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livecrow · 1 month ago

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You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.

Dark!Ghost x fat fem reader drabble

CWs: dead dove, rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink(?), animal play(?), threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism

(A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.)

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It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.

In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet, after you’d killed enough people, what’s a few more?

No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people “jus’ need killin’”.

As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s off’ed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither”. After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality.

No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.

Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.

You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it.

Wrangling you was simple, it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your lack of instincts was staggering, it was even more shocking that you lasted this long, he almost couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you, it only endeared you to him. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your undoubtedly inane business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.

The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”.

Simon's main concern was not damaging you too much, he was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. You're bent over in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory, but he’s not applying enough pressure to actually choke you. You’re just forced helplessly to come along or be dragged.

Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led, he would simply tighten his hold, and allow up a quick nap. He’d pull out the dolly, load up the truck and be on his way.

On the big stainless steel work table the metal stings you even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips, Simon rips your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but your nipples is where his roaming gaze finally settles.

He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle. You were a bit of silly thing, he thought. Maybe it’d be a minute till you’d actually catch on.

You're his little prize. Simon will coddle you, give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness.

“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, what y’ need clothes for?” he scoffed. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want you to answer. A dog doesn’t answer “who's a good boy?” does he?

He’s measuring you, jotting things down. You think distantly that the pencil looks puny in his fist. While he's at it, he's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store.

Only when you think there’s finally a reprieve, you’re being hogtied. You’re trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape its bite. Simon says it looks good on you, can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing pinch. You struggle of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “Settle”, says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn.

He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. He knows a guy for leather, does good work. All hand stitched. Simon will have a proper harness made for you. Something with a lot of d-rings. It will be more comfortable for you and he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chaffing.

As he admires your skin, he’ll remark offhandedly that he’ll have to ""'ave somethin' from you" too. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. Couldn’t find more supple could y’? He hasn’t decided what’ll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That’d be about the first time your consciousness flees from you.

Simon will lay it on thick, praise how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you can't blame him for any of this, really. He'll say something about kobe beef and taking good care of you. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.

Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.

It’s all completely horrifying, it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged.

His hands are always on you, it’s never fucking ending. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating and you hate every second of it.

The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.

He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats, might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food, you don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful and to no one’s surprise it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop of course, only the best for you.

He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye”. He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'".

You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner, even if seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. Steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, roasted broccoli.

You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over on the floor, forced to eat off a dish without the use of your hands, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise. Still, if he’s in a mood he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess”.

The food was prepared, but this time the kitchen knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your peripheral.

He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful and he looks so pleased. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.

On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like.

You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.

Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence.

”...you'll taste better.”

He waited until your last bite to say it, maybe that was mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow, and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. Giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes.

“Chew.”

It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.

“Swallow.”

His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then.

With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starting to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.

Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.

The movement is slow, as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side.

Then it’s on your tongue.

He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue

“They’ll say ’m ‘spoilin’ ‘er rotten’. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors. Such a sweet, tame thing, are you?”. He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.

Whenever Simon’s put up enough with your smart mouth, he enjoys the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.

The sounds you make when gagged are special little nonsense noises, almost like you're trying to talk like a person would. Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool. “You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too.” Says you're leaking from practically every hole. Eyes, nose, mouth, cunt.

Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical, or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and hold you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cow bell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.

If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.

Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it, you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll lightly chastise you for working yourself up, for fussing.

He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, ass, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little.

His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past you inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze.

He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meathooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.

He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.

He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hand are as steady as a surgeon. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.

It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.

Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.

That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.

Chuck, rib, loin, sirloin, rump, round, flank, plate, brisket, shank.

He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker.

From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day”.

He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so beautiful, it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it.

It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes.

...

You didn't dare question it.

But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, amused that you're so eager. Maybe he'll say that he decided he wants some milk from you instead.

#i love that this is the first thing i've ever posted publicly and it's this abomination #now i need something soft with Ghost as a form of pseudo aftercare #this is a sick fuck dark/horror version of Ghost and isn't intended to be canon accurate #dead dove do not eat #both reader and author are fat #I don't know how to write accents #egregious abuse of quotation marks and italics #dark!Ghost #dark!Simon Riley #call of duty #Silmon Riley x reader #Ghost x reader

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wanderingelvis · 6 months ago

Note

firstly, love your work!! second, can you write something about elvis being protective as well as maybe some Memphis Mafia content too? 🎀

i have a few of these requests so hopefully this works for all of them! 🎀🪩🕊️

🧚 Masterlist 🧚

word count: 2,508

pairing: 70s elvis x fem reader

warnings: kinda yandere themes, at least very possessive/protective elvis, manipulation

You’d brought new, fresh light into Elvis’ life. He was deep in his Vegas residency and you were this sweet little thing, bringing soft giggles, affectionate touches and happiness into the International Hotel.

Equally, this purity that you radiated came with a price. Elvis felt a need to protect you, in fact, all of the Mafia did. They were paid handsomely to protect you but even if they weren’t, you tugged on all of their heartstrings and they’d all look out for you, but none more so than Elvis.

Sometimes, he’d take it too far, not that you’d realise. His protectiveness went right over your pretty little head.

Like the time that he’d kicked out two men from a meet and greet with him after a show because they gave you a “shifty look”, or when he fired a make up assistant for letting you have even so much as a sip of champagne.

You’d ask about them, where they’d gone as you’d sit on Elvis’ knee and Elvis would plead ignorance, telling you that he ain’t getting involved with none of that personnel nonsense and you’d nod before turning back to your fashion magazine.

It was after a show that you thought was simply magical that you decided you needed to find a way to celebrate that success with Elvis.

And so, you settled on getting Elvis a cupcake.

You’d seen a stand of cupcakes as you’d headed into the auditorium before the show, as you’d been escorted in, with Elvis’ stepmother Dee holding your hand painfully tightly, seeing you as more of a burden than a friend. You had wanted to stop to try one of the cupcakes but Dee had yanked your wrist a little too harshly that you didn’t get the chance.

You had wished that you’d be free to roam around on your own but Elvis had made it clear that you were always to have an escort.

He insisted that of course he trusted you, it was strangers he didn’t trust, he couldn’t, he tried to explain to you as you nodded albeit with those adorable pouty lips.

In truth, he knew you were a mischevious and curious little thing, and not only that but you were just a little too naive to be left to your own devices.

He just knew, if someone tried to take advantage of you, they’d be able to succeed just too easily and to that end, Elvis had made a rule to always be escorted, whether you liked it or not.

But you’d decided you were a big girl, you could surely get a cupcake on your own as a present for Elvis after his amazing show and it would be okay.

Surely.

So as the crowd roared with applause, you scooted over in the booth to Larry Geller, the latest of Elvis’ entourage.

“‘Scuse me Larry, I, um, I gotta go to the ladies room and then I gotta go n’grab this, um, this cupcake for E, I wanted t’get him this present because, well, see that was such a lovely show, and um,” You quickly realised you were rambling to justify being left alone. “I wanted to get him somethin’ pretty!” You said softly with your big eyes glittering.

“Well, you sure you can go on yer own kid? Y’know I was told that you s’posed t’have someone with yer.” Larry mumbled, not really paying attention to you but watching a gaggle of female Elvis fans that were waving to get the attention of the Mafia as Elvis could be seen heading backstage.

“Oh sure Lar! It’s just the ladies room! I’ll be back in no time!” You said, seizing your opportunity. “Promise!” You giggled, scrambling out of the booth and making your way to the cupcake stand.

By the time you’d reached the stand, shuffling through all the bodies piling out of the auditorium, you were enchanted by all the different pretty cupcakes, delicately iced and decorated individually.

Meanwhile, backstage, Elvis had reached his dressing room only to be greeted by the Mafia and not the one single person he actually wanted to see.

“Where is Y/N?” Elvis said sternly, looking around the room and missing an absent baby.

“She wanted to surprise you with a cupcake so she went to the stand in the lobby.” Larry informed him, not thinking anything of it.

And suddenly, the tension in the room went from 0 to 100 as everyone else, more experienced with Elvis’ rules and regulations, especially towards you, knew what a monumental fuck up had just occurred.

“What do you mean she’s gone to the lobby? Who’s with her?” Elvis practically spat, his eyes scanning the room to see no one else missing but you.

“I- I sent her on her own.” Larry stammered, realising the error he’d made.

“Goddamn it!” Elvis shouted, slamming his whiskey glass on the table, causing it to shatter and make grown men flinch. “Go get her now. If she’s noticed and I swear to God, if that little girl is hurt, if any goddamn motherfucker has put their hands on her, I’ll kill all of you with my own goddamn hands.” Elvis roared.

A big group left the room and headed out in search of the little girl who was currently in the hotel lobby.

“It’s you!” A shrill voice hollered at you just as you’d purchased a strawberry cupcake, making you glance up. “You’re Elvis’ chick,” the elderly lady said, partially to you, partially to her friend next to her as the two older women cornered you, the little thing as you held the cupcake for Elvis in your hands, your eyes wide like a deer in headlights.

“I, um, I-“ You stammered, the poor baby.

“You are a weird little thing aren’t you?” One of them said cruelly.

“It’s like what they say in the papers about her being like some kinda little pet of Elvis’.” The other one said, in an observational tone that made you scrunch your eyebrows sweetly in confusion.

“Wha-“ You managed to murmur before being interrupted.

Because then the pile on started, as the enormous crowd started noticing you.

“Y/N, over here!”

“Is it true Elvis dresses you?”

“Does Elvis control you?”

“Are you really a virgin?”

“Would ya sign this for me?”

“Who did you screw to get with Elvis?”

With tears swelling up in your big eyes and your big bottom lip jutted out, wobbling as amxiety consumed you, all you had wanted was a cupcake for Elvis.

But maybe he had been right all along, maybe you did need someone with you at all times.

“Y/N, come here, come with us!” An older lady said, grabbing your forearm with a pinch, making the little girl yelp.

“No, no!” You whimpered as hot tears started to spill from your eyes and down your cheeks. You cowered, trying to wriggle away from the lady.

You were close to a fully blown panic attack, not that you knew what the words were for that. You just knew you needed your Daddy.

“Get away from her! I said move!” A loud voice yelled. You recognised the voice as Red West and saw him and Jerry making their way through the crowds.

Red got the woman off you with ease as you clung to Jerry, petrified of your surroundings.

“S’alright now honey, we’re gon’ get you back to EP, you’re okay now darlin’.” Jerry lovingly reassured, sensing how terrified you were, as you sniffled and were rushed away by him.

Truth be told, Jerry thought Larry was a bit of an ass, he understood why Elvis liked him but he knew he wasn’t the right person to leave you with.

You were quickly ushered into the security room where you saw Elvis, surrounded by his entourage and you wasted no time in running over to him.

“There’s my little one.” Elvis soothed, consoling his baby, rubbing circles in your back as you hiccuped and clung to him. “Breathe now baby, deep breaths f’me. Are ya hurt lil’ one?” Elvis cooed but he didn’t give you the time to respond. “Jer, she hurt?” Elvis almost barked.

Jerry stood there, hands on his hips and shaking his head. “I don’t know, boss. There was a crowd and some old lady was hollerin’ at her when I got to her.”

“A-a lady, a-a lady grabbed me and um, she wanted to, she wanted to take me away and I- I didn’t wanna, I didn’t wanna go Daddy,” You sniffled oh so vulnerably, letting out the nickname Elvis had instructed you to give him and one that slipped out when you did indeed feel needy.

Elvis felt his heart yearn to comfort you but he was still seething at the massive oversight that had taken place, as well as the fact that you’d disobeyed his rule.

“Honey, you know what our rule is about wandering off?” Elvis said coolly, devoid of emotion as he was trying to restrain his anger.

You nodded your head feebly, your cheeks turning a softer pink at the slight embarrassment you felt from Elvis talking down to you in front of all of the guys. “To not wander off on my own and always tell you where I’m goin’ to keep me safe.” You recited sadly in a soft voice.

“Ain’t that right.” Elvis said lowly. “So why, did ya think it would be a bright lil’ idea to disobey me huh kid? Y’need me t’spank that sweet little ass right here and now so that y’learn and start listenin’ t’me? Is that what y’need huh?” Elvis chastised.

You knew all of the guys were uncomfortable but you also knew that Elvis didn’t give a damn, his eyes trained darkly on you and oh boy, did it make you feel the size of a mouse.

You looked around, embarrassed with your wet lashes fluttering as you sniffled a little more, an overwhelming bundle of feelings, including feeling scared, shy, panicked, embarrassed and relieved all swelling in your little tummy.

“Well honey? Y’gon use that mouth little one or do I gotta pull you across m’knee?” Elvis said, taking his index finger under your chin and tilting it as he towered over you, so that your watery eyes could meet his.

“I just wanted to get you a cupcake…” You choked out as Elvis’ brows furrowed with confusion.

“A cupcake?” Elvis said, his expression softening as it so often would whenever you spoke.

You nodded with a pout, your swollen bottom lip jutted out.

You weren’t intentionally trying to melt Elvis’ heart with those soft, sad puppy dog eyes, you were just naturally so sweet that Elvis couldn’t resist abandoning his threats.

“Uh huh!” You whined. “See, I saw these pretty cupcakes, the ones, the ones out there!” You exasperated, turning your body to point in the direction of the lobby. “Them ones with the decorations and the icing and I just,” You and Elvis both realised that you were getting all worked up again.

“Baby,” Elvis hushed, rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back.

He could tell just by your odd albeit cute passion for this cupcake that you were telling the truth and you really didn’t want to be in trouble.

You tried the breathing technique that Elvis had taught you for when you so often get a little too overwhelmed as your breaths got ragged. “M’sorry.” You mumbled.

“S’okay baby,”

“I just, you did such a good show, I mean, y’know I love every show n’you were just so good n’ all, I just, just wanted to get you a present for it. And, see, the cupcakes were just so pretty!” You whimpered, pleading your case. “I know, I know I ain’t s’posed t’be wanderin’ off, I just really wanted t’get you the cupcake. I promise I ain’t gonna go on my own again, not ever!” You promised, your eyes wide, trying to convince Elvis.

Elvis looked down at your poor state, he knew it had been a scary experience for you, he just needed to look at the way you were picking at your own fingers, actin’ all fidgety.

When he looked up to observe the expressions on the Mafia’s faces, he knew they all agreed. His sweet thing meant no malice and she sure as hell had been spooked enough to never want to go anywhere without someone with her — and maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all, Elvis thought.

“M’real sorry.” You said softly, calmer now that you’d finally managed to get your words out, even if they weren’t exactly coherent.

Elvis smirked as he saw a cupcake box on the side that you’d clearly put down before you’d run into his big arms only moments before.

“That the ‘oh so special’ cupcake huh little one?” Elvis said with a smile, pointing his index finger to guide your vision.

You simply nodded, you didn’t really have all that much energy left, you were so overstimulated, you poor thing.

“Jer, hand me that box will ya?” Elvis hollered, with Jerry moving swiftly to grab the box and place it in your hands, the odd sniffle coming from you, observing it all. “Want me t’take a look, dolly?” Elvis asked you, his tone now noticeably gentler than it had been.

“Yup.” Is all you managed to muster as Elvis took your little hand in his big one and guided you to the couch, letting you nestle into his side.

You watched with glassy eyes the man you adored with all your heart open the box, showing a pretty little cupcake, even if it was the tiniest bit battered from all the chaos.

“Oh baby, how did y’know this one would be my favourite huh? How’d you get so clever?” Elvis cooed, realising his job was now to make you feel better.

“Really?” You squeaked, pushing yourself up from his chest to observe his expression as you bit your finger.

Elvis grabbed your hand to gently pull it away from your mouth, he never approved of you biting your nails, it would make you sick and that’s the last thing he wanted.

“That’s right darlin’.”

“They gave it a name, it’s called ‘The King’.” You said gently before Elvis threw his head back with laughter at having a cupcake named after him. “That’s why I got it!”

Your whole body began to untense at his laughter and you looked around to see all of his entourage too, laughing at what you’d said, making you feel better.

“Oh baby, whatever am I gon’ do with you hey?” Elvis chuckled, pulling you in to lovingly pepper your face with kisses, eliciting sweet giggles from you.

Despite it being a rhetorical question, Elvis knew exactly what he was going to do with you.

He would never again let you get into such a vulnerable and volatile situation again. He was going to make sure you were always looked after and always kept by his side.

Constantly.

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nubsdolls · 9 months ago

Text

cautiiioooon!!,, slighty touchin, hobies real sweet, some gentle teasing, reader gets high with hobie, jus some fluff slash smutt, i also do not smoke so i apologize if any of the smoking parts arent true!!! but other than that enjooy!!

your back's pressed up against hobies chest, nicely placed atop his lap, in one of his, definitely way to big in size, band tees and some boxer briefs, the warm skin of your thighs rubbing against him, one of his hands resting on your hip.

he listens as you ramble on about your day and how miguels an absolute dick as he takes a long drag of his blunt before tilting his head up to blow out the cloud of smoke, not to blow it into your pretty little head.

you kind of pause, youve seen him smoke before, but you had never tried it, straying away from the substance, for no reason in particular, you didnt have anything against it, but just watching him made you a little curious.

you shuffled around in his lap a little before he firmly held onto your hips, holding you down.

