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ectologia · 1 year ago

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I don't know how to explain this but bear with me! Reader and Tomura have a dynamic of a popular girl who is secretly a total masochist and a nerdy incel guy who is a degenerate freak and gets off humiliating and degrading the reader. Not sure if that was coherent but it's been rotting my brain and I needed to share

♱ ˖ ࣪࿐ 𝒟𝐼𝒞𝐻𝒪𝒯𝒪𝑀𝒴 ؛ 𝓉𝑜𝓂𝓊𝓇𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓀𝒾

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 ؛ dubcon ﾉ noncon ﾉ quirkless au ﾉ college au ﾉ bullying ﾉ abuse ﾉ graphic violence ﾉ unhealthy relationship ﾉ blood ﾉ profanity

“Hey, Tomura.”

Blood-reds peer up at you through fluttery, moth-like lashes. Pale and silken like an angel’s. He tugs his headphones down to rest around his neck before setting his phone in his lap. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?” You thumb a lock of hair behind your ear.

He’s dubious by the way your friends chitter behind you. Petite hands and manicured nails swat at each-other, hissing between smirks. His ankles uncross, planting themselves firmly on the ground as though in preparation. He winces through his response. “Yeah.”

“What’s wrong with your skin?”

You’ve barely finished your sentence before you’re doubling over with witchy cackles, the girls behind you following suite.

Tomura doesn’t find it funny at all, in-fact, he doesn’t even understand the joke. Dull nails rake at his protruding collarbone before sinking further into the pool of his hoodie, swimming nose deep in the black fabric. “I have a skin condition..”

A piggish voice squeals from behind you. “What’s it called? Not washing?”

He scowls, biting a scabbed-over chunk of blood from his lip, shrinking further into his hunched position in an attempt to make himself as small as possible, or as small as you can be after being picked apart by a bunch of snot-nosed bitches.

You get the last laugh as you strut off with your group, leaving him boiling with rage. Clutching his phone between a set of white knuckles and wringing the strap of his bag in the other. His palms split inside his fists, wretched and shaking with ire.

Of course, that was only the first of many instances.

He remembers on another account, when you’d pulled his hood down in-front of everyone and sneered in disgust at the powdered nest of matted white hidden beneath. Or when you and your gaggle of other titless twats thought it would be fun to fling food at him during lunch, sealing the deal by dumping a fresh load of apple juice into his lap. He’d waddled home that evening, quivering at the sticky feeling of liquid squelching in the pocket of his underwear. Or another time, when you’d tripped him up on the way to his seat, howling with laughter along with everybody else as he laid face down in the middle of the classroom, snivelling with a scuffed chin and bruised cheek.

But, despite everything.. all these things added up — just makes it that much more delicious when he finally gets to face you alone.

Tomura’s palm collides with your face, once on the left side and then on the right, knocking you about with a heavy hand bludgeoning you to the brink of death.

Your whimpers only spur him on as he kicks your heels in, sending you flying, knees splitting atop the sharp gravel coating the ground. “Tomu—”

“Shut the fuck up.” A rubber sole plants itself onto your cheek, imprinting it’s swirled pattern into your skin in a heap of dust. He stands above you, stoic and proud, uncaring of the sickening crunch that erupts from your broken cartilage. “You shut your fuckin’ mouth, I can’t be asked to listen to your whinin’ right now. I’ve already got a fuckin’ headache.”

You heave through the stream of bubbling crimson pooling on your tongue. “I’m sorry, Tomur—”

“Oi, what’d I just say?” He kicks you again, digging the tip of his red sneakers into your stomach. Swinging his leg back, he clobbers you, battering your, no doubt, already bruised body further. “Stupid — fucking — dumb — ass — bitch.”

A spill of blood accompanies your gasps, left retching and writhing and clutching at the ground, clawing at the loose stones dotted about the pavement.

“You like that, huh?” He crushes your fingers, twisting and grating them into the concrete as you scream, clinging to his shins in prayer. “Yeah, you do. You fuckin’ love it.”

He squats down to cradle your chin in his palm, craning your neck back into a painful arch. “Who’s my little bitch? — That’s right you are.” He coos at you through grit-teeth, pressing down on your popped lip with the pad of his thumb. “You are..” He whispers before letting the weight of your head fall again.

“I hope you’re thirsty.”

The zip of a fly has your ears perking, squinting through your lashes at the pale length throbbing in his palm, slit already frothing with pre. “Get that fucking tongue out.”

“Wait, Tomura, please!—”

“What? — I don’t think I asked you, you cock-sucking little bitch.” He brandishes his cock like a weapon, squeezing it between dangerous fingers. “Get that tongue out now, before I do it myself.”

You comply with a whimper. Statuesque as you point your tongue out wide, leaking thick globs of drool over your chin and onto your shirt.

“Better.”

It wouldn’t be uncommon to expect the plush velvety feel of a salty tip prodding at your mouth, snaking its sweaty shaft down your gullet. But this time, you’ve been particularly naughty.

“You think it’s fuckin’ funny, huh? Gettin’ your little boyfriends to jump me in the bathroom?” He clutches your neck in a vice grip, jostling your spooked form. “Well, since you seem to like playin’ around toilets so much — I’ve got you a little gift.”

His fat dick jumps while a stream of urine accompanies his harsh jerking. “Yeah, get it down ya’.” He whistles, shooting the acidic stream of piss straight to the back of your throat, making a game of it as you gag and cack at the air.

“Had enough?” He angles his cock down, allowing you a burst of air but soiling your clothes in the process.

You nod frantically, gurgling with bubbles foaming.

“That’s cute.”

He sprays the last few acrid droplets over your forehead, letting it drench your hair to the root and then some.

Your nose wrinkles at the smell, putrid and pungent and most likely undiluted by the amount of water you know he drinks, or lack of.

You’re hoisted onto your feet by a pair of hands. Looking down, you see how the curve of his cock slaps against your hip. Propped up against the wall, he hikes your legs up over his elbows, pinning you into a tight hold where you’d have no chance at escape. He only peels the crotch of your underwear to the side, letting your chubby folds do the rest of the work by holding it in place while sliding his uncut prick up and down the little triangle placed between your thighs.

“Preparation isn’t needed when you don’t deserve it”, Is what he whispers into your ear, stale breath warm and ticklish against your canal as he begins to sheath himself inside, chunky mushroom tip popping through the first ring of muscle before feeding the rest through. It’s akin to being impaled in the awkward position, sat without a centre of gravity on a hot, girthy pole, just twitching to tear you through the middle and come out the other end.

Tomura’s eager to hurt you, already humping you against the bricks, bouncing you up and down with guttural and down-right animalistic grunts. The noises are purposeful, he doesn’t need to make such strange sounds but he much prefers the curl between your brows to the foggy look in your eyes.

“I’m fuckin’ you.” It’s an odd but factual statement. “I’m fuckin’ your pussy. My dick is inside you. You get that? Raw.”

“Uh, huh.” Your jaw whips up and down, soft as your tongue hangs out.

He’s unsure whether to scowl or smirk — so he settles for a bit of both, catching a lip between his stained teeth. “You’re a freak.“ Forehead to forehead, he puffs into your mouth, loving you down with a thumb digging into your crack “What would all your friends say, hm? That you like gettin’ your ass beat and raped after school everyday.”

Sharpened fingernails dig into the flesh of his striped neck, crying out with dewy eyes falling, rolling behind sunken eyelids. “Ngh.. I’m.. I — gonna’..”

He smacks your face for the umpteenth time, a litter lighter than the others. Perhaps even a tap. “Don’t you dare.”

“Ca..”

Your toes curl inside your socks and your pussy tightens, twisting and pulling on his engorged manhood despite his obvious protests. He drops you on your rear, startling your spinal cord as you hit the concrete with a thud, legs still shivering and clitty still pulsing with the shattered remains of your ruined orgasm.

Tomura growls with a livid expression as his cock spurts, still throbbing with the remembrance of your gummy hole massaging him. His balls tighten and he throws his head back, canines bared as he lets the white darts shoot out onto your face.

“God — shit — wasn’t meant to fucking cum..” He murmurs, dabbing a knuckle over the damp sheen across his forehead.

He cracks his neck, then zips up his pants, shaking off the tension held between his shoulders before snapping his fingers, nudging your crouched form with the toe of his shoe. “Come on then, hand it over.” He demands with an almost exasperated sigh.

Panting, you turn to rummage through your bag. With two $20 notes crumpled in your palm, you offer them to the man with timid, shaking hands.

Enthusiastic as he snatches the paper from you, he eyes the green with scrunched carmines before clicking his tongue. “Seriously, $40 bucks? That’s it? I even made you cum you stingy cunt.” He looms over you with a menacing glare.

“Uhm.. I.. there’s..” You search through your pockets in a frenzy. “I don’t have any more on me..”

“Well, that’s gonna’ be a problem then, isn’t it?”

“I.. I can give it to you tomorrow! I’ll get you another 20!”

He tuts, narrowing his eyes at you before turning on his heel. “Make it 30.”

As he moves to make his leave, you begin to crawl with desperation, reaching out for him with an outstretched arm. “Wait!”

“What.”

