#my sanity is barely clinging by a thread

[phagodyke]

if my neighbours don't shut yhr fuck up and go to bed im going to make the news tomorrow

[ki-yomii]

baby, don't go | myg

➥pairing | ex!min yoongi x f!reader, mentioned f!reader x omc ➥word count | 5.1k ➥warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, pet names, praise kink, squirting, hand job, finger fucking, porn w/ plot, angst w/ a happy ending, alcohol, exes to lovers, implied cheating (omc is a fuckboy), implied getting back together (reader & yoongi still low key love each other), idol!yoongi ➥summary | "hii can I request for an exes to lovers trope with yoongi 😭💖 lovee your ficss" you find out your boyfriend is cheating on you. thankfully your ex Yoongi is more than happy to distract you. ➥notes | hope you enjoy this anon 😘💚 omc & ofc are named after characters from one of my favourite k-dramas (personal taste iykyk)

💚 masterlist | inbox | AO3 💚

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Standing beside you, your friend Kae-In takes a swig of whatever's in her cup - a sickly sweet concoction of fruity soju and Chilsung, most likely - and coolly surveys the backyard.

Small groups of people dot the manicured lawn, others lounging by the fire as they catch up with one another. It's been far too long since everyone's schedules aligned like this.

Years in fact, and there are several who came in from out of town.

Ordinarily you'd be over the moon, but as it were you can barely drum up enough false excitement for your best friend. Let alone others you haven't seen in forever.

Cocking her hip, Kae-In puckers her mouth. "The alcohol isn't even that good." She sighs, pretty face scrunching in disappointment. "Some party this is turning out to be."

Your hard cider, still more than half-full, hides an awkward, ill-fitting smile.

Having nursed your own drink for the last hour, whatever might've been enjoyable about it is long gone. Any refreshing coolness and bright, punchy taste replaced by amber liquid far past room temperature in your clammy palm.

In fact, the fizzy warmth and tart aftertaste of moldering apples turns your stomach with every half-hearted sip.

"At least there's cute guys here - some of them have really grown up."

Her breath ruffles the fringe of her bangs when she huffs, casting an eye to the glass bottle strangled in your grip.

"Are you sure you don't want something a little stronger?"

You shrug. "Yeah, I'm fine - gotta be the DD just in case, y'know?"

"Girl, you're ALWAYS the DD. C'mon, you gotta live a little sometimes."

The nonchalant scolding stings, even if it's meant almost entirely in jest but it's not Kae-In's fault. She doesn't know. No one does. You couldn't muster up the courage to tell her the truth.

Not yet.

It's still too fresh. The wound too raw to go poking around with clumsy fingers.

"Don't be like that," you say with a faltering smile. "I'm having fun."

LIAR.

In actuality, you're a few frayed threads away from snapping. Stuck clinging to the edge of sanity by the fingernails as you battle back tides of crippling grief and blinding rage.

Have been since the first few messages came rolling in; questions with videos attached. There's a part of you grateful they reached out, while another altogether wishes you hadn't seen.

At least not until morning.

Would one more night spent in ignorant bliss have been too much to ask for?

Now you're riding a corkscrew of emotion, one that roils and chafes as ceaseless images parade past your eyelids with every blink. Each one as crisp and clear as the first time you pressed play.

The swirling lights, the heady thrum of bodies. A darkened corner. Your boyfriend of three years who said he couldn't make it. His hand sneaking beneath the hem of a cheap, glittery skirt. The dip of his head as he tucks into the curve of a neck, mouth open and smiling against bare skin.

You shudder, stomach rebelling. When you swallow, it's like trying to down buckets of sand.

Kae-In, none the wiser, flicks her hair over her shoulder. "Well, that makes one of us. I guess." Shrugging, she turns to you and asks with a furrowed brow, "Are you sure you're okay? You seem... a little off."

Panic grabs you by the throat.

This was supposed to be a night full of fun and laughter. You're not supposed to be suffocating in a crowded backyard. On the brink of tears and trying to act like your life hasn't imploded.

Alone - by your own doing, which is even worse - to deal with the crushing weight of an inevitable breakup. The painful extrication of two lives entwined.

How a relationship three years in the making can be shattered in a minute and forty-five seconds is mind boggling. You had it all, and now...

You thought you were going to marry him.

The whiplash of it all almost makes you laugh but only so you don't break down in great, heaving sobs. A heartbreak you're not sure you'll ever recover from. Not for the loss of him but rather the decimation of your trust.

"I'm okay, promise! No need to worry."

The lie weighs heavy on your tongue. Tastes of ash as the words you really want to say hover in the back of your throat, a breath away. Only they can't make it past your lips, stuck to your teeth like hard candy.

"It's just been one of those days."

Your shoulders shoot towards your ears when she hums in response. Fingernails picking at the corner of the sweating cider label so you don't have to meet Kae-In's piercing gaze. You know she can see right through you, and you hate it.

What started as a fun night of planned mayhem turned into desperate distractions though this party has done very little in terms of brightening your mood.

Instead, watching everyone you know have a good time while you stand on the side lines, a stranger in a sea of people, feels more akin to rubbing salt in an open wound.

Miserable but acting like you’re not; waves of bitter loneliness threatening to pull you under because you don’t want to ruin the night.

“Is this because Chang-ryul couldn’t make it?” Kae-In pats your back sympathetically. “What bullshit excuse did he give you this time? I swear, he always does this. Just wait. I’m gonna hit him next time I see him.”

Oh, you don’t even know, you think. You’ll definitely want to do more than hit him.

Your heart throbs at the sound of his name, and isn’t that funny? Such a simple thing - nothing but syllables and letters strung together - and yet it has the power to unmake you completely.

Your tongue swells as you struggle to swallow. Words burn like bile as you force out a laugh; brittle, scraped up from the depths of your chest

“I’d pay to see that,” you croak. Your knuckles ache from how tightly you’re gripping the bottle. “But - no. C-Chang-ryul has nothing to do with it.”

You hate that you stutter over his name.

And perhaps that’s why you don’t want to tell Kae-In just yet.

She’s always hated him.

Always said he was no good. Just another fuckboy looking for beds to warm and hearts to break. And she’s right.

God, why does she have to be right?

You know she’d never hold it over you, but the thought of admitting it - out loud - makes you want to vomit all over your shoes. You need time to stitch your edges back together. Too raw and ragged.

You only just found out.

Your pride can’t handle any more hits right now.

She thumbs her nose with an inelegant snort. “Whatever you say. I could take him in a fight. That boy ain’t shit.”

Your laugh startles you - the first genuine one of the evening - and you shake your head fondly. A soft smile tugs at your lips.

“Oh, no doubt. But really, I’ve just been in a weird mood.”

The twist of her lips shows she doesn’t believe a word you’re saying, but she’s kind enough not to press. Instead, she spends the next while distracting you with tales of her various escapades of the week.

And it helps for a time, truly.

But then you feel a buzz against your thigh, a ding echoing up from your pocket. Your stomach turns to lead, drops to your feet. Without looking at the screen, you pull the cell out of your pocket with shaky hands and quickly flick the ringer off.

Meanwhile, Kae-In watches silently with sharp eyes, and an even sharper frown though she declines to comment on your behavior.

“Anyway,” she continues once she has your attention, “as I was saying, did you see little Ji-Seok? Dude shot up like a tree! Last time I saw him he was as big as a bean sprout.”

You hum, worlds away.

“You could at least act like you’re paying attention,” she sucks her teeth before a smirk starts to slowly tug at her lips, “How about we talk about something - or someone - I know you’ll be interested in?”

Guilt sparks but slowly gives way to dread. You know that expression. Have gotten into trouble more times than you can count because of it.

Heart tattooing a rhythm against your rib cage, you sputter, “Oh no. No! Do not look at me like that.”

“C’mo-on!” she wheedles. “You’re absolutely right. We should be talking about,” she points at someone across the yard with her cup, “Yoongi instead.”

Currently leaning back against a stone wall making up part of the fence, Yoongi nurses a beer. Sticking out like a sore thumb now that he’s making it big as an idol, no longer as mundane as the rest of them.

Hushed whispers follow his every move, his bleached hair and flashy outfit commanding all sorts of covert attention.

The sharp cut of his shirt flatters his lean frame, the black leather jacket over top emphasizing the width of his shoulders. Dark jeans cling to his legs, as tight as a second skin, and causing your attention to stray where it shouldn’t.

And his eyes - oh, how you ever forgot is beyond you.

Dark, hooded, deep, and hungry; intense as they drag over the planes of your face like the caress of his fingers.

Shit.

You shove Kae-In’s hand down with a loud smack before she makes an even bigger fool out of you in front of another ex.

“What the hell are you doing?” You hiss. “That’s so rude!”

Not to mention embarrassing as fuck.

“Y’know,” she pauses to wiggle her brows and shoot you an impish grin, “I bet Yoongi would be more than happy to remind you of how rude he can be.”

You smother a groan in your hands, heartache temporarily forgotten. “I can’t believe you. Seriously. We’re no longer friends.”

“Bitch, you love me. And anyway, you know what I can’t believe?” She asks. “You!”

She gestures towards him again amid your flailing attempts to stop her. “Look at him. Like goddamn, you had it good.”

You take a sip of cider to give your hands something to do, nearly blanching at the warm liquid. Refusing to respond or look up as the topic of conversation watches like a hawk, gaze heavy.

How can he still make you weak-kneed after all this time?

He wasn’t even touching you and you still feel his presence down to your toes, setting your teeth on edge.

You hear your own heartbeat, your breathing shaky, sparks of awareness dancing along your spine. Heat creeps into the apples of your cheeks.

“Knock it off, I’m serious.”

“No, when are you going to get that Chang-ryul isn’t good for you?”

You swallow roughly, all the moisture leaving your mouth.

“Yoongi was the best boyfriend you ever had and treated you the way you deserve. And you know he’s never been interested in anyone but you. Hell, he’s barely looked away from you since he got here and the break-up was years ago.”

You shift, perspiration breaking out on your brow. “Can we please stop talking about this?”

“When will you give it up?” She blows a raspberry, shaking her head. “I know you regret how it went down between you guys. Now that he’s here - when you finally have a chance to make it right you just - just - ugh!”

Shooting her a weak half-smile and a shrug, you turn your attention to the small glowing fire pit.

Other’s are gathered around it, relishing in the glow of warmth that wars against the balmy summer breeze cutting through the air. Focusing on the dance and flicker of the flames is a needed moment of peace in entropy.

Though you know it isn’t going to last - not with a motormouth for a friend.

“So-o, what are you waiting for?”

“Sorry?”

She nods towards Yoongi subtly.

He’s finally busy with his own conversation, his gummy smile a quick flash of brightness. “When are you going to stick it to Chang-ryul and hop on that dick?”

“Oh my god!”

Kae-In shrugs. “What.”

“Don’t 'what' me. Seriously?”

A bony elbow digs between your ribs. You wheeze.

“C’mon,” she says, “You already know it’s good with him, and you deserve someone who’s there for you 110%. Someone who will treat you right. You know I worry about you.”

A wave of emotions threatens to completely drown you in that moment, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Her tender concern - her care - feels altogether too much and not enough.

As overwhelming as a tsunami; your heart a raw, exposed nerve.

All you’ve ever wanted was to be loved.

To feel like someone’s first and only choice.

You used to think Chang-ryul was someone who could provide that. What a fool you’ve been. Men like him don’t fall in love, they only pretend to.

They sneak inside your heart and take what they want from your bed. To him, you’re nothing but a fun little stop; a footnote, read and forgotten.

Your heart squeezes, shuddering from a pain your palm can’t soothe away.

It’s a terrible idea.

But maybe…

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to lick your wounds with someone you know cares about you. Has always cared about you, and probably always will.

Clearing your throat, you consider his profile from beneath your lashes.

Yoongi's always made you feel wanted. Looked after you as though you were something rare and precious.

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt that.

Somehow, some way, he senses you looking because he pauses mid-sentence.

Turns to meet you head-on, tracing your face with what can only be called greed. Stopping short when they catch on the lip trapped between your teeth.

Something akin to hunger cuts across his face.

His brows dip low, a palpable heat flooding the inky depths of his eyes. Shadows deepen the lines of his face, the shifting firelight highlighting the flex of a jawline for days, burning halo gold in his hair.

It’s a look you’re intimately familiar with.

Usually preceding a hand-shaking, mind-numbing fuck session where his cock gets as deep as it can, rutting hard and fast, bringing you over the edge again and again until you’re left a wrecked mess. 

Your heart jumps, gallops headlong into a rapid beat.

You feel the rush of blood in your chest, every breath stuttered, stomach lurching. Shaking. Jittery. Tongue tied in a thousand knots and you haven’t even said a word.

It was much easier to pretend you weren’t so magnetically drawn to Yoongi when you weren’t riding the single’s train. When he was away in Seoul chasing after his dreams.

Now that he’s got downtime and your relationship has hit a brick wall? His mere presence sears you to the bone. Drags you in like a black hole.

And that?

So not good.

Swallowing roughly, you tear your attention away. You’d forgotten how intense and blindly bright he can be.

There’s a throb developing in your temple, sharp little darts of pain lancing through your skull. An impending headache if you don’t get some air that doesn’t taste like wood-smoke and cheap alcohol.

“I think I’m gonna head in for a bit. Need to get away.”

You shake your head and toss your bottle into the bin on the way inside, Kae-In shouting her acknowledgement with a thumbs up. Makes you promise to contact her in case of any change in plans.

Nearly everyone’s outside so it should be less crowded, more quiet. Most importantly, away from Yoongi and that penetrating stare which makes you more flustered than you care to admit.

Alas, the kitchen isn’t empty not for long.

You’re lounging against the counter, elbows bent, head rolled back and stinging eyes closed when the back door creaks open. Biting off a groan, you swivel your head to the side.

When you see it’s Yoongi who follows you in, you almost slip and brain yourself on the tile. Mouth dry, palms sweaty, heart beating out of control; scrambling into a more flattering posture while patting down your hair.

He chuckles, his nose scrunched and smile coy.

Seeing him happy always makes you tender, weak.

It seems that hasn’t changed a bit.

No amount of pictures or videos do it justice. Granted, Yoongi looks good any time, any day. But seeing his whole face light up like that in person? Utterly priceless.

It’s a struggle to breathe properly around the lump forming in your throat.

Of course, it has to be him.

Wiping your palms off on your thighs, you greet him with an awkward wave, “Uhhh, hey - hey there, Yoongi.”

Oh my god. Abort mission, I repeat, abort mission.

“Y’know what,” you say, “I was just about to head back outside…”

As you pass by, he catches your arm.

Long fingers curl around your wrist, callouses dragging across your pulse. Your gut clenches, an unexpected bloom of warmth shooting through your core at the sight of his broad palm holding you captive.

His grip is firm but loose enough that you could pull away.

All it serves to do is remind you of nights spent beneath his body, the slide of sweat-slick skin, the taste of him heavy on your tongue, pussy filled to the brim with cock. His rough voice music to your ears, prideful as he gloats about how well you’re taking him.

"Leaving so soon?” He asks silkily.

A hard tug sends you slamming into the wall of his chest.

Air rushes from your lungs, your hands trapped against his collarbones. Firm muscles contract beneath your palms, his body shoving into your touch.

Twisting your fingers in the soft cotton of his shirt, you look at him from beneath your lashes. Your voice whisper soft when you say, “Yoongi…”

His dark eyes, the colour of a rich espresso, track the path of your tongue as you wet your lips. Fingers drag over the soft line of your neck, tracing your fluttering pulse.

Touch feather light as it stops by the corner of your mouth, pressing down on the swell of your lip.

“I haven’t said hello yet.”

Eyes wide, all you do is watch and wait with baited breath. Stunned into silence at his proximity. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close, the smell of his expensive cologne nostalgic.

Your body recognizes his, responding all the same. The connection between you electric, overwhelmingly so.

His head bows, bleached strands brushing your forehead. The tip of his nose rubs yours. You get lost in counting his eyelashes, tracing the bridge of his nose to the carved slope of his cheeks.

Surrounded by him, the urge to resist what’s happening is nearly non-existent. Though you wish it wasn’t so easy to be caught by him.

“One of the guys said something interesting,” he says, his breath ghosting across your face; mint and beer. “It's about you actually.”

He flashes the smile that sends your heart soaring, your stomach flipping.

The slightest peek of a metal chain resting in the crook of his neck, surrounded by a very tempting patch of skin you want to taste, has you a little dumbfounded, absentminded.

“Oh?”

You really hope you don’t sound as frazzled as you feel but the haughty superiority of his slow appraisal of your body, the cocksure smirk on his lips states otherwise.

You really wish you could knock him down a peg but confidence looks amazing on him.

Always has.

“They said you have a boyfriend now. Is that true?”

You manage the slightest shake of your head in the negative - no, not anymore - your heart thundering in your ears.

Your breath catches in anticipation just before Yoongi closes the remaining inches between you with a hum of approval.

His head tilts to the side as he slots your mouths together in a kiss that’s got your toes curling. A filthy wet slide of lips, his the slightest bit chapped, send you under, liquid warmth filling your belly.

You inhale sharply, a moan vibrating against his lips.

Melting into the cage of his arms as his hands clamp down on your hips possessively, tugging you closer. Pressed stem to stern like this there’s no hiding the evidence of his desire.

He’s already half-hard in his jeans, his erection pressing against the zipper.

His eyes are hooded when he pulls away.

“Wanna take this somewhere a little more private, baby?” Yoongi asks, running his nose up the length of your neck and inhaling.

How is this my life, you think, dazed.

His hips grind forward against you so there’s no mistaking what you’re dealing with. “It’ll be just like old times.”

After an awkward fumble and an elbow to the side, you settle on the downstairs bathroom. He follows, quickly pinning you to the door while struggling to toss his leather jacket over the sink.

With a flick of the lock, you’re finally alone without any possible interruption. The door muffles most of the ruckus outside, leaving you hyper aware of every hurried breath, every low-throated murmur.

For a long while it’s nothing but a mess of lips, his body molding to yours. Easy to fall back into the old rhythms of your relationship as though you never left it.

He holds you down.

His fingers in your hair, on your jaw. His tongue gliding over your lip, sucking it into his mouth and letting it slide back out through his teeth.

You meet him kiss for kiss, your hands finding their way into his back pockets, tugging, groping, loving how he bucks up into the cradle of your hips in response.

A sweet ache settles low and deep.

“Yoongi,” you sigh. “Fuck, I forgot how much you like to tease.”

His thumb circles your nipple through your shirt, teasing it into a sensitive, stiff peak that shows through the thin fabric.

The caresses send soft pulses straight to your clit, the intensity getting stronger and stronger the rougher he is.

Before long, you’re aware of how achingly empty you are.

Yoongi nips the corner of your jaw.

“Never forgot how fun teasing you is,” he murmurs into the silk of your skin. “How wet you get for me.”

“Shit, you can’t just say something like that.”

“Can’t I?” His laugh, genuine and vibrant, sounds through his chest and into yours. “You can bitch all you want, but I know you love it.”

A smile, all teeth.

“Isn’t that right, baby?”

You glare at him weakly through half lidded eyes.

Two can play that game.

“Fuck!” Yoongi bites out, those impossibly dark eyes sliding shut when you reach down to palm him through his jeans.

His breath whooshes from him in a loud exhale, his jaw working back and forth. “That’s cheating.”

You smirk, feeling him throb in your hand.

”What were you saying, Yoongs?” Humming, you rub your chest against his, using a fingertip to trace the outline of his shaft. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

Spearing you with a weighted look, Yoongi shoves you back into the door harder than before, the wood creaking under the pressure. Fist resting on the frame next to your head, his body cages you in.

Every shuddered inhale has the planes of his firm chest pressing into yours with the expansion of his lungs. His hips buck up into the softness of your palm with a grunt.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, pretty girl,” he cautions.

Competitiveness is a gift and a curse.

Not one to be outdone, you brush away any lingering reservations - which being honest, there weren’t many left. His relieved groan when you tug out his cock reverberates through you.

Shit, that’s so unfair.

Yoongi already sounds wrecked yet you’ve barely touched him. How the fuck are you going to get through this without completely combusting when he actually cums?

Thinking that maybe focusing on what you’re doing will help, you look down.

Big mistake.

Dark designer jeans circle his thighs, low enough for his cock to spring free.

Flushed, curved towards his belly, the head swollen and sticky with pre-cum. The shaft a decent handful that pulses when your palm skims the side.

Feminine appreciation at the sight has velvet heat pooling between your thighs, pussy clenching at the thought of him inside you.

Sex with him was always stupidly good.

All those veiled lyrics about his skill in the bedroom far too accurate for comfort.

Since you broke up, you haven’t been with anyone that comes close to his ability in getting you off.

He’s ruined you.

His face burrows into the crook of your neck with a low groan. His breath puffs across your skin, shivers racing down your spine.

Low voice full of grit, he says, “Shit, baby, that feels…”

Hot palms anchor themselves to your hips.

“Wait a sec,” he says, body twitching with aborted thrusts, strong fingers kneading. “Wanna do you too.”

Heart jumping, you let go of him long enough to yank your shirt over your head and kick off your pants before returning your hand to his cock.

In the meantime, he rucks his shirt up under his armpits. You can’t help but make a noise in the back of your throat as the length of his torso is exposed.

All that soft, smooth skin stretching over his stomach as he flexes. You have to fight down the urge to run your tongue along the outline of his hip.

Mouth slack, Yoongi pushes up the cups of your bra. Watches laser-focused on the bounce of your tits as they drop free, subtly swaying with every jerk of your wrist.

His hips fuck up into the circle of your hand while one of his own inches down to brush the crease of your thigh. Your hips tilt towards his touch, desperate for friction.

“Oh god.” He moans, calloused fingers dipping between your folds. “You’re so wet for me.”

You wiggle, whining against his lips as you meet in a messy kiss. His touch is light, gentle, barely there as he traces the length of your slit.

You’re trembling, skin too tight, body feverish. “Stop teasing, I want you inside me.”

Those seem to be the magic words because Yoongi gives a rumble of approval, using his thumb to spread slick over your swollen clit in tight circles.

Heat coils in your belly, electricity racing down your spine. Your thighs splay as wide as they can, making room for his hand.

His knuckles brush your skin.

Dipping down to your entrance, Yoongi works on spreading you open with shallow thrusts until you take three fingers comfortably.

Your needy sighs and soft moans bounce off the walls.

His low murmurs right in your ear as the pads stroke your walls, his wrist flexing. He’s hitting all the right spots, still remembering how to get you off years after the fact.

You’re quickly turning weak-kneed and wet eyed.

“Fuck, Yoongs, right there,” you keen, baring down on the digits nudging your g-spot, your grip tightening around his shaft.

You grind your palm over the swollen tip, gathering beads of pre-cum.

He hisses, thrusts off beat.

Fingers nudge up suddenly, pressing deep and holding in retaliation. White lightening crackles behind your eyelids, thighs twitching, mouth dropping open.

“Yeah, just like that, pretty girl.”

Your world narrows down to every filthy slide of his cock in your hand, every gush of slick as he stuffs fingers into you over and over again until you’re a writhing mess against the door.

Your nerve endings are alive with pleasure, the stimulation too much and not enough.

“Please, don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, doubling his efforts, wrist working faster.

Dapples of sweat litter his brow, his eyes staring into yours, glazed over and lusting.

Fuck, he’s handsome like this.

It’s a little embarrassing how bad he’s got you but between the blissed-out expression he’s wearing, the weight of him in your hand, and how full you are, you know this orgasm is going to be quick, messy.

The pace of his hips pick up, his breath hitching in his throat, length twitching and thickening in your grip.

He’s getting close, his touch rougher, more force behind the snapping thrusts of his hips, teeth nipping at the side of your neck.

“Come on, baby,” you say, breathless, twisting your hand on the upstroke. He smothers a grunt in your shoulder. “Give it to me.”

It doesn’t take much more to bring him to the edge.

A particular spread of his fingers has you jolting, a sudden, intense spike of pleasure shooting right to your clit.

In turn, you unintentionally massage his cock, knuckles bumping the underside of the swollen head.

He’s a goner.

Cumming with a low, wounded whine and a shuttered thrust, Yoongi smacks the door with his free hand. Thick spurts of jizz make an absolute mess of his stomach and your knuckles.

Sagging forward like a doll with cut strings, all his dead weight bears down on you.

He pants, small tremors wrack his frame. “Baby,” he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, “I missed you s’much.”

“Missed you too,” you reply, using nice, languid strokes to wring the last of his orgasm out of him. “More than I thought I did.”

In lieu of a response, Yoongi wiggles his fingers inside you, rebuilding the rhythm he lost. He flutters them, curls up against your walls, peppering kisses along the length of your jaw with a hum.

Slick drips down his wrist, the sloppy sound of him finger fucking your cunt blending with a surge of desperate moans.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Yoongi says against your chin. “So fucking hot, wanna see you cum.”

Your back arches, your fingers digging into the width of his shoulders, head smacking the door with a dull thud.

“Can you do that for me?”

Nodding frantically, you fall apart with a broken gasp. Clamping down so hard he can’t move, the cramps softened by the throbbing heat washing over you. Blood rushes in your ears as your pussy gushes around his fingers.

“Good girl,” he praises, tone heated. “You did so well for me.”

By the time your brain comes back online, you’ve forgotten all about Chang-ryul and the constant vibration of your phone where it’s shoved - forgotten - into your pocket.

The only thing that matters is Yoongi with his tender kisses and greedy hands.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

The Plant Prowler of Pabu

A/N: I’m scared that Pabu is going to be toast after this week, so I wrote a little fluff to make myself feel better. Also, this is the first time I’ve been able to finish a fic in six weeks, so… yay me!

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader (GN)

Rating: T (but MDNI as always)

Wordcount: 2.1K

Warnings and tags: mild language; fluff; a kiss; spoilers for The Bad Batch season 3

Summary: Exploring the island during his first morning on Pabu, Crosshair encounters a mastermind of botanical crime: you.

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Whoever said, “It’s darkest just before dawn” had clearly never woken up to go for a walk before sunrise. Even if Crosshair hadn’t had enhanced vision, it would have been easy for him to navigate his way down to the beach of Pabu in the dim half-light. Hunter had wordlessly watched him exit the Marauder, pretending to still be asleep, but Crosshair knew that his brother would have drawn his vibroblade in a flash if he’d even glanced sideways at Omega.

Crosshair didn’t exactly blame Hunter for his caution, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. The squad had arrived on the idyllic island the previous day, and Crosshair was immediately swarmed by a horde of curious locals. With Hunter determined to keep Crosshair in sight at all times, there had been no escape from their onslaught of hospitality, and by the time the celebrations had died down, Crosshair had been clinging to the tattered threads of his patience and sanity.

It was a hell of a thing to go from barely speaking to anyone for months on end to suddenly being plunged into the midst of a vibrant and chaotic crowd of nosy spectators. He’d escaped to the Marauder at last and pretended to sleep, keenly aware of Hunter’s eyes on him. He’d spent enough time under the microscope in the past several months, though, and he was ready for some privacy.

And so it was that he found himself wandering down the empty terraced walkways of Pabu, making his way to the shoreline in the pale gloaming. He didn’t encounter a single soul as he walked—barring the ubiquitous moonyos that seemed to frolic across the island at all hours. Pabu was the sort of place that seemed too flawless to be real. Too flawless to last.

Not quite as flawless as it seems on the surface, he acknowledged as he turned down a path that snaked through one of the sections of the island that had yet to be rebuilt after the catastrophic sea surge he’d heard about countless times at the welcoming party the previous night. The buildings had been reduced to rubble, and judging by the weeds sprouting in the cracks of the walkway, the locals tended to avoid this particular part of the island.

Perfect.

The gentle breeze off the ocean was chilly, and he told himself it was the reason his hand trembled more than usual that morning. He shoved both hands deep into his pockets as he navigated the last few levels before he reached the beach. As he stepped onto the sand, a gust of wind buffeted against him. It was bracingly cold, and it smelled like salt and aquatic vegetation and wet earth, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and focusing on the sensation.

When he opened his eyes, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision had him snapping his head to the side. He froze. A figure meandered slowly down the beach, sticking close to the bottom of the hill where the lush foliage grew thickly right up to the edge of the sand. He was certain you had spotted him, but you didn’t immediately acknowledge his presence.

He watched for a moment as you paused and stooped down to examine one of the plants, then carefully plucked a few bunches and laid them in the basket you carried. Bizarre. What the kriff was this person doing out here so early? Nothing innocent, that was for damned sure. Why would anyone sneak down to such an isolated stretch of the beach at this obscene hour if they didn’t have nefarious intent?

Aside from me, obviously.

He squinted slightly. Even with his enhanced eyesight, it was dark enough, and you were far enough away, that it was difficult to make out your features, but he was reasonably sure you hadn’t been at the party the night before. 

Hmph.

He turned and walked the opposite direction, away from the person who’d had the audacity to interrupt his solitude by getting to the beach first. Better not to get involved.

Crosshair took a different route the next morning, arriving at the beach just as the sun rose. As bad kriffing luck would have it, you were exiting the beach just as he arrived, and your paths inevitably intersected. He braced himself for a conversation, but you simply met his eyes and nodded quietly as you passed him.

He suppressed a sigh of relief. Stepping aside to make room for you to pass on the narrow trail, he couldn’t help noticing that your basket was filled with a variety of neat bundles of leaves and twigs. Odd, but your hobbies were none of his concern. Even if they did involve herb rustling and grand theft shrubbery.

He continued his path down to the shoreline and wandered along the water’s edge, staring out at the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see your solitary figure making its way up the steep slope and into Lower Pabu. He was now completely sure that you’d not been at the welcoming party, nor had he encountered you in the village. It wasn’t that surprising; after all, hundreds of people lived on the island, and he wasn’t in any particular hurry to meet them all—or any of them, if he were honest.

Of course, he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Wrecker had flatly refused to allow Crosshair to isolate himself, while the gregarious mayor Shep Hazard seemed equally dedicated to the twin causes of thrusting Crosshair into the community and plying him with as much fruit as he could eat in a lifetime. He was starting to feel a tiny surge of violence every time he saw a jogan fruit.

On the third day, Batcher woke up with Crosshair and scrambled out of the Marauder, bounding ahead of him down the ramp and then turning to wiggle her entire body in anticipation as he followed. He let the lurca hound pick the path that morning, not bothering to hide his thin smile at Batcher’s endless curiosity and enthusiasm. She crisscrossed the walkways incessantly, sniffing and exploring, chasing the moonyos playfully down the hill, investigating every nook and cranny of the village, and easily running five times the distance that Crosshair traveled on their way down to the water.

The beach was empty this morning, to Crosshair’s relief. At last, some peace and quiet. Or at least as quiet and peaceful as it could be with Batcher rocketing back and forth across the wet sand, grunting and huffing as she charged into the surf and back up to Crosshair, crouching into a bow as she tried to entice him to play with her. When he didn’t immediately comply, she took off chasing a flock of seabirds, scattering them into the air in a cacophony of indignant squawking.

She chased the birds down the beach, barking joyously as she splashed through the surf. When the hound disappeared around a bend in the shoreline, Crosshair sped up slightly, not wanting to risk Omega’s wrath if anything happened to her pet on his watch. As he rounded the bend, he was greeted with a most unexpected sight: Batcher was lying on her back on the sand, writhing with delight as you rubbed her belly.

Your basket was overturned, and all the neat little bundles of herbs were strewn across the sand. It wasn’t hard to deduce the instigator of such carnage. Batcher spotted Crosshair and immediately jumped up and shook the sand off herself before rushing to greet him.

“Down,” he said sternly as she jumped up and swiped at him with her massive paws.

She dropped obediently, and trotted along next to him as he approached you. You’d already begun picking up your fallen bundles of leaves, and he quickly bent to assist you.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“No harm done,” you replied, shaking a bit of loose sand out of the bundles before you dropped them into your basket. “They all get washed before I hang them up to dry anyway.”

“So you’re not just engaging in botanical heists for the adrenaline rush?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, it really gets the blood pumping,” you replied, deadpan. “My day just doesn’t feel complete without a little horticultural larceny.”

“I can see you like to live on the edge,” he said with a tiny smile. “The Plant Prowler of Pabu.”

“And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for a mysterious stranger and his meddling dog.”

He liked you. Damn it.

Crosshair didn’t see you for the next several days. He assumed you’d moved your criminal enterprise elsewhere on the island, and after the team returned from Barton IV, he didn’t feel the same need to escape the Marauder as he had previously. Still, he wasn’t sleeping particularly well, and after an excruciatingly restless night, he slipped out of the ship not long before dawn and wandered aimlessly down the streets of Pabu until he found himself in the unstable section he’d discovered on the first day.

As he picked his way through the ruins, he spotted movement two terraces below, and he grinned. Forcing himself to walk casually so you didn’t suspect how pleased he was to see you, he sauntered down to your level, only to find you ripping weeds up from between the fragments of pavement with uncharacteristic abandon.

“What did those plants ever do to you?” he asked.

You must have spotted him before he arrived, because you didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice.

“Invasive species,” you replied. “I try not to over-forage, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.”

“And I thought your crimes only extended to vegetational theft,” he drawled. “I had no idea you’d escalated to floral murder and agricultural vigilantism.”

“The hero Pabu needs,” you said with a smile that had no business being as charming as it was, considering you were currently covered in a fine layer of dirt and assorted bits of leaves and twigs. “If this plant gets established on the island, we might never be able to eradicate it. It will outcompete the native plants and could cause significant disruptions to the ecosystem.”

“How altruistic of you,” he remarked drily.

“Not at all,” you laughed. “It also happens to be delicious.”

Crosshair stooped down and pulled one of the plants up by the roots, examining it closely. “It’s on sight, then.”

“Exactly. No mercy.”

As the first rays of the sun appeared on the distant horizon, you packed the large bundles of weeds into your basket, then stood and dusted your hands off on your trousers. You stretched a bit, clearly a little stiff from your labor. Impulsively, Crosshair spoke.

“Want to watch the sunrise with me?” You looked surprised at his offer, and he cleared his throat, looking awkwardly away. “Or do you turn into a meiloorun if you stay out past dawn?”

“Yes,” you said. “I mean, no. I mean, yes, I’d like to stay. No, I don’t turn into a meiloorun.”

You bit your lip and stared down at the bundle of weeds in your basket, poking at it ineffectually as you muttered something unintelligible under your breath. Stifling a laugh, Crosshair climbed up onto the crumbling half-wall of a destroyed structure and extended his hand to help you up after him. You scrambled up and sat down next to him, gazing out at the tranquil ocean as the sun began to paint the high clouds in brilliant shades of gold and pastel.

“Not a bad view, is it?” you asked quietly. 

“Definitely worth waking up early,” he replied, watching your face as the light caught on your cheekbones and reflected in your eyes.

Without making a conscious decision, he lifted his hand and brushed a little loose dirt off your cheek. His damned hand trembled, and he mentally cursed. You didn’t seem to notice the slight tremor, though—or if you did, you didn’t say anything about it. Instead, you turned your head slowly, grazing your lips across his fingertips as you met his eyes. It seemed the most natural thing in the galaxy to continue to trace the line of your jaw until his hand curled around the back of your head.

Your lips were soft and warm in the cool breeze, and you tasted like sea salt and dew and something he didn’t quite recognize. Something new. He liked it. You leaned into his kiss, and when at last it came to its natural conclusion, he drew in a shaky breath.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I’m Crosshair.”

---

Want more Crosshair? I have another Crosshair x Reader ficlet here!

Taglist:

@secondaryrealm @sev-on-kamino spicy-clones @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @merkitty49 @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @arcsimper5 @starrylothcat @clio3kantarella @cloneloverrrrr @goblininawig @ladytano420 @arctrooper69 @sunshinesdaydream @littlemissmanga @stunkbiggu @starqueensthings @marierg @idontgetanysleep @moonlightwarriorqueen @dudewhynotthis @sleepycreativewriter @tcwmatchmakingau @littlemissbshine @multi-fan-dom-madness @heavenseed76 @wizardofrozz @bobaprint @sweetcream-coldfoam @banksys-rat @skellymom @pickleprickle @trixie2023 @mythical-illustrator @dickarchivist @cw80831 @kimiheartblade @meredithroseg @flyiingsly @lightwise @swcowgal @reader6898 @cdblake1565 @epicy0n @starstofillmydream @msmeredithrose @totallyunidentified @eclec-tech @euphoriacafe @hipwell

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Hype Train! Caged Birds~

F!Pregnant Streamer Reader x M!Yandere Streamer OC

Part 1~

His Info: 📹✨

Part: 1 2

Hype Train! 1, Part 1, here!

!!!MINORS DNI!!!

CW: !F reader, use of she/her when referring to reader, reader has a vagina, YANDERE, pet names (Pretty, pretty girl, good girl, my girl, mama), PREGNANCY in future parts!, reader will be scared of pregnancy, exhibitionism, public use of toys, ML controlled toys, breeding kink, p in v, public bathroom sex, creampie, breeding kink, cum play for a sec, fingering for a sec

from this point on anything on “Hype Train! Caged Birds” will be the pregnancy path! i will be posting “Hype Train! Little Mouse!” parts as well, which will be the NON pregnancy path! Love y’all! hope you will enjoy 😚✨

“Jasper…” You writhe a little, uncomfortable in the velvet chair.

Though… Not because of the chair.

A little remote sits on the table next to his place setting.

“Yeeeessss~ Pretty?” fingertips drum on his chin, maybe feigning some sort of innocence.

You can’t even muster the deadpanned look you wish you could give him as the little butterfly shaped thing vibrates inside your panties.

He bought you a dress before taking you to this fancy ass place.

The second problem therein lies.

The freakin’ dress is too short!

Your panties do NOT hide the toy, let alone your soaked slit.

In fact, they cling to everything.

“C’mon, Jasper…”

“What is it, pretty girl~” His smile is so chilling, you shiver even more intensely in your seat.

“Pleaeeeaaase, there are people all around.”

“Please what? I didn’t hear you, pretty…” He idly picks up the remote and pushes it.

His ankle is lazily crossed over his other knee. Lust fills his eyes, as he’s leaning back in his chair, observing you.

“Please… Tur-nnn i-it offf…” Your hands and legs shake as the heat inside you builds.

*Click* it stops abruptly.

“W—waaait…!” You exclaim, the sudden stop almost makes you feel like crying!

“What is it, pretty girrl? I thought you said, stop…” The grin on his stupidly hot face just widens.

“T-turn it back on…” You whisper breathlessly. Eyes darting around at the faces that could care less all around you. The thought that anyof them could turn and see everything kind of… Turns you on though…

“P-please…” Your legs spread a little wider and you move your hands to the table’s edge.

*Click* “Ah!!” you bite your lip as your pussy convulses, “mm” You force your legs to stay open.

He smirks, “Good girl.” He holds his phone under the table to record your bottom half.

You spread wider for him, face burning immensely as you turn your head and squint in embarrassment.

“Mmm, that’s my girl,” *Click* “Always so good f’me”

Your grip on the table shakes the wine and water glasses, you try to keep your knees apart, but it feels like gravity wants to force them together.

*Click*

“Haaaahhhh” the setting changes to some kind of rising, pulsing vibration that slows back down to an almost stop, then starts over. “Ooooohh nn-n”

You don’t even notice him stand and walk over to you, “C’mon, it’s time fr m’good girl t’get her reward” He grabs the faux fur coat and slings it with his index finger over his shoulder.

You’re barely hanging onto your threads of sanity as you approach orgasm, shuddering in your seat.

Wobbling, you manage to stand as he gently helps you up by your arm.

He enforces your pace, quickly leading you to the bathroom.

It’s honestly a nice bathroom, not that your surprised given the rest of the establishment.

He pats the empty counter space between two sinks, and then lifts you by your sides as you hop up at the same time.

“Jasperrrr,”

“Yes, pretty?”

“Please fff-fuck me, hard,” the things still vibrating on your clit. God, you can’t think straight.

Kicking off your heels, you bring up your legs and spread them as wide as possible.

“S’pretty” He says in awe. “I almost wanna snap a picture first…”

“Please, Jasper…” You move your panties to the side giving him a clear view of your hot, quivering hole.

“Fuck, pretty,” his tongue slowly rounds his lips, before he pulls up his bottom lip between his teeth.

Teasingly he stares at you while so agonizingly slowly opening his pants, and undoing his belt. The chains and keys on his wait jingle.

“Goddddd Hurry, pleeaaseee! I want you so ff-fucking b-bad,” You beg.

He finally gets that huge beautiful thing out, the tip and the piercing shining with his precum.

Now you’re licking your lips, “Oh, Jasper, Pleasee, put that inside me right fucking now, oh my god.”

“Since you asked so nicely, pretty girl, I won’t tease you anymore,” as he says that he slaps your thigh with his cock, getting a little jump out of you.

His lopsided smile is from ear to ear. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t already brain dead, and thinking of nothing past his gorgeous, thick and veiny length.

You scooch closed trying to take it in yourself, he puts his hand over your mound and pushes the still vibrating toy harder against you.

Your body retreats back with a grunt.

But soon enough the tip touches you, opening you up further, you bite down almost puncturing your lip, brows knit furiously together.

He thrusts in, “F-fuck, Y/N, you’re s’tight,” he rolls his hips first, getting himself nice an wet by your own juices. “I can’t wait t’fill this pretty lil pussy”

“Please! Cum inside me, I wan’it s’ bad, Jasper!”

His hand finds your mouth so you can bite it. You do. Hard.

“Wan’ me to make ya a mama that bad?”

Lost in the moment, as he starts thrusting into you, you open your mouth to say, “Yes! Please!!! I wanna have your babies, Jasper!! Fuck em into me!” he slides his hand down to your throat, holding you in place by it.

“Yeah? You wan’that, pretty?” His thrusts already started off erratic, you can tell that this whole time his arousal was building as much as yours.

He slams harder and harder into you, if you weren’t shoulders against a mirror and holding onto his own for purchase, you’d surly be forced annoyingly away.

“Ah! ff-fuck! Are you ready, pretty?” He asks while speeding up.

“Yes!! Fill me! Fill me up, Jasper!”

He does, white coats your insides and the second you feel that hot thickness filling you so perfectly in harsh bursts, you cum as well. Your walls convulse hard and tighten around him, so he can’t escape.

You wrap your legs around him, keeping him locked from the outside as well.

You’re both panting, your head back against the cold mirror uncomfortably, and his forward, black hair blocking his face from view.

He wraps his arms around you and kisses your neck.

You aren’t letting go and he says, “You really do wan’me t’make ya a mama, huh,” his dick twitches inside you. “Don’t think I ever wanted little ones till I found you… Now I just, wanna fill you… I wanna come home to them running around… like a real person would.” that last part comes out quietly.

“You are a real person, Jasper.”

He laughs bitterly, it makes your heart hurt.

“As long as I am to you, pretty”

You let him pull out, and some of his cum follows, “Oh no, can’t have that can we~” His sing songy voice is back in an instant.

He brings two of his fingers to your dripping cunt, collecting all of his essence that escaped.

“I’m gon’have ta fuck this back into ya, huh? don’t wanna waste any… Now that we’re tryin’”

“What?” You’re thinking clearer in the post absolute bliss, though the thing on you is still freaking vibrating, it’s overwhelming you, but your thoughts still manage to come through.

Are you even ready for kids?!

“W-wait! Jasper!” You try and back up now, but he’s miles away in a different realm. “Haaah!” His fingers curl, and he presses his other hand over the vibrator. He starts rubbing it onto you in a circular motion.

It was already too much, and now your body is shaking like the very earth is breaking open beneath you.

The precipice grows beneath you.

His fingers pump his own cum back into you with more vigor as you get closer to the edge.

“You’re s’pretty, Y/N…” It comes out a whisper.

You come undone again, somehow harder this time. You get your juices all over the counter. he thankfully rips the thing off you in the same moment, so you don’t get overstimulated.

It moves around the floor as it vibrates.

Lips collide perfectly with yours, his snake bites tickle your chin a little. You giggle into him, as his hand comes up to your cheek, and his tongue enters your mouth.

You sigh, he always makes sure the comedown is pleasant and intimate. You forget everything else in the world again, and hug his body.

[jaywaslost]

I Tried to Hold Him (but it didn't really last long.) [Kolour]

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Helloo :) This is, once again, something I've forgotten thats been lying around in my docs unposted for no real reason!

I don't have much to say about this one here, perhaps trigger warning for major character death? Should be about it though. Enjoy :)

----

Sypnosis:

Colour healed him, put him back together.

The very man who kept him in one piece, held him like he was the most fragile thing in the multiverse with such gentleness, the one Killer found himself clinging onto.

He was colder than he should ever be.

Word count: 2.7k

Death was something Killer was familiar with.

It was something every Sans had long since gotten used to, but he was especially acquainted with it. The way it would come so suddenly, bearing its fangs and sinking them deep into the victim, leaving no time to process what had happened until it was too late to save them.

He had experienced it many times, but the amount of times he caused it far outweigh that. It’s what he would assume, at least.

The feeling of his knife tearing into the body of another, over and over to the point he lost count of how many had fallen to his hands. Hands and clothing covered in a thin veil of dust, all that remains after someone is gone. A reminder he is why they are no longer there, t̶h̶e̶ f̶e̶e̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ o̶f̶ i̶t̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ l̶e̶f̶t̶ n̶o̶ m̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ h̶o̶w̶ h̶a̶r̶d̶ h̶e̶ s̶c̶r̶u̶b̶b̶e̶d̶ w̶h̶y̶ d̶i̶d̶ t̶h̶e̶ d̶u̶s̶t̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ l̶e̶a̶v̶e̶-̶ t̶h̶e̶ b̶l̶o̶o̶d̶-̶

It was almost like a dance to him by this point, the familiar weight of his knife grounding him in the midst of this sickening choreography he had become so accustomed to. It’d be a matter of time before the other monsters fell regardless of their skill, and he would simply need to last longer. A test of endurance, if all else failed.

He lost many people throughout his lifetimes, one’s sanity can’t stay intact for long after seeing your own family be mangled over and over, but Killer had long since lost track of time when he snapped. It felt almost like he was torn to pieces and put back together by fragile thread barely holding his aching soul in one piece when he made that deal.

It was too late to take it back by then, a decision he regret for a long time after.

His first victims were the family he tried so hard to keep safe.

If he killed them, it would hurt less, surely.

He would make it fast and easy, they would not have to deal with the pain much longer.

If he left it to the human, they would suffer.

They did not need to suffer more.

S̶a̶n̶s̶ Killer would make sure of that.

T̶h̶e̶ w̶a̶y̶ P̶a̶p̶y̶r̶u̶s̶ d̶i̶d̶n̶'t̶ b̶a̶c̶k̶ a̶w̶a̶y̶ f̶r̶o̶m̶ h̶i̶m̶ w̶i̶l̶l̶ a̶l̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ h̶a̶u̶n̶t̶ h̶i̶m̶. D̶e̶s̶p̶i̶t̶e̶ t̶h̶e̶ f̶e̶a̶r̶ i̶n̶ t̶h̶e̶ o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶'s̶ e̶y̶e̶s̶, a̶l̶l̶ h̶e̶ s̶a̶w̶ w̶a̶s̶ h̶i̶s̶ b̶i̶g̶ b̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶.

H̶i̶s̶ b̶i̶g̶ b̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ w̶h̶o̶ p̶l̶u̶n̶g̶e̶d̶ a̶ k̶n̶i̶f̶e̶ i̶n̶ h̶i̶s̶ c̶h̶e̶s̶t̶, t̶h̶e̶ o̶n̶e̶ w̶h̶o̶ b̶e̶t̶r̶a̶y̶e̶d̶ h̶i̶m̶ a̶n̶d̶ l̶e̶f̶t̶ h̶i̶m̶ t̶o̶ b̶l̶e̶e̶d̶ o̶u̶t̶ w̶i̶t̶h̶o̶u̶t̶ a̶ r̶e̶s̶p̶o̶n̶s̶e̶, s̶t̶e̶p̶p̶i̶n̶g̶ o̶v̶e̶r̶ t̶h̶e̶ s̶c̶a̶r̶f̶ h̶e̶ c̶h̶e̶r̶i̶s̶h̶e̶d̶ s̶o̶ m̶u̶c̶h̶ w̶h̶e̶n̶ h̶e̶ f̶a̶d̶e̶d̶ i̶n̶t̶o̶ n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶n̶e̶s̶s̶.

Killer felt nothing about that any longer, it had been a while since those events happened. It didn’t matter to him, they forgot him when he left with the last reset, afterall.

T̶h̶e̶y̶ d̶i̶d̶ n̶o̶t̶.

H̶e̶ w̶a̶s̶ s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶ h̶e̶ w̶a̶s̶ s̶o̶ s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶-̶

From those days, Killer learned the price one pays for loving another.

A mistake he refused to repeat. He learned his lesson, he was not stupid.

T̶h̶a̶t̶ w̶a̶s̶ w̶h̶a̶t̶ h̶e̶ w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ t̶o̶ b̶e̶l̶i̶e̶v̶e̶.

It was no issue for a long time, especially after he met the one who called himself “Nightmare”. A̶ f̶i̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ n̶a̶m̶e̶ f̶o̶r̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ f̶r̶e̶a̶k̶ o̶f̶ n̶a̶t̶u̶r��e̶. T̶h̶a̶t̶ c̶r̶u̶e̶l̶, v̶i̶l̶e̶ c̶r̶e̶a̶t̶u̶r̶e̶-̶ With him, Killer did not have to feel. He didn't worry about it anymore, he didn’t need to feel guilty anymore.

It was freeing.

I̶f̶ o̶n̶l̶y̶ h̶e̶ k̶n̶e̶w̶ b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e̶h̶a̶n̶d̶, f̶r̶e̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ h̶i̶m̶ f̶r̶o̶m̶ t̶h̶e̶ s̶h̶a̶c̶k̶l̶e̶s̶ o̶f̶ s̶h̶a̶m̶e̶ w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ o̶n̶l̶y̶ o̶p̶e̶n̶ s̶p̶a̶c̶e̶ f̶o̶r̶ n̶e̶w̶ o̶n̶e̶s̶. H̶i̶s̶ f̶r̶a̶g̶i̶l̶e̶ m̶i̶n̶d̶ c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ n̶o̶t̶ t̶a̶k̶e̶ a̶n̶y̶ m̶o̶r̶e̶ f̶o̶r̶ m̶u̶c̶h̶ l̶o̶n̶g̶e̶r̶, d̶e̶s̶p̶e̶r̶a̶t̶e̶ f̶o̶r̶ a̶ s̶o̶l̶u̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ h̶e̶ o̶n̶l̶y̶ d̶u̶g̶ h̶i̶s̶ o̶w̶n̶ g̶r̶a̶v̶e̶.

S̶t̶u̶c̶k̶ o̶w̶i̶n̶g̶ a̶ d̶e̶b̶t̶ h̶e̶ w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ b̶e̶ c̶a̶p̶a̶b̶l̶e̶ o̶f̶ r̶e̶p̶a̶y̶i̶n̶g̶, t̶u̶r̶n̶e̶d̶ i̶n̶t̶o̶ a̶ t̶o̶o̶l̶, a̶ t̶o̶y̶ i̶n̶ r̶e̶t̶a̶l̶i̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶.

If he was unable to feel, then the sensations in his chest were simply illness. His immune system was good, but even it gave out sometimes as any other one did.

It didn’t have anything to do with the one he had become so accustomed to, no.

He was too wounded to feel anything anymore, let alone one as pure as love.

Wound, after wound, after wound. Everything ached as he had been gutted of all empathy. Once fighting for love and now left with nothing, without the right to even dream of it any more.

Once with a gift of feeling so deeply, free as one could be in the underground, relaxed and happy.

The memories have never felt so distant.

A being made of events wrapped up together, trying to piece a person and falling apart constantly. That’s what he is.

A fraud, a construction of failed images and ideals, betrayal, dishonestly, filth all in a person’s form.

Something he would never qualify to truly be. Afterall, the soul has its own memory, his will never forget what he has done.

The blood that stains his hand is heavy from the sheer amount, but he has not the time to think about that.

But..

That man- the colours he brought into his world, these feelings that made him want something else-

Killer hated it. H̶e̶ c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ b̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶ t̶o̶.

He hated the way the other would always talk to him like a friend. Like he was an old familiar, the same as anyone else. He knew of Killer’s behavior and yet he never faltered.

When Killer decided to finally let him in, he learned the other's name was Colour.

Quite fitting. M̶u̶c̶h̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ h̶i̶s̶ o̶w̶n̶.

Something about him drew Killer in. He didn’t know when it started- When he got so attached.

Killer didn’t deserve his kindness.

Colour never listened.

Killer warned him a multitude of times. Befriending someone like him will only end in pain. Colour only smiled at him, shrugging his shoulders.

“Doesn’t everything? Might as well do what I want to, won't you humor me?”

Speechless, he did.

Killer didn’t realize when they’d gotten so close. Before he knew it, all of his free time was spent with the man or thinking about him. He had something to look forward to for the first time in years.

It terrified him.

I̶t̶ w̶a̶s̶ a̶ m̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ o̶f̶ t̶i̶m̶e̶ b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e̶ N̶i̶g̶h̶t̶m̶a̶r̶e̶ n̶o̶t̶i̶c̶e̶d̶ a̶n̶d̶ k̶i̶l̶l̶e̶d̶ h̶i̶m̶. A̶ m̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ o̶f̶ t̶i̶m̶e̶ b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e̶ S̶t̶a̶g̶e̶ 4̶ c̶a̶m̶e̶ o̶u̶t̶ a̶n̶d̶ l̶e̶f̶t̶ t̶h̶e̶ o̶n̶e̶ h̶e̶ h̶a̶d̶ c̶o̶m̶e̶ t̶o̶ c̶h̶e̶r̶i̶s̶h̶ i̶n̶ s̶h̶r̶e̶d̶s̶, i̶f̶ n̶o̶t̶ d̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ t̶o̶ h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶. C̶o̶l̶o̶u̶r̶ i̶n̶s̶i̶s̶t̶e̶d̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ h̶e̶ c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ h̶o̶l̶d̶ h̶i̶s̶ o̶w̶n̶ w̶e̶l̶l̶, b̶u̶t̶ h̶i̶s̶ r̶e̶f̶u̶s̶a̶l̶ t̶o̶ e̶v̶e̶r̶ s̶h̶o̶w̶ i̶t̶ made K̶i̶l̶l̶e̶r̶ d̶o̶u̶b̶t̶ h̶i̶m̶ t̶o̶ a̶n̶ e̶x̶t̶e̶n̶t̶. H̶e̶ d̶i̶d̶n̶'t̶ w̶a̶n̶t̶ t̶o̶ b̶e̶ t̶h̶e̶ c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ o̶f̶ t̶h̶e̶ o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶'s̶ e̶n̶d̶, n̶o̶t̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ a̶n̶y̶o̶n̶e̶ e̶l̶s̶e̶.

H̶e̶ w̶a̶s̶ d̶i̶f̶f̶e̶r̶e̶n̶t̶.

…

They were supposed to be safe.

Months of planning. Countless trials and tricks, effort beyond what Killer ever expected a person to invest into saving him had finally resulted in his freedom.

His complete freedom.

The acceptance of it was a hard path to walk, but he never felt so loved.

If he ever doubted Colour’s dedication to helping him, he could no longer bring himself to after that. He owed the other everything, and for once it didn’t feel shameful. The strength he doubted before had been proven in front of him, a topic of conversation for weeks to follow. A̶t̶ l̶e̶a̶s̶t̶ n̶o̶w̶ h̶e̶ k̶n̶e̶w̶ i̶f̶ h̶e̶ w̶e̶r̶e̶ t̶o̶ l̶o̶s̶e̶ c̶o̶n̶t̶r̶o̶l̶, C̶o̶l̶o̶u̶r̶ i̶s̶ c̶a̶p̶a̶b̶l̶e̶ o̶f̶ g̶e̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ r̶i̶d̶ o̶f̶ h̶i̶m̶.

Acknowledging his feelings was quite the wreck in and of itself. He could not go to Colour to ask, the man being the very subject of those feelings, but he had little else to go.

Denial only got him so far, Killer knew this feeling well.

It was love again, wasn’t it?

Maybe he was given a chance at being a person again?

..

And yet.

As his knees scraped against the ground, covering him in enough dust to the point it looked like it could have been his own mixing with the blood, Killer wondered if he was the laughingstock of every deity under the goddamn sun.

(If there were any, he knew they despised him. After all, a jester of the likes of him would never see the heaven they reside in. Yet, they had it in them to rip away the closest thing to one he will ever lay his eyes upon.)

After all of that effort.

All the work they put in.

Killer had finally gotten better. They finally had a chance, it was so close to being worth it.

Colour healed him, put him back together.

The very man who kept him in one piece, held him like he was the most fragile thing in the multiverse with such gentleness, was the one Killer found himself clinging onto.

He was colder than he should ever be.

Colour hated the cold.

Killer refused to believe the scene in front of him was real, truly, it felt like another one of his realistic night terrors.

Colour would never die on him like this.

And yet the limp weight in his hands told him otherwise.

This was a scene he was long familiar with, why did it hurt so much?

He knew better than to get attached, why did this hurt so much?

Colour was too good for him. He was never meant to be roped into this situation, he never deserved to be tangled in this mess. He was a good person, the best person Killer had ever had the honor of knowing.

If his suffering meant getting to experience the other’s warmth and comfort, then maybe it wasn’t all pointless.

..The missing fraction in the other’s head had gotten bigger. Instead of taking up the space of one of his eyes, it had teetered to them both.

The colours Killer loved seeing so much had gone dull, extinguished by his anguish.

He didn’t know what to do.

Killer’s eyes stung as his vision blurred, he pulled the other’s lifeless body as close to his as possible.

Perhaps he was crazy, wishing to hear a beat, feel a pulse, while holding the other.

Killer’s arms ached, he couldn’t feel the rise and fall of his chest anymore either.

He was gone.

The dust was his, and Killer would never get to see him again.

In his state, Killer failed to notice the figure approaching him. Towering over his hunched form was another he had found himself drawn to.

While it was not in the same speed, let alone situation, he always found Cross quite the interesting man.

The newbie to their little group, a clueless man who lost his world, trapped in a body with the ghost of a child who nearly killed them all. H̶o̶w̶ f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶r̶.

He was a funny little thing, easy to mess with and even easier to get reactions out of. Quite entertaining when Killer had nothing better to do with his days.

Killer was the first to notice the way Nightmare toyed with Cross. All too familiar, praise and mockery blended into sentences that would make one question their sanity. The man did not lie, but that didn’t mean he was honest either. A fact he never hid and more often than not, used against everyone who fell into his grip.

He tried to warn the monochrome one before, but his comments elicited no response. Killer didn’t bother to question it too much until the other approached him on his own once.

He couldn’t remember what happened that day.

His head hurt.

Cross stopped when his head lifted.

Their eyes had not met, Killer facing the same direction in front of him. Despite his inability to see what the other was holding, he could make a good guess on what was going on at the very least.

“Killer?”

The teary one’s head snapped in his direction before turning back to whatever was keeping him occupied. Cross didn’t have a chance to examine his expression, but that single glance was enough to tell him all he needed.

Only one person could get that reaction out of Killer, and judging by the dust, he was gone.

Killer’s whispers were inaudible, though he could make out a why.

Cross does not speak, as it is not his place to answer. The one being questioned is long gone, he will not return to answer no matter how much they may want it.

Suddenly, his voice spikes.

“Real nice of you to join us, what, the newbie wanted to feel good? Or is it that you’re glad someone else feels the way you did losin’ all of ‘em?”

His world.

Biting back a remark, Cross kept his mouth shut. Killer was the farthest from stable he'd been in a long time. This was a habit the other had, according to what Dust had told him. In a vulnerable position all Killer knew was to kick and scream, pushing people away until he could lash out and break himself enough to not feel anymore.

The fact he was still unharmed standing as close as he did was a miracle all on its own. Killer's body tensed as footsteps approached him again, his hands shaking more in tandem as he gripped onto the torn jacket in front of them like it would bring the man who held his heart back to them.

It would not, the stillness under his hands hurt more.

Colour was never this still, he hated feeling stuck.

He was in pain and Cross is the only one he has left.

“I can see you holding your emotions back from here, you can grieve if you wish to. Loss is unbearably” He began, trying to offer any comfort he could.

“‘Grief’? Am I allowed to feel that?” Killer’s voice had only sounded this empty on two other occasions, Cross shuddered mentally at the memory.

“What do you mean”

“After what I’ve done to all the others y’know? I shouldn’t even be capable of feeling this it’s not— what would make me worthy of it?”

“Killer—”

“Am I allowed to do such a thing? Mourn the loss of somethin’?”

Cross sighed.

Killer’s grip on the coat tightened, at this point his hands were probably bleeding through the fabric.

The fact Colour did not dust as quickly as any other monsters was not really helping their predicament, Killer could not bring himself to look at his face.

The pedestal Killer placed him on was crumbling just like his body, to say Cross could stand watching it was a lie.

They had spoken, become friends once upon a time.

Nothing that mattered now, he was gone.

Gone just like everyone else Cross had ever valued.

“That’s what he’d want you to do? Say something along the lines of how you don’t earn the right to feel sad”

In all seriousness Cross was pulling that entirely out of nowhere. He had no idea what Colour would have said in a situation like this, he had a way with words neither of them ever quite got to.

He snapped out of his thoughts when Killer let out a small giggle, likely at his words. The small smile on Cross’s face dropped when that laughter quickly turned into sobs.

Killer’s hand found itself covering his mouth immediately, trying to conceal any sound that came out of it.

He would not be weak like this.

He shook like a leaf in the wind, more fragile than he ever looked before.

This was not Killer before him, it was not the apathetic murderer he had heard so much about.

It was a boy his age broken by circumstance, one who lost his world the moment he got to have it.

His hope was torn out of his hands the moment he felt comfortable enough to dare and imagine a better existence.

Cross could not find the words to comfort him.

H̶e̶ w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ k̶n̶o̶w̶ h̶o̶w̶ t̶o̶ c̶o̶m̶f̶o̶r̶t̶ h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶ a̶f̶t̶e̶r̶ a̶l̶l̶, s̶o̶ w̶h̶y̶ w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ h̶e̶ b̶e̶ a̶b̶l̶e̶ t̶o̶ c̶o̶m̶f̶o̶r̶t̶ s̶o̶m̶e̶o̶n̶e̶ s̶o̶ s̶i̶m̶i̶l̶a̶r̶?̶

Seating himself next to the other, he gently pulled Killer’s hand aside, gripping it just tightly enough to keep it in place.

Killer didn’t look him in the face, but he didn’t need to.

The man basically launched himself into the taller’s embrace, all the walls Cross saw him put up crumbling in record speed as cries choked their way out of him.

Grief, confusion, sadness, betrayal, hurt, all hitting him at once.

The emotional baggage he carried was never light, but it would never change.

The one who could have made it do so was never coming back.

Killer didn’t even get to say goodbye.

He would never be coming back.

[bullet-prooflove]

Ophelia!Series - Part Four:  PSYOPS - Charlie 1 x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx

Ophelia!Series:

Part One: Casino Royale - Charlie runs into his ex for the first time since she disappeared at an underground casino game.

Part Two: Taken - Charlie recieves news that you've been taken.

Part Three: Ohana - Charlie goe to Joe to get help.

When Charlie gets boots on the ground in Mexico, he’s confident you’re still alive. Flores Rodrigo arrived back in the country an hour before Charlie touched down, he’d barely have time to fuck his favourite whore before he got around to torturing you. Charlie hopes to get to you first.

His contacts tell him that they have an American woman stowed away in a storage container near the compound, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that it’s you.

He’s heard about what goes on in those storage containers, the PSYOPS shit. Music or sounds blasted at full volume until it felt like your ears were bleeding, the same song on repeat over and over and over again until it felt like you were losing your mind.

With physical pain you could anticipate it, you know that at some point it’ll dull, end even. With this it’s relentless, a method of breaking down the mental barriers until you’re clinging to your sanity.

It was used in Iraq as an interrogation tactic, it takes four days to break a prisoner.

The sound that Rodrigo has chosen for you…

It’s the sound of a baby crying, there’s a special kind of cruelty in that because you lost a baby the year before you disappeared on Charlie. You lost his baby. He guesses Flores must have purchased your medical records, took note of it.

It nauseates Charlie.

It drives him crazy after only two minutes, hearing that noise, for you it’s been hours. It doesn’t take him long to dispatch the men guarding you, Rodrigo is overconfident due to his deal with the US government, he thinks that no one’s coming for you. He puts a bullet in the stereo because that fucking noise…

He can’t stand it.

When he opens the door to the storage unit it’s worse than he imagined. His heart stops beating in his chest because for a second, he thinks you’re dead, your body hangs limp from a pair of zip ties threaded through a metal strut in the ceiling. The heat is overwhelming, it scorches his skin as he stands in the doorway his heart pounding. The left side of your face is covered in dirt and blood, your skin sallow and your lips cracked. His gaze strays to your chest, you’re breathing but barely. He can hear the faint rasp over the rush of blood in his own ears.

He tries to be gentle when he cuts you down, his arm looped around your waist as your knees buckle and you collapse against him. You’re weak, dehydrated, barely clinging to consciousness as he drags you outside of the sweltering hotbox. He’s careful as he lowers you to the ground, propping you up against the outside of the container before he removes the canteen of water from his rucksack and presses it to your lips.

“Come on beautiful.” He whispers as he tilts your head back. “Take a sip for me.”

It takes a second for you to comprehend but then you follow his instruction, gulping from the canteen greedily.

“Easy.” He advises “Just a little at a time.”

You push his arm away indicating you’ve had enough to drink before your eyes flicker open and meet his.

It’s the most beautiful fucking sight Charlie has ever seen.

“I’ve got you.” He assures you, his thumb chasing away the tear that leaks down your cheek. “You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

Love Charlie 1? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[morgue-ratt]

Fear Itself

a (somewhat belated) birthday gift for @darklylucid

Jonathan Crane x reader // 1.6k

You've been selected as Dr Crane's latest guinea pig! Yay!

tw// syringes, experiments, bondage, fear toxin, nsfw, this is my first time writing for Dr Crane,

THE scratching of his pencil has permeated into your dreams, now you were not free of him even in sleep. Dr Crane is always immersed in his work, always writing something, the pencil always scratching. You don’t know how long you’ve been here, or even where here is. You maybe had some idea at first but that had been weeks ago, now the only thing your conscious mind had to cling to was him. Dr Crane, the Scarecrow.  

He is working on something big and for it, his chemical weapons must be sharpened to a horrifying edge. Only the best for the Bat. The colors of the toxin vary from orange to yellow to green, the doses change. Sometimes the injections go into your arm, neck or leg. Sometimes, he fits a face mask over your mouth and nose and just sits back as you’re forced to breathe in the gaseous state of uncut terror. The duration changes, it varies from a few minutes to long hours screaming your vocal cords raw. No matter what, the good doctor seems content to sit back and watch. The only thing that doesn’t change is you. His unwilling assistant.  

Your body is covered in needle pricks and track marks. Your cheeks shine with dried tears that Crane hasn’t bothered to wipe away. One of his formulas had made you hallucinate things crawling under your skin, leading you to scratch your arms until you bled and then some. Another had filled you with blind panic and you had kicked Crane so hard in the chest he had deemed it necessary to wrestle you into a strait jacket. Now, as he strips away your sanity with each round of treatment, you can only lean against the wall of the Scarecrow’s makeshift lab.  

“Did you hear me?” Your head lolls to the side and you try to hide your face in your shoulder. He’s standing above you now, towering over you. “You’re awake,” He says. He has to tell you these things, otherwise you’d have no way of knowing. The syringe in his left hand catches the low light. Orange this time. The last one was green. The one before that... you can’t remember.  

The good doctor kneels in front of you. He takes your jaw in his hand so he can look at you, stare directly into your eyes and though you know it’s purely for diagnostic purposes, you don’t like it. “You are awake,” He repeats. Crane moves the syringe closer, and you pull away from his grip so fast you hit your head on the wall behind you. He lets out a sigh; “None of that,” He threads lithe fingers through your hair, gently scraping your scalp, and pulls your head to the side. You cry out as the needle pricks your neck. “There we go, nice and easy,” He says, his voice completely devoid of all emotion.  

Your heart begins to accelerate. This part stays the same. Your vision is going dark around the edges, you twist in the strait jacket; trying to escape the dread crashing around you. What will you see? Monsters? A family member? Will disembodied laughter fill your head? The walls close in? Or will it just be blackness, blinding you until he deems it time to administer the antidote? You start to hyperventilate.  

Crane lets go of your hair and leans back, watching you closely. His face begins to contort, twisting into something somehow even more vile. In your mind’s eye, you see his face stitched into burlap, a horrible creation of the doctor and the Scarecrow. His mouth is somehow both stitches and far too many teeth. You turn away and the horrible face is still there, a monstrous patchwork with eyes gleaming orange no matter where you look. Your blood is rushing in your ears, you barely hear it when he asks; “What do you see?” 

You shake your head.  

“What do you see?” The voice is horrible, it’s like its sending glass through your veins, it comes from everywhere. Crane reaches for your face, and you cringe, pushing yourself into the wall behind you. It’s ike you’re in a kaleidoscope, his hands are everywhere, reaching for you. He takes your face again and the need to scream grows in your chest like fire. “Tell me,” 

“No... nothing,” You say.  

He waves his hand in front of your face, and you flinch. “Tell me,” 

The distorted image of him is almost pulsating in beat with your heart. You can’t focus on anything except the fact you don’t want him to touch you. You barely hear your own voice through your own thundering pulse; “Scarecrow,” 

You can tell that he’s smiling, the mess of burlap and skin spreads in such a way that indicates his pleasure in this answer. “Scarecrow? Are you afraid of the Scarecrow?” He touches you, bringing his scarred hand to cup your cheek and you let out a short scream as though his touch burns you. His laughter shakes your bones. You haven’t heard him laugh since you’ve been here. You bury your face in your shoulder as the laughter echoes in your head. Crane runs his hand through your hair, his touch is gentle. Soft.  

A shudder runs through your body all the same.  

If he has been testing you all this time, tonight you finally have the right answer; gone is the apathetic doctor who gives you your medicine and watches with detached curiosity; now Crane is leaning in close, enjoying the way you flinch and relishing when a fresh wave of tears stream down your cheeks. It’s all for him, after all. He brushes the hair out of your eyes so he can better see your face contorted in terror, he holds you in place so he can enjoy every micro expression with that horrible grin. These almost sweet gestures are so at odds with the hot, all- consuming dread racing through your veins just as the toxin does.  

 Crane takes every excuse to touch you just to see you flinch and cry out in protest, you can’t do much else but even if you weren’t restrained you don’t know if you’d have it in you to do anything but cower. This toxin was designed to take down people much braver than you. You are no Batman.  

You feel his fingers ghost against the column of your throat and you jerk back, toppling over and falling to the floor. Your head is swimming, and you feel Crane lean over you, positioning himself on top of you. Your fear... and knowing you’re afraid of him. It’s addicting. He holds you still with one hand while his other goes for the throat, checking your pulse with his middle and forefinger. “Look at you,” His voice has taken on a purring quality and your drug addled mind makes sure to compensate, the thing above you has a mouth full of blood stained canines and deadly sharp claws like an animal, playing with his prey before the final strike. Your fear is crashing around you as Crane leans forward, pinning your body with his own. He’s trying to get as close to your eyes as possible, he’s all you see.  

You have stopped screaming, opting instead to cry and twist in the jacket, the straps digging in sharply into soft flesh. You’re convinced you’re being flayed as the rough canvas rubs your skin raw. Your breath catches in your throat as the strap between your legs goes a little higher. Crane’s grin spreads across his face as he takes account of this reaction. As you continue to struggle, you do nothing but push yourself to the line between horror and neediness. Arousal is arousal and you’re having trouble distinguishing right now.  

“Oh dear,” Crane chides. He’s all you can see; your vision has been narrowed to a pinprick. “Is someone getting their lines crossed?” You feel his hand pushing the strap further into your sex and you can’t help but moan as you grind yourself into it. “Do you want more?” 

Yes. No. More what? More teasing? More fear? More pain? It’s like your mind is breaking. Panic spikes in your chest, wetness pools between your legs. It feels good, you want to be anywhere else. “More...” You are more aware of your lips moving than the fact you are speaking. The hand disappears from the apex of your legs, and you complain; “No...” 

Crane takes care as he unbuckles the strap going through your legs. He’s amused, he can tell his toxin had had... a rare effect on you. “My, my,” You don’t have it in you to be ashamed. His fear toxin had reduced you to your base instincts. You somehow feel disconnected from your body while also being painfully aware that he isn’t touching you. You don’t even think as you spread your legs slightly. Your rational mind is eclipsed but when this is over, you’ll tell yourself it was the toxin that was making you act like this.  

You sigh when his hand returns, you watch him with lidded eyes. It’s hard to believe the thing before you even resembled a human being. Instead, there is a demonic face that looks like something Mary Shelley would come up with; stitches and teeth and eyes glowing orange like the fires of Hell. You don’t care. His thin fingers are making you moan.  

It’s hard to say how long you were lying on the floor with the good doctor. The entire time you feel like you’re on the edge of something while your heart beats madly in your chest and your blood rushes in your ears. Time ebbs and flows, it feels like it takes hours but you’re close and you couldn’t have lasted that long.  

You finally reach the crest, and you arch your back, chasing his fingers as you go over. The pleasure has taken over the horror, at least for now, but you still scream. Crane’s laugh surrounds you, eating through your flesh to your bones like maggots.

[the-rogue-mockingjay]

I'm like halfway through Noveria with my new shep rn, after that it's just Virmire left (friggin YIKES), and what it has taught me is that Kassandra, miss goody-two-shoes following the rules Alliance postergirl, is in fact hanging on to her sanity by a thread. She is hinged but BARELY. She actually has so much bright, burning rage and contempt inside her at all times, and the only reason she's still a perfect Paragon is because nothing has made her snap yet (and she's clinging to those hinges for dear life).

She's spent this whole game so far trying to convince Garrus that The Lawful Way is the Right Way, so it's gonna be really funny if she goes off the rails in ME2

apparently my screenshots from Port Hanshan are. MIA???

[mccdreamys-writes]

smiles for miles – 21. the other side of the line

did i fall out of line when i called you? - Gracie Abrams, Mess It Up

S E P T E M B E R   2 3 R D   2 0 1 1

Beneath the imposing facade of the precinct, I paced back and forth, my heart's rhythm echoing the urgency of my repeated calls into the void of my silent phone. "Pick up! Pick up! Pick up!" Each desperate syllable reverberated through the stillness of the village, a testament to the weight of my anxiety and the depth of my desperation. Ever since the line fell silent, I had been ensnared in a relentless cycle of dialing and redialing Maile's number, clinging to a fragile thread of hope that threatened to unravel with each unanswered call.

In the midst of the chaos that consumed me, every spare moment was consumed by the singular mission of reaching her, of hearing the sound of her voice once more, of ensuring her safety in the face of the unknown. Each unanswered ring felt like a blow to the gut, driving me deeper into a pit of anxious unease where my thoughts spiraled out of control, painting vivid and terrifying scenarios that haunted my every waking moment.

"Alex," a voice broke through the cacophony of my thoughts, and I turned to find Reid standing behind me, his concern etched into the furrow of his brow and the lines of his face. "Are you okay?"

Summoning a strained smile, I made the effort to reassure him, though beneath the facade of composure, doubts and fears gnawed at me. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine," I muttered, but the hollow echo of my words rang loudly in my own ears, a stark reminder of the lies I told myself.

The realization crashed over me like a tidal wave, its weight threatening to drown me. My feeble attempt at deception was as transparent as glass, its flaws glaringly obvious to any who cared to look beneath the surface. I couldn't help but wonder if a profiler, with their keen insight and razor-sharp intuition, would have effortlessly seen through the facade, dissecting the intricacies of my falsehood with surgical precision, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in the harsh light of truth.

"What's going on?" His voice sliced through the oppressive silence, a sharp interruption that tore me away from the tumultuous storm brewing within my mind. His gaze bore into me with a penetrating intensity, as if he could see through the facade I desperately tried to maintain and delve into the depths of my soul.

A weary sigh escaped me, the weight of my concerns pressing down upon me like a suffocating blanket. "When we were on the plane," I began, my words stumbling over the chaotic rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me, "Maile called. But then... someone entered her room, and the call abruptly ended." The memory of that pivotal moment loomed large in my mind, each detail etched with a sense of foreboding that sent a chill coursing down my spine.

"I've been trying to reach her ever since," I confessed, the admission heavy with unspoken fears and uncertainties that gnawed at the edges of my sanity. "But..." My voice trailed off into a pained silence, the weight of the unspoken anxieties that hung between us suffocating in its intensity.

A bitter taste filled my mouth as I forced out the next words, grappling with the conflicting desires that waged war within me. "I know it's probably nothing," I acknowledged, though the nagging doubt that lingered at the back of my mind refused to be silenced. "And logically, I should let it go. She's an adult, perfectly capable of taking care of herself." The words felt hollow, a feeble attempt to convince both myself and the one who stood before me of their truth.

"But..." The word hung in the air like a heavy anchor, pregnant with the weight of all that remained unspoken between us. "But I just got her back," I finally admitted, the raw vulnerability of the confession laid bare for all to see. After years of separation and longing, the thought of losing her again was a specter too terrible to contemplate, threatening to engulf me in a sea of despair.

Despite the logical part of my mind urging me to stay calm, my heart refused to obey, its frantic beats echoing the urgency of my fears. The image of Maile, vulnerable and alone, haunted my thoughts, igniting a primal instinct to protect her at all costs. Yet, amidst the chaos of my emotions, a flicker of hope still burned bright, a tiny beacon in the darkness that whispered of the possibility of her safety and return.

His question lingered in the air, heavy with implications and laden with the weight of potential consequences. "Do you want me to ask Garcia to hack the cameras in the hospital?" His tone carried a gravity that underscored the seriousness of our predicament, hinting at the desperate measures we might need to take to unravel the mystery before us.

Despite the seriousness of his inquiry, a chuckle bubbled up from deep within me at the audacity of the suggestion. The mental image of Garcia, with her unmatched expertise in all things tech-related, effortlessly breaching the hospital's security system flashed before my eyes. "No," I replied, shaking my head with a wry smile, "it's alright. Let's just go inside and witness Hotch and Rossi weave their investigative magic. I have every confidence they'll have this perpetrator pinned down in record time."

The prospect of watching my esteemed colleagues in action, their determination and skill on full display, offered a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos of our current situation. "And afterward," I continued, my voice tinged with unwavering determination, "we'll locate the missing boys and ensure their safe return home by day's end." The thought of reuniting the children with their families, of bringing closure to the harrowing ordeal, fueled my resolve with newfound purpose.

He nodded in understanding, then gestured for us to follow as he led the way inside. The precinct hummed with activity as we navigated its bustling corridors, the air thick with anticipation and tension, each step bringing us closer to the heart of the investigation.

Watching Hotch and Rossi at work always filled me with admiration. Their presence commanded attention, radiating authority and setting the tone for the serious task ahead. Approaching the interrogation room, I felt a surge of anticipation, eager to witness their expert techniques in action once again.

Our instincts, sharpened through relentless investigation and intuition, proved right; the man we captured was indeed the elusive kidnapper and ruthless killer we tirelessly pursued. The weight of this revelation settled upon us like a heavy cloak, reminding us of the dark realities we faced. Despite the grim discovery, a sense of grim satisfaction lingered, knowing our pursuit of justice hadn't been futile.

With the perpetrator in custody, our focus shifted to rescuing the innocent lives he held captive. Following faint clues, we tracked down a secluded cabin by the tranquil lake. Approaching it, anticipation and trepidation mixed, the urgency of our mission weighing heavily on us.

Inside the dim cabin, a surge of emotions overwhelmed us. There, bound but alive, were the three missing boys whose faces haunted us. Relief flooded through us, washing away doubts and fears. In that moment of triumph, hope blossomed anew.

After reuniting the children with their tearful parents, we wrapped up our business at the precinct. Reports were filed, statements given, and final arrangements made with urgency and purpose. Boarding the plane home, a sense of closure settled over us, mingled with bone-deep exhaustion.

The aircraft's wheels made contact with the runway at Quantico Airport in the dead of night, the clock ticking past 2 AM. Yet, the lateness of the hour hardly registered in my mind. My thoughts were singularly focused: I needed to see Maile. The idea of visiting her surged through me with urgency and determination, pushing aside any concern for the late hour.

I felt a profound sense of gratitude for the decision to transfer Maile to the local hospital in Quantico. Though made hastily, driven by a desperate need for her to receive the best care, stepping off the plane into the cool night air affirmed it was the right choice.

Despite the exhaustion threatening to drag me down after a long and taxing journey, a surge of energy fueled me. I propelled myself forward toward the hospital with almost feverish determination. Each step brought me closer to Maile, closer to seeing her face, hearing her voice, and finding solace in knowing she was safe.

As I navigated the quiet streets of Quantico, darkness surrounded me like a heavy cloak, but I pressed on, unwavering. The thought of Maile awaiting me at the hospital spurred me onward, infusing me with purpose and resolve that drowned out any doubts or fears.

Finally, I reached the hospital, its imposing presence looming like a beacon of hope in the darkness. With quickened steps, I entered the building, my heart racing with anticipation.

Navigating the complex network of corridors within the hospital, I eventually found myself standing outside Maile's room, a mixture of relief and apprehension coursing through me. However, as I drew closer, the sound of a voice I recognized stirred confusion within me. It wasn't Maile's voice.

"Dad?" I uttered in surprise, my voice betraying my bewilderment as I entered the room.

To my amazement, my father stood up, a warm smile lighting up his face as he embraced me tightly. "You're back," he said, his voice carrying a hint of emotion.

Baffled by his unexpected presence, I couldn't help but ask, "What are you doing here?"

In response, he gestured towards Maile, who sat amidst a nest of pillows I had arranged for her comfort. Seeing her weakened state filled me with a whirlwind of conflicting feelings.

"I felt compelled to visit your friend," my father explained, his gaze shifting to Maile with a mix of gratitude and concern.

Confusion swirled within me like a storm, threatening to engulf my senses as I tried to make sense of the scene before me. My father and Maile, sitting together with an unexpected bond, seemed like strangers in a familiar setting, their newfound connection a puzzling anomaly in our shared history.

I wracked my brain, trying to recall any moment where they had even acknowledged each other's presence, but the memory slipped through my fingers like sand. Yet, there they sat, chatting away as if the invisible barrier that once separated them had never existed.

"She's quite funny," my father remarked out of the blue, his words hanging in the air with a surreal quality. "I understand why you're so fond of her."

I responded with a hesitant nod, my mind racing to comprehend the sudden turn of events. How could I reconcile this newfound closeness between them, this unexpected connection that seemed to have blossomed in my absence?

Glancing at his watch, a faint crease formed between his brows, silently signaling the passage of time slipping away. "I reckon it's time I head back to the hotel for some well-deserved rest," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion from our shared efforts.

He turned to Maile, offering a reassuring smile, a promise to return evident in his eyes. "I'll swing by to see you the day after tomorrow before I take off," he promised, his words resonating with duty and solidarity in our mission.

"Got it, Captain," Maile replied warmly, waving him off with a silent acknowledgment of the bond that bound us in our pursuit of justice.

Before leaving, he turned to me once more, a wordless farewell speaking volumes of our camaraderie and mutual respect. With one final embrace, he bid me goodbye, marking the close of yet another chapter in our ongoing journey of challenges and victories.

"How was the case?" Maile's voice, soft but laced with concern, pierced through the fog of my thoughts like a ray of light cutting through the darkness. Startled, I turned to meet her gaze, grateful for the distraction she offered from the tumult of emotions swirling within me. Yet, as she posed her question, a floodgate of pent-up frustration and fear burst open within me, washing away any semblance of calm I had left.

Instead of a simple reply, a torrent of words poured forth from my lips, an outpouring of emotion I couldn't contain. "You... You can't do that again," I began, my voice quivering with a blend of anger and relief. "I was going insane all day. I called you countless times, and you didn't pick up. Not once! I feared the worst. I almost considered reaching out to Garcia, begging her to hack into the surveillance cameras just to catch a glimpse of you, to reassure myself that you were okay." Each word carried the heavy burden of the fear and uncertainty that gripped me in her absence.

With a groggy hand, she reached out for her phone lying on the nightstand, its faint glow offering the only light in the dim room. As she scrolled through the notifications, her brows furrowed in confusion, but soon, recognition dawned on her, followed by a pang of guilt that shadowed her features.

Looking over at me, she attempted a sheepish smile, as if trying to downplay the seriousness of her actions. "Oops?" she offered tentatively, the word hanging in the air like a fragile apology.

"Oops?" I repeated incredulously, my voice tinged with a mix of frustration and disbelief. "Yeah, oops! That's exactly it! What were you thinking, hanging up like that and leaving me in the dark?"

"I'm sorry, Alex. Truly," she murmured softly, genuine remorse coloring her tone as she met my gaze with earnest sincerity. "I didn't realize you'd be so worried about me."

Her words, laden with regret, lingered in the air like a delicate offering, a fragile attempt to mend the rift that had formed between us. Yet, despite her apology, I struggled to calm the storm of emotions raging within me. Each syllable she spoke seemed to dredge up the fear and uncertainty that had gripped me while she was gone.

A single tear traced a silent path down my cheek, a silent testament to the turmoil within. I reached up to brush it away, a feeble attempt to hide the depth of my vulnerability. I hadn't planned on crying, hadn't anticipated the flood of emotions that overwhelmed me, but in that moment of honesty, my carefully constructed facade crumbled.

"It's not just about worrying, Maile," I murmured, my voice choked with emotion. "It's about feeling like I'm teetering on the edge of a precipice, watching everything I cherish hang in the balance. It's about the terror of losing you, again. I can't bear that. I can't lose you like that again."

As she shifted over to the left side of the bed, a silent invitation hovered in the air, tempting me to join her on the opposite side. The gesture evoked memories of simpler days, of childhood sleepovers filled with giggles and innocent bonding. But this moment felt different. This time, a new kind of excitement coursed through me, a yearning that thrummed beneath the surface of my every thought.

While I approached and settled beside her, each step closing the gap between us, I marveled at the evolution of our friendship over the years. Once, we had shared secrets and aspirations, but now, there was a palpable tension crackling in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of the feelings simmering just beneath the surface.

She extended her arms toward me, silently inviting me to find comfort in her embrace. I hesitated, feeling the weight of uncertainty bearing down on me like a heavy burden. But her words, gentle yet tinged with playful humor, broke through the tension like a ray of sunshine piercing through dark clouds. "Don't worry, I won't bite," she quipped, her voice a soothing antidote to the inner turmoil I was experiencing.

With a chuckle, I allowed myself to be enveloped by her embrace, the warmth of her touch wrapping around me like a protective shield. In that moment, as I leaned into her, I was overcome by a profound realization that reverberated within the depths of my being: I was deeply, irrevocably in love with Maile Crane.

A mischievous grin played across her lips, a silent nod to the playful banter that had always characterized our interactions. "At least not yet," she added, her voice carrying a teasing tone.

[glimmeringtwilight]

Can you write a Part 2 of the pantalone and dottore oneshot where dottore finds the reader and brings them back?

Oh boy CAN I. This isn't super well edited because I've taken much longer than anticipated writing this, but it's 4k words and editing it properly would take maybe another 1-2 days fhjghjkghjkg also excuse any inaccuracies with the Harlow's monkey experiment, I'm rolling mostly off my recollection and a quick skim of a wiki page.

Cut Me Open, Bleed Me Dry

Continuation to Gilded Cage, which can be read here.

Pairing(s): Dottore/Reader, Pantalone/Reader(implied)

Word Count: 4.2k

CW: NSFW, torture, mild gore, drugging, kidnapping/captivity, yandere themes, threats of mutilation, noncon, implied somnophilia, AFAB READER (I know I usually do gn but being nondescript didn't fit the writing this time, sorry!)

It’s cold. 

That’s the first thing your mind registers when you come to. The second, is the throbbing and insistent pain behind your temples as consciousness slowly comes back to you. 

There’s a sour taste in your mouth. Your tongue feels like cotton, your fingers tingle with pins and needles as numbness slowly fades from them, and you immediately know you’ve been drugged. Even with the fog of sleep and the drug still clinging to your mind; even as your thoughts are waterlogged and you’re treading water just to piece them together, you know where you are.

Dottore always did like to use the same drug every time he sedated you. 

There’s a blindfold covering your eyes, pressing uncomfortably against your lashes when you try to open them, but there’s no gag to accompany it. That must mean he wants you to talk. 

You decide to stall. If you thrash, beg, or scream, he’ll know you’re awake. And you’ll be subjected to whatever it is he’s going to do to you a lot sooner. So… you don’t do that. Instead, you keep your breathing steady, holding still against the cold metal table you’re strapped to. 

Sure, it’s only just delaying the inevitable, but you’ve gotten good at drifting away whenever you wake up on his operating table. It’s the only thing you can do to cling to the frayed threads left of your sanity. 

In a way, the blindfold helps. Dottore usually doesn’t blindfold you, but Pantalone… 

You close your eyes, focusing on the pressure of the fabric covering your eyes to distract yourself from the bite of cold metal against bare skin, and you drift. 

You’re in bed. It’s warm, if only under the sheets. You’re not… home, but if you’re being honest with yourself (you rarely are, these days), you don’t really remember what home was like, anymore. So you settle for the empty imitations of it; the dreary and beautiful halls of Pantalone’s mansions– he had to move you around, a few times, but never told you why, when you’d asked. You know now. 

You’re… in bed. It’s cold. You’re shivering. You can hear Pantalone across the room; he’s saying something, but you can’t– you can’t hear him. Why can’t you…?

You’re in bed, and you feel gloved hands tracing up your arms, fingers pausing to tap playfully against your pulse, and then your head is being lifted so deft fingers can untie the knot holding the blindfold. 

The fabric is pulled away, and red eyes meet your own. 

You’re not in bed. You’re with Dottore, strapped to an operating table. Reality crashes into you like a bucket of icewater, and your trembling increases tenfold. 

“Enjoy your rest?” He asks, monotone. He’s not smiling, and it’s the first time, you realize, that he hasn’t smiled when he’s had you on his exam table. 

You don’t respond, and Dottore’s face stays carefully blank as he regards you. “...Hm.” 

The Doctor steps away, out of sight, but you don’t try to follow him with your gaze, listening instead to his receding footsteps. 

It still doesn’t feel real. Undoubtedly, part of you knew that, as tightly as Pantalone held on, it was only a matter of time before Dottore sunk his claws into you once more. 

But part of you wanted to hope that it wouldn’t happen, that Pantalone would be able to shield you from him forever. Because though Pantalone treated you more like a beloved pet than a person, it was still better than this: pinned under the microscope and picked apart piece by sinewy piece by Dottore. 

Dottore returns to your side, and you count ceiling tiles, willing the ground to open up and swallow you into the abyss. Or better yet, to swallow him, so he can be surrounded by darkness as deep as the pitch of his soul. 

You’d pray if there were any gods to hear you. But you know better. The prick of a needle, chased by the burn of whatever he’s injecting into you, and you know that the gods– or perhaps just the blasphemous parody of gods that had sunk their teeth into Teyvat long ago– had abandoned you. 

Gloved fingers trace a slow path down your sternum, pausing just below your diaphragm and pressing down until you wince in discomfort, stopping when you do but not yet easing up. 

“Comfortable?”

“No,” Comes your hoarse whisper. Your eyes stay pinned on the ceiling tiles overhead. There’s specks of blood you can barely see from where you lie. You wonder how much of it is yours. 

“Pity.” 

The hands continue their slow descent over bare skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. He pauses again once he reaches your pelvic bone, drumming his fingers there before pulling away entirely. Glass clinks against glass when he steps away again, and you feel a hand grabbing your chin before the narrow mouth of a test tube is pressed against your lips. 

“Open,” He says, grip tightening on your chin, and you do. You know better by now than to fight him.

The liquid inside of the tube sloshes out as he pours it a little too quickly, and the rest of it burns the whole way down your throat, sickly-sweet. Dottore pulls the tube away when he’s sure you’ve swallowed it all, wiping the excess dribbling down your chin with his thumb before dipping into your mouth to smear it against your tongue. 

It doesn’t take long for you to figure out what it was he gave you. You think he injected you with a muscle relaxant– you realize too late when your fingers stop responding to your attempts to twitch them (not that you could do much to struggle otherwise. The straps pinning you to the table hold firm).

As for what he poured down your throat… 

Dottore is across the room washing his hands when you begin to sweat. You can hear the sound of running water, and while you’re sure it’s only for a minute, it feels like an eternity as the chill of the room begins to hurt, turning sharp and biting. 

He comes back over when you whimper, with a fresh set of gloves and a scalpel. You regret looking, forcing your gaze back to the ceiling and breathing through your teeth. You try to count the blood specks on the ceiling, the cracks, the tiles– anything and everything to distract yourself. 

The blade of his scalpel grazes your wrist, leaving what you’re sure is no bigger than a papercut, but it burns so much more than it should, ripping a muted whine from your throat. 

Dottore hushes you, continuing to cut through the straps. You know he could just undo them, instead of ruining them by cutting through the leather, but he wants to see you squirm. 

He doesn’t nick you again, but it doesn’t matter. The pain of the cut on your wrist stings so insistently you can’t manage to drift, to distance yourself, away from him and from what he’s doing to you. 

When he finishes with the last strap, he sets the scalpel down on a tray beside the table– one you refuse to look at, not wanting to see the tools laid out there; to see what he intends to do to you. Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself, and you try to believe it. 

You’re lifted and positioned so you’re lying on your stomach now on the table, and he has the barest amount of mercy left in him to turn your head to the side so your nose doesn’t smash against the metal surface. 

“Now, this is going to sting a bit, dear,” He starts, once you’re positioned how he wants you, “But you’ve suffered worse, hm? Bear with it.”

It’s detached, the way he speaks to you; so unlike the usual underlying excitement that drips from his voice whenever he’s laid you out on this table in the past. It’s.. horrifying. The safety net of his obsession that’s saved you from worse in the past no longer feels safe, anymore. If ever it did. 

Cool metal ghosts over your spine, the flat of the scalpel dragging over skin before stopping to rest below your shoulder blade. He pulls away and you hope that’s it, that he’s just going to toy with the threat of hurting you instead of actually doing so, but then cold metal returns and it’s the only warning you get before sharp pain bursts from just below your shoulder blade as he begins to cut. 

It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and you can’t focus on anything but the white-hot pain as it spreads from the tip of your scapula to the tail. 

It hurts. You think you must be sobbing something similar, but if your cries are coherent, Dottore doesn’t pay them any mind. There’s a ringing in your ears that drowns everything out, your vision blurs, and you’re still reeling from the pain of the first incision when Dottore moves to your other shoulder.

You taste copper and you realize you must have bitten your tongue at some point, but the pain doesn’t compare to the sensation of fire lapping at your back– to the nerves firing off, overloading your senses with undiluted agony. 

Something is forced between your teeth and you bite down immediately out of instinct. He’s saying something to you, now, but his voice is muffled, like your head is underwater. You’re drowning. You can’t breathe, swallowed up by the capsizing waves of sensation.

Pain traces a blazing trail down your spine. Your head is swimming, black spots dancing in your vision, and you close your eyes to succumb to the mercy of unconsciousness.

You’re not granted that mercy. 

Instead, the sensation of ice chases away the heat, the fiery agony dimming as a freezing numbness settles in. 

A voice cuts through the fog. “Open your eyes before I decide to remove them.”

You open your eyes, looking back towards Dottore through the film of tears over your eyes, the blur of pain. Dimly, you can feel his hand gripping your jaw again, but the feeling is distant, disjointed. 

“Good.” Red eyes scan over your form, less cold, this time, as he appraises his work. “I’d like you present for this.”

You mumble a slurred “Where elsh would I be?” around the gag stuffed in your mouth.

“This-” There’s a harsh pinch to your arm that you can hardly muster a wince for, too exhausted from the pain he’d already put you through. From the corner of your eye you can see the glint of amusement in his eyes fade at your lack of reaction, “-is here. But this-” Gloved fingers tap at your temple, “-is not. Stay present. I’m being gentle with you.”

He’s not. He’s really not, but you know he could be doing so much worse, so you nod and make him a promise you can’t keep, like you’ve done a thousand times before. 

Dottore stares at you for a long moment, and you resist the urge to let your eyes glaze over, to stare off into the distance. You level your unsteady gaze at him instead, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. Your efforts are rewarded with a dispassionate simper, and Dottore picks back up the knife. 

You stop looking. 

The pain ignites anew, duller now, no longer white-hot. It’s still insistent, inescapable, and you wish you could crawl out of your own skin.

A line drawn down your back with the knife, like your body is a canvas, your blood the ink, and Dottore the persevering composer. 

There’s a study that comes to mind. You remember reading about it, one rainy afternoon as you took shelter from the rain in a quaint library in Sumeru, procrastinating your own studies. Before everything… before this. 

The study was done on monkeys. They were separated from their mothers young, placed in cages with a wire mother, which provided milk, and a cloth mother, which provided nothing but comfort. 

Survival or comfort. That was the study. The monkeys chose comfort, only going to the cloth mother for food when they were hungry and spending the rest of their time with the cloth mother. 

You’d always wondered, then, what you would choose. As Dottore pushes something into one of the incisions, gloves slick with your own blood, you think you know. 

Dottore stops. “Say again?”

It’s hard to get the words out around the gag, but Dottore seems to understand you regardless. 

“Oh. Poor thing,” It’s a cold comfort, the blood-slicked hand that pats your head. His voice is flat, not condescending or patronizing like when Pantalone simpers at you. But you can hear the amusement creeping into his tone, and it’s enough. “We’re almost done. I’ll give you something for the pain in a moment.”

Something for the pain, he says, as though he hadn’t already given you something, turning the low burning flame of shallow incisions into a raging inferno. 

There’s a cut to your arm, this time, deeper than the rest. It burns, but it’s overshadowed still by the throbbing and insistent agony in your back. Something else is pressed into your arm, and Dottore finally sets down the knife.

The room is spinning. 

A hand returns to pet your head once more, matting it further with your own blood. You slowly become aware of just how cold the room is, heightened by the sheen of sweat covering your bare skin. You want to go home. …You’re not sure where home is, anymore. 

There’s another needle, a sharp sting and then a dull ache settling in like a bruise at your nape. It doesn’t take long for the pain to dull, and you fight the wave of exhaustion that chases on the heels of relief, not wanting to aggravate him further by slipping into unconsciousness before he lets you. 

You try to stay awake. You really do. But with your heartbeat echoing in your ears, the warm hand resting atop your head, and the pain dulling, unhooking its claws from your consciousness, you drift. 

When you wake, you’re still in the nightmare. You’ve been moved to a stiff, sterile bed, lying on your stomach to not agitate the wounds on your back. It feels like Dottore must have cleaned and bandaged you up already– a small comfort.

The injuries ache dully, but more concerning is the feeling of fingers digging into your hips.

“Glad to see you’re finally awake, my dear.” A pause, then a lewd squelch as he pulls his other hand out from between your thighs. “I was starting to get bored.”

Dottore thumbs at the edge of the bandages encircling your back, humming. “That spoiled brat thought he could hide you from me forever.” He leans down, pressing his nose against the nape of your neck and causing the skin to prickle with goosebumps. You shiver at the contact and he smiles against your skin. 

“Oh, but don’t worry.” You cringe when his hand, still wet, taps you on the cheek. “I’ve already made something to keep him busy. You don’t mind that I took a bone and tissue sample while you slept, do you?”

It’s a rhetorical question– one that you don’t bother to answer and that he doesn’t care to hear the answer to, regardless. Instead, Dottore seems to be interested in the space between your legs once more, hand running down to smear the arousal he’d coaxed out of you in your sleep against your inner thighs. 

“Pity that you’ll have to be on your stomach for this,” He muses, chuckling quietly at the way you flinch when he slides two fingers back into you, “I do so love seeing your reactions.”

You bite your lip to stifle a groan when he curls his fingers against your walls, grinding his thumb against your clit. It aches, just a little bit. Like you’re sore. Like he’s been doing this for a while.

It’s almost mortifying, actually, how well he knows your body. The building pleasure drowns out the lingering ache of your injuries, and it’s hard to focus on the shame coiling in your gut when there’s something else coiling faster and brighter than the shame. 

“Mm, faster than I’d expected.” Dottore mutters from behind you, increasing the pace of his fingers as his other hand slips beneath you to press down on your stomach, right over where his fingers curl against your walls. 

Your thighs spasm, trying to close around his wrist, and he tsks, moving his other hand to hold one thigh against the bed as he presses a third finger around you. Your vision whites out, and Dottore doesn’t stop pumping his fingers inside you until you’re whimpering and twitching from overstimulation. 

“There. Good.” 

There’s a wet pat to your thigh, and you hear him walk off to grab something from the other end of the room. He returns with a jar of… something pink, some kind of salve, and dips his clean hand inside the jar to scoop out a generous amount of it. 

He applies it between your legs, over your clit, pressing some of it inside you and deliberately rubbing his fingers against your g-spot, eyes crinkling in delight at the oversensitive spasm that runs through you. It doesn’t take long for you to figure out what it does. 

It burns. Not in the same way as the pain did when you’d woken up on the operating table, but suddenly it feels like your cunt is on fire, all of your attention forced to the way Dottore’s hands feel as he rubs the excess off against your labia. 

You barely register the sound of Dottore unzipping his pants, but you do register the sheer, overwhelming relief you feel when he immediately presses inside of you, the head of his cock dragging against your walls before coming to a halt just below your cervix. 

He begins to thrust, mercifully not commenting on the keen you let out the second he starts moving. 

Dottore sets a brutal pace, snapping his hips against yours, grabbing one of your thighs and lifting it higher on the bed to get better leverage. You can feel his balls slap against your clit with each snap of his hips, the sound of it drowned out by your hiccuping moans. 

Your second orgasm is ripped out of you suddenly, embarrassingly fast. You choke on a moan and tighten around him, distantly hearing the doctor laugh as he fucks you through it. It’s getting hard to think, to focus on anything but his cock hammering into you. 

Unfortunately, Dottore seems keen to talk, while you’re still coherent enough to listen.  

“You know,” he begins conversationally, gloved fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh as he slows his pace to a slow, maddening grind inside you, “The femoral artery is right about-” he fumbles for a second, then his fingers are digging bruisingly into the flesh, “-here. If I were to cut you here,” You feel him lean down to breathe against the shell of your ear, “It would take about… Oh, I don’t know, three, four minutes for you to bleed out.”

You go still beneath him, holding your breath and he slows to a stop, relishing the way terror makes you tighten around him. It’s hard to focus, to think through the fog of lust, but the sudden, blatant threat still manages to cut through the haze like a knife. 

“I won’t, of course,” He tells you after a beat, laughing cruelly at the tentative sigh of relief you let out. “Not to you, that is. You’re my favorite test subject, after all.”

Dottore resumes his pace, loosening his grip on your leg and letting it drop limply back against the table. 

You think that’s the end of it, until he speaks up again, halting his thrusts briefly to tuck your legs under you and cant your hips up higher. “What wouldn’t kill you, however…”

One hand finds its way to your stomach again, tracing light circles around your navel. “I could remove most of your small intestine, and you would survive.”

“N-” You begin to protest, but another harsh thrust cuts you off.

“Not comfortably, of course, depending on how much I remove.” His hand floats down, pressing harshly against your clit and forcing another sudden orgasm from you. He waits for you to come back down before he speaks again. “If I take too much, we’d need to adjust your diet. But…” 

His breathing is picking up now, getting more labored. “I could, hah-” He leans down, breathing hotly against your neck and trapping you against the bed with his body. The movement drags against the bandages, agitating your injuries. “I could… Take just a little bit. A few feet.”

“No-” 

“Quiet.” He snaps his hips harder against yours and you bite your tongue, drawing blood again, to stifle the sob that bubbles up. “I could take a few feet, make a leather collar out of it… Make you wear it, sew it to your skin if I must-”

His fingers continue circling your clit and you blink back overstimulated and terrified tears, his hand on your hip tightening painfully. You can feel the next high approaching and you desperately hold it back. It’s hard to think. In the back of your mind you know you need to say something, do something to stop his train of thought before he decides to act on it-

Dottore growls against your shoulder. You can feel his scowl as he presses his weight harder against you, but it twists into a smile at your responding pained gasp when the bandages drag against the incisions. “Ah- hah, I won’t, of course,” He pants, nipping at your throat, “I could do that to just any test subject of mine, my dear, but you’re more than that now, aren’t you? Just tell me, again, that you love me.”

Again? 

“You’ve already said it before. Once more won’t kill you.”

It takes you several long moments, not helped at all by Dottore continuing to rut into you distractingly, but you remember. He’s right. When he was cutting into you, when you were desperate and delirious from the pain, you’d choked out the three damning words around the gag. 

It was done out of desperation. You’d wanted the pain to stop, and it had. Dottore had stopped after you’d said it, taking pity on you instead. 

One more time couldn’t hurt, right? It’s such a small price to pay, a white lie so he doesn’t hurt you further. 

“I- ah, nnnm-” He doesn’t slow down his pace for you to get the words out without stuttering, but you’re too exhausted to feel ashamed of the way that your voice cracks with pleasure. “I love- love you.”

“Yes,” Dottore’s cock twitches inside of you, and he snarls against your neck. “Good. You don’t have to mean it, yet. But you will. You will.”

It’s spoken like a promise; one you’re unable to dread as your mind starts to blank, focus drifting to your next orgasm as Dottore’s thrusts become wild, desperate.

The head of his cock batters against your g-spot with every stroke, pleasure and overstimulated pain lancing through you. Your thoughts are fuzzy from lust, unable to focus on anything but the heaving breaths against the shell of your ear, the wet slap of skin-on-skin, the hiccuping moans and noises of pleasure he pulls from your throat. 

Teeth sink into your shoulder at the same time Dottore pinches your clit, and your eyes roll back as white-hot pleasure lances through your veins. . 

He growls, the sound vibrating against your shoulder, and you shudder when you feel him cum after you, cock twitching as he shoots his load deep inside your cunt. 

The world comes back to you slowly, in jagged pieces. When you crack your eyes open once more, you’ve been moved so your legs are no longer tucked up under you, lying comfortably flat on your stomach once more. 

Dottore comes back from the other side of the room with a vial, and your face scrunches in revulsion as he presses it to your abused hole, collecting the cum that oozes out. A gloved hand pats your head affectionately before he pulls away. 

“Get some rest. I have something that I need to… attend to.” Sleep. You can do that, certainly.

He waves his hand, and you vaguely hear him speaking to the clone that immediately comes into view– who was probably stationed in the corner the whole time, taking notes or something. You wouldn’t put it past him, and from the way some of them stare at you a little too long, a little too intensely, you’re sure many of his clones would like to do a little bit more to you than just watch and take notes.

As Dottore leaves, and his clone wipes you down with a rag, knuckles brushing against the inside of your thighs a little too deliberately to be innocuous, you’re reminded of the cloth monkeys again. 

The clone moves to rest his hand atop your limp one once he’s sure Dottore has left, and you curl your fingers around his own. His hands are cold without the gloves, just like his progenitor’s. 

You choose comfort too.

[3rdgymbros]

— title; you could never hurt me.

— pairing; xiao x reader

— summary; in which you have a last dance with xiao

— notes; dedicated to @teyvatstories​ for carrying me in genshin and always making me lose my mind during our co op sessions.

“Dance with me,” You tell Xiao.

An elegant hairpin carved to resemble a glaze lily adorns your hair, and your robes are a matching shade of blue, the material as light as a breath against your skin. Strands of pearls are wrapped around your neck, your wrists; luxury that you would normally not have cause to wear, but today is a special day. And the ensemble feels so perfect, so lovely, that it feels as though you’re royalty, and that alone is cause for you to smile, the dark stirrings in your mind temporarily held at bay by the force of your joy.

“Alright.”

The pain in his eyes pricks at the darkness writhing and frothing at the back of your mind, banging at the barely standing barriers.

“Dance with me,” You tell him again, your smile never faltering as you slot your body into his arms. The warmth of his touch seeps through the thin silk of your robes, contrasting with the cold chill of the spring night. It’s as easy as breathing, as though the two of you have done so a thousand times before.

You’ve never been one for dancing. You might be a graceful force of nature on the battlefield, but compared to Xiao, your steps are clumsy and hesitant. Still, you find yourself laughing as Xiao spins you in complex twists and turns, your body melting into his form. Like this, with the roses filling your gaunt cheeks and your laughter ringing out in his ears, a dim hope still flickers to life in Xiao’s chest that this night will have a happy ending, that the two of you will be able to see another sunrise together.

The world fades away, leaving only you and Xiao, moving together. Your pulse jumps through your veins. You can feel Xiao’s heartbeat too, as if your own heart is racing frantically alongside his. You move like one mesmerized, your eyes never leaving Xiao’s steady gaze. With each step, your bodies draw together, ever nearer, ever closer. You grow bold enough to lift your hand, resting it against his cheek. He’s warm, and you’re cold. Colder than you’ve ever been, surely. In the light of the full moon above, the hard lines of his face are softer, younger than they look in the day. And his eyes are twin pools of gold.

You close the slight distance between your faces, and brush your lips against his, softly at first, but when his hand reaches up and knots in your hair, anchoring you against him, the soft edge to your kiss fades away. There is nothing soft about it. Not now. Everything slips away until your world is made up of mingled breaths, calloused hands, and your name breathed out in benediction.

“Xiao?” You murmur, once the two of you can’t kiss anymore, and he’s just holding you against him with your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Please find happiness.” A sickening heat sweeps over you, causing you to sweat and shiver. A sensation you know all too well. Only this one is far more intense. And it hurts. Oh, it hurts. Pain shoots through you, undeniable, agony in its purest form. Your breathing comes in short, sharp rasps, not enough oxygen reaching your head. “I want you to find happiness.”

Xiao must recognise this for what it is. A goodbye. The cruellest twist of the knife you can deliver, your last words hurting you as much as they hurt him. The two of you had walked across the grassy plains knowing that this trip would be your very last, your body finally succumbing to the darkness festering inside your soul. Every word seems to pain him, but you can see how badly he tries not to show it.

Xiao looks at you as though you’ve destroyed him, as though you’ve already made a ruin out of him. He might be a warrior with blood staining his hands, but just now, he’s nothing more than a heartbroken boy. “. . . I give you my word.”

It feels as if your sanity, your emotions . . . Your everything hangs at the end of a horribly frayed rope. Any second the threads will snap, and you’ll fall, crack open, and all the darkness inside will spill out.

Death and destruction soon to follow.

No one will be safe.

You know this.

So does Xiao.

“Xiao.” Your vision sways, the world spinning and settling. You have to resist the urge to claw at your chest, desperate to release this darkness clutching you, to be free from its strangling hold. “It’s time.”

For a moment, Xiao’s fingers dig into the fabric of your robes, into your flesh, as if he wants to cling to you rather than let you go.  It seems to you that he holds on for a long while, as if he can’t bear to let go of you.

But he does.

Because it’s you asking.

Because he’s duty-bound.

You smile at him. And it is a beautiful, broken thing. “It’s alright. You could never hurt me.”

You’re still smiling when he plunges his polearm into your chest.

[pleasantanathema]

Haunting

Paring: Reiner Braun x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Warnings: Shower sex, rough sex, possessive sex, light choking, dirty talk, slight yandere undertones 

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: Thank you to anon who requested this! I have a very, very soft spot for Reiner thanks to @present-mel​. I, once again, got a little carried away. I’ve been wanting to Reiner for a long time now, so thank you for giving me the encouragement and the idea to do so! 💕 My requests are still open 

          Reiner was like a shadow, always finding you, always haunting you with heavy footsteps and flaming eyes, a revenant with wrath in his hands and agony between his knuckles. He’d always grip you too tightly, leaving bruises to swell and bloom upon your skin when he was gone again. But he never strayed for too long, the demons in his mind were always begging to be satiated, always craving to take more of you.

           Tonight was no different. You heard him before you felt him, weighted boots clunking into a wall as he removed them, the shrill of the shower curtain being pulled back as he exposed the cold air of the washroom against your heated skin. You jumped at the intrusion, arms instinctively wrapping around your body as you looked up at him, gaze tracing the steam that billowed over his broad shoulders. The lighting was low, dull yellow lights buzzing on the ceiling that carved him into a dark figure before you.

           “I’ve been looking for you,” he spoke the words like they were a universal truth, something that already was and always would be.

           You felt overwhelmed in his presence, his mountainous stature making you step away until your back hit the shower wall, feet cold against the tile floor.

           For a moment, you wondered if anyone else was in the showers, if there would be any untoward ears to listen to the depravity that was about to unfold. Reiner was never good at keeping you quiet.

           “Looks like you found me.”

           You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your cheeks as he stepped into the warm spray of water, rivulets dripping down his body like rivers between lines of muscle.

           His massive hands were on you in haste, always attracted to the most vulnerable parts of you. It made him feel powerful to have a fist around your throat, the other shoved between your thighs as his mouth descended upon yours. You moaned against his greedy mouth, his lust making you feel confident, brave against his brawn. You could feel the desire steaming off his skin as your hands pooled against his chest, fingers lost against plush pectorals.

           “Miss me?” he rumbled against your lips, tongue sweeping into your mouth before you could answer. You nodded your head, feeling his thumb and index finger press tighter against the column of your neck. You gasped against the taste of him—bitter and sweet, like elderberries and dark wine—his fingers between your thighs spreading your pussy, gliding between your wet folds in a familiar rhythm.

           His fingers were wicked and well-trained, the wrath within them always coming alive against your body. No matter how many times you begged him not to, he’d always leave fresh prints against your throat, ghosts to remember him by, to ward off others. And he was brutal with your cunt, thick fingers plunging into your delicate heat quick and hard, the pleasure feeling like the jolting bite of a viper.

           “Fuck, Reiner…” he ate up your words, sucking at your lips as your thighs spread wider to accommodate his ravenous fingers.

           One of your hands tangled in his wet hair, nails scraping at the blonde roots. The other trailed down the wall of his body to where his hard cock was twitching against your belly, impatient and ready to take what belonged to him.

           He roughly pumped two fingers in and out of you, smirking as he felt your body shaking and reacting to his touch. It felt so good, too good, heat rushing through your veins with every fresh plunge into your pussy. You slanted your mouth against his in a breathy moan, the stubble against his cheeks brushing against your face. You wrapped your hand around his cock, sliding your palm against the wet, silken skin, splashes of hot water still spilling over your bodies.

           “Such a pretty plaything,” he groaned, releasing your neck from his paw so his mouth could dip down to suck at your skin, “always ready to spread your legs for me.”

           “I have to be ready, you—fuck, you always want me.”

           Pride welled within your chest as he gave an affirmative groan, your head lolling back against the chilled brick of the shower wall. You always hated these dank showers, though now you were sure to have pleasant memories whenever you stepped into this one; memories of a colossal body pressing into yours, of a man so overcome with lust he would hunt you down and take you even here.

           You disliked him when you first met him, loathed how he coated himself in arrogance. But over time you found the cracks within his armor, found the broken man underneath who seemed to piece back together whenever he could get his hands on you, pour his sin into where your bodies became one.

           Reiner curled his fingers inside of you, making your vision flash white for a moment. Your gripped his cock a little tighter as your stomach muscles clenched from the pleasure, your pussy pulling his fingers in deeper.

           “I’m gonna...I’m gonna cum if-if you don’t stop, and I know you want me too…” he always wanted you to cum on his cock.

           He licked a wet stripe up your neck with his tongue, smirk painting his face as he relinquished his hand from your dripping cunt. He washed his fingers off under the spray of water, lips back to yours as he crushed your thighs within his hands.

           “Up,” he commanded, too easily coaching your feet from the floor with his strength. You wrapped your arms around his neck, his broad shoulders providing ample support for your balance. You felt his too-hard cock bounce against your body as he heaved you into the air.

           “Been thinking about this all day, princess.”

           “Thinking about me in the shower?”

           His cockhead nudged at your folds, carefully spreading you apart. You sucked in a breath at the feeling, Reiner’s hands sliding to cup your ass, fingers mean against your flesh.

           He snapped his hips forward, plunging his cock into your depths in one swift motion, sending your head flying back against the wall as your mouth fell open with the drawl of a long moan, eyes squeezed shut as your body attempted to adjust to his almost unbearably fat cock.

           “Mhm, been thinking about that face, how you look so pretty when I stuff you,” he rocked his hips, sliding his cock from within your tight pussy only to slam back inside, “just like this.”

           Curses tumbled out of your throat, onto your lips, falling onto his wet skin and bouncing off the walls of the shower. You felt so full, like some missing part of you was finally shoved back into place to make you whole. Yet you felt like you were cracking, coming undone around the saturation of your senses. Your lungs burned, legs already aching from being spread across his thick waist, neck still stinging from the ghost of his fist.

           “Oh god, oh god, that’s so good.”

           It never failed to amaze you that every time felt new, that his cock always sent you spinning and gasping and clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you from falling into a ravishing abyss.

           Each thrust had your shoulders banging against the wall, jostles of pain and pleasure tingling through your body. You rolled your hips down to meet him, though his tight grasp on your body kept you steadily in place as he pounded into your pussy, a mixture of water and slick pooling where your bodies were joined.

           He looked up at you with a cocky grin, one ready to split his handsome face, canine teeth bared as he watched your body bounce from his callous actions.

           “Who owns you?”

           Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, your mind too blissed out to answer him right away. He took this as a sign that you needed to be reminded, needed his cock pushed into you harder and faster to find your words.

           “Fucking say it!”

           “Ah-ah, you! Shit, fuck, you, Reiner, yours!”

           He roared with satisfaction at your confession, wicked laughter mixed into his grunts and groans as he continued to use your body for a means to his own end. Your head hung low, resting against one of your arms that still held on too tightly to his neck. Your moans were overshadowed by his sounds, high pitched mewls bleeding into the chorus of growls from his chest and the beating of cooling water against the tiles.

           “Louder, I want the whole goddamn barracks to hear you, let them hear how good I make you feel.”

           You screamed as he picked up his already inhuman pace, strangled whines fed by the curling, toiling ecstasy building within your belly, swirling and climbing up your limbs, ready to burst from your core.

           “Reiner, Reiner, Reiner...”

           It was a cry to the heavens, a call to a god that had already enraptured you, ensnared you into his brutal arms like you’d never touch the earth again.

           “Think you can do it, princess? Think you can cum just from my cock splitting you apart?”

           God you could, you would, you were so fucking close, every single time his cock buried itself inside of you, you felt that hot thread of sanity threatening to rip, ready to tear apart.

           He shifted your weight slightly, that iron grip on your backside sliding up to your hips, angling you to take him deeper, to have your clit brushing against the thatch of golden curls at the base of his cock. The new stimulation set you alight, had your lucidity burning away as your pussy clenched and sucked at his cock. The lewd sounds of your sloppy cunt hit your ears, the sound and sensation of his balls slapping against your ass cheeks, of his deep, pleasured rumbles echoing against your chest. It was enough, enough to have you crashing into a fiery lake of pure ecstasy.

           “Fuck, Rei-ner,” his name stayed on your tongue, a continuous, honeyed sound of bliss as your world fell apart. You felt your orgasm in your toes, in your ears, even your too-numb fingers that were sunk into the sinews of his shoulders. Every nerve ending was bursting, bright and hot and too much as your pussy fluttered around his thick cock. In your delirium, you’d barely noticed that he’d stopped, that he was holding you flush against him as he poured himself inside of your body.

           It wasn’t until his cum was leaking out of you that you awoke from the pleasure-induced state.

           You felt used, useless, body so heavy against him, in his arms, that you felt like you were falling when he set you back onto unsteady feet. And, for the first time, you clung to him afterwards, face pressed into his chest where his heart hammered away. He caged you into a sweet embrace, big hands smoothing over your wet hair as you shivered from the chill of the water gone cold.

           “Don’t,” you took in a sharp breath, calming the rush of afterglow emotions flooding your nerves, “don’t leave this time.” You felt like he’d shattered you. There was an urge inside of you to linger with him, to keep near in order to find that euphoria again, to feel whole again.

           “You never want me to stay,” he whispered, lips kissing at the crown of your head.

           You normally never did. Usually, it was about this time that you’d feel disgusted with yourself for letting such a beast of a man use you whenever he felt like it, but tonight was different. You felt the haunting stop; you felt him real and full against the borders of his composure, felt like you were both broken, broken and needing to be repaired again.

           You pulled yourself from his too-heavy arms, quickly shutting off the stream of the water so you could grab at a towel and wrap it around yourself for warmth.

           “I need you,” to stay, you meant to finish, but the words spoken hung in the air to be caught by keen ears.

           Reiner stood behind you, palms brushing down your arms as he kissed your dewy neck, tongue eager to drink from your skin.

           You’d never felt his touch so gentle, never felt the burdens he carried within his fingers to be so weightless.

           “I know you do.”

           You weren’t sure if he said it for you or for himself.

           You followed him to his room that night, body aching to be touched again, to be held, to be soothed away by the shadow that haunted you.

[writethelifeyouwant]

Can't Tie Me Down - Ch 6 / 6

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Rating: 18 Tags: Omegaverse, prostitution, kidnapping, drugging, drug induced heat, drug induced rut, noncon (rape, forced rape, and forced claiming), public sex, sexual ritual, knotting, biting, degradation, use of gay slurs, John and Sam are the worst™ Word Count: 4.3k Created For: @spnabobingo - Public Claiming

A/N: That's it for this series! Thanks so much to everyone who read and commented along the way, I hope you like the finale 😅

Series Masterlist

A knock sounded at the front door, and Y/N dropped the string of her tea bag into the mug of boiling water in fright, but she ignored the sound. Her fingers trembled, knocking metal against porcelain so loudly as she tried to fish out her drowning tea bag, that she could almost pretend she hadn’t heard the second knock at all. She took her tea to the bedroom, numb to the heat burning into her skin from the too-hot mug, hoping that whoever was at the door had taken her hint and given up.

They hadn’t.

“Y/N?” a voice called distantly, and even through several doors and the vast emptiness of her apartment, Y/N knew that voice before he spoke his name. “Y/N, it’s Dean!” Dean called through the door again, persistent.

Y/N didn’t answer, she barely dared to breathe, despite the fact that there was no way Dean could hear her breathing. Desperate for distraction, she raised her cup to her lips and gulped down the searing liquid, burning her tongue. The pain helped cut through the fear a little, at least.

“Y/N, are you home?” Dean knocked again, voice betraying a note of anxiety in its pitch. Silence, for a minute, and then to her horror Y/N’s phone started to ring on the kitchen counter where she’d left it while making tea. “Y/N I can hear your phone, I know you’re here. Please, can we just talk? I really need to talk to you.”

She couldn’t believe it. What on Earth could Dean need to talk to her about so badly? Did he know what had happened? Was he here to make sure she wasn’t going to tell anyone? Make sure she was going to be a good little Omega and keep her mouth shut so their business wasn’t ruined? Well him and his whole family can go to Hell, she thought bitterly, continuing to ignore him.

More knocking.

“Y/N if you don’t answer this door I’m going to have to assume you’re having a medical emergency, or you’re dead, and I’m going to call 911!” Dean threatened, and that got Y/N’s attention. She didn’t want the police here even more than she didn’t want Dean here. The police would just accuse her of lying or causing trouble, and she wasn’t strong enough to have someone undermine her like that right now. It would sever the one remaining thread she had connecting her to her sanity.

“Y/N!” Dean called again, sounding frantic. He was knocking so hard she was surprised the door hadn’t given way on its own. Tea violently discarded on her nightstand, Y/N marched to the door and wrenched it open, narrowly avoiding Dean’s fist colliding with her forehead as he went to knock again.

“What, Dean?” she seethed, sounding much braver than she felt.

“Um, hi,” Dean stuttered, all of his previous fight draining out of him in an instant, leaving him pale and lost looking. “Sorry, I um,” Dean’s eyes glanced around him nervously, like he was worried they were being watched, “can I come in?”

“No,” Y/N answered shortly, fingers going white where they were clinging to the door and the frame, blocking Dean’s ingress.

“Y/N what’s wrong? I just want to talk,” Dean tried to reason with her, apparently confused as to why she seemed so angry at him. Maybe he didn’t know what had happened… but Y/N decided she didn’t care.

“I said no. If you want to talk, talk here.”

“Okay, I um, I kinda came here to ask you something but based on how you’re acting right now, I’m guessing I might be wasting my time,” Dean trailed off nervously and Y/N couldn’t help but scoff.

“If you came here to ask me to keep your father’s dirty little secret, don’t bother. I’m not gonna tell anyone, so you can go run back to Daddy and tell him to stop worrying,” Y/N sneered.

“I– what?” What the hell are you talking about?” Dean’s face contorted in confusion as he blinked at Y/N’s scathing answer.

“Don’t play dumb, Dean. Why else would you be here? You’re the clean-up crew.”

“Y/N, honest to God, I have no idea what you’re– what is that?” Dean reached out towards her neck, obviously having noticed the bruise that she had forgotten was there, and Y/N jumped back out of his range but that had the undesired effect of leaving the doorway free for Dean to enter – an opportunity that he readily seized.

“Y/N, what happened?!” Dean demanded, storming towards her before halting abruptly. Y/N was sure the fear coursing through her must be evident on her face, and Dean had obviously picked up on that. He was still approaching, but slowly now, hands up like he was trying to coax a wounded animal out of its den. “Sweetheart, what happened?” he repeated more gently, genuine ignorance and concern flitting across his features.

“I–” Y/N didn’t want to tell him. What if Dean turned out to be like everyone else? What if he believed it was her fault, like John tried to tell her it was. As much as she knew it hadn’t been her fault, she also knew no one would believe that. Dean was John’s son, he was probably raised to think the exact same way, no matter how kind he had seemed at first. It was a fair bet their whole family, hell their whole company, was rotten and cruel.

“I don’t have to tell you anything Dean, I’m not your sweetheart.” Derision dripped from her last word. Y/N couldn’t hurt John but she knew how to hurt Dean, and right now that was close enough. “We’re not even fuck buddies, you’re just some Alpha I had to hire so I didn’t die. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Hey, hey now,” Dean held his hands up defensively, face showing his obvious confusion at the venom he was facing. “It was just a question, Y/N. I’m sorry, you’re right, it’s none of my business. Except,” Dean took a slow, measured step closer, “when I came in here, you said something about keepin’ my dad’s ‘dirty little secret’? And that makes me think that maybe this should be my business.”

Y/N flinched at the mention of John, but she didn’t try to escape Dean’s cautious advance. He was right in front of her now, close enough to stretch out and turn her chin to the side gently, getting a better look at the discolouration blotching her neck. “Y/N,” Dawn whispered now, “did my dad do something to you?”

“I think you know, Dean,” Y/N breathed, too scared to give volume or real words to the admission. Dean’s heart broke over his face, leaving his features twisted in sympathy, quickly followed by rage.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Dean growled. Y/N tensed up. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want anyone fucking ‘defending her honour.’ That would be even more humiliating than this whole ordeal already was.

“Dean, don’t be stupid,” Y/N hissed, wondering how to dissuade him.

“Yeah, Dean, don’t be stupid,” a cold voice sneered. Y/N and Dean both jumped, turning towards the new voice. Dean hadn’t closed the door completely when he’d followed Y/N into the apartment, it had been sat open on the hinge, and now someone else was pushing into the room – Sam, closely followed by John. John drew a gun from behind his back and grinned, looking at Dean over the barrel.

“So, how exactly did you plan on killing me, son?”

Y/N blinked awake, fuzzy, hot and in pain. She had no idea where she was, and no memory of how she got there. A groan to her side made her look over, and she saw Dean, arms tied behind his back and slumped against the wall.

“Dean,” Y/N tried to speak but her voice came out as a hoarse whisper and her throat ached. She tried to bring a hand to her neck, to feel if there was anything wrong, and found that her wrists were tied too, in front of her body.

“What the hell,” Dean grumbled, squinting around the space.

“Dean, where are we?” Y/N managed to speak up this time, and Dean looked around at her, concern colouring his confusion.

“Y/N, are you alright?”

“I don’t know, what would you call this?” Y/N tugged grumpily at the ropes binding her.

“Yeah, so no,” Dean huffed conciliatorily.

“Rise and shine lovebirds!” A too jubilant voice called through the closed door on the other side of the room. The door banged open and John, Sam, and a load of others came in, crowding all around the long table in the centre of the room. Now that Y/N was taking some time to think about her surroundings she was beginning to put together the elements she could see. A long table, circled with chairs, a screen on the wall with a console table beneath it holding a decanter and a set of glasses, as well as the remote for the screen and some other random stationary supplies. They must be in an office, probably the offices of Winchester & Sons.

All the men piling into the room were Alphas, Y/N could smell them. These must be other escorts that worked for the company. Were they all as bad as John? They must be if they were calmly sitting down in a room where their boss had tied up one of his clients and one of his sons without batting an eyelid. So either they didn’t care, or they were too scared to say anything if they did. A few curious eyes made their way towards Y/N and Dean, watching neutrally for the most part, but Y/N swore she saw a flash of glee in one man’s eyes, and a flash of hunger in another’s.

“Aw, chin up Dean,” Sam laughed mockingly, patting Dean on the cheek loudly. “We’re doing this for you after all.”

“Oh yeah, drugging me, kidnapping me, real kind of you brother,” Dean scoffed, fighting against his bonds.

“But ask yourself why we did that Dean,” Sam prodded, smiling widely.

“Why are you doing this?” Y/N spoke up when it was clear Dean didn’t plan on cooperating. Sure, she sympathised with Dean wanting to stand up to his brother, not play his games, but she needed answers too.

“We’re giving Dean what he wants sweetheart,” John came over to her and crouched down, brushing a stray hair off Y/N’s face in an act of false kindness, “since you never would have.”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Y/N jerked her head away from John’s touch, glowering.

“You, Y/N.” Sam grinned.

“I fail to see how this is accomplishing that,” Dean bit out, clearly livid. At least he wasn’t in on this, Y/N thought. She wished a little that she had been able to trust Dean all those months ago. If she had just gone to coffee with him, or not tried to skip her next session completely, she might never have met Sam or John. She and Dean would be blissfully ignorant of how awful his family really were, and they’d be… what? Dating? Mated? Y/N shuddered. She didn’t want that either, but it was clearly a better alternative to this. Raped, drugged and kidnapped, awaiting God knows what to be done to her.

“What, you’re not feelin’ it yet?” John’s voice broke through Y/N’s thoughts, and she focused back onto the conversation in front of her.

“Feeling what? Betrayed? Fucking pissed as hell? What, Dad?”

“Maybe give him another dose, Sammy. Just in case,” John nodded at his younger son, who pulled a syringe out of his back pocket and pulled the cap off with his teeth. Sam grabbed Dean’s hair and yanked his head to the side, exposing the veins in his neck so he could stab the needle through the skin.

“What the fuck?!” Dean growled as he got control of his head back and twisted out of Sam’s reach.

“Y/N is nice and ready,” John announced to Sam happily, laying his hand on her forehead. “Can feel the fever setting in, bet she’s starting to drip already.”

“She would be, slut like her,” Sam agreed.

“What have you done to us!?” Y/N demanded, frightened. Now John had mentioned it, the feeling of the fever was all she could think about. The adrenaline of waking up had quelled the symptoms but they were easy to pick out – fever, aches, sweat, cramps – somehow, John and Sam had triggered her heat. That must be why she could smell all the Alphas in the room so clearly as well, and why she could smell Dean’s scent lingering above all the rest. He must be going into his rut. That’s what they’d done to them. A horrible, sinking dread settled into Y/N’s stomach as her brain joined the dots of everything that had happened, everything that had been said. There was only one reason she could think of in answer to why they would trigger her heat and Dean’s rut on purpose. “No,” a broken whisper slipped out unintentionally.

“Oh yes, sweetheart,” John smiled, eyes glinting in the same light that was reflecting off the barrel of the gun he was holding loosely in his hand.

“No, please,” Y/N begged, looking at John desperately. They wouldn’t, they couldn’t…

“I think it’s time we get you on your feet.” John reached over her head and untied the end of the rope holding her to the console table. He tugged her up and Y/N stumbled forward after him, falling weakly against the conference table when her hips hit the side. John threw the rope to one of the men sitting near the end, the one Y/N had noticed earlier looking at her like she was dinner. He wrapped the fraying cord around his hand and yanked Y/N forward, so her arms were stretched out in front of her and her belly was laying flat against the tabletop.

“Come on, up you get,” she heard Sam grunt from behind her, and figured he must be untying Dean. Someone she couldn’t see grabbed her ankle and she stumbled to the side. Something thin and tight wound around her leg and clicked loudly in the quiet of the boardroom. Her other leg was pulled, forcing her onto her toes to balance, and keeping her legs spread wide – they were zip tying her to the table.

“Get the fuck off of her,” Dean shouted from somewhere behind her, and Y/N felt the tears start to leak out of her eyes. They weren’t going to stop, and she didn’t think Dean could get them out of this one either.

“As long as you get on,” Sam sneered, and Y/N felt a body fall against her back. A second later the weight was gone, but there was still a body pressed into her ass. Someone’s groin – someone’s cock.

“You can’t make me do this,” Dean gritted out, and Y/N could feel him trying to wriggle away, but it only had the result of grinding their hips together, which was having a very noticeable effect on Dean. She whimpered at the memory of that cock, wishing the circumstances right now were different. The Omega inside her wanted Dean, wanted him to fuck her until she couldn’t feel anything else besides him inside of her. She recognised easily that if this were happening differently, if Dean had been the one who tied her up like this because she asked him to, and if they weren’t being watched by a room full of strangers, she would be enjoying this immensely, and that feeling made her sick.

“We’re not gonna need to make you do anything, son.” John came back into Y/N’s field of view, gun still swinging loosely in his fingers, the carelessness somehow even more threatening than if he had been aiming it at them. “You’re gonna do it all on your own.”

“Bite me,” Dean growled, his voice dropping threateningly, an animal backed into a corner and ready to fight his way out, no matter the cost.

“No no,” John shook his finger, grinning. “Bite her.” Y/N closed her eyes, tears spilling from her lashes and splashing on the surface beneath her. It was exactly what she thought. They’d triggered her heat and Dean’s rut because that was the only way Dean could officially claim her.

“I’m not doing that!” Dean insisted angrily, still struggling, but Y/N had felt his cock jump when John had suggested that Dean claim her.

“Oh yes you are,” Sam answered in a sing-song voice, and Dean was shoved against Y/N’s ass even harder. She figured Sam must be the one keeping Dean there and pushing them together. “Because if you don’t claim her, then we’re all going to do it.” Y/N’s eyes flew open in horror, looking around the room with a newfound terror.

“So you choose Dean, either you claim your little Omega bitch like we all know you want to – or she becomes the company slut.” John spelled out his terms casually, like he couldn’t care less which one Dean chose. “I’ve been meaning to get one, to help our boys through their ruts when they come around. Too messy sending you out to clients like that, you know.” There were sick smiles and nods of agreement from the gang all surrounding them. Dean had gone silent, probably in shock, though Y/N couldn’t see what was happening behind her.

“What’s it gonna be, big brother?” Sam goaded. Dean was still silent. Y/N decided that whatever autonomy she could keep in this situation, she had to try. She could still have a choice here, even if she didn’t want either option.

“Do it, Dean,” Y/N choked out, and the room looked at her curiously, some of them clearly disappointed.

“Y/N, no,” Dean gasped behind her as he was shoved into her body again.

“Yes, Dean.” Y/N insisted. She was picking her option, clearly the better of the two. “I’m telling you to do it, it’s okay. I want you to claim me,” she tried again, trying to keep the fear out of her voice, and she felt Dean’s cock twitch.

“That’s a good Omega,” John cooed, reaching out to pet the top of her head. Y/N just stayed still, scared to make a move or pull away. “So docile when they’re in heat, aren’t they?” he spoke more to himself than anyone in particular.

“And needy,” Sam chimed in. “Can see her starting to soak through those panties.” A harsh slap landed right over her pussy and she yelped, trying to squirm away, but there was nowhere for her to go.

“You should help her get those off, Sammy,” John instructed, wicked joy on his face. Y/N froze when she felt the cold press of metal against her skin under her skirt. The flounce was tossed back, baring her to the room, and then she felt a tug and the thin material of her last bit of cover fell away.

“Look how good she looks Dean,” Sam caressed her newly exposed flesh, ran a finger up the slick dripping between her legs, and Y/N was ashamed but she couldn’t help pressing back into the touch. Sam pushed two fingers inside and she whimpered, clenching around him in reluctant pleasure, her heat starting to take over all her conscious responses. “Yeah, you remember how good I made you feel, don’t you?” Sam jeered, fingering her lazily, teasingly. “Sorry you’re getting stuck with Dean, but that means I’ll always be close by, in case you need me.”

Sam swirled his thumb over her clit smoothly, pressing the tips of his fingers down inside her like he was trying to reach his thumb through her body and it felt fucking incredible. She hated Sam, she wanted to hate what he was doing to her, but all the Omega inside her could think was more, more, more. She felt herself fuck back against Sam’s hand, almost like it was someone else’s body and not her own, and the muscles in her legs and stomach began to shake and seize.

“That’s enough, son,” John’s voice put an end to Sam’s attentions and Y/N whined involuntarily, hips canting back to search for the fingers again but instead she hit something wider, and wet. Dean’s cock was pressing against her entrance, the tip rubbing up and down, collecting the slick she was leaking onto it. “Get your brother nice and wet, Sammy.”

“It’s not hard, with how much this bitch is dripping,” Sam laughed. Y/N heard Dean groan behind her, ragged and wanton.

“Always knew you were a bit of a bitch, Dean,” John jeered. “You’re whinin’ like a slut and it’s your little brother jackin’ you off. Hard to believe you’re really an Alpha.”

“Fuck you,” Dean moaned.

“Why don’t you go ahead and prove to Dad what a big, strong Alpha you are,” Sam taunted, and Y’N felt Dean’s cock press harder against her, Sam no doubt pushing them together. The member started to enter her and Y/N groaned. Again, she found herself wishing this was all happening under different circumstances. She’d dreamed about Dean fucking her again more times than she could count in the past few months, and he still felt as good as she remembered.

“Fuck,” Y/N heard Dean hiss quietly behind her, shaking as he pushed in all the way to the hilt.

“Come on, Dean. Fuck ‘er,” John called, gun twirling around his finger again. Y/N couldn’t help the moan that escaped her when Dean pulled away and carefully thrust back in. She knew from experience that this angle worked really well for them. Dean hadn’t even had to touch her clit to get her to cum last time he fucked her over a table like this. She wouldn’t be able to stop herself from cumming the same way now, especially after Sam had gotten her so close.

“You can do better than that,” Sam laughed, and Dean pulled out and thrust in harder, probably under Sam’s guidance. “There ya go. Fuck her hard, slut like that likes knowing who she belongs to. Kept begging me for more when I had her cunt stuffed. Bet she definitely needs more from you, since you’re working with a little less.” Y/N moaned again on a particularly sharp thrust from Dean.

“Please, Dean,” Y/N heard herself beg, not entirely having meant to. But then she couldn’t turn it off. “Fuck, Dean please,” she whined, “make me cum, please please please.”

“What a good little slut,” John praised, smiling down at her. “Give the lady what she wants, boy.”

“Please, Alpha,” Y/N sobbed, tears starting to spill over as she put away all her dignity, just wanting this to end. Suddenly a weight was bending over her. Dean’s arms had been untied and now his wrists, clearly marked with rope burns, were on either side of her head as he clamped his body around her protectively.

“I’ve got you ‘mega,” Dean whispered, breath ragged against her ear, and Y/N knew the words were just for her, not for the audience. “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Dean’s words shook, whether with emotion or need, Y/N couldn’t tell.

“It’s okay,” Y/N whispered, hoping no one but Dean could hear her crying. “Knot me, Alpha. Need your knot,” she sobbed, louder, putting on a show again, but it wasn’t a lie.

“Fuck, ‘mega,” Dean groaned and fucked her harder, hips breaking into an uneven rhythm as his knot started to catch on her entrance. “Shit, gonna– fuck…” Y/N felt the knot lodge inside her and the next few strokes with the bulge pressing directly into her g-spot sent her spinning over the edge. Dean lost it too, Y/N could feel him flooding inside of her, the heat of him somehow soothing the intense heat she felt in the rest of her limbs.

“Now, Dean,” John’s voice growled above them, and Dean’s mouth was shoved against her neck, right above the mating gland. She felt Dean try to shake his head but he could barely move. The click of a safety being released echoed loudly in the quiet room. “Fucking do it.”

A sharp, excruciating pain shot through her throat and Y/N cried out, trying to squirm away, but the movement just ground their bodies together again, and sent another wave of pleasure through her gut as she clenched around Dean’s knot. Around her mate’s knot.

“Good boy,” Sam laughed coldly, slapping Dean’s ass and jolting him deeper into Y/N again. “Can’t wait for my turn.”

A shock of cold ran through Y/N’s body at Sam’s words.

“What?” She and Dean both spoke, panic evident.

“You said if I did this, you would all leave her alone.” Dean snarled, keeping Y/N hidden beneath him as much as possible. “She’s my mate now, if anyone touches her I will kill them. You understand me?” he shouted.

“From where I’m standing, I’m still the one with the gun,” John clicked his tongue skeptically.

“You promised,” Y/N sobbed, peeking out from beneath Dean’s shoulders, tears streaming down her face, hoping to elicit some kind of sympathy. John smiled and leant down, using the end of the gun to hold up her chin and make her look him in the eyes.

“I lied.”

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[tonypinkgrave]

an invitation to paradise✧･ ｡ﾟ

❥ summary : “Aw, don’t be like that! You’re already here, and we both know this isn’t only a friendly visit... Give me what I want, Vergil.” Dante looms closer, and Vergil coaxes him forward without having to speak. His guard is down, and he’s not resisting the idea— he knows more than anyone that if Vergil didn’t want to do something, he flat out wouldn’t do it. No if’s, and’s, or but’s.

Of course, even when Vergil submits, he’s still in charge. “If you want it, then you’ll have to work for it. Undress me.”

3.1k words

during DMC3 timeline; before canon events

Pussy power!Vergil / Dante

includes bloody foreplay, pretentiousness, scissoring, and a smidge of angst

»» ──────ஓ๑♥๑ஓ ────── ««

Dante kicks open the bathroom door, a resounding flush closed off as he slams the door back. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs when the phone rings.

He can’t catch a break, can he? Despite his unnamed business just now having the lights on, his phone has been blowing up with customers needing help with dirty jobs. Not that he hates it, not when it means a bucket load of cash is waiting on him, but he wants a few days to himself to iron out the path his life is taking.

His life took a turn for the worst barely a year ago, and he’s trying his hardest to stitch together the remaining threads of his ego and reputation. He spent months dealing with the aftermath of that bloody disaster, then right after had to come to terms with his brother being alive. He thinks he should be happy, but their small reunion didn’t go as planned. Now, he may be up against his own brother after having lost his semblance of a family. All the while, he keeps that smile plastered on his face and a skip in his step, hiding the trail of crumbled shards of his sanity that follow him everywhere.

Ah well, what can be done?

Dante plops into the creaky, antique chair and reaches for the rotary on his desk. “Sorry, not—”

A raspy breath interrupts him. He leans into the phone as if that will make the voice any louder. “Uh, hello?”

The other line abruptly hangs up.

Dante shakes his head and tosses the phone back on the receiver. “Great. Not even open for business yet and I’m already getting prank calls too.”

A thump in front of him has him on full alert, and he freezes upon seeing his identical twin, Vergil, standing before him. Dante doesn’t move, only stares at the frown he’s so familiar with. Where the hell did he come from? He didn’t hear the front doors opening, and not a single window was broken! God, he really can’t catch a break, can he?

Quickly, he plasters that cocky smile on and lounges into his chair. “Well, well, look at this. I think my new place is haunted because I’m seeing a ghost.”

Dante chuckles, picking up a slice of pizza. It’s lukewarm now, but food is food. “You might as well be. I saw you a year ago, for what, two minutes? And you dipped out like the coward you are.”

Vergil raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He ignores Dante and looks toward the pool table and the other decorations adorning the office. “I had plans to enact, brother. Still do.”

Dante half-heartedly listens while he munches on pizza.

His twin prods the wooden table, absently messing with the shiny, black 8 ball. “It’s the reason why I’m here, in fact. I’m extending an invitation to you.” He drops the ball, the harsh sound reverberating through the office.

“An invitation for me? How sweet,” Dante scoffs. “No thanks, though.”

Vergil sharply turns toward him, and within moments, the slice of pizza held in Dante’s hand is chopped in two, cheese dripping onto Dante’s pants and a rogue pepperoni slapping his desk.

“Oh, you have better things to do?” Vergil sheathes the Yamato with an audible click, “Gorging yourself on cheap food and living in squalor is quite a way to live— hm, I must be mistaken to invite you.”

Dante stands up, brushing off the bits of food clinging to him. He doesn’t miss Vergil’s wandering glance across his bare chest, the gaze lingering on his amulet around his neck.

“Fine, I’ll bite. Invitation to what?” Dante splays his arms, “I doubt someone like you is throwing a party worth visiting.”

“So mean, little brother. I believe you’ll find this party worth a visit. It’ll have everything you would want..”

Vergil’s words drift off, and they face each other in a locked standstill. Dante cautiously inches toward him, but covers his unease with a dramatic pondering of the invitation, scratching his chin and even averting his eyes from his potential target.

“Hmm. Frankly, a party with just us is all that I want.”

Vergil narrows his eyes.

“I’ve been meaning to kick your ass and make you submit for quite some time.”

Vergil snorts, actually laughing at Dante’s audacity. “Did all that grease rot your brain, Dante? What a joke.”

click here to read more ✦

[lightsovermonaco]

Patience is a Virtue (NSFW Max Verstappen)

Masterlist

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to @acollectionofficsandshit !!! Last minute present, which hasn’t been beta’d, but I hope you enjoy ♥

Max had been so busy the past few weeks, what with preseason testing and gearing up for the first race in less than a week. You had not been able to attend testing this year, Red Bull having only allowed essential personnel to travel to Bahrain. It had been two weeks since you had seen Max’s face in person instead of being separated by phone screens. 

Considering Max’s packed schedule, you had fully expected to celebrate your birthday alone. It had been enough of a surprise that he had shown up at the door of the apartment you shared in Monaco earlier that day, having flown home from London to help you celebrate. You had lounged about watching cheesy movies and trading kisses all day before Max had informed you he had something to show you.

“No peeking,” Max said, one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip as he guided you along. “Step down.”

Cautiously, you feel with the toe of your shoe for the step. Seagulls crow and you can smelly the briny sea, but that could mean you were anywhere in the city. You didn't have any definitive context clues as to where you were. 

“Where are you taking me?”

“I told you it’s a surprise. Was the whole “close your eyes’ thing not clear?” He squeezed your shoulder. “Besides, we’re here.”

“I can open my eyes?” You asked, wanting to be certain. Max’s whispered affirmation was a wisp of breath against your neck.

Your eyes blinked open, taking a moment to adjust to the brightness of the setting sun. Max’s arms wound around your middle, his chin resting on your shoulder. A small table set for two sat on a sandy private beach, complete with flickering candles and a waiter standing by.

“Daniel came up with this, didn’t he?” You teased, placing your hand on his corded forearm.

“He may have helped with the specifics,” He conceded, and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Charles is the one that let me borrow his villa.” 

You hummed in appreciation of the gesture. “So you are friends.”

“Jury’s still out on that one.”

You laughed and let Max lead you to the table. He pulled out your chair, letting you get settled before leaning in for a kiss. Being apart for so long had made him more affectionate than usual. Not that you were complaining.

Glasses of wine were poured before the waiter retreated back to the house, presumably to give you and Max privacy. Max leaned back, letting the last dregs of sunlight warm his face. It was the most beautiful sight you had ever seen.

Your eyes traced the line of his neck, up the angle of his strong, stubbled jaw. Muscles rippled as he took off his signature flat-brimmed cap, running his fingers through his hair before replacing it backwards on his head. And god, you could’ve jumped on him right there. Noticing your stare, Max grinned, his foot finding yours under the table.

“Keep undressing me with your eyes like that and we won’t get to enjoy the lovely meal Daniel planned out.” You bit your lip to suppress your smile. Your assumption that Max hadn’t come up with this on his own was right, then. It was far too cheesy for it to have been all his idea.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers together. “Maybe I’d rather undress you and eat at home.”

“Daniel would be upset that his efforts went to waste.” Mischief glinted in Max’s baby blues.

“I wouldn’t call them wasted,” You murmured, running your bare foot up Max’s calf. “After you leave tomorrow, I’ll be all alone for another week. I think Daniel would understand if I had other activities in mind for tonight.”

Max leaned back and stretched his arms over his head, fully aware that he was torturing you. Your mouth watered from more than just the delicious smell of grilled steak. A wicked grin split his face. “We’re having dinner,” He said, tone leaving no room for a challenge.

“But-”

He moved lightning quick, his hand gripping your thigh under the table. “I said we’re having dinner. Understood?”

“Yes,” You breathed, heart pounding. The dominance in his voice melted any protests that had sprang to your lips.

“Good girl,” He murmured, then sat back like nothing had happened when the server brought out your meal. As soon as Max thanked him, you dug in. Golden, perfectly seasoned potatoes and carrots, and a perfectly cooked steak with a delicious, sweet sauce. You shoveled it in, eager to get home.

“Take your time,” Max warned. “Or you’ll just be sitting there while I finish mine.” Indeed, he cut his steak agonizingly slow, deliberately dragging it out. You tried to match his leisurely pace, but couldn’t keep your mind from wandering. Your leg bounced impatiently. Max once more gripped your thigh, giving you a stern look.

“Patience is a virtue.”

Silence dominated the last of the meal, your body lined with tension. You couldn’t wait to get him home, having wanted to do so since the moment he turned that damned hat backwards. The sun had set by the time he tipped the waiter. You practically lept from your seat when he stood, grabbing his hand and racing for the street.

Max was stronger than you, of course, and when he dug his heels into the sand you had no choice but to halt. “I said patience, my schat.” My treasure.

Your stomach flipped. Just when you thought you couldn’t want him more, he pulled out the rarely used Dutch term of endearment that never failed to drive you wild. You had to get him home, or else you’d beg for him to take you right there on the beach in front of Charle’s vacant home.

Reading the plea on your face, Max relented with a sigh. “Alright, we won’t take a walk along the water like I planned.” He waved a hand. “You know the way home.”

You wound through the streets with practiced ease, your feet having traveled the path between Charles’ home and your apartment countless times. At one point you had to stop at a street crossing, bouncing on your toes.

The hand Max placed on your ass made you freeze. “Anxious?” He murmured, breath tickling your neck. You only nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. You could only imagine what he would do to you when you were alone.

After two more agonizing blocks, you were home. You rounded on Max the second the door closed behind you, lips crashed to his and your hands tugging his shirt up. Setting his cap on the kitchen counter, you left a trail of clothing from the front door to the threshold of the bedroom. Stripped down to your underwear, you wound your arms around Max’s neck and jumped, wrapping your legs around him.

He caught you with a grin. “Happy birthday, baby.”

“Uh huh,” You replied automatically, jerking your head towards the bed. Max took the hint, laying you back and stripping off his shorts and boxers, leaving him bare before you. The beauty of his body never ceased to amaze you, no matter how many times you saw it.

Max sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving yours as he slid his hands behind your calves and pulled. You gasped, legs falling open. The sudden heat of his breath on your core shocked your system, sending a shiver up your spine. “Please,” You whispered. 

Your knee jerked when his lips met your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him. His mouth trailed up to your hip, where he bit down hard enough to leave a mark. You gasped again, hips rising off the mattress.

“T-tease,” You breathed, head spinning like a top.

“Makes it sweeter when I finally feast.”

And feast he did.

Max had your panties off in record time, immediately dragging his tongue through your slick folds. His nose bumped your clit with each swirl of his tongue. A low moan tore from your throat. Reaching down, you tangled your fingers in his chocolate hair and encouraged him further with the grinding of your hips to his face. His hum of approval rocked through you, snipping the thread of sanity you’d been clinging to.

Your thighs tightened around his head when he slipped a finger inside you, his tongue devouring your clit like it was his last meal. He tapped thrice on your knee, his silent signal that he wanted your eyes on him. It took every ounce of your willpower to meet his request, gazing down at him between your legs.

His confident wink sent you over the edge, golden pleasure coursing through you hot as a wildfire. His tongue lapped at your center, letting you ride through the pleasure. Only when you whimpered softly did he remove his finger and mouth, his chest heaving.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asked, words coated in desire. You managed a nod. “Turn over.”

You tried to obey, you really did, but your limbs wouldn’t cooperate. With a growl of impatience, Max flipped you on your stomach. Fingers dug into your flesh as he hauled you up by the hips, face to the bed but ass in the air.

You rock your hips back, brushing the length of his cock. “That’s my girl.”

In one swift movement, he seats himself to the hilt inside you. You don’t need any time to adjust, thankfully, because Max doesn’t waste a second. The obscene sounds of skin on skin fills the room as he slams into you. Fingers tangled in your hair yank you to your elbows, and you looked over your shoulder at Max. 

His name was a plea, the only word in your vocabulary as he fucked you senseless. The sting of your scalp was a sharp contrast to the delicious pleasure flooding through you with each thrust of his hips. More than once your limbs turned to jelly, relying on Max to hold you up. He angled his hips to hit that sweet spot inside you with each thrust.

“Max, please-”

“Fuck, I never get tired of how wet you get for me,” Max grunted, increasing his pace until the force of it was enough to make you see stars. “Such a good girl, always ready for me when I want you.”

The praise had your walls tightening on his cock, a whimper escaping your throat. "M-Max-"

"Me too," He grunted, slamming into you twice more before spilling his seed inside you. He gave a few lazy strokes as you followed his lead, your second orgasm of the night draining any energy you had left. Max eased out of you and ran a cloth he had grabbed from the nightstand between your legs. 

"I could use a shower after that," You murmured. Max's rumbling laughter sounded at your ear.

"That can be arranged, birthday girl."

[august-bleeds-red]

Tag Team

In which the AFAB!Reader discovers what Bo and Vincent can achieve when they work together.

Dedicated to the fabulous @quiveringdeer for being my sounding board and general awesome human, and to the absurdly talented @thesightstoshowyou for igniting my love for these boys with her phenomenal writing!  ❤️ NSFW under the line.  

You know you’ve been in the Sinclair household too long when you can identify the person behind you by how they grab your ass.

 “Bo,” you sigh, glancing over your shoulder at the smug bastard smirking at you. You’ve been cleaning almost all afternoon, sweeping and scrubbing under the kitchen units, and the stove is your final task before you allow yourself some rest. “Really? Right now?”

 “Hell yeah right now,” he chuckles, smoothing a large hand over your jeans-clad ass cheek. “You’re puttin’ on too much of a show here for me to wait, darlin’.”

 Setting down the dishrag you’ve been scrubbing the stovetop with, you wipe your hands on the ratty old T-shirt you’re wearing and turn to face him. You can’t lie – even after all these months, he’s still more than a little intimidating to you. Six-foot-one of sinewy red-blooded Louisiana male, leering down at you like a fox cornering a baby rabbit.

 “Now, what made you think I was interested in seein’ your face?” he says, gripping your hips and swivelling you back round to face the stove. He’s undoing the button on your jeans when a shadow falls across you from the doorway. You both turn to see Vincent staring at the two of you. He’s dressed casually, meaning in clothes that aren’t caked in wax, his long hair pulled back in a messy ponytail at his neck.

 “Little busy here,” Bo warns.

 Vincent looks to your face, already flushed with expectant arousal.

 It’s my turn, he signs.

 “Fuck off it’s your turn,” Bo snorts. “Go on, get.”

 But Vincent’s not budging this time. Three long strides and he has his hands on you, jerking you from Bo’s grip and pinning you to his chest.

 “The fuck?” Bo looks genuinely annoyed now. “Y’think you can just barge in here and blue-balls me?”

 You groan in exasperation. Usually this kind of She’s Mine play would have you feeling hot under the collar, but it’s been a long day. “Look, one or both of you just do it or let me get back to work, okay?”

 A thread of silent communication seems to pass between the twins, and Bo’s lip curls mischievously. “You want front or back?” he asks.

 Vincent holds his hand out flat in front of his face and moves it downwards to his chin.

 Bo shrugs. “Fine by me.”

 Before you can so much as question what’s happening, Vincent hauls you up and over his shoulder, carrying you like a sack of potatoes to the ancient shag-pile rug in front of the TV. Setting you down, he quickly pulls off your T-shirt while Bo tugs at your jeans. You step out of them almost automatically, the cogs in your weary brain piecing together what’s about to happen. Forcing you to your knees, the brothers both unbuckle their belts.

 “Eldest first,” Bo grins, grabbing a fistful of your hair and guiding you to his waiting erection. Your mouth opens automatically and you take him inside, bracing yourself against his thighs as he drags you back and forth along his length.

 “Ahh yeah, that’s it, baby.”

 Knowing what’s expected of you, you scramble blindly for Vincent, wrapping your fingers around his cock and stroking it. He lets out a rasping moan and thrusts into your loose grip. Bo allows you to break free and you turn your attentions to Vincent, sucking on him until he’s rock hard against your tongue. You’re vaguely aware of Bo rummaging for something in a nearby drawer, and when your eyes focus on the blue bottle he unearths you realise “front or back” was not referring to Vincent in your mouth and Bo in your pussy.

 “Wait—” You try to pull away, try to stand, but Vincent already has a hold of you.

 With a strength that always manages to surprise you, he drags you down to straddle his hips, one hand already on his cock, nudging the tip at your slit. Despite your disquiet at the way Bo is approaching leisurely from behind, you can’t stop the moan that falls from your lips as you’re impaled on Vincent’s impressive girth. He may be the quieter of the twins, but he’s by no means merciful – not with his victims, and not with your body. You thank stars for the natural lubrication of your arousal that allows him to penetrate with little resistance, the sting of the stretch lasting only a moment before the warmth of pleasure blankets you. Vincent’s hands settle on your waist, easing you slowly – but firmly – down, until your thighs meet his hips. You unconsciously push upwards as he lifts you, chasing that spark of bliss that curls through your lower belly. Vincent’s thumbs paint patterns in your skin, hips thrusting to meet your downward strokes. You cry out, palms flat against his chest, the muscles in your legs burning with the effort to keep elevated.  

 “Room for one more?” Bo’s liquor-smooth voice murmurs in your ear, and you feel the straps of your bra ping loose. Throwing the offending undergarment aside, Bo cups your breasts and squeezes hard. You gasp and he claps one hand across your mouth, slipping two thick fingers inside. You taste traces of engine oil and tobacco, the smoky-sweet scent you’ve come to associate with him. Combined with the aroma of wax and clay that clings to Vincent, you’re deliciously trapped in a cloying fog of aphrodesia.

 Releasing your mouth, Bo’s hand traces the curve of your spine, pressing between your shoulder-blades to force you into a more accessible position. Your heart pounds and you glance anxiously over your shoulder at him. His eyes glint wickedly back at you, one hand stroking his cock with obvious intent.

 “Bo,” you whisper. “Please. . .”

 “Please what, baby-doll?” he purrs.

 “Don’t hurt me.”

 “Now why would I do a terrible thing like that?”

 He rubs the tip of one finger, wet from your mouth, against your rear hole; Vincent slows his thrusts to a slow, crawling pace, just enough to keep the fire lit. You squirm as Bo’s digit pushes past the tight ring of muscle, the intrusion not big enough to hurt, but enough to feel unusual. When he adds a second finger, however, you flinch.

 “Aw, too much?” You can hear the gleeful grin in his voice. Pushing both fingers in to the second knuckle, he splits them into a V, stretching you in preparation. You guess you should be thankful he’s giving any at all. You feel strangely empty when he pulls them out, but only for the briefest moment before you feel something bigger take their place. Vincent falls still as a figurine, his one sky-blue eye watching your face intently. Reaching between your bodies, he rubs the fore and middle fingers of one hand against your clit, sending a hum of pleasure murmuring through you to counteract what’s happening behind.

 “Oh fuck, baby,” Bo grits his teeth as his cockhead disappears inside you. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

 By the time he’s fully sheathed, you’re trying to remember your name. You’ve never felt so full as you do now, you would go so far as to say . . . complete. Vincent drinks in your kaleidoscope of expressions like a man dying of thirst; the holy sequence of pain and pleasure that crosses your face more beautiful than any art he could create alone. He gives an experimental thrust and you see Heaven. When the brothers begin moving together, you can just barely cling to your sanity. The warm, soothing ecstasy from Vincent integrated with the sharp, gratifying pain being served to you by Bo takes you to a new plane of experience.

 “Y’like that, huh?” Bo threads his fingers through your hair and pulls your head back, exposing your neck. “Y’like being stuffed like a little slut?”

 “Nng . . . uhh . . .” Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

 “Say it,” Bo licks a long stripe up the side of your neck. “Tell us what you are.”

 “I-I . . .” the tempo of the two of them inside you sends lights popping before your eyes. “I’m— I’m a slut.”

 “And who owns your pretty little pussy?” He deals a sharp slap across your ass cheek. “Who does this ass belong to?”

 “You!” You’re almost sobbing, your pleasure rising within you like the sun. “Oh God, Bo . . . Vince . . .”

 Bo quickens pace, hips smacking into your ass with ruthless force, and Vincent hand is almost vibrating with the speed at which he’s massaging your clit. Your combined gasps and moans rise in harmony, Bo turning the air blue with lustful curses.

 “Oh god, oh fuck,” you whimper, white heat radiating upwards through your body from where you’re connected. “I’m— I’m gonna cum . . .”

 “That’s it, baby,” Bo grunts, his thrusts evolving into mindless snaps of his hips, jerking so sharply you wonder if you’ll have bruises there tomorrow. “You’re gonna be drippin’ with cum after this. Gonna fill you so fuckin’ full.”

 Your scream must echo to the church when you finally finish, your inner walls pulsating against Vincent’s cock and drawing his own orgasm from him. The warmth of his seed fills you, spilling down your thighs.

 “Gonna cum in your ass,” Bo’s breathing is ragged, you can tell he’s close. “Gonna fuckin’—”

 The sensation of cum shooting deep into your ass is an interesting one, but the wild howl of ecstasy that emits from Bo more than makes up for it. Both brothers are twisted, broken, often cruel, but God if they don’t give you pleasure the like of which you’ve never known; or likely ever will again.

 You collapse onto Vincent’s chest as Bo pulls out of you, unable to keep your balance any longer. Vincent’s softening cock is still inside you, twitching occasionally when you move. Bo staggers to his feet and cups your jaw in his palm, claiming a feral kiss from your dry lips.

 “You’re ours, Y/N,” he says.

 “Yours . . .” you nod dazedly. You think you might pass out.

 Both of you glance down at Vincent. It’s not often that he speaks, but the monosyllabic moments he does are always worth the effort. Lifting his wax mask from his face, he gives his own interpretation of Bo’s signature smug grin.

 “Ours.”