. You’re over reacting, letting your imagination run riot. There was no proof that Billy had anything to do with any of the terror that was currently gripping Woodsboro, it was not fair to Billy or Stu to think otherwise.

“I can hear you thinking.”

You jump, biting down on your tongue in your surprise. Stu throws himself on to the sofa next to you and you immediately tense, leaning away from him slightly. If he noticed he didn't let on, instead throwing an arm around your shoulder and tugging you into his side.

“Don't worry so much, he'll be home before you know it. It's just a misunderstanding.” He presses an overly slobbery kiss to your temple, chuckling at your look of disgust. “I mean Sid’s cute and all but she’s not the brightest.”

You swallow hard, wiping your hand across the spit on your temple, ignoring the jab at Sid and trying to get your heartbeat to calm down.

“You don't actually think he did it do you?”

“No.”

Your reply is quick, too quick, and Stu tilts his head as he looks at you.

“You really think Billy is the one that killed Casey and Steve? That attacked you?” He looks at you incredulous and the guilt gnaws at your heart. “Our Billy boy is intense but you think he gutted someone?”

“I- it’s just, Sid was-”

Stu ignores your stuttering, his fingers playing idly with the ends of your hair. “My money is on Randy. His movie nut mind snapped and he went psycho.”

That doesn’t make you feel any better, your mind switching tracks to run through all the times you’ve hung out with Randy, trying to imagine him as the psychopath who tried to strangle you. The stress curls through your stomach and your breath hitches, tears filling your eyes as Stu shifts his weight to turn and face you.

“Don't cry,” he brushes his thumb under your eye. “It's scary, I get it but you need to relax a little.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, hand curling into your thigh.

Is he serious? You shake your head as you grip his wrist. “No.”

“Babe come on. What’s wrong, why so sad? You missing your dad?” he nuzzles into your neck, nipping at your ear lobe softly. “I can be your daddy.”

“Stu-,”

“Come on bunny, let me help you feel better.” he murmurs into your neck, his kisses getting harder as he sucks lightly at the sensitive skin, his hands beginning to wander, sliding up your thigh to dip between your legs.

“Stu, I'm not in the mood.”

“I know, I know,” he coos softly into your hair, fingers stroking you over your pajama shorts. “But I am.”

“Let’s just watch a movie and cuddle instead?” You grip on his wrist is tight but you can’t manage to push him away, instead squeezing your thighs shut in an effort to stop him from moving further. “Don’t want to watch a movie.” He’s pressing down into your side, refusing to move back and give you any breathing room. His hand is lingering on your closed thighs, trying to slide back between them even as you try to push back against his chest. He doesn’t move under your efforts to shift him, instead tugging your hand away from his chest toward his crotch and forcing your hand to curl around his cock.

“Feel it? How hard you make me?” He shudders as he squeezes your hand, his cock twitching in your grip.

“Stu, I’m not in the mood.”

“Fine, Fine. You’re not in the mood,” He leans back as he spreads his legs, undoing his zipper of his jeans. “Just gimme a hand instead.”

“How many times do I have to say No?”

“You’re my girlfriend aren’t you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You glare at him but he doesn’t look bothered by your reluctance or annoyance. “I don’t just drop to my knees at your beck and call.”

“Babe, I-I’m sorry.” He looks away, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “I’m a little on edge I guess. Our partner in crime, our boyfriend, is in jail, bunny. Accused of murder.” he sighs, still refusing to look at you as his voice drops to a whisper. “I'm worried about him.”

It's the first time you've heard him refer to Billy as anything other than his friend and it's that almost fragile show of emotion along with the lingering feeling of guilt that pushes you into leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek, your hand reaching for his zipper.

“Yes, good girl,” His grin is wide, the emotion from a second ago seemingly gone behind the excited glint in his blue eyes. “Thank you bunny. Ah, but-,” he points to the floor between his legs.

You roll your eyes. Of course he’d try and push it further. “I thought you wanted a hand.”

Stu leans forward to capture your lips in a messy kiss. It takes your breath away, and you find yourself trying to follow him as he pulls away. “Please sweetheart.”

He pouts, his blue eyes big and round as he gazes at you and you sign resignedly. “OK.” Sometimes just sometimes, they got this glint in their eye, their hands got a little too rough, their touches and advances a little too pushy, like they forgot you were a person and not their favourite little toy. It didn’t scare you exactly but it made you feel like saying no was not a good idea. You can see it now, behind Stu’s pleading gaze as he pushes you off him to tug his jeans down his thighs. You watch his cock spring free, and he looks at you expectantly.

“What are you waiting for?” he sounds impatient. “Be a good girl for daddy and open that mouth.”

He chuckles at your look of disgust before you slide down to kneel before him. Get him off quick and you can snuggle back on the couch and lose yourself in a trashy movie. You lean forward to give the head of his cock a tentative lick, the jolt of his hips and the whine he makes when you wrap your lips around the head of his cock makes you smile despite yourself. His hands instantly slide into your hair as you circle the head of his cock with your tongue and he hisses, tugging you forward impatiently, the back of his head hitting the sofa with a dull thump as you slowly take the whole of him into your mouth.

“Fuck yes, that mouth,” his words were almost slurred together as you bobbed up and down wetly on his cock. “So much better that Tatum.”

You hum unhappily at that, but his hand grasps your hair tighter as if he anticipates you pulling away and you wince at the sting. He’s starting to thrust into your mouth, and you move one hand from resting on his calf to press against his thigh in an effort to try and get him to ease up.

His hips snap forward at the press of your nails into his skin and you choke as the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. He moans loud at the feeling of you convulsing around him and he pulls you forward until your nose touches the blonde curly hairs at the base. Your throat screams in protest and you struggle to breathe through your nose. Tears stream down your face but he relents at your choked whine, loosening his grip just enough to ease his cock out of your throat but not enough for you to pull away completely. Stu looks down at you, watching intently at the way his slick cock disappears in and out of your mouth. “Fucking hell, You know what’s missing?” His breathing is erratic, heavy panting breaths between his words. “Billy. Billy fucking you while you choke on my cock.” He groans and you despise the fact your body is responding to him and his words, the slow arousal growing low in your belly and the wetness growing between your thighs feeling like a betrayal. “Look at me.” You open your eyes and look up at him through your teary vision. As soon as you lock eyes his head rolls back and his hips snap forward, cock thrusting back down your throat and both hands locking into your hair. “Fuck, fuck- swallow.” he holds you still on his cock as he cums hard down your throat with a desperate whine. You gag slightly, a noise that has him shuddering hard, but you do your best to swallow it all. It’s thick and slightly bitter but not too unpleasant.

“Shit, you’re good at that.” He runs a hand down through his hair as you stay kneeling between his thighs, jaw aching and throat sore. “Let me return the favour.”

“No, it’s ok.” Your voice is hoarse and you feel drained, emotionally and physically.

“Poor thing still not in the mood?”

You shake your head but your breath hitches as he sits up, pushing your legs apart slowly with his foot so he can kneel between them. “Stu…”

He shushes you as he slides his hands up the soft skin of your thighs, up over your hips, and over your ribs to palm your breasts, squeezing a lot more gently than you were expecting.

“How’s this?” He brushes his thumbs over your nipples, making you arch into his touch. “Feels good?”

You don’t answer, you don’t want to answer, because it does feel good and you don’t want it to. He presses a gentle kiss to your lips as he leaves your breasts to start tugging your shorts down your thighs, leaving you bare before him.

He gives you a wicked grin as his hand dips between your thighs. A needy moan escaping you as he strokes you softly, enjoying the way you shiver at his touch.

“For not being in the mood you're pretty fucking wet bunny.”

He lets his thumb circle your clit, clicking his tongue as he slides two fingers into you with ease, the soft welcoming walls of your cunt pulsing and gripping around him greedily. It feels good as he starts to slowly fuck you, biting your lip to stop yourself from crying out.

“Don’t do that, wanna hear you,” He curls his fingers, hitting that spot deep inside you and you whine loudly, back arching and hips grinding down into his hand. “There you go, good girl.”

Withdrawing his fingers and smearing your wetness over your hipbone, he lowers his head between your thighs. Letting the tip of his tongue stroke through your folds up to your clit and back down with long slow strokes, taking his time to lap at you until you start to grind your hips against his face. He keeps his touch teasing, tongue dipping inside you only to move back up to suck hard at your clit. You’re really close already, the moans escaping your lips getting louder with every wet pass of his tongue, your thighs tightening and trembling around his head. His touch is enthusiastic, borderline rough, pushing you towards an orgasm you didn’t really want. Three fingers working their way into you, stretching you wide and thrusting in and out of your wet heat as his tongue flickers over your clit until your thighs tremble and your walls tighten and ripple around his fingers. “You’re so fucking cute, all mine,” he mumbles against your thigh, fingers still inside you, “Cum for me baby.” A loud cry leaves your throat as you cum hard on his fingers, the gush of wetness slicking down your thighs and across Stu’s hand and wrist adding mortification to your sour mood. He shifts both hands beneath you, squeezing your ass as he tilts your hips up to his mouth, moaning almost as loud as you as he buries his face against you. It’s too much, too much sensation, nails scratching down his neck as you try to push his head away.

It’s not until you desperately sob his name, tears running down your face, that he finally pulls away, his face coated in your wetness when he sits up, one hand fisting his cock as he leans over you.

“baby, baby, ssshhh, why you crying?” he noses at your chest and you whine loudly as his tongue flicks over your nipple, his teeth nipping hard enough to draw a genuinely pained cry from your lips. He doesn’t look sorry as he pulls away; instead he licks his lips and leans closer to your mouth, lips brushing over yours as he speaks. “So fucking cute when you cry.”

His cock brushes against the wetness between your legs and Stu grunts, one hand gripping your hip tightly, his entire body tensing above you as you feel him cum, hot and wet over your abused cunt and across your abdomen. You sit up on your elbows, watching as he slows his strokes, reluctantly fascinated with the amount of cum that dribbles down your stomach and drips between your legs.

“Holy shit sweet thing.” He’s still stroking himself as he moves his other hand from your hip to swirl his fingers down through the mess left on your skin, easing between your wet folds to push two cum slickened fingers into you. “Look at the fucking mess you made.” You instinctively try to close your legs at the sudden intrusion but he tuts at you and pushes your knees apart.

“Nice to see you both so worried about me.”

You startle, trying to wriggle out of Stu's grip but he just huffs, letting go of his cock to dig his fingers into your hips to stop you from squirming away. “Come on man she was upset, just making her feel better.”

He lets go at your muttered swear, letting you scramble awkwardly up on to your feet, trying to tug your t-shirt further down to cover your thighs as you stand there awkwardly, not quite being able to meet Billy's eye, conscious of the absolute mess dripping down your legs and the painful throb of the bite on your breast.

“What happened? All good?” Stu moves to stand next to you, clumsily tucking his cock back in his boxers but leaving his jeans undone and loose around his waist, throwing an arm over your shoulders as he wipes the other across his mouth.

“Yeah, they let me go, no charge.” His dark eyes are fixated on you. “No welcome back?”

Your brain is having trouble catching up to the rapid change in situation and the flux of emotions. It’s like Billy didn’t just walk in on Stu with three fingers deep in your cunt.

“Don't tell me you think I actually did it?” He says your name softly as he holds your gaze. “We've known each other since we were five years old. You really think I'm capable of killing someone?”

Yes. You think he's capable. Your answer surprises you. Do you think he did it? You don't know. You realise you've been quiet too long when he reaches for you and you have to force yourself not to recoil. You let him tug you into his arms, oblivious to the look they share over your head. His scent calming as you tighten your grip around his waist. How could you have doubted him? It's Billy. Your best friend. The boy you grew up with, who let you sleep in his bed and let you eat more than your fair share of his favourite snacks, the boy who would unashamedly braid your hair, who would pull you into hugs and comfort you when Stu inevitably played too rough.

“I don't think you did it, I'm sorry.” You try to sound sincere despite your awkwardness, this feels like a conversation you should be having when you’re not covered in Stu’s cum. You shift uneasily, subtly trying to squeeze your legs together to stem the slow trickle down your thighs.

“Hey, hey, don't be sorry,” He pulls back slightly to cup your face in his hands. “You're a smart cookie, blindly trusting everyone is a rookie horror movie mistake.”

He smiles at your look of disbelief. He was accused of murder and he's making jokes? “But you know me right? You trust me?”

You take a deep breath and then nod. “Yes of course. I didn't doubt, I just got swept up in-”

“-That pretty little head of yours.” Stu pulls at the ends of your hair and you grimace. “That hurts you dick.”

“I know. But I like pulling your hair. Especially when you’re on your hand and knees.”

You shiver. The confusion and awkwardness rapidly turning in to a low steady pulse of arousal at having them so close to you. It was a reaction they were very good at pulling out of you. You tighten your fingers into the sides of Billy’s shirt, the sensation of whiplash is making you feel a little dizzy and untethered. The way they can flick from sex, to sincerity back to being perverts often leaves you unbalanced. The doubt flickers to life again briefly as you wonder if they do it on purpose. Stu’s fingers leave your hair to trace over the back of your neck and you shiver, his smirk getting wider as he takes in your expression.

“Our naughty girl is thinking naughty thoughts.” Stu’s grip tightens on the back of your neck and you have to bite your lip to stop the whimper that threatens to escape. “Well rein them in.” Billy interrupts with a roll of his eyes and gives you a gentle push towards the stairs. “Go get cleaned up, and we’ll order some food, watch a movie. Talk, if you want to.”

“Ok.” You hesitate, tilting your head up to press a gentle kiss to Billy’s mouth. He looks surprised, a faint pink blush to his cheeks as you give him a shy smile.

“I’m glad you’re back.” You turn before you he can reply, leaving them together as you head for the bathroom.

“We’re not really gonna watch a movie are we? We’re gonna fuck right?” Stu drops a hand to his crotch, adjusting himself awkwardly. He’s already half hard again. “Yeah sure,” Billy nods, not really listening but giving him a curious glance out the corner of his eye. “What’s got you so worked up tonight?” Stu shrugs, ignoring his question as he continues to palm himself. “Dibs on her ass.” “Jesus Christ.” Billy mutters, ignoring him as he grabs the phone, dialling the number for the pizza place as his eyes flick from the dial to the direction you had gone. “So how’d she take it?” Stu’s smirks, “Well she took it goo-”. He grunts as Billy smacks him on the back of the head. “Fuck sakes man, keep it in your pants for 5 minutes. Me being arrested, what she say?”

“I don't know, there was a definite chunk of doubt. She was worried about Sid. Maybe we should give her a call? Push her into our big strong arms a little more.” Stu flexes and Billy pointedly looks away, glancing back into the lounge as you reappear, the fact you were concerned about Sid making him unhappy. Watching you drop back on to the couch and flick through the TV channels, his frown growing as he watches you grimace and flick past Psycho. They really need to improve your movie taste. “I'll do it.”

“Killjoy.” Stu sighs, disappointed. “How about ghostface pays her a visit instead?”

“You’re not doing it. We want her scared, dependent, not broken,” Tucking the phone under his chin as it rings, he lets his gaze roam over Stu’s dishevelled form, eyes narrowing on the scratches on the side of his neck. “You’re getting reckless.”

“M’bored, not reckless.” Stu lets his hand stroking along the waistband of Billy’s jeans, finger curling into the waistband to tug him closer. “Please let me play with her.” His fingers flex, trying to slide deeper inside the front of Billy’s jeans until Billy grips his wrist, his lips twitching in a barely concealed smile as he pushes him away.

“Maybe. We’ll see how things go with Sid tomorrow.”

“Yeah, fine whatever,” Stu shrugs again, tapping his fingers over the pizza menu. “order extra, I’m starved. I just got the soul sucked outta me.” He sucks his fingers into his mouth slurping obscenely before he cackles at Billy’s glare, heading back into the lounge before Billy can retaliate.