“..Do.. Do you want to hang out this weekend?..” He thinks you resemble a love-sick puppy with the way you blink up at him. “..Please?.. Tomu-kun?..”

There’s a hint of a smile that plays on his cracked lips as he looks down at you, still thumbing the creased bills in his pocket. “Hm.. Actually—”

“Make it another 40.”

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diejager · 1 month ago

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Kinktober day 14: Monsterfucking w/ The Unknown

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, size kink, belly bulge, slime, tentacle, oviposition, egg laying, tell me if I missed any.

-> kinktober masterlist -> navigation

Lost in the maze-like building, corridors looping into another, halls leading to a dead end and unending paths that seemed to go on and on and on. They lived in a haunting atmosphere: rotting wood and chipped wallpaper lit up by the dying and blinking lights of the theater, the eerie feeling that accompanied a once populated area, once bright and lively with people young and old coming here for the cinema or the arcade to enjoy their afternoons or weekend. And now, it was left forgotten, to rust and to die, the epitome of fun thrown behind for something more personal and advanced.

You didn’t know how anyone could leave a place like this standing —or better yet, how could a place get this bad? riddled with rats and insects, termite-infested pillars and caved in floors, even the metal plumbing of the building wasn’t left untouched by age and dilapidation. For a one room-cinema, this place was as big as it was confusing. You got lost many, many times, stumbling back into the same corridor over and over again despite your best effort to keep track of your path.

It didn’t help that you could hear something crawling around the building, the tell-tale sound of many footsteps echoing throughout the building and making the floor creak, wood denting under the weight of whoever it was and mumbling in broke English. You could only panic in abject horror at the unknown source of it, running aimlessly for an escape, but even then, the streets - if it could be called one with the area fenced in - had the same ghostly abandonment of the building. It wasn’t as bright or rusted, but the lamp posts were dying, light flickering and eventually dying.

It left you wandering aimlessly until you stumbled into the thing you were hiding from —or rather it, whatever it was. A broken, humanoid creature chased after you, limbs bent in horrible ways, stomach bulging and face horrifying to see, deformed and bloody, much like the axe he was holding. It - he? - truly gave you a reason to fear, a reason to run for your life as he chased you, following loosely on your tail without actually catching you. You wondered if he was playing with you, working you up until he was satisfied enough to kill you —would he eat you? He certainly looked monstrous enough to want to eat someone.

He gave you a reason to believe you were doomed, and now, especially hen he had you in his reach, pushed against the wall. You were stuck between a rock and a hard place, in every possible sense with the axe plunged into the plaster beside your face. Oh, how you wished you were wrong about him eating you, cursing yourself for ending up here, stuck under his mouth, drool rolling down his wrinkled chin as he tore into you.

You fought until you couldn’t, screamed until your voice died and cried until you ran out of it, all under the broken words he groaned, ripping into your clothes and salivating. You couldn’t do much as he held your arms and legs, his lanky arms deceiving his actual strength. Arched awkwardly against the walls, your shuddered in disgust at the writhing arms that reach out of his back, pink and slimy tentacles prodding at you.

You retched at the feel of them, sliding between your folds and smearing his slime all over you. You were happy that you wouldn’t be killed, but this wasn’t what you meant by being eaten, and certainly not by a monster like him, but there wasn’t anything you could do but take it. Spread open and fucked dumb by a monster twice your size, his wet limbs sinking into your cunt, drive wet and sensitive by the odd warmth of his slime.

“Tight… ” he groaned out, his voice a mix of many voices, like a broken radio, “Sweet pet.”

You felt beyond stuffed, your stomach bulging out with different bumps, writhing within you as he pumped you full. Despite your utter disgust, he somehow made you come, the many arms thrusting into you at an erratic pace, never leaving you empty for more than a fraction of a second. They were smooth and bumpy, made slick by your cum and his slime, and all but one was pointy-tipped and thick at the base, the big one had a flared tip, a rounded head that looked like a flower bulb. It stood out among the rest for some reason.

Unfortunately, you weren’t left wondering about it for long, feeling all the tentacles slipping out of you with wet pops, but not before tickling your bruised cervix. You watched through clouded eyes at the flared cock, popping it’s head into you and driving in until it bumped the mouth of your womb, the knotted base inches away from you. It was numbed and relaxed by whatever substance his tentacles secreted, and - shockingly - opened up for him after a sharp ram, forcing it’s way into your untouched womb.

“What?!“ you yelped, not in pain, but from jaw-dropping stupefaction at what just happened.

It felt like a pinch, small and painless, even as it sunk deeper, the peals of his head opening up inside and his knot pushing past your vulva. His slime acted as a numbing aphrodisiac. Plugged and restrained, you mewled at the bumps pushing into you, round objects popping out of his cock and plopping into your womb, sticking to the walls without too much effort. You babbled endlessly, body trembling under him, cunt fluttering around his length as he filled you up with eggs, the amount lost to your drunk mind. All you knew was that you weren’t leaving any time soon —or move, at this point.

“Mine,” was the last thing you heard before passing out, the comforting embrace of darkness draping you in sleep.

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boxofbonesfic · 9 months ago

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Title: Tonality [5]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous Chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.

“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand.

Your father is to be buried tomorrow.

You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.

“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin.

“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar.

Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird. You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone.

“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle.

“Please, mother—”

“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch.

You cannot stop—

She will not let you.

You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.

“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear.

“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle.

“Now close his eyes.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes.

Perhaps I am mad, after all.

Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady.

They stay.

“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things.

At least, you try to.

The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.

“W-who is it?”

“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face.

Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression.

“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.”

“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”

“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one.

You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses.

“You won’t need them.”

The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you.

“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.

“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself.

“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.”

You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric.

“Even so, our fashion does suit you.” You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.

“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired.

“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”

“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling.

“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways.

“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here.

“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”

“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.”

“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.

“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”

In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—

And then burnt their dreams out.

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”

Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know.

But the witch might.

—

The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below.

There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty.

The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions.

You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”

Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges.

Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone.

The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms.

It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again.

The thought spurs you onward.

The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.

You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square.

The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago.

The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.

“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.

“I—I am looking for—”

“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too.

She is an elf.

It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.

“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look.

“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed.

“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside.

The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl.

“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.”

“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again.

“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?”

Your throat tightens.

“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.”

The stone stops.

“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence.

“And what do you dream?”

“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”

“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand, she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye.

“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm. She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.”

“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes.

“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.”

“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles.

“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron.

“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead.

“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace.

“Please, I—”

“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart.

“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!”

“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.”

“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine.

“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you.

It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?

Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known?

Would he have even wanted to?

Perhaps I can just ask him myself.

The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses.

It is by that grace alone that you see the man.

You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black.

Nilfgaardian.

You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards.

The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky.

“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet.

“No.”

“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you.

“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.”

“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble.

“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat.

“I’ve little stomach for lies.”

A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you, clears his throat.

“Here, my Lord.”

The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—

No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.

As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.

The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale.

“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!” There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth.

“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them.

The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”

Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling.

“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”

The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night.

“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.”

“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear.

“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”

“Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.”

He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck.

“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.

“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.”

Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry.

“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder.

He came for me.

Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.

“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”

In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse.

“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”

Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.”

You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—

A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing.

“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak.

“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums.

“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.”

You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—

The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours.

Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.

“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark.

I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure.

Just for a little while.

to be continued…

next chapter

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notti-stellate · 1 year ago

Text

Sick

Draco Malfoy x reader

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff, puking, ect.

a/n: I'm gonna be completely honest I have no idea where this came from but I'm not complaining. Genuinely don't know what this is I just kinda blinked and this happened. Enjoy (I hope)

from pinterest

“Would you stop being a baby,” I groaned, “you have a stomach bug, Draco, you’re not dying.”

“You don’t know that,” he replied with a sniffle.

I turned away from his door towards the bed only to be met with the most pathetic look from my usually stoic boyfriend. The floor beside his bed was riddled with tissues and various blankets and sweatshirts. You could even see the redness around his eyes and his unusually flushed cheeks.

“Oh love, why don’t you go see Madam Pomfrey.” I sighed, walking over to his bed.

“She’s out for the week,” He replied, closing his eyes as a wave of nausea hit.

Within a second he bolted for the bathroom. I followed behind when I heard gagging, immediately crouching down beside him to attempt to comfort him. After a few minutes the retching stopped only to be followed by small whimpers.

“It’s alright love, are you done” I whispered, rubbing small circles into his back over his worn sweatshirt. He nodded mournfully as he slowly sat up. I pulled him up and steadily guided him back to his bed.

“Lay with me?” He pleaded, opening his arms.

“Here, drink some water first.” I said, handing him his water bottle and crawling into bed beside him. He sighed, tiredly, as he pulled me closer to rest his head on my chest. We both sat in silence as I carded my fingers through his hair, slowly drifting off shortly after him.

#draco fanfiction #draco fic #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy fic #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy one shot #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x hufflepuff!reader #draco malfoy x slytherin!reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #harry potter imagine #hp fanfic #golden trio #golden trio era #draco malfoy fluff

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steveshairychest · 2 years ago

Text

After defeating vecna for a second time, Steve decides he's had enough of Hawkins and all things supernatural.

