#or will that get me like rear ended on purpose

[moonchildstyles]

elan for halloween would be a dream♡ i can see her in the prettiest costume everrrrr and h just going along with everything, hearts in his eyes👼🏼🪽🦢maybe even a private moment together, in costumeeeee🤍

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"No, totally... For sure, it's going to be so much fun. Just text me when you get back to where you're staying... Yeah, I still have your location. Do you have mine?... Perfect, good. I'll text you later, but if you need anything just let me know... Love you, Fran." 

Harry watched on the end of (Y/N)'s bed as she spoke into her phone, hands wandering through her professionally tousled hair. While he was aware of what she was muttering to her best friend, not a single word processed when he had the distraction of her reflection in front of him. 

While he was getting a stellar view from behind her, the dressing gown she had draped over her shoulders hid the details of her halloween costume. This year, one of her three (three!) planned costumes was a Playboy Bunny. That was the bodysuit she had on tonight, complete with a puffed tail over her rear and a headband with bunny ears hanging off of her arm. The night's plans included making an appearance at a party thrown by a friend of a friend, the kind where her hair stylist was called and a makeup artist had been given the privilege of painting her face. 

She was left with big blown out hair, her face dewy and smooth with the prettiest blush dusting her cheeks. The pink flush was extra concentrated on the tip of her nose, giving the illusion of a bunny's nose without having to draw a button nose on her skin. Her lashes were long and fluttery, grazing her brow bone and brushing her cheekbones. Sparkling gloss had been swiped over her lips, playing against the shimmery white corset cinching her waist. In lieu of the traditional bowtie around her neck, she had a black choker tied around her throat with a tiny white bow stitched to the front. Her legs were silken smooth under a pair of sheer nude tights, leading to a classic pair of pointed black stilettos. Harry could already see her begging to carry her around so she wouldn't have to keep walking in those shoes. 

The champagne colored dressing gown draped over her form was only loosely tied at her waist, creating a deep V to show off stretches of her costume. It was hard for Harry to keep his focus when he looked at her. Her attention was miles far away from him, but he still felt drawn to her—unable to look away.

But, he reminded himself, he had to be on his best behavior for the night. He wasn't going out with her as her partner, dancing and drinking with her friends. He was going out with her as her bodyguard on duty, his sole purpose being to protect her to ensure she was safe amongst the throngs of almost-celebrities and paparazzi with blinding cameras. 

Though the real severe threats to (Y/N)'s well being had all but vanished once Damien had been removed from her vicinity (there were rumors he was relocated to Spain, the cover being that there was some internship with some artist he admired. Harry had a feeling Damien fled the second it reached him that (Y/N) knew and wasn't afraid of letting others know as well), there was always the worry of her walking into the lion's den that was the media. Especially at parties like these, where one drink would be exaggerated to chugging a whole keg, and photographers weren't afraid to push and pull for the ultimate shot. More than anything, he wanted to be there; to be a physical reminder that she wasn't alone and she had him on her side. 

"Right, right," (Y/N) muttered, rooting through the small purse she was taking with her for the night, "No, for sure. No, I'll text you... Okay, love you. Bye." 

Harry was surprised to see (Y/N) actually end the call given the fact that they'd said goodbye at least three prior times only to continue talking. Dropping her phone in her bag just as she found the lipgloss she'd been digging for, he watched as she took in a deep breath, breasts swelling over the balconette cut of her bodysuit. 

"Sorry," she sighed, meeting his eyes through the mirror with the applicator of her lipgloss dragging over her plush mouth, "I didn't think we'd talk that long." 

"'S alright," he murmured, forcing his gaze from the soft parts of her up to her eyes, "I figured you'd be talking for a while. I don't mind." 

Truthfully, this only gave him more and more time to get in all of his gazing and admiring and staring before he would have to be the consummate professional in public. He'd drink her in now in hopes of holding himself over until the early hours of the morning when they would finally be alone again. 

Rubbing her lips together to spread the gloss, (Y/N) pursed her lips with a pop. Harry had to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his head as he watched. He forced himself to straighten his posture when she turned her gaze to his, no longer using the mirror as the middleman. 

"I wish you'd dress up with me tonight," she pouted, canting her head just right with the light catching her pinkened nose.

"I know," he sighed, standing up from where he'd been sat at her glamorous vanity. "Maybe another time—I've got to work tonight, remember?" 

She only rolled her eyes at him, a pinch of attitude twisting her features. "Sure, sure. Because someone's going to fight me in the middle of a night club."

Harry only looked at her with a deadpan look. She knew better than most just how easy it was for tensions to boil over in the dark like that, especially when alcohol was involved. He wasn't really in the mood to imagine her being the subject of a grainy cell phone video with someone attempting to pull her hair out or pour a drink over her head. 

"Fine, I know," she relented after only a moment of his silence, "I just think it would be cute if we were both bunnies or something. I'd even let you pick if you wanted something specific." 

He shook his head, his features finally cracking when he pulled her closer with an arm looped around her waist. "I just want whatever makes y'feel pretty. We'll match another time, but y'get to be the center of attention tonight." 

She softened immediately in his hold, reaching for him with the sleeves of the dressing gown sliding over her shimmering skin. "Okay. Thank you, H." 

Harry didn't bother with a response before he dipped his head down and pressed his lips to hers. The tip of his nose grazed the top of her own as he tasted the watermelon tint to her gloss. If it were up to him, he would continue this up until Sully arrived and they would be forced on their way, but he'd been in trouble one too many times to know that he wasn't going to get away with messing up her makeup before an event like this. 

Drawing away, the light caught a stray smudge of her gloss caught on the corner of her lip. With her face tipped up towards him like a flower looking for the sun, he used the pad of his thumb to lightly swipe away the offending smudge. He could feel the weight of her gaze on his face, tracing the planes and lingering on his lips, where he was sure  there was the mark of her kiss glistening in the low light. 

"I think I want to come home early tonight," (Y/N) whispered with Harry's thumb pausing just at the corner of her mouth. 

"Yeah?" he pressed, raising his brows as he looked down at her. Carefully, he maneuvered his arm around her waist until he was pulling the headband of bunny ears from the crook of her elbow. 

"Yeah," she breathed, no further explanation leaving her lips once Harry tipped her head back. 

He pushed the headband over her hair, leaving the volume of her hair to flare out just behind the massive ears now stationed on the top of her head. (Y/N) didn't move, only looking up at him.

"'M sure we can make that happen, sweet girl." 

Making the hard choice for the both of them, Harry unravelled his arms from around her and took a step back to allow clear air into their lungs. 

"Finish getting ready, and I'll let Sully know we're almost ready." 

With that, he exited her bedroom, knowing he would need a second to recuperate if either of them had a chance of acting normal for the night. He could feel (Y/N)'s eyes following him all the way out. 

—————

Harry shifted, adjusting his stance as his pants felt entirely too tight as he kept his eyes stitched to the Playboy Bunny across the room. 

It was criminal the way she was able to take all of the air out of his lungs when she was doing the most simple of things, when her attention was far from on him. Just dancing with her friends (and the hangers- on that would no doubt be posting about these interactions in the coming days) was enough to have him crossing his arms over his chest and clenching his jaw. He couldn't take his eyes off of her as she fluffed her hair, played with the bunny ears on her head with a grin aimed at her friends, and ran her hands over the curves of her body. 

He had forced himself into his work mindset before they'd gone out, just for those expectations to be cast aside. Of course, with his eyes on her, he was able to keep track of who was approaching her, and who was getting a touch too close, but that didn't mean that was his priority at the moment. He was too entranced with watching the way her hips moved, the swell of her breasts over the cups of her corset, the length of her legs in the silky tights. Every time the light shined just right over her face, and he caught the pink blush on her nose, he wondered how long he would have to kiss her until that blush became real. 

Photographs and videos were taken of her as she had fun, some where he was sure there could be a glimpse of him simmering in the background. He wondered if there would be any articles picking apart his body language. 

Despite how much fun she was having, Harry wanted to cling to her earlier request of heading home while the night was still young. Truthfully, he doubted he could make it much longer with just watching her. His hands were already fisted under his arms. 

A small smile touched the corner of his lips, cracking the stoic exterior, when he saw her twirl on the dance floor. She had her hands in her fluffed hair, and a bubbly smile on her features. He could just barely hear the melody of her laugh over the sound of the music and the volume of the chatter. The faint traces of her remaining lip gloss sparkled in the party lights, drawing his gaze to her mouth like a faithful spotlight. 

Harry barely saw the others in her circle playing along, dancing to the unfamiliar song thumping through the speakers. With the way (Y/N)'s body moved, the rolling of her hips, the way her breasts bounced against the tight corset, there was no way he was picking up on any details of the surroundings; no one could ask him the color of anything with the expectation of getting the right answer, not when (Y/N) was acting like this. 

Following the sparkles sprinkled over her décolletage, the ribbon around her throat and the delicate slope of her neck, Harry realized (Y/N) was looking at him when he matched her gaze. There was a sparkle there, one different than that of her makeup. A sly smile touched the very corners of her mouth. 

He'd been caught, but Harry didn't dare to look away from her. 

Watching as she excused herself from her friends, looking for only a moment over her shoulder before she threaded through the crowd. Heading directly towards him. Harry shifted in his spot on the edge of the crowd, stationed near the table that had been reserved exclusively for her and the attention she would draw to this party.

Aware of the cameras that could easily capture them, both professional and amateur, (Y/N) didn't draw too near, but the heat she brought with her was enough to tickle along his skin. 

"Hey, you," she greeted, a flirtatious undertone to the words. Her smile was a touch too bright to be only casual.

"Hi," he answered, dipping his chin in an attempt to level with her eyes, "Y'come here often?"

 A peal of laughter spilled from her, (Y/N) leaning forward as if he said the funniest joke she'd ever heard. "You're so annoying," she shook her head though she held no real grit in her voice. She recovered with her lips in a curl as she canted her head. "Are you having fun at least? You haven't even moved from here all night. 

"'M having fun watching you have fun," he clarified, "How are y'feeling?" 

"I'm good," she sang, her features staying rounded and innocuous despite the way her eyes dropped from his, to the pillows of his lips. There, the glittery lids grew heavy, hooding her irises. "I think I might be ready to go home, though." 

"Yeah?" Harry pressed, his voice suddenly deeper. Enough so that (Y/N) took the risk and leaned closer. 

"Yeah," she affirmed, nibbling at her lip, "I promised you I would let us get home early tonight, remember?" 

"But, if you're having fun, we don't have to go yet, love. I can wait for you."

 "I can't." 

It was the way that she met his eyes, gaze clear and heavy, that had a pump of blood rushing through his system and bruising his ribs. 

"Say bye to your friends, I'll call Sully." 

When she tossed a bright smile in his direction, sparkling gaze trained on him, Harry saw a camera trained in their direction to capture the moment. 

That was a photo he hoped would resurface at some point.

—————

"Have a goodnight, kids. I'll see you in the morning, Miss (Y/N)." 

With (Y/N)'s hand still tucked into Harry's elbow, a light jacket draped over her shoulders, she looked to Sully over her shoulder. "See you in the morning," she called.

Her steps never slowed, Harry keeping up with her while he bit back a smile. She definitely wasn't lying when she said she could wait. 

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, he pushed open the door to her building, allowing her to step inside first. The sound of her heels clicking over the glossy floor matched the ticking of his heart. He faithfully followed her towards the elevator, tossing a polite smile to the lobby attendant for the both of them. 

It wasn't until they were safe behind the gleaming doors of the elevator, only the mirrored walls and orchestrational music keeping them company, that (Y/N) broke. 

Swirling to stand before him, with her heels assisting her height, she tugged Harry down with her arms looped around his neck. As soon as she was close enough, she pressed her lips to his in a messy smear. The tip of their noses mashed together before Harry was able to tilt his head. He could feel the remnants of her lip gloss, the soft heat of her kiss, the creases that matched up with his so perfectly. Parting his lips just enough, he slipped the tip of his tongue across the plush of her own mouth, getting a taste of the few sips of alcoholic lemonade she had at the beginning of the evening. 

A breathy sigh fanned across his kiss when she opened her own mouth. Her tongue played along with his, getting a taste of him just as teasingly as he did for her. He clutched at her hips, finally getting more than a passing graze of the silken fabric that held tight over her body. The high leg cut of the bodysuit allowed him to feel glimpses of her bare skin through the tights pulled over her legs. 

He wondered how long he would be able to keep her in this outfit before he was forced to tear it off of her. 

Just as she chanced a hike of her leg over his thigh, the elevator dinged over their heads. it was Harry that pulled away first, looking over (Y/N)'s shoulder to see her penthouse level being highlighted. 

"I'll follow you, sweet girl," Harry murmured, forcing himself to turn her body away from his and towards the opening doors. 

She blinked herself back to the real world, clutching Harry's hand in her own before taking them down the hallway. It felt like an eternity as she dug through for the key to her door, long enough for him to skate his eyes down her form and over the exposed curve of her ass from the cut of the costume. He felt his pants tighten, his cock stirring at the sight. 

As soon as she was able, she tugged him into her apartment after her. It was Harry that had the wherewithal to lock the door after them, only getting through the twisting motion for a second before she was pulling him away. 

"We'll do that later. You're not my bodyguard tonight, just my boyfriend," she insisted, taking him to the couch with her. 

A lopsided grin took over his mouth, going along with her as she urged him to take a seat on the plush sofa. "I thought y'liked that I protect you? What happened to that, sweet girl?" 

"I do," she countered, taking a seat on his lap with her hands landing on the broad of his shoulders, "But I just want you to fuck me right now—not bodyguard me." 

Harry felt a pulse of heat race through his system. He didn't think before he smeared his lips across hers, decidedly messier and harsher than the kiss they shared in the elevator. 

She relented to his strength, clutching at his shoulders while he clutched at her waist. The boning of her corset was stiff under his hands, keeping her back arched as she leant into him. His palms skated over her form as she moaned into his mouth, the slick press and pull of their mouths filling the quiet of her apartment.

The ties of her corset slipped against his fingers just before he ran its other cotton fluff of her bunny tail. He couldn't help but to tug on it, hoping she could feel just how much he enjoyed her costume. The roll of her hips she gave in response was the right answer. 

A whining moan rang from her throat then, the thin covering between her legs providing no cushion against the bulge of his cock underneath her core. She pulled away with her chest heaving against his, leaving Harry to drag his lips down the line of her jaw and down the curve of her neck. 

He hoped her makeup artist for the next Halloween party wouldn't mind using a few extra minutes to cover whatever marks he left over tonight. 

Harry gently nipped at the soft skin of her throat, his tongue soothing that same area within the same breath. He sucked and bit, feeling the skin heat under his mouth. (Y/N) fisted his shirt, her manicured nails behind felt through the material. The light scratch against his skin was enough to have his hips bucking up to hers, meeting her soft core in a shallow thrust. 

"Harry," she breathed, his name said like a prayer in a delicate voice. "I don't want to wait." 

He only shushed her as he dotted kisses down her neck once he was satisfied with the love bite he left behind on her throat. She might not want to wait, but he was more than happy taking a bit of extra time with his mouth on her. 

Once he reached the swell of her breasts, he brought a hand up from her rear to the flexible cups of her corset. It didn't take much force to fold it down and expose her peaking nipple. He took the bud between his lips, sucking it against his tongue. The scraping of his teeth had goosebumps sparking over her skin, her nipple hardening against the buds of his tongue. 

Her hands on his shoulders shifted upwards into the baby curls on the back of his neck, fingers sliding amongst the waves. It was his turn to let out a strangled moan as he moved to press his lips to her other breast, spurring (Y/N) on to tug at the roots of his hair just enough to send a zip over the knobs of his spine. 

Wrapping an arm around her back, he pressed her closer to his mouth, muffling his moan as he laved his tongue over her breast. The only movement she could make over his lap was to sit on his thighs, pressing her core headily against his cock. 

He could feel the way his cock twitched when he imagined the heat that was waiting for him, the tight channel he was going to squeeze the head into. 

God, could he really wait much longer? 

Pulling away from her chest with a pop, his lips swollen and slick with saliva, Harry looked up at her with darkened eyes. She looked devastating, eyes glossy with thick lashes, her bunny-pink nose and lips agape, tongue tasting of his name. 

"Harry?"

He pressed a hard kiss to her waiting mouth. "Want m'help with your costume?" 

"I've got it," she rushed out, stumbling from his lap as she blindly reached for the ties of her corset. 

It only took a moment of watching her unable to reach the right ties, that Harry let out a breathy laugh. He spun her with his hands on her hips, presenting him with the view of her back with her bunny tail at his face. He couldn't help but to plant a kiss on the small of her back, an act that had a small giggle sounding from his girl. 

Harry worked gently and methodically as he undid the ties of her costume. He brushed the bare skin of her back as he worked his fingers under the ribbons, the boning loosening with every pull. Soon enough the entire ensemble was pushed down her hips and left in a puddle at her feet. (Y/N) took in a deep breath, looking over her shoulder at where he sat with spread legs on the couch. 

"Ears or no ears?" she asked, referring to the headband pinned to her hair. 

"Ears," he answered definitively. 