Billy watches you as he places an order, eyes roaming over your face as Stu flops down next to you. He saw the doubt in your eyes earlier, the way you tensed as he reached for you and his breath catches in his throat as he sees it again. The way you hesitate just for a split second before you snuggle into Stu’s side, the way your smile falters ever so slightly as he catches your eye. It sends a pulse of something violent through him, his knuckles turning white as he grips the phone. Sid’s getting in your head, her doubts becoming yours. You’re listening to her over him. He finishes the food order and hangs up the phone a little harsher than he means to, angry fear flashing hotly through him. You can’t pull away, he won’t let you. He turns away from you and Stu, hands resting on the counter top as he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. Maybe ghostface should pay you visit after all.

[xxiamtiebrousxx]

Chapter 2 "The Angel of Music" ( The Phantom's Rose | The Phantom of the Opera x Reader)

 Altogether I stopped rowing and started to panic. Worried thoughts rushed to my head. If the phantom of the opera really lived here, would his magical Punjab lasso choke me to death? Would he kill me with his sword? Would he burn me with the heat of his eyes? 

In my state of panic, I didn't notice the alligators swimming around my floating vessel. I wasn't wrong. One emerged from the water and lunged at me. I picked up the oar from the water and hit the predator. The others attacked. One bit the skirt of my dress, ripping it. I continued to hit the alligators, but they were too strong to take on alone.

The alligator I hit before resurfaced and tipped my boat. I fell in to the infested waters. The animals overtook me, biting and gnawing at my flesh. I tried to scream for help. But I knew no one could hear. I waited for death as darkness surrounded me.

   I opened my eyes. There was this throbbing of pain in my head. It was headache. I expected to be dead, not alive. I propped myself up. I was sitting in a swan bed, my limbs bandaged up. There was a moist towel on my head which I removed. I was unable to see the room I was in due to the fact that it was a very dark room.

"Agh!" I winced in pain. I heard someone come in. I couldn't clearly see them. They grabbed the wet towel and placed it back on my head. I gripped the bed sheets. Eventually, my headache soothed down. "Who are you?" I asked.

"Sh," the person whispered. I could tell that my hero was male. His voice was deep and soothing, like the voice of Christine's teacher. "You need rest," he said. "In the morning, you shall be completely fine." I laid back in bed, closing my eyes.

   I woke up, feeling better. The pain in my head was no longer there. The bandages that once covered my arms and legs were gone. I once again propped myself up. Knowing I could now walk, I got out of bed. The room I was in was now showered in candlelight. At the room's entrance, there was a black veil. I saw a figure standing behind the thin curtain.

"Who's there?" I asked.

"I'm the Angel of Music," the figure replied. Could it be Christine's teacher? 

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I only wish to see you back in your room, safe and sound," he replied. I walked up to the veil separating us.

"I sense a catch," I said. The man sighed.

"Unfortunately, I do not want you to see my face. So I must ask that you keep your eyes closed." I bit my lip.

"If it means you will not murder me," I said.

"I promise no harm will come to you." I closed my eyes.

"My eyes are closed," I said. I felt a pair of big, strong arms pick me up like a bride. I struggled to keep my eyes shut tight. I desired to know what the Angel looked like.

I was placed down in what felt like a boat. Water sloshed back and forth as we traveled. This time there were no alligators. Soon enough, we were back at the dock. I was picked up again. I heard a horse snort as the man carried me. The stallion must've waited for my return.

"Here we are," my hero said, laying me down on my familiar bed. I smiled.

"I thank you kind sir," I said, opening my eyes. As my room appeared before my eyes, the man had vanished, leaving me confused.

The next day I woke up and dressed in a pink gown. I knocked on Christine's door. This time, I kept my distance.

"Hello Y/n," she said.

"Good morning Christine," I said. "I need to borrow your hair brush if that's okay." She nodded and disappeared into her room. She returned shortly with a brush. I thanked her and left. The reason I required her hair brush was because our prima Donna, Carlotta, let he dog run loose around the opera house. The white puppy managed to enter my room and tear everything apart, including my hair brush. I brushed my hair and tied it with a velvet ribbon. I walked out in laced up boots. Everyone on stage was preparing for the production of Hannibal. All the ballerinas and actors wore their costumes I helped design. I smiled as the girls chatted about their costumes. I helped move props around the stage. Most of the male stagehands said that this was no job for a woman, but I proved them wrong.

Carlotta had begun her terrible screeching and strutting. It was only ten in the morning and my day was already bad. Madame Giry banged her staff, angry that the dancers could not get the round de jambes right. Joseph Buqet was already scaring off stray dancers who stayed in the back, away from Giry's rage. I sighed, pushing a crate off the stage. Hepatic mornings were always this chaotic. I ran off to a secret room I used to use when playing hide and seek. The stagehands converted this room into their rum storage. The stress was too much to handle. No one really noticed that I went missing. I began to sob for no reason. Sometimes you have to let it out.

In my time alone, from above me in the rafters,  a voice began to sing. I wiped the tears off my face. The voice belonged to the angel. I took the stairs up to the catwalk. The singing led me to a caped figuring, who went silent immediately and began to untie the ropes that held a backdrop in place.

"Hey! Don't mess with that!" I exclaimed. Of course the man didn't listen to me. I ran up to him, but in my rush, I tripped over my untied shoelace. I fell over the catwalk. My life is ending, I thought.

The pain that should've followed never came. I felt a strong grip around my wrist. I looked up and saw face to face with a porcelain mask. The man, with all his strength, lifted me back onto the catwalk. "Thank you," I breathlessly said. The masked man did not reply. Instead, he took an envelope out of his inner pocket and handed it to me.

"Give this to Madame Giry," he said. "And please, don't go falling off catwalks."

[albatris]

hello I woke up and will be returning to sleep but first. but first

w. would nat get anything out of biting and murdering chew toys. if he's stressed out or thirsty and in Wants To Hunt And Attack Something Mode. just. violently work off some energy in a safe way

or perhaps it just feels nice and is good for keeping vamp stress levels down and manageable

enrichment! let the boy gnaw on things with his pointy little murder teeth, let him shake things viciously in his jaws, let him self-regulate and vibe and most importantly let him kill (non-lethal)

[ratcandy]

So how would you develop that that Dj Grooves ended up winning / battling, and in the end he can regret it and can apologize to HK?

Oh my god i just lost half of my response to this I'm SO SO SO MAD I'm biting gnawing clawing and scratching. I have to rewrite some of this now. Pissed. Violent. Ready to maim and kill.

Alright, well. What did i even put here I can't remember uhh,

Something something My main issue with DJ Grooves is a lack of anything that leads up to it. It feels unmerited. His character shift when he fights Hat Kid feels so out of left field and not properly built towards.

With Conductor, it was understandable to a degree, as he's established as hostile, careless, selfish - and given that he's been cheating his way into winning awards, it wouldn't take that much of a push to get him to do something so diabolical. Especially since he seemed kinda out of it even before the battle.

Grooves, on the other hand... well, what does he have? Not a whole lot. He's flamboyant, suave, charming. Far more level-headed in comparison to the Conductor, given how he doesn't get nearly as angry in their back-n-forths. He never directly expresses ill-will towards anyone, never pretends not to care about those around him. The most he says badly about the Conductor is that he's "old-fashioned," which isn't even an insult, really. We even have a whole storybook presenting his wholesome and touching relationship with his penguins. Nothing about this presents maliciousness, no hinted ulterior motives, nothing that could go into the audience's mind as something to catch and look out for.

What I want is anything that could make it feel earned.

When presented with a calm and collected character, u can have them fall into a deranged murderer archetype easy, but there's got to be. Something. That makes it feel earned. The slightest hints of frustration or hatred towards others that imply more sinister feelings, but they're brushed past as though they never happened. Just an off-putting line of dialogue that could even barely point towards him being secretly off the shits. But subtle enough that it wouldn't come across as a red flag at first.

I want something I can look back at and be like "how did I not see it coming?" And listening to his dialogue from pre-battle. well.

You could argue that the intonation of his voice could come across as condescending! I didn't personally see it as such, as I just thought him a slow-talker that paired well with his deeper voice, but it's one way to look at it to make it work a bit better! To solidify that concept though I would add a bit more lines that come across as Grooves talking down to Hat Kid and/or Conductor, putting himself as something farther, grander than them. With his love of ostentatious and flashy atmosphere, it could make sense if his ego twisted into something that took his grandioso and emphasized it. He's above others, but in the sense that "nobody can see it." Given how he's lost most times and has been treated poorly by audiences in the past. He's a star no one sees, a light nobody can touch, so far from the reaches of others and so much better.

To make him delusional in that sense would be the simplest way to make the sudden attack work. Especially with his absolutely INSANE tone of voice during the battle. This man is UNHINGED he is OFF THE SHITS during his battle, and while I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THAT the voice actor did WONDERFULLY, I feel like it's. Currently. Such a stark juxtaposition to him any other time that it feels... unearned. Him being that crazy was never hinted to. Never brought up. So either this man fronts himself as sane INCREDIBLY well, where NOTHING even slips through in the slightest, or there was just nothing to make this fit.

Listen to this. Listen to his dialogue. Listen to the abrupt shifts between his normal speaking and his yelling during the fight. It feels so harshly contrasted, right? It would've felt so much more satisfying (to me) if it had been built up to more. Anything. Even a moment in another act where he just gets suddenly stressed, and his voice strains, he snaps once and it's terrifying. Until he forces himself to calm down, clears his throat, acknowledges the child in the room and instantly the façade is back on. I would've LOVED that! But without it, this shift feels... sudden. Which would only be rewarding with any amount of subtle hint beforehand that could've been missed on someone's first play through the game.

Reeegardless I feel like all of this would go out the window and hardly make a difference if timepiece corruption was, like. An established thing. Because then it doesn't really matter either way. Would'a been nice for some gradual corruption rather than such a quick switch, still, but it's whatever!

Both directors suffer from "and nothing came of this" syndrome in regards to plot, as neither gets or gives closure afterwards. Grooves just gets it mildly worse than Conductor does, as at least the latter gets his fake ass apology during Cruise. Grooves just doesn't even show up

My only problem with writing Grooves to actually fit the level of insanity he reaches in his battle would be that. Well. Redemption in that sense, unless it's timepiece-related, would be really, really difficult. Instead of murder brought on by rage, it's murder brought on by delusions and delirium. In a sense where all of his anger and frustration towards his continued losses has been replaced by straight up manic energy. Notice his dialogue does not come across as enraged. He just sounds gleefully evil. The lilt to his voice, the way it strains and pitches, the way he just taunts and laughs at the child he's attempting to kill. up until Hat Kid defeats him, that is. Then we get the notorious "I HATE YOU, DARLING" and boy does that not feel good! (even the sit-down in the middle of the fight. The way he's talking, you can hear him smiling, even through the way his voice is shaking and cracking and he puts on a "sad" voice for a moment.)

Point that I'm making is that. When anger gives way to insanity of that caliber, it's much harder to bring someone back down. It's harder to reason with them. Plus, if he managed a façade so well for SO long that it was never noticed until then, where we see the full display, then that's YEARS of built up manipulation. If EVERYTHING we saw of Grooves was fake, just a front he was putting on, then he's not a good dude! In the slightest! There's now nothing there to look back on and say "wow he was such a good guy" if it was all just lies.

That would be a man that gets launched right into intensive therapy and I hope to not see him come back out for a long time.

DJ Grooves could be very interesting in this sense! A character putting on such a mask that he's so charming, so refined, and so in love with those that support and protect him... only for it to be knocked askew once power is finally in his hands. or his flippers. And then we see the true, cold underneath: Absolute insanity. Born of jealousy and frustration until its morphed into something deranged and sinister.

...Redeeming that, though. Is hard. It wouldn't be an apology and a working together to trust each other again. It would be getting Grooves into getting help, and that would be a long process that Hat Kid might not stick around for. which she would not be obligated to as we're talking about the man that tried to kill her and was doing so happily.

So if I had to, absolutely had to, write a "fix-it" for AHIT in which Grooves was the one to attack Hat Kid, that level of insanity would be straight up erased. I love it for what it's potential has, and the voice acting is so good, but it just. It wouldn't line up, it wouldn't work in the long run. His motive would be the same, but his idea of killing a literal actual child would not come until he had the timepiece in his hands, in which case corruption would take over. It would target his jealousy, and build it into its own vein of frustration and rage. Different from Conductor's motives born of pettiness and greed. There would be no craze to him, just the anger, the rage, the desperation after losing over and over again. Winning once taught him it was possible, it gave him the reassurance he needed, and now that he has the power, he has to go back and change it. He has to. If guilt seeped through the corruption now and again that would be awesome. Even a "I'm sorry, Darling!" while he's fighting her. followed by a "but I have to do this" as a form of self-rationalizing his corrupted thoughts. It'd make him more sympathetic, more understandable - even more than the Conductor!

If this had been how Grooves's battle had gone, I woulda been all for letting him win. Because he deserves it. Over Conductor, absolutely. I just never let him win due to the character assassination I know that would follow.

ANYWAY. UHhh. I hope this made sense. This got really long

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Dark Forest Resident: Foxflake

Aliases / Nicknames: Foxheart, Redclaws, Tyrant

Gender: molly

Sexuality: homosexual, aromantic

Family: Heatherflight (mother), Geraniumbloom (queerplatonic mate), several infatuations

Other Relations: unnamed apprentice

Clan: Windclan, Thunderclan

Rank: deputy

Characteristics: kills in order to test her fighting capabilities

Number of Victims: 50+

Number of Murders: 50+

Murder Method: throat slitting, snapping necks via bite

Known Victims: several unnamed kittypets

Cause of Death: injuries caused by a dog attack

Cautionary Tale: N/A

Story:

Foxkit was originally born in Windclan to a molly named Heatherflight. Her father, a Thunderclan tom, was furious that Heatherflight wouldn’t let him take his kit to be raised in Thunderclan. The leader and who happened to be her father’s brother, agreed to a raid in order to retrieve Foxkit. 

This raid was unsuccessfu, resulting in the death of her father. Thunderclan brought up his death at the next gathering and demanded Foxkit as compensation. Windclan was forced to hand her over despite her desperate pleading to stay.

She grew up in a hostile environment. All the other kits would whisper about her not being worth all the trouble they went through for her. A bitterness grew inside young Foxkit, and she vowed to make sure she’d show Windclan and Thunderclan that she’s strong enough to have been worth fighting to keep, and strong enough to have.

Foxpaw was weaker that the other, stockier apprentices. But she was fast and nimble. She would spend endless hours working on her stamina so that she could outlast her opponents. 

Eventually she got bored of that, and decided she needed to think bigger. So she started training in the Dark Forest. That’s where she learnt moves from Windclan cats, Skyclan cats, and Shadowclan cats. She would use these against the other apprentices, which quickly earned her some attention.

Foxflake was ambitious and quiet, always plotting her next move. The only one she seemed to speak to was her queerplatonic mate, Geraniumbloom. And even then, she was quiet. Foxflake, despite her cold disposition, often lead patrols.

 She hated walking the Windclan border since it reminded her of how easily her birth clan had given her up.

Her anger bit away at her, gnawing at  her mind. She never seemed satisfied with her strength and speed. So one night, she followed her Dark Forest mentor to the Twolegplace, where she got her first kill in an ambush. 

The taste of blood and the feeling of power sent her reeling. Dark stars, she craved more. She would seek out the strongest looking cats so that she could fight and kill them.

Her leader chose her to be the new deputy due to her quick thinking and her strength. 

Nobody knew that she would sneak out at night in order to kill kittypets. She became more busy when she became deputy, so she wasn’t able to sneak away at night so often as she did before. At First. 

But she figured out a way. 

When she finally got time to herself, she headed out of the camp through the dirtplace, as was the usual...routine. Since it had been roughly a moon since she had gone on an ‘adventure,’ she decided to stretch and loosen up. This consisted of running through the trees. This time, however, she tripped over a branch and twisted her paw.

Foxflake shrugged it off, overconfident in herself. She wandered deeper into the city than she even had before. She didn’t know the layout of this new area, so when a group of stray dogs spotted her, all she could do was run. 