After hunting around for a few weeks, he scores himself a quaint little apartment big enough for him and for Robin when she eventually moves in after college. He doesn't sell his parents' house or demolish it like Robin suggests. No, he leaves it to sit and rot. He hopes his parents will come home one day and find it overgrown and falling to pieces, hopes they'll trudge up the steps to find the note that he had nailed to the front door that says, 'Welcome home :)'. Robin insisted on adding the passive-aggressive smiley face.

They move away from Hawkins and don't think about it for years. Sure, Steve still calls their friends who decided to stay there, and he often finds himself missing their company, but he doesn't miss the place itself. Only the people. He's made it very clear to them that he doesn't intend to step a single foot back into Hawkins until he dies. Everyone knows this, especially Robin, who's been informed on multiple drunken occasions that Steve wants to be buried on top of the hill next to Eddie so that he at least knows someone else in the graveyard.

But then he gets a letter in the mail, a simple letter in a white envelope and it haunts him for days.

The letter is from Wayne. His handwriting is rough and messy but familiar; they've been sending each other letters for a few years now. The cigarette ash smudged in some corners makes him smile. Most of the letter is just niceties; asking Steve how he is, what he's been up to, if he's found himself someone. Stuff he's used to. But then the words, 'I can't be alone for it Steve, I can't do it. I need you here. It's been 5 years, and the day still hasn't gotten any easier. I'd like it if you came to visit.' They punch Steve in the gut and leave him aching for days.

It takes him an entire week to call the number on the back of the envelope and confirm with Wayne that he'll be there. Just this once he'll go back to that retched place. For Wayne.

For Eddie.

The drive passes by in a blur, one second he's on the highway, the next he's passing by the Welcome to Hawkins sign and driving along the streets he thought he'd never see again. Wayne told him over the phone that morning to meet him at the cemetery, said that he wanted to get the hard part over and done with so that they could spend the rest of the day catching up and listening to Eddie's tapes. He'd be lying if he said he didn't cry for a solid 10 minutes in the car park, the memories that he had tried so hard to forget rushing back the second he lays eyes on Eddie's grave at the top of the hill.

He still remembers the hollow ache in his chest the day he helped Wayne pick out a spot. He had gone home that afternoon and begged Robin to make it stop, to hold him and tell him that the pain would go away. She had told him what he wanted, she had held him on the kitchen floor and promised he would never have to feel like that again.

She'd lied. That same ache spreads throughout his body as he trudges up the hill to stand before the shabby grave and the tears he thought he had left back in the car come bubbling back up as he stares down at the graffitied headstone. He hasn't seen it since the day he left. He forgot how overwhelming it is to see Eddie's name carved on the headstone.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited." He says through sobs, his vision blurred by tears as he plops down on the soft grass in front of the headstone. "I miss you." The words almost choke him.

There's the sound of footsteps behind him, boots crunching against the leaves and twigs. Wayne must have finally shown up. Steve doesn't turn around, he doesn't want Wayne to see his tears. He's supposed to be here as support. He's supposed to be the one coming up behind Wayne to offer his condolences. He stops beside Steve and sighs softly.

"Hi." Steve says weakly and finally looks up at Wayne - except... it's not Wayne.

"Hi, Steve."

It's Eddie.

#DUN DUN DUNNN N #interpret this however you want <333 #steddie #tw mentions of death #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #st4 vol2 #steveddie #stranger things s4 #wayne munson

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bettyfrommars · 1 year ago

Note

I need to know what you think about finding a dark siren Eddie Munson. Maybe he got hurt and washed up on the shore? You’re immediately his mate and he loves you very much even though he’s never been near a human. Very much I hate everyone but you vibes for our bloodthirsty friend.

Boyfriend From the Deep

darkSiren!Eddie x Reader

darkSiren!Eddie art here and here

Blurb 1

Blurb 2

18+ONLY, smut, some monsterfuqqing, mention of gore, mention of throwing up, visit from Murray & Hopper, mention of reader's life not going well, AFAB Reader, love at first sight, soulmates, merman!Eddie. wc: 3k

A/N: Another request I was really excited to sink my teeth into. My hope is to continue this eventually, taking inspiration from the 1984 film Splash. Looking forward to what y'all think of darkSiren!Eddie, thank you for indulging me.

---------

Eddie choked and coughed as the wave crashed over him, forcing his eyes open with a gargled gasp. He was pinned up against a rocky ledge, half of his body on the sand and the other half in the frigid water. All of a sudden, he felt sick, and began retching clear bile into the sea. He didn’t like breathing the air, he wasn’t used to it, and it caught in his throat like a feather–tickling—until he coughed and retched again. The gills on the sides of his neck sputtered, flapping open like vents, drying out, trying to conform to the new way of breathing.

It was then that he became aware of the dull ache at the back of his head, and with trembling fingers, he reached back to test the spot with a cringe and a hiss. He checked to find that his fingertips were bloody; he must’ve knocked his head on one of the sharp rocks during the transformation. How badly was he wounded? Would be a shame to survive the journey to human form only to die on the beach and rot like a bloated fish.

He braced his hand, fingers digging into the sand, and flicked his hips to swish his tail to get him unstuck, but then two legs kicked out from his hips, stuck in a fisherman’s net, and it startled him, making him slam his head into the rock again. He winced, eyes squeezing shut, whimpering a bit at the sting of the impact as the saltwater splashed up to his knees and misted his face.

This was Eddie’s first time back to land in over a decade. Mostly because he loathed humans. He loved to lure them to their deaths, he loved to watch from under the water as their ships sank so that he could feed on their fear, curling the sound waves of their screams into his belly like sweet nectar.

He twisted, trying to be free of the rough ropes that cut into his skin, but he was weak, and he wasn’t sure how much blood he’d lost. He was stuck there now, for 7 days and 7 nights, and he thought maybe he’d just find a way to stay hidden…

….until he saw you.

It was rare for you to be up at the crack of dawn, unless it was due to the fact that you hadn’t slept at all, which was a regular occurrence. Long, restful sleeps that lasted hours were just a myth to you, ever since you’d watched your life go down the toilet. A breakup, a death in the family, getting fired from your job; all of it happened all at once, and you were still reeling, teetering at the edge of the abyss.

You were all alone in the world, but for your dog, Louie, and the modest cottage you were renting for a week off the Oregon coast. The beach house was tucked back in the woods, and it didn’t even have a TV, so flipping it on to watch the early morning broadcast or some cartoons to relax your brain was not an option. The radio would have to do, and the first song that came on when you flipped the dial was Brandy by Looking Glass. You hummed along to it as you plucked Louie’s leash off the sofa and attached it to his collar. He was a medium, handsome, mixed-breed boy that you’d rescued from the side of the road as a puppy. Part corgi, part border collie, part…dalmatian? You weren’t entirely sure.

“He came on a summer's day

Bringin' gifts from far away

But he made it clear he couldn't stay

No harbor was his home

The sailor said, ‘Brandy, you're a fine girl

What a good wife you would be

But my life, my love, and my lady is the sea”

It was exceptionally chilly for an August morning, making you bundle in a hoodie and boots for the trek out to the beach. Louie was practically foaming at the mouth to get out there for his run, and since your area of the beach was fairly secluded at that time of morning, you unhooked his leash where the dirt path met with the sand, and he bolted into the fog toward the ocean like a shot. There was a wet mist lingering in the air, like salty, seaweed-scented kisses that made you squint against the bright gray hues turning blue with the rise of the sun. A few seagulls squawked and swooshed overhead, diving down to perch on a large piece of driftwood, and you waved to them, as if they’d showed up just to say hello to you.

You faced the vast expanse of ocean and crashing waves with a mix of awe and defiance, challenging it silently with a lift of your chin. Your reverie was rudely interrupted by Louie’s alarm bark, somewhere deep in the mist.

You followed the sound, walking blind until you caught sight of the jutting rocks at the base of a cliff, and the shrill of Louie’s distress signal was getting further away. Your feet picked up speed, stumbling for purchase in the soft, wet ground as you called for him, a bit of panic stroking your heart. Why did it feel like you were about to start crying? An avalanche of unfelt emotions gathered in your throat as you called for your loyal companion.

But there he was, finally, sitting facing the rocks, tail wagging side to side, making a fan-shape in the sand, basically ignoring you as you collapsed to one knee, cursing, clutching your chest.

You mumbled a whole conversation to him as you snapped the leash back in place and got to your feet. You tried to guide him in the other direction, but Louie was transfixed on something a few yards ahead, and it took your eyes a moment to adjust—but then you saw it. A hand, slightly webbed between the fingers, appeared from around the black rock, digging into the sand, and then another hand gripped the tan earth further along, as if someone were trying to pull themself along by their arm strength alone. The wrists were covered in jewelry that looked like they were made of shell and bone; the forearms tattooed in dotted, swirling black ink patterns.

You were too stunned to scream, mouth hanging agape. You urged Louie back to shield him with your legs. You saw the long, dark hair next, pooling over bare, tattooed shoulders; it was messy and unkempt, littered in bits of fauna and a few empty clam shells, one side matted with blood.