A sly sight colored her lusted features. "Okay." 

She had to have been putting on a show with the slow pace she rolled down her tights. (Y/N) slowly bent at the hips as she needed, her ass in Harry's face with the puffy lips of her pussy on display the deeper she bent. He could already see the way her slit was glistening for him. She hadn't been lying when she said she wasn't interested in waiting. 

It was a bit selfish, he thought, leaving her to do the hard work of undressing while reaching down to the bulge in his lap. But, he wasn't one to say no to a show, especially not one as pretty as this. 

Undoing the fastenings of his trousers, Harry pushed the band of his briefs down his thighs. The ruddy head was already smeared with precum, enough that allowed him to glaze down the rest of his length as he fisted over himself. There was no doubt (Y/N) heard the slick sound that rang through the apartment; especially not when she looked at him over her shoulder, her ass in his face and bunny ears on her head. 

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, eyes darkened. 

Her movements became a bit clumsy then, leaving the rest of his dressing to be left on the floor in record time. But, before she had a chance to climb back on his lap, Harry caged his free arm around her waist from behind. She let out a gasp, grabbing for his forearm that curled around his middle. 

Harry tugged her down to sit on his lap, her back to his chest with the warmth of her pussy pressed right against the base of his cock. A full moan fell from her lips, (Y/N) throwing her head back to be laid against his shoulder.

"Alright with this?" he asked, referring to both the way he was taking her from behind and the fact she was naked while not a single article of his own clothing had been discarded. 

"Uh-huh," she nodded absently, turning her head until she was snuggling against the column of his throat. "As long as you still kiss me." 

An affection curl took over his mouth. "'M sure we can manage," he mused, "Budge up for me, love." 

Lifting her hips while Harry's arm was still barred around her middle, he fisted his cock in his palm. With the way she hovered just above him, he was able to skim the head of his cock along her slick folds, smearing his precum around her core. 

"Let me know if y'want me to stop or slow down," he murmured to her, something he told her every time she allowed him the privilege of settling between her thighs. 

"Stop body guarding me, I'm f—" 

Her chiding was cut off when Harry pushed his hips upwards, splitting her open with the head of his cock. A garbled call of his name bubbled out of her, the kind of thing that she attempted to bite back but still made it way out. He pulled her down onto his lap, bottoming out through her slick walls. A pleasured sigh heaved from his chest. 

Harry bucked up into her, driving himself that much deeper, pushing his balls against her budding clit. Her breathing was shaky. 

(Y/N )'s legs were spread wide around his own parted knees, leaving her open for him to begin bucking up into. She made the sweetest noises, the kind that told him he was hitting the deepest parts of her she had once told him had never been reached before him. He didn't have to see her to know that her eyes were fluttering to a close, nose pinched as she fought to keep her cool 

Slick noises filtered through the space, her walls pulsing around him, attempting to suck him deeper though he was barely even pulling out at the beginning of each thrust. 

"I-I wanna help," she whined, digging her fingers into the cage of his arm. 

"Yeah?" he breathed, smearing a kiss to the dip of her shoulder, "Go ahead and help me, sweetheart." 

He always thought it was quite cute that she wanted to help him when she was on top, despite how much he could tell she enjoyed just being bounced on his lap. His sweet girl, right to her core.

Slowing his bucks to gentle rolls of his hips, Harry allowed her to shift over his lap. Moving until she was straddling his pelvis, knees brought up to dig into the cushions of her sofa. She was spread wide open for him to reach around and graze her clit, the leverage of her knees on the couch allowing her to lift off of his cock until only the head was still tucked inside before dropping back down. 

"Oh—Harry," she cried, arching her back with her bunny ears going lopsided. 

With the enticing curve of her back, Harry's eyes were led right to the rounded curve of her ass. As she established her pace, the plush flesh slapped back against his lap. He couldn't take his eyes off, leaning back to watch the feast that was her body as she rode him. 

Around her waist, his hand wrapped around her front dropped low until he met the top of her slit. He could feel the way his cock was splitting her open, a grazing that had his mouth falling open. His fingertips met her wet clit, the first touch being enough to have (Y/N) stumbling in her pace. 

"Harry, oh my god." 

That was all he needed to hear before he was circling her clit harder, the pads of his fingers unrelenting. "I've got y'sweet girl. Gonna cum for me?" 

"A-Are you?" 

"Want me to cum with you, sweetheart?" he choked out through gritted teeth. As much as playing with her clit was for her, the shocks felt through her body with the pulsing walls and squeezing thighs, that was for him. 

"Uh-huh," she moaned out, her fluffed hair in a mess, "In-Inside." 

It was his turn to let out a string of curses. With his free hand, Harry cuffed his hand around her neck, pulling her flush against his chest. Keeping true to her request, he pressed his lips to hers in a messy kiss; he was barely on center, teeth and tongues playing against one another. (Y/N)'s moans slipped through into his mouth, sweet and sugary. 

There was no way he wouldn't be able to follow through on her request. Not when she was asking him to cum inside her, where her walls pulled and squeezed around him. She was snug, unwilling to let go of him, even when it was only for a moment with the rolls of her hips. 

A frayed knot came to fruition in his stomach. It wasn't strong, but it was tight—the kind that would only crumble under pressure. And his pressure was calling his team in ecstasy, requesting him to cum inside of her with her wet pussy doing all the extra convincing. 

"I want you to finish first," he breathed against her mouth, "My bunny goes first." 

She wanted to smile, that much he could tell with the twitch of her lips, but there was too much on her mind to record the bubbling feeling over his teasing. Instead, a pinch formed between her brows, Harry's fingers over her clit doing that much more to draw her to the edge. 

It all happened so quickly. At one moment, she was fluttering her lashes closed with her lips parted, and the next she was pulling away from his kiss with her head thrown back to his shoulder. 

(Y/N) grew impossibly wet around him, her walls that much tighter. The pace of her hips dropped until she was making only shaky rolls, toes curling on either side of his thighs. A breathless moan fell from her lips, her kiss-swollen lips parted. 

All it took for Harry after feeling her pleasure and feeling the way every part of her body attempted to clung to him, was seeing the bunny-pink blush on her nose. Then he was summing. 

He felt the way his cock throbbed just before ropes of his cum spurted from his tip. He was buried deep inside her, his release painting across the ridges of her walls. (Y/N) could feel the warmth, the pressure, he could tell with the way she clenched around him, both inside and out. 

Keeping her flush to him, Harry wondered if they were in the same universe then. Were their heads filled with the same clouds? The thought had him holding her that much tighter. 

Coming back down to earth came faster for (Y/N), leaving her to start spreading kisses along the side of his face. 

"Harry," she murmured, breathless and tired, "Harry, I love you." 

A small smile curled his lips, his eyes still closed as she felt another aftershock rock his body. "I love you, too." 

His first act back on the material plane came in the form of turning her face to give her a proper kiss. The urgency had been drained from his body (literally), leaving him with only affection for his sweet girl. 

He slumped back against the couch cushion, keeping her with him as she went lax. 

"Can I stay here for a minute?" she murmured, her words holding a drawl. 

Harry spoke through his smile, "Few more minutes, sweetheart. Then we'll get ready for bed, ‘kay?" 

"'Kay," (Y/N) replied, though they both knew that he wasn't going to have the heart to make her get up until she was ready. 

Moving cautiously, Harry pulled the throw blanket draped over the back of the sofa. He wrapped it around (Y/N)'s nude body, covering her before the chill of the room could eat at the bliss in her system. 

Silence settled over them, Harry running a comforting circuit with his hand over her hip, the other hugging her around the waist. He closed his eyes when he swore he could feel the rhythm of her heartbeat—a grounding baseline. 

Yeah, there was no way he was moving from this spot unless forced to do so.

"Harry?" 

"Hm?" he hummed, pressing an absent kiss just to the side of her bunny ears. 

"So," she started, amusement beginning to echo in her tone, "Bunny?" 

Harry shook his head, biting back a smile as he held her that much tighter. "We're not getting into this tonight." 

(Y/N) only laughed. 

—————

[ittybittyfanblog]

for once i am small (in your arms).

Summary: His hands are stained red, blood and viscera—but they hold you gently. You’ve never known comfort like this. Word Count: 6.5k A/N: Happy Easter ?? 😭 Also sorry for the emotional whiplash I get it  While in the middle of proofreading, I wasn't sure whether to even post this fic here or not :') It's a little fucked, and I implore you to HEED THE TAGS before continuing. It's a concept that's been on the drawing board for a while now. It turned out to be less gratuitous, more tragic than I expected it to be…. This is cathartic, for me. It's not going to be for everybody else. Please don’t force yourself to read if this isn’t your jam, or if anything here might be triggering for you. Alright? Alright. Tags: angst/whump, smut, anger issues, mental issues (BPD), heavy themes alluding to past child abuse + CSA, dissociation, introspection, self-harm, implied age gap (NOTHING ILLEGAL, but left vague on purpose, reader POV is unreliable), age regression, pseudo-incest, dub-con, dysfunctional relationships, canon divergence, inspired by the premise of catch-22 but that’s it (also the movie léon, the whole preacher’s daughter album, and, uh, nicole dollanganger’s blue moon motel song lol).

Sylus enters the safehouse where he and his ward are currently holed up for the time being. The place no more than a glorified shack: four sagging walls, a rust-eaten stove, and floorboards that creak like old bones underfoot. Certainly not one of the better dwellings you’ve had, but the aftermath of the last encounter left him little to work with. This would have to do.

Still, this is merely transitory; he’ll move you somewhere better soon—somewhere with your own room, and perhaps a shelf with a lock for the collection of memorabilia you like to keep. 

He comes in through the larger window, the one with the knobby latch that screeches when lifted too fast. It’s the same one he taught you to slip through if you ever hear someone by the door who isn’t him, or if anything feels off enough to send you running.

I can find you, he reminds you. Prioritise your safety. Get somewhere secure. I’ll come to you.

The room greets him with its usual dimness, with only the spillover light from a streetlamp cutting across the floor in washed-out blue. It’s enough. His eyes adjust quickly. 

You’re where he expected you might be; in the farthest corner, knees drawn up to your chest, gazing vacantly at the empty space in front of you. For how long, he couldn’t say for sure, but he can infer from the untouched plate he left on the end table before he left that it’s been over fourteen hours since your last meal.

There’s no outward indication that you’ve seen him, but he knows you’re aware of his return. He’s made enough noise coming in, deliberately so. The soft thud of his boots on the floor, the familiar creak of glass shutting behind him—all the little tells he’s trained you to listen for.

Still, you remain motionless.

The silence inside presses in, save for the muffled sound of distant traffic and the restless voices of the next-door neighbour bleeding through paper-thin walls. He’s used to your selective muteness; it always takes you a while to process your emotions, especially after an outburst like the one you had earlier.

He supposes he could do more to cut through the silence, beyond just giving you the time and space to ruminate. Offer a kinder word, maybe, one that might actually reach you. But you’re a flighty, anxious thing, and he’s not nearly as well-versed in emotional rearing as he is in disposing a body. 

So for now, he lets you be.

The sound of rustling plastic breaks through the stillness. Sylus transfers the warm, convenience store-bought chowder into a bowl, pleased it hasn’t gone cold after the hour he spent walking back through the biting chill of the world outside.

He knows your propensity for soft foods—if it were up to you, you’d eat nothing but mush: soft, creamy things like soup, custard, and runny egg yolks. Not so different from a child, in that regard. 

(In many regards.)

He adds a spoon to the dish, swirling the sauce to help it emulsify, then saunters over to where you sit – idly noting how you hunch yourself smaller at the sound of his footsteps. 

With practiced care, he lifts the plate of now-stale food from your right. The smell hasn’t soured, so it’ll do for him. He’ll have that for dinner.

Sylus sinks down beside you, nudging the strewn lampshade aside with his foot. He settles close enough to hand you the bowl, but gives you just enough space so you don’t feel cornered. An olive branch, if nothing else.

It takes a few seconds, almost an entire minute, before you acknowledge this. He waits patiently, letting you make the first move.

Eventually, your head lifts from where it’s been resting atop your bruised knees. (He makes a mental note to bandage the fresh cuts—angry, surface-level lines, one across your thumb.) 

Hesitantly, you glance at the proffered arm, then at him. Your stomach grumbles.

He knows better than to make any sudden movements when your fingers reach for the food, and only once you’ve taken your first bite does he retract his hand.

The two of you eat in silence, only the sound of clinking steel keeping you occupied. There’s nothing wrong with the silence—precious in its own right—but he thinks he prefers the moments when he can hear your voice. Whether it’s to talk his ear off, or spit words viciously at him during one of your ever-ephemeral shifts in mood. 

He’ll admit he’s more partial to the former; if only for the reason that he doesn’t like hearing the hurt masked behind the venom, or the guilt-laden silence that comes after an unpleasant episode.

Finally, you set the spoon down, smacking your lips absently. “You want me gone.” 

You say it like it’s a fact you’ve already made peace with, something resigned beneath the forced neutrality. He stifles a sigh, keeping it buried so you wouldn't think he isn't taking this—you—seriously.

Instead, he leans back and places his empty plate to the side. 

“I want you to communicate with me when you’re feeling neglected,” he says. “Before taking it out on the furniture.”

He lets the silence stretch, then breaks it with a half-hearted attempt at levity. “And next time, put away the mess properly. I’ll help.”

You don’t answer.

Sylus knows you’re waiting, bracing yourself for a reprimand that will never come, already familiar with this song and dance. You interpret gentleness the same way Sylus interprets softness: warily, with too much mistrust and a confounding lack of understanding. It could mean nothing, but more often than not, it signifies the quiet before the storm.

There’s little he can do with his own issues, but since taking you in as his ward, he’s assumed responsibility for your well-being. That includes your states of duress, your erratic moods. Your bouts of mania. Sylus has been well-aware of this since the first night you followed him home. 

He knew where you’d come from—and the decision to let you stay took him less than a second, made the moment he registered the forming bruise beneath your eye.

He figures he’ll find a place for you soon. A better arrangement beyond the temporary fostering, one that can offer you stability and a much more normal environment. Something else than a life on the run.

Tomorrow will mark the sixth month since you’ve been with him.

“Okay,” you whisper finally, setting your bowl down in the empty space beside you. Without much ado, you crawl closer to where he sits, uncaring of anything other than the comfort his warmth brings. You figure you can handle anything after. “…I’m sorry.”

Sylus already expects this, wrapping his arms around you without second thought. “I know.”

“I don’t like being angry,” you confess quietly, voice muffled against his collarbone. “It hurts.” He feels your hand move, settling somewhere near your abdomen. “Here.”

He tightens his hold on you. 

“I know,” Sylus whispers into your hair. “You have plenty of things to be angry about.”

Life has been cruel to you, he thinks. Be angry. It’s alright. 

“Not you,” your voice wobbles, and he catches a faint tang of saltwater in the air, along with a certain dampness spreading across his shirt. “I don’t– I don’t know why I get mad at you. You don’t deserve it.”  

“Better me than directing it inward,” He assures you, swiping a thumb across your cheek. “I can handle it.”

You get it from your father. The same anger. The poison that runs in your veins, the corruption in your blood. Your mother was afraid of him – and of that same rage – so you understand why she kept her distance from the rotten fruit she bore unwillingly into the world. Monstrous, in your own right.

“You’re a very difficult child to love,” your mother once said—cold as your bare feet, bleeding from the sharp little stones on the asphalt road where she found you, the first time you tried to run away. She said it so matter-of-factly, that it didn't leave much room for you to question its truth, branding your flesh with the indelible mark of being unwanted. 

Odd, how Sylus doesn't seem to struggle with it at all. Maybe he’s just better at loving you than she ever did. 

He smells of bergamot and smoke—something you’ve long associated with safety. So different from the stench of alcohol and bile that once clung to the walls of your childhood home. His words are gentle, playful. They don’t ring in your ears after they leave his lips, never a decibel higher than yours. Not in the way that frightens you.

You clutch him tighter, overtaken by a primal desire to sink into his skin completely.

It blurs—the way you see him. You imitate him, the same way a child imitates a parent. He takes care of you like how fathers take care of their daughters. Or at least, how you’ve seen it on some primetime show on late night TV.

You can’t help but think of how his fingers would feel buried inside you.

_____ You’re in the middle of a stakeout; both of you bearing the sweltering brunt of the midday heat beneath a cloudless summer sky. 

Sylus reminds you, once again, that you could just wait inside the diner on the ground floor, instead of sitting up here on a rooftop with nothing but a floppy boater hat to shield you from the sun’s rays.

You don’t really think you offer much assistance. You can’t shoot to save your life—your aim dismal, even from a vantage point. You’re not quick with solutions. Nothing of help that he couldn’t already manage on his own.

Still, you insist. Even if it’s only to hand him the .50 cal rifle he’s assembled beforehand, or to offer some benign, mindless chatter to fill the boring in-between.

Don’t leave me alone. 

He could always refuse. He brings you along anyway. I won’t.

“Eleven o’clock. Left of Kebab Palace, near the alleyway.”

You speak up suddenly, peering through the rim of the tactical-grade binoculars he handed you for recon. There’s something akin to glee in your voice, and his lips twitch involuntarily at the sound. 

“Enemy combatant is—oh, he’s on the move.”

He squints toward where you’re pointing, catching sight of the mark in question. “Ah,” Sylus drawls, all mock lament. “Looks like he’s successfully liberated the contraband. How unfortunate.”

“Best to cut our losses,” you say decisively, eyes still glued to the eyepiece. “Nothing we can do about it now.”

Your suspect – small, furry, and feline – leaps onto the fire escape and scales the side of the building until he vanishes from sight. 

You lower the binoculars, glancing at him with a small, satisfied grin. “That’s the fourth one.”

He reaches over, tucks a stray hair behind your ear. “Good job,” he murmurs. Quiet, but sincere. Genuine in his praise, despite the frivolous nature of the task. 

You shiver, delighted by his approval, your heart thudding in a sick rhythm of childish pride and want. You duck your head, the grin on your face refusing to fade, thighs pressing together of their own accord.

The two of you play three more rounds of I Spy before a flicker of movement catches his attention. He pauses, eyes narrowing as two black-cladded figures come into view, rounding the corner past a nondescript pawn shop. 

Hired muscle, flanking a taller man—leaner, dressed to blend, but too poised to be local. The real target of today’s excursion. 

He instructs you to wear the earmuffs around your neck—pink, upon your insistence—and to look the other way before he lines up the shot.

_____

You were six when you lost your first tooth.

The first one came out naturally, uneventful as they come. You showed it to your mother, full of childlike trepidation and timid pride, cradling the small thing in your palm. She threw it out without looking.

You fished it from the bin afterward, fingers sticky with juice pulp and something spoiled. You didn’t understand why it made your chest hurt—only that it did.

The second time was even less kind.

Your bottom incisor was knocked out when your brother pushed you down the stairs. You don’t remember the fall, only the taste—blood and bile, mixing with the little white thing you spat out. Your eyes burned, more from an inside ache you couldn’t explain than from the bruises mottling your skin like purple ink blots.

“Why are you so angry at me?” you had asked your brother, your mother, anyone who would listen, with all the hurt confusion of one that wasn’t yet familiar with the pain of tough love. Why are you so angry? Why am I– why do you hate m—

They never gave you a straight answer. You still haven’t gotten one, and you’re starting to accept that you never will.

After that, you started holding onto them. Your milk teeth. Each one that fell out, or was knocked loose, you saved. Tucked them away in old matchboxes and scraps of tissue. 

You can’t quite explain the possessiveness you feel toward the tiny enamels. Only that they belonged to you. That they came from you.

You collect other things now. Little pieces. Things most people would mistake for trash. A bottle cap in your favorite color. A pretty marble. A loose button from the dress of a toy doll you used to own. Sparse, stupid things no one but you find value in.

Every night before bed, you count them.

Three times. In the same order. Just to make sure nothing’s missing.

Sylus never questions it.

He doesn’t mock you or tell you to hurry. He just waits, and when you’re done, he asks you one last time if you’re finished. And you know with him there’s no trick behind the question. No wrong answer. No cruelty waiting if you say the wrong thing.

So you say yes and bid him good night, and he simply nods before turning the lights off. _____

There’s a girl by the stairs of the rundown motel. Maybe seven or eight, leaning against the edge of the planter box out front, hands stained candy apple red. She watches the both of you with bored curiosity, sucking on the end of a melting ice pop. Sylus is a step ahead of you, keys in hand, his back to her as he unlocks the room he got for the night.

The girl squints. “Is that your husband?”

You don’t blink.

“Yes.”

It slips out easy. Natural. She nods, like she expected that, and skips off down the corridor.

Sylus doesn’t turn around. But you hear the soft exhale through his nose, that faint hitch in his breath. You can’t tell whether the sound is amused or exasperated. Maybe it’s both.

You follow him inside, the door closing behind you with a quiet click. The room smells like mothballs and bleach, the low hum of a sputtery air conditioner reverberating through the small space. Somehow, it feels louder in the hush that follows your entry.

You perch on the edge of the bed and bounce once, toes curling into the carpet, sneaking a glance at him as he checks the blinds, the corners, the locks on the window.

He still hasn’t said a word. But that's fine, because you said it. 

You said it, and he didn’t correct you.

And because you want him to be yours. Because he is. In all the ways that matter. 

He watches over you. Protects you. Tells you when to eat, when to sleep. Tells you you’re good. Keeps you safe.

That’s my husband, you think. That’s my husband, and I belong to him.

That little girl knew. She saw it.

You flop onto your back, arms flung wide, smiling at the ceiling with a strange warmth bubbling in your stomach.

-

-

-

Later, after the sun's dipped low behind the grimy motel blinds, you find yourself fidgeting.

You’d said it. Called him your husband. Claimed him like how a kid stakes her place in a game of pretend. And he still hasn't said a word about it. 

So now you want to earn it.

You refill the ice bucket before he asks. You fold your clothes properly, the way he does it. It’s clumsy, a little uneven, but you do it with a great deal of care. You put away your shoes neatly by the door. 

Proper. Obedient. Good.

Every now and then, you glance his way, searching for that flicker of approval in his eyes—the kind that makes your chest puff out. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you from his side of the bed, closer to the window, one hand curled loosely against his mouth, the other resting flat on a dog-eared book.

His gaze is unreadable. Neither hard, nor soft. Merely observant. 

You stand in the center of the room for a moment, rocking on your heels.

Then you cross the distance between you, crawling onto the bed without preamble. You move slowly, deliberately, flirting with a boundary you hope he wouldn't enforce. 

And when you lie beside him—not touching, but close—Sylus doesn’t stop you.

So you rest your head near his thigh, tucking an arm under your cheek. And he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give any outward reaction. Just the slow turn of a page, though you know he’s not really reading it. You can feel it in the stillness of his body. The way his breath has evened out, but the rest of him stays perfectly motionless. Hasn’t moved since you curled up beside him like that.

You stay still, face pressed into the crook of your arm, watching the light from the muted television flicker across the ceiling.

You’ve been good.

So good.

(And maybe it’s enough. Maybe he finally sees it.)

After a while, he closes the book.

The soft thud of it landing on the side table makes you flinch a little, but not from fear. Just anticipation. Expectation.

His hand finds your hair, fingers gently brushing through the strands like he’s smoothing down static and some stubborn flyaways. You melt into it instantly, your body going pliant the way it always does when he touches you like that.

“Mmh,” you hum, content.

His palm lingers a moment longer, thumb tracing a slow line from your temple down to your jaw. He does the motion three times before leaning back again, silent.

But you don’t miss it – that soft, tired exhale.

Not annoyed. Not angry.

Just... quietly resigned. Like he knows exactly what this is. Like he’s known for a while now.

You pretend not to notice.

You stay curled beside him, small and safe, a quiet feeling of triumph blooming in your chest. Your eyelashes flutter shut, and your tongue curls around the word again—not aloud this time, just in your head.

Mine.

You fall asleep like that, clinging to a fantasy he doesn’t take away from you. _____

It’s the eighteenth of the month.

You’ve been waiting for this day, ever since he shared it with you. Holding on to it, like a dragon hoarding a well-guarded secret.

The red negligée is cheap and a little too small. Something you saw draped over a mannequin in the back of some boarded-up boutique, half-covered in dust. The straps are twisted and the tag is torn, but somehow it’s still perfect. Like it was meant to be found by you. Like it had been waiting.

It’s in his favorite color, after all. The same red as the lining of his holster. The same red as the folded handkerchief he keeps in his pocket.

You’ve never worn anything like it before, and it doesn’t exactly cover much. The fabric is thin without give, nearly translucent. You keep tugging at it, trying to make it sit right, but it won’t. 

So you leave it – hiked up your thigh, constricting in all the wrong places.

You’ve taken a sip from the bottle of moonshine he left on the upper shelf of the cupboard, and it’s as vile as any other spirit you’ve tasted, burning a path down your throat. But it gives you what you need; that extra shot of courage. Just enough to quiet the paralyzing fear that threatens to break through if you spend too long thinking, second-guessing your decision.

There is nothing else you can offer him. You barely like looking at your own body in the mirror—but maybe he’ll find some use for it. Maybe he’ll find pleasure in it.

You think you’d like it if he did.

(A small, ugly part of you wants to be taken, to be bent over, for it to hurt.) 

“Happy birthday,” you purr as a greeting—voice low and sweet, just like you practiced—as soon as he walks in. You’re stretched out on the bed, mimicking a pose you saw one of the women do in your father’s Playboy magazines. 

(You want him to have his way with you, with the brand of violence you know he’s capable of.) 

You hold your breath. Muscles drawn tight beneath your skin, high-strung and tense. 

There’s a pause. You watch Sylus’ eyes drag over you. But—

There’s nothing on his face. No hunger. No fire. Just a blank detachment.  

He doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t touch.

Instead, he turns and walks towards the dresser. Opens a drawer. The sound of wood scraping against wood, louder than it should be.

His back to you. As if you’re not there.

He’s ignoring you, you realize belatedly, humiliation rising under your skin. It climbs up your throat—burns the corners of your eyes. How dare he.

It stings. More than it should. 

“Don’t you wanna fuck me?” you snap, the words half-choked, thick with fury and shame. You don’t know if you’re trying to tempt him or punish him.

He says nothing.

You lurch upright, the sheer fabric bunching in your fists, the lace digging into your palms. Your skin feels too hot, too tight, like it’s crawling. You can’t breathe. You want to disappear. You want to be seen. You want–

“You know you want to fuck me!”

You scream it now, voice cracked and shaking. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, and it tastes worse than blood or bile. 

You can’t stop. 

There’s nothing left in your head but the ache of being unsought, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts more than any blow that’s ever landed on your skin, more than fists, more than belts, more than words spat at you from doorways and dinner tables and years you never got back. Your nails dig into your arms, scratching, tearing, needing something to feel, because this pain isn’t visible enough. Because you want it to show and if it bruises, then maybe he’ll see it, maybe he’ll see you–

But his hands are there.

Strong. Unyielding.

He catches your wrists before you can shred yourself further, pulling your hands away—firm, but with a certain gentleness that’s entirely him.

Unattractive welts already bloom across your skin; half-crescent moons, angry and red.

"Fuck me," you sob, uncaring of how desperate you sound. Uncaring of how ugly you must appear, a snivelling, trembling mess at his feet.

He pulls you into his arms like you haven’t just made a scene. Like you haven’t just begged him to desecrate you. He cradles you so gently as if you're something fragile.

…And if you weren’t so far gone, maybe you’d hear the way his breathing falters. Maybe you’d notice the last of his self-control beginning to fray.

Instead, you’re somewhere else – locked deep in the marrow of your memories. 

You look up at him, eyes swollen and wet. "Please, daddy,” you hiccup, craving to be set free from your own fucking head, to be validated by him, the man you look up to, the one who turned to be a much kinder father than the one you had. “Please, fuck me."

His eyes darken, the red in them cooling into flint the more you plead. Tension lines every inch of him—from the tick in his jaw, from the way his shoulders are drawn taut. There’s something brewing underneath. Something dangerous. 

Something irrevocable.

He’s caught in the split between indulging you and the immorality of what you’re asking him to do—between what he wants and what he knows better. And you keep fucking staring at him, all glassy-eyed and irresistible, like he’s the only one who’s capable of understanding. 

And he—

You see the exact moment he breaks. It feels like absolution. 

That night, Sylus fucks you like he’s making up for lost time.

His mouth finds your cunt and drinks from you like it’s water in the desert, tongue moving in a devastating rhythm that nearly drives you insane. He doesn’t stop until the sheets are soaked beneath you, until your thighs are shaking and your voice gives out from the sheer pleasure of his ministrations.

"I want your cock," you demand, drunk on the feeling, looking up at him with a dopey smile. You think you’re in the place to make demands. Knows he won't say no to you, not with this. Not anymore. 

And it's liberating, this feeling of control. Of being wanted.

He picks you up like you’re weightless. Hoists you up and sinks you down onto his thick length after making you cum two more times: once more on his tongue, another on his fingers. You ache in a way that's unfamiliar. The way sex brings pleasure instead of pain—without the residual shame, without the nauseating feeling that follows after being soiled. 

He swallows every cry with an open-mouthed kiss, like he’s starving for them. His touch saying more than words ever could.

And in that moment, with your lips pressed to his and your body trembling against him, you think you could die by his hand, and you’d die happy.

-

-

-

Daylight breaks through the windows in long, muted streaks.

You’ve been awake for almost an hour now – lying on your side. Still. Frozen. Not from fear of the man beside you, but from the fear of the aftermath. 

You ruined his birthday. Just like everything else. 

Your thoughts spiral downward, splinters and nails in your skull. He didn’t like it. He doesn’t like you that way, why would he, disgusting girl, disgusting piece of shit–

His arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you back into his chest, kissing the top of your head. “Go back to sleep.” _____

You give him the most genuine smile he’s seen on you later that afternoon, wide and toothy.

Sylus thinks it’s blinding. Figuratively, literally—it’s all the same to him. And it looks just right on your face.

He marvels at it, still somewhat surprised to find himself on the receiving end of such a thing. It makes the budding guilt a little more bearable.

You skip away to the bathroom, and along with that, the brightness. 

Sylus breathes slowly, leaving the moment behind as he eases back into the present. He feels the echo of you etched on his own lips – borrowed, despite himself, for the time being. _____

But then, with the highs, come the lows.

The feeling is familiar. A prickling at the edge of your scalp. The slow dissociation between thought and action. 

It’s like watching yourself from the outside, a silent spectator in your own body. Someone else curling their fingers around the hilt of Sylus’ knife—his favorite one, the one he always keeps in pristine condition. 

You don’t even remember reaching for it. One moment, it was tucked inside a snakeskin sheath, buried in one of the Cordura bag pockets. The next, it’s in your hand.

You remember the first time you stole from your father. Not out of malice. Just guiltless curiosity. Perhaps a cry for attention, with all the childish naivety of a girl at that age.

The consequence came down on you, fast and brutal. You returned what wasn’t yours before the day ended, but it didn’t matter. 

The punishment had you leaving his study limping – your backside split raw.

You hold the knife up, waiting for Sylus to react similarly. For the spark. The fury. The familiar fire—this time in his eyes—so that it makes sense to you, for him to finally make sense to you. 

You know his hands are violent ones, stained with blood. 

And yet.

Sylus only glances at you with fond amusement. 

“If you wanted one of your own,” he says lightly, “you could’ve just asked, sweetie.”

It confuses you. 

You lower the blade. Slowly.

(It’s okay. You’ll figure him out soon enough.) _____ The carnival is a mess of color and noise, bright paint faded by rust and time, garish music looping over itself through tinny speakers until it fades into the background. 

Every corner smells like caster sugar and engine oil, and you walk through it with sticky fingers clutched tight around a slushy drink that stains your tongue blue. Definitely a little too old for a place like this, but Sylus doesn’t seem to care. He’s the one who brought you here, after all. Paid for the overpriced wristbands and the bag of rainbow popcorn you’re currently munching on.

He lets you drag him from booth to booth, humoring your wide-eyed wonderment to your heart’s content – with nary but an indulgent smile, and the patience of someone who’s long given up trying to say no to you.

At the ring toss, you pause.

He follows your gaze to the prizes strung up like gutted prey, eyes landing on a dragon—a red, ugly thing. You love it instantly.

“That one?” he asks, raising a brow. You nod. 

He pays. Three rings, three hits. Wins without effort. The stall attendant barely has time to feign enthusiasm.

He hands the stuffed animal to you without ceremony. You bury your face in it.

Some woman—older, wearing a sunhat and a pair of mom jeans—walks by with a juice box in one hand and a toddler in the other, smiling at the sight of the two of you. 

“Your daughter’s adorable,” she says to Sylus, not unkindly. “You’re a lucky dad.”

Sylus laughs. Actually laughs. 

“Oh, I am,” he replies smoothly, voice tinged with mirth. “She’s one of a kind.”

You glow with pride.

_ 

Later, in the dark of another drive-in motel, the dragon lies curled against your chest. One of its eyes is sewn in too tight, the other too loose. Seeming to know more than it should.  

You turn your head to look at him where he sits, back to the headboard, thumbing something on his phone.

“Thank you for today,” you say, voice catching in your throat. “Um… I could–” A beat. You swallow. “I could suck you off, if you want.”

He snorts softly.

“You’ve had too much sugar,” he tells you, rustling around for the blanket before tugging it over your legs. “Have you brushed your teeth?”

You mumble an affirmative. He taps your nose, twice, and turns away to let you drift off—remnants of candy on your breath, and want curdling low in your belly.

You stare at the dragon’s crooked grin and wonder what it thinks of girls like you. _____ It happens one fateful night.

He comes home late. Not later than usual—but off. Off in the way his jaw is set, his shoulders stiff with something volatile. You know this version of him. You’ve seen it in small glimpses; cutting through the iron-clad control, the mask he wears so carefully around you.

You know this tension. You've tasted it before, not too long ago. It thrums in the walls, it bleeds into the air like a live wire—signalling something that's coming. Something bigger. Cataclysmic.

(There’s blood under his fingernails. You wonder if it’s his.) 

It makes your mouth water.

You know that you have to tread carefully – if you wanted him to break. So for the remainder of the night, you match his silence with your own little provocations: a dropped glass, the volume turned too loud, a gun gone missing, et cetera, et cetera. 

You watch his patience begin to fray, with all the sick thrill of a bystander watching a fuse burn down, gasoline in hand.

(You need to unravel him. You want him mean.)

And for your final act—

You pad up to him barefoot, silent across the floor. You press in close. Innocent. Maybe even smiling. Then, in a voice laced with mock sympathy, you goad—softly, sweetly:

“Night didn’t go so well for you, huh?”

It’s a whisper, barely that. But it lands like a bullet.

Sylus stills. Vermillion eyes flash as it cuts to you, and it reminds you of some ancient thing—part-man, part-beast. A praedator.

Then he moves.

You’re bent over the bed in seconds, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto. His belt clatters to the floor. His grip bruises your hips, anchoring you in place like some mere possession. 

When he impales you in one punishing stroke, it’s hard enough to knock the sound out of your lungs. He fucks you like he wants to rip you in half, like you’re the only outlet left in a world that’s stripped him of everything else. 

His gaze bears down on you, cold and unrelenting. You can’t see it, not directly, but you feel it—the weight of it, the violence in it. The insatiable need to ruin and consume. 

To be the creature on the other end of it is to be everything. Immortal. Seen.

You sob through it—half laughter, half wail. Your body trembles with every rough thrust, your throat raw from exertion. And still, you beg through the violent ecstasy. Not for him to stop—never, never—but for more. More of him. More of this. 

More of the familiar pain, more of the feeling of being loved, and owned, and wanted.

-

-

-

You don't understand why he can't look you in the eye the next day.

His gaze keeps skimming past you, never quite landing. His mouth opens once, twice, like he wants to say something—but nothing comes out. 

He’s careful with the distance between you. It makes your stomach twist.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask, voice small.

He flinches. 

Something shutters in him. You see it. You feel it. 

You hate it.

You hate the way his face closes off, guilt woven sharp across his features. Guilt for something he wanted, for something you gave him freely. 

You hate the way he recoils from it now. Like the festering entirety of you – everything you are, laid bare for him to see – is something that's shameful to want. 

You hit him—once, twice, again and again—fists raining down against his chest, needing him to feel even a fraction of the anguish burning through you.

“Say something,” you spit, choking on the lump in your throat. “Why won’t you just–”

“Stop,” Sylus says, catching your wrists. His voice is low, rough. Wrecked. “Sweetheart. Stop.”

But you’re shaking now, tears hot and ugly on your cheeks.

“I hate you,” you hiss, fists still curled. “I hate you, I hate–”

He pulls you in.

Cradles your face in both hands like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Kisses you like he’s drowning in it—desperate and aching. Tasting the salt on your lips, not knowing if it’s yours or his.

“I know,” he grits out, voice hoarse. He shuts his eyes like it hurts to look at you. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You don’t want him to be sorry. You don’t know what you want, exactly. You just wish he’d stop looking at you like you’re a mistake. _____ You don’t shower for three days. You’d go longer if he didn’t intervene.

You sit shivering in the grimy tub, arms curled tight around your middle, as Sylus bathes you in silence.

Neither of you speaks.

_ “God,” your father had snarled, flecks of spit catching at the corners of his mouth. He reminded you of the stray dogs across the block—wild-eyed and mean, always looking for something to tear apart. “Good for nothing bitch! You can’t do anything right!”

His hands flew up, and you flinched before the blow had even landed.

You were kneeling on the cold floor, eyes downcast. You had no choice. You had to hear it. Had to understand how you were born into this world unwanted by your own creator, even if all you ever did was give, give, give—everything you are, everything you can—

I wonder, you’d thought then, what it’ll take to break me.

You were surprised to learn it didn’t happen at that moment. Perhaps you are stronger than you give yourself credit for. (Perhaps you can take more.) 

If I could live through this—you surmised, watching from the outside where your child self was dying—I wonder what else I could survive. _____ There’s something rotting inside you. A moral rot. An onset decay festering, and it's only time until he realises this.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“Nothing's wrong with you.”

You'll take what you can get until he leaves.

“I’m tired.”

He carries you in his arms—your body, bruised blue against his. Still, he holds you with a kind of gentleness that feels entirely undeserved.

(He doesn’t say it, but he’d carry you like this forever. You don’t need to do anything but to simply exist. Everything else is secondary.)

“Sleep,” Sylus whispers.

“Can–” you swallow, closing your eyes. “Can you tell me you love me?” 

His hands tighten around you—an aborted, reflexive motion. He doesn’t answer right away. And maybe you’re imagining it, but there's a wetness on your cheeks that don’t belong to you.

He whispers it into the hollow of your throat. Over and over, until the words lose meaning. Until sleep takes you under.

Perhaps not everything in the world is meant to be cold. _____ It’s been a month since he let you tag along with him.

To visit an old acquaintance, he says. Someone trusted. You don’t ask. You watch the way the light touches the sharp planes of his face, sticking closer to his rib as the sun sets westward.

Nothing much is said. Just the brief introduction, the polite niceties. He holds you longer that night, and you let him. You don’t ask why.

You already knew.

So when you wake the next morning and find nothing but the indent of his body on the mattress, you don’t get up to look for him.

The bed is cold. The door left unlocked. He’s long gone by now.

You sit there in the quiet. Nothing else to say. Nothing else to do.

You reach for the dragon—the cheap, red thing from the carnival, almost a lifetime ago, with its peeling fabric and crooked stitching, stuffed too tightly and smiling a little too wide—clumsy in your arms. You press it against your chest, holding it the way you were held no less than a few hours ago. It still smells like him.

Heaven is brief. Soft. It leaves you warm enough to miss it.

Hell is what comes after.

You always think they are one and the same.

[ddejavvu]

I love your best friend with no boundaries James, and I was wondering if you could do one where James and reader are having their regularly scheduled mid-day naps, and Sirius and Remus walk into the dorm to find James just humping reader while they’re asleep? Maybe James and reader wake up to the GASP of horror from Sirius after his not so innocent eyes witness “straight up porn in their shared dorm where Peter of all people could witness”

I love all your works and was wondering if I could be marked as 😻anon? I’m the person who requested the bsf Steve imagine and I’m 100% gonna request something again because you’re perfect and I just wanna kiss you on the mouth🫶🏻🫶🏻

this post is 18+, minors dni.

Sirius considers himself James's best friend- no, brother, but he's not afraid to whack the man upside the head when he finds James grinding on you in his sleep.

"You-! Nasty-! Fucker-!" He bullies James awake, appreciating the much calmer, kinder way that Remus rouses you, tugging you away from James on the bed and murmuring that your nap is over. You blink your eyes open serenely, and James's shoot wide in pain as Sirius assaults him.

"What the fuck? Agh- Sirius! I know you're mad that I've got the better potions grade, but killing me won't help!"

"This isn't about potions, Potter," Sirius scoffs, "But I am thinking about tossing you in a hot cauldron. You were- eeugh, you were humping her, you animal!"

Your brows are furrowed and your blinks are bleary, but your brain catches up with the help of Remus's hands where they trace soothing circles on your back.

"Oh," You mumble groggily, as James groans with quickly reddening cheeks, "Uh- s'alright, Jamie."

Remus's hand stills on your back, but James and Sirius join in a fused indignant-confused "What?"

"S'just natural I guess," You shrug, "I dunno, I haven't- er, got one. But it was an accident, Jamie, you were asleep. It's alright."

James’s cheeks are still plenty rouged, but he nods sleepily at your forgiveness, relieved that he's not being hit by two people instead of only one.

"Yeah, thanks bird," He flops back down onto the mattress, letting out a sigh heavily infused with relief, "Wouldn't do it on purpose, y'know. Not while you're sleeping, that's- that's pervy."

"Some people like pervy," You hum, settling back into your own position in James's bed, though he's no longer curled around you. Sirius watches as you knock your hand against his own, "Sirius thinks I'm a perv."

"You're both pervs," Sirius grimaces, his lip curled in distaste as Remus stands from James's bedside, "Seriously, he eats off of your spoons, you've seen his dick, he's been grinding all over your ass - if you don't get a marriage license soon you're going to be very unpopular with the traditional crowd."

James turns towards you with a gasp, his eyes shining just the same as his grin does, "We could get married!"

"We should," You laugh, "And we could get a flat, and we could have your mother over for dinner every Tuesday."

"That would work." He nods, fully settled back into the pillows from Sirius's disturbance, "She loves you. And she's free Tuesday nights - her knitting circle ends at three."

"I know that," You scoff, barely biting back an overexaggerated eye roll, "James, I write your mother once a week. I know when her knitting circle is."

"You write my mum?" He rears back, momentarily confused, "She's never told me that!"

"Of course she hasn't," You snicker, "Because if you'd known, you would have stopped me from telling her how many times you get detention every week, and you'd want to share the sweets she sends me in exchange for the intel."

[yandere-daydreams]

Legit ended up having a dream about a robot apocalypse and robots just taking whatever human they saw nearby as pets. Like you're chosen and that was final, don't even have to know each other beforehand. It went on to show one robot that carried their human's remains after they passed. Literally just chained feet. Absolute dedication. Anyways my ass got got last second. Woke up and thought of you.

tw - mentions of death, kidnapping, forced dependence.

hmmm while i cannot speak on the ethics of robots reinventing taxidermy just to preserve and continue to maintain their former human pets (which, in the worst possible world, they'd keep in a very large, very well-adorned room for you to inevitably stumble upon), this did get me thinking about how post-apocalypse robots would acquire their humans in the first place,,, there is much to discuss ofc ofc.

the low population and unpredictable temperaments of human would take things like traditional adoption centers off the table, but i do think there'd be programs in place to get particularly docile captured humans to bots who'd malfunction without something to take care of - the automated homes and child-rearing droids, machines who wouldn't have a purpose without something delicate and mortal to keep alive. that doesn't mean they don't have preferences, though. your new caretaker is more than happy to tell you all about the other humans that have been sent to them, the ones who proved too cold or too hostile or too ungrateful to be kept around for very long. but, you're different. even if you've only just met, they're sure you're different. such a soft little thing - they know you wouldn't be able to survive on your own, and they know that once you've settled into your new life, you'll stop trying to. they'll even give you a little longer than they gave the others - a few weeks, rather than a few minutes; a handful of warnings, rather than an immediate and humane dose of some lethal compound injected directly into your carotid artery. they've already got your new wardrobe picked out and oh, humans need to sleep, don't they? they'll start working out your schedule right away. so long as you're good for them, they'll be able to take care of you for the rest of time, or at least for as long as your constantly deteriorating body will allow.

so long as you're good for them, you won't have to end up like the others.

[moonstruckme]

HI MAE!!! HAPPY 7k 🩷🩷

can i please do a blueberry muffin from your bake sale??? I always wanted a part two to your drabble for the emt!marauders with a reader who gets vertigo. I still for the comfort of how it'll be the car ride to the hospital with the boys comforting the reader just like int he first part. the drabble ended too soon 🫶🏻

nevertheless, you totally degree this milestone!!!

Thank you lovely!

part 1

cw: severe dizziness, mention of vomiting

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 497 words

You’ve decided not to make any more sounds. Your moaning and groaning was only worrying the boys, and if you can’t control anything else you can control that. Still, as slow as Remus tries to make the next turn, you can’t help your soft intake of air. Your head keeps turning long after the car has straightened out. 

“I know,” Sirius murmurs in reply to your little gasp. His voice is weighed down with sympathy. 

You’ve figured out that the cold of his hands helps, so he keeps pressing them to your forehead, your temples, your neck. On your other side, James is doing his best to keep you from moving with his arm around your shoulders. You’re holding your neck ramrod straight for the same purpose. You can feel the stitching of the seats where your fingers are pressed harshly to them, though in your vision the car is only a smear of gray interior and a deep blue out the windows. You guess by the color that it must be early morning. 

“I’ve got a bag,” James reminds you. “Let me know if you think you need it, yeah?” 

Your answering hum is wobbly. Sirius moves his hands to your cheeks. 

“Are you feeling any better, sweetheart?” Remus asks. You can picture him looking into the rear view mirror, and you and then at the other boys. You wonder what faces they’re making in silent answer. “Can you see at all?” 

“A little bit,” you lie. 

Sirius makes a soft sound, low in his throat. He strokes his thumb over your cheekbone. “Don’t downplay it for us,” he chides, about ten degrees gentler than his usual admonishments. “We can’t help you as well if we don’t know how bad it is, baby.” 

You press your lips together, hard, clamping them between your teeth, but you’re sure your boyfriends can see the tears you’re holding back regardless. James kisses your hair. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “We can talk about all that when we get there, yeah? You’re alright.” 

A quiet whimper slips out of you, two tears blinking out of your eyes one after the other. 

“You are, angel.” James seems desperate to reassure you. Sirius’ hands move to press over your collarbones, firm and grounding. “You’re okay. We’re gonna make it better, my love.” 

“Once we’re there, we’ll try not to move you around hardly at all, dove, alright?” Remus chimes in. “We’ll get you settled and checked out, and the worst thing that can happen is you end up sitting still and waiting this out. No more driving or walking or anything like that until you’re feeling better.” 

“Okay,” you manage to squeak out in reply. 

“Oh, my sweetheart.” James sounds nearly on the brink of tears himself, and you think you feel Sirius reach across you to rub his leg even as they’re both comforting you. 

“I know.” Sirius kisses your temple. “I know, baby. We’ve got you.” 

That, you can believe in.

[beasangel]

"emptied gun"

⤷ rafe cameron x manipulative!reader | ride or die, toxic romance

💭 “Rafe,” you murmur, “you didn’t lose control. You made a decision.”

summary: after the landing strip incident, rafe spirals. while sarah breaks down, you steady him. you don't see a monster—you see a man protecting his own.

warnings: violence, manipulation, toxic dynamics (they both crazy), outdated gender roles.

rafe masterlist main masterlist

The road hums under the tires. Wind howls through the cracked window.

Rafe is gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing holding him to earth, knuckles tigheted white.

Sarah’s curled in the backseat, sobbing into her hands.

And you? You’re watching him. Calm. Quiet. Controlled.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Rafe says, voice raw. “She was.. she was gonna ruin him.”

You nod, slow and steady, like you’re trying to calm a dog.

“She didn’t even listen. She didn’t care. I couldn’t let her do it.”

“I know,” you say gently. “You were protecting your family.”

His hands flex on the wheel, a quiet, frantic energy still buzzing through his veins.

“Don’t do that,” he says suddenly. “Don’t say it like I’m crazy. I had to.”

“I’m not saying you’re crazy,” you answer, soft as silk. “I’m saying you were right.”

Sarah lets out a wet, broken noise behind you. “What is wrong with you?” she cries. “He shot her! He murdered her, and you just- what? Don’t care?”

You still don’t turn around.

“She wasn’t going to stop,” you say, low and cold. “You think she would’ve just gone away? She wanted Ward gone. She didn’t care what that did to the rest of you.”

 “She was doing her job!” Sarah snaps.

“And look where that got her.”

Your eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror, lips curling just slightly.

“You wanna end up the same way? Keep talking.”

Sarah recoils like you slapped her.

Rafe’s shoulders shake once, part laughter, part collapse. “She doesn’t get it,” he mutters. “She’s always been like that.”

You brush your fingers across his thigh. “Let her cry. She won’t talk. She’s too scared to be on the wrong side of a story.”

“She’s not scared of you,” Sarah hisses.

You finally turn, meet her eyes. “She should be.”

You shift back to Rafe. You watch him breathe. He’s still trembling, but less now. Eyes glazed over like it’s all starting to make sense in his head again.

“Rafe,” you murmur, “you didn’t lose control. You made a decision.”

“I didn’t want to-”

“But you did. And it’s done. You can’t change it. So we don’t look back.”

He glances at you. It’s almost like desperation in his eyes. Sick and heavy.

You smile just a little. “You protected what was yours. That’s what men do.”

Then, his breathing picks up again, and his foot taps hard against the gas, twitchy. Spiralling again.

You reach over, pressing your hand to his knee. Firm. Grounding.

“Rafe,” you whisper. “What did your dad say before we left the landing strip?”

He swallows thickly, eyes still on the road. “He said… he said to get Sarah home.”

You nod. “And me?”

His voice drops lower. “You too.”

“Exactly,” you murmur. “He trusted you. He didn’t freak out. He didn’t push you away. He gave you a job.”

“I don’t think he meant for me to-”

“He did,” you say, sharper now. “You think Ward Cameron leaves anything to chance?”

That lands. You see it in the way his shoulders ease just slightly. A sliver of purpose returning.

“He’s proud of you, Rafe,” you whisper. “You did what he couldn’t, what he wouldn’t.”

Behind you, Sarah shakes her head slowly. “You’re insane.” But neither you nor Rafe pay her any attention.

You lean in close, fingers threading through the back of his hair, slow and soothing. “You handled it,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “You took control like a real man should.”

Rafe exhales, head tilting into your touch like a dog starved for affection.