She tried her best to get away, but her paw failed her, sending her face first into the asphalt. The dogs caught up to her and, although she eventually got away, she was far too injured to survive. Foxflake died just outside of Thunderclan territory at the age of 39 moons.

Additional Information:

--Submission by @liberhoe​ ! Random thing, but congrats on Foxflake being the 60th overall character to be added! 

This was 99% written by them, I just added a few things for dramatic affect (use of the words ‘routine’ and ‘gnawing,’ nothing major of course!).

--Gotta wonder who those Dark Forest mentors were

[darling-i-read-it]

Shiizakana

2x09 

Hannibal Lecter x reader x Will Graham 

Hannibal Re-Write Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: spoilers for hannibal, murder, dead bodies, manipulation 

Author’s Note: I don’t know? What’s going on? My fingers just go and then I reread it and I’m like ‘oh shit i did that’ and i love it sm

I used some direct quotes from the script so some things may seem familiar 

Official Episode Summary :A truck driver's body appears to have been torn apart by two different species of animals working in tandem; Will meets Hannibal's new patient; Hannibal sends Will a test to determine his true self.

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director 

Tag List (is always open!) : @llperfectsymmetryll​ @ericacactus​ @vlightning95​

(not my gif) 

You leaned back against the headboard of the bed. You had woken up and wasn’t able to go back to sleep so you decided just to sit up and stare into the darkness, thinking and hoping that your eyes would get droopy enough to sleep. You didn’t want to have another nightmare if you did go to sleep. You had at least stopped waking up screaming. Will sometimes didn’t even notice now and you would rather him get a good night sleep. He assured you thought you could wake him up whenever you needed to. 

You glanced down at his sleeping face and let out a small sigh. You at least knew that he was something you could trust. Even if he tried to kill your only mutual friend at this point or was sent to jail on murder charges that same friend set him up for. You knew you could trust him to not want to hurt you. 

He woke up with a start. It startled you how quickly he sat up because of how peacefully you thought he had been sleeping before. 

“You okay?” you asked groggily, voice raspy from sleep. He got his bearings and nodded slowly, sitting up beside you against the back of the bed.

“Nightmare,” he muttered.

“What about?” He thought hard and you weren’t sure where his mind had gone.

“Hannibal,” he muttered. “How with love we see potential and through love we allow the loved one to see the potential.” He shook his head. “It probably didn’t mean anything. I think a deer was there.” You laughed a bit and put your head gently against the back of the headboard.

“Dreams can be weird. But they can also be very insightful,” you pointed out. He nodded, mulling over the dream he had just had. He thought about the way Hannibal was tied up and shook the image out of his mind.

“Yeah, I guess.”

-

Will had just gotten out of therapy with Hannibal. It was odd, thinking about that. Will used to tell you every detail of the sessions that he remembered but now you feel odd asking for them. You knew he was trying to get a ploy out of something. You weren’t sure what but you knew it was something. 

“I’ll meet you out there,” you said as you got your papers together. Will nodded and left out of the door. Hannibal stepped outside the office and you glanced up at him. “How was the session? Did you try and manipulate him again?” Hannibal shook his head.

“Not today.” You nodded and put on your scarf, grabbing your bag of paperwork.

“Thank you. I would like to keep him in one piece if I can help anything.” He nodded.

“That I understand.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Hannibal nodded and you waved at him as you walked out the front door. Margot Verger was outside, talking to Will. You walked up to her and gave her a small smile. 

“Hello Margot,” you said, standing beside Will. She gave you a kind smile.

“Miss. Secretary. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” 

“Y/N,” you said and shook her hand. Will put his hand on the small of your back and Margot gave you a suggestive smile.

“Miss. Secretary dating the guy who didn’t kill all those people. Quite a duo.” She gave you each a nod as you chuckled a bit in acknowledgement. “I’ll see you two around.” You nodded and she walked away, into the building. 

You glanced over at Will who was watching her go inside.

“What do you know about her?” he questioned.

“Nothing. I mean, Hannibal isn’t supposed to tell me anything,” you said which basically meant you knew a bit but weren’t allowed to share. Will nodded and you finished your walk to the car.

-

You sat in the house together. Hannibal let you go home just after Will’s appointment even though you were meant to stay longer and wrap things up. You sat together in front of the fireplace, on the floor surrounded by dogs. Every chance that you got you spent time with him after realizing the value of that time when he went to prison.

“Do you have any regrets?” Will asked. The same question he had asked Hannibal when therapy began that day. He had an arm over your back, leaning against you and the couch where you were both keeping yourselves up. 

“Yes. Doesn’t everyone?” Will looked into the fire that he had built to guard against the cold outside days. 

“I have so many regrets,” he whispered. 

“Regret comes with life.” 

“That’s what Hannibal said,” he whispered. You looked at him. His eyes seemed far away. “I regret what I did in the stables.” 

“You regretted pulling a gun or you regret letting Hannibal stop you from pulling the trigger?” Will let out a small sigh and his eyes finally met yours. 

“You were there,” he said. “You saw a part of me…” 

“That I knew was there,” you said honestly.

“What would you have done if I pulled the trigger? I wanted to. I still want to. Hannibal would have covered for me and I can’t tell what you have done.” You looked away from him. You hadn’t thought about it. You wanted him to kill the social worker. You thought that the man deserved it more than most. You knew how the justice system can fail. But still, would you have covered for Will after?

“I wouldn’t have let you go back to that hospital,” you said honestly. “I don’t know what I would have done to ensure it. Probably anything I needed to.” You looked back at his eyes and he nodded, pleased enough with that answer. 

“Are you out of hot cocoa?” he asked as he looked at your cup. You looked down at it and nodded.

“Yes sir I am.” He moved his hand away from behind you and took the cup out of your hands.

“I’ll put the cup in the sink. Do you want anything?” You shook your head.

“No, thank you. You’re very kind Mr. Graham.”

“Only for you.”

-

You walked beside Will from your car into the crime scene. You noticed Hannibal getting out of his car as well. You were all tucked in heavy coats from the weather. Will and you were both wearing beanies to hide your ears from the air. Hannibal was wearing a fun hat that you thought looked rather silly. 

“Hannibal, I love that hat,” you called as he met up with where you and Will were walking. 

“Thank you very much,” he said and you smiled. You stuck your hands in your pockets and approached where Jack stood. He turned to all three of you and seemed amazed that you were together. He stifled it quickly though.

“It snowed all night. There are no tracks. You sure it was an animal?” Will asked as he came to a halt.

“Severance of the jugular and carotids, esophagus destroyed. The bite almost severed his head,” Zeller said. 

“Evisceration was performed by large, non-retractable claws, so we’re looking at a wolf or a bear,” Price finished. 

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t afraid of humans. Not anymore.” You eye the corpse-icle on the cab of the truck.

“Don't wolves and bears drag away their kills? To eat?” you asked. 

“Unless it went mad. A rabid animal attacks its victims at random and doesn't’ eat any part of them,” Hannibal suggested. 

“There was no eating here. We found just about everything. Viscera was exposed, belly was laid open, but no sign of gnawing or rutting,” Zeller explained. The body's guts were sprayed everywhere but the cold had taken up most of the damage that you could see. Except the things that Price and Zeller hadn’t unearthed already.

“Found the same wound patterns on recent livestock mutilations in the area. Evisceration, dismemberment yet everything accounted for,” Price added.

“Since when does the FBI get involved in animal attacks, Jack?” Will asked the question you were all thinking. 

“When somebodys holding the leash of whatever’s doing the attacking.”

-

You and Will drove together to where they were holding Peter Bernardone. You got out of the car with him but leaned against it, looking over at him.

“I think this might be best handled with just you,” you muttered. Will looked over the front of the car at you.

“Why would you think that?” he questioned. You shrugged.

“You and Peter have the same problem. The same intention, for better or worse. He might open up to you more.” Will nodded and looked up at the large building. 

“Come inside anyway. Wait in the lobby for me.” You nodded.

“Sure, of course.” 

-

The next crime scene seemed just as gruesome than the last. Will was no longer convinced of the animal thing that was being pursued, he was wondering much more about the person behind the supposed animal.

You waited back beside Jack as Will did his thing. You glanced over at the man, surprised to find yourself here. Beside him, with Will in the situation you wanted him out of so much.

Will stepped out of it and turned around to you and Jack.

“It’s not an animal. It’s a man who wants to be an animal,” Will whispered. 

-

Will walked into the office as you sat at your desk. You had your feet up, drinking out of your water bottle.

“You don’t have an appointment,” you said. “What can I do for you?” He walked up to your desk.

“Is Hannibal busy?”

“No sir.” Will nodded and went to open the door before turning to you.

“I’m not here on an appointment. If you wanna come join.” You raised an eyebrow and pretended to think about it.

“Well if you insist handsome.” You got up out of your chair and Will opened the office door. You both walked inside. 

“What do I owe the pleasure to see both of you in my office?” Hannibal questioned.

“I work here,” you answered.

“And I am a patient.” 

“And we are dating,” you finished off. You sat on the desk while Will leaned against it beside you. 

“The murder recently, not a clean one,” Hannibal said. “No beat is more savage than man when possessed with power answerable to his own rage,” he muttered. 

“It’s not rage. Rage is an emotional response to being provoked. This is something else,” Will explained. 

“What is it?” Hannibal asked.

“Instinct. It’s the way he thinks.” 

“The way any animal thinks depends on limitations of the mind and body. If we learn our limitations too soon, we never learn our power,” Hannibal inquired. 

“He tore his victims apart didn’t he? I’d say he learned his power,” you said. 

“He claimed his power. Can you imagine tearing someone apart or would you prefer to use a gun?” 

“Is this a question to just me or also Y/N?” Will asked, a small sly smile on his face. 

“Both of you I suppose.” 

“Guns lack intimacy,” Will stated. 

“And it’s instant. Doesn’t allow to watch eyes drain,” you whispered.

“You set an event in motion with a gun. You don't’ complete it,” Hannibal said. You nodded, fingers wrapped around the desk. What an odd question that seemed so normalized in this room.

-

You were inside doing the dishes when you heard a car pull up. You looked at Will, who was sitting on the couch. He looked at you.

“Were you expecting company?” you questioned. He shook his head.

“I was not.” 

You put the dish down and dried out your hands, following Will to the door. You stepped outside together and the sight of Margot Verger came to your eye. You were surprised, very surprised. You had barely given the woman a second thought and now she was at your doorstep. 

“Sorry for the intrusion. We met outside of Dr. Lecter’s office,” Margot explained. 

“I remember,” you muttered.

“How did you find us?” Will questioned.

“Turns out, you are famous Will.” 

“You’re not exactly anonymous yourself, Margot,” Will said. So he had googled her mostly likely. You had as well.

“It’s cold. You have any whisky?” 

-

You, Margot and Will all held a glass. The two of them sat across from each other in the chairs while you leaned your back against the kitchen counter. 

“What’s the heir to the Verger meat packing dynasty doing at our door?” you asked her. She gave a small annoyed look, not at you but seemingly at existence.

“My brothers the heir, not me. I’ve got the wrong parts and wrong proclivity for parts,” she explained. Will liked her. She was frank, simple. You liked that about her too but you weren’t sure if you exactly liked her.

“Didn’t answer my question,” you retorted. 

“I’m here for a character reference. Patient to patient. To the secretary I suppose. What do you think of Dr. Lecter’s therapy?” That was a question you left entirely up to Will.

“Depends what you’re in therapy for,” he admitted. 

“I’m in therapy for all sorts of reasons. The Vergers slaughter eight-six thousand cattle a day and thirty-six thousand pigs, depending on the season. That’s just the public carnage.” She tapped her foot against the ground in time. 

“What’s your private carnage?” Will questioned. Margot glanced at you, like she had just been expecting Will to be here. Still, she spoke with courage. 

“I tried to murder my brother.” Will and you both studied her.

“I assume he had it coming,” Will suggested.

“Did he ever,” she scoffed. She paused a moment. “What’s your private carnage?” Will thought about answering. He glanced at you and you shrugged, taking a sip of your glass.

“I tried to murder Dr. Lecter.” 

“See now, that’s interesting.” Margot mulled over this. “Did he have it coming?” Will debates answering that and doesn’t.

“What do you think?” 

“I can't’ say that I know.” 

-

You sat patiently in your home. You were flipping through a book, wondering if you had the desire to put brain energy into reading it. You and Will were simply existing as you had been denied so long with the whole prison thing.

You had just decided to grab some food when your phone rang.

“Hello?” you asked, voice distracted as you walked to the kitchen. You walked over to Will and put your cheek against his shirt, kissing it lightly.

“Y/N?” Hannibal spoke. You pulled away from Will slowly but he noticed your hesitation for the phone call.

“Yes?” 

“I need you to do me a favor.” Will looked at you but you didn’t look at him.

“Yeah?” 

“I need you to come into the office and grab a very important thing I forgot. I would go myself but I have dinner boiling and I hate to ruin a good dish.” You nodded and glanced at Will. 

“Alright. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Text me the details.” You hung up the phone. “I have to get something for Hannibal and bring it to him,” you told Will.

“This late?” 

“He said it was important.” You slipped on your shoes. “You wanna come?” He shook his head and gestured to the dogs.

“I’ll hang out with the dogs.” You nodded and grabbed a jacket. 

“Be safe,” you said and he gave you a look. You walked out onto the porch and started toward the car when you stopped. You looked out at the darkness of the woods and came to a slow stop. 

Something was wrong. 

You weren't sure what but something was wrong. You got into the car and forced the feeling out of your mind. It was probably nothing. You pulled out of the driveway and started down the road.

You made it about two minutes before you felt an overwhelming urge of dread. You closed your eyes for just a second before turning around in the dead end street, going back to the house. You saw Will running back into the house as you pulled up, Buster in his hand and the rifle in the other. You parked quickly and ran inside after him. 

“Will?” you called. He met your eyes and you looked down at the Buster who seemed hurt. “What-” Will grabbed your arm and pulled you toward him before pushing him behind the counter.

The window broke.

-

You sat in a chair at the dinner table of Hannibal’s home. Will stood behind the chair of the head of the table. 

Hannibal opened the door and you both looked up at him. Hannibal's eyes landed on the dead body of the man who Will had killed this evening. The man that you had helped him kill. The man who had attacked you in your home.

“I send someone to kill you,” Will started. “You send someone to kill me.” 

The air was tense. You were tense. They were tense.

“Even steven.”

2x10

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 11

Synopsis: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Ethan Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man alive. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped, unaware of the trained assassin who is sent to bring him down.

Chapters:  Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Completed.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild)

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings:  Explicit smut, violence, gore, cutting, angst, manhandling, choking, foul language, bondage, breath play, unprotected sex. 

A/N: Assuming my usual panic attack positions! Ok, so there are about 2 chapters left and I fear this story is about to conclude... 😰 This chapter put me through an emotional turmoill! Many thanks for my editor and muse @agniavateira, @yespolkadotkitty for the cover art and @dancingwendigo and @wondersofdreaming who’re helping me through my panic attacks and providing tips

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Title: Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me

Pearly tendrils of light shine through the creases of his lids, waking him from a dreamless sleep. A mixture of iron and dream-like mellowness tugs at his nose, like death and fresh roses. It’s so close he can nearly taste it on his parched tongue. Swallowing the scorching dryness in his throat, the fallen man attempts to move but a leaden warmth defies him, hugging softly onto his upper torso and embracing him in the foreign fog of solace. 

A delicate heartbeat murmurs against his, so frail it virtually feels as if it melted into his own ribs. 

As if she dissolved into him.

Cold sweat layers his forehead. Snapping frantically he shoves the girl off of him, curling against the headboard with a crazed neurotic look on his face as if he was touched by a blaze of blistering fire. 

“What the fuck do you want!?” August yells, his voice hoarse and cracked. His glare shoots through her across the small bedroom, his mind rapidly trying to grasp any recollection of the messy chamber. This location is strange to him; the walls feel like they’re closing in, withdrawing the air from his lungs in a place that seems like a warzone. The light-carpeted floor is soiled by a long path of the darkest red, the trail leading back to them.  