Before your brain could throw the alarm that this might be dangerous, you were already speaking. “A-are you alright? Do you need me to get help?”

That was when his head snapped up, and wide, all-white eyes regarded you with malice, lips curling back to expose a mouth full of pointed teeth. He growled at you, and Louie growled back, but then, after a second, the monster's face softened. The milk white eyes behind tendrils of hair shifted to brown, human irises, and he cocked his head a few times at you, as if trying to understand what you had just said.

You should have fainted.

You should have turned and run screaming in the other direction.

But, for some reason, neither one of those even occurred to you.

You came around to get a better look at him, down along where the water lapped at your boots, and took in the rest of his body; he was tangled up in a crude net from the waist down. He wore a necklace that appeared to be made of intricate fish bones and coral, and shark tooth earring dangled from his ear. The tattoo patterns ran all along his chest, stomach, and legs. You released Louie’s leash, and he sat right where he was told, while you crouched down to meet Eddie’s curious gaze that never strayed from you.

“Will you let me help you?” You asked.

Eddie was in love.

He never believed the stories he’d been told about the imprinting and immediate bonding that happened when you met your mate. He wasn’t just any Merman, he was a Siren, and as a soldier of the dark forces of the sea, he figured he didn’t have time for frivolous things like romance.

But this took no time at all.

You were meant to be his, and he didn’t care who he had to kill to keep you.

He studied your face as you worked to free the wet knot of seaweed tangles on the net, freeing his thighs from the heavyweight, gasping and averting your eyes at the way your touch made his cock twitch and swell. You helped him to sit up, noticing what appeared to be gills on his throat and sides along his ribs. His flesh was similar to that of a human, but also not. It had a thick, rippled texture, like the belly of a snake, and it seemed to glow with a soft blue fluorescence. His muscles were tight and lean, and he didn’t even bother to shiver as a cold wind made your teeth chatter.

You told him your name as another seagull cawed overhead, and asked what you should call him.

His eyebrows clenched together, tilting his head a few times, watching your mouth as you spoke.

“Do you speak English?” You asked it in a cringe way, with a loud voice, as if a higher volume could break any language barrier.

He brought his webbed hand up to touch your face, and you jerked away at first, but then you let his scaled knuckles graze your cheek, the legs of your jeans soaking wet now as you knelt there with what could only be described as a figment of your imagination.

He spoke a word in foreign language, his voice a deep whisper. You remembered how solid white his eyes had been before when he thought you were a threat, but now they were honey brown, almost cat-like in nature as they softly adored you.

“I-I don’t understand,” you breathed, unable to comprehend the time it took for his mouth to find yours, to plant wholesome kisses, to taste you.

You might’ve been in love with him at that moment too, but your jaded heart refused to let yourself believe it.

You did, however, feel the arousal blossom at your core as his tongue fluttered against yours, whimpering with a little click in his throat like a sea lion at the way you returned his kiss.

The urge to mate you, to officially make you his, was too strong for Eddie to take into regard any of the formalities of courtship. Once your hand found his generous girth and began to stroke, encouragingly, that was all it took.

You skittered backwards up onto the semi-dry sand, unzipping your jeans and pushing them down to your ankles as you went, and Eddie followed, bracing himself on top so he wouldn’t crush you, desperate to find your mouth again. His powerful hips bucked against you, and you held him by the neck, begging for more while he spoke to you in that foreign tongue, staring into your eyes, willing you to understand him.

Wanting you to know that no one would ever love you as much as he did; that he would be your one and only mate until the darkness took you both.

The position felt awkward, but there was no time to take your boots off as your hole clenched the air, desperate to be filled. You spun around to get on your hands and knees, and Eddie buried his cock in your wet heat with one swish of his muscular thighs, throwing his head back in a bark of triumph.

You pushed back against him, needing him to move, to stretch you and own you with each push, your fingers clawing into the sand as you whined.

Nearby, Louie cocked his head and tried to lift one floppy ear, but then he turned his face to the sea, trying to give you some privacy.

You’d never been fucked by someone as strong as this sea monster, and your whole body jerked and vibrated under the impact of his deep thrusts. “Yesyesyes…oh fuck!”

It wasn’t long before Eddie clapped his pelvis flush to your ass and spilled inside of you, chanting foreign words, tilting his head to the sky, worshiping you with his offering. He stayed locked there for a while, working his seed deeper with every stroke. When he was done, he flipped you over with a feral urgency that sent sand into your eyes and nose, but you didn’t care, because now his mouth was on you.

Your fingers sank into his matted hair, and that was when you felt the viscous patch and remembered he was bleeding. His big, strong legs were a bit wobbly, and the thought occurred to you, for whatever reason, that he wasn’t accustomed to using them.

But then Louie was barking in the other direction, and you both turned your attention to see a figure appearing from out of the mist. A middle-aged man in a pageboy cap and a trench coat; he was already too close before you knew he was there, and he dropped the walking stick in his hand, his face frozen in shock and terror.

Eddie smelled the foul human approaching and the familiar bloodlust roared in his veins. The fin on Eddie’s back bristled as he rose to a crouch with a ferocious growl. You shuffled as far as you could against the rock, trying to pull your jeans up and cover yourself, not sure what to think of Eddie’s reaction.

Eddie bared his mouth full of sharp teeth in a sneer at the man, his eyes going completely white again. A storm seemed to hit the beach all of a sudden at Eddie’s command, dropping down a gust of wind that rocked the waves and sent the man stumbling off his feet as if the world tilted on its axis, trying to hold his hat on against the force of it. A low, rumbling wail came from somewhere deep in Eddie’s chest as you tried to shield your face from the whips of sand stabbing like tiny daggers in your flesh. Eddie appeared to be sucking the life out of the man from his distance; the human’s body lifted up in the air and bent back. You thought you heard something crack.

It was only a matter of seconds before the man crumpled to the ground, unresponsive, and then Eddie settled, and so did the air around him. After a few heartbeats, there were only the crashing waves and the birds once again, and Eddie’s head snapped to you, searching, making sure you were okay.

He held his arms out and you scrambled over, burying your head in the crook of his neck, letting him cage you, letting him have you.

Louie went over to sniff around at the man on the ground, wondering if he had any treats, and then he lifted his leg and let go of a stream of urine onto his shoe.

—-----

Murray Bauman slammed the paper onto Hopper’s desk, forcing a gust of wind into his face and a couple of yellow sticky notes to go flying.

Murray waited, hands on his hips, the door to the office wide open behind him. Hopper took a deep inhale and flicked a few bored glances from the cover of the Seaside Review back up to Murray’s severe expression.

“Is this your way of telling me you're taking a vacation?” He guessed, shifting back in his squeaky chair.

“This,” Murray jabbed his finger in the direction of the paper. “Is what I’ve been trying to tell you about.”

In the mood to humor his old friend, Hopper bent forward, furrowing his brow, taking a closer look at the headlines.

Murray continued, pacing in front of the desk as he did so. “Merpeople don’t exist? Well then, explain that to me.”

To the right, at the top of a long column and a sketch, was the headline: Reclusive artist survives a Siren attack on the beach and lives to tell: Merfolk exist.

Hopper cleared his throat. “This is a drawing, Murray.”

Murray stopped his pacing, inclining his head, adopting a sarcastic tone. “Notice anything familiar about that likeness, Jim? Does any part of it ring a bell? The white eyes, maybe? The teeth?”

“Sure,” Hopper picked the paper up and plopped it down, further away from him. “It looks like Elvis. Call The Inquirer.”

Murray flopped in a chair facing the Chief’s desk with a huff. He’d keep talking about it even if it fell on deaf ears because he knew he was right. “The migration of the Sirens. Enki, Poseidon, Amphitrite, the legend of the skin-shedding Merfolk who can walk on land for 7 days during a blood moon. Humanoids. Cannibals of the sea—-”

“Stop,” Hopper put his hand up palm out. “Just, stop. Is any of this supposed to make any sense to me? Why are you here? What have I done to deserve this?”

Murray rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, intertwining his fingers. “The drawing should look familiar to you, Jim, because it’s just like the one I saw when I was a teenager, and three summers ago when I was on that death-trap Alaskan cruise. I told you all about it. I told you that I was—-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hopper interrupted. “But again, I’ll ask—why are you coming to me with this? You think I’m going to arrest a fish?”

Murray rounded his shoulders. "I know that Sirens exist, Jim. There’s more than enough evidence out there, and I’m going to prove it to you, if not the world.”

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson fic #darkSiren!Eddie #merman!Eddie #stranger things #stranger things fic #Eddie Munson fanfiction #monster fucking #monsterfucker #monster smut #Eddie Munson smut #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x reader

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deakyjoe · 8 months ago

Text

Not A Place, But A Feeling

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader (fem, she/her)

Category: angst and maybe a little fluff idk

Summary: They say home is where the heart is. And your heart is with Joel Miller.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (reader is mid 20s and Joel is 56), a rewrite of episode 3 basically, kissing (!!), groping (!!), implied smut, mentions of death & suicide (Bill & Frank, Sarah), reader is Bill & Frank’s adopted/surrogate daughter, guilt, sadness, grief, loss/bereavement

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: In celebration of Pedro’s birthday, have something I’ve been working on for literal months <3

Consider buying me a coffee :)

Bill and Frank were dead.

Their corpses sat rotting away in their bedroom, the door locked shut, as Ellie read their goodbye letter, a note of upbeat confusion in her voice. You couldn't blame the kid, she'd never met either of them.

Joel stood next to you rigid, unsure what to do or say as he just listened to the final words spoken by two of the few people he'd chosen to trust in this world.

You, on the other hand, felt as if the universe was crashing down around you. All blood had escaped from your body, seemingly draining out from your feet, as your head floated around in a storm of lightness that threatened to knock you unconscious at any moment.

Bill and Frank had raised you, the former finding you abandoned as a toddler when the outbreak had started. You'd stayed shut away in their own private community for years, Tess and Joel being the first people you could remember meeting that hadn't been your surrogate parents. And when Frank had come up with the genius idea to dump you in their responsibility so you could socialise some more and see the real world, you'd been all too eager to sneak back into the QZ with them.

You were beginning to regret that enthusiasm.

"And take care of our girl for us, we know you will." The final words of the letter hung in the air for a moment as Ellie lowered the paper into her lap, eyes flicking between the two people stood in front of her.

Joel said nothing. And you ran.

The front door almost fell off its hinges with the force of you swinging it open to get to the front yard. Barren flowerbeds were quickly flooded with the contents of your stomach. You retched at the floor, nothing else coming up but the feeling of needing to vomit still strong.

They were dead. Dead. Gone. Forever. What were you supposed to do now?

Your legs trembled beneath you, struggling to keep your weight as every fibre of your being just wanted to give up and collapse into the ground. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Trying to shake the feeling off, you pushed yourself into an upright position and started walking. To where? You didn't know. But this is what you used to do when you needed time to think, time to clear your head, time to escape. You walked the town. You hadn't had that same ease in the QZ, it was nice to have it back now. Even in the worst scenario.

You couldn't dwell on this for too long. People died. Regularly in this world you lived in for that matter. It was an inevitability. The loss of Tess had been a warning sign of that only recently. You'd been taught not to grieve too much, you didn't have the time for it. And it wouldn't change anything.

But you still ached, feeling as if a part of you had been ripped away and stolen for eternity. So, you walked.

Joel had watched you leave out of the corner of his eye, not surprised by your reaction at all. It was a little understated if anything. The men who had raised you were dead. Nobody coped well with the loss of family, he knew that better than most.

"You should probably follow her." Ellie said, looking towards where you'd abruptly left the house.

"She'll be fine." He insisted, rolling his shoulders back and taking in the room around him. He'd have to figure out everything for himself now that Bill wasn't around to help. So he got started on that, distracting himself by creating a mental list of inventory the group of you would need for your journey. And all of it was bound to be lying around here somewhere.

Ellie could only watch as Joel ignored what he really should have been attending to and took to wandering around the house instead, staying careful to keep clear of the downstairs bedroom.

It took two hours for you to reappear in the house again, acting as if nothing had happened.

You strolled in to find Ellie rummaging through a dusty old box with your name plastered on the side of it in block capitals, the black ink slightly smudged.

"Hi."

Her head snapped up to meet your eyes. "Oh, hi. I found this."

You shrugged. "My music collection, right?"

She visibly relaxed and smiled. "Yeah." Ellie wasn't a shy kid by any means and she certainly didn't have any trouble with her confidence or prying, but she liked you and didn't want to overstep since you'd been nothing but nice to her since you'd met.

You nodded. "I think I've got an old Discman around here somewhere if you want to take some of it on the road with you."

Before she had a chance to respond Joel stomped back into the room, gaze landing on you. He didn't say anything but his expression was questioning. You just gave a short nod which was enough for him.

"Take a shower and I can find some clothes for you both." You said, collapsing into one of the wooden chairs. It creaked under your weight but you paid it no mind.

The both of them could tell you still were not feeling quite right but didn't push it, Ellie disappearing upstairs to take advantage of the luxury of a shower that was actually hot with good water pressure. Joel silently followed you to a closet where the stash of unused clothes was stored away.

You found jeans for him and Ellie, a t-shirt for the young girl and a plaid shirt for him. It was one of Frank's. Joel watched you silently as you hesitated before passing it over to him. Luckily, neither of you had to fill the tense silence that followed as the shower switched off upstairs.

“I’ll go give these to Ellie then you can shower.” You mumbled, pushing past him when he gave no more than a grunt of acknowledgment.

You don’t know what you expected from the man, he wasn’t exactly well-versed in emotional support. Just something a little more would have been nice. You pushed the thought aside as you knocked on the bathroom door.

“Yeah?” Ellie called back.

“It’s me. I’ve got you some clothes.” You were slightly turned away from the door in case she decided to open it.

“Oh! Okay, hang on.”

There was muffled rustling from the other side before the bathroom door opened a crack and a hand stuck out.

You laughed and gave her the pile of clothes. “Should be some spare toothbrushes under the sink too. Maybe some toothpaste. If you’re, I don’t know, feeling extra hygienic.”

“Feeling extra hygienic.” She echoed back in amusement. “Thanks!”

The bathroom door slammed again and you rolled your eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

You trotted down the stairs to find Joel hovering by the door to the kitchen, surveying his surroundings. You recognised that look.

“What do you need?” You asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

You sighed. “Don’t tiptoe around me, Joel. What do you need?”

His gaze shot back to yours.

Tense silence hung in the air for a few seconds.

Just as he opened his mouth to reply, Ellie came bounding down the stairs and collapsed in front of the box of CDs again. She didn’t seem to notice the staring contest going on between the two of you as she rifled through the music rapidly.

Joel’s mouth closed again momentarily before he appeared to change his mind. “You good here for a while?” He directed at Ellie.

The young girl glanced up from the box and nodded, finally noticing the atmosphere in the room.

Joel turned back to you and tilted his head towards the front door. "Let's take a walk."

You followed him silently as he walked past you and out the front of the house, not stopping his fast pace until he was well away from the building.

Falling into step beside him, you debated whether you should be the first to speak. Thankfully, you didn’t have to think on that for too long because as you reached the point where the boutique was coming into view, Joel stopped and suddenly turned on you.

"You should stay here."

The statement felt like a knife in your chest. The way he said with such finality, such conviction. Like he’d been thinking it for a while. You wondered if that had been his plan all along.

"What?" You didn’t let your confusion and hurt go amiss from your tone.

Joel could only repeat himself. "Stay here."

You scoffed. "Why would I do that?"

"It's safe." He pushed through clenched teeth.

You nodded. "Safe."

"Your home."

He’d completely lost you.

And yet you nodded slowly again. "My home."

He nodded tightly, wishing you'd stop repeating everything he said in that sardonic tone.

You clicked your tongue quietly. "You think this is my home?"

"Yes."

You glanced at the row of derelict buildings next to you, the cracks on the ground, the dead grass. "The place I left years ago, where I had no friends, where my parents have recently killed themselves, you think that's my home?"

Joel had never heard you directly refer to Bill and Frank as your parents. It pained him to hear the word used in such a horrific scenario. But he didn’t let up.

"You grew up here."

You laughed humourlessly. "You grew up in Texas. Do you still refer to that as your home?"

He'd like to. But didn't. "No."

"And what is your home, huh? What do you think of your home as, Joel?" Your brows furrowed together as you watched him thinking about it.

Sarah.

Tommy.

Tess.

...You.

You didn’t let him answer. "Bet it's not a place, is it?"

You were right.

You knew that so you carried on. "Bill and Frank were my home. Now they're gone. Tess was my home. But guess what? She's gone too. Tommy's gone fucking M.I.A.! So what am I left with, Joel?"

Him.

"I'm left with you." You shoved at his chest, surprised by your own strength when he took an unsteady step back. "So if you think that I'm going to stay in this fucking ghost town alone instead of following my home wherever he goes with that girl who needs us, then you really don't know me at all."

You went to push past him, to leave his ridiculous suggestion behind and maybe go clear your head with a hot shower, when he stopped you with a statement that felt like the knife he’d already plunged into your chest was being twisted around to hurt you even more.

"Tess promised Bill and Frank that we'd look after you."

The scowl on your face deepened and Joel knew he'd given the wrong answer but it was the only answer he knew to give.

"Is that what I am to you, Joel? A promise that Tess made?"

He didn't respond.

A sting that threatened tears bit at the back of your throat. "Because if I'm a promise that someone else made for you then fine, I'll stay. I won't burden you with having to take care of me anymore." You ran a hand down your face. "You've got your hands full with Ellie anyway."

“That’s not what I meant.” He tried.

And failed.

“Then what do you fucking mean?!” You wailed, fingers clawing at your scalp in frustration. “Do you want me to stay here for me or for you? Just spit it out, Joel! So I understand what the fuck you want!”

Joel Miller was an intimidating man. He marched around with a permanent frown on his face, his tall and broad figure parting any crowd that saw him coming. That's why, when he took a few sudden paces towards you, you inched back a couple steps. It was instinct. He was a killing machine. And he didn't look too happy with you right now.

But the pure shock that rocketed through your system when his large hands landed on each of your cheeks and he crashed his mouth against yours would have been enough to keep a whole city's electricity running for a month.

You froze for a moment, eyes fluttering shut in surprise, not sure what to do with yourself. Joel Miller was kissing you. Joel Miller was kissing you. Out of every possible outcome, you never could have predicted this. The older man who you had adored quietly for years and trusted with your life, with your soul, was kissing you.

Your fists curled into the front of the shirt he’d been wearing for days, fabric a little stiff with dirt and grime, using it as leverage to meet his lips halfway.

He kissed you hungrily, like a man starved, devouring everything he could possibly take from you. Fingers tangled in the back of your hair, tugging roughly to elicit soft whimpers out of you. He licked into your mouth hotly, tasting as much of you as possible.

The feeling of your palms sliding up his chest seemed to knock him out of his stupor, detaching himself from you and taking a couple of unsure steps back.

He looked at you surprised, almost like he couldn't believe he'd done that. "I-"

"Joel..." You trailed off when he gave you a warning look. So you went for another approach. "I thought you and Tess..."

His face tightened in frustration. "No."

You didn't believe that. "No?"

"No." He gave a subtle shake of his head. "Never."

He seemed adamant. And sincere. So you chose to believe him.

You weren’t shocked when he looked at you for just a couple of seconds more before spinning on his heel and started walking back in the direction of the house. He was like that. Joel seemed to enjoy ignoring his feelings.

But then he changed his mind and looked back at you again. "We can stay a couple of days and then we need to move again."

You nodded slowly. "Okay."

He tilted his head up towards the dull sky for a moment before turning again and stalking off.

You waited until he was out of sight before following him. If he was conflicted on what he’d just done, then pestering him with your presence certainly wasn’t going to help.

When you got back to the house, Ellie was still sat on the floor.

She didn’t even look up as she spoke to you. “The old man’s showering, thank god. Thought my nose was going to fall off.”

You stifled a laugh and set about finding out if there was any food in the pantry that was still good to eat. You knew there was an endless supply in the basement and garage, but something slightly fresher was more likely to satisfy the three of you for the next couple days you were apparently staying. Managing to find something mildly edible and leaving it out for the two of them to eat, you informed Ellie she could help herself to anything in the house before making your way upstairs to find some of your own stuff to wear in what used to be your old bedroom.

You’d miscalculated how long it would take Joel to wash away the days worth of dirt as he emerged from the bathroom just as you walked past it, hair damp and slicked back and new-ish clothes on. He looked good. Very good. And somehow better than usual.

You swallowed thickly and slid past him into your old bedroom, not saying a word as he watched you go. The knowledge that he felt something for you, you didn’t know just what yet, was weighing down on you. What were you supposed to do with the idea that he maybe liked you just enough to want to kiss you? Joel wasn’t the kind of man to suddenly open up about his feelings and tell you he was hopelessly in love with you. Maybe he was pre-outbreak, you thought. You’d like to have known the him that existed pre-outbreak, you decided. But he certainly wasn’t that man now.

You pushed your door shut behind you, leaning against the wood and letting out a long exhale. God, why had he decided now was a good time to make this more complicated than it already was? You almost despised him for it.

Shaking the thoughts away, you found yourself some clothes and traipsed to the shower. The hot water and steam would clear away the temporary worries whilst you figured out how you were going to address your own feelings for him. Sure, you’d always known you’d silently harboured a thing for Joel. But you’d always assumed that nothing would ever come of it, he was a lot older and Bill would kill him if he ever caught wind of anything, so you’d buried the feelings deep down inside of yourself. Until today apparently. When he’d decided to dig it all up by kissing you.

You scrunched your eyes shut and forced that thought out of your head. The memory of the way his lips felt against yours, the way his hands, his very large hands, held you, the way his tongue licked into your mouth, the way he groaned lowly deep in his chest.

Thoughts. Forced. Out. Gone.

The rest of the day was uneventful. The three of you ate in silence before Ellie declared she was tired and you told her she could sleep in your old bed. She seemed ecstatic with that as she’d admitted to snooping earlier and thought that the mattress looked comfortable. You’d laughed and waved her off. Joel had then mumbled something about supplies and had disappeared into the basement.

You took that as your opportunity to speak to Bill and Frank, something you’d wanted to do since Ellie had first read that letter. So you hauled yourself up from where you were sitting, padded down the short hallway to the room where their bodies rested, and promptly sat down right outside the door.

You spoke to them silently in your head, giving them updates like you would’ve done were they still alive and you were just visiting. Telling them about life in the QZ and what you’d been up to. In retrospect, it seemed ridiculous. But at the time, it felt right.

When you were done, you just closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the door.

"Don't go in there."

Your eyes shot open at the deep voice to find Joel standing a few feet away from you. Of course. Who else would it have been?

"I'm not. Just wanted to sit with them for a minute." You sighed and squinted your eyes at him. "I know that sounds crazy."

He shook his head in disagreement. "I understand."

There was a brief moment of silence.

He broke it. "It's late. You should go to bed."

"Ellie's in my bed.”

"Master bedroom." He countered.

You frowned. "I thought that's where you were sleeping."

"Couch." Joel’s line of defence was unwavering; you didn’t really know why considering you were having a simple conversation about sleeping arrangements.

So you pushed on. "Couch? Why? Isn't that uncomfortable?"

"I've slept on worse."

"What's wrong with the master bedroom?"

He hesitated. "That's where Bill and Frank used to sleep. Feels like an invasion."

Oh.

You hummed and nodded your head. "That's why I can't do it either."

"You can't stay here all night."

"I've slept on worse." You repeated his words back to him, surely he would understand.

He nodded and slowly offered out his hand. “Come on.”

You almost didn’t take it, shocked that he was doing it. But after a moment’s pause, you slipped your hand into his and let him pull you up. And when he didn’t immediately let go, and started to pull you towards the couch instead, you thought you might have a heart attack.

When the two of you reached your apparent sleeping grounds for the night, Joel turned back to look at you. Only to find that you were a lot closer than expected. He didn’t like the way you looked up at him because it reflected a grief he’d only ever seen in himself. It was too personal, what you were feeling. He hated it. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel tempted by it.

He’d already crossed that boundary once. What was once more?

You were less surprised the second time Joel Miller kissed you. In fact, you were more relieved.

One hand cupped your face, keeping you grounded, the other clutched at your waist, keeping you close. Whether that was for him or for you, you weren’t sure. But you weren’t going to complain either way. And when the two of you fell back onto the couch all bitter memories of loss, of grief, of confusion, of him all went away.

Joel could only wish that he was on the same mental path.

This was so unbelievably selfish of him. Bill and Frank trusted him with your safety and security. And here he was on their couch, the memories of their lives still dancing around him fresh, kissing their daughter as he groped and grabbed at you with lust fuelled energy. It was more than lust, Joel knew that, but the ghosts of Bill and Frank didn't.

You were on top of him, full weight pushed against his body, and Joel could think of nothing but how fucking soft you felt under his touch. He ignored the betrayal of two of his only friends, ignored the glaring age difference, ignored that he was feeling what he should have felt for Tess. None of it mattered when your skin was warm and velvety in his palms. None of it mattered when your tongue slid against his and you swallowed the soft groans he'd accidentally let loose every now and then. None of it mattered when you whispered his name against his lips almost checking like his was still there with you. And of course he was. He'd never leave you from this moment on.

He'd continue to be selfish and ignore all the reasons why this was so wrong because it just felt right. Like you'd said, he was your home. And you were certainly his. Maybe he could afford to be selfish for once in his life.

The kisses were sweet, almost as sweet as you, but Joel could feel you yearning for more. Your fingers itched against him, twitching in anticipation. He understood perfectly as he felt the same, letting his hands drift to wherever they wanted. And you had no complaints, arching into his touch as much as you could.

The two of you were like horny teenagers, making out on the couch and trying to stay as quiet as possible so as not to wake the rest of the house. The rest of the house being Ellie in this scenario. Although the teenager wasn’t stupid; she’d felt the tension as soon as she’d met the two of you. Even if you both appeared unaware of it.

The sun dipped below the horizon.

Hands dipped below waistlines.

A war raged through Joel’s mind. This was wrong. So unbelievably wrong. But you felt so right.

He broke away momentarily, running a thumb along your bottom lip. “Maybe you should sleep.”

You only nodded at him, eyelids half closed and pupils blown. Joel just kissed you again. Maybe his moral dilemma could be a problem for the morning.

A/N: When I say this has been sitting in my drafts for ages, unfinished, but calling to me. Glad I finally got around to completing it :)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou #tlou hbo #the last of us fanfiction #ej’s fics #ej’s writing #deakyjoe’s fics #deakyjoe’s writing

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milqueandsugar · 7 months ago

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🌼☕ ` Sick Day ` ☕🌼

Gen / Fluff

Includes / Alastor , Husk , Lucifer

Alastor knows something is off immediately, maybe even the day before. He couldn't place his finger on it. You were totally normal, even got up early, the day was as close to nice as it could get in hell. Still, he bid you goodnight with unease, and it grew until morning.

If he figured something was off yesterday he knew something was wrong when you didn't show for breakfast. You were always there for breakfast, you made an effort to be sat at the table for every meal. You had an early day, he reasons, you might have just slept in. He doesn't bring a tray of food but tea or coffee instead, it isn't until he steps through his shadow into your room that the smell of sickness turns his nose.

If the smell wasn't a give away your curled up form was. Your breaths were labored, nose somehow but stuffy and running. You could taste snot and mucus on your tongue, the air was somehow sharp on your aching throat. You felt terrible. You looked terrible.

If you put up an fight to getting cared for your as delusional as he is stubborn, and Alastor isn't known for loosing a fight. He's very confident he can't get sick so that excuse is only a waste of effort.

He cares for you the best he can, the best he knows too. Caring doesn't come from his heart but rather the soft memories of his mother. He pulls out all the old wives tales. Onion on the heel, open windows, lots of tea and medicine with honey. He doesn't dote on you per se, your strong and he knows it. He does however help you take your medicine, bring you food and insist on your rest, you can't get better without rest. He doesn't sit on you night and day but his shadow dances around your room keeping you company when you're gone, usually miming sleeping. He's really adamant about the rest thing.

When you do recover he helps you catch up on work, getting out and doing something will be good for you! So don't expect to much help from him. He continues to cook you meals from home, soul food, comfort food, good food. It made sense when you were sick, he gave you an earful about how packaged foods would rot you inside out but you were back to regular health. Not that you were complaining of course, but you had a sneaking suspicion he may just like cooking for you. He calls it preventative measures, you call it cute, though not to his face.

Husk doesn't suspect anythings up when you miss breakfast, you two were up pretty late playing card and drinking games. When lunch rolls around he's a little more concerned, okay maybe you were reaaally hung over. When he gets the text at 2:45 to bring you some Tylenol and water he's more concerned. You shouldn't be THIS hung over for this long. He clocks out early, Angel's at a shoot, Alastors on air and lucifer and Charlie have fucked off for the day so he doesn't have to pretend to believe sinners are going to be visiting anytime soon. He brings leftovers too, he stands in the kitchen a moment contemplating between warming your water or putting ice in it before going room temperature as a compromise. He's halfway down the hall too your bedroom when he hears your retching. Oh you're really really hung over. He's quiet when he enters, still under false pretenses of your ailment and does his best to keep the light out of the room. Closing the blinds and even turning the hallway light off. It's when offering you your water he realizes how flushed you are, and how bundled up you are for a warm day in hell and the occasional sniffle of your nose.. "oh shit you have the flu."

Does not care if he gets sick or not, he spends his time working or with you and he hates working anyways. He sits in with you when you're bored, when your lucid enough to ask for his company and for when your eating. It makes him feel better knowing your eating something even if you end up throwing it up a few hours later. He's a terrible cook let's be honest so he just orders food in or steals leftovers for you. It how he usually eats anyways.

Husk hasn't ever really had the flu in hell or on earth, strong immune system? Luck? Maybe both. Hungover he has been however so he treats it like a very long hangover. Lots of water, lots of quiet and dark, lots of Tylenol. It works, or, your body fights it off on its own but you get better after about a week. Finally, you were going insane. You love husk, you do, but sometimes you need to see another person, or the sky, or literally anything. He doesn't treat you any different when you recover, he keeps whatever food your eating easy on the stomach (he's fallen into the habit of eating with you and enjoys it, don't say anything you'll scare him off.) But once you say your better he takes your word for it. Maybe keeps the alcohol away from you a little bit and definitely tosses whatever bottles you drank together before you got sick out. He doesn't trust them.

Lucifer hasn't dealt with sickness a day in his life what the fuck is wrong with you. He's an angel, in his defense, and Charlie was never sick growing up. So when he notices you start slowing down throughout the day, your yawning, your shivering, he thinks it's burnout. It's the closest thing to sick he's gotten alright give him some time. Some time he does take, maybe three days, before it clicks for him.

Its when your folding laundry together, classical music playing, a scented candle burning over the naturally sulfuric smell of hell. Just the two of you on a quiet evening. It was domestic, sweet, romantic even. Even chores seem like a dream when he's spending time with you. "I trust Charlie, I mean, I trust her intentions but I'm just not so sure about this Niffty character-" He looks up at you, you clear your throat. "This nif-" your voice falls flat again, your usually melodic voice rasping and phlegmy sounding. "Sorry-" you cough hard, trying to shift the mucus in your throat. Your nose is running from the pressure by time you get your voice back and continue your story. Lucifer is very concerned.

As much as you explain its just a sore throat he's very concerned it will grow into something else. He starts buying books on illnesses to try and figure out how to best help but that only stresses him out more. Tea, tea everyday for every meal, everytime he sees you he brings you tea. Medicinal, chai, cold, hot, lemon, he's spent so much money on tea and he's prepared to spend more until you get better. Refuses to let you talk, makes you go on vocal rest, gets the softest tissues available in hell when he notices how red your nose has gotten. Gets Charlie in on it of you don't get better in under a week. Charlie gets Vaggie in on it. You're surrounded by at least one angel whose never dealt with a sore throat every single day. By time you get better the angels have come together with a care schedule. It's a sore throat. Lucifer has carried you on multiple occasions. Once all your symptoms subside they get back to normal, just, try not to cough to loud in front of any of them.

#alastor x reader #alastor imagine #alastor drabble #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #hazbin hotel x reader #husk x reader #husk imagine #husk x you #husk x y/n #lucifer x reader #lucifer imagine #lucifer x you #lucifer x y/n

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harleehazbinfics · 9 months ago

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Mine, all mine.

a lucifer x reader fanfiction.

inspired by this ask: link

wc: 1728

warning: suggestive themes!!

a/n: sometimes i wish i could just give the program my brain and let it write itself. my ass is not suited for writing at extensive periods of time in one sitting.

You were a sinner, made to rot in hell for all of eternity until exorcist end your miserable souls. However, you refused to lead that fate. You disliked how other demons would underestimate you just because of how weak and fragile you looked, especially with your wings. So, you improvised, you took this to your advantage, eventually one-by-one overlords toppled over from your powers, becoming your servants or souls you feasted on. You never sought to purge sinners or become an overlord in the process for that matter, it was just that you heavily disliked being underestimated by these narcissistic souls, that you couldn’t help but put them in their place.

After decades of doing the same thing over and over again, you decided you wanted something different to do, other than manipulating and devouring retched souls all the time. With Alastor’s recommendation, you find yourself in Hell’s Hazbin Hotel, a hotel that aims to rehabilitate sinners and help them go to heaven. You didn’t oppose to the idea and if there would be sinners that find this their calling, then you’d like to support them in their endeavors, unlike your pal Alastor. Besides, it would be a free meal if some jackass just wanted to stir up some trouble with both of you around.

So, that’s what you led you here to this moment.

“—and this is (y/n), our other host, they’ve been helping with the hotel just a few months ago, despite being a busy overlord and all,” Charlie introduces you to each other.

“It’s a pleasure to meet the King of Hell himself. How do you do, my lord?” you greet with a polite smile after dipping your head in acknowledgement.

However, everything flew past Lucifer’s head when he saw your figure. You had a pleasant aura with an angelic face paired with bright beautiful wings that had him thrown in a loop. You had a kind and gentle gaze, lips a luscious shade of pink and cheeks full of life. You were simply ethereal—you didn’t look like you were from hell. You perfectly fit the standard for heaven’s angels and their winners.

“Uhh, dad?”

“Yeah, huh?!” Lucifer startles awake from his daydreaming and pays attention to his daughter. Finally realizing he was on a balcony with Charlie and Vaggie, a long way from where he was lost in thought.

“So, what do you think?” Charlie asks expectantly holding her hands together.

“Uh, yeah yeah. They look great. Say, who was that little friend you had there down there, are they also an angel?” he asks straightforwardly with a finnicky undertone.

“What? (Y/n)? No, they’re an overlord here in hell and our host. Didn’t I already say that?” Charlie replied starting to get annoyed with her dad.

“Oh, I see. They were just very beautiful looking, especially with those wings. I almost certainly thought they were an angel,” he rambles.

Vaggie and Charlie look at Lucifer stunned as Charlie starts, “What? Are you--? No, wait, dad we’re getting sidetracked. I meant the hotel! What do you think of it?!”

Then Lucifer goes on a tangent on how sinners could never be redeemed, and that they were vicious people who misused the gift that he gave them leading them here in hell. Before Charlie could fully give on getting her cause across to her father, a crash interrupts them.

They teleport downstairs and see a bunch of loan sharks barging their way into the hotel.

“Everyone! Get somewhere safe! I’ll handle this,” Vaggie yells readying her spear.

“No, my dear, leave it to me. It's time I remind everyone why I am here,” Alastor announces transforming into his demon form.

You chuckle unfurling your wings flying close to him, “Don’t forget about me.”

Lucifer ultimately shuts his mouth as he watches you dive headfirst towards one of the sharks stretching your hand out to grab their faces. You slam him roughly on the ground as his strength drains from his body. The longer you placed your hand on him the more his body crumples and dries, slowly wilting away from your touch. Leaving behind a red pulsing orb, you unhinge your jaw wrapping your tongue around it before swallowing it whole.

Lucifer’s stomach drops to his feet from the realization of his misconception of you, but he undoubtedly receives a hard-on as he can’t help but sexualize your actions. Wondering how it would feel wrapped around your long tongue and enveloped by your lips as you swallowed all of him.

He smacks himself across the face to rid himself of his thoughts and fixes his eyes on you and Alastor finishing up your massacre and dusting yourselves off. As he sees you both banter playfully, he couldn’t help but be reminded of his irritation for the male and comment towards Charlie.

“Mhm, you see? What'd I tell you? Charlie, sinners are violent psychopaths, hell bent on causing as much pain and destruction as they can. There's really no point in trying.”

She angrily huffs and yells at him, “Dad! Stop! He's defending this hotel! It may be a bit more sadistic than I'd hoped, but he's doing it for me! How come he can have faith in me, but my own father can't?”

His face crumples as he realizes his mistake. Here was his daughter trying to realize her dreams but couldn’t even support her ideas and aspirations. He was no better than those elders that shunned him away for his dreams. He finally comes clean to Charlie and apologizes to her. Finally supporting her dream and agreed on setting up the meeting for her.

But before he teleports away, he glances at you which you only responded with a light smile and nodded your head at him appreciating his help. He couldn’t help but be expectant of the next time you’ll meet again. He wished that Charlie would give him a call again soon.

The next time you met was when the angels attacked the residents of the hotel. When the matter was settled, all of you—including the help you gathered from Cannibal Town, celebrated your win in the now more spacious hotel.

While the lot of them gathered sharing drinks on one side, he saw you by yourself on the other side. He stands next to you with a grin, tapping your shoulder and asks, “This seat taken?”

You get startled from his action unfamiliar with people touching you so casually and give a flustered answer, “N-no! Please have a seat.”

He chuckles as he sits next to you, noticing how you scooted a little further away from him. He feels saddened when he was trying to be close to you, but you pull yourself away from him. He couldn’t help but comment, “You don’t need to be so distant. I’m just trying to get to know you better.”

You give him a smile and wrap your hands around your drink before answering, “Sorry. I’m just not used to people trying to come close to me at this distance, with my powers and all.”

He tilts his head cutely making you giggle and continue, “I guess Charlie didn’t tell you. I have the powers to drain demon’s powers. The longer I touch ‘em they die, and their soul becomes mine.”

He lets out a sound of understanding and mutters, “So that’s what that was.”

You look at him with you chin on your hand on the counter looking at him in interest. “Have you been watching me, your majesty?” you couldn’t help but tease.

You were not disappointed as you watch his face turn red as he fumbled with his drink while he tries to reply, “W-well, I couldn’t help but admire how strong you were. Either in a fight or just casually talking to you, you just seem to be so confident that I can’t help but keep my eyes on you.”

“You’re beautiful,” he finishes with a dreamy sigh.

“Are you hitting on me?” you ask complemented with a seductive smile.

His breath hitches as he realizes what he did, as he panics trying to save himself, “I mean! Please don’t take this the wrong way! I was just admiring— whoops!”

He accidentally drops his drink in his flustered state, with both of your fast reflexes you caught the glass together. His hand covering yours, he tilts his head not noticing anything different with himself as he holds you.

Meanwhile, you hastily place the cup down on the counter and fretted over him, “Are you alright? Are you unwell anywhere?”

“No, I’m fine. I don’t feel much different actually,” he says looking at his hands.

You sigh in relief not expecting this man to throw you off your loop. You’re so composed all the time that having this man in your proximity just destroys your braincells with how cute and charming he was.

“Actually, can we do that again?” he asks with a serious look, to which you hesitantly accepted locking your hands together for a while. As time passes on without much progress to his experiment, the more your cheeks turn into a bright shade of red that he finally catches on to.

“What’s go you so flustered all of a sudden, angel?” he teases squeezing your hand a few times egging you on.

You cover your cheeks with your other hand and tightly held his hand to make him stop, “I’ve never held hands with someone before.”

He smirks inching closer to your face, feeling his breath on you as he tried to memorize every part of you with half-lidded eyes, “Never been this close with a handsome bloke before?”

You stand from your seat, evidently towering over him from the sheer height difference then caging him in his both of his hands above him as you pinned him to a wall behind him.

“Never. Would you like to change that?” you whispered by his ear, earning a shudder from him.

“Bet,” he grins letting his forked tongue slither out of his mouth introducing itself to you while letting himself loose and held your waist. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

As the two of you disappeared from the group’s sights, Angel drunkenly yells, “OH, SHIT! LUCIFER’S GETTING SOME ASS TONIGHT!”

“Ewwww,” Charlie cries in disgust not welcoming the thought of his father fucking someone in her brain.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin angel dust #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin charlie #hazbin husk #hazbin lucifer #hazbin vaggie #alastor #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar #lucifer magne #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer

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bits-and-babs · 1 year ago

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✦ 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ✦

– KINKTOBER DAY 5: CLOTHES ON

joel miller x reader | smut, 18+ | 1.1k words

summary: trapped inside a wardrobe whilst hiding from infected, joel ups the ante of survival.

cw: f!reader, forced proximity, threat to life, mentions of gore, quiet or die kind of vibe, unprotected sex, p in v sex, cream pie, autassassinophilia – arousal in the fear of being killed.

⇽ KINKTOBER MLIST | DAY 6: NIPPLE PIERCINGS ⇾

The curve at the base of your skull cracks against the decaying wall of the wardrobe as Joel smothers your startled gasp with his palm. His life-line stifles your heaving, fearful breaths as the croaks and moans of the infected seep beneath the rotten door. Shuffling feet stumble down the corridor, bodies bumping into each other and snarling as they chase the promise of a pulse. Joel forces your eyes to focus on him, silently urging you not to look at the hoard slowly staggering by.

You can make out the image of your horrified expression reflected in his glassy eyes, see the way you shudder and flinch when a body bumps into the door. Joel leans his bodyweight against you, crushing your chest with his own and offers you a stiff shake of his head; a wordless ❝don’t❞. In truth, you don’t need his caution. You wouldn’t dream of it.

Still, fear continues to coagulate in your gut, the awful stench of the infected creeps between hinges of the wardrobe you had both frantically crammed into in a desperate attempt to avoid the advancing numbers of animated corpses. They weren’t quite like the smell of the rotten carcass of Bill’s friend, Frank, hanging by his neck and emanating a putrid odour that threatened to bring up the rations that you had halved and then halved again – precious calories and nutrients so hard to come by now. No, the infected had a base scent of something similar, but mostly reeked of damp-mould, as though wood had absorbed water and had begun to rot from the inside out. It wasn’t quite retch-inducing, but what they lacked in rancid scent they made up for in threatening numbers and horrifying looks.

Joel breathes deeply, and the sound wrenches you from your spiralling desire for survival. You watch as his eyes mutate, shift into something much darker. It’s thrilling and horrifying, sets your arm hair on end as you feel him lean forwards, the tip of his nose brushing your temple.

Stranglers of the hoard of infected runners continue to lumber down the hallway, rasping and snapping at anything that moves– but the chilling sounds are drowned out by the thumping of your pulse in your ears when Joel’s teeth scrape at the curve of your neck.

“J-Joel,” you squeak, the single syllable barely audible. Fingertips bury into the flesh of your hip, brand your skin with purple, blotchy bruises in warning. He wants you to be silent. An image flashes in your mind's eye; the museum, Joel’s index finger pressed to his lips as the ticking echolocation of a Clicker pulsed through the room. You’d hardly survived then. Tess hadn’t.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you feel your heart leap when he takes the flesh above your pulse-point between his teeth. He bares down on it, tendrils of pain sparking out across the nerves in your neck– enough to mark. A precarious round of Would-I-Lie-To-You when you inevitably stumble upon other survivors who would demand to know where the bite came from. How would you even begin to explain? “Oh, well, me and my partner were chased by a hoard of hundreds of runners into a hotel where we hunkered down in a wardrobe and he decided he wanted to take the chance to fuck me while the runners passed by.”

Yeah, you wouldn’t believe you either.

You’d seen Joel before the hospital in Salt Lake. Before he lost Ellie to a lie. Seen the ruthless, immovable survivor who did everything by the book and never once flirted with danger for the sake of a ridiculous thrill– just to feel something. But that was before “I swear.” Before “Okay.”

The clink of your belt between Joel’s fingertips is the crank of a gun’s hammer pulling back. His own, slow suicide.

The blunt head of his cock spears your cunt slowly, a shuddering breath buried in the crook of your neck as he sinks into your velvet heat. Thighs crushing his ribs, you rock your head back against the wall of the wardrobe and swallow down the wail that bubbles in your throat.

Then he’s grasping the backs of your legs, just below the crook of your knees and folds them back against your chest. Joel’s practically folding you in half, exposing your glistening cunt before beginning a pace so devastating that it obliterates the primal fear settled deep within your gut and reinstates a carnal arousal that has you clawing at his shoulders.

Again, his palm smothers your shrieks before you manage to ring the dinner bell. Joel, however, works in utter silence. Easing back before cracking his hips back into you, the most he offers in return is a soft groan of relief. Perhaps the jolting thrusts of his