And in the rear-view mirror, Sarah just stares, silent, frozen. Watching you cradle the monster she used to call her brother.

[apocalypseornaw]

Tell Me

Dean Winchester x Reader

Talk of period sex

NSFW happenings

You'd known the moment you snatched away from Dean's hand that you'd end up having to explain why. You could blame it on post fight adrenaline, the need to clear bodies and get the hell out of dodge or even just wanting to get a shower before first aid being administered. 

You saw him and Sam exchange a look before the three of you made quick work of cleaning up, getting victims to safety and putting the town in your rear view mirror.

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

You loved Dean and hoped like hell just this once he'd let it go, you were too damn embarrassed to admit what was going on. You sat in the backseat of the impala, dozing off and watching mile markers fly by. 

You woke up when Dean asked Sam if Chinese and the Copper Bird Inn sounded good to him. You glanced up about the time Dean glanced in the mirror "Good with you too sweetheart?" You nodded and he half smiled "Ok then. Sammy, you grab the rooms and I'll go grab the Chinese" 

You sat at the small table in the room while Sam sat next to you and Dean sat across from you. Anytime the three of you ate Chinese it always ended up with everyone stealing everyone's food so it was a habit by now to ask for empty containers for mixing purposes. The boys were talking about a case Bobby had called about and you were focusing on a hot shower and an attempt at some sleep. 

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

You nearly choked on air however when Dean absent-mindedly reached across the table to brush his fingers across your arm that was closest to him. It was a simple touch, an innocent one that he'd done even long before the two of you had confronted your feelings for each other. He said it helped him calm down after a hunt or to focus if he's talking about the next hunt. It was certainly not something you should've had such a reaction to. 

Him and Sam cut their eyes at each other and you could feel your cheeks warm. "Is the chicken spicier than usual?" Dean raised an eyebrow and shook his head "are you ok baby?" You nearly drew blood with how hard you bit your cheek when he called you baby before nodded "I think I'm just tired" 

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

The boys decided to call it a night too so Dean walked with you next door to Sam's room where you and him had a room with two queen sized beds as well. That was all the hotel had left. You were starting to be greatful for it.  

The moment you stepped into the room Dean slipped his arms around your waist and pulled you back against him "Are you sure you're ok? You've been acting a little off this entire hunt" 

You turned to face him, letting a playful smile slip onto your face "You doubting my skills Winchester?" He grinned "Never in a million years honey but if something's wrong between us you'd tell me wouldn't you?" You felt a twinge of guilt, you'd been too concerned at your own feelings to take his into account. "Of course Dean. There's nothing wrong with us baby. I promise" he smiled "ok" then brushed a soft kiss against your lips.

Dean took you at your words. Maybe you pulling away from him was just a post fight adrenaline thing, maybe you acting off was nothing he needed to worry about. There was still that voice at the back of his mind nagging him. The two of you had been friends for so many years before becoming more, he thought there wasn't a lot you wouldn't trust him with but he felt like there was something going on and when you refused to shower with him that all but confirmed something was wrong.

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

He stepped out the shower with intention to talk to you, maybe even convince you into talking with a backrub with stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you were laying on the bed closest to the door. "No ma'am" he spoke without thinking.

You turned to face him, confusion clouding your face "What's wrong baby?" He wiped a hand down his face before starting to count off on his fingers "You acted off the whole time we were talking to victims families, You wouldn't let me check on you after the hunt, you didn't even want to get rooms separate from Sammy, you choked on air from me touching me, you refused to shower me with me now you're on the bed closest to the door which you know I've never let you do and I'm not letting it go with you saying nothings wrong. Something is wrong. Tell me. Now"

You covered your face with your hands and mumbled something. He crossed the floor in maybe three steps before he was on the bed with you, gently pulling your hands from your face "What?" 

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

You should not have been this embarrassed but damn your exes and your mother had pushed such a sense of shame into you about it. Staring into the bright green eyes of the man you loved it seemed so stupid to be worried that Dean of all people would judge you for any reason "My period came two weeks early"

He nodded slowly "Do you needs pads or tampons or something?" You shook your head "No I always pack my period panties just in case" his brow furrowed "Sweetheart I'm not getting what's wrong" you closed your eyes "You, Dean" "Me?" He sounded so offended and only then did you realize what you said.

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

You opened your eyes and saw the hurt in his. You grabbed his hands and could feel your cheeks warm "You know my hormones are a bitch during my period" he nodded then his expression turned from hurt to humor "Are you turned on sweetheart and didn't know how to tell me?" 

"Dean Winchester everything you fucking do turns me on. When we were talking to victims families, You kept putting your hand on my lower back. That thing you do when you barely let your fingers graze my arm" you shivered lightly as he slowly crawled up the bed kissing what of your flesh your tank top and shorts gave him access to.

"The way you see yourself as just a foot soldier and you're so much more. You're such an amazing man.." his fingers joined his lips exploring what of your flesh wasn't covered by clothing and you gave a light whimper "and you in a fight..that's a thing of beauty" your voice was nearly a whisper when his mouth found your neck, lips working at your pulse point. 

"There's no one I could ever want or love more than you"  he practically growled into your skin before leaning back to look into your eyes "You've had me scared I was losing you. I don't ever want to feel like that" he caught your lips in a gentle kiss, tongue teasing against yours. "I'm sorry Dean"

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

"Next time just tell me what you need" he laughed before pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it. Your eyes widened "Dean, I'm bleeding" he grinned "When has blood ever bothered me?" He reached for your tank and when you leaned up to let him pull it off he winked at you before leaning down to roll one of your nipples before his teeth.

Your back arched off the bed and Dean chuckled, the vibration going through your body before he pulled away from you "like I'd deny myself seeing that reaction out of you?" His hand slipped between your legs, rubbing your clothed core "Dean, I don't need any teasing or hardly any foreplay. I want you inside of me...please"

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

The look he gave you could've made you could undone on its on. "Well look who finally learned her words like a good girl" he rutted his hips down against yours and a gasp left you when you felt how hard he already was "see that? That's what you do to me sweetheart. Don't ever think you can't ask me for what you want" 

Before you could say anything he was pulling your shorts off your legs tossing them to the side then standing up long enough to slip his sweatpants off. He crawled back onto the bed, hooking your legs around his waist as he lined himself up with your core "Anytime you want me, just tell me" with that he pushed into you pulling a moan from you both. 

He leaned forward to catch your lips in a searing kiss and the angle had you practically melting and he hadn't even moved yet. He grinned into the kiss "Fuck you feel amazing baby" you laughed breathlessly "Took the words out of my mouth" 

He tentatively rolled his hips and when your head fell back against the pillow he must have gotten the confirmation he needed because he kissed your neck and said "I love you. Tell me if anything is too much"

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

The grip Dean had on your hips was bruising, the only sounds in the room was flesh meeting flesh and your breathy moans. He'd made you come so many times your legs were shaking around him as he worked you towards one more orgasm. 

You knew your neck and chest was peppered with marks from his lips as his neck and chest was marked from yours and his back was marked from your nails. You felt his hips start to falter just slightly as one hand came up to wrap around your neck just tight enough to force your eyes open and your attention onto him "I want to see you come apart one more time baby. You got one more for me sweetheart?" You nodded weakly and he smiled "Yeah? Yeah my girl got one more for me, then I'll help you clean up and we can go to the other bed for some sleep" 

You nodded again and he laughed "Did somebody learn to tell me when she needs me?" You tried to nod but he slowed his thrusts causing you to whine slightly "Words baby" "I did. Promise, I'll tell you Dean" "Good girl" he cooed before snapping his hips forward, causing a moan of his name to escape you as your orgasm washed over you before he buried himself inside of you with a final deep thrust and you felt when he came, coating inside of you. 

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

The two of you laid there like that, him still inside of you while you both worked to get your breathing back to normal. He gripped your chin gently and placed a soft kiss on your lips before saying "I mean it baby. Anything you need from me, anytime never be afraid or embarrassed to tell me" you smiled sleepily "I promise" he kissed the tip of your nose then your forehead "Cmon. I'll help you shower"

[wisteria-lodge]

why didn't voldemort kill draco when he failed killing dumbledore? i mean voldemort has no qualms killing and torturing those that failed him and draco already did his task/outlived his usefulness

Voldemort never actually expected Draco to kill Dumbledore. The fact that he got as close as he did surprised literally everyone. Draco is given a slow-burn suicide mission, on purpose, to punish Lucius. That's Narcissa's take on the situation:

"This is vengeance for Lucius’s mistake, I know it! (...) That’s why he’s chosen Draco, isn’t it?” [Narcissa] persisted. “To punish Lucius?” “If Draco succeeds,” said Snape, still looking away from her, “he will be honored above all others.” “But he won’t succeed!” sobbed Narcissa.

but Snape absolutely agrees with her:

“The Dark Lord is very angry,” repeated Snape quietly. “He failed to hear the prophecy. You know as well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive easily.

Snape knows that the real plan all along was that he kills Dumbledore:

“He intends me to do it in the end, I think."

So... in Voldemort's eyes, Draco is useful essentially as a hostage. As long as Draco is around, he can punish/control Draco's parents. And of *course* he wants to be able to control Lucius and Narcissa: they're bankrolling him, they have the most societal power, they present the biggest threat. I also think he just ENJOYS torturing Lucius. Voldemort absolutely has a sadistic streak - tell me he's not having fun when he takes Lucius' wand away from him.

If I wanted to spitball and go all psychological, I think it's possible that Voldemort is projecting a lot of his specific issues onto Lucius. Rich, snobbish, attractive? Sounds a lot like his father, Tom Riddle senior. Rich pureblood with a connection to Slytherin? Sounds like Lucius Malfoy got the legacy Tom Riddle felt was denied to him.

Voldemort keeps Draco around basically as a punching bag. He forces Draco to cast crucio on the other Death Eaters, and I get why. That's like, triple torture. There's the literal torture, plus forcing Draco to do something he *really* does not want to do, and of course torturing Draco is going to hurt his *parents.*

"Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure . . . Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!” A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a terrified, pointed white face — with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes. (...) Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed branded on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.

Like, Draco is *not* having a good time here. Also... interesting shift from "Malfoy" to "Draco" right at the end there, Harry.

[rufflebuttercup]

drunk words are sober thoughts | spencer reid

summary: spencer’s been, uncharacteristically, ignoring you all day, and you’re determined to find out why. it can't be anything bad, right?

a/n: if i had a nickel for every time my reader got drunk and confessed their feelings for spencer, i’d have two nickels. which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.

enjoy the fic, and have a fantastic day! <3 requests are open!

note(s): gn!reader & no pronouns used, mention of alcohol, reader gets quite drunk, drunk confessions and kisses

word count: 3,422

Heavy sheets of rain pelted down onto your head as you weaved with purpose through the busy streets. Occasionally, a car would drive through the roadside puddles, creating a cosmic-sized splash that effectively soaked you to the bone. You hadn’t brought a coat. You didn’t think you were going to need one. The sun had still been shining when you’d left your apartment in Quantico. 

After a long, strenuous day at work, you had planned to go home, collapse onto your couch, and work your way through a tub of cookie dough ice cream that you knew was being neglected in the back of your freezer. Instead, you’d hopped onto a train and you’d taken the hour-long journey to Washington DC. 

Spencer had been completely ignoring you, and Spencer was never the type to completely ignore you. Or anyone, for that matter. Spencer was the type to get sassy and downright passive aggressive whenever he was mad at someone - you’d witnessed that first-hand early on in your friendship, and it had practically scarred you for life. This was different, though, and the silence seemed to be much more painful. You’d tried to speak to him multiple times throughout the day, but he’d managed to evade you, and he’d barely even made eye contact with you for more than a millisecond. You didn’t think you’d done anything wrong, but your overthinking, people-pleasing tendencies were starting to rear their ugly head. 

Another car splashed through the puddles at such a breakneck speed that you ended up getting completely soaked. You immediately began to grumble, and your shoes made a squeaky sound as you continued trudging down the street, “Spencer, I am going to kill you.”

Eventually, you found yourself outside of Spencer’s apartment. You crossed your eyes as you watched a water droplet drip from the tip of your nose. You were cold, and damp, and you were very much aware that you were leaving puddles on the carpet. You shuffled in place in the hopes that you didn’t soak one particular spot too much. You knocked on the door, and then you waited, and then you waited some more. You were beginning to wonder if he was even home at all.

Eventually, there was a shuffling noise on the other side of the door, and then you heard a lock being slid out of place. The door cracked open, and Spencer’s head popped out. His eyes widened slightly as he saw you, “Hi.”

“Hi,” you shook your head free of water droplets, making yourself look like a wet dog, “Can I come in?”

Spencer hesitated, and his eyes flickered up and down your figure. For a moment, you were convinced that he was about to slam the door in your face, “Yeah. Come in,” he spoke after a pause, and he shuffled aside, “You must be freezing.”

You nodded at him in gratitude, and you slid past him, “Yeah,” you laughed a little, your teeth chattering. Spencer’s apartment was warm and cozy with the heating system on full blast, a stark contrast to the miserable conditions outside, “You could say that.”

“Hang on. Let me just…” Spencer scampered into a room on the other side of his apartment that you assumed was his bedroom. You could hear him clattering around before he returned a moment later with one of his thread-worn sweaters, “Here.”

You took the sweater from him, and you slipped it over your head. It was big on you. Far too big, actually. But it was warm. That was all you cared about, “Thanks, Spence.”

A silence fell over the two of you. An uncomfortable one. Spencer’s eyes darted around the apartment, making sure to focus on anything except for you, “So…”

You immediately cut him off, “I’ve done something wrong, haven’t I?”

“What?” Spencer started a little at your question, “Of course, you haven’t. Why would you…”

A sudden wave of self-consciousness washed over you, and you fiddled with the hem of the sweater, “You know you can always tell me if I’ve done something wrong,” you began to ramble. It was a trademark you had whenever you were slightly nervous, “I don’t mind. I won’t get mad, or offended, or…”

“Hey. Stop,” it was Spencer’s turn to cut you off, “Why would you think you’ve done anything wrong?”

You sighed, and you ran a hand through your wet hair, “Spence, you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

ꨄ︎

You triumphantly clutched the two movie tickets in your balled up fist, “I did it!”

Derek’s eyes followed the little scraps of paper as you waved them up and down, “Great. What did you do?”

“I got the tickets! I waited all morning for these!” you excitedly shoved them into Derek’s face, almost punching him straight in the nose, “Look!”

“Yeah, I know what movie tickets are,” he swatted your arm away, “What are they for?”

“Mother!” your voice almost came out as an excited squeal, and it was only after Derek raised an eyebrow at you that you realized how strange your words sounded without context, “It’s a South Korean movie. They’re doing a screening of it later this week at a film festival in New York, and they haven’t translated it yet, so it’s still entirely in the original language.”

“I didn’t know you knew Korean.”

“I don’t. At least, not entirely,” you shrugged, “I’m not exactly conversational, but I can understand bits and pieces. I was talking to Spencer about it the other day, and we both decided we’d go together, and…” you paused, eyes narrowing when you saw the smirk Derek was hiding behind his coffee cup, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. What?”

Derek took a deliberately slow sip of his coffee, “It’s not my place.”

“That’s quite literally never stopped you before,” you rolled your eyes, “What’s wrong? Do you think it’s a bad idea? I mean, I thought he’d enjoy it.”

Derek hummed in amused agreement, “There’s something he’d enjoy a lot more.”

“Derek. Just…” you were about to respond, but you were interrupted by the chiming of the elevator. Your eyes lit up as Spencer stepped out, “Oh! Spence!” you had to jog to catch up with his quick pace, “Look. I managed to get us those tickets. We can go together!”

“I don’t think I can.”

Spencer’s answer made you falter, and the smile that had been plastered onto your face dropped, “But, I thought you were looking forward to seeing it. I am. It’s not until next week, so…”

“No. It’s fine. You go and see it, though. You’ll enjoy it a lot more on your own, I’m sure.”

You came to a standstill at that, and your mouth hung open as Spencer took a seat at his desk and proceeded to busy himself in a case file that he already had waiting, “What was that?”

Derek sidled up to you, “What was what?”

“That,” you waved your hand in Spencer’s direction, “He brushed me off? I didn’t even do anything.”

“Oh, you definitely did,” Derek took another one of those suspicious sips of his coffee, “Quite a lot, actually.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Derek,” you warned him, “You sip that coffee like that one more time and it’s going straight out of the window.”

“Hey! This was expensive.”

ꨄ︎

Spencer’s neck began to turn a shade of pink, and the blush seemed to spread all the way up to the tips of his ears, “I haven’t been ignoring you.”

“Don’t deny it Spencer. Please. That makes it worse,” you said, “All day, you’ve been avoiding me. I’ve barely managed to speak two words to you without you escaping into the next room.”

Spencer shuffled a little on the spot, avoiding your eyes, “I guess I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you did,” with a sigh, you dramatically flopped onto his couch, “I can’t even believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather you get all passive aggressive with me like you usually do when you’re mad at someone. At least then I’d know that I’d done something wrong.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I’ve obviously done something,” you shot back at him, “You never ignore anyone. Least of all, me. It’s like you suddenly hate me.”

“Hate you? I could never…” Spencer trailed off, and he sat down on the couch beside you. There was an undeniable gap between the two of you that you hated, “You really don’t know what you did, do you?”

“If I did, do you think I’d be here?”

Spencer sighed, “The other night, when we all went out after work,” he started, his tone almost hesitant, “What do you remember?” 

“We went to O'Keeffe's, and Prentiss got us involved in that drinking game that I’m sure she was making up on the spot, and…” you froze, “Oh. Oh no,” you groaned, “Please don’t tell me I did my Backstreet Boys karaoke set.”

The corners of Spencer’s lips twitched into a smirk at that, “It was quite good, actually,” he bit back a laugh, “Some interesting choreography, too.”

You groaned again, and you sank into the couch cushions as you buried your face in your hands, “This is the worst day of my life.”

“That’s it? You don’t remember anything else?”

“No,” you shook your head, peeking at him through your fingers, “What else did I do? Drop some NSYNC into the mix, or something?” your brow furrowed at Spencer’s hesitation, “Spence…”

“You kissed me.”

“What?!”

ꨄ︎

Spencer and Derek were standing out on the busy street, occasionally glancing at the door to O'Keeffe's. The music from inside was still blaring, even though it was 2.am. Most of the team had gone home for the night, leaving only the select few stragglers behind. 

The door to the bar slammed open, and Spencer and Derek immediately looked in the general direction. Derek snorted out a laugh, and Spencer chuckled, “Do you think they’re going to be alright?”

Meanwhile, at the door, you and Penelope were stumbling out onto the street. You had your arms thrown around each other, and it was clear that the two of you were struggling to stay standing. You were both the lightweights of the team, “I love you so much, Pen.”

“I love you, too, my sweet angel,” Penelope let go of you momentarily so she could grab your shoulders and shake you, “You are one of my bestest friends in the whole entire world.”

It was at that moment - the moment where Penelope’s voice got a little too high-pitched and squeaky - that Derek stepped in, “Alright. Let’s pack it up,” he slid in between the two of you, “I think we best get you two home,” it wasn’t a question.

“And you,” Penelope whirled on Derek, prodding him in the chest with her index finger, “You are just the most magnificent person I’ve ever seen,” she cupped his cheeks, squishing them together, “Look at you. You… You magnificent Green god of a man.”

“Mr. Magnificent,” you followed up with a giggle, puffing out your chest and putting on your best impression of Derek, “Look out. Here comes Mr. Magnificent. Watch your doors.”

“Okay. Alright. As much as I’m loving this conversation we’re having,” he took hold of Penelope’s shoulders and firmly began steering her down the street, “You need to go home.”

“Speak soon, my love,” you blew a kiss in the general direction that Derek and Penelope had gone off in, and then you turned to Spencer, “Let’s go!” you dramatically pointed in the vague direction of your apartment and strode off.

“Woah! Hey!” Spencer ran to catch up with you, “You’re not going home on your own.”

“Obviously,” you rolled your eyes, and you grabbed Spencer’s wrist, “You’re coming with me, you silly genius.”

Spencer let out a yelp as you dragged him down the street. He had to apologize profusely to a couple that you almost rammed into, “Slow down,” he called out, “Do you even know where you’re going?”

You paused at that, and you pursed your lips as you tried to string together a coherent thought, “This way!” you bounded off, though Spencer quickly caught your arm.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

“No, I’m not,” you tried to march off once more, but you stopped a few steps away and swiveled on your heel, “Oh.”

Spencer shook his head, an amused smile playing on his lips, “Told you. You’re…”

“We’re going the wrong way!”

“We?!”

For a long moment, you and Spencer wandered through the streets in near silence. The only sound came from you as you hummed a completely out of tune song to yourself. You didn’t live far from O'Keeffe's, and you usually could’ve walked the distance in two minutes. It took you close to ten considering how often you decided to stop and take notice of every little thing that caught your eye. 

At one point, Spencer had to grab your hand and drag you down the street. You didn’t mind that, though. Your skin tingled as he squeezed your hand, and it made you giggle. You always were the type to get too giggly and hyper when you’d had too much to drink.

“Oh, come on,” Spencer stood in front of the elevator in your apartment building, grumbling in frustration at the ‘out of order’ sign that was plastered on the doors, “You have got to be kidding me.”

“It’s broken.”

“I know it’s broken.”

You collapsed onto the stairs with a soft thud. Your eyes were starting to droop from tiredness, “It’s always broken.”

Spencer sighed and turned to you, another one of those amused smiles lighting up his face as he saw you staring at the ceiling - even though you were staring at absolutely nothing, “Are you even capable of using the stairs right now?”

“I will be if you carry me.”

“I’m not carrying you,” Spencer gently tugged your arm, “Come on. What floor is your apartment on?”

“Tenth.”

“Oh, for…” he quickly cut himself off, and he pulled you to your feet as he began guiding you up the stairs almost one step at a time, “Alright. Come on, then. Let’s get you home.”

“I don’t want to,” you whined, tugging on his hand, “No. No. I have a secret.”

If you weren’t being so cute, then Spencer would’ve been exasperated by this point. You clearly needed your bed, and he so desperately wanted his, “What is it?”

“It’s a secret,” you giggled, and you beckoned him closer, “Come here. Let me whisper it.”

“Fine,” Spencer rolled his eyes affectionately, and he took a step closer, “Can you tell me now?”

“No,” you grabbed his jacket, tugging him so close that his face was right against yours, “There. Close enough,” you giggled once more, and you leaned in so close that your lips were almost on his ear, “I want to kiss you.”

Spencer’s reaction was as if someone had burned him with a hot iron. He took a step back, and his expression was one of pure, unadulterated shock, “You… You want to…” it wasn’t often that you saw Spencer at a loss for words, “You want to kiss me?!”

You hummed in response, and you clapped your hands excitedly, “Yeah! Can I kiss you?” you asked, bouncing up and down on the balls of your feet, “Because I really want to kiss you.”

Spencer’s mouth opened and closed as if he were a fish out of water. It made you laugh harder than you already were, “I… I…” Spencer fumbled over his words for a few more seconds, but then he seemed to collect himself. He straightened up, and despite the blush painting his cheeks, his shocked expression morphed into one of delight, “Yeah. Okay. You can kiss me.”

The next noise out of your mouth was a squeal, “Yay!” you barely gave him a chance to prepare himself before you grabbed his collar and pressed your lips to his. You felt fireworks exploding in your mind, but you weren’t entirely sure if they were because of the kiss or the alcohol. Either way, it was quite possibly one of the best moments of your life.

After a few seconds, the kiss broke. Spencer pulled away first, but he seemed reluctant to do so, “I… That was…”

“That was amazing!” you finished his sentence for him, “I want to do it again. Can we do it again? Pretty please?”

Your plea got a genuine laugh out of Spencer. He was half-tempted to kiss you again, but he shook his head, “No. We’re waiting until you’re sober before we do that again,” he took your arm and began helping you up the stairs, “Come on. You need sleep. You’re going to have the worst hangover in the world tomorrow.”

“No fair. I hate hangovers,” you whined. You were interrupted when you tripped on the stairs and almost face planted right into the carpet. It was pure luck Spencer caught you before you did, “Ow. Who put that there?”

ꨄ︎

“Oh my God,” all you could really do was stare at Spencer with your mouth wide open. It was a wonder your face wasn’t burning, “Spence, I…” everything made so much sense - the strange glances, the teasing comments, all of it - “I am so sorry. I…”

“No. No. Don’t be sorry,” Spencer quickly reassured you, and he placed a hand on your shoulder in an attempt to try and ease the nerves that were creeping through your tone. He closed the distance between you, too, which you appreciated. At least he didn’t hate you, “You don’t have to apologise. I… I didn’t mind.”

You thought you’d finally managed to get over the first wave of shock, but then it all hit you once again, “You didn’t?”

From the moment you’d first walked into the BAU on your very first day, you’d fancied Spencer more than you’d ever fancied anyone ever before. You couldn’t explain it. Then, as your working relationship turned into an actual outside-of-work friendship, you decided it was easier to keep quiet about your feelings for him than risk ruining the good relationship that the two of you already had. 

“But… But I was drunk, and…”

Spencer quirked an eyebrow up at that, “Are you saying you didn’t mean it?”

“No. Of course, I meant it,” you corrected him, immediately faltering when you saw that smug smirk on his face, “Shut up,” it was hard to act annoyed when the goofiest grin imaginable was taking over your face, “I didn’t think you’d actually kiss me.”

Spencer let out a soft laugh, “Yeah, well. You were pretty insistent. It’s hard to say no to you,” he rubbed his shoulder, wincing a little, “I’m pretty sure you almost broke my shoulder after you shoved me against the door and demanded I kiss you again.”

At that, you sunk as far as you could into the couch cushions as if you were willing to disappear into them, “I hate you,” you attempted to weakly swat at him.”

“Your drunk self says otherwise,” Spencer laughed, deflecting your swat and catching your hand instead, “To be honest, if you hadn’t lost every single one of your inhibitions that night, I’m pretty sure we’d still be calling this a friendship.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, “Oh? Is that not what this is?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer countered, “Do you usually go around kissing your best friends?”

“Personally, no. But I don’t judge, so…” you trailed off, and your eyes flitted to Spencer’s lips for a brief second, “So, if I clearly didn’t mind, and you didn’t mind, then does that mean I get to kiss you again? Sober, this time, obviously.”

"Yeah. I suppose that’s exactly what this means,” Spencer scooted a little closer, and now the gap between the two of you was non-existent, “It’s good to know that you’ll actually remember this one.”

You giggled at that comment. You sounded as if you were on cloud nine, and you definitely felt it, too, “Yeah. Me too. I can’t believe I don’t even remember our first kiss,” Spencer was about to kiss you, but you placed a hand on his chest to stop him, “You’re definitely not mad at me, though, right?”

Spencer chuckled, and he shook his head, “You’re impossible. Of course, I’m not mad.”

“Good. Just checking,” you took your hand off his chest, instead choosing to place it on his hip, “You can kiss me now.”

[thisaccountisagainstmywill]

BG3 Characters Safest Driver Headcanons

I've been thinking about that poll from months ago way too much, so I've pulled this from my drafts. In this essay, I will explain why Boo is the best driver. Astarion: Terrible. Absolutely terrible driver. He is doing his makeup with the visor down, looking at the mirror more than the road. Suspend your disbelief, he's driving in this universe. He can use mirrors. ♥ You have to grab the steering wheel, regularly. Without warning, the man twists around to find his purse in the back seat because he wants a different eyeliner than what he grabbed. You are on aux duty. He hates everything you've picked. 2/10, he lawyered his way into that license Gale: You would think he would be safe, but then you remember that Gale didn't pay attention in boring classes. And how hard could driving really be?? The man knows how to drive perfectly textbook. He also thinks he knows how to do it better than everyone else. He does not adapt well to poor drivers. The roads are full of poor drivers. He is yeling "Zipper!" at the merging traffic. You spend five minutes in the parking lot so he can find just the right song for the trip.

6/10, you will probably not die Halsin: The man drives slow, I'm sorry. He's fuel efficient as you can get with the windows down. He pulls over and stops traffic for ducks crossing the road, no matter what the current road conditions are. He stops to show you the new tree the neighbor got. He is a Yellowstone Park tourist. He wants to show you the world, one traffic-stopping mid-road parking job at a time. There is no music, we are listening to nature today. 4/10, you will be rear-ended with him and not the way most people want Jaheira: I stand by what I said last time: Jaheira reminds me of so many older women I know. She drives like she wants someone to start shit with her. She's so conditioned by having 5 kids fighting in the backseat at all times that every time she's behind the wheel she's having Vietnam-level flashbacks. Her blood is pumping in her ears. There is no road, there is only the red of her vision. She won't start the road rage incident directly, but by god, she will end it. (You tried to ask about music, but the look she gave you when asked killed the question.) 5/10, you make it to your destination intact. But at what cost? Your pants are a different color at the end of the trip than they were at the beginning. Karlach: Karlach is talking with her hands while she drives. She's fiddling with the radio constantly. You've blown four red lights. Three of them were the same red light because she took a wrong turn. She will not use GPS, she's got the vibe of where she's going. She was trying to show you something on her phone at the same time. It cannot wait. It was so good you have to see it right now. The tunes are so loud she hasn't heard the sirens behind her. 4/10, the tunes almost make up for it Lae'zel: You are helping her check her mirror distance before you get in the car. You are buckled in before the car even starts. You are not allowed to touch the light in the car if it is dark out. She was taught that it's illegal to have on at night and she takes that shit seriously. You are on blindspot-watching duty at all times. You're not allowed to have music on the in car, it is a distraction. 7/10, we are efficient, but we are miserable Minsc: Minsc cannot drive. Minsc was meant to drive today, but Minsc got into the wrong seat. We are all relieved. Jaheira trained him wrong on purpose and will kill you if you correct him. 0/10, don't even try. He will survive the accident, you will not. Minthara: Minthara, light of my life. She is gremlin cackling and riding bumpers the whole time. People are pulling off constantly to get away from her. You are white-knuckling in the passenger seat and are too afraid to let go of the bitch-bar. You pray her airbags are up to date because your life has not stopped flashing before your eyes since you got onto the road. We are exclusively listening to The Flight of the Valkyries. 7/10, it is shockingly efficient when no one else is on the road anymore

Shadowheart: I have been in many a 'Shadowhearts' car. The car is more of a problem than she is. She drives the type of car that makes people go, "You live like this?" She drives a manual. She was not trained to drive a manual. Almost every single dash light is on, the ones that aren't had their bulbs die out years ago. We don't know how old that trash is, but it lives here now. She has one of those cassette players that has to hook into your phone to come out the speakers. Good luck finding the right adaptor in the mess. 4/10, girl get your shit together Wyll: Wyll is the best driver, hands down...when he is alone. Like all things in his life, his greatest flaw is being too polite. He turns his whole fucking head to look at you when you talk because that is the polite thing to do. The road is secondary to how important your conversation and companionship are to him. And you can't not talk him! He's asking you genuine questions about your day because he's interested. You get to listen to whatever you want and he's totally down for it even if it's not normally his thing. He'll find something he likes about it. Alone: 100/10, he somehow makes everyone better drivers by just being on the road With you: 5/10, Wyll, please, look at the road. ;_;

Boo: My eyes are closed. It's better this way. We made it there in record time. I don't know how it happened. I don't need to know how it happened. ?/10, it's best if you don't think about it

[strangelittlestories]

Once upon a time, I was a Chosen One.

—

The spell spins through the air and I duck just in time. It turns a section of the wall behind me into a fractal skeleton of brick-shards.

—

Since all that was taken away from me, I had always expected to die forlorn, wistful and alone. But I had hoped that it wouldn’t be *today*.

—

The brick skeleton opens its red ribcage to swallow me and I scramble away.

The second mage's spell catches me in the shoulder. My tendons unwrap and attempt to burst out of my skin to strangle me. I push them down with my dwindling anima and they settle grudgingly back into place.

—

I’m getting ahead of myself. You may be wondering how someone becomes an ex-Chosen One. Well, being a Chosen One does not - contrary to popular opinion - make me special. 

I feel the absence of The Embrace constantly; like I’m stuck in the moment on a rollercoaster where your stomach falls away. This does not make me special either. There are a handful of other former avatars scattered about and I know they’re not doing well either (I scry on them from time to time). And besides, we hardly have a monopoly on the churning loss of purpose. 

—

I throw my anima into my fists. I don’t really have any to spare, but I’m done for if I just play defence.

There’s no clever working here, no cunning curse or complex incantation. I just ball up my hand, crush my spirit until it’s solid, then punch it out. The air ripples in a line of force connecting me and the second mage. It catches her in the stomach. I feel agony erupt as she collapses in three different planes.  

It is not nearly enough.

—

I have learned since I left the Mycelial Coven that yearning is a warm and open hearth. All are welcome to sit by the fire at the centre of the yawning void, staring at the flames until they burn the whole world away.

It is worse because I still think it’s correct. We designed The Embrace to be a temporary measure. A distillation of collective power, drawn from a collective of magicians distributed  across continents and consciousnesses.

Sometimes a crisis demands a champion. A single point of focus. A locus of amassed anima from around the world. It is given freely, and this avatar is Embraced; girded in belief, love and enough magic to jumpstart a star.

—

A third mage arrives. He is holding a curse above his head that spreads across the sky like wispy cirrus clouds made of animos (that rancid slurry of tainted spirit). The strands descend and wrap around the three of them, propping up the second mage like a puppet.

They surround me. Strands of sticky, bile-black poison rear up to strike.

I reach for The Embrace to help me. Of course, it is not there.

—

When I accepted The Embrace, I knew it was a once-only deal. It’s too much power to let any one person wield longer than one catastrophe. You get one quest. One war. One singularity. One chapter of the story where you’re the most important person in the world.

And if you survive, you leave the Micelial. That’s the deal. If the collective relies too long on an individual, it makes them a king. If an individual stands above the collective too long, it makes them a god.

So you save the world. You get gratitude. You get support. You get therapy. And you get shown the door.

I still think that is the right call.

But it’s not exactly helpful when you end up back in the life-or-death tangle again.

—

The curse wraps around me like a lover dripping venom.

My tattered anima burns to vapour as I try to stop it seeping into my skin.

I keep reaching. The Embrace is not there. It never will be again. But I reach still, grasping for the place where power once was.

And *something* answers. It offers me infinity. It gives me a price.

There are many sources of strength in the world beyond those made by the Mycelial Coven. The Embrace is only special because it is *benevolent*.

But I do not want to die. So I say to The Something: “Yes.”

[writers-potion]

Got anything for dialogue

Writing Dialogue 101

Dialogue is conversation, nothing more, nothing less. The catch is: diagloue is EDITED conversation. It must be more concise, purposeful and witty than the everyday sentences we speak, while sounding natural.

The Purpose of Dialogue

Diaglue is definitely a fiction elements that pops everything up and out. Thus, dialogue is going to have more impact than your normal paragraphs, in order to:

Characterizes/reveals motives

Sets the mood in the story

Intensifies the story conflict

Creates tension and suspense

Speeds up your scenes

Add bits of setting/backgronud

Communicates the theme

Matching the Dialogue to the Genre

The dialogue in a book should speak the reader's language. There is a type of voice that suits each genre/category of fiction, and we must understand what matches the reader expectations and rhythm of the plot we are writing.

Magical Dialogue

"Do not kill him even now. For he has not hurt me. And in any case I do not wish him to be slain in this evil mood. He was great once, of a nobel kind that we should not dare to raise our hands against." - The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkein

"As much as I want you and want to be with you and part of you, I can't rear myself away from the realness of my responsiblities." - The Bridges of Madison County, Robert James Waller

This is the language of The Hobbit, Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

When writing literary and mainstream fiction (that is targeted at the general public rather than a target audience), we need to go with what sounds real, even with a magical setting

Science fiction and fantasy can be more unreal, i.e. things like "May the Force Be With You."

In romance, magical dialogue takes on a differen form. It's magical in that it transcends the way we talk to each other in normal society. Magical in that all of it makes perfect sense and is said in such eloquent langauge that we marvel at it while at the same time knowing that if we are left to ourselves, we would say something absolutely banal.

Cryptic Dialogue

"You know, the condom is the glass slipper of our generation. You slip it on when you meet a stranger. You dance all night, then you throw it away. The condom, I mean. Not the stranger." - Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk

This is the dialogue in literary and religious stories that dealw ith abstract ideas and vague concepts and has double meanings. Readers aren't meant to understand theses right away.

These bits of dialogue plant sublimnal messages in the reader's mind that help communicate the theme later on, ultimately making sense.

Cryptic dialogue is difficult to do well. If we're not careful, we'll end up sounding preachy, moralistic and dogmatic.

You need to be able to view the world in different perspectives.

Descriptive Dialogue

The literary, fantasy and historical story often relies on dialogue for worldbuilding (expplaining history, magic rules, etc.)

The author's goal in descriptive dialogue is to provide the reader with information. However, the character's goal cannot be sacrificed for the author's. Dialogue can still have tension and suspense and can be inserted into a scene of action so the story doesn't bog down while the readers get some info.

Shadowy Dialogue

In shadowy dialogue, the character's job is to keep the reader suspended in a state of terror/suspense. Then you periodically tighten and loosen the tension.

The key here is uncertainty. The reader cannot trust the speaker, so we're always questioning him, wondering whether he's speaking truthfully or is presenting the full picture.

Keep the tone as dark of possible, using action and background as supporting tools.

Make it cryptic, or even better, offering an omnious threat of what is to come.

Provocative Dialogue

This is the type of dialogue that conveys the theme, talking about the "universla truth" your book is trying to convey.

Readers like to be challenged in their thinking, provoked to consider other ways of thinking, and shaken up in their belief systems with a fresh perspective about the world.

Consider this example from To Kill A Mockingbird:

"...but there is one way in this country in which all men are created equal - there is one humna institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockfeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignornant man the equal of any college president."

There is no way we can read this and not think about something that is bigger than our daily lives.

Make your readers squirm, and shock them out of their comfort zones.

Uncencored Dialogue

Uncencored dialogue in YA stories are of young people, but that doesn't mean it's filled with hip-hop words and slag.

While adults cencor themselves when they speak, teenagers haven't yet learned that skill so their dialogue is more raw, edgy and honest.

Readers of YA novels expect realism, so make it as authentic as possible. The last thing we want to is for our characters to be brash and honest, but NOT sound like they've just stepped out of Planet Way Cool.

For example:

"What if he doesn't like me back?" "You are too much of a chicken to do anything aboutit but mope."

As an adult, how often do you admit fear of rejection out loud to another, or call out your friend to her face? In YA-type of dialogue though, we can just write what comes into these characters' minds.

So that sums up the different types of dialogue. Consider the nature of your plot, what your readers and the genre of the story you are writing to choose an appropriate way for your characters to speak!

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[strwbmei]

>Navia's on the masterlist

It's me again. I hope you don't mind me sending this again. I added more details while I was at it:

Bodyguard!Reader getting teased by an Exhibitionist!Navia. She makes sure to wear the shortest skirts whilst you accompany her. Showing off those gorgeous thighs and a bit of ass, it bothers you to know you're probably not the only one staring at her.

Still, you're the only one that has her fullest attention. Once you're back is turned, she's already exposing herself to you. Whether it's a quick flash of her tits or lift up her skirt (revealing her cunt), you only catch a hint before she's quickly covered herself. You know she's doing this on purpose.

It gets to the point where you're so sexually frustrated you drag her off to some random alleyway to get railed :3

-- Navia anon

Navia has always held a bit of favoritism towards you. While she dislikes having a bodyguard or two follow her around, she makes sure to keep you close to her whenever possible. You're not complaining since it's part of your job, but you can't help but wonder how and why you've managed to capture Navia's attention.

Still, it's hard to keep up your professional attitude when you keep on catching a glimpse of her thighs and ass. Being the caring and attentive bodyguard that you are, you even try to stand as close to her as possible so that no one else would see. You just hope that Navia wouldn't take a step backward, otherwise she'd be able to feel your boner pressing against her rear.

While she loves how courteous you are, she's tired of it. Navia can't wait for you to just... snap. Hasn't she been forward enough? Or perhaps you just didn't find her attractive? Navia waits and waits and waits, but nothing changes. You don't let her see even the slightest reactions. It'll take much more than that for Navia to give up on her beloved bodyguard, though.

She resorts to more... exposing acts. Acts like lifting up her skirt or blouse completely. No doubt about it now; Navia is definitely doing this on purpose. You have no idea why, but you aren't one to refuse blessings that come your way. Or at least, you considered it a blessing at first. The moment Navia saw your normally stern face flush red, she was hooked; even more so than she already was. It was a dangerous game you were playing, and she never planned on losing. Now you're left sexually frustrated, and you don't know if you have it in you to hold back for much longer.

You didn't.

You tried to confront her about it, to not just give in to your lust like some beast. All Navia did was give you vague replies that answered none of your questions, and you were getting very sick of her shit very quickly. Next thing she knows, she's getting brutally railed into next year. Your fingers are in her mouth, trying to keep her noises down to no avail. Her knees fail to hold her upright, but your position as a bodyguard isn't just for show. Keeping her balanced is light work as you leave marks all over her body and play with her nipples.

Her clothes are pretty much ruined by the time you're finished, so you end up giving her your coat to cover herself up. You'd want to say that this would teach Navia a lesson, but seeing the smug expression on her face as your cum drips down her inner thighs, it'd only spur her on further...

[kurishiri]

Darius Vogel ┊ The great detective Harrison’s book of incidents

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to narrative flow and characterization purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but please don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— the 440 times sent bonus for harrison’s promised event! i now know how jude fans feel... /lh

[TYPEWRITER]

CASE 04 DETAILS: The search for my cute little robin. REQUESTER: Darius.

[HALLWAY; NEUTRAL POV]

Liam: We’ve got nothing on our hands now since we put in our mission report, I see...

Harrison: Nothing, including your work over at Scala?

Liam: Tom’s making the script! He was telling us that he’s run into a bit of a block, so to give him a few days time.

On a certain day, with not a single strange happening, a shadow of a person approached the two, making casual chat.

Darius: Well, hello there, Harrison Gray and Liam Evans.

Harrison: And what might the head of Vogel need from us?

Darius: My poor heart, why so guarded?

D: I just caught wind a little while ago from the Queen’s Aide. You’re looking for cases to solve as detectives, yes?

D: So by all means, I would like you to hear mine out. (＠＾◡＾)

Liam: Oh, my curiosity’s tickling me, Harry!

Harrison: Yeah, and I feel like if we pick it up just to satiate that curiosity of yours, it’s gonna bite us back hard in the rear. (￣□￣」)

Darius: Hehe— don’t worry so much. I’m not really looking for anything grand.

D: I’d simply like you to find an adorable little robin who flitted away from my hands.

[STORAGE ROOM; KATE’S POV]

As Harrison, Liam, and Darius continued to converse, unbeknownst to the robin in question——

Meanwhile, I was in the palace’s storage room.

(It’s going to be fine. Darius would never be able to find me like this...!)

Why am I hiding from Darius, you ask? Well, it all happened just several minutes before...

—— Flashback ——

[PALACE GUEST ROOM]

Darius: Miss fairytale keeper, come play with me, how about it?

It was a line I’ve heard before, and I responded back...

Kate: Umm... I didn’t come here to play though.

Darius: That I know. You’re here to record the discussion Victor and I are going to have, isn’t that right?

Kate: Yes, that’s right. So, that’s why I don’t have time to play——

Darius: About that, Victor ended up getting caught up in some previous engagements, so he’s going to be an hour late.

D: So here we are, keep me occupied in that hour, will you. (＾▽＾)

—— End flashback ——

[STORAGE ROOM]

And then he suggested we play hide and seek.

Because, ‘If I find you in time, I’ll have you do a single thing of whatever I ask.’

He donned the face of an angel, all the while setting the conditions of a devil, and recalling those words, I tried my utmost best to find a hiding place.

(There’s only a few minutes left. At this rate, I will be able to escape from him.)

I looked up at the clock, lax, when...

Darius: Fooound you, miss fairytale keeper.

I wanted dearly to think I was hallucinating, but the one with that heartless voice tapped my shoulder.

Darius: I would like it if you didn’t ignore me, you know. Or, what... are you so focused at work, my voice just goes through one ear and right out the other?

D: So, so focused on cleaning, aren’t you, Miss Kate the maid.

I was dressed as a palace maid and holding a broom, and seeing this sight, Darius spoke, a teasing tone laced in his voice.

[CHOICES - START]

˖🕰️୭˚ CHOICE #1: ...I can hear you.

Kate: ...I can hear you. It’s just I didn’t think you would be able to find me.

Darius: Well, it wasn’t just me, you know. I had them help out, too.

(‘Them’...?)

Holding onto some doubt, I looked over his shoulder, and...

˖🕰️୭˚ CHOICE #2: You’ve got the wrong person.

Kate: You’ve got the wrong person.

Darius: Do I now? Let me take a closer look then.

Saying so, Darius spun around me.

Darius: Hmm... no matter where and how I look, I think it’s you through and through, miss fairytale keeper.

D: Oh, but just to be extra sure, I will definitely know if it’s her or not if we kiss. (⌒▽⌒)

Kate: I-I’ve never even kissed you before, though, so how would you know?

Darius: Hehe, so you admit it? That you are the miss fairytale keeper.

Kate: Ah...!

Realizing my own slip-up, I finally looked over his shoulder, and...

˖🕰️୭˚ CHOICE #3: Goodness me, I’m very, very busy!

Kate: Goodness me, I’m very, very busy!

Convincing myself that Darius’ voice was surely a hallucination, I continued sweeping the dust with my broom.

Darius: You’re ‘busy,’ you say? Well then, I’ll lend a helping hand.

Saying so, Darius snatched the broom from my hands.

Darius: But, are you really sure? If you made me clean and whatnot because you lied, then it would become quite a problem, methinks.

Kate: ...urgh, sorry. That was a lie. It’s my loss.

Apologizing, I looked over his shoulder.

[CHOICES - END]

There stood not only Darius, but Harrison and Liam as well.

Kate: Why are you two here too?

Harrison: Because we took up a request from Darius to find your hiding spot.

Liam: Isn’t Harry incredible? He was all like, ‘There’s not many places within the palaces to hide oneself, so she wouldn’t be physically hiding her body.’

L: ‘Instead, she’ll probably try and mix herself in with the maids and clean or something.’

Kate: Right to a tee... you really are incredible, Harrison.

K: That said, using Harrison by putting in a request would be unfair. My chances to win would plummet then, wouldn’t it!

Darius: But nowhere in the rules did we say I couldn’t. (￣ヘ￣)

D: And besides, there really was something I wanted you to do, miss fairytale keeper, so I could hardly afford to care about appearances.

Liam: ...It looks like the one whose rear is getting bitten isn’t us, but rather Kate, huh. (´-ω-`)

Harrison: Well, seeing as you’re a member of Crown, too, I doubt it’s anything irredeemably bad.

H: ...I think.

After throwing me sympathizing glances, Liam and Harrison left.

Darius: Now then... as for what I wanted you to do, miss fairytale keeper...

Darius’ honey-colored eyes glimmered like a blaze, as though he were a carnivore that found its prey.

Kate: Please go easy on me. I would prefer it if you didn’t hurt or scare me...

Darius: Well, isn’t that a tad troubling, to think the little miss fairytale keeper misunderstands me like that. (￣ヘ￣)

D: Okay, I’ve decided. The thing I want you to do is... ‘to do ten things of whatever I ask.’ (⌒▽⌒)☆

Kate: Wha...

Here I was, thinking if it was just one thing, I could somehow get through it, but somehow that ‘one’ turned straight to ‘ten.’

Kate: ...Can you even do that?

Darius: The rules didn’t say I couldn’t, yes?

D: Now then, whatever should I have you do, miss fairytale keeper...

D: First things first, maybe I’ll have you attend to me in your current outfit. And then—— (^ヮ^)

Darius was pulling out his tricks while wearing a smile,

[BLACK]

and seeing him like that before me, I thought to myself: ‘The next time Darius and I have a match, I will make sure to lay some clear-cut rules on the table.’

Fin.

PROLOGUE.

masterlist 🔎 ┊ ko-fi ☕️ ┊ comms 🤍

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Fool's Errand Pt 10

Part (10) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Sorry! I know I owe responses to that fluffy little holiday thing, but I really wanted to get this out, too! (Also... big sorry... you'll see why)

Warnings: mild suspense, vague injury descriptions, decent bit of cursing, minor character death (very minor), (is there a warning for a kid wielding a gun?)

WC: 3,403

Droids don’t need the light. Not like we do. In the darkness, only the automated sound of whirring gears and clacking metal narrate movements governed by near perfect synchrony. The silence that surrounded those movements was deafening. It was easy to forget just how dangerous those machines truly were when watching the incredible ease with which the soldiers of the GAR could tear through them. But up close, when nothing lay between us but darkness and an armor that suddenly felt far too thin, the droids were monstrous; emotionless; streamlined and refined toward a single purpose: destruction.

I tried not to think about the simple fact that the same was often said of the entirety of the clone population; how readily society at large welcomed beliefs of unthinking, unfeeling suits of armor in the stead of the very real people that armor concealed. I tried not to think about how that mentality might linger and fester into resentment and fear once the end of the war offered some hope of integration, nor of the unending hardships that were inevitable with such naïve mentality. As I sat crouched in the nook of the freezing ventilation shaft, I tried not to think about anything at all save the near impossible task of silencing my own heavy breaths, attention trained on the endless rows of automatons marching barely a handful of feet away from me.

Wrecker had made it to the maintenance closet several meters ahead, but I’d still been fighting to force the adhesive of the deceptively small explosive to seal with the chilled metal of the duct, and what few seconds that cost me proved just enough to force me to hide as the echoing orchestra of marching droids approached us. We knew they were coming. Thanks to Echo, we knew exactly when to expect every routine patrol scheduled to monitor these halls, but the sheer frequency of their presence was staggering.

Neither of us moved for several seconds after the last droid finally vanished behind the rear door.

“You alright?” Even whispered, my body tensed slightly at the suddenness of Wrecker’s voice calling through the speaker of my helm, and I had to release a quick breath before responding.

“Yeah.” I murmured, glancing back at the detonator as I carefully began easing my way out of the small shaft. “Had trouble getting this one attached, but looks fine now.” A quiet grumble reverberated around me, and I could clearly imagine the troubled frown tugging at his lips.

My eyes flashed to the timer in the corner of my HUD steadily counting down to the moment Crosshair was supposed to take out the decoy power transformer. We still had several targets to rig if we wanted to level the station in time.

Wrecker led the way forward without another word, quick strides shockingly silent. It would never cease to amaze me how easily the man before me could dance between the kind, boisterous goofball and this: lethal, efficient; movements far too quiet for the terrifying mass of his powerful form. I’d worked with astounding soldiers before, but these men were different. Boost, Comet, and Warthog were frightfully capable, but Wrecker and his brothers…

His hand flashed out, pointing to the spot he wanted the next charge placed. He didn’t pause before moving on to set his own, leaving me to my job without so much as a backward glance. Even now, after so many months of working with them, it still felt odd to be trusted so explicitly, but there wasn’t time for even a moment of self-doubt as I quickly dropped to a knee to begin working. Despite the utter simplicity of these explosives, still, Wrecker could finish two in the time it took me to prime one, but he showed no hint of impatience; merely moved on to the next spot until the room was cleared.

We both paused upon turning to the door. It was quiet. It shouldn’t be. By now, we should have been able to make out the distant chorus of the next patrol.

“Status.” Wrecker called, voice just loud enough to be picked up by the mic. My shoulders ached from how taut the muscles were. He didn’t talk like that, governed by that stark militaristic sharpness… not unless something was wrong.

“In position.” Crosshair responded coolly.

“En route.” Tech answered next.

“Wrecker, update.” Hunter’s order came in far crisper than the others, the Marauder’s comms undistorted despite the metal walls of the facility.

“Clanker’s missed a patrol. Pretty sure they haven’t noticed us, though.” He replied curtly, head pivoting behind us before turning back to the forward door as though half-expecting a troop of droids to come rushing in at any second.

“Crosshair, any change?” The Sargeant called. I could hear the growing tension in his voice and knew he was standing tensely over the intercom, hands grinding into the metal corners.

“No, but this sector isn’t supposed to have another patrol for over four more minutes.” Cross reminded him, voice low.

“Keep an eye on your escape routes,” Hunter instructed, “and report any more abnormalities.”

A series of ‘roger’s answer him in quick succession before Wrecker continued forward, heavy blaster balanced against his shoulder. My pistols felt miniscule in comparison, but I still held them at ready as he cracked open the door. Beyond was a cavernous room dotted with Separatist transports. If things went south, Wrecker and I would blow a series of bombs starting with two at either end of the massive bay, granting us an exit route while several other explosions went off at pre-set intervals to mask our escape. If it came to that, however, there was little hope in retrieving that little girl’s father…

“… don’t like this…” Wrecker muttered after muting his com.

“How many more do we have?” I asked, treading closer to him so my whispered words would reach him.

“Ten. Twelve if we wanna hit the control tower, but…” He let the thought trail off as he peaked around the corner of the doorway to stare at the massive sheets of metal suspended overhead on thick tracks.

“So, we finish those ten and re-evaluate.” I offered quietly. He didn’t respond for a long moment, the fearsome visage of that feral skull still studying the distant bay walls.

“Yeah…” He mumbled absently, but a few more tense seconds passed before he drew a quick breath and moved through the door, strides measured and quick, stance low.

Our HUD timers had been perfectly synced. I’d known that there would be no delay between that small clock striking zero and the distant rumble of an explosion preceding at least a momentary flicker of the lights. Still, my body snapped taut as the world around us trembled, even if only for a moment. And then the darkness descended in earnest.

Our visors were designed for this: to grant us clear images even in the darkest nightmares of distant worlds. Regardless, I felt myself tense, adrenaline flooding my chest as I studied every shadow of the now monochrome display before me. Already, the Separatist forces were responding, dozens of squads activating and filing across the vast expanse of the hanger in precise, unhurried movements. Several took positions at entry points about the bay, though most marched out of sight, undoubtedly en route to the now destroyed power station.

“Yuh got some fun headin’ your way, Cross.” Wrecker warned, large hand reaching into his bag for another charge, attention trained once more on the command post.

“They won’t find anything.” He responded haughtily, words only just betraying a slight breathiness as he sprinted back across the rocky outcropping surrounding the north end of the hanger.

“Imma see how many a’ these I can stick before the others get here.” There was a subtle glee in his voice, thrilled at the promise of even that simple challenge.

“I’ll keep watch.” I drawled slightly, the eyeroll audible amidst my quiet chuckle. That tension was still there; creeping across my skin and keeping the muscles stretching up my spine taut, but this was their world – our world: impossible missions with unending dangers in which we still managed to find some taste of joy.

“…Kriff.” Every wisp of that joy instantly went cold.

“Cross?” Hunter called quickly, voice full of the same sharp concern that turned my blood to ice. Wrecker had just begun setting the fourth detonator and visibly froze, waiting anxiously for a response.

“…trap… -utoff from… -ing around…” His rushed reply broke between bursts of static.

“Dammit, they’re trying to block your comms! Where are you?!” Hunter shouted. The distorted reply was too muffled for me to make out, but the pained shout that followed was nauseatingly clear. “I can’t reach you with the Marauder. En route on foot.” His words left in a growl, voice now muffled with that telltale distortion as he abandoned the protection of the ship, the sound of the ramp lowering in the background just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

I didn’t need to see Wrecker’s face to know he was struck with the same dread as me, and, with a sharp nod of his domed helm, motioned toward the rear wall of the hanger. I was already running when the first explosion erupted through the air, but the sudden scream that tore through the speakers was all I could hear.

“Crosshair!” His name shouted from me in a burst of panic, but his desperate cry didn’t stop. The natural rasp of his voice broke in choked gasps between sounds of an agony that left my skin crawling. Blasterfire shrieked behind me in rapid flurries. I didn’t bother looking back, certain that Wrecker was eagerly providing a distraction to cover my retreat, but the droids weren’t fooled.

A curse caught on my lips as I dropped into a sharp slide, just managing to dart behind a supply crate as a troop of B1s trained their sites on me, and the volley of shots that seared the metal casing left my heart racing even faster. My arm was moving before conscious thought registered what I was doing, hand snatching at one of the few remaining charges. I didn’t know if this would work, fully aware that some explosives were perfectly stable until intentionally set off with a detonator. Regardless, I launched the small device toward them, HUD automatically following my gaze to lock onto it as I raised my own weapons, standing to face down the dozen droids targeting me.

The scent of burnt plastoid filled my senses before noting the faint line of red seared into my shoulder pauldron as I pulled the trigger.

Ringing. By now, I recognized the disorientated daze of shellshock and clung to the sense of annoyance rather than any fear or pain lingering beyond that confusion. Move. There wasn’t time for this… Before the thoughts even solidified in my mind, I could feel my body struggling back to my feet, balance wavering precariously for several seconds even as I staggered forward.

“…!” A voice rang loudly around me, but it took a moment of actual concentration to truly hear him. “-oc! Wha’ happened?!” Wrecker. He was shouting. I glanced over my shoulder to see him quickly backtracking toward me and gave my head a hard shake in some vain effort to clear the lingering fog.

“…m… I’m fine!” I called out, lips sluggish. “Used a charge to… clear the path.” He looked toward me only briefly before returning his attention to the encroaching units. Still, I could see the air of hesitation in his movements, the reluctance to risk creating any additional distance between us, so I took that decision away from him, jaw set as I forced myself through the still smoldering crater blown into the thick wall.

Crosshair was still screaming, growled cries catching on choppy breaths muffled behind ground teeth.

“Hunter, do you have eyes on him?” I shouted, sprinting toward the cover of trees surrounding the station as I silently cursed the steep incline leading toward the ship.

“Not yet, there’s… - dammit -... They sent a kriffing… platoon after him.” I could hear the strain pulling at his every word, and that dread returned en force, fear spiking at the thought of how easily he could find himself incapacitated as well just from exacerbating his preexisting injuries.

“Echo and I can provide backup.” Tech offered. Even his voice held that deep worry.

“No – continue with the mission. We’ll be halfway to the Marauder by the time you’d even reach us.” He ordered. “Doc-”

“I’m already en route,” I interrupted quickly, “just send me your location.” He didn’t respond for a long moment, and I had to fight to keep from shouting my impatience.

That earlier fear was gone. I barely bothered glancing between branches in search of enemy troops, the threat of what danger my brief isolation from the others might pose forgotten in the echo of Crosshair’s pain. My entire focus was on reaching them as quickly as I could, cursing every fallen log and sleek boulder that hindered my progress.

“I’ve got him.” He was panting, pain clear in the breathy words, and my heart twisted at the endless possible reasons for that pain. The keening gasps still sounding from Crosshair’s mic were the only thing silencing some sharp rebuke demanding he stop. There was no right answer here; no way forward without the risk of a sacrifice I couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Might still be s… s’me droids… but think I got ‘m all.” His uncertainty was just as concerning as the slight slur dampening his smoky voice. That meant his focus was dwindling; that inhuman ability to feel the dance of electricity connecting the world around him was overcome by his own pain or exhaustion or something far worse.

“Dammit, Hunter! Just send me your location before you kriffing keel over!” I ordered harshly, no longer making an effort to mask that impatience.

“Tracker… tracker’s on… H… headed back.” Curses flowing unapologetically between ground teeth, I snatched the datapad from my waist, fingers stabbing at the screen far harsher than necessary as I locked in on his signal. The Marauder was just over a klick away, and Hunter’s signal was another half klick beyond that, speed frightfully slow as he made his way back.

“Talk to me, Hunter, or I’ll start using the karking pain scale questions.” I threatened, and was relieved to hear a huff of laughter. It was weak, but it was there.

“Damaged… damaged his helmet… Visor broke…” In an instant, that relief abandoned me. “Gave him… gave him what I had, but… it’s… it’s barely taking the e-edge off.” He panted.

“Burns?” I asked, straining to hide the depth of my fear at the very thought of what damage that might cause, but Hunter quickly dismissed that fear with something far worse.

“No… think it’s… There was a – a gas…” My stride nearly faltered. A gas… Chemical burns were far more difficult to treat…

“Listen to me: when you get him back to the ship, don’t try to rinse it out with water.” I instructed quickly.

“I kn- I know.” There was an unmistakable wheeze in the gasp robbing his retort of whatever annoyance he’d meant it to hold.

“What about you, Hunter? Were you exposed?” I made no effort to hide the harshness in my own voice, words quickly growing breathy as I sprinted from the base.

“N… no, my… my kit’s f-fine.” His response offered no taste of relief, the clear strain sown through each word quickly growing worse.

“Echo and I have secured a low-atmo speeder. We can reach you-”

“Ey, I think I see ‘im.” Wrecker interrupted.

“Ca- can you i-intercept?” Hunter’s vain attempt to maintain that indominable façade only further emphasized how just much he was clearly struggling.

“Uh… only if I start blowing stuff up early.” There was no glee in what should have been an overly eager plea, attention clearly torn between the task before him and worry for his brothers.

“Delay as – as long as you can.” Hunter ordered firmly. “Tech, Ech… Echo… con-continue a-approach.”

“Hunter, if you’re having trouble breathing again, you need to stop moving!” I ordered in a shout.

“Neg… neg’tive… Mar’der’s… in sight.” My lips curled into a snarl.

“I can’t carry you both, dammit!” There was a brief pause, and then,

“Roger.”

I was going to strangle him.

Sweat had long since soaked through my blacks. My muscles burned, blood like acid pounding through my veins, and I tried not to think about how loud my own breathing was, mic pointedly muted as I listened to quick bursts of communication bounce between the others illustrating the progress of a mission I struggled to find even a whisper of concern for. My own attention remained locked on the tracker beacon, noting how near to the ship Hunter and Crosshair finally were; how wretchedly slow their progress had become; how much distance yet lay between us as that accursed hill robbed my speed.

He didn’t check in when he finally stopped, their beacons stalling at the very foot of the ramp.

“Hunter, are you inside?” I asked. He didn’t respond. “Hunter, what’s your status?” I pressed, words growing harsher. Silence. “Hunter?! Cross, do either of you read me?!”

“The Marauder’s ramp appears to have lowered but hasn’t been closed since they arrived.” Tech’s voice was carefully even, but I could hear the faint rush of an anxiety that I had no doubt resonated between all of us.

“I’m almost there.” I assured them, and, mere seconds later, let out a sharp huff of relief upon finally seeing the very tip of the dorsal fin.

The first time I’d seen the complicated overlay of the HUD used by GAR equipment, it hadn’t been during my training to join the 104th. It was in the aftermath of a battle I’d only seen in the darkness of night, sneaking through ruined transports and far too much gore to ever be warranted under the guise of seeking peace. It was maybe the fourth such scene Emmy and I had visited. We didn’t even have a ship then; just us and a pair of overstuffed medbags with no thought toward secession or consequence or even what to do with those we tried to save.

We’d only found one soldier still clinging to life, and it had taken only moments to realize that nothing we did would save him from joining his brothers. He hadn’t blamed us. I think I wanted him to… but he merely got quiet when he understood… peaceful. He’d been a flirt, and I think we both fell in love with him a bit. He’d insisted we try his helmet on – had said something inappropriate about seeing his gear on a couple cute nurses. Neither of us corrected him, and I’d been shocked at the flurry of information that had bombarded me the instant it flickered to life before my eyes. He’d laughed. I’d never forget that laugh. It was free; weightless; haunting in a way that both crushed me and justified every risk we were taking in trying to offer what meager help we could. And then he'd died.

That nauseating hurricane of endless data and alerts was still just as overwhelming now as it was then, but I’d learned to filter it out, to prioritize only what was needed in that moment. When the sudden flash of a warning lit the screen, I didn’t hesitate; didn’t waste time for even a moment’s thought before my body dropped into a slide, just barely dodging the pair of blue bolts that screamed passed me as my hands instantly snatched the pistols from my hips, but then that wealth of data began to coalesce, and I quickly released my weapons, empty hands raising in surrender.

“Wait-wait-wait! It’s me!!” I shouted, wrenching the still flashing helm from my head, and my heart churned at the sight of the terrified girl cowering just inside the Marauder’s main cabin, at the horror and fear and overwhelming relief that left her near sobbing the instant recognition finally stole through her. Then I saw the two forms lying far too still at her feet. And that same terror ripped the air from my lungs in a sob of my own.

Next Chapter

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[devochive]

Caning with... Caine.

caine/gn!reader

reader can't help but try and seduce their way into the ringmasters pants. unfortunately, things don't work out well for them.

tags: caning, impact play, crying, slightly mean caine, no aftercare.

art creds.

You reap what you sow is how the saying goes right?

You'd been purposely tying to seduce the ringmaster all week. He caught wind of it rather quickly. Not only of your inappropriate actions but your clothes too. They stuck to your body too tightly or showed too much skin.

You honestly didn't even know if your seduction tactics would work... he wasn't human, after all.

And if that was the case, would it explain why this so-called punishment of his felt ridiculously intimate?

"C.. Caine, is this really necessary..?" you asked, arms struggling and wiggling in the binds he so acutely tethered in the famous box tie. The silky red ribbons he used were soft but firm and tight against your skin. He had you bent over his desk. Face pressed against the cold oak.

"Certainly, pain is the best teacher after all!" He said with enthusiasm. The tip of his cane was rolling against the fat of your ass. "Oh, and don't you worry, y/n! I'm sure after this you'll be in perfect shape to rejoin the others."

"Now... keep count for me, dear." His voice seemed to get low, sending a chill down your spine.

He wasted no time. The wooden cane smacked your rear , causing it to jiggle deliciously. Caine's eyes were glued to your ass. You flinched and could hardly contain the yelp that pried itself past your lips. "O.. One—"

Whack! The sturdy cane made contact with your skin before you could finish speaking.

You whimpered like a wounded babe, lips stuttering out, "T.. Two." Your ass was already on fire, and you squirmed as your body tried to brace itself for another, "Come now, y/n , where did all that fiery energy go? Perhaps the only thing your little head is good for is conjuring up unseemly thoughts, hmm?" He hummed, before— whack!whack!whack!

You cried out, and apologies spilled from your lips. You felt your eyes glossing over with tears.

"Hh—hhn..! m'sorry.. c..caine.. please..!" You whimpered, and your legs threatened to give out, shaking as you tried to steady yourself against the desk that was now wet with your tears. But it was hard to do with your arms quite literally tied behind your back. He'd only just started, and you were hardly hanging on. The force he put behind those hits was lethal. Yet you felt a familiar warm sensation pooling in between your legs.. punishment or not, you were finally receiving attention from him.

Caine tutted in disappointment, "I asked you to count, not for a shallow apology, sweetheart." The cane dropped down on your ass once more, and you could hardly think of where you left off. Every number you missed or messed up was an added hit.

You couldn't see the expression he wore on his face from behind you. He looked hungry. Eager to hear more of your yelps, yearning to see your legs tremble as the welts on your ass grew.

"I'm afraid you're only making this harder for yourself—" A strange noise emitted from behind you, where Caine stood. It was the ring of his iconic wacky watch.

"My my! An alert at this time of day! I see.. saved by the bell then, y/n!" He said with the old enthusiasm he harbored from earlier. The ringmaster snaps his fingers, and your binds are released just like that. You crumble to the floor, and Caine simply watches, "Bubble, take care of them and see that they get to their room uninterrupted, will you? I think our little troublemaker here has learned their lesson." Caine said whilst using the end of his cane to tilt your head up to look at him. This exchange lasted for a moment before he removed the cane.

"Anyways! I have very important matters to tend to!" And with that, he disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Of course, this was all a lie.

A ruse, so he could put as much space between you and the sudden tightness of his pants.

You were certainly turning out to be more trouble than he bargained for.