The porcelain valkyrie is pushed to the edge of the bed, seemingly like a rare mythological creature. Her long hair drapes her face like a dark veil, pierced by two shiny diamonds that glimpse through, imbued with naivety. Still drowsy, she tries to collect her own senses, rubbing her heavy forehead and releasing a soft groan.

“Relax, stop shouting.” she pleads with lids half shut. Her slender arms spread in the air, suggesting a peace treaty. 

August scowls, his airflow becoming short and quickened. He lets a hand rave over his chest with panic, finding it bare and sticky with dry blood and sweat. A clean bandage is wrapped around his left pectoral and crossed tightly around one shoulder. While the aching sting still bites into the wounded muscle, his energy has slightly renewed, as well as his sanity. 

Or so he believes. 

Making another hasty survey of the room, he finds his belt and armed holster scattered on the floor. He makes a dash for it, immediately aiming the gun in Ingvild’s direction, refusing to fall to whatever game this may be.  

She stares at him motionless, remaining seated with her knees folded and her feet nestled below her behind. “Feels nice doesn’t it?” she provokes, her lips breaking into a faint grin as if the muscles of her face are still learning the concept of smiling. “To wake up with your tits out.”

Looking back at her unamused, his hand waves the gun. A glower shadows his face, painting deep lines in his forehead. The attempt to greet her with an onslaught of insults results in nothing but a painful wheeze as his throat sears. 

“Don’t move,” Ingvild commands lightly and climbs off the bed, completely ignoring the click of the gun and August’s arm that follows her every movement. Her legs nearly float through as she moves gracefully, rushing to the bathroom nearby. She grabs a glass and fills it from the tap before quickly returning to sit on the bed, offering the tall glass to August.

Wary of her peace offering, he hesitates, scanning her for any signs of wickedness and finding none. Something else glints through her big irises instead. The deep lines that dot those beautiful greys seem so brittle, immersed in emotion he can’t define or recognize at all. 

It makes him feel attacked.

Snatching the glass violently, he swallows its content in one gulp, feeling a thirst he never sensed in his entire existence. He places the glass on the nightstand, slamming it so harshly it shatters.  

Ingvild peers at the light sparkling onto the broken shards and averts her eyes back to August’s profoundly ragged face. He glares with blazes of fury, evidently less than inclined to trust her despite her efforts to make amends, and the fact that she nursed him through a stormy night. 

It pricks her heart, more than it ever did when she tried to gain Liam’s affection.

“I could have killed you at least three times in your sleep,” she murmurs and then pauses, attempting to smirk again. “You should really lay off the snacks, I nearly fainted trying to get you to the bed.”

Unphased, he carefully gauges her appearance. Soft, pale light shines through the window, showering her skin with a mellow haze as she sits holding a hand over her forearm, squeezing it nervously. Her glance is filled with rain clouds, the cynicism and the hatred he grew so accustomed to is untraceable. 

A piece inside her shifted, deeming her fragile all of the sudden. In his heart of tar and stone, he knows she speaks the truth, yet the spirit of vengeance won’t let go. Bile rises in his throat, fingers twitching as the constant hunger to touch her prickles his skin. The woman is a natural prey to him, making his mouth salivate. It’s enough to see her defenceless to make him want to gnaw fresh cavities in her flesh. 

But something else boils in his veins. More than just a primal need.

“Why can’t you just let me be?” he asks sharply, teeth gritted and jaw strained tightly. A slight tremor runs through his bones, his body dominated by anger and despair. 

“You came here,” she answers, staring fearlessly between the barrel and his furious gaze. A small frown forms between her eyebrows, the grey clouds inside her lustrous eyes beginning to take wind. “You wanted to retaliate.”

Fragments of the other night begin to slice into the black matter of his brain: her tears, her lips moving slowly, whispering his own words of a vendetta in her angelic voice. 

Like a dream, nebulous and virginal, how beautiful she was surrendering her will to his. 

‘Fight it! She betrayed you.’

“Oh trust me, princess, I still very much want to see you die.” he retorts, the gun beginning to feel heavy in his hand. He reaches to hold his own wrist, giving a fierce glare. “You should have ended it, darling.”

“Yes, I should’ve killed you,” she agrees, her lower lip slightly quivering as she looks at him with desperation. Her chest begins to heave through the cleavage of her top, the same tarnished one she wore that night. It still smells like his sweat. His musk is so stubborn it lingers. 

“I should be a good girl, for Liam, for Icarus. But I have so many thoughts going through my head over and over again, splitting my mind in half. I don’t want to do this anymore, I don’t want to kill for them, I don’t want to kill you. It hurts.”

Shuffling in a swift movement, she crawls toward him, her muscles flexing inward. Her slick manoeuvres remind him of a majestic feline. August’s pupils dilate as the lines of her face sharpen in his sight and the warmth of her body returns to caress him like a pleasant autumn breeze.

Ingvild reaches her slender arm for his wrist fearlessly before he can even muster any protest. Ignoring the gun aimed at her throat, she forces his palm flat onto her chest and inhales sharply. Her heart thunders against his touch, making his own beat accelerate.  

“Right here,” she says, gazing deeply into his eyes as if trying to enchant him. “I have killed close to 470 people since I was 14. I don’t remember their faces, but I do know I never felt this before, not for any of them.”

The azure ocean in August’s eyes gushes with alarming gusts. The scarce physical contact ignited a spark inside him, driving him to withdraw his hand aggressively, putting down the flame before it begins to spread again. 

“What do you want? What do you think this is?” he asks furiously, boring a frenzied look into her eyes. He feels a certain heat rising in his chest. He reasons with himself that it’s just the gunshot wound festering, burning his lungs to cinders.

“I want you,” she answers, her gaze dropping to his lips, admiring the fine shape. A sharp cupid’s bow hidden beneath the coarse hair of his thick moustache. Her hands dream of stroking his sculptured jaw and feel the bristle of his untamed stubble. 

“I want to follow you on your mission.”    

‘She is lying. Don’t trust her, remember what happened the last time you’ve placed your faith in a woman?’

August’s nostrils flare, his mind scouring frantically, bargaining for a reason why she would be different. Twice he spared her, his murderous will weakened by her manipulative spells, clawed by whatever it was she had on him. The voice in his head warns him gravely, yet the fact that here he is, still alive by her merciful hand spikes his doubts, meddling with his thoughts the way only she could do. 

Ever since she stepped into his life he’s been spiralling into a cataclysm. Something that he always gripped with zeal was no longer in his control.  

Leaning closer, he narrows his eyes with spite. The muscle of his jaw contracts, clenching tightly. He grazes the cold barrel of the gun against the supple skin of her cheek. “Why should I trust you?” he spits out, tracing her face further with the hard, crude metal.  “You think that because I broke you in, I actually care about you?”

Ingvild studies his face, not showing any sign of fear as she nods to herself. “You need proof.”

The young woman looks around her, searching for something in the room thoughtfully. Her eyes rest on the nightstand beside August and she leans to it, brushing her entire figure against his broad body for a split second as she reaches for the broken glass. 

“What do you think you’re doing, princess?” he asks cautiously, his eyes following her every move.  He crooks his eyebrow as she sits in front of him with her legs bunched beneath her bottom. Displaying her left arm with her elbow resting on one knee and her palm facing upward, she presses the shard against her wrist. 

August frowns in a mixture of confusion and agitation, alarm bells ringing at the back of his head. Yet no rational thought makes it to his mind as he watches the glass tear through her skin. 

Silence befalls the room. Abruptly so quiet he can hear the buzz of the electric cords running through the walls. Even her breath pauses as her right hand drops the shard on the bed, her eyes remaining poised, darting onto his. Overcome with disbelief he wonders if she actually did it, scrutinizing her flesh which seems intact.  

Suddenly, a spout of blood emerges through her open wrist. 

Dark red liquor licks down her arm, sensually dripping onto her worn jeans and pooling onto the blanket. August’s heart stirs with shock, yet he attempts to force his emotions away. 

“What the hell do you think you are doing?!” 

Keeping her sight on his, Ingvild remains still, not flinching a muscle as the blood pumps out of her severed artery. The pain is excruciating yet the chants in her mind continue to tell her to hold her groans inside. 

‘Show no weakness, prove your strength.’

“You want loyalty.”

“Won’t mean a thing if you’re dead,” he answers coldly, waiting for her to stop the blood, to show any fear or regret. The thick liquid continues to flow down her arm, tarnishing her porcelain skin that begins to turn paler as the blood drains from her body. He gathers the torture must be unbearable yet she won’t even make a whimper.

‘What is she waiting for?’

“I’m not going to save you,” August warns. 

Ingvild shrugs lightly, trying not to move her arm too much. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll die one way or another, by your hand or Icarus’. At least this gives me a choice.”

The drops staining the bed sound like rain tapping against a window ledge, heavy and dull.

August’s brows knit together, his eyes running back and forth between her arm and her face, watching her lips turning light blue, triggering disturbing memories in his mind. “What on earth does that mean?” Heavy frown lines paint his forehead as he recalls her words before she shot him. 

“I have to kill you.” 

“You’re a slave?” he reckons, looking at the colour vanishing from her face as she nods. “How very disappointing, Ingvild.”

“A tool, controlled by men whom I’ve never seen to manipulate the world and sustain the old order, as you wrote in your manifesto.” she shuts her eyes for a mere second, trying to push back the throbbing twinge in her vein as her body screams with panic. 

“They stole my freedom…” she pauses, finding it suddenly hard to speak. “They stole me... what did they take from you?”

“It’s none of your business,” he snaps, aware of how her voice slows down along with her breath. He swears he can hear her heartbeat getting louder as if begging to be rescued. 

“But I am bleeding for you.” she provokes, offering a small weak chuckle. Feeling the euphoria creeping to her mind. “You should tell me your plans like villains do in the movies. I’m dying anyway.”

August snarls. Shaking his head, his eyes hold a rageful ocean, washed with concern. The image of her dying corpse lying beneath him flashes into his memory. A dead angel in the snow, lips frozen in time. He should have left her there in the frozen lake. But for a split second, she was Lacey and then she wasn’t. 

As she slowly dives into her own death, he still wonders why he couldn’t let her drown.

‘For fuck’s sake.’

Ingvild closes her eyes accepting the shadows that seduce her to join them, the pain dwindling as her body gives in. But she’s quickly pulled back by August who holds her hand, covering the bleeding slit with his tattered shirt and pressing into it. His voice comes as distant thunder, vibrating gently in her ears before words begin to make sense again.  

“Hold it up, like this,” he commands her, folding her arm and fisting her wrist tightly. “Where are the bandages?”

Ingvild tilts her chin, her sleepy eyes gesturing onto her bag on the floor where a pristine white pack of badges lies. 

“Keep the pressure on,” he orders her again. His voice is calm as if once again he follows protocols. Yet something stirred, hiding within the silent sea of his eyes which snap at her for a split second. 

They’re tainted by fear. 

Ingvild watches with hushed admiration as he hurries to grab the bandage and returns to her. A small wrinkle rests between his brow, focusing intently on wrapping her open wound. He makes such a beautiful, neat work dressing her injury, she almost feels sorry for making a mess out of his.    

“Have I proved myself?” she taunts, peeking at him through her lashes while he makes work of tying the dressing tightly at her wrist. His elegant hands wrap a piece of medical duct tape around the bandages, twirling the long thick bands ceremonially as if they were silk ribbons.

His stern gaze rests upon her face, noting every flake of her long lashes, watching the different colours shift like thick liquid as daylight breaks onto her glassy irises. Awe plays with the strings in his chest, mesmerized by the innocence in her that refuses to die even after he desecrated her. 

The craving in him seethes. Like a thirsty man in the desert who stumbles onto an oasis.    

‘You can’t let her go, can’t let her slip between your fingers.’

With her wrist still in his grasp, he allows himself to stroke a thumb over the white cotton of the bandage, brushing the suppleness of her skin.

“This is not the devotion I need from you, princess.”

Ingvild flinches like a scared animal, shivering at the foreign tenderness of his touch. No one ever touched her with kindness. Soft, feather-like caresses embark further up her milky skin, making her moan at the pleasant new sensation. Light and careful, his fingers ascend to her neck and press around her chin.  

“Angel,” August murmurs, low and sonorous. His bulky body looms closer, whilst the grip around her jaw becomes tense, drawing her closer until his lips are a mere inch away from hers. “Do you want to be devoted to me?”

“Yes,” she answers, voice still lingering either by blood loss or the passion that begins to cloud her mind.

Consoled by her answer, a small growl builds in the pit of August’s diaphragm, accompanied by a lustful grin that edges his chiselled face. 

“Then show me your devotion.”

“No…” she protests lightly, finally breaking into a true little smile that glints brightly in her eyes. The radiance almost makes him want to take it from her by force. “I’m not a toy.” 

August smirk widens at her response, exposing his sharp fangs that beam at the faint hint of rosy hues that circles her cheeks. 

“Did I stutter?” Authority paints his voice, his grip putting pressure on her nape and pressing her chin up with the pad of his thumb. The patience in him wears thin, greed weaving in his gut yet he vows to hold back as much as possible, unwilling to tear down her wings. 

She must submit freely.

Fallen by his power, she watches the darkness pour into his eyes, his lips pulling apart slightly, anticipating the moment when he can steal the air from her lungs and nibble into the plumpness of her lips. Whatever strength in her wanes, bending to his will. She meekly takes his lips into hers, suckling him above and below, feeling the rough graze of his moustache. 

It’s nothing like the violent kiss they shared in the pit, yet something in her quickly awakens: a hunger like no other, turning the kiss more demanding. Like fire spreading, their tongues quickly engulf each other, dancing feverishly. August’s growl vibrates all the way down her sternum, his hands roaming down to grope every patch of skin. 

A mewl of protest breaks from her as he leaves her lips, followed by a deep sigh as he begins to kiss down her throat. The scruff of his coarse facial hair makes her blood rush and her heart pumps with exhilaration, nearly halting from the bliss of his touch.

“I want everything.” August blurts out, tugging her shirt over her head and then biting her breasts over her bra. The canvas of her skin is tainted by deep-grey and purple shades. Flicking the clasp of her bra, he wonders briefly which were from their fight and which formed as he fucked her so aggressively. He feels nothing but pride in knowing he will make new ones right now. Brand her as he claims her his own. 

Sharp teeth sink into her tender breasts, coaxing yips of pain, marking her with wet little cavities while his fingers fiddle with her jeans, urgently huddling it down her legs along with her underwear. Impassioned, she shifts from her position, kicking away the last remnants of her clothes. The chill air tickles her wet flesh, making her exhale with ghastly need. More wolf than a man, August leans back, his torso layered with sweat that glistens of the dark fur of his torso. The fabric of his trousers is stretched painfully over the massive bulge and mindlessly she reaches out to feel him, kneading the outlines of his erection through his pants. 

‘Fuck, her touch...’ 

Fervent groans tremor through his sinew as she squeezes him harder. She frees him from his trousers, running a hand up and down his shaft, astounded by his vastness and the correlation of smooth velvet skin over rock-hard muscle. 

Still sore, the pounding heat of need rocks at the centre of her cunt, possessing her into swaying her perky breasts against his cock. Pearly beads of precum exude from the tip, coating the erected peaks of her nipples.

“Fuck!” August pants and swallows hard, as the battle over his self-control drains him. Patience has always been his virtue in bed, his power over women. Release in control by sodomy that inflicted true pleasure. 

But not with her. She strings different tunes, singing seductive hymns to the animal in him. 

He wants her. He needs her. He must have all of her.  

‘I deserve her.’

Drawing back against the headboard, his hands snap at her hip, lifting her with ease to stand on her knees right above his cock. Ingvild nibbles at her bottom lip, her eyes falling onto his hardened shaft which lies heavily against his abs. 

If not for all the injuries she caused him, the large man’s Adonis-like form would have looked like a renaissance statue cut out of marble. 

“Come here,” he commands, removing one hand from her to seize the base of his huge cock which towers with glory amidst the dark bundles of curls. “Take me in”

A stream of arousal rushes inside her, making her quiver as she lowers her soaked crease onto his erection ever so gingerly. Cries of overwhelm break from her lips. His girth splits her apart, whilst his wolf-like glares bore into hers with the triumph of conquest. 

Every push stretches her wider, forcing her body to succumb and accept him despite the painful effort. August is too big, his vastness tears whatever innocence is left to her, and he is not even fully within.

Shivering, she halts, hearing August’s snarl of protest when realizing she has her nails cleaving crescent-marks on his pumped shoulders.  

“All the way in, angel,” he commands, and then bucks his hips into her and snaps her down onto his pulsating shaft, giving no notice to the scream she lets out as he sears her. 

He drives himself in until her ass slams onto his thick thighs. She can feel his hot flinching cock buried within the dark pit of her gut while his sack strains against her clenched cavern. 

“Good girl.” August praises, pressing her against his chest as they both pant and groan in harmony. Calls of pleasure and cries of pain mingle into a sinful symphony.

But suddenly he stills, and his hand snaps at her neck. Thumb pressing at her artery, he makes a small thrust, causing her to whine as little sparks kindle in her cunt. 

“August, please.” she whimpers, trying to ride him to ease the aching despair that boils in her cunt. He fills her to the hilt yet gives no friction but the thundering throb of his thick veins. 

“Devotion.” he replies, his free arm fishing for the leather belt perched on the floor. With one determined wring of his wrist,he wraps it around her neck, giving her a nice little collar with a leash made of the thick strap. 

His finger brushes up and down the leather erotically, staring at the girl’s hazy grey orbs to see if he can find a drop of protest.   

Instead, she presses her hands on his furry torso and desperately begins to mount him with teetering gasps. The noose tightens with the sway of her body yet the tension and the grind within is far too agonizing to stay still; the need to have him sunken in her depth of her soul defies any will to breathe.

August gapes his mouth with awe, groaning loudly as he feels her drenched cunt gripping around. She’s impossibly tight, his fresh little flower, crying out so hopelessly as if it hurts, as if being fucked by his large cock is so pleasurably unbearable yet her life depends on it.

“Poor little tight cunt,” he taunts, urging her to fall faster back on his thighs while bucking his hips into her with deep slams. “you missed this?” he asks with a groan, tying the strap around his fist and pulling her closer to meet his hooded gaze, “You missed me fucking you, angel?”

Unable to make more than strangled sobs, she nods with glassy eyes, feeling the squeeze around her arteries while her cunt convulses and blazes with ecstasy. Flames bloom in the pit of her womb, every assault of his cock inside her pushes the heat further through her nerves. Desperate, she is reduced to nothing but her pursuit of forgotten euphoria. 

The fervent flames lick up her spine, darkness whispering in her mind. Yet she leans back, letting the noose devoid the oxygen to her heart and brain as her body falls lost into a delirium.

August feels her pussy tensing around his cock as the belt halts her airflow; through the heated waves of pleasure, an alarm blares. “Careful,” he rasps, reaching his fist to her throat to replace the belt and pulling her until her chest grinds into his own. “Don’t damage what’s mine!”

Her reply is a cracked wheeze, her body jolting as he fucks her into a punishing rhythm. Hot and burning, stoking inside her, balls thudding and battering her hole, the chant of their wet skin colliding in a violent dance accompanies the chaotic symphony of their moans. His angel latches onto him, wrapping tighter and tighter as her body accepts his offering of rage, sucking and milking him dry.

August pulls her face against his, fingers flexing around her jugular, lips grazing her own and then hovering to rob her of her feeble exhales. 

“You want to breathe?” he snarls.

Ingvild nods, feeling the storm of fire about to erupt inside her. Her canal gripping him so tightly she can feel every tendon and ridges of him grazing her walls. Tears well in her raincloud eyes, her heart shrinking as she feels him, all of him, consuming her with his existence.

“Then come for me, angel.” 

With his words, she arches back, letting the fire implode in her loins and sweep her into a rapture so intense her entire body shakes around him. All she can feel is August, filing her soul, seeping in deeper than her thoughts. 

Tears spring down her cheeks, emotions and pleasure whirl at her heart at once.

“August!”

Hearing his name on her lips spikes the savage spirits within. Reduced to a beast, he takes hold of her hips, flipping her over and riding between her thighs. His hands pin her down by the neck and he ravages her through her climax. He can feel the flinch of his cock, swelling larger inside her narrow space. The innocence of her essence devours him. All the hate and pain diminishes and for a brief moment, he is allowed into heaven, feeling nothing but bliss in his chest. His shouts of pleasure echo into the room, his body jerking into her as the hot, white ribbons of his thick seed sprout into her womb.

Falling down to earth is always the hardest part.

Taking a hard swallow, he leans his sweaty forehead against hers, rolling it slowly and listening to the silent hisses from her mouth. Still basking in the afterglow of his orgasm, he pulls himself to his elbows fighting the spasm in his muscles and their will to collapse. His brow suddenly crumples at her sight: her eyes shine with a wide spectrum of emotions that glisten sadly down her temples. Shivering sobs escape from quivering lips, trying to find words that never make it to her tongue. 

August observes her carefully, removing his grip from her neck gingerly and reaching out a thumb to dry her tears. The crystals in her eyes were broken to dozens of many pieces that reflected the light back in various shades. A look of a lost child that carries an oddly familiar sensation, something that makes him cold and warm, as if Ingvild is inside his blood and he is inside hers. 

They had killed each other after all and then brought one another’s hearts to beat again. In his twisted mind, it made for a more profound intimacy than sex.

“Easy, babygirl.” he speaks unusually compassionate, dipping a finger in the wetness beneath her eyes and then slips it into his mouth, tasting the salt onto his tongue. “That was intense for you, wasn’t it?”

She nods silently, the emotional release tingling through her aortae, making her skin prickle with goosebumps. She never felt like this: whole, vulnerable, and belonging. She never felt anything at all, all her life. Her body tries to control the jitters in her muscles yet her body seems suddenly inexplicably cold.   

“Sh... it’s okay,” August whispers, capturing her lips into a chaste comforting kiss. “I’ve got you.” he murmurs and allows his lips to trail lower, pressing soft butterfly kisses over every patch of skin and bone, descending through the plains of her naked flesh, tasting the mixture of their sweat. His fingers find the large crescent scar in her lower abdomen, tracing the withering stitches in a sick memory of their first night together.

He feels no remorse. Had he changed his action, she wouldn’t have been his right now.  

Ingvild finally manages to release a sound, moaning with exhaustion as she eases into his care, her lungs and heart catching up when her body begins to float. With whatever strength left in him, August holds her the way a groom holds his bride, and carries her in his firm arms. 

~*~

The bath is filled hot near to the brim. Mountains of foam edge onto the water, looking like fluffy little clouds. This bathroom is not as nearly as luxurious as the one he had in Bergen. It’s painfully plain, like something out of an 80’s film, yet right now it looks like the most outrageous, spoiling delight. 

Sitting on the stone, his hand whirls the water, testing the heat before stepping in.   

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching toward Ingvild to join him as he sits down, releasing a deep sigh of relief as the hot water soothes the pain. The bath is hardly big enough for a man of his size, his knees buck up, peeking above the water. 

Ingvild takes his hand, stepping to sit at the spot between his thighs, making sure not to wet the bandages on her wrists. August’s arms guide her to melt back against his broad chest carefully, avoiding friction with the gunshot wound that begins to ache more and more as the last of the endorphins dwindle. He breaks into a small groan and lands his chin atop her head while glaring into the water with rising concern.  

“They will come for us.” Ingvild finally manages to find words, her voice still husky as her jugular strains. “Once they know you’re not dead, they’ll hunt us. We need to move, fast.”

August weighs her words. He muses over the sacrifice she made, and for whom? The man who stabbed her and nearly left her to float in a frozen lake? ‘She chose, you didn’t force her.’

 Indeed, it was her free will that brought her to him.  

“We should,” he answers, rinsing some water onto her torso and rubbing her forearms clean. “Just relax now, you won’t do me good all broken.”

“You care about me,” she teases, a small smile creeping on her lips.

“We will make for my safe house from here, and then we can take the train to Manchester,” he answers, ignoring her comment.

Ingvild catches some foam in her palm, squeezing the dissolving material between her fingers lightly and then blows it with the weak airflow that comes from her lungs. Little specks of bubbles fly into the bath. August watches them with her silently.    

“For the plutonium,” she utters.

“Yes.”

Tilting his head slightly, he looks down to see if there is any disgust or fear shadowing her face, yet finds none. The girl continues forming little abstract shapes in the dwindling white hills, twirling her fingernails on the tiny bubbles. The edge of her spine peeks between the thick strands of her hair, while hues of purple, nearly black, hug her nape. The girl is forbearing, enduring as she was taught; he wonders if it’s to please him, or if it pleases her as well.

Cupping water in his hands, he begins to wash her skin, pouring onto the back of her neck and her shoulders. He brushes his fingers through the brown waves of her hair while she leans her head back and closes her eyes.

It’s as if years of tension peel off from her, uncovering truths she fought to hide. August was right, and so was Liam; no one ever loved her. But now in the arms of a monster, she suddenly senses what she imagines would be care and affection. His touch is no longer clinical and it feels as if vines are growing onto her limbs, twirling around her and pulling her to become one with him. 

In her mind, she can’t help but start picking into the not-so-distant past, recalling being his hostage and the conversations they had when they still hated one another. The anguish that resonates in his eyes didn’t speak of hatred individually toward the world, the specks of brown held a fair amount toward himself as well.

“What did Sloane do?” she asks curiously. “In Bergen, you mentioned she did something to you.” 

She feels August’s sudden halt, his long digits entangled in her hair, pulling slightly while his chest sinks inward. His inhale takes into a heavy suction and his nostrils flare. He didn’t think of Lacey since he woke in Ingvild’s arms. 

“She tricked me.” his eyes focus onto nothing and his fingers resume their course through Ingvild’s wet strands. He becomes slightly agitated, unlacing the small knots that formed at the edge with force. “She suspected me and never liked me- for a reason, of course. She knew someone was distributing secrets and weapons beneath her nose, so she sent a spy. In my case, it was my partner.”

“A woman,” Ingvild continues, the realization hitting her softly. “Lacey.”

Her name on Ingvild’s tongue sends a shiver creeping from the base of his spine. 

“Yes,” he answers dryly and clenches his jaw. “We were partners for months. She got close. She... was loyal, she understood me or so I thought, but then I found out, she wasn’t.”

Ingvild hears the shift in his tone again, in their reflection on the water she sees him staring forward with grim shades painting his eyes. The corners of his lips tugged down as he broods.

“It sounds like you loved her.”

August remains silent, giving no answer. It resonates in her right away - betrayal burnt hotter than the wound itself. In their carnal twist, August burned her, but it wasn’t her carnal devotion he sought for. 

“Where is she now?” 

“Dead.” he answers, releasing a deep sigh of silent rage, not even bothering to shy from the truth this time. Ingvild was bred into a world of monsters; she breathed them, she killed them and he was just another beast for her to slay. Yet she chose to stroke her hand on his snout regardless of what she knew.

“I killed her.” 

In his mind Lacey walks away, her blue heels tapping on the floor, echoing before she gives him one last glance. She turns away, her golden curls dulled by the lack of light as she vanishes into a mist of smoke and shadow. 

Ingvild feels a slight relief at the thought of Lacey being dead, for some reason she can’t explain to herself.  August returns his gaze to her again, removing his hands from her hair. His hand wraps around her jaw, pressing her head to look into his piercing glare. He looks for fear but finds none.

“Try to rest,” he commands and then wraps his arms around her possessively. “Long days are ahead.”  

“Will you read me your manifesto?”

August looks down on her face once more, wondering for a moment if this is another hallucination. A terrible thought crosses his mind and his heart flinches; what if in these moments he’s actually bleeding to his death in the pit, his mind playing tricks as he breathes his last breath?

But the softness and warmth of her body feels more vivid than ever. Stronger than the doubt that creeps into his mind. 

“There has never been peace without first a great suffering. The greater the suffering, the greater the peace. As mankind is drawn to his self-destruction like a moth to the candle...” he chants, accompanied by Ingvild who also recites his words in her gentle voice. 

_________________________________________________

disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

[captaincravatthecapricious]

It Was My Job to Protect You and I Failed- Prompt Fill

@celosiaa​

CWs: panic attacks, mental health issues, suicidal thoughts kind of? (Jon wishing that if someone is going to kill him that they would just get it over with), paranoia, insomnia, season 2 Jon and all his issues.

Jon and Martin are having trouble coping after the Prentiss attack.

I am still accepting bingo prompts! Although this sheet is getting full. Thinking about doing another, but no promises yet, still have a few more to go here! Just let me know which prompt and which character and if you want a drawing or a fic!  Bingo card by the wonderful @celosiaa​

It's been too long since he slept.  He knows this.  His eyes are gritty and they hurt when he blinks.  Vision starting to sway out of focus as Jon stares down at the statement on his desk.  He doesn’t have the energy to lift the paper and hold it at a better angle for his poor eyes, so it strains them more.  

It’s fine.  No one has been getting much sleep.  He isn’t special.  He isn’t different.  Tim is just as tired, and has been avoiding him since he was caught spying.  

Jon keeps trying to convince himself that it was justified suspicion.  He doesn’t want to be suspicious.  God he wants to carve this paranoid out of him.  This clawing, scratching, all-consuming fear that he isn’t safe, that someone he has known for years could have… tricked him.  Gotten his guard down.  How long was Gertrude’s murderer planning it?  

Why?

Did she know her killer?

It could have been anyone.  

It could have been anyone.  

His chest aches with the tension that has been clutching at him since… Gods he still hasn’t processed.  Gertrude shot.  In this office.  

It could have been anyone.  

He wants to trust Tim.  And Martin.  And Sasha.  

He misses them.  God he misses them.  

He misses the calm certainty that his friends won’t slit his throat the moment he lets his guard down.  Why the hell would he choose to be this way?  Tim seems to think that he chose to be this suspicious.  He didn’t.  

He didn’t.  

He would swear he didn’t.  

He wants to believe his friends.  He wants to believe that he will be okay and safe and that nothing else terrible can happen to him ever again.  He has had a lifetime of terrible things already.  But everyone that loved him is dead or left or could murder him.  If he… just… let himself sleep.  He wants to sleep he wants a cup of tea.  But he can’t trust the tea or the kindness or sleep.  

Every time he closes his eyes he feels the squirming on his skin, the burrowing into holes that are hardly healed over.  He hears footsteps and singing and the creaking of floorboards, the sharp sounds of a knife the click of a gun being cocked.  

Every time he lays down, he jolts himself awake as soon as his heartrate starts to slow.  The few times he passed out of exhaustion or pain he wakes up seconds later sweating bullets swallowing a scream as he is sure… positive that someone is waiting for him.  Waiting to catch him unawares.  

So waits outside in the cold, injuries pulling with the dropping temperatures, joints stiff, shivering with cold and fear and sleep deprivation, watching the people he should trust, betraying their trust in him like the miserable excuse for a wretched man he is.  

He is drifting closer to his desk when there is a tentative voice at his door.  No knocking.  There hasn’t been knocking in months.  Still his head snaps up.  Hurting the neck that has already put up with enough shit keeping him upright without rest in months… since… since Her.  

“Jon?  I made you some tea?”  Everything Martin says sounds unsure now.  A question.  From fear?  From fear of Jon?  Fear for Jon?  A trick to get Jon to relax?  

Jon grunts.  Loud enough to be heard through his door.  Nice and noncommittal.  If Martin is planning to kill him it would be stupid to do during work hours if no one else is in on it.  If the others are in on it, then it doesn’t matter, he is practically dead already.  He does want the tea, but that would be an easy way to kill him, wouldn’t it?  

“Jon, I’m coming in.”  

Jon can see him shaking even through smearing vision.  “Good lord!  Martin are you alright?”  He surprises himself with concern, and the lack of fear that this is a trick.  

“Fine.  I’m fine.  Here, take your tea, I’ll.. I’m going to go back to my desk and drink mine, yeah?  I’m alright.”  

His hands are shaking enough that he is in danger of the tea splashing.  

Jon finds himself on his feet.  Vision blacking out for a moment.  Damn his exhaustion.  

Martin’s hands are warm, and that thought threatens to black out his vision again, simply out of… Jon doesn’t know.  Shock?  

Is it gay to almost pass out when you brush the hand of your shaking coworker when you are sleep deprived and paranoid?  

Jon banishes the thought with a slight shake of his head, which nearly causes him to black out again.  He carefully takes the mug from Martin’s hands.  He smells bergamot.  He doesn’t want to let go of Martin.  The heat of hand touching hand sends a shudder through him.  When was the last time he touched another person?  Was it… in the tunnels being more or less carried?  Was it that single night of camaraderie through trauma before the gnawing terror set in.  Terror of his …friends?  Not of the squirming ordeal that they just survived.  

His first wrong move had been there.  Stopping to interrogate instead of resting.  He shouldn’t have pushed.  Surly even someone with the best intentions towards him must have wished death on him for that.  

He nudges Martin towards a chair.  Mechanically he drapes his battered coat around Martin.  

It’s comically small on him, and worn to the point it probably isn’t doing anything against the damp chill of the basement.  Colder still with the knowledge that the walls are thin and anything could lurk behind.  

Martin looks at him blankly.  Jon thinks he might have run out of mental script.  Jon… knows that feeling.  This is hardly the sort of conversation you plan for or expect.  Not something you can rehearse in the shower… or could before you became too afraid to speak in the shower for fear that the extra level of noise would lead to someone leaping out at you with a butcher’s knife and you wouldn’t even know it was coming… and honestly would that be so bad?  At least it would be fast and he would at least know who it was and he could die trusting whoever wasn’t the person knifing him to death in the shower.  

Focus, Jonathan.  

“Are…. Are you alright?”  Jon, fumbles for his own seat before his legs can give out.  Pain and exhaustion.  Probably not the best for if he needs to run from something…. But not much he can actually do about it if he can’t sleep ...not to mention his ruined leg.  

Martin, to Jon’s horror, sniffles.  A choked half sob half laugh.  “Me?  Jon, you almost passed out three times just now.”

“You’re shaking.”  Jon protests weakly.  

“Yeah, and so are you.”  

Jon looks at him.  Studies him.  Looks for some reason to be afraid.  But he doesn’t have the energy.  He slumps.  Skin pulling at his many… many scabs.  “When’s the last time you slept?”  

Another half sob.  “Probably the last time you did.”  

Jon can’t remember the last time he slept.  Probably not even before Prentiss, aside from one night with painkillers before he realized they just left him open to an attack.  But he can’t rightly call that nauseous hazy not-sleep Sleep.  Does Martin know just how long ago that was?  Or is he assuming that Jon slept well before that?  Or has Martin really just not slept in that long?  Jon wishes he could remember… but he hardly payed Martin mind before then… except for criticizing him and you don’t tend to look that closely at people you are trying to dislike.  

“Do…. You want to talk about it?”  Jon asks cautiously.  Does he care?  Is this a tactic to catch Martin in a lie, or his he concerned?  Jon can’t even tell.  

Christ Martin looks soft.  Warmer and safer than his hard and empty bed.  

Where did that thought come from???

“What?  Just another way to interrogate me?  Christ Jon I just want to have a breakdown in peace, and then go back to pretending this isn’t happening, alright?”  Edged with tear, and the unfamiliar bitter bite of anger that he expects from Tim.  

It hurts.  And Jon bites back a bitter remark, or a sob, or a scream.  He doesn’t really know.  “I… I’m worried about you?”

“Are you, or are you just worried about what I could do to you?”

It doesn’t sound like a threat?  He doesn’t think.  Just… sounds tired.  As tired as Jon feels.  

“Christ… Martin… I.  Do you think I want to be like this?  I can’t FUCKING SLEEP.  I haven’t slept I keep… thinking I hear someone in my flat.  I keep thinking that I’m going to turn around and she will be there or that I’ll be nose to nose with a gun or… or a knife or I don’t know a flamethrower.  I can’t close my eyes.  I can’t eat anything that isn’t packaged.  I … how do I know it hasn’t been tampered with?  That I… shit.  I just…. I am so tired and I just want it… to just do it already.  Just get it over with so I can stop worrying and wondering and fuck I’d be dead but it’s better than waiting and worrying and waking up without even sleeping.  “I should… I should have protected you… It was my fault you even saw Prentiss, I shouldn’t have pushed and I can’t stop pushing and I don’t want to be like this.  I should have protected you.  I can’t stop picking and prodding and I can’t even trust that the only people who don’t hate me aren’t just pretending.  I failed you all and Christ it should have been me trapped by Her and it should have been Sasha who got this job but maybe it should be me so it doesn’t get her killed too….”  He can’t raise his voice.  It’s just a panicked whisper.  Can’t even admit to himself these things.  Can’t believe he’s said it to Martin, but it’s out of his mouth in a tangled jumble before he can even think.  He’s shaking harder now.  He can’t look at Martin.  Doesn’t want to know what he is going to say.  

But Martin doesn’t get the chance to say anything because Tim barges in.  Loudly.  Unannounced.  “JON I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU ARE TERRORSING MARTIN AGAIN I SWEAR!”

Tim is still talking but all he can hear is his heartbeat in his throat and a high pitched tone in his ears.  The wheeze of his shitty lungs trying to pull in air but just tightening instead.  Asthma, panic?  It doesn’t matter, his vision is going dark again, and he catches a glimpse of Martin similarly shocked and wheezing (although since Martin doesn’t have asthma it’s probably just a panic attack).  

Tim’s holding his inhaler.  Tim is telling him to use it.  To take a breath and hold.  And once he has, Tim is talking them both down.  With gentle movements and calming words.  And Jon doesn’t know what to think.  Doesn’t know if he can trust this gentleness after weeks of tension.  Months of tension.   And that nearly sends him spiraling again before Tim has a hand on his chest and his hand on Tim’s chest and they are breathing together.  

There is deafening silence once everyone stops wheezing.  “Okay what the hell was that about?” Tim demands after a long moment.  

“Heh, you know... Two coworkers having simultaneous breakdowns...” Martin adds weakly.  

“What?  Five feet apart because you’re not not gay?”  Tim scowls at Jon like he doesn’t believe what Martin said.  Like Martin is covering for Jon or something.   

“Tim,” Martin admonishes.  

Jon isn’t sure he can get words out.   He’s still breathless and even an aborted panic attack took any energy he had in his empty reserves.     

Jon finds his vision smearing with tears and exhaustion.  He doesn’t have it in him to swipe at them.  “If either of you are planning to kill me, please do it now.  I have a pair of scissors.  Just... get it over with.  And if not, I’d rather like to lay down.”  His voice sounds far away.  

Tim rounds in him properly.  

Jon doesn’t want to see it.  If he’s going to die now he doesn’t want to see it.  

“Please.   I’m.  I’m so tired.”  Eyes closed.  Voice wobbling.  He’s embarrassed, but he’s too exhausted to care.  

“Shit Jon.  I don’t want to hurt you.  But you did fuck me over.”  

Jon’s in a ball on his seat, he’s properly sobbing now.  Silently.   Arms over his head waiting for an attack.  

The longer he waits for one.  The more he shakes.   He can’t do this any longer.  

His scrawny, underfed arms are shaking with exertion.  His breathing is... likely on a fast track to another panic attack.  

Someone gently grasps his quaking wrists.  Holding them steady.  He opens one bloodshot eye a crack.  

“Let’s.  Let’s get out of here, alright?  We... we should probably talk about.  A lot of things.  Take turns keeping watch, I think we all could use some sleep.”  

It’s Tim. Tim has his wrists.   So gently.   And Tim guides him up and towards Martin.   Who is also shaking and red-eyed.  

Jon stumbles into him with a breathless sound and a frankly embarrassing whine.  His legs won’t hold him up anymore, and he is ends up in Martin’s lap.  And the two of them quietly shake together until Tim rounds up them and their stuff and herds them out of the Institute.  

Jon doesn’t remember getting to his flat, but Tim and Martin are there, and he would panic about that, but he thinks he let them in.  He thinks he remembers a conversation.  Where Martin is afraid to go home, and Tim doesn’t want Jon at his but wants to keep an eye on them both, and Jon can’t argue that he needs something, and he… he doesn’t know.  Nothing has changed.  But.  Maybe he can trust… just for tonight.  And maybe if he can do that.  Maybe they can all talk in the morning.  And maybe he can trust for a little longer.  And maybe if he’s lucky, (and if Tim satisfies his vindictive nature by snooping around his flat in retaliation) maybe Tim and Martin can trust him again too.  

[leviskokoro]

Christmas in The Devildom | Home Alone Edition

desc :: Mari tells a tale of what happened during her Christmas during her exchange student program.

word count :: 2247

note/s :: I got this idea about Mari having to defend herself from demons while she’s alone on Christmas. But then I realised... “Hey! This is literally just the premise of Home Alone!” so I decided to write it.

relationship/s :: implied fluffwings | jack x mari / implied greedwings | mammon x mari

art credit :: KEMM01 on Deviantart

edit credit :: me

Holiday season was a lovely time of cheer and giving for most people. Mari gave a sigh of relief, finally done giving her last gift of the day. Yes, seeing the generally happy reactions of the people she cared for brought joy to her weary heart, even if those people didn’t necessarily care for her back. Now it was just time to relax during the NRC Christmas party.

Everyone from every dorm had gathered to the cafeteria to partake in the festivities. Every nook and cranny had been decorated to perfection. But maybe that was pushing things a bit since Mari was the one that had to decorate everything after Crowley pushed the work onto her for the hundredth time she’s lived in Twisted Wonderland at the last minute when he just decided that a Christmas party might help bring students together more. At least she can rest while the first years talked about how they spent their Christmas at home.

“Mari.” The girl looked up to see Epel looking at her with a curious gaze. “What was Christmas like for you when you were in your world?”

“Yeah, we’ve been the ones talking here but you haven’t shared anything the whole time,” Ace spoke up as he bit into some cookies.

“Ah, sorry—”

“Didn’t you live in Hell for a year? What’s Christmas there like?” Deuce asked, placing a finger to his chin in thought.

Mari was silent for a moment, trying to get her thoughts and memories in order.

“Um… it’s kind of a long story. Are you guys alright with that?” She glanced at each of their faces for confirmation.

“You’re an excellent storyteller, Mari. It’d be wonderful to hear it,” Sebek chimed in, placing his food on the table and sitting with them.

She nodded, relieved that they seemed to be alright to tell them.

“So… I was mostly left alone during the holidays—”

“Eh? Left alone?” Ace raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah… We were going to celebrate but the demon brothers and the folks at Purgatory Hall were called to a meeting and had to take care of some business in a farther area in the Devildom. I wasn’t able to come because that place had particularly deadly air for humans…”

“Why do I have to go?! There’s gonna be a whole bunch of Christmas special limited edition figurines for Rurichan and all my favorite idols!” Levi had complained as he stuffed his fifth Rurichan figurine into his luggage.

“I was planning on eating a Christmas feast…” Beel had also whined, rubbing his stomach. In his hands were three gigantic bags filled with snacks and snacks only.

“Is it really okay to leave Mari here?” Asmo asked, who was mostly just clinging onto her body; She’s had to swat his grabby hands from touching her more intimate parts a couple times but cuddles with him were generally still quite lovely. Among them, he had the most packed luggages that was all dedicated to his beauty and fashion.

“Yeah, lesser demons might take this opportunity to sneak into this place and eat Mari.” Satan at least had a reasonable amount of bags. Though, he held one novel in his arm.

She sighed, running her hand through her sift chocolate locks. “Guys, no offense but you were the ones to put me in the most danger here during my exchange program here.”

They all seemed sheepish now. “Uhh—“

“Enough whining. We’re going to be late already,” Lucifer spoke up. “Mari should be fine. No one would be stupid enough to harm her if they knew the consequence will be being charged with treason and being tortured for eternity.”

Mari gave a thumbs up. “Yeah. There’s nothing to worry about.” Her eyes widened, noticing something rather odd.

She looked around. “Where’s Mammon?” She asked.

“He said he had something to do,” Satan answered.

Lucifer turned around and started walking. “We’ll leave him behind. He can catch up,” he spoke. His shoes made light clicking noises against the floor as he left the premises, the rest of the brothers followed him.

“Hey! Wait up!” Mammon yelled as he darted out of his room, carrying a bunch of stuff with him.

“Hey! Are you guys telling stories?” Kalim’s bright voice interrupted her speech. A large grin was plastered on his face.

“Kalim, don’t just barge into conversations like that,” Jamil scolded him. He carried two trays filled with food, one for him and one for Kalim.

“It’s fine! I was getting to the interesting part.”

“Très bien! How wonderful to see you all spending quality time during this festive party! It touches my heart,” Rook’s voice appeared from behind them, causing some of the first years to jump in surprise.

“Your bodyguards left you alone during Christmas? That seems rather irresponsible of them if they knew there was still a chance of you being attacked by demons,” Vil spoke as the two also sat down at the table next to theirs.

She nodded, looking down and biting her lip. “Well… The house did end up being attacked.”

“EH?!” Their eyes were as wide as the plates they were eating from.

“How did you manage to survive?”

“During the last day of school, a bunch of lesser demons had whispered about taking the opportunity to come by and eat my soul after classes. Little did they know, I had overheard their conversation and that gave me some time to prepare…”

Mari rushed around the House of Lamentation, rope and other sorts of equipment that she hastily purchased from Akuzon in her arm. Knowing that this house had a variety of magical items that even she could use despite having a lack of it.

Satan’s room had all sorts of cursed books and Levi’s room had magical merch. If worse comes to worst, she’ll use the grimoire underground. It’s more of a last resort since she knew what happened when Luke was lost and ended up there. Lucifer would’ve killed her if it weren’t for Diavolo.

She stopped in her tracks when she looked into Mammon’s stuff in case he had anything that could be used. Her eyes widened to see a murder of crows in his room.

… What?

One of the crows flew up and landed on her shoulder. “Hey there! You’re Mari, right? We’re Mammon’s familiars! He told us a lot about you. He had us stay here to watch over you.”

“That idiot is so reckless that she’d probably get herself into trouble without me so make sure nothing bad happens to her!” … were his exact words.” A different crow spoke up, imitating his voice and tone with such perfect accuracy that it startled the girl.

A grim pulled at her lips. “Great! A bunch of demons are coming here soon and I’ll be needing your help to defend the place.” She explained her plan to them.

“Wow! You already got this thing planned out,” the first crow commented. “Just give us the order and we’ll do our best!”

Mari nodded, smiling in gratitude for them. She turned around and rushed out the room to start setting everything up.

Using her knowledge of the items in the House of Lamentation, she set up a bunch of traps around the place and sat in the living room, waiting for them to trigger. Near each trap was at least one crow to lure the demons into the traps. In one hand was a controller for one of Levi’s consoles. The other held a specific book that was just titled “Void”.

“Really hope this works…” The girl muttered, her grip around the items tightened.

A cacophony of screams echoed throughout the place and several crows flew to her from different directions, signalling that the traps were successful.

She gave a sigh of relief, happy that they worked. There had been this worry that gnawed at her heart when she thought of the possibility of her ropework being too weak. Fortunately, that seemed to not be the case.

Mari checked the bands she put on their feet. Each crow had a different color so that she would know which traps got triggered.

Red, white, yellow, and green… Ah!

Red was in charge of luring the demon into a tripwire trap where if they triggered it, it’d pull the pin from a makeshift grenade she made out of Ruri-chan’s Extra Devilish Spicy Powder that she got from Levi’s room. Levi described it to be so spicy that it can cause a demon to pass out as soon as it comes into contact with their nose and eyes.

White was in charge of watching the catapult. If the door with the trap gets opened, the demon would get Asmo’s “special rope” launched at them. It would completely immobilise anyone if it makes contact with someone’s skin.

Yellow was the one watching over the gun trap. If the window was opened, it’d pull the trigger on the replica gun she got from Levi’s room. It had been from “I Got Isekai’d To A Fantasy Historical Drama But I Didn’t Expect To Find Out That 7 Generals Would Fall For Me”. The bullets weren’t lethal or anything, but they were the magical sort that could knock out a demon with one bullet.

Last but not least was green, who watched over the back door. She roped up a bunch of cursed books from Satan’s room, careful not to touch them with her bare hands, and hung them over the door. If triggered, it would drop all the books and curse the demon into 5 months of deep slumber. 5 months felt a bit excessive, but it was probably better than being charged of treason and being tortured for eternity.

However, it seemed that the other two crows didn’t return just yet.

Then, rushed footsteps started approaching the living room. She looked up to see the last crows flying and two demons running towards her. The looks on their faces oozed with murderous intent as they neared her.

… Shit, looks like the last two traps either didn’t get triggered or they found a way around them.

But all she did was bite her lip and opened the book with the pages facing them.

The room started shaking as a dark aura covered the book. The demons screamed when they started getting pulled into the pages of the book, scrambling to keep their ground. However this was in vain, as they ended up getting sucked into the book anyway.

And with that, Mari gave a loud sigh of relief, dropping her body onto the couch. She pressed a button on the controller.

Nothing around her really happened upon pressing it. But the other demons that were immobilised were put into Levi’s game. She had to know their identities first, which was surprisingly easy to find on Devilgram. She should be able to let them out later. Hopefully they don’t die in the game. She had set it to easy mode, after all.

“Yay! We did it!” The crows cheered, gathering close to each other and even doing a little dance in the process.

“... And that was the end of that story. After that night, the demon brothers came back and we spent a lovely Christmas together, the Devildom way.” Mari’s story came to a close. She looked at all the students that were immersed in her story.

“You were able to defend yourself against a whole group of demons in a single night?!” Ace’s eyes were wide open. His expression was mirrored by the others.

“Très bien! You’ve displayed such wonderful resourcefulness against opponents who are much stronger than you!” Rook praised her in his own fashion, gazing at her with his amused hunter green irises.

Jamil nodded, placing his hand to his chin in thought. A small smile could be seen on his face if one were to look close enough. “Using what you had around the house to use as traps… How clever,” he mumbled.

“You’d be a great fit for Scarabia!” Kalim grinned.

“You were able to set all those traps in such a short amount of time. With that sort of workspeed, Pomefiore could make use of your efforts,” Vil retorted, crossing his arms.

A new voice spoke up, “Oh, but her cunning wit should be further honed in Octavinelle. I’m sure I’d make better use of her skill.”

Jamil’s expression turned sour at the sight of the dorm leader of Octavinelle.

“Nonsense! She belongs in Diasomnia with the young master!” Sebek’s voice boomed across the cafeteria.

“Oi! Quiet down, you noisy brat,” Leona spoke up from another table beside them. He glared at the first year.

And that was the start of a rather chaotic argument between all the dorms.

Jack and Mari looked at each other with exasperated expressions.

“You wanna get out of here?” She offered.

All he did was scratch the back of his head and nod. “Yeah, it’d be better if we just went somewhere else.”

The two of them got up and sneaked away from the group that was too absorbed in their fight.

Although, Mari couldn’t help the smile creeping on her face as she processed the fact that they had complimented her. At the time, she didn’t think it was all too special. But it felt really nice to receive such validation.

Perhaps they saw her better now. Someone who isn’t weak all because she had no magic.

The thought soothed her.

[widowsofchaos]

98,101,66 please. 👉👈

❝Kindred Spirits

98. “Can you just…hold me? Just for tonight.”

101. “(Name), please…you’re scaring me.”

66. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x black!reader

soulmate au // requested from this prompt list

A/N: angst and smut, what else is new? After this one, there would be a mix bag of light and dark fics of the 200 ways to say masterlist will be filled with dark fics, for dark fics is why I created this blog in the first place. I’m just trying to get my lighter ones out first. Requested from this prompt.

Oof anon, you one angsty bitch, aren’t you?

Do Not Repost My Works!

It’s okay, I’m here for you.

That’s how it started. Sweet whispers, warm on his clammy skin -- a balm rash. On his flesh forearm, words of adoration carving, itching, and burning -- kismet.

A moment’s breath of happiness reared its head a 180, unveiling a twisted putrid beast; foaming at the fangs shouting “You don’t deserve her.”

Legend has been told for generations that if you reject your destined soulmate, physical illness overwhelms the body. An heart-wrenching pain injects itself into the soul — as if death itself manifests within you.

Those sadden eyes when Bucky shifted away from you that night made him want to bite down on his fist, and scream till his throat went raw. You slightly flinched when he curled in himself, snagging his flesh arm away from you.

It was another restless night for Bucky, waking up screaming bloody murder from an intense nightmare -- images of Hydra murdering you sent him into a spiraling panic attack.

Shouts of your name laced in despair echoed throughout the floor, fists clenching the bed sheets. Knuckles ghosted white, nearly ripping the fabric at the stitched seams. Hot tears stream down his red cheeks like waterfalls. Like a guardian angel, you flew to his aid.

Trembling hands seek a tender soul -- a better soul. Aching bones, and aching heart grasping for your touch, despite the gnawing guilt of how undeserving he felt of your presence.

To breathe the same air as you, there’s nothing tender in his jagged edges, or in his filthy hands. Bitter clouds brew and storm above him -- not fit to feel your pure flesh.

The light in your eyes, the feathery pads of your fingers soothing him -- it reminds him of his mother. Lately, he’s been missing her even more these days; the more deeper he wallows within him, serene memories of himself being dumb and fourteen.

The sly slip of ale on the tip of his tongue, fumbling apologies, she just shushed him, and tucked him into bed. Told him he was a good boy, and that he could never do anything bad. Taught him how to be tough, and yet connected with his sensitivity -- how to be a man.

He clung onto his mother’s sweet words, wise advice -- even a century later.

“Did I do something wrong?” Those words burned in his brain, how your chin wobbles a bit. Shifting on his side, his back facing you, he mumbled, “No. Just leave.” Bucky bit back a sob, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. His face contorting in a pitiful display.

A hiss escaped through his teeth, “Bucky, what’s wrong?” You whimpered. That tug -- all too familiar in your heart to scoop him up, and tend to his wounds. On instinct, you hugged him, your chest squeezed onto the muscular planes of his slick back.

Shivers crawled through the crevices of his spine at the feel of your skin.

Bucky wiggled in your grasp, the heat of your engraved words began throbbing as Bucky refused to accept the tie between you two.

Bucky slithered out of your hands as if it pained him to be near you. Tears brimmed at your eyes -- never once -- has he ever refused a hug from you.

The closest of the Avengers; Bucky was timid in your presence. You didn’t force yourself in his bubble, a comfortable distance. Friendly approach of kind greetings, inviting him to movie nights of just you two or suggesting reading material to him.

Helping Bucky adjust to modern culture through advanced technology. Spoiling him with your cooking -- no longer does tube-fed mush, or boiled food lingers on his palate.

It was easy to trust you, it was -- second nature to ingrain yourselves in each other’s bubbles.

Eventually -- Bucky sought out your company, and kind words. Old language of affection -- fluttering lashes, and tiny grazes of her knuckles. Soft hugs at night, his ear laid against your beating heart to tame his late-night terrors.

Now a year later, finally the acknowledgement of deeper layers of love that were sunk in each other now surfaces from the soul to the skin -- a permanent tattoo.

“Bucky, what’s wrong with your arm?” You asked, terrified that he might be in unbearable pain, your strong hands grab his forearm. Tumbling to see what’s eating at him, Bucky jolted with a pained yelp, eyes shut; tears now soaking his face, clutching his arm.

A burning rash simmers on your chest, like a hot blade. A hidden promise prickling above your heart.

A quick graze of your fingers against his skin, sore skin incised. The carving sent electric zaps, the tug in your chest pulling harder and harder; breathless.

You gasped, “Bucky, let me see.” Your words hushed, uncertain.

Hopeful, if it’s finally time. The universe has connected you two together. It’s meant to be.

“No.” Stern, and hardened. “Now leave.” Watery eyes cloud his vision, the taste of anger lingers on his tongue -- rage at himself. His chest cavity felt as if it shattered, “Don’t do this.” You pleaded, it felt as if God himself stabbed your soul.

“Don’t push me away. Not after this.” Your voice trailed into silence, and a sniffle; wiping your wet nose with the back of your hand. “Please, show me your arm.” You begged again.

Fresh tears trail down your cheeks, Bucky remained silent -- the only cadence was his heavy breathing, curling into a fetal position at near the edge of the bed. “Bucky, please don’t do this. Don’t you know what this means? Don’t deny your -- our fate.”

A beat of silence, Bucky refusing to meet your eyes. Your weak fists pounded on Bucky’s back. A few seconds past, even at the brink of offense, and rejection bubbling, you just couldn't bear to physically hurt him. You love that steel-eyed bastard too much.

“Is this what you want?! To end this?!” You shrill, hiding your face against his bicep, softly weeping on his arm, but with every contact -- the words itched even more. Eventually, you stopped, slumping on his body, full bodily sobbing; Bucky kept his metal hand on his arm.

Dying, and yearning to cradle you as droplets flood his eyes, nose scrunching. Losing you will surely kill him.

His words, void of any emotion, “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

-

Gingerly, his teeth sinking into his lip, gripping onto the metal tray in both his hands. On the tray, was a bowl of tomato soup, crackers, and a bottle of water. It’s been three days since Bucky sent you away, rejecting you -- despite the universe’s revelation.

Standing at your door, sighing as he peers at Bucky’s door -- shut closed away. Steve dropped off a platter of food, but he doubts Bucky even acknowledged it. Three days, fearing that it would tip into a week of radio silence, and festering ill in your own respective rooms.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you please open Y/n’s door?”

“Of course, Captain Rogers.”

The lock clicked, a faint groan can be heard. A humorless laugh exhaled through his nose, maneuvering the tray on his hand, the other twisting the handle. Steve entered the room, the stuffy atmosphere almost made him cough.

The blinds and windows were shut -- pitch black darkness shrouding, causing Steve to nearly squint. The lightning emitting from the hallway, revealing the thrashed living space.

Furniture throttled across the room, the sofa up-turned, the glass table nearly shattered; no doubt, your fist colliding against the coffee table, visible blood splatter are still drying on the cracks. Steve shakes his head, sighing.

Strolling quietly towards your bedroom, Steve’s chest tightens at the sight of you crumbling into a ball, surrounded by wrinkled sheets.

“Please, Steve … I’m tired.” You mumbled, too exhausted, too sick to open your eyes -- too lethargic to send a glare in Steve’s direction.

“This needs to end.” Steve murmured under his breath, hesitant to ask the question that it is just edging at the tip of his tongue, but how else is he going to address the rabid elephant in the room?

“Have you talked to Bucky?” Steve whispered, his words dying into silence. Brows pinched sorrowfully, hurt that not only is he witnessing the deterioration of a close friendship -- the only person Bucky fully heatedly trusts besides Steve -- along with the distress in not only you, but Bucky as well.

“No -- he doesn’t want me. So why should I?” You weakly snarled, but it was a pitiful attempt to mask your heart-ache, and yearning for him.

Barely glancing at Steve, as you sat solemnly on the edge of your bed; staring out at the window. Limbs aching deeply, muscles tensing as you clung onto the blanket. Slowly, your body is going to give out.

“This can’t keep going on. You’re getting sick and so is he.” Steve walked to the dresser, placing the tray down.

“And who’s fault is that?” You choked back a sob,

“I’ve been sick my whole life. Sick and fucking tired. All my years, everyone rejected me. My parents, being bullied as a kid -- and now the very soul that the universe connected me with doesn’t even fucking want me! My existence is a fucking joke.” Your arms failing, sloppily crawling under your bed sheets to hide away once again, and pray to finally die.

“You’re not a joke. We all were born for a reason, and destined for the right one.” Steve sat beside your sniffling form, balled into an infant position. His palm cups your shoulder, rubbing it through the stitched cloth.

Pity swells in his cavity. “Oh Stevie --”, you sighed. What a romantic he was, still the old soul of the hopeful bird-boned boy under the shield of a praised golden god; ever so the gentleman clinging onto fantasies of true love.

“--Bless your heart. With your sweet soul, I hope you find the one meant for you.” You croaked, a bit hesitant at first, mixture of regret -- Steve stills hold onto the mourning of Peggy.

Muffled in the back of his mind, insistent that she was the one; but never got the chance to find out if his skin would be graced with her serene words.

Steve silently clung onto your hand through the blanket, squeezing a bit tightly. Grounding himself so he won’t slip into the painful nostalgic haze once again.

“You both need to address this. I’m worried about yours and Bucky’s health. I’m scared.” Steve whimpered, shell-shocked to hear him crumble -- you peer over the blanket.

Steve’s face is pinched, pruning into a pitiful kicked puppy, his chin leaning against his chest -- eyes shut, failing to prevent tears from falling.

Caving in you crawl out of the sheets, hugging onto his muscular back -- a picture worthy of a laugh, how much you resemble a koala bear clinging onto a teddy bear.

“Please -- just talk. Please.” Steve’s stuttering over water-logged words, sniffling as his eyes leveled with yours; never once have you thought ever in your life-time that you would see the mighty Captain America shrivel into a shaking boy.

Petrified that Steve can lose two great friends -- due to years deep of insecurities, and lack of communication.

“Okay --” Defeated, you sink your chin on his shoulder, “--I’ll talk to him.”

Your knuckles grazed his cheek, “Don’t cry, Stevie.” Wiping his fallen tears gently, Steve twisted his body to engulf you in his arms.

Steve’s rubs your back soothingly, “Now, please eat.” You huffed a chuckle, you mumbled a low sweet okay.

- Guts churning, as if the devil himself was playing jump-rope with your intestines. Nausea bile rising at the back of your esophagus.

Why will I say to him? What if he turns me away again?

The possibility of once more rejection will kill you. Trapping your lip between the cages of your teeth, the hesitant fist hovering over the door finally rains down.

Unanswered knocks engulfed in silence rings in your ears. It’s well past midnight, the entire compound is fast asleep, but you know Bucky -- like the back of your hand. Insomnia is a tricky bastard that haunts Bucky, you sighed.

Thankfully, Steve permitted you access in FRIDAY’s system to unlock his door despite Bucky’s request to remain locked in.

Timid steps waltz inside, the air thick, and stuffy -- like your room, barren, and shut out from the outside world. Hovering fingers mindlessly fiddle in the air, trying to grasp any solid surface; cautious from bumping, and falling.

Gliding open-palms against the wall pavements, walking in the correct direction in darkness due to muscle memory; your chest heaving slightly from unbridled anxiety.

Shaky fingers clutch the knob, twisting it carefully -- although, you have a hunch, Bucky is aware of your presence.

“I thought I told you to stay away.” A hoarse, harsh disembodied voice looms from the beyond the door, simmering rage now rises in fiery flames at the pit of your stomach. You push the hinges of the door wide open, your eyes swirl from soft brown to carmine fury.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, chestnut tresses cling against his cheeks -- tear soaked strands sticky against his stubble cheeks.

Hunched over, eyes stuck on the carpeting -- as if the blue rug was so damn fucking interesting. He doesn’t have the nerve to look you in the eyes -- how could he?

“Look at me.” You demanded, tone hardened; despite your congestive throat. “I said fucking look at me.” You stomped your foot on the floor, emphasizing your hurt.

Watery blues peek through brown strands, wincing at your nose flaring, fists coiled, “Stay away?!” You shouted.

Bucky grimaced, shutting his eyes, his face pruning -- resembling a pitiful baby. “Stay away? Like I don’t mean anything to you! Like I’m trash?!” Your voice cracked, tears pooling in your eyes.

“I’m not like everybody else -- it’s you and me. I -- I don’t understand -- these past days, I’ve been having these dreams -- whenever I do get some sleep!” Your eyes zero on him, daggers into his soul; your arms flailing.

Your heart is beating wildly against your chest, tight fists weakly beating onto your cavity. Twirling like an unhinged rag-doll, Bucky crying slightly, his body shaking a bit, from small tremors of sobs.

“Y/n, please … you’re scaring me.” Bucky scared you’re going to hurt yourself, itching to cease your hands hitting yourself. Fingers clinging onto the sewed fabric, “Dreams of you --” breathless, eyes hazy. Bucky gasped a bit, dreams of him?

You quietened down, glaring at him, “I’ve never got to show you.”

You quickly unbutton your blouse, frustrated fingers fumbling over the stitched buttons, “Y/n, what are you doing?” A pained whimper laced with curiosity, Bucky’s hands reached out to halt you. “No!” You shouted -- a watery bite -- he flinched.

Gripping the flap of your shirt, you tugged it down -- a soft gasp left Bucky, harshly swallowing back a sob. Imprinted above your heart is his own words, “I won’t let anyone hurt you, doll.” Cerulean lettering gleaming against scarred sepia.

You scoffed, then a sniffle, “Funny, when it’s you who ended up hurting me, instead.” Irkingly you released your snag, hugging your torso with your arms, a weak attempt to distance yourself -- succumb into your shell.

‘I won’t let anyone hurt you, doll.’ Those words weigh so heavily, creamy bronze snicked on brown skin back three months past.

It was a mission gone hay-wire, five Hydra agents bombarding you -- Bucky heard your screams in his comms; screams that would haunt him forever.

As a speeding bullet, Bucky ran like a mad-man for you -- slaughtering agents, snarling as his knife punctured clean through the necks; gliding his blades slicing down the spines. No mercy. If you ever get hurt, it would be the end of him.

Drenched in blood, ichor coating his strands -- sticking against his maw, and neck. Sitting on the floor, crazed eyes, black cat-suit shines with splotches of red, curls now limp with plasma, plump brown cheeks now covered in a blood mask.

Big doe eyes beam underneath coated heavy droplets -- Bucky sweet strawberry kiss upon your hairline, his lips printing against the red sheen-- his blood-splattered angel.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, doll.” Forehead pinned against forehead, Bucky’s palm gripping the nape of your neck. Passive eyes with a small smile masking a burning hot-white sensation right above your heart plate.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky mumbled under his breath, tiny droplets of tears falling down his bearded cheeks. “You deserve the world.” His chin fell to his chest, little sobs huffing.

“You need someone who isn’t broken.” Bucky cried, sniveling — staring at his trembling hands in his lap.

“Not someone who’s going to wake up screaming in the middle of the night from fucking night terrors!” His hands harshly gripping his sweatpants.

“Who’s clingy, and needy cause doll –” Bucky lifted his wet gaze to you, “I miss you when you leave to the next room. I need you all the time.” He croaked. You cautiously stepped to him, cupping his puffy face.

Bucky instinctively leaned into your touch, tranquility washing over him. A calm sigh slipped from him, “Bucky, I need you. I’ve always needed you.”

Bucky’s eyes opened, “I’ve needed you before I was born.” You bent forward, the tip of your nose flick against his, he solemnly chuckled.

His timid smile fell just a tad bit, “For so many years, I thought the universe was playing a cruel joke on me. For decades I saw you in my dreams – I thought maybe it was a hallucination.” Bucky’s released the bundled fabric, his hands finding its home on your body. Bucky pulled you to his lap, grasping onto your thighs like a life-line.

“I thought you were a figment of my imagination—it gave me peace knowing that you didn’t leave me even when I was getting my brains fried.” You choked back a sob, kissing his forehead. A lingering kiss; you lips were so soft— soft soft soft— like a feather grazing him.

“You see, I was always there with you.”  You mumbled against his hairline, nimble kisses in your wake.

Littering kisses on his tear-soaked face: on his fluttering eye-lids, between his brows, the creases on the edge of his eyes, and his chin.

Bucky reciprocated, emotional sloppy kisses. Limbs entangled like a pretzel. On your temples, a trail of pecks on the slope of your nose, your eye-lids, and your chin too. A little nibble like a sappy puppy.

“For decades, I’ve dreamt of you. Didn’t know if you were real or not — soulmates are destined, right? Everything happens for a reason.” You tearfully nodded at his words.

“If I have to go through years of brain-washing to be with you again, I would do it in a heartbeat.” You cried, furiously smashing your lips on his, cupping his cheeks in your hands.

“I love you in a place, where there is no space or time.” At that moment, you felt like your heart would stop at Bucky’s words, glassy eyes meet each other.

Foreheads connect, Bucky’s hands slowly graze your smooth skin, glossy oceanic hues never waver from yours, his calloused fingers slither underneath your shirt, rubbing circles at the nape of your back.

Keening leisure desperate touches, your fingers intertwining, and soft tugs of his tresses. Lips hairs-away from each other, a bit hesitant at first, hitched breaths fanning; a quick flick of your upper lip against his.

“Can you just ...hold me? Just for tonight.” Bucky asked, his voice on the cusp of shy, still paranoia hovers in his mind that you may be gone tomorrow.

“I want to hold you every night.” You mewl, a feather-light kiss. Open palms travel the muscular planes of blood, bone, and metal -- nails lightly scrape his skin. Bucky’s lips smashes against yours.

Decades ago -- what feels like a distant lifetime ago -- dim mere of his own past, Bucky would’ve cupped your face in the warm curve of his hands; once soft, now calloused with bitter memories.

He would press his lips to yours, tenderly. Like a poem, simple but yet passionate.

Taste of smeared lipstick, sticky like honey, and faint mint -- now, it’s fumbling. Sloppy, desperate. But it’s all the same; he’s no longer the fresh baby-face of his past. Eyes sparkle with wonder, he’s older -- wise beyond his years.

Years of hurtful baggage weighs on his heart, but -- you. You remind him how to feel alive again, he feels like the care-free pubescent misfit he once was running around Brooklyn, saving Stevie from another fight, and chasing skirts, being a heartbreaker.

But the only skirt he wants to chase is yours only; and keep your heart in his safe grasp.

His heart unfettered, you came to him bare -- as if you peeled your skin inch by inch, no secrets barricading your love.

Soaking in your essence, unfiltered groans against molding mouths -- coveting pink lips slip from your swollen lips to your jaw to your weak-spot; you squeal as Bucky suckles on your pulse-point.

Marking what is his -- the gift that the universe personally bestowed for him, and him only. From an outside party, you’re younger than him, but not in flesh and not in soul.

A vision that followed him everywhere in his mind, even in the darkest years, you were the light.

Kindred spirits before birth.

Bucky grunts, his palm tenderly clutches the nape of your neck -- steadying your shakiness, eyes blissfully closed as he devoured you.

“I love you. God -- I love you.” Mumbling against your flushed skin, his warm tongue licks against his love-bites, parted lips fanning tantalizing pants.

Your eyelids fluttered, pupils rolling in the back of your skull, “I love you too.” A declaration, the truth. Spidery brown fingers rubbing against his scalp, he gasps, it’s a cooling sensation soothing his senses.

“Make love to me.” You coo, you relish the way Bucky squirms underneath you.

Desperate, inpatient -- Bucky grabs your waist, lifts you off his lap momentarily. Seated with Bucky nestled between your legs, thick tone thighs ripple a bit underneath your soft plush.

Choppy pants exuding from both of you, Bucky tugs the hem of your shirt upward -- braless, breasts heave free, ready to be explored with his mouth.

His teeth caging your nipple, nibbling, and pulling -- you hiss, ensnaring Bucky’s head in your arms. Cradling his dome against your chest, as he suckled upon your breasts.

Muffled groans, and moans -- grinding your clothed pussy against his bulging crotch. Leisure thrusts, dry-humping -- your lavender panties turning into a wet silky grape.

“I need to feel you.” You mumble lowly, a whining lover. Bucky’s hands glide down the slope of your spine, sweetly rubbing the nape of your back to then cupping your soft globes.

Squeezing, molding into his palms, you lean into his neck, and lick a long stride. He mewls, his fingers sneak beneath the hem of your panties, calloused against smooth flesh.

Sneaky fingers travel between your cheeks, as if it’s muscle memory, toying with your gaping asshole to your clenching cunt. A raw groan vibrates in your throat, “Bucky --”  He shushes you, lips trailing your jaw. “You’re so fucking wet.” Back and forth glides in your velvet folds, to your supple cheeks.

“Nhhh -- uh--” Stunned stuttering, your entire body vibrating in shivers as the cooling metal infiltrates your blazing heat. “Hmm … needs a little bit more.” Bucky removed his fingers ever so slowly, a quick spat on his fingers; diving right back in.

His thumb plunging and curving inside your glistening ass, and his two fingers pistoning in your moist pussy.

“I need you dripping … so I can slide nice and deep.” Like a feline, you mewl and your back arches in his grasp, manhandling you by the clutch of your holes.

Untying his sweatpants strings, in a frenzy as your ass jiggles in his unrelenting metal appendage. With his flesh hand, with ease and precision, Bucky snaps your underwear off.

Your thighs shake as if an earthquake was erupting within your body. Harsh tugs at his pants -- God, you can tap-dance if you could -- he goes commando. Slapping against his abs, his cock swollen -- gleeful fingers wrap around his cock like a vice. Tight, and ruthless.

“Fuck doll --” Bucky’s voice is cracked, he growls lowly, “Don’t stop. Never fucking stop.” Swiveling fist from the base to the tip, twirling around his tip -- Bucky’s swallows thickly, “You fucking minx.”

It’s all too much yet liberating. Cheekily you twirl the tip of his cock against your throbbing clit, you shudder against his lips, “You’re mine.” You spoke in a hush, maneuvering his dick upward, skidding against your humming labia.

Bucky releases your holes, “Enough! I need you.” Bruising grip on your waist, lifting you upward, hovering over his dick, and swift fall of grace -- you scream, so thick, so full.

“Shit, you’re so big. So damn big.” Eyes shut close, “Wait Bucky --” A frail hand lays flat on his abdomen, “Wait nothing!” A guttural noise leaves his throat, like a beast. And fucks you like one.

Your head leaning backwards, curls bouncing and yourself jolting up and down in his hold as he snaps his hips against. A menace.

Time ceases to exist, gravity crushing, bones aching yet it’s a pleasure burn -- no longer pains of despair, but delicious pain as Bucky thrusts in you.

He’s selfish -- and with every right, his heart thumping against his cavity, he thinks it would stop. Can you hear it? How it beats like a hummingbird for you?

Fast, and snarling, “No -- no -- no.” Latching on your jaw with his thick fingers, “Look at us.” Aiding your head downward, you groaned at the sight of his cock hurtling like a mad man. How perfectly you clench him -- a perfect fit.

“So perfect, like a warm wet hug.” A hoist of his hips off the bed, a curve of his dick, you shriek, “Ah -- there it is. The sweet spot.” Your fingernails create craters in his bicep, and scrape against metal.

Squelching skin on skin pounds in your ears, abrupt jerk down on him, balls deep -- it was brutal. Swirling his hips, along with you following his teasing motions, muffled sticky cadence of your juices coating him.

Slow fall, asterning with your hands on his knees. Skull hanging, raspy small fucks, and yes Bucky leave your lips.

With the support of his hand on your back, short but hard thrusts, and his flesh hand slapping your tits. Bent forward, Bucky sucks on your breast, his hair tickling your bare breasts -- the one with his imprintment. Gawking at it as he sucks, it brings tears to his eyes.

“I’m --- uggnh -- I’m gonna cum.” A broken whisper, Bucky pulls back to him, nearly his bare back colliding to the bed, “Do it, doll. Soak me. Cum with me.” Possessively, you wanna coat his flushed pink skin with your cum, have your scent on him -- like an omega for her Alpha.

It’s divine will. A burst of an eruption of the milky way in his eyes. Unwavering brown meets cosmic blue. Space dust clouding your visions, satellites whirling -- Bucky and yourself nourishing your needs’; crawling in each other's fibers, and sinews, make-shifting into a womb.

As one.

The horizon of the galaxy is painted in glittering pinks, neon green, and blues. Stars shine like uncut diamonds, the hand of God commemorates the two soulmates.

Time and space disoriented, shouts of the other’s name bounce against the walls, but speaking each other’s names is like a prayer, salvation. Hot waves of fluid paint your wet walls, spurts of your essence sprays his flexing abs, and groin. Droplets falling from his happy trail.

It's blinding -- cumming so hard has Bucky and yourself levitating at the toes, then begin collapsing and twisting in each other’s limbs, clinging onto each other, shattered breaths, chests heaving. Loss for words.

Bucky came hard, yet gentle and sweet deep inside of you, his words dying in a slurring breathy whisper. It’s so much -- suffocating, but both of you don’t mind drowning. To lose only a sense of the world; just feel each other. In body, and soul.

The smell of him -- hot musk, flushed warm skin, sweaty skin on skin. Love-bites litter his neck like on yours. Bucky’s ego flares, you smell of him. Branded by every sense of the word.

Lust still lingering in the air, on yours and his flesh. Sepia melanin coated in a sheen, candied with saliva and sweat. He smells like a natural aroma of lavender. How Bucky internally gushes at how your baby hairs cling on your forehead, your kind hands sway the chestnut ringlets that curtain your favorite burning blues.

Shy lips dance a bashful tango. Barely touching, but sensual. Tempering with aching pining, ever-lasting yearning that can be only satiated with touch. Always, always, always, always starving, and everlasting.

“I want more.” A crooked grin forms at Bucky’s face, so insatiable he mutters under his breath. His smirk falters a bit, “All of me?” Depth to a simple question with a complicated meaning. A double-edged sword wielding in the distance, but you know both ends are worth it.

So you’ll take it straight to the heart -- the journey will be sweet -- dear God, yes sweet sweet agony. “All of you. For all eternity. Even in the after-life.”

A kiss soft, and slow. Not sure to rush in, can feel his heart. Bucky grips your curls to look you in the eye, a quick glare, his eyes glistening, Are you sure?

You smirk, grabbing the nape of his neck, smashing your lips, forehead to forehead. Nose to nose, face closer, searching for any shadow of doubt but he only saw a twinkle of pouring affection.

A short chuckle, Bucky leans in for a kiss but you tease him with only a second of it, pulling your face away. A huff of a laugh at his darkening eyes. Grumbling, by the power of his metal fingers, forces you on his lips.

The echo of the smooch is wet, and enticing. Flinging you on the bed , trapping you under his weight -- a giggle, and a low timbre of a raspy snicker.

“I want those legs high on my shoulders, doll.”

Smack.

“Hmph --”  Biting down on your lip, reveling in his dominance. “-- And you call me insatiable.” You jabbed, a shit-eating grin.

Crack.

And another brisk one, heat blooming on your cheeks.

A high-pitched moan is Bucky’s only answer.

- Pungent fragrance of coitus thickens the air. It’s delicious. Hours of non-stop love making. The sunset is sneaking from the distance, a soft tangerine hue illuminating the room.

Bucky’s fingers rubbing circles on your shoulders, lulling you to a blissful freshly fucked state.

Hazy eye-lids, you want him -- he’s still in disbelief, how can someone like you -- a goddess incarnate -- love someone like him. Is the universe really forgiving him for his sins?

Your small frame engulfed in his massive frame, legs entangled, his arms hugging you tightly. His fingers finding refuge in your hair, his water-logged eyes trail to your chest.

It’s okay, I’m here for you.

A beautiful reminder of your dying commitment. The pads of his fingers trace his marking above your breast, ‘I won’t let anyone hurt you, doll.’

Savoring your small sleepy pout that edges into a smile. A smile curls at the corner of his mouth, leaning forward to peck the letters -- and he’ll always be there for you too.

Forever and always.