"luv?, whatcha doin?" hes not sure if your aware that your grinding on him just the slightest. "hey um, bie'.. do you think i could try smoking with you?" you mutter, kind of embarrassed, of never having had smoked before.

so a few minutes later, you were seated across from each other, hobie explaining what to do, and what not.

"you dont wanna keep it in too long, yeah? but dont exhale immediately." he explained, his hands gesturing and practically talking along with him, sliding the blunt into your hand.

bringing it up to your mouth, you take a sharp drag, before exhaling, coughing from the effect, it was sweet yet a little bitter, it had a strange aftertaste to it.

he chuckled, rubbing your back and patting it gently, "you did good f' ya first dove."

leaning back a little for stability, his hands propping his up as he watched you.

"it has a weird taste, its not bad but like its kinda bittersweet." explaining, smaller coughs escaping you, your eyes stung a little. hesitantly, you took another drag, a little deeper, but softer. waiting a moment before exhaling, to your surprise, not coughing.

your eyes lit up, turning to him, hands slightly raised. he sat up, eyes glistening in admiration, seeing you excited over something so small made his heart beat a little faster.

"i forgot to tell you, this is probably gonna hit tha' hardest since its ya first.. id suggest only 2 to 5 hits.." tilting his head to look over at the blunt in your hand, then back at you.

"nah i can handle it."

yet a few minutes later, it had hit. and it hit hard.

"how d'ya feel?" he mumbled, you guys were back on your bed and his hands were on your waist, playing around with the band of your boxers. "has i' kicked in yet?"

"mhhh, i dunno, like im floating, and.. im here.." only small sounds escaped from you from here on out, inaudible babbling and giggling as you practically sank into his touch.

he genuinely laughs out loud from the state your in. "christ, ya absolutely baked luv." he mumbled through giggles, his long slender fingers making it onto the skin above the boxers, simply tracing little shapes onto your skin.

impulsively, out of nowhere, you flip over and make it so your facing him, he lifts his hand up confused, but not stopping you, your hands around his neck before you just collapse onto him.

"ya' need me so bad love? coulda jus' said so." he mumbled, his voice teasing, he moved one of his hands to your hip while the other gently ran up and down your spine.

you just spoke nonsense into his collarbone, nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck, almost nipping at it.

maybe you hadnt noticed it but hobie noticed the way you started gently straddling yourself on him, he could feel the ache between your thighs, the sheer fabric of your boxers not dismissing any subtle feeling. the high combined with the grinding sensation made it so so much better, the waves almost melting your brain.

"baby.." he whines, almost pitiful, his girl's trying to get off by just pushing her hips against him. he plants the sweetest kisses to her neck, his teeth gently biting down but not breaking skin. his hands inching farther up your shirt, hands cradled around your tits.

he could feel his tip leaking with precum, she was just too precious like this, your eyes tearing up from the neediness or from the high, maybe both. you left out a frustrated whine, and who was he to deny his girl?

a few minutes of just straight, slow, sloppy, panting thrusts, filling your needy cunt all the way up, his hands on your waist, guiding you back onto his dick, your face up against the couch and holding onto the pillows to ground yourself.

while hes fucking you hes also slowly taking drags of a blunt. blowing the smoke onto your lower back as he picks up the pace, earning pornstar—worthy moans out of you. "bie—" you shuddered, so incoherent and tears almost spilling from how much pleasure you were taking in.

"cmon baby.. use ya words, yeah?" he grips onto your waist a little more, his nails digging into your skin, the warm blunt in his hand as he gently pulls out before slamming back into you, the sound of your juices and skin slapping almost a rhythm.

and when he finally cums into you its almost an out-of-body experience, like your floating, back arching so far you thought you were gonna snap. finally, he pulls out, your evident orgasms rushing down your thighs. he flips you over, gently placing kisses on your heated face.

hi guys!!! im sosososos sorry ive been gone, whole lotta school work nd i just got back from nyc.. also im not vry creative so pls send requests:( (im goin crazy)

#across the spiderverse #hobie brown smut #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #hobie brown #hobie brown x you #hobie smut #hobie my beloved #hobie brainrot #please send requests

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boxofbonesfic · 5 months ago

Text

Title: Blood and Sand (1 of 2)

Pairing: Werewolf!Moon Knight x Reader

Summary: You are selected to accompany your mentor on a dig, but what you find in the desert instead makes you wish you had never come at all.

Warnings: Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Murder, Kidnapping, Cults, Implied Torture, AU, Eventual Smut, Monsterfucking, Lycanthropy

A/N: I hope part one is enough to get you all salivating! I’ve had this idea kicking around for a bit, and I’m happy to finally be doing something about it. Please don’t hesitate to let me know what you think with a comment or a reblog! divider by @firefly-graphics

You come to as the truck’s lurching, uneven gait smooths out, the tires quieting as they pass from sand to something more hard packed, like a road. You had grown so used to bumping along over the dunes, bouncing around in the bed of the truck like a sack of grain that now the road feels strange, instead of comforting. Your mouth tastes like dry cotton and sand—and blood, from where your lip had split when the butt of the gun had impacted it, hard. You’re not sure who’d done it—you were already dizzy from the blow to the back of your head.

Pretty sure I’m concussed.

You’re not a doctor, but you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to sleep after a concussion, though the reason why escapes you currently. The truck jolts over something you can’t see—a pothole? A body? The thick, hot bag they’d thrown over your head prevents you from seeing anything, it barely lets your breath out, let alone letting light in. Something heavier than the empty canisters of gasoline that had been pushed aside to make room for the two of you lands against you, and you yelp, flinching before you realize—it’s the professor. Your hands are aching and sore where they’ve been bound behind you, so you can’t help him right himself.

He groans with pain.

“P-professor Hartwell?” You don’t think they can hear you in the cab, not over the sound of the tires on the road. Still, you try to keep your voice low. “Professor are you alright?” For once, you actually hope to hear his grim, irritated voice—but you hear nothing, only the rattling breaths in his chest as he pants. You wait a moment, and try again.

“Professor?”

For another few heartbeats, the only sound is that of the truck beating the road beneath it into submission, before your mentor takes another wet, rasping breath.

“Y-you must not let them.” The words are nearly lost in his pained wheezing. You know you’re probably imagining it, but you can smell copper through the bag, taste it thickly in the air. “They’ll want you to read from the book,” this time, you know you aren’t imagining it—something hot and wet seeping against your side where the professor is pressed against you.

“You must not.”

“What—what book? P-professor sit up, you, you have to sit up a—and stay awake—” The cough that wracks his frame sounds loud and painful. You feel his body spasm as the truck hits another something, and the back of your head bounces hard off of the side of the bed, making you see stars against the inside of the bag.

“Gods forgive me,” he rasps. “Forgive me. I never knew it would—-” His pained rambling is nonsensical, devolving into strings of words you can barely understand. “Bury it, burn it, make it dust and scatter it to the wind, you hear? Destroy it!” Hands grasp your shoulders, his, you realize, bony and thin, the tips digging into your flesh insistently. He’d been bound, just like you were, hands secured behind your backs with zip ties—so how did he hold you now? Shaking you like a rag doll as he shouts into your covered face, the scent and taste of his blood choking you.

“Burn it all!” It’s hot, so hot, hotter than you’ve ever been, even here in the desert, and your dry lips crack and bleed as your head snaps back and forth on your shoulders. All you taste is fire and blood. “To ashes!” His voice booms in your ears and in your skull and for a moment you fear he will fling you out of the bed of the truck, but he releases you, collapsing against the hard plastic beneath you with a bang.

You swallow, running your dry tongue along your aching lips, almost afraid to speak.

“Professor?”

There is no answer.

—

When the truck finally stops, you ready yourself.

The door to the cab creaks as it swings open, and the impact of boots in the sand makes you snap to attention. You wince, shrinking back as the tailgate opens, rough hands grabbing at your ankles. You kick, struggling and cursing as you’re dragged from the truck bed, the breath knocked from your body as you land on your back, hard.

“Fucking bitch.” Someone curses, and you hear boots scuffle against the cracked asphalt beneath you just in time for you to ready yourself for the blow. It comes, a steel toed boot digging hard into the softness of your belly. You wheeze. A rough hand knots in the collar of your shirt, pulling you up. The bag is ripped off, and hot—but fresh—air immediately surges around your cheeks. It’s still night, the moon big and full and nearly sun-bright above you. You blink, your eyes watering in the sudden light.

The man above you grins, his blue eyes creasing at the corners. “Think we’ve got a live one.” His thickly accented words are mocking. Russian, maybe.

“F-fuck you!” Your voice trembles, but you don’t care, lashing out again with your own legs until he kicks you again. This time, you puke, bile stinging your cut lips as it erupts out of your mouth. You heave onto the road while he stands over you, laughing. With his boot, he rolls you over onto your belly, planting a knee in the center of your back, pressing hard until you cry out. The sound of a knife being flicked open makes your eyes widen, and you struggle beneath his weight. The blond leans down over you, his hot, liquor stained breath coating the side of your face.

“Keep it up, curly,” he presses the knife to the side of your face. “They don’t say nothing about you being in one piece. Only breathing.” You release the breath held in your trembling throat as he pulls the knife away, leaning back to grab at your bound hands. The edge of the blade slides through the plastic like soft butter, and immediately you crawl out from underneath him.

“Mikhail, enough.” There are two other men watching, a dark haired one and another blond.

“Fuck off, Rumlow.”

“You killed the other one. You want to explain to him why you’re coming back down two hostages?” Rumlow crosses the road to squat in front of you, one hand resting comfortably on his knee, the other loosely gripping a pistol. He snaps, like he’s trying to get your attention, even though he already has it. “You see that old fuck?” He points to the body of your professor in the bed of the truck to your left. You don’t need to look to know he’s dead. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken since his tirade earlier, how could he be living?

And more than that, you don’t want to look. Because you will see him zip-tied, hands bound—the same hands that had gripped you with unearthly fury, blazing hot like an avenging angel. No, you do not want to think of that at all.

“Unless you’d like that to be you, you’re going to behave.” He cocks the gun. “Understand?”

You nod.

“Good.”

Mikhail glares at Rumlow hatefully, and then at you, and you can tell he doesn’t enjoy being called to heel.

“Give the bitch her water and put the bag back on, Jensen.” He sneers, before spitting into the dirt at your feet. “Cyka.” You don’t know what the word he says under his breath means, but you get the feeling it doesn’t mean anything good. The other blond, a lanky, tall man with glasses, jogs around to the other side of the truck, tugging open the door. He roots around inside before producing a water bottle. You nearly drop it as he tosses it to you, fumbling to get the cap off before pouring the contents down your aching throat, sparing a few drops to rinse your face.

It’s done before you realize it, and you find yourself shaking the bottle to get the last drops out. Mikhail laughs.

“Back in the bed, cyka.” He snaps, kicking at your feet. “Let’s go.” You hesitate, your hand trembling as you pause above the tailgate. The professor’s body is still there, lying in the bed of the truck like a broken doll. Mikhail shoves your shoulder. “Move.”

“I—the body,” you choke out, licking at your lips to ease the burn of speaking. “Can’t you… do something?” He heaves a put upon sigh. You don’t know what you’re expecting, not really, but you clap your hands over your mouth to stifle your shocked scream as Mikhail grabs Professor Hartwell’s ankle and hauls him out of the bed of the truck. He goes easily of course—he’s dead, you remind yourself, fucking dead—landing on the edge of the old road. His body rolls off the side into the sand filled ditch along the side of it, and you know in just a few hours he will be completely covered.

This road is old, seldom used, by the looks of it, deep cracks filled with sand, and no signs for miles in any direction. Large portions of it have been taken back by the desert, Sand and tufts of wispy grass eclipsing the road’s broken remains.

You don’t want to leave the professor here.

You have little choice, though, as Mikhail, whose patience you have finally worn thin, shoves you into the bed of the truck. The tailgate nearly catches your fingers as he slams it closed, and you let out a dismayed cry as your face presses against the hard plastic of the bed and you find it wet. You scramble up and away from it on your hands and knees, wiping your face with your hand and whimpering as it comes away red.

The truck starts up again, bumping along the abandoned road as you watch the professor’s hooded body grow smaller and smaller in the distance, and then finally disappear altogether.

—

It’s nearly dawn when you arrive, the edges of the sky turning pink as finally, you see lights. Artificial ones of course, mounted atop a double-thick chainlink fence. The floodlights atop the guard station illuminate the entire truck for close to ten minutes before finally it slows to a stop beside the checkpoint. You cower against the side of the bed as an armed guard shines a flashlight into your face, ever aware of the intimidating looking machine gun strapped to his back. When he’s satisfied, he mumbles something you don’t catch into a walkie-talkie, and the entrance slides open.

He makes some sort of sign as the truck rolls away, like the cross almost, but only on the right side, and the gate slides closed again behind you. Jensen helps you out of the bed, but directs you with a firm hand on your shoulder towards a long, narrow building. It sprawls out for uncountable meters, but only two, three stories high. You aren’t really afforded a proper look as you’re shuffled inside, Mikhail grumbling bad naturredly behind you.

The lights inside buzz artificially, and you wince and stumble as you attempt to adjust to them after outside. There is a large staircase leading up to the other floors to the left of the door, but beyond it the building stretches on in a maze of narrow hallways.

The line of men before you can be no better described than as priests, long black vestments with red satin trims, white collars at their throats. One of them steps forward, his face twisting in distaste at the mercenaries.

“He wants to see her.” He looks at you with equal disdain, before glaring at the men behind you. “Where is Professor Hartwell? He was to accompany—”

“The old man didn’t want to come.” Mikhail snaps. “It seem he had little… change of heart since last time.”

Last time?

The priest heaves an irritated sigh. “Fine. He—he’s not going to be happy about this, you know. He would have at least liked to speak with him—”

“Then let him tell us that.” Mikhail is big—which feels like an understatement, looking at him. He’s a tank of a man, broad shouldered, and built like a brick fucking shit-house. He knows it too, squaring his muscular shoulders and fixing the priest with a glare. “Yeah?”

He caves. “Fine.” His irritated gaze finds you once more, and you have a sinking feeling that you will be the recipient of his ire. “Come, then.” He grabs you by the wrist as if touching something unpleasant. “Let’s get this over with.”

You consider running, just for a moment, before the idea laughs itself out of your head. It would be stupid even to try. Defeated, you follow the priest up the stairs and down the corridor, glad at least to be away from Mikhail. The hallway is nondescript, which feels very much on purpose; so you wouldn’t be able to recall a single descriptive thing about this place—

It could be anywhere.

The third or fourth door on the right is open, and he ushers you inside before stepping in himself and closing the door. Inside is like an office, neat bookcases lining the walls on either side of the wide desk. On the other side of it, is a man.

He peers at you, long fingers steepled together beneath his chin. His black hair is slicked back, sharp green eyes taking in the still stinging cut above your left eye, your bloody nose and heat chapped lips.

“A pity about the Professor.” He says after a moment. “I’d looked forward to seeing him again.” You don’t say anything. The impression rises in you that this is a man who likes to hear himself talk, and you want to hear what he has to say, if only to gain an inkling of understanding about your own predicament. The man leans forward, cocking his head. ”Do you know who I am?”

“No.” You reply dryly. “Should I?” He doesn’t like that. His expression only changes minutely, a slight narrowing of the eyes, a tightness in the smile—but enough for you to see it.

“Should? I don’t know about should,” he drawls. “But I’d think you’d at least like to know who’s been signing your paychecks for the last six months, hmm?” Your stomach drops to your feet, and though you try to school your expression into one of forced nonchalance, the man behind the desk’s sly smile turns victorious. “Oh, he didn’t tell you.”

“I get paid by the university,” you reply through tightly clenched teeth. “I—”

“And who do you think pays them?” He stands from behind the desk, rising to his full height like a snake uncoiling. “There’s a reason your department is so well funded, Love.” You try to take a step back as he approaches, but the solid form of the priest behind you boxes you in. He towers over you, forcing you to look up just to maintain eye contact as he steps closer.

“I expect Horace thought he would have more time.” There is a brassy colored cart next to the desk, and he plucks a glass from the topmost shelf, before rummaging around on the one beneath it. “Ah, here we are.” He produces a crystalline decanter, and your throat constricts thirstily at the sight of the clear liquid inside. You don’t know how many days it’s been since you’ve last had a proper drink of water—the bottle in the car a proverbial drop in a dry ocean—but you suspect it’s been more than three. You watch, ashamed of your own need as he pours it into the glass.

“More time to explain, to scheme, to scheme with you. But that’s the thing about hubris,” he sighs, filling a second glass and drinking deeply—gratefully from it. You watch him, unable to stop your dry throat from swallowing reflexively as he does, imagining cool water filling your own mouth.

“Oh, would you like some?” He asks, offering it to you as though he’d thought he already done so. You gulp it down, chasing the stray drops from your lips with the back of your hand. “You’re welcome.”

“What do you want from me?” You ask, dropping the glass back onto the table gracelessly. He grimaces. “And you still haven’t told me your name.”

“Loki.” He refills your glass. “I just need you to read something for me.” He says, the words nonchalant. “Just a few passages. I know you can.“ Loki’s hawkish eyes narrow at the corners as he smiles at you. “Horace was an excellent teacher.”

It’s useless to deny what you both know is true, grueling nights spent poring over texts and tablets older than your entire family line, helping Professor Hartwell translate and document.

And the man in front of you had paid for all of it.

You must not. Even the memory of his words feels hot, sweeping through your skull like hot desert wind. Burn it all to ashes.

“What do you want me to read, exactly?” Loki’s smile widens uncomfortably.

“Just a book.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re not really in a position to negotiate, Love.” Loki says, inspecting his nails. You can’t stop yourself from scowling at him, baring your teeth between your cracked lips as you sneer.

“Stop pretending I’m forcing your hand, you—”

“Awful, what happened at your dig site.” His brows knit together as his expression turns smugly apologetic. “It’s always nasty business, when someone involves innocent people in what should be private affairs.”

“Fuck you.”

“My hand was forced.” His grip turns vicious, his thumb digging into your skin hard enough to make you whimper, his eyes hard and cold.

“Do not force it again.”

—

The observational cell you’re forced into seems outdated, repurposed for its current use as a jail. The guards stationed at the end of the hallway barely spare you a look as you’re marched by, the muzzle of Mikhail’s gun pressed against your spine. Only one of the lights swinging from the damp ceiling actually works, buzzing to life dimly as Mikhail shoves you inside unceremoniously.

As the rusty bolts slide shut, the bare bulb above you goes dim, leaving you in near darkness, aside from what little light filters in through the observational window in the wall above your head. The air is stagnant and moist, the sound of dripping water coming from somewhere in the darkness.

I’m not alone in here.

You don’t know how you know that, because there’s no tell—merely the presence of another living thing pushing against you like holding magnets with like polarities together as hard as you could. Your skin prickles with the knowledge, cold sweat dripping down beneath your dirty collar. You swallow.

“Hello?”

For a moment—a minute or two at least—there is no response.

“You’re not the professor.” The voice sounds…tired.

“I keep disappointing people that way.”

There is a sound like metal rubbing against metal, and just at the border of the darkness, you see movement. The man that emerges from the darkness is tall, broad shouldered with dark, curly hair. High cheekbones and wide dark eyes. Bare chested, with iron manacles at his wrists, and ankles. There’s a collar at his throat, as well, and as he steps closer you note the chains that travel backward, disappearing into the shadows. His linen pants are dirty at the bottom, his bare chest peppered with old, yellowing bruises.

“Who are you, then?” His gaze saddens as he looks at you. “No one they like, if you’re in here with me.” You eye his chains, gesturing at them with your hands. You laugh dryly.

“No,” you agree, thinking back on your conversation with Loki. “No one they like.”

“I’m Marc.” He offers you his hand. “I’m sorry you’re here.” You tell him your own name.

“Me too.”

—

They come for him every night, you realize. Dragging Marc out of the cell for hours until dawn, when he returns bruised and bleeding, exhausted.

It happens on the third night you’re there, Mikhail and Rumlow barging in as the two of you sleep, back to back on the cot. You still ache where he kicked you, and Mikhail knows it, lunging toward you only to watch you flinch back as he laughs.

“Where are you taking him?”

“Be careful, cyka.” He says, spitting at the ground near Marc’s feet. “You’ll get rabies from this one.” Marc doesn’t react, his dark eyes trained hard on the wall. He’s just as big as them, but he doesn’t fight back as Rumlow shuffles him out. You watch through the window until you can’t see him anymore, your face pressed against the glass.

The sun is peeking through the narrow window on the opposite wall, high enough to let you know it’s late morning at least when they bring him back. Marc looks changed, somehow more fragile, his face drawn and skin pale. His skin bears fresh wounds, new bruises, and the skin around his mouth is stained dark, dry red.

Marc stumbles towards the cot, throwing himself down onto it, his shoulders heaving.

“M-Marc?” Your voice sounds timid and terrified, even to your own ears. “What—what happened?”

He lays there, facing the wall for a long time.

“I’m Jake.” He says finally, turning to peer at you over his shoulder. You take a step back—this isn’t Marc. “He—what they did… it was too much. I’m driving right now.” His eyes are darker, more serious, face drawn tight with emotion he won’t name—no. This isn’t the same man. Same body—different person. Fleetingly, your brief and unenjoyable psychology class flits back to you—Dissociative Identity Disorder—

“Okay.”

You hesitate before placing a comforting hand on his bare shoulder. His skin is clammy. Jake glares over his shoulder at you. “I’m not Marc.”

“I get that. You’re bleeding.” There aren’t any bandages, but you’re more than willing to sacrifice your outermost layer of clothing for the cause, helping you tear them to shreds. The pail of water you’re given every morning is meant to suffice , so you try to make it last, cleaning the wounds as thoroughly as you can afford to. After a few passes, Jake relaxes beneath your touch.

“Thank you.” He seems unused to softness of any kind.

“Don’t mention it.”

The conversation that day is minimal—Jake’s not a talker. But he makes his presence known in other ways, watching you with quiet eyes from across the room as you investigate every corner. Occasionally, he offers commentary when you prompt him.

No, the windows never open.

Mierda! Keep climbing up there and you’ll break your damn neck.

Keep that up and the guards will be down here to check on us in no time.

When sleep is unavoidable, Jake doesn’t stop you from laying down next to him on the thin cot.

“Goodnight, Jake.” There’s an answering grunt from beside you, though he says nothing.

When you wake in the middle of the night, he is gone again.

—

When you do finally dream, you wish for the abyss again, the dreamless dark that you’d feared as you dozed in the truck. That would have been better than seeing it again. The sand is burning hot on your hands as you scramble over the dunes, gunfire pockmarking the sand only inches behind you as you trip over the shifting earth toward the jeeps. People are screaming, there’s wetness on your face, you realize it as you move to wipe the sweat from your eyes only to discover it isn’t sweat at all—but blood.

So many bodies. And you know all their names—Ursula, Ahmed, Ricky, Britney, David—You know all their names, and they bleed out into the thirsty sand and are lost as you watch.

The sting above your left eye worsens, and as you lick your lips you taste the wound, clinging to your tongue as the professor grabs your arm—

Run, run—

You wake up screaming, flailing in the dark on the threadbare cot. The chains rattle as he scrambles towards you, hands up placatingly as you raise your own, ready to defend yourself from threats both real, and imagined. One of the guards pounds on the window with the butt of his rifle.

“Keep her fucking quiet!”

“Hey,” Steven approaches you like he’s talking to a wounded animal. His voice is soft, kind.“You’re okay. You’re here, right? You’re not there, the place in your dreams isn’t real, right? It’s a dream. It’s the past, it’s not here, okay?” You sob into his chest, clutching at him as he rocks you back and forth as gently as if he were holding a baby bird.

—

You’re afraid to ask what they make him do, afraid to have him confirm what you already know. The place where it happens can’t be far away from your prison. If you strain hard enough, force yourself to stay up as late as you possibly can until terror and exhaustion put you to sleep again, you can hear the screams.

And something… else.

Howling.

Sometimes he comes back naked, clutching his pants in trembling hands, retching up red bile into the far corner where the half-broken toilet is. The word for what he is dances on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t want to say it, give it air and space and reality.

—

They chain you like Marc when they come for you, marching the two of you through the impersonal concrete maze before forcing both of you into a large room. There’s a stone altar at the center, and you nearly trip over your own feet at the sight of the man bound and gagged upon it. Your questions do the same in their haste to escape your mouth.

“W-what? Who is that? What—”

Rumlow presses the gun against the back of your head, pulling down the hammer.

“Walk.”

You do, swallowing the words back down in a cold, terrified lump.

Loki waits for you on the other side of the dais, a pleased expression on his face. He steps aside as you approach, positioning you in front of the man. You watch as they loop Marc’s chains through iron pegs only a few feet from the man, whose eyes are wide with terror. Only minimal sound escapes around the gag, though, spit leaking from the corners of his mouth.

“Here we are. Now.” He taps a long finger against the podium. “Let’s begin.” You stand next to him, squinting down at the book. It’s old—not paper, not really, comprised of pressed thin sheets of fibrous plants, painted over with flaking black ink. But the letters are familiar, and after a moment, you begin to read. The words are halting, clumsy as you sound them out. The more you read, the more you understand.

This is not just a passage you’re reading, holy text from some archaic book—no, these are commands. Ones that make your tongue burn as the words leap from it.

The dais fills with silvery light, and when you look up, you see the moon, framed perfectly through the skylight. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? The moon had been full the night the professor—

“Are you deaf? I said read.” Loki snarls, grabbing the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. You can’t though, not when Marc’s cry of pain splits the air. He writhes down there on the floor, his body contorting. You watch, horrified as his limbs lengthen and thicken with sickening cracks, the bones and muscle shifting under his skin. He moans, his body shuddering, back bowing unnaturally as his legs shift, bones splitting skin before it crawls closed again like it has a mind of its own.

Marc mouths something at you that you don’t understand, not right away—you can’t, his jaw is breaking now, and lengthening into something new, something that doesn’t support speech, not the way his human mouth did.

Forgive me.

“Read!” You hadn’t heard Loki cock the gun, but it presses into your skull intimidatingly.

Your head buzzes with the power of the words as you begin to speak them, again, your vision blurring. Understanding comes, even as the syllables fall clumsily from your unfamiliar lips.

“King of roads.

King of thieves.

King of vengeance.

King of nights and moons and just blades

I weild your fist

I wield it justly—”

Where once there had been a man, now stands a hulking beast, the head of a jackal, and something like the body of a man, but wrong, the limbs long—like they were made for running on two legs and on four. Its yellow eyes roll.

“Eat now, fill yourself with flesh and spirit on those who have wronged you,

O King of Moons

King of Roads

King of Vengeance—”

You can feel the tears gathering in your eyes as the beast sets itself upon the man, claws and teeth shredding flesh in a flurry of hot, wet, red. You want to close your eyes, to stop reading, but you can’t—the book will not let you go, not until it’s finished. You see the room before you, see the thing that was Marc as it devours piece after piece of the man on the altar—but you can see beyond, too, through the moon’s eyes like mirrors—

You’re trembling now, seizing, blood leaking from your nose and the corners of your eyes as you strain to let go of the pulpit, to look away from the book, to close your eyes—but it has you, now, a holy conduit for unholy ends. You can practically feel your blood boiling in your veins—

And then nothing.

part two

Hello friends! I no longer maintain a taglist, so please follow @box-of-bones-library for updates and new work, thank you!

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#marc spector #jake lockley #steven grant #moon knight #moon knight fic #moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight au #werewolf au #dark fantasy #dark au #boxofbonesfic #Blood and Sand fic #oscar isaac #oscar issac characters #oscar issac x reader #oscar issac smut

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a-b-riddle · 7 months ago

Note

I'm just going to ask this because I need to get it out of my head. This is all in regards to your Poly141 x Reader series going on. I'm just going to recap things first.

-Price got verbally eviscerated because of all the times he got short/snapped at the reader because he came into their bookstore that they bought with their own money, put their own blood, sweat and tears into fixing up and had THE AUDACITY to call them immature for trying to break things off cleanly like a MATURE adult in a space that's RIGHTFULLY THEIRS because he couldn't be an adult admit how he shouldn't of been treating the reader like one of his men.

-Soap showing up trying to apologize and then thinking with his dick because of how the reader got dressed up for a dinner date and got a taste of his own medicine when the reader just hit it and quit it without so much as a thank you, or a goodbye kiss and basically told him to clean up, get dressed and kick rocks.

-Gaz shows up after weeks of just flaking out of any dates and just being a ghost (ironic considering Ghost's callsign) trying to talk to the reader in person when the reader had tried for months to just get a glimpse of him only to be told he couldn't right now but could another time. Then the reader just tell him, 'yeah sorry no. I don't have time for you and your mates nonsense at the moment, just swing by to get your stuff when it works for you'.

-Ghost showing up whenever the reader is in trouble and getting them away from danger only to disappear shortly afterward and give the reader radio silence. The one time that the reader tried to seek him out for just a SHRED of comfort and he just told them, 'You're only good for what's in between your legs love, you knew what you were getting into. You should've known better.'

With all this mind, I want Ghost to have everything and the kitchen sink thrown at him. I want him to be told in no kind words that his words and lack of realizing how fucked up the things he said to the reader were was the straw that broke the camel's back. I want the reader to hurl everything that they didn't say to Price to Ghost. I want him to realize in no unclear terms how if he didn't fuck up so royally and had actually attempted to give the reader a fraction of what he was being given, things would be so much better. And for some extra salt on the wound, have the reader tell him that they suppose that when it comes to his line of work, he's pretty good at breaking anything and everything he touches. It's just a shame that for anything that involves a softer touch, he winds up breaking it beyond repair.

I just love narrative/reflective irony and can't wait for the next part and wish you well for making it to the end of this ramble. 🥰

I'm throwing up.

I am so happy that y'all got it without me having to say it. YES! She is giving everything back that they gave her. John's outbursts, Johnny's lack of aftercare and Kyle's flakiness.

I will say this which I think is interesting. Simon said something hellllla shitty and unforgivable. Like it was mean and something once you say you can't take back. I will ask this and feel free to go back and re-read.

What else did Simon do? Before the phone call, what else did Simon do to reader? We know Simon wanted to hurt reader. Why? Did he plan

Spoiler below, read at own caution

Or was he just sick of being the only one out of the four guys to actually contribute to the relationship and knew he needed to be the one to drive it home that there isn't a future with them? Reader refers to Simon several times as her body guard or guard dog... But never a boyfriend or partner.

In flashbacks, we see that Simon only ever came over at night. You'll find out why in the next few chapters, but as much as I love y'all hating on Simon, I cannot WAIT for y'all to get to the why.

And remember kiddos, hurt people hurt people.

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devondespresso · 11 months ago

Text

(found this bad boy in my drafts and honestly i loved reading it again so we're gonna post it. wahoo)

my personal canon for post-starcourt stobin is that they're actually inseparable for the first month or so

im talking steve taken to the hospital for his injuries and the staff having to force them apart and call security. im talking they have to drag robin kicking and screaming to a different room because last time Steve left her sight he was dragged back lifeless and presumably dead (i firmly believe they intentionally used physical torture for steve and to use his condition for psychological torture for robin)

and steve waking up half-present in a cold plain room alone? might as well be back in the bunker. and if theres doctors trying to run tests and examine his wounds? might as well be Russian soldiers standing over him and touching his injuries. hurting him again. possibly planning to hurt Robin next.

and now hospital staff are trying to deal with two screaming desperate teenagers who keep begging for the other in between rambles of nonsense and they can't run tests or do their jobs or even get answers from them because all these two seem to care about is the other teen

so they don't really have any practical choices other than moving them to a combined room. and they still freak out every now and then but having the other in the room keeps these outbursts much shorter and doctors are able to actually run tests and help these kids as long as they're close together. And when Robins blood tests and everything come back ok and shes able to be discharged, shes given special permission to stay in the room at all times

and the two little kids that came in with them? they're not exactly freaking out quite like the teens but they're certainly not making things easy either. Ericas testing the willpower of any doctor or nurse she can speak to and both kids stay as close as they can at all times and refuse to leave the hospital. visiting hours over? they're in the waiting room, even convinced a couple to move so they can have seats closest to the hall that teens room is in. try to call their parents? good luck getting a full name or number out of them. once their parents do come get them they're showing back up in an hour, bikes lodged in the bike rack and back in their seats. they've been stopped for sneaking in several times and caught hiding under one of the teens beds even more often. eventually staff just gets tired of spending half their shift wrangling two middle schoolers and it becomes an unspoken agreement to just ignore them hiding in the room.

And once Steve is discharged its the same thing all over again. Robins parents were worried about her spending all her time in the hospital with the boy from her summer job, but given the cover story about the fire and the pair getting trapped inside they convinced themselves its reasonable to want to stay by your friends side while they recover

but now that hes out, shes asking if she can spend the night at his house? and his parents won't be there? absolutely not. except robins in no mindset to accept leaving him alone for this long let alone overnight so she tried sneaking out to bike over to his before he can get the dumb idea to drive over in the middle of the night post-concussion. but the buckleys notice shes gone either because she makes too much noise sneaking out or they notice the severe lack of Robin-trying-to-be-quiet noises into the night (robin my tism queen definitely has bump-into-shit syndrome in the middle of the night but she also doesn't make any noise sneaking around the base with scoops troop so i think it's a 50/50 weather she can use the adrenaline to sneak out to see steve quietly)

so they put two and two together and drive over to the Harrington house. steve answers the door and calls robin over, both of them looking sheepish but not exactly guilty. they talk on steves couch (yes Steves there too) and stobin does their best to explain their separation anxiety that gets the severity across without getting them sent to a mental hospital all while making sure not to break any ndas (which ends up being a long conversation with stobin trying to translate their experience in the bunker to fit the cover story well enough, which is very different when the real story is kidnapping and the fake one is a building fire)

eventually they reach an understanding of "we're worried this is kinda unhealthy but its clearly more stressful to try and separate you right now and we're definitely not going to be able to stop you" so they compromise to let steve stay at the buckleys for a little bit so they can at least keep an eye on them. at first they try just letting steve sleep on the couch (which they agree to because steve worried about overstepping as the guest in their house) but one or both of them have nightmares the first night and robin ends up on the couch with him anyway.

after a few nights they get the gist of the stobin dynamic: attached so strongly its concerning but nothing... flirty. anything they do is always completely innocent. hand holding with no heart eyes, banter with no tension, hell even sharing a bed they resemble little kids in a sleepover pile more than lovers. and especially after nightmares they'll find robin holding steve like hes just one of her old teddy bears.

of course theyre still cautious and have their suspicions that theyre secretly dating and just really good at hiding it, they're paranoid parents after all and robins never shown this much attention to a boy ever. but they do relax a bit with it as they're more confident theres no... funny business.. going on. or at the very least nothing thats going to leave robin hurt. they'll have their talks and robin will promise its "nothing like that", but they've grown to like steve so they're sure robin will come to them when shes ready.

now if only there was a reasonable explanation for the middle schoolers that keep showing up. apparently they were also trapped in the fire with robin and steve which helps make some sense of it, but they also sat with them in the hospital. surely if they're having nightmares about the fire they'd go to their parents? they hadn't really talked much with the sinclairs but they seemed like very loving parents and robin follows steve to his little dinners with mrs Henderson pretty often so its not likely that they can't go to their parents about nightmares, but they seem to prefer going to steve specifically. like ringing the Buckley's doorbell at 1 in the morning asking if steves there. and of course they'll let them in and show them to robins room (after calling their parents first, do they even know their childs run off?) where steve was sleeping in a pallet on the floor but is now a glorified blanket pile robins hugging. on her bed, of course. because god forbid theres 2 feet of space between them.

and the kid just joins them in their sleepover pile, dustin usually clinging to steves other side like a baby koala and erica usually finding a spot leaning against robin or occasionally making room in between them

and so more often than not the Buckley's have not one, not two, but three extra children in their house that isn't their daughter, all of them sleeping in a pile on robins bed like theres nowhere else they'd rather be

#stranger things #stobin #platonic stobin #steve harrington #robin buckley #steve and robin #platonic with a capital p #platonic soulmates stobin #stranger things season 3 #post-starcourt #devon thinks sometimes

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keesdarlin · 11 months ago

Text

☆// take care of you (MDNI, 18+)

info! 141 + keegan + könig / fluff, established relationship (?) + gender neutral reader

cw! reader is sick (nothing gross at all, you're just not well)

prompt! you're ill and the boys insist on taking care of you

notes! thought i was dealing with some really gnarly allergies. went to urgent care and it turns out that i have an upper respiratory infection rip. so i'm writing this as copium, enjoy :]

PRICE :

price is all over it the second you say something about not feeling 100%. only really worries about getting sick himself as an afterthought, then scraps the thought as a whole when he thinks about how whatever he's doing is making you feel better. cooks you chicken soup, makes sure you stay in bed, prepares tea for you and gathers stuff for you to do so that you don't get too bored while you're giving your body time to rest. if you're clingy when you're sick (like me), he's cuddling you. again, doesn't really care about getting sick until he has time to think about the risk afterwards.

GAZ :

kyle's mostly clingy, not completely sure of how to handle you being sick. you're a tank! you're not supposed to get sick. so when you say that you're feeling a little under the weather, he's kind of at a loss. he stays by your side the entire time that you're feeling sick, petting your hair and kissing your forehead. the likelihood of him getting sick is ridiculously high and he knows that, if he does, he'll probably get his ass kicked for it, but he figures that he can deal with it if it means that you're feeling even a little bit better. follows you around the house to make sure that you're okay. he'll even sit in the bathroom while you're taking a shower, rambling nonsense at you. if you ask him to go pick up something from the store for you or make you something to eat, he definitely will, it's just not his first thought when he sees you all uncomfortable like that.

SOAP :

this one has a much better idea of what to do when you're not feeling super well. even if it's just a cold or some really gnarly allergies, johnny would be the one to insist on taking you to the doctor just to make sure. he just worries a lot. but once you get out of that appointment, he drops you off at home and ushers you into the shower, making sure you have something nice and cozy to wear once you get out. while you're doing that, he'll run to the store to pick up whatever meds you were prescribed and anything else that might help -- tea, cough drops, soup, snacks. once he gets back, he gets you into bed and queues up all of your favorite movies, tv shows, and/or comfort videos (a little extra incentive to keep you in bed and resting). he'll stay in bed with you, waiting on your every need to try and get you back on your feet as soon as possible.

GHOST :

i feel like he gets a little bit awkward when you get sick. he views you very similarly to the way gaz does. you're indestructible in his eyes and it simply doesn't compute that you would be taken down for a week or so by something as simple as a bad cold. but he's on it once he gets over the what the hell is happening to them phase. it's maximum efficiency with this guy. along with having timers on his phone so that neither of you forget when to take your medicine, he's also making you try every reasonable home remedy to try to get you better as quickly as possible. makes you sit in a hot bath, brings you tea and soup, rubs vicks on the end of your nose to try and clear up your congestion. he almost has you on a schedule with all he's doing to try to get you feeling better. it's honestly really adorable how hard he's trying.

KEEGAN :

keegan doesn't really like giving you special treatment just because you're his partner, but he just can't stand to see how uncomfortable and in pain you are when you're sick. if you're in the same line of work as him and you're feeling a little too foggy to communicate with your superiors properly, he's down to track down your higher-ups and relay any messages for you. he's also pretty good at the soup and the tea and all of the home remedy stuff. kind of tries to take care of it at home, but if it's any worse than a cold he's dragging you straight to the doctor's office. another one that has you basically stuck to his side while he takes care of you. not ridiculously affectionate, but he will definitely let you hang all over him if that gives you any kind of comfort. will stay in bed with you while you lean against his side, hugging him around his middle as he plays with your hair and draws patterns into your skin. super adamant about making sure you rest.

KÖNIG :

like keegan but softer almost. you're usually pretty capable of sucking it up and getting through injuries and allergies and the like, so when some kind of illness gets you down, he worries. doesn't like the idea of forcing you to go to the doctor's so he tries his best to take care of it at home. leans pretty heavily on home remedies -- the good ol' fluids and rest regimen. buys you packs and packs of your favorite gatorade flavor and that chicken noodle soup mix that comes in the little envelope. keeps you in bed and has the wet rag on your forehead if he's worrying about you getting feverish. he doesn't like the idea of making you leave the house, so if it seems that bad he'll make you do one of those virtual urgent care visits. otherwise, your ass is staying in bed. he turns your whole bedroom into a recovery zone with vicks, tissue boxes, a lil snack tray set up on your bedside table, humidifier, all of your favorite movies. literally anything you could possibly need, he has it for you. mans is serious about making sure you get better.

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acotarxreader · 5 months ago

Text

Timing Part Two

Azriel x Reader

Synopsis: You and Azriel try to navigate the awkward air the kiss you shared has left between you but the reintroduction of one of your former flames spurs action

Original Synopsis: Timing works against you and Azriel as a series of unfortunate events lands the two of you alone for the night with a broken down car and a breaking down friendship

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, silliness, miscommunication, punching and light smut, Eris being silly.

A/N: Part two of my first dance with a modern Az fic, hope you all like it! Also there are now 400 of you lovely friends!!! Hehe thank you so much for joining my lil nonsense of ACOTAR ramblings! Love you all long time! - C

Part One

---------------------------------------------------------------

The car hummed along in its happy tune, finally glad to have gotten the maintenance it called out for for months, the rest of the truck was shrouded in silence. Even the 80’s blaring radio had its voice stolen. Azriel’s leg bounced on the sticky carpet from one end of the journey to the next as his fist white-knuckled the overhead handle, your driving putting the truck's tune-up to the test. Not even your close call with a deer had broken the steady run of awkward silence, leading you to your arrival at the camp. You drove down the winding road to your friends had picked their site where the deafening silence was broken for the first time since this morning-

“YN…I think maybe we should talk about-” “-I don’t want to talk about it” You quickly nipped back to his soft tone.

“I think we should, I-” “-Oh there's Feyre!” You braked the truck so harshly that it cut across his words. The wheels had barely stopped before you leapt out and darted towards your best friend.

“YN! You survived the driv-” “Yes, yes I’m a terrible driver, I need to talk to you” You caught her hand from outside her tent, pulling her away from the rest of your friends while she laughed. Azriel watched you from the passenger seat of the car before leaning over and turning off the engine you didn’t even give yourself time to switch off.

“Az, you’re alive, Cass owes me money-” Rhysand beamed through the driver's side door, his face fading before continuing “-Hey? Are you okay?”

“I have no idea” Azriel’s eyes locked forward on the stained caramel-brown dashboard.

“Tough trip up? No longer friends with one another?” he laughed to attempt to lighten the mood. “I have no idea” he tore his stare off the dashboard, looking over Rhysand’s shoulder to where you and Feyre had run off to in the distance.

“More than friends?”

“I have no idea”

—---------------------------------------------------------------

Cassian and Rhysand watched from their deck chairs around the burnt-out fire pit as you and Azriel unloaded the back of the truck in complete silence, Feyre busy on the phone to Mor trying to help her with directions, the blind leading the blind Azriel had remarked to you, a small smile leaving you as you threw down your bags. Cassian watched the stacks of bags and supplies infiltrate their campsite, the disorganisation of it annoying his regimented brain.

“What’s going on with them, they won’t even look directly at one another?”

“Beats me Cass, I thought Az had decided to tell how he felt, now I think those plans have been abandoned” Rhysand whispered back, kicking a stray bit of tinder into the ashes of the firepit. A devilish smirk painted Cassian’s face, Rhysand’s eyebrow-raising as Cassian stood from his chair. Cassian waited until the two of you had circled back to the back of the truck to get the cooler, out of sightline of the stacks of bags. He whistled a tune as he ambled over, arms behind his back before he shot down to the pile, snatching the large bag of tent pegs and firing it to Rhysand who caught it and chucked it into his tent with fluidity. Cassian scurried back to his chair as the two of you carried the cooler, dropping it into the dust.

“Are you guys planning on living here forever is it?” “Please Rhys, this is just Azriel’s hair care” you laughed, Azriel smiling at you before you both dropped the smile in the awkward air that hung around you. You hauled your bag to your chest, digging through to pull out the base sheet for your tent. Azriel threw his two friends cans of beer from the cooler before beginning to build his own tent.

“Do you have the pegs YN?”

“No, they were in your bag?” You stood up from the skeleton of your tent, scanning the ground for the missing bag.

“No you had them”

“No” the two of you squared up to one another on either side of the firepit. Cassian just tipped the top of his can off of Rhysands.

“Fighting is still talking” Rhysand whispered, a small laugh leaving Cassian, causing the two of you to stare at him where he shrugged.

“Hey, I have the pegs for my tent, don’t look at me, maybe you two can camp in the back of the truck again?” You scoffed in reply, tucking your arms across your chest to half stomp away from the canvas flooring.

“Cass, what did you do?” Azriel half whispered to his brother, a devilish smirk painting his face.

“Just having fun, have you and YN tried it?” Azriel scoffed, abandoning his tent for a can of beer.

“I think she hates me right now” “Maybe remind her how much fun we can all have together?” Rhysand offered a new plan.

—----------------------------------------------------------------

For the remainder of the day, you avoided Azriel like the plague, the rest of your friends who weren’t privy to previous events being left in confusion but decided on a whole to avoid bringing it up and risk being on the other end of your temper. You watched sitting from the small cliff of rocks above the sprawling lake as your friends soaked one another in the cooling spring waters, beaming at their uninhibited joy in one another's presence. You scanned the water, Azriel noticeably missing, jumping with the slight fright Cassian gave you as he ran past your side and off the rocks, diving into the clear water below, soaking you.

“Asshole!” You shrieked with laughter.

“I knew I could make you wet YNN!” He teased back, your eyes nearly rolling from your head as you smiled down at him.

“Come down and play with us Rapunzel” Rhysand called to you, threading the water effortlessly as your friends relaxed into their surroundings behind him, basking in the sinking sun.

“Rapunzel doesn’t want to get her hair wet!” You laughed back, standing to put your hands on hips to get a better look at your dear friend while he did handstands under the water. You weren’t sure if it was the feeling of the rocks gone from under you or the feeling of scarred hands meeting your waist that you felt first but the sudden whoosh of freezing spring water was definitely felt by every nerve in your body.

“Azriel!” You squealed out as your head bobbed back to the top of the water, your frenemy howling laughter in the water alongside you and Cassian, who’d turned practically purple from laughing so hard. You splashed the water back towards him, your once furious face melting at the semblance of normalcy.

The silty ground separated from your feet as you felt someone swim beneath your legs, pushing you up suddenly on strong tattooed shoulders as Rhysand gripped your thighs. Azriel fought off the feelings of conflict at the sight, deciding to make his own moves. Your arms shot out straight for balance as Feyre was quickly lifted onto Azriel’s shoulders across from you. The four of you coated the lake in bellowing laughter as you and Feyre tried to push you from the shoulders of your seat.

“It's like wife swap” Cassian chuckled, your foot flicking to kick a wave his way accompanying Feyre throwing him a dirty look.

“Shut up Cass” You stuck your tongue out to him and he quickly clipped the back of Rhysand’s bad knee with his foot beneath the water, sending you flying back to the water.

“YNN! C’mon we’re gonna start cooking!” Mor called from the shoreline, her late arrival due to her forgetfulness in submitting assignments. You splashed Cassian again before swimming back to dry land, wringing out your hair as your feet met the rocks again, and Azriel’s eyes heated your back. Feyre was very quickly turning blue from the disappearing sun and so followed you, the promise of a fire to cook over also bringing warmth.

“Careful Az, you’re drooling”

“Leave it” Another wave of water met Cassian’s face, his tone sharper than normal when defending himself from their teasing about you.

“What happened to you guys?”

“Nothing happened last night” Azriel moved to swim from his best friends.

“Why’d you specify last night Az?-” Cassian continued his teasing, swimming alongside him “-Tell us, you were like you’d seen a ghost when you arrived this morning and that’s the first time she’s looked at you all day” “Crushed by the crush Azzie?” Rhysand added to Cassian's request for information as the three reached for their towels.

“She kinda- we kinda- I don’t know had this bizarre moment” “Most moments between you too are bizarre” Azriel whipped Cassian’s legs with the tail of his towel receiving a small yelp from the towering man.

“Tell us about it” “Tell me where you two idiots hid the pegs for our tents-” he shot back, Cassian and Rhysand sharing a brief look “-I know you have them” “I want to speak to my lawyer”

“Well, Amren isn’t coming this weekend Cassy you’re on your own” Azriel laughed, throwing his bag over his still-damp shoulder.

“Maybe you guys could figure it out at the party tonight? It's all about timing” Azriel shook his head at Rhysand’s words.

“I’ll ask Feyre what she knows” “She’s not gonna break confidence, the sisterhood of the travelling clowns” Cassian added.

“Does that make us the clowns?” the three looked amongst one another before saying no in unison with a laugh

“Clowns have tents to live in” Azriel shoved Cassian playfully again before the three head back in the direction of the camp, laughter bouncing off the tall trees.

—------------------------------------

You had managed to keep distance between yourself and Azriel at dinner and soon the campsite had become a conclave of students escaping the stress of their life for a weekend of chaos. You had all gathered around the large fire in the centre of the camp, people flowing from all directions, music dancing across every branch of the night air-soaked trees. You laughed along to the story Cassian told his dear friends about when he had signed Rhysand up for a salsa dancing elective and he had to go to get the college credits.

“You laugh but I make use of that skill all the time” Rhysand chuckled, spinning Feyre around, her drink splashing out of the cup she held, hitting Mors shoes where she shrieked.

“Ugh Feyre!” she laughed, Feyre apologising.

“Remember when YNN’s cousin got sick on your shoes Rhysand?” Cassian chuckled at the sight, drinking deeply from his can, a slight chill crossing over your shoulders.

“Oh yeah right after she slept with Az at YNN’s birthday, you must have made her sick Az” The group howled with laughter, Azriel shuffling slightly to cover his discomfort.

“I blocked that drunk night out, world's greatest misunderstanding, that was such an accident” “What did you slip and fall?” Mor shot, the group giggling along.

“No, nothing hap- I came looking for-for…actually never mind” the group booed, your attention searched for anywhere else to be interested, a tall red-head fulfilling the need. You drifted from the edge of the group as Mor began her favourite story about your cousin’s last wild visit. The group fixated on Mor as Azriel watched you walk away, forcing a smile into his beer as though he was listening to the wild story.

“Hello stranger” “YN!” Lucien placed his drink down on the makeshift table, swaddling you in a hug.

“How are you?” You smiled into his chest before separating again.

“He’s fantastic but as usual I’m better” You turned towards the equally tall male, rolling your eyes at Eris.

“I thought you fell off the face of the earth Eris” “Any day now” Lucien quipped, crossing his fingers together and wrinkling his eyes closed, his brother shoving him gently, gaining a laugh from you.

“Azriel, it looks like you’re trying to blow Eris’s head up with your mind” Cassian whispered to his brother, noticing his intense watch across the clearing. Azriel finished off his drink with one glug before opening another.

You spent an hour or so with the brothers, enjoying the company you hadn’t been around in years, your families being old friends. The music grew in volume like the crowd, people dancing freely around the fire and tree border. Eris took your hand, twirling you around as you laughed, your silky slip dress almost shimmering in the moonlight.

“I remember at my 16th birthday, dancing all night with you” He laughed in your ear, the feeling of heat meeting the side of your face, radiating from Azriel’s eyes. The simmering remained on you for the remainder of the night, the sun beginning to attempt to stretch its limbs over the mountain.

“Allow me to walk you back YNN” Eris outstretched a hand to you as you contemplated the consequences of taking it.

“YNN, c’mon we’re walking back” Azriel’s irritation joined your side, his hatred for Eris wrapping around the conversation.

“She’s all good smokey” Eris gestured with his head to Azriel’s tattoo-coated arms that promptly folded across his chest.

“Eris” you warned lightly.

“Sorry babe, c’mon let’s go” His arm slipped around you more harshly than he had met in his alcohol-infused state. You stood away from his grasp with a half-laugh, a sound Azriel knew you used to cover rising panic.

“It’s okay Eris, I’m gonna walk back with my friends but it was really lovely seeing you again” You reached to hug him, Eris turning his head slightly so you met his lips in the lightest of brief kisses, Azriel jolting back partially before completely lunging forward as you pulled back from Eris. You screamed with utter shock as Azriel rolled along the floor with Eris, the sound drawing attention to the pair. Cassian quickly hauled Azriel from above Eris where Lucien pulled him from the dusty ground.

“Calm down you idiots!” You put a hand on each of their shoulders where the two of them shrugged you off, death glaring between the space.

“Stay out of this YN” Eris bit out, eyes of pure fire towards your friend, shaking his own brother's grip loose again. Cassian released Azriel cautiously.

“Don’t speak to her like that” Azriel shoved Eris into the chest again, instigating another flare-up of heated emotions. You moved to stop another clash, timing ever in your favour coupled with the two raging men in front of you. You weren’t sure who threw the first punch, only that it met your eye instead of the target, your body sailing to the ground in a crouch.

“Fucking hell!” You cursed, pressing your hand to your face to try to stop the radiating pain. The two leapt with fright, both going to help you back to your feet, apologies rushing out like the pain rushed to your face.

“Don’t touch me! Either of you!” You shot back to your feet, stomping away from the group and brushing away any of your friend's advances in an attempt to help you.

You stormed your way back to the camp, feet almost splitting the soil as you bounced along in rage. The truck door was nearly separated from the hinges as you ripped the passenger side open. You sat in the still slightly sticky environment, pulling open the glove box to dig around for the first aid kit. You cracked the instant ice pack before sitting back into the chair, eyes closing as you exhaled your full lung capacity, your door closing in the gentle wind. A light tap came to the driver's window, a groan escaped your throat as you rolled your head along the headrest to look at Azriel.

“We flipped a coin to decide who got to speak to you first, the others are gonna stay at the party for a bit longer, they don’t want to witness my murder-” He admitted, sliding alongside you “-I’m really sor-”

“-Don't" You whisper sharply, dropping the ice pack to your lap, your sightline following it.

“But I am sorry, I just got a bit blindsided”

“Please don’t make blind jokes right now” You let a breathy laugh leave you before rolling to look back at your greatest frenemy.

“Sorry, again-” He returned the laugh “-It was just when you kissed him I just…I have no idea”

“It was just a kiss, an accident” You offered, unsure of why you felt so compelled to defend it. The quiet air returned to the cabin of the truck, almost as thick as it was when you had arrived this morning, Azriel’s bouncing his foot separating from the sticky carpet the only sound. You sighed again, outstretching your arm to land on his knee to stop the infuriating tapping, Azriel’s eyes landing on the motion.

“Was-Was when you kissed me just an accident?”

“Oh Gods, why wasn’t I just knocked out?” You groaned jokingly, sinking further in the seat, replacing the cold pack on your eye.

“YNN”

“Az” you teased back, looking towards him again, your hand unmoving from his leg as he leaned across the space between you. His hand pulled the ice pack down from your eye, the light freckles of bruising beginning to form as he cautiously pressed his lips to yours. Unlike your first kiss, neither of you pulled away, only pushing in further, his hand releasing the ice back to meet either side of your face, both turning further into what was left of the little space between you. You tilted your head as his hand traced up your jaw, into your hair, his wrist bumping gently into your bruising eye separating the two of you as you winced.

“I’m sorry about that, I have bad aim after I drink” he admitted in a whisper, your hand hovering over the mark.

“You, you’re the one who hit me!?” You found yourself laughing loudly at the absurdity as Azriel gave a guilty smile.

“Oh fuck that, I’m going back to Eris” You smirked, faking an exit from the car as he caught your forearm, pulling you back to him grinning.

“I’ll kiss you better” The hair on the back of your neck stood up at the sultry whisper.

“How drunk are you?” You managed between tender kisses, no longer capable of dismissing how the action made you feel.

“Sober enough to know I want this, drunk enough to silence the anxiety trying to deny me this” You nodded in agreement, swinging a leg over to the lie flush with the driver's door to straddle your best frenemy. Azriel’s hands traced their way around your waist to steady you as yours wrapped around his throat delicately, your thumbs tipping his jaw back deepening what you had denied one another. Your mouth parted slightly causing him to eagerly take the invitation, his tongue conducting teasing strokes that you happily match. Your hands slid to clutch the material of his shirt, afraid to let go of him and the movement as the glass of the truck began to fog. You cautiously pulled back from him, slipping your arms from the straps of your dress for it to fall to your hips. Azriel’s eyes had a laser focus on yours, his hands tracing over your now bare sides, their warmth burning the chill in your skin with an addictive nature.

“Have I ever said how much I love this truck?” You tilted back as you laughed at his words, his arms supporting your lower back as he began to nip down your chest.

“Haven’t you had enough marking me?” You pointed playfully to your eye, Azriel reaching to kiss your purpling cheekbone softly.

“I’ll forgive you for destroying the inside of this truck if you forgive me for that” “You’re the one who opened the coke!” you hit him playfully into his chest. “And you’re the one who made it a pressurised weapon with your driving!” “Shut up” You chuckled, his hand tracing up your spine to the nape of your neck.

“Gladly” he grinned into the smile he pulled you down into an electric kiss, chills tracing both of you until a sudden beating of the driver side window had you leaping back, your head sailing into the roof of the truck. Your arms slipped back into the straps of your dress, before sliding back to Azriels side in the truck. He cautiously opened the door to find Cassian staring in at him, for the second time that night Azriel contemplated murder.

“Rhysand and I would just like to know which of us is winning money in our bet?” “And what do we get?” you laughed, replacing the ice pack to your face

“Emmm your tent pegs?”

“Keep them” you both said in unison, Azriel closing the car door again before meeting you sweetly, all in perfect timing.

----------------------------------------------------

Whatcha think? hehe

Juat tagging ye because ye asked for part two @serxndipity-ipity-blog @novabeckersainz55 @happyt0exist

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banjjakz · 1 year ago

Text

convection currents ; yuuta x GN!reader

“Am I important to you, Okkotsu-san?” God, he can’t stand it. The way you look at him, the uneven lilt in your fragile, quavering voice; it makes him want to bury himself alive inside of you. “Yuuta,” he says. “Just ‘Yuuta’ is fine.”

word count: 7.6k

warnings: horizontal hanky panky, obsession, possessive tendencies, unhealthy relationships, codependency, semi graphic descriptions of violence, major character death

‪♡‬ read on ao3 ‪♡‬

likes + reblogs appreciated!

Yuuta wants to like you.

And he does – like you, that is. He really, really does.

But there have been some moments that give him pause.

Don’t get him wrong! You’re sweet, kind, doting, attentive, and very clearly an anxious bundle of painful self-awareness. He finds comfort in the kindred connection between your loner spirits. Training is made infinitely easier when he steals a glance at the gentle flash of your sweet smile, the soft flutter of your hair in the breeze, the twinkle of your laugh, floating through the air as a windchime’s ephemeral melody serenades the breeze. Everything about you seems to be perfectly enveloped and embedded within his daily reality at Tokyo Tech; natural, easy, right. That is what it feels like, to be at your side.

The budding affection between the two of you kicks his foolish, stuttering heart into overdrive. How long has it been, since the blood pumping through his veins was motivated by a sensation other than mortal terror?

You make him want to envision a reality wherein he’s embedded into the fabric of the living, breathing world, rather than continue to occupy his perch as a pariah, perennially scapegoated to the periphery.

Each sidelong glance thrown your way is accompanied by the erratic twitch of his clammy hands, as he tries and fails to pay attention during one of Gojo’s rambling, nonsensical lectures. The light in his eyes revives when you call his name. Innards undulating in and out of place, he tracks your body’s every movement, your muscles contorting fast as quicksilver during scrimmages, lethal and alluring all at once.

These are some of the objectively positive aspects of his attraction to you; the things that pull him from his bed in the morning, calling to him like the abyss compels a creature of the night to rise from its coffin.

And then, there are the more…er, complex moments.

“Did you just come back from a mission, Okkotsu-san?”

Like today, for example. Yuuta had just arrived back on campus after a fun afternoon spent with Toge traversing around Tokyo, patronizing various cafes and konbinis. You were lingering at the entrance of the dormitory, back to the front door, effectively coming between him and his bed.

“Ah, no. I was with Inumaki. We were hanging out for a bit.”

“Where?”

“Just in the city…”

“What did you do?”

He stills, uncertain. “Um…that’s…”

“I’m sorry.” Your head ducks in shame, hiding your face from his quizzical glance. “It’s been hard adjusting to student life as a mid-year transfer. I keep up well enough in classes, and on missions, but I don’t think any of the other students like me all that much. Forgive me, Okkotsu-san. To be honest, I’m jealous of how easily you get along with Inumaki-san and Maki-san.”

Of course. How could he assume anything different?

As a non-lineage sorcerer, you were haphazardly discovered by one of the senior sorcerers on a mission gone south and roped into the jujutsu world without prior knowledge of its existence. From a firsthand perspective, he of all people should be able to understand how isolating that must be.

Kicking himself for his judgemental first reaction, Yuuta forces his skeleton to release the tension it harbors. “No, don’t worry. Have you been sleeping well? Did you eat dinner?”

Sheepishly, you shake your head.

This is how he finds himself alone, with you, in a secluded alcove on the outskirts of campus. The afternoon has matured into a thick, syrupy evening, the sky bruised with a smattering of warm hues. You sit on the grassy bank as a pair, shoulder-to-shoulder, your union celebrated by the rhythmic thrum of the cicadas’ song.

“Here, take it.” He offers you the last flavored onigiri leftover from his spoils of konbini adventures.

You protest, waving your hands in front of you. “No, no, no. I’m fine with just a plain one. Please. I don’t want to cause you any more trouble.”

“Plain is my favorite,” he lies. “I don’t even like yaki.”

“...Then why did you have one in your bag?”

“Haha! That’s a great question! I don’t know!” Beet red, Yuuta scratches the back of his head.

Out of mercy, and perhaps pity, you graciously accept the yaki onigiri. Munching in companionable quietude ensues for several minutes, as you both watch the sun impale itself on the dark horizon, bleeding out across the sky in dark, inky tones.

Without sitting face-to-face, it’s easier to speak to you, somehow. The insistent pressure on his chest lifts long enough for some words of actual substance to slip forth. “It’s hard, the first year.”

You remain silent.

“My first year was hell, too. Although that’s probably because I was being haunted.”

“By who?”

He blinks, your question knocking him off balance. Not by “what,” but by “who” had he been haunted? You’ve always been observant. This is why you’ve survived for so long.

“Um, it’s a long story… I’ll tell you in full one day. For now, I’ll just say that there was someone very special to me when I was a child… and it was hard for her to let go of me, when push came to shove.”

“Ah. I see.”

Although August has yet to conclude, the air around him is significantly chillier than what is characteristic of Tokyo’s late-summer hazy heat. Yuuta shivers, pulling his knees up to his chin.

“Yeah. But, um, anyways. If you need someone to talk to…to be by your side… I would like to be that person for you.” He utters your name like a prayer, too concentrated on not stuttering to be embarrassed at the earnest tremble in his voice. “I wish I had a confidante when I first got here. It would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

“A confidante? But didn’t you have your friend?”

Your reply jolts him into looking at you. The expression on your face tells him that you truly mean it as a genuine inquiry.

“Well, um. I was being haunted…and Rika – er, she didn’t really listen to me. She actually got a little overprotective, I think.”

“Do you think she was evil?”

“No!” The denial explodes from his mouth before Yuuta can even fully process the nuance of the question posed. “No,” he repeats, at an appropriate volume, this time. “She was clingy, and protective, and possessive, and honestly violent, but she wasn’t evil. I loved her. I think a part of me always will.”

Love? What is he doing talking to you, alone, at night, about love? How embarrassing. He hadn’t meant to say all that!

Quickly, he stuffs his mouth with the remainder of his onigiri. No more talking. Just chewing.

If you are perturbed by his sentimental ramblings, you show no sign of it. If anything, your face remains impassive, serene, undisturbed like the surface of a tranquil pond.

“You loved her for that, then. Was she haunting you if you were in love?”

After he finishes choking down the final, sticky remnants of his dinner, Yuuta frowns, mulling over your words which are heavy by the virtue of their implication, yet hang and sway in the air as an empty noose dangles from the gallows.

“...I don’t know.” Yuuta says, at length. “That’s what I was diagnosed with when I came here. And it was hard for me to function, back when Rika was still here. I didn’t have any friends. And people close to me got hurt a lot.”

“It sounds like she was always trying to protect you… even when you were apart. I only wish one day, I find someone who would have the capacity to care for me like that…”

“You want that?”

“I do.” Not an ounce of hesitation in your firm, forthcoming reply. “I’ve spent my whole life as something worth less than notice or acknowledgement. Always feeling invisible, never having anyone – not even one person – who cared about me. Up until this point, I’ve lived life wanting to die every day.”

For lack of a better reply, Yuuta simply asks: “What changed?”

“...I met you, Okkotsu-san.”

Oh, wow.

It’s kind of funny – where other people describe feeling hot, Yuuta has always been chronically, terminally cold. Your words induce a rapidly onsetting deep-freeze which permeates every layer of his skin, every molecule of his bones, every wretched atom of marrow lying dormant inside of him, all of it, every fiber of being rooted to the spot in an indescribable emotion.

“I–I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I apologize for making you uncomfortable.”

That’s wrong. “No, you didn’t! You didn’t, I swear. Just… um, I’m also a person who is lonely, like you described. So I’m not used to, err, being, ah, important. To people? I guess?”

“Oh… I see.”

Clearly, the higher function of critical thought has abandoned him; this is the only explanation for how he reaches to grab your hands, sending the half-eaten yaki onigiri tumbling down to the dark earth beneath your anxiously shifting feet. He squeezes you, tightly, and is delighted in a morose sort of way to find your digits even colder than his.

“Let’s teach each other. How to be important to someone else.”

“Am I important to you, Okkotsu-san?”

God, he can’t stand it. The way you look at him, the uneven lilt in your fragile, quavering voice; it makes him want to bury himself alive inside of you.

“Yuuta,” he says. “Just ‘Yuuta’ is fine.”

;

Field missions have been a part of his daily life as a sorcerer since the day he arrived at Tokyo Tech. Battle has always been challenging for all the obvious reasons, but never before has Yuuta had to deal with the added hardship of fighting alongside you.

This, of course, is not meant to imply that you aren’t able to hold your own; on the contrary, your physical and cursed prowess has granted you the rank of semi-special grade despite this being your first year enrolled in any kind of formal jujutsu schooling. Your cursed technique is innate to your personality and sensibilities, which helps. But even if that weren’t the case, you would still be one of Tokyo’s top-performing students.

Missions are difficult because, despite all of this being true, Yuuta is powerless to curb the instinct to protect you during fights.

It manifests in small ways, at first: insisting to be paired up with you for assignments, always volunteering to partner up when splitting from the larger group during an investigation– things like this.

His behavior starts to stray into problematic territory the longer he is allowed to get away with it, unchecked.

“After Ijichi casts the veil, we’ll sweep the building. Inumaki and Yuuta, you two take the upper levels. We’ll do the bottom half,” orders Maki, gesturing between you and herself.

Immediately, Yuuta objects. “No. I’ll do the bottom half. You and Inumaki should go up together.”

“What?”

“I have a phobia of heights,” lies Yuuta, shamelessly. “It will impact my performance.”

“I have literally never heard you talk about being afraid of heights before.”

“Shake sushi,” agrees Inumaki.

You remain silent, pupils trembling, bottom lip severed between your teeth in a display of bashfulness reserved only for Yuuta’s blatant favoritism, which he wields frequently, in hopes to catch a even a single glimpse of you just as you appear now.

“I’m self-conscious about it,” he laughs, scratching the back of his head. “Thank you both for understanding.”

“Wait! Okkotsu, we didn’t–”

And with that, he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you away with him, sprinting into the abandoned love hotel before Maki or Inumaki can prevent you from absconding.

The two of you are laughing, tickled as usual at the effects of pissing Maki the hell off. Consequences will rain down in due time, no doubt, but for now, it feels best to bask in each other’s presence.

Once through the front door, Yuuta halts to an easy jog, guiding you past the cobweb-covered front desk, around the decrepit scraps of the once-ostentatiously decorated lobby, all the way to the far back corner, where a solid, heavy metal door obfuscates the emergency stairway.

“Oh, it looks jammed… Should we–”

Your stumped musing is cut off by the ricocheting cacophony of Yuuta’s boot violating the door. The metal itself bends and warps, caving in on itself in a hurry to make way for the unstoppable force of the sorcerer’s impassioned blow. He didn’t have to activate any cursed energy.

“Let’s go!” Chirps Yuuta, cheerfully.

In another context, maybe, it would be appropriate for his pulse to spike, for his hands to clam, for his breath to quicken, at the prospect of being alone with you. However, the reality of the current situation is that Yuuta is dragging you down into some dark, unknown depth, where neither of you will be disturbed. As you descend the concrete flights, visibility is increasingly hard to come by, and this, too, excites Yuuta. He is now forced to rely more heavily upon his other senses, which naturally prioritizes the scent of your sweat; the sound of your rabbit-paced heartbeat; the feeling of the paper-thin skin of your inner wrist; the taste of his own desire.

The cursed spirit they’re looking for has been wreaking havoc on the surrounding commercial strip, to the point where several businesses have had to draw their shutters in the wake of the love hotel’s primary foreclosure. Evidently, recurring, unresolved muder-suicides did not bode well for business.

“Um…if we’re supposed to be searching for the curse behind all of the couples’ deaths, shouldn’t we be looking in the bedrooms?”

Your voice echoes, tinny, in the thick, humid air of the emergency stairwell. They haven’t hit the bottom yet.

“Eh, maybe. This doesn’t feel like that kind of case, though.”

“Huh? How do you figure?”

Although moving swiftly, at the speed of light, your footfalls make barely a whisper against the aged concrete steps. Still, it’s enough for Yuuta’s hypersensitive ears to pick up on. Deprived of the sight of you, he drinks in the intimation of your existence, greedily.

“Heat rises,” he says, slowing pace as they approach what can only be the door to the boiler room, which has been left ominously ajar. “Cold sinks.”

“...Um, I’m not sure I follow.”

Stealthily, he slithers inside the slender crack between frame and the door itself. The angle of its opening doesn’t even waver. He pulls you along with him, replying as he moves, “Crimes of passion carry a kind of hot, frenetic energy. Panic, impulse, instinct – all of those things have lots of, hmm, friction? Like an explosion. Really hot at first, dangerously hot, and then it fizzles out into nothing.”

Unfamiliar pieces of enormous machinery tower in the dark. As much as you are able to while crouching so low to the floor, you take care not to trip over any errant pipes.

“So this isn’t a hot curse?”

“No,” Yuuta confirms. “The curse–” murder-suicides in a love hotel, how on-the-nose could it be? “–is premeditated by nature. Obsession solidifies over time. To act on that is a calculated choice.”

He stops short. You would’ve crashed straight into his shoulder blades if he weren’t painfully cognizant of your whereabouts at all times. He preemptively steadies you on your feet before you can even begin to stumble.

“At some point in this building, someone,” says Yuuta, quietly, as he cautiously eyes the opaque blackness before them, “spent a lot of time thinking about their beloved.”

“How can you tell?”

“Cold sinks,” Yuuta repeats.

Violence explodes, seemingly, out of nowhere. The curse attacks all at once, aiming perfectly towards you as though it had been lying in wait, stalking your every move. Yuuta always takes point whenever you pair up together, because he always insists on taking the first hit. It is this presupposition that leaves you wide open, vulnerable for attack from behind.

“Yuuta!!” You shriek, desperately dodging the grotesque appendages reaching out to you. Your body hits the floor just seconds shy of what would have been a gory fatality.

When you lift your head to identify the exact form of the curse, you still in uncomprehending terror.

“...Yuuta?”

How can this be?

Not even seconds prior, Yuuta had been a whole, living, breathing, intact person, guiding you as solidly as your own personal anchor. Why, then, does he appear to you now as a corpse, brain matter spilling down his temples, bloated limbs belying days of decay, flesh pale and tender and loose around the bone.

No, no, no. Had you been too late? Had the curse gotten to him first? Are you next?

Despair fills you, overflowing your sensibilities with the intrusive desire to rid the world of your miserable existence. How could you have let him slip through your fingers? How could you be expected to return to any semblance of a life, with Yuuta gone? You don’t deserve a future without Yuuta – you don’t even want to imagine one.

You’ll do what’s right, and offer your life in penance that you failed to protect his own.

Cursed energy welling within you, threatening to tear you apart at the very seams, you are about to implode with all the conviction of an abandoned lover– but a familiar, desperate cry of your name halts your ministrations.

That was Yuuta’s voice calling out to you.

But there he is, lying before you as nothing more than a desecrated body.

Unless…?

Yuuta calls your name again, sharply, this time in a tone adjacent to something scolding. The fear of disappointing Yuuta outweighs all else. It’s enough to snap you back to reality, to clear your clouded faculties and reveal to you the real Yuuta, who stands on guard just a few paces away, living, breathing, sweating, crouching, preparing for action.

“The curse,” he calls, eyes never leaving the thing in front of you. “It’s the curse. Don’t worry, it’s not real. You’re alive.”

“I’m alive?” You parrot incredulously. “That’s your corpse over there!”

“...Huh? My corpse? But I see yours–” He cuts himself off, face going eerily blank. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Close your eyes. Don’t flinch.”

In your defense, you try your best.

Remaining sightless and motionless is difficult as the rest of your senses are inundated with the disgustingly explicit soundtrack of slaughter. The sound of flesh forcibly sliding apart on the edge of Yuuta’s cursed katana is familiar, at this point, but no less gut-wrenching to bear witness to. When he deals the final blow, the evidence sprays all over the front of you, drenching you from head to toe in what should be the curse’s blood.

And yet, the liquid is frigid. Like you’ve been assaulted by the waves of the cruel, immortal sea.

“You can look now.”

Hesitantly, your eyes flutter open. You’re met with the sight of Yuuta, also covered head to toe in the viscous liquid produced by the corpse’s demise. Now that the exorcism has been completed, the preternatural heaviness is lifted from the building. But still, you struggle to breathe.

“Why didn’t you let me fight?” Something horrible announces itself, crowing from an ugly, dark corner of your mind best kept away from public view. “Was I going to slow you down?”

He sheathes in katana without sparing the gory weapon another glance. The space between your bodies is quickly extinguished, as Yuuta crosses the space in a matter of heartbeats. Blood roars in your ears, drowning out all which does not consist of Yuuta’s fixed gaze, Yuuta’s shaky breath, Yuuta’s pallid, sweaty skin, Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta.

“No.”

A large, wet palm meets your cheek. The soft squelch should be repulsive. Your stomach flips for entirely unrelated reasons.

“Why do you think all those murder-suicides happened?”

The question catches you off guard, but you answer, nonetheless. “The curse.”

“What do you think the curse made people see, for them to do something like that?”

You want to ask what the hell this line of questioning has to do with anything, with the mounting intensity in his stare, with the firm hand on your face, calloused thumb rubbing miniscule half-crescents into the crux of your jaw where the bone and flesh is pliant and breakable, could crack open like the shell of a creature already cooked alive, prepared to be split open for gluttonous consumption–

And then, rudely, the memory of mere moments prior hits you:

You’ll do what’s right, and offer your life in penance that you failed to protect his own.

“Oh,” you whimper, pathetically. “They see– the curse makes them see, um, someone special to them.”

“Not just ‘special,’” Yuuta corrects. From this close you can see the faint trail of blue-green veins spiderwebbing their way from his eyebags, metastasizing every which-way, just underneath his skin. “What is a curse?”

“The coalescence of negative energy secreted by human non-sorcerers.” You rattle off the elementary answer without second thought.

“What kind of curse was this?”

The moisture evaporates from your mouth. “A cold one.”

“Why?”

“‘Obsession solidifies over time. To act on that is a calculated choice,’” you mimic back.

Although, your tone doesn’t quite replicate the self-assured way by which Yuuta had originally imparted the information. No, your voice shakes apart, just as disjointed as the rest of your body feels at this moment.

“What did you see when you looked at the curse?”

He already knows. He wants you to say it. You want to plead for mercy, if only to savor the eroticism of begging for something you know will not be spared for you.

“I saw you, Yuuta.”

The curse’s blood is bitter and cold, like soured juice, when it is thrust upon your tongue. Yuuta is uncaring of the gore coating the both of you, the time-sensitive nature of this mission assignment, the way your knees sway and buckle as the adrenaline begins to leak from your body, replaced by a new, even more exhilarating sensation.

Opaque darkness still shrouds the boiler room; and yet, it isn’t enough to prevent your souls from recognizing one another. Hands wrestle with buttons, fingers grapple with zippers, teeth gnash into flesh, and the two of you take each other apart not with the reckless abandon of lovers under the duress of a transient liaison; no, you are methodological, thorough, all-consumed by the well-marinated desire that has been fertilizing from the moment you first came into contact with one another.

Yuuta throws you down to the floor and moves his body at a preternatural speed so that he beats you there, his hand cradling the back of your skull before it can strike the concrete.

“I saw you too,” he huffs into your mouth.

“You were d-dead…” The way you struggle to say the word is cute. You’re so fucking cute. God, he’s no better than a fucking curse.

It’s impossible to curb the temptation to sink his teeth into your neck, eagerly feeding off of the intoxicating effects of your pained, thrilled squeal. “You weren’t,” he murmurs into the abused flesh, pressing a kiss where he’d just gnawed. “You looked close, but you weren’t dead.”

“...Huh…?”

Can you even think right now? Do you understand what he’s saying to you? How could you possibly grasp the implications of what is transpiring, right now, when you’re laid out on the floor, snow-angeling in the blood and guts and gore of a murdered curse, delirious off of a heady combination of lust and adrenaline and fear?

“You were just barely alive. On the edge.” He moans, rocking the hard line of his body into your own. “Do you know what you said to me?”

“Tell me.”

“You asked me to finish the job.”

Back arching off of the grimy, gritty ground, every fiber of your being reaches out for the fingers that tear at the cloth of your uniform as though it is nothing more than some cheap costuming. “You know what? I knew it wasn’t the real you, when it said that. ‘S not like you.”

He’s monologuing to himself, it seems. You are far beyond the hope of verbally communicating in anything other than your strained, hoarse whines.

“You’d never ask me to do that. You’d stay with me until the very end, wouldn’t you?”

Desperately, hopelessly, you nod, your fingernails carving your intentions into the meat of his shoulders. When had his shirt come off? Did you do that?

Are you the one tearing away the last bits of offending clothing, or is that him? Do you growl in stoked desire as he breaches your entrance, or does that inhuman noise come from the both of you?

When Yuuta is buried inside of you, he feels like he’s finally been laid to rest. There is the warm, comforting embrace often described as death – but instead of an eternal bliss found at the conclusion of his life, Yuuta is able to access this euphoria by burying himself inside of you. You are his headstone, his tomb, his coffin: all of you exists to house the death of all of him, and without him inside of you, you would live on in aimless unfulfillment, anxiously awaiting the day a beautiful boy will come to die under your care and linger with you in eternity.

You are–warm, hot, burning up, self-immolating beneath his fingers. Every thrust forward threatens to scald his hips on your molten flesh.

“Fu-fu-fu-fu-fu–” you stutter, body shuddering to life, rising from the ground, seizing and contorting in strange shapes as you struggle and fail to cope with the insurgence of pleasure coursing through you. “Yuu–ta–”

“Promise me.”

“Wha–”

“Promise me,” he hisses, hands coming to your throat. “Promise you’ll stay. You’re too important to me, I c-can’t lose you too, hnnnnn–”

Promise you, I’ll never leave you, is what you are able to only mouth, breath and voice held captive in his unrelenting grasp. Because you cannot voice it entirely, you pour all the contents of your heart and soul into the sentiment. Fingers rising weakly to clasp onto his, you tighten his grip on your windpipe and take comfort in the drowsy haziness that cradles your consciousness.

When he comes, he holds you to him like he’s afraid you’re going to crawl off and die somewhere else if he doesn’t keep you right where you are, crushed against, his shivering frame, so tightly bound to him that he can hear your diaphragm contract and expand, over and over and over again, each breath cut short by a wheeze or a sob.

Through it all, he cradles you. Naked, bruised, and forever scarred from the sight of not-Yuuta’s rotting corpse, you cling to him and release your sorrows into the dark, empty abyss of the boiler room.

Back and forth, he rocks your body, soothing your nervous system into an illusion of safety. There is no such thing as “safety,” not for jujutsu sorcerers – but together, with limbs intertwined as one, this is the closest you can come to fooling yourselves into hoping, one day, for a safe place. A safe person, even.

“Shhh,” he simpers, thumb swiping your cheek, which is damp from an unholy mixture of cursed blood, sweat, spit, and tears. “We’re together. It’s all okay.”

“T-together…”

“Yeah. Just you and me.”

;

“You don’t think that’s an issue?”

“I’m not saying there isn’t an issue. But we should tread lightly, here. We don’t know what could happen if we interfere.”

“If we don’t interfere, the newbie might die.”

“It won’t get to that point. I won’t let it happen. Oi, don’t blow smoke in my face. That’s unladylike.”

“Don’t lecture me on what’s ‘ladylike,’ cocksucker.”

“Wow! That burns!”

“Come here, I’ll show you what else burns.”

Lingering outside the door to the infirmary, you shift your weight from foot to foot, unsure of the appropriate course of action to take. Clearly, Gojo and Ieiri are in the middle of a conversation that is not meant to be heard by prying ears – not that you can make heads or tails of what they’re talking about, anyways.

All you wanted to do was come see Ieri for your weekly check-up, as was customary following the love hotel mission. The adrenaline must have numbed your pain receptors in the moment, because as soon as you’d arrived back on campus, your entire body felt like you’d been through a grinder.

You were kinda confused, at first, because you didn’t even engage the curse in combat. In due time, of course, you remembered what–or who–had actually bruised your ribs, broken your skin, sprained your joints, left you carrying the contours of his wanting.

Why were they talking about you dying, anyways? Yuuta saved your life. Nothing was going to happen to you as long as he was by your side.

“Hey.”

Jumping out of your skin has started to feel good, kind of. You look forward to Yuuta’s unceremonious greetings as he creeps up on you in silence, futilely waiting for you to detect his concealed presence.

“H-hi,” you demure. Why are you shy? He’s been so far inside of you he practically fused into your skeleton. Blushing because he caught you unawares is ridiculous.

“Aren’t you going to go in?”

Wondering how he knows what you’re here for is pointless. Equally as useless is trying to deduce how he was able to figure out your recurring appointment time. He’s Yuuta – it’s natural for him to acquire knowledge about you, as easily as one picks low-hanging fruit from a tree.

“Umm, I think they’re talking about something.”

He frowns. “About what?”

You hesitate. Should you tell him what you heard? “Ah, I don’t know...”

“Are you sure?”

You remain silent, unsure of how to proceed. Part of you wants to bare your innards at all times, whenever Yuuta is around. It feels natural, like a rabbit’s cowering. On the other hand…

Somehow, the thought of telling Yuuta the truth–yeah, Gojo-sensei and Ieiri-sensei think there’s a chance I might die soon–would not end well for anyone involved. If there was something you truly needed to know, you’re sure your senseis would tell you.

Right?

“Please trust me,” you whisper, only feeling a little guilty. You’re doing it to protect him. If something dangerous is going to happen to you, Yuuta shouldn’t be involved at all. He must live. You must make sure of it.

Reluctantly, he acquiesces, although he insists on accompanying you to your check-up that week. Strangely, neither Gojo nor Ieiri seem surprised that he is here with you, and make no effort to question why. Yuuta is allowed to linger at your sides as Ieiri takes your vitals, reviews the status of your various injuries, and even holds your hand when she scans your cursed energy levels. Thankfully, you are on track to make a perfect recovery.

In fact, not only are you replenishing the strength and ability that had been impaired during the love hotel mission–you are regenerating cursed energy at rates which exceed your natural capacities.

When Ieiri relays this to you, Gojo, who has been lingering in the infirmary for some unknown reason (you suspect it’s simply to annoy Ieiri with his very presence) speaks up: “Do you know what that means, kid?”

“Um…” You start, nervous. Everyone’s eyes are on you. It feels like you’re under a microscope. “I’m moving up a rank?”

Gojo bursts into a fit of giggles, doubling over at the waist. “Wow, what an opportunist! Haha, maybe in the future, if your cursed energy continues to compound exponentially. I’m asking you about the cause. Any idea why you’re suddenly overflowing with power?”

“No.” Your answer is as truthful as it is anxious.

“Typically, a dramatic increase in output like this only occurs after a Binding Vow. Make any life-or-death promises, recently?”

It’s supposed to be a joke, the way Gojo says it. You can tell because his crow’s feet dip down just far enough away from underneath his blindfold that you can tell whenever he smiles with his eyes. And he is smiling, after he cracks the joke. You’re also able to intuit when he stops smiling, as the depressions on his face smooth out into a careful blankness. You are thirty seconds too late to the punchline. Instead of laughing along, you remain damningly silent, and Yuuta shifts uncomfortably at your side.

“Okay,” says Gojo, clapping his hands. “Alright.”

Although you’re fully clothed in your school uniform, it makes you feel chillingly exposed when what feels like all Six of his Eyes bore into the collection of dark marks ringing your neck in a brutal, makeshift collar. Those were not, in fact, the work of a curse.

Yuuta fidgets with the flimsy paper lining the examination bed. You kick your feet like a child in time out.

“You owe me seven thousand yen,” Shoko deadpans.

“Hey! Didn’t we say forty-five?”

“Don’t kid around.”

Am I in trouble? The terrified plea swells to the front of your mouth, begging to escape. You force the words to sit, stay, and curdle on your tongue.

“Can we go now?” Asks Yuuta, uncharacteristically direct.

Given the odd gravity in the room, you don’t expect Gojo’s easy wave of his hand, dismissing the two of you with a flippant hum. Not having to be told twice, you hightail it out of the infirmary, grateful to be released from the constant invasion of privacy and security that is a prolonged existence within the reach of Gojo’s Six Eyes.

Finally alone once more, the training grounds are a welcome reprieve for you and Yuuta, who crash into the grass clearing hand-in-hand, heartbeats synced.

“Did we make a Binding Vow? When we…you know…”

Yuuta’s voice trails off, lamely.

“What if we did? Would you regret it?”

“Huh? No, of course not! It’s just…well–”

“Well, what?”

“That’s kind of permanent,” Yuuta whispers, dark pools of obsidian sorrow holding your gaze in its cruel, captivating clutches. “And we don’t know what will happen if it breaks.”

For one second, the rawness of it hits you. Fear washes down your back, prickling your flesh, raising goosebumps, locking your spine rigidly into place. The two of you had certainly made a life-or-death promise, infused with cursed energy and blood and…other…bodily fluids. To inadvertently perform a Binding Vow meant that the sheer intensity behind both of your wills was purely, wholly devoted to the promise.

Which is why you take a step closer to him, voice steady. “I didn’t make that promise with the intention to break it. Ever.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Don’t…you can’t be sure of that.”

“I am.”

“You won’t be able to guarantee it.”

“I will.”

Familiarly calloused hands grab your shoulders, jostling you with charged intention. “You don’t get it! My favorite person in the whole world already left me once. If that happens again, I can’t… I don’t know…”

“Yuuta.” You don’t have to lay a finger on him for his entire body to stand at attention, drawing tall and taught, when you call his name. “I will never leave you, even if I die.”

The ensuing kiss tastes like metal.

Despite the passionate fervor with which he devours you, his mouth his cold, and his digits even more so as they dig into your cheeks, your throat, your waist, your chest, groping and pulling and kneading your flesh to loosen the rigor mortis that has arrested your willingness.

“D-don’t, ah, make any m-more marks…”

Your protest is, at best, unconvincing, the person least of all convinced being yourself, as Yuuta’s teeth and tongue on the tender flesh of your neck make you feel like you’re about to leave your body. “Hnng–Gojos-sensei already knows, I think.”

“Good.” He’s crazed, nipping and slurping at your sensitive soft bits like a man starved. “Let him know. Everyone should know. I shouldn’t even–” he kisses “–have–” he bites “–to say it–” he licks you in between speaking, as though it goes against the grain of his being to part ways with you for more than just a few jagged inhalations.

The ground hits you hard, reprimanding you for your clumsiness with a firm impact on your backside. Yuuta pursues with haste, hands slamming down on either side of your head, ripping the grass in retribution.

“Yuuta,” you hiss, hands flying to his dark mop of hair, trying to reel him back – in vain, of course. “We are outside. In the middle of the day. Anyone could walk by!”

“Don’t care.”

His eyes are glazed, half-lidded, pupils blown wide and deeply dark as a gunshot wound, uncaring of your anxiety as he attempts to dive back into you.

“Wait! What if someone sees me?” Now, he rears back. “I don’t want anyone else to see, Yuuta… only you get to see me like this.”

Even the ants traipsing across the clearing stop dead in their tracks, rendered motionless, silent, at the abrupt onslaught of highly charged cursed energy that washes through every living and non-living thing within a five-mile radius.

“Okay.”

Wordlessly, your world upends as you are thrown over a wide shoulder clad in spotless, wrinkled white. You’ve always thought it was funny – how Yuuta’s uniform never managed to permanently stain itself with any of the gore he frequently encountered, and yet, there was always a noticeable depression in the seams, ever-lurking, complicating the otherwise flawless expanse, evoking a sense of pity.

Even when the shirt flies off, abandoned to crumple sadly in the corner of his bedroom, you can’t get its image out of your head. That spotless white. Those gleaming gold buttons dripping in iridescent rivulets down the front of the garment. Only within the intricate designs etched into their surface is one able to glean the barest hint of blood, staining the metal a pale crimson. If you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t notice it.

But you have always sought out his ugly, twisted parts. Even when he tries to hide. Even when he might duck from them himself.

That’s okay.

That’s why he has you.

When he bites you so hard that the wound draws blood; when his palms squeeze around your windpipe so deftly that you lose vision; when pins down your bruised hips, ignoring their wriggling avoidance; when his unquiet nature makes itself known, eclipsing the carefully bashful performance he puts on for his peers so that he might be liked, or loved, even–that is when you feel most connected to him. That is when your affections burn brightest.

And during the comedown, as he holds you close and rocks your brutalized body back and forth and back again, you are well aware that it is he himself who he seeks to soothe.

He doesn’t know, you realize, broken out of your post-coital mental haze with a pointed moment of clarity.

Yuuta has no clue what lurks inside the haunted catacombs of his soul.

What does it say about you, then, that his naivete only serves to further incense your want, smoldering like an inferno brewing at the base of a pyre, threatening to engulf your sorry corpse in entirety?

;

As third year trudges on, instruction takes less time in the classroom, or on campus. More frequently, you find yourself out on missions from sun-up to sundown, running around Tokyo-to and even surrounding prefectures. The grades of the curses you go up against only increase with time, and so, to, does your proximity to mortal danger.

Through it all, Yuuta is present. Indignantly so. Despite your rank as a semi-special grade sorcerer, you have yet to embark solo on an assignment. The pair of you are one combative unit, at this point so intertwined in sentiment and instinct that rarely is it necessary to reach for verbal exchange while engaged in battle. It is as though the reserve of cursed energy you draw from is a pool shared between you, a combination of your innate abilities plus an additional overflow, supplied by the Binding Vow you had consummated all those months ago.

So close are you, now, that Yuuta grows comfortable – confident, even – with your hold on his proverbial leash. These days, he is less neurotic when you inquire as to his whereabouts. Your prying questions provoke within him nothing other than a deep-seated sense of reassurance. He no longer doubts where he stands with you, as he once did when you were still a fresh-faced, mid-year transfer adjusting to life at Tokyo Tech.

In retrospect, he recognizes that he should never have let his guard down.

It’s his fault, really. Entirely his fault. The extra strength provided by the powerful effects of the Binding Vow deluded him into a false sense of security.

He shouldn’t have been so careless with your life. He shouldn’t have strayed so far from your side. He shouldn’t have let you out of his sight. He shouldn’t have left you alone, even if it was only for a split second–not even.

Once again, he has failed to save the most important person in his life. Somehow, losing you is worse than losing Rika. He is no longer a child. He possessed both the skill and ability to save you.

And yet, he had been absent in your time of need.

The one time you’d been off on a mission without him. The one and only time. Principle Yaga’s sorry excuse was that the higher-ups found it strange that you, as a semi-special grade, had never completed a solo assignment. Apparently, your rank was being threatened if you refused any longer to display independent capability.

Well. Now there’s no rank for you to claim, anymore.

After news of your death reaches him, he roams campus like an aimless specter, as though he is the one who has been robbed of life.

In a way, he has. Half of his being has perished. He limps, lopsided, dragging the phantom weight of your body with him wherever he goes.

It takes a while to get used to the absence of your physical, living, breathing manifestation. As a fellow sorcerer, you have been wholly eradicated from the fabric of his reality.

But as a spirit…?

Death is not enough to break a Binding Vow – this, Yuuta knows better than anyone. He retains his augmented cursed abilities, along with your presence. The two of you join once more in battle, as he summons you to protect and guard him in life as he failed to do for you. Your selfless nature has never been more clearly evident. Not a single call goes unanswered, not a single need of his unmet.

Is this a haunting?

No, he doesn’t think so.

When the two of you had still been skittish and shy around one another, nothing more than a pair of innocently covetous children, you’d dared him to reflect on his relationship with Rika. What had been translated to him as a haunting, you reimagined as something more corporeal, something genuine, something worthy of gratitude, and love.

This is how he chooses to think of you – the both of you, together, still joined in perfect union. No matter the fact that you will watch him age, change, develop, and eventually die, one day, should he be so lucky. You do not haunt his waking hours. You do not terrorize his dreams.

You love him in a way that transcends the bounds of space and time.

He has not been cursed. Rather, he has been blessed with your unconditional love.

To earn true forgiveness, he must show you his, as well. You must occupy his every waking thought. You will invade his every intention. You are at the forefront of his mind when he rises with the dawn, and the memory of your breath against the shell of his ear whispers to him good night. You dress him. You urge him to sustenance. You machinate his combat. You heal his wounds. You wipe his tears when he sobs, alone, terribly alone, sobbing into his knees after each time the life of a friend meets a senseless, violent conclusion.

You are still there when he wraps a rough, harried palm around his throbbing arousal, thrusting up into an elusive, now long-gone pleasure. You guide his hands’ journey across the hazardous dips and valleys of his rib cage, the grotesque concave of his stomach, the sharp blades of his hip bones. His skeleton threatens to crawl outside of his flesh. It yearns for something beyond this senseless cycle of bloodshed, grief, and rage.

Never does he feel closer to salvation than when he is on the precipice of ecstasy, dehydrated, underfed, delirious, heart beating so fast that it limits his vision, his lung capacity. When he occupies this liminal space, it is not the brink of orgasm which he straddles. As he approaches climax, he yearns not for an explosion of wet heat, but for the euphoric embrace of a final ending: your arms around him once more, real, tangible, warm.

Until then, he will trudge onwards. Miserably alive. Cold inside and out. Numb to physical pain, constantly inundated with the wounds inflicted on his spirit, his sentiments, his soul.

Solace finds him in the fact that you committed to remain by his side, forever. How could he wallow in total despair when this remains true?

You chose this, after all.

You chose him.

You did.

Didn’t you?

538 notes · View notes

sweetbunpura · 6 months ago

Text

Time for a much needed update to my blog!

Hi, Hi! I'm Pura! I'm a fanfic writer for a bunch of fandoms! Some fics are published, some aren't-and shall remain unpublished.

I'm Black, 29, Pansexual, She/her, has ADHD (which explains so many of these little ideas I have that show up and disappear into the night)

Link to my fics: AO3

TWST Writings:

Beehive: Someone in NRC tries blackmailing Yuu to get her to date him, she says no and pictures of her get spread around the school. AO3 and Tumblr - Complete, due for a rewrite

Symbiotic Relationship: Eels and Shrimps have a Symbiotic Relationship. Jade and Floyd have that with Yuu, she treats them as friends and not enemies, in return for her friendship, they protect her. So, when Yuu gets badly injured, Jade and Floyd protect what is theirs. AO3 - Complete

Charmed by the Sea: If Yuu had a madol for being in the middle of someone's family nonsense by accident, she'd have three madol, which isn't a lot but it's weird that it's happened three times. Of course, it would've been nice if Jade and Floyd had warned her first about their parents visiting. Sequel to "Symbiotic Relationship". AO3 - In progress.

Stolen Jackets: Yuu somehow manages to gain a collection of stolen jackets from the NRC boys that they had left at Ramshackle. She decides to wear them around the campus, much to the dismay of some of the owners of the jackets. AO3 and Tumblr - Currently writing, infrequent updates. Next up: Leona (Clubwear)

Whumptober 2024 - First time doing Whumptober! So pray for me and let's see how this goes! AO3 and Tumblr

Rescue from RSA - Yuu's been kidnapped by RSA! Now Rollo and the rest of NRC has to rescue her!

Links to my more notable tags:

Twst Rambles: Where I ramble about random ideas I've had that refuse to leave my head, some of which may become fics.

TWST fanchild - Welcome the Fankids for some of the NRC boys~

Dorm Outfit Wars - What started as Leona being his petty self has now spiraled into all the dorms getting Yuu to wear their modified dorm style outfits

TWST x PKMN - Potion mishap causes Pokemon to be brought into the TWST world

Return to Wonderland AU - An AU of Yuu where they were taken from TWST into a different world, only to return to TWST during the entrance ceremony. Now they have to renavigate a world that was lost to them with magic. Oh, and they may have a sibling or a parent just chilling at NRC, no big deal. (Also might be a sibling to NBC and RSA). If you like this idea, feel free to just make up a Yuu for this, anything is welcomed! (Moved over to @return-to-twisted-wonderland)

Sanctuary - Haha, what's this? A joke I made about Yuu and Rollo unintentionally dating has now spurned into a tag and gained a mind of it's own. It's an AU of sorts, since that would mean Rollo got kicked out of NBC and now attends NRC.

Upendi - A sort of AU where Leona and Yuu are dating. Help, I have made my Yuu multishippable and these are the results

Welcome to Ramshackle - The residents of Ramshackle: Yuu, Grim, Rollo, Fellow, and Gidel! It's becoming a proper dorm with the only outlier being they have to live within close proximity to each other! Ties in to being it's own stand alone AU or part of Sanctuary.

Twisted Wonderland OC's

Yuuki “Yuu” Homura (Yuusona)/ Bio/ Chart

-Yuu is so multishippable, I've done this to myself.

J.J. Tulgey/ Bio

Alexander Ramos/ Bio

Rouge Willow/ Bio

Jet Mordus / Bio

Rascal Gallucci/ Bio

Goliath Gallucci/ Bio

Aster Nightingale/ Bio

Xavier Soria/ Bio

Kabir Trak / Bio

Fatun Axebi / Bio

Evan Montgomery/ Bio

Lancaster Stevens/ Bio

Ignatius Bolt / Bio

Obsidian Woodsdale/ Bio

Night Alexander (Retired, became Obsidian Woodsdale)

Atlas Lakia / Bio

Staff

Howard Chestnut

RSA

Dorm leaders and Vices

Current Ship names:

Yuu x Leona: Upendi

Yuu x Rollo: Sanctuary

Yuu x Floyd: Shrimp and Noodles

#Masterlist #twisted wonderland #twst oc

164 notes · View notes

theemporium · 2 years ago

Text

[REQUESTS OPEN]

[4.7k] remus is dragged out to a rock pub after being influenced by sirius, but maybe the pretty punk girl talking to him makes it worth the sacrifice. even if she makes him unreasonably flustered. (smut)

based off the prompt: “i’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me this badly”

Remus Lupin was never one to let peer pressure get to him, especially done by the likes of Sirius Black.

His resolve was always pretty strong and despite his friend’s annoying persistency, he always did a pretty damn good job of telling him to fuck off before he finally caught the hint. It had been the practice over the many years of friendship the boys had shared and would most likely continue into their many years spent together into the future.

Except for tonight.

For some reason that was beyond him, he had broken his own tradition and found himself agreeing to whatever nonsense Sirius was rambling on about when he walked into the common room, dramatically sighing and pouting when he mentioned James bailed on him at the last minute for a date with Lily.

“C’mon, Moony, it’s just one night,” Sirius had pleaded, half lying on the boy’s lap so he could grab the book out of his hands and gain the werewolf’s full attention. “Prongs is off with Evans and Peter has detention with Minnie. Come on! You’re my only hope!”

“What about Mary?”

“It’s not her scene.”

“And Marlene?”

“She slammed the door in my face before I could even ask.”

Remus closed his eyes, letting out a sigh that told the boy his resolve was wearing thin. “And you can’t take Lily and James?”

“I’m not being the fucking third wheel again,” Sirius scoffed, nose scrunched up as memories flashed through his mind. “Not after New Years. I don’t think I’ll ever get my innocence back.”

Remus snorted. “Like you ever had it in the first place.”

Sirius waved him off, eyes wide and hopeful as he flashed his friend a grin. “So you’ll come with?”

“I–”

“Brilliant, see you at six, Moony!”

“I didn’t even say yes yet!” Remus called out after him but the boy was already running towards the common room door, not giving the boy a chance to even wiggle his way out of whatever Sirius had been begging him to attend.

And maybe that was his mistake. He never asked Sirius what this event was, mostly because it was usually easier to not be an accomplice in his crimes—even by knowledge. But that was clearly the regrettable choice when Sirius dragged him away from the school, using the map to guide them through the secret passages until they were beyond the wards before apparating to merlin-knows-where.

Because of fucking course Sirius Black would drag him to a punk rock grunge bar in a part of London he wasn’t familiar with.

“Pads,” he murmured in a warning voice, hands tucked into the pocket on his jacket as he followed his friend towards the door.

“Just chill, Moony,” Sirius called out as the sound of music thumped beyond the closed doors. “Who knows, maybe you’ll have fun.”

“In a muggle bar?”

Sirius turned to look at him over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who said it was a muggle bar?”

Remus held back his own wince the second the atmosphere of the bar hit him: the loud music, the throng of dancing bodies, the smell of alcohol and sweat and the taste of tobacco and marijuana thick in the clouded air.

No wonder the little prick ran out before Remus could interrogate him on where they were going.

To his credit, Sirius had stuck to his side for a total twenty minutes before the boy disappeared into the crowd of dancing partygoers, drink in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. Remus could only laugh and shake his head as he watched his friend go.

He knew there was nothing stopping him from walking out the pub and heading back. Despite his dramatics, Sirius would understand and wouldn’t hold it against him. But he knew the kind of mood his friend was in, and nine times out of ten, Remus would be needed to intervene before Sirius got his ass kicked.

Might as well sit around until that moment inevitably came.

He had tucked himself at the back of the pub where the bar was situated, taking a stool at the very end of the bar where he could sip on his drink and observe. He recognised most of the songs considering Sirius had played them in the dorm more times than he could remember, and he couldn’t deny he enjoyed some of them. But it was difficult to fit in when everybody there was in various pieces of leather clothing, chunky boots and more pieces of jewellry than he could ever imagine.

It was a pub full of Sirius Black’s and that thought was concerning enough for him to order another drink soon after.

He was fiddling with a napkin when a body slid between his stool and the one next to him, arms pressed against the sticky counter and the scent of vanilla overbearing his senses from the smell of the pub. It felt almost instinctive to keep his eyes on the napkin, watching the way the paper shredded with each piece he ripped off until he had a small pile lying beside his glass. It felt instinctive to keep his eyes anywhere but on the pair of eyes he could feel burning into his side.

“You look like you’ve just been dropped here after your shift at the library.”

But something about the voice was magnetic and he couldn’t help himself from turning his head to peek at you through the mess of brown curls on his head and—fuck, it felt like someone had hit him right in the centre of his chest.

Remus had met many attractive people in his life. Pretty ones and handsome ones and gorgeous ones and ones that took your breath. Everyone had a side of beauty in them that could make them shine and stand out in a crowd, but fuck had he ever seen someone like you.

His mind went completely blank when he looked at you, almost as though his brain was trying to process the fact you existed and were not just a perfect figment of his imagination. Your skin was covered with a thin layer of sweat, your hair was messy and wild from dancing and the makeup around your eyes looked a little more smudged than usual—but it was fucking mesmirising and he couldn’t find it within himself to look away.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—to you. Hell, even just to say hello but the boy found himself speechless as he openly gaped at you.

“It’s cute though,” you reassured him, painted lips curving up in a smirk and it took him a few seconds to tear his eyes away from them. “Hot librarian is really in these days.”

“I’m not a librarian!” he blurted out, his cheeks instantly heating up when he realised how loud he had him.

But you laughed and the embarrassment swelling in his chest eased up a little at the sound.

“Of course not, silly,” you said with an amused tone in your voice. “You’re missing the glasses.”

Remus could only let out a shaky breath, hand clenching around his glass a little too hard that he was honestly surprised it didn’t shatter in his hold but he couldn’t quite find the words to reply just yet.

“So, how did you find yourself dragged out here?” you asked, seeming to take it upon yourself to continue the conversation even when the bartender dropped your drink in front of you. But you remained in your spot, tucked between the stools as you took a leisurely sip from the bottle you had just ordered. “Got a girlfriend who dragged you out?”

His eyes widened a little. “No!”

“No?” you questioned, not even bothering to bite back your smile. “Boyfriend then?”

“No, no, I–” Remus paused for a moment, clearing his throat as he tried to string together a coherent sentence. “I came with my friend, Sirius. He didn’t have anyone to go with so…I came.”

You raised your brows. “Do I get to know your name or do I have to keep referring to you as Sirius’ cute friend?”

Remus only hoped the lights of the pub didn’t pick up on his burning cheeks, or the way the tips of his ears matched his blush. “I, uh, Remus. My name is Remus.”

“Well, Remus, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” you said as you introduced yourself, extending your hand to the boy. You watched the way his eyes dropped to your hand, eyeing it carefully and you couldn’t help but laugh a little. “I promise I don’t bite.”

His eyes widened. “No, I–”

“Unless you want me to,” you added and watched in delight the way his lips parted in surprise.

Remus was different from every other witch and wizard in this establishment. From the tattered jeans and knitted sweater he wore to the worn trainers and dishevelled hair, he stood out like a sore thumb in a place like this. And yet, you loved it.

You loved it when you spotted him from across the pub. You loved it when you pushed your way through the crowd and made your way to the bar to get closer to him. You loved it when you could see the way his eyes fought to not glance over as you settled beside him.

You fucking loved how flustered he got around you. It wasn’t the first time you made a man feel that way and you doubt it would be the last, but there was something different—something more satisfying—when it came to Remus.

“I mean, I just—” he gulped a little when you stepped closer to him, his body seeming to have a mind of its own as his legs parted to accommodate you standing between them. “Yeah…”

“Yeah? You’d like that?” you teased, head tilted to the side as you raised a hand to his face. Your finger traced down the line of his jaw, watching the way it clenched under your touch before he let out a shaky breath. “Maybe I can add to those wicked scars you have.”

His heart was thundering in his chest. “Wicked?”

“Wicked hot,” you murmured absentmindedly as you traced along the scars slashed across his face. They weren’t obvious, the pale marks almost invisible against his skin in the pub lighting but you noticed them the second you stepped between his legs. And fuck, you loved the way they looked.

“T-Thanks,” he stuttered out, hooded eyes focused on how close you were to him. How fucking easy it would be for him to just lean down and—

“Do I make you nervous, Remus?” you asked innocently.

His eyes snapped back up to meet yours, a small crease forming between his brows. “I–no, why would you think that?”

“You’re really hot and you’re breathing funny,” you told him, though the gleam in your eyes told him this was beyond concern. You knew you made him nervous and he knew you loved. Fuck, he loved it. You were the kind of girl people would tell him to run for the hills if he ever came across you, but he didn’t want to run. He wanted to stay right where he was even if it was his own ruination.

“Crowds make me nervous,” he blurted out, smart enough to know you were teasing him but not quite brave enough to admit it. It seems like the Gryffindor within him couldn’t compete with the pretty girl standing between his legs.

Your smile made his breath catch in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he rasped as your hand fell to his chest, feeling his pounding heart beneath your palm before your hand slid down to intertwine with his.

“You wanna go somewhere a little more quiet?”

And before he could even process the question, the words left his lips.

“Lead the way.”

His drink was left abandoned on the bar counter as he let you pull him through the crowd of dancing witches and wizards. His eyes never strayed away from you, his attention completely locked on you as you led him down a dimly lit corridor before you reached a fire exit door and quickly pushed it open, leading him outside before the door closed behind you.

He glanced around, picking up on the small space as the light chill brushed against his heated cheeks. It seemed like it was a back alley, blocked off from the main street. The space was decorated with some old, battered sofas and chairs but there was an odd sense of comradery in the air.

“Are we allowed to be back here?” he asked, taking a few steps deeper into the back alley.

“Legally? No,” you stated simply, grinning at the way his head swivelled around to meet your gaze. “But that’s why it’s so fun.”

“You’re confident we won’t get caught?”

“Also no.”

Remus huffed out a little laugh. It was almost like you were reading out the marauders motto and he found his chest tightening a little at the idea.

He watched as you sauntered across the space, falling back onto one of the cracked leather sofas and grinned up at him. You patted the spot next to you, eyebrows raising a little in your offer and he couldn’t find it within himself to deny you.

Remus settled into the spot next to you, his thigh pressed against your thigh and his shoulder pressed against your shoulder. He could feel his body tensing at the touch, his hands laying on his lap in tight fists as he cleared his throat a little to distract him from the way his stomach twisted in delight at the lack of space between you.

“Relax, Remus,” you spoke softly, arm stretching out along the back of the sofa as your hand rested on his shoulder.

“You got something to help me relax?” he joked, though it came off a little flat with his shaky voice but you laughed regardless.

“Is that all you need to let me see the real Remus?” you questioned, bottom lip tucked between your teeth.

His eyes caught the movement, body working on autopilot when his brain went blank with an array of thoughts that made him want to squirm in his seat. “Maybe so.”

“You should’ve told me earlier,” you grinned at him, watching as his eyes went comically wide as you reached into your bra, only to pull out a joint a few seconds later. “Got a light?”

“Uh, no,” he murmured as he watched you place the joint between your lips. You raised your brows and Remus leaned forwards slightly, whispering a charm under his breath until the end of the joint lit up in a soft orange.

“Guess the nerd aesthetic isn’t for show,” you teased, taking a deep inhale before softly blowing out the smoke. “Good to see you got the looks and the brains, Remus.”

But the boy could barely reply, just simply content to lay his head back on the back of the sofa and watch you. The way your body was twisted, turned towards him with your legs tucked underneath you. The way your painted lips wrapped around the joint, staining the rolling paper with the colour of your lipstick but it drove him even more mad to see the marks. Even the way your hair fell across your face, a mind of his own as the light breeze softly grazed your skin, goosebumps raised on your arms but you only grinned when he offered to charm a heating spell over you.

He was completely and utterly enamoured about you, and he couldn’t bring himself to even care or bother hiding it.

“You think you can handle a hit, big boy?” you asked, a dangerous look on your face that told Remus you could’ve asked him anything and he would’ve agreed to it.

He nodded his head, eyes dipping down to your lipstick-stained joint before he lifted his hand to take it from you, but you acted quicker than the werewolf.

Before he could even process it, you had swung your legs over him and planted yourself on his lap. Your smile widened when you saw the way his cheeks flushed, his hands instantly dropping to your waist and holding onto you, almost like he was scared you were going to jump off his lap.

“Be a good boy f’me, okay?” you murmured before bringing the joint to your lips, taking a deep inhale and keeping the smoke in your mouth.

Your eyes never looked away from him as you gripped his chin, watching his lips part just enough for you to lean down and slowly blow the smoke into his mouth.

The boy beneath you let out a soft groan, your lips brushing against his and his grip on your waist tightening as he pulled you a little closer.

“Keep it there,” you ordered him softly, nose nudging against his as you watched his face. As you watched the way his eyes started to water slightly and his lips trembled and only then did you whisper again. “Let it out.”

His breaths were a little shaky as he stared up at you, eyes a little hooded and hazy as your hand still gripped his chin. You murmured a soft praise under your breath, thumb fanning over his pouty lips but it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” he let out, his voice low and guttural and fuck, you couldn’t lie at the way your stomach clenched a little at the sound.

“Such a gentleman, Remus,” you murmured before you threw the joint somewhere behind you on the ground, both hands grabbing his face before you pressed your lips against his.

The boy shamelessly moaned against your lips, squeezing your hips as his lips began to move against yours. It was slow and lazy at first, no rush as your tongue teased him before you deepened the kiss. And then the pace started picking up and your hands were running up and down his chest, along his neck and through his hair and Remus felt like he was going to fucking explode.

The way your fingers tangled in his messy brown hair, tugging his head to the side before your head dipped down to kiss along the expanse of his neck and jaw, nibbling on the skin softly just to hear the way he whimpered into your ear when your teeth bit down on the spot just below his ear.

But no matter how passionately you kissed him and no matter how much he moaned, his hands never swayed away your hips. They stayed firmly planted at your sides, squeezing whenever you did anything that made his head fucking spin but they never moved.

He didn’t want to push your boundaries or cross a line you didn’t want. The boy could barely comprehend the super hot witch grinding against his lap and kissing him until he couldn’t breathe, he wasn’t about to ruin it with wandering hands.

But then you pulled away, lips red and swollen, and gave him a look that made his jeans feel tight around his cock.

“Do you want to fuck or not?” you asked bluntly, eyes darkened by desire and lust for the werewolf beneath you.

“I’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me this badly,” he blurted out, cheeks tinted pink by his confession but it was the least of his problem when a smirk split across your face.

“Then touch me like you mean it,” you said as you slid your hands over his, guiding them along your sides and up your stomach until both hands rested over your tits. “Get it?”

“Got it,” he confirmed with a nod of his head, hooded eyes stuck on your chest as he gave your tits an experimental squeeze.

“C’mon, Remus,” you murmured as you leaned down to kiss along his jaw and towards his ear, lips brushing against him as your warm breath fanned over his skin. “Show me your wild side.”

Remus couldn’t get enough of you from that point on. Maybe it was the liquid courage. Maybe it was the weed that finally relaxed him. Or maybe it was that Gryffindor courage that finally made him get his head out of his ass and take what he wanted.

Because he wanted you. Fuck, he wanted you badly. He wanted you the second he first laid his eyes on you and now here you were, sitting on his lap and practically ordering him to touch you, and he honestly thought he was seconds away from waking up from the best dream in his life but this was real.

You were real.

And Merlin, did Remus want to bask in every fucking moment of attention you gave him.

“Fuck,” you whispered between kisses, your fingers tugging the fabric of his knitted sweater over his head. “You taste like chocolate.”

He lifted his hands, letting you chuck the sweater to the side before his hands were all over you again. The way he wrapped his arms around you, tugging you closer to him as your head dipped down to press kisses along his scars. The way his hands grabbed your ass, groaning at the way your jeans fitted you because it was just another thing added to your list of many perfections.

“Are you particularly attached to this top?” he asked breathlessly, fingers digging into your thighs as he impatiently tugged on the denim fabric.

Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, your belt already long gone and your jeans soon following. “Not really—”

You hadn’t even finished talking before the sound of fabric ripping echoed against the brick walls of the back alley, your top now in shred and abandoned to the side before Remus’ face was nuzzled between your tits, his hands groping any inch of skin his lips couldn’t kiss.

“Fucking knew it,” you moaned as your head fell back, nails digging into his shoulders as he began to leave pretty purple marks along the swells of your tits. “Wild side.”

“Just wanna make you feel good,” he muttered as a pathetic defence, but defending his honour was the last thing on his mind when he could feel the fabric of your soaked panties pressed against the bulge of his jeans.

Remus whined when you pulled away, even if it was for a short few moments to shed the remainder of the pieces of clothing keeping you away from each other. But then you were grabbing his face once again, fingers pressing into his cheeks as he stared up at you with wide eyes.

“You gonna let me fuck you, baby?”

He nodded.

“You gonna make me feel good?”

He nodded again.

“Good,” you murmured before kissing him senseless, letting your moans be muffled by his lips against yours as you reached down to stroke his cock. He whined and bucked against your touch, letting out a pathetic whimper when you squeezed his tip before you slowly sunk down on him, eyes falling shut and curse words leaving your parted lips.

“Shit,” he hissed, squeezing your hips as he watched himself disappear inside you. “You feel…so fucking good, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, Remus,” you breathed out, nails digging into his shoulders but he couldn’t even bring himself to care about the sting of pain. Not when you were squeezing around his cock, making the werewolf whine in response. “That’s it, baby, let me hear it.”

The idea of silencing charms and spells were the last thing on either of your minds. It wouldn’t take long to do, maybe less than thirty seconds. But you would be lying if he didn’t fucking love the idea that anybody could walk through that fire door and catch you both. That anybody could come out here and see the flustered, needy boy beneath you. That anybody could see the way he begged for your touch, your kisses, your filthy words whispered in his ear.

“Remus,” you moaned, your words seeming to get choked up in your throat as you bounced up and down on his cock, as you listened to the way he whined about how good you felt. “Fuck, that’s it, baby, just like that.”

He could feel the way you were clenching around him. He could see the way your eyes were fluttering shut, breathless remarks made as you tried to catch your breath but he knew you were struggling. Your legs starting to shake and your nails digging further into skin and you were close, so fucking close but you just—”

“Shit!”

You could barely comprehend the wizard below you as he lifted you, his hips bucking up into you at a relentless speed that made it difficult to fight the orgasm washing over you. You whined as he kept going, kept fucking you as stars started to dance in your vision and your muscles tensed but he never stopped. Never stopped fucking you until you were whining his name.

Your hands laid on his chest, your own lungs heaving for air as you rolled your hips against his, biting back the whimpers of pleasure that wanted to escape. “You didn’t—”

“Wanted to make you feel good,” he whispered as he kissed you, soft and chaste kisses that were pressed along your neck and chest as he continued to speak. “Wanna see you come again. You look so pretty when you come.”

“Fuck,” you murmured as his hands on your hips started to move you on his cock again. “Remus, I can’t—”

“Shhh, relax,” he whispered between kisses. “Let me make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart.”

And you didn’t have it within you to argue when he shifted you with unreasonably ease, picking you up like you weighed nothing until your back was pressed against the tattered leather sofa and he was crawling above you, kissing up your stomach and between your tits before he met your lips once again.

Your legs wrapped around his waist like instinct, ankles locked behind his back as he slowly guided his cock back inside you with a guttural groan, his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck as he slowly began to thrust.

“Right there, baby, right there,” the words left your lips in breathless praises, seeming to spur the boy on as he gripped your hips, his tempo speeding up shit. “Shit, yes!”

“Fuck,” Remus whined, his cock hard and desperate for release. He didn’t know how much longer he could last inside you, last with your nails raking down his back and face scrunched up as your second orgasm was so close. He couldn’t help himself as a hand disappeared between your bodies, pressing his thumb against your swollen clit and watching as your lips parted in a silent scream as you came, him following you seconds after.

It took you a few minutes to ground yourself. To catch your breath and open your eyes, taking in your surroundings before you glanced down at the boy laying on your chest, his arms wrapped around you and soft kisses pressed on your skin that made your heart swell.

“Did you really throw your joint on the floor?”

The question caught you off guard before you laughed, your fingers running through his hair before he lifted his head up to look at you. “Want another hit?”

“No, I just—” Remus flashed you a sheepish smile. “I felt bad, don’t want you to waste it.”

“You’re quite adorable, aren’t you?” you commented casually, and despite the fact this boy had just given you two of the best orgasms of your life, he still had the audacity to blush at the simple compliment.

“Thank you,” he murmured before pausing. “I think.”

“It was a compliment, Remus,” you hummed as you pushed some of his hair away from his face, eyes scanning the small details you hadn’t noticed before. The small scars you couldn’t see unless you were up close, or the freckles sprinkled along the bridge of his nose or apples of his cheeks. “More people oughta tell you how pretty you are.”

He let out a slightly nervous laugh. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me pretty before.”

“Tragic,” you muttered before smiling at him. “I guess I gotta change that.”

His mood seemed to perk up a little. “You mean like…you’d wanna do this again?”

“You don’t?” you teased.

“No, I do!” he blurted out before clearing his throat. “I-I would love to see you again.”

“Good, because I wanna see how many other pretty ways I can make you blush, baby.”

And fuck, there were many ways a girl as pretty as you could make Remus Lupin blush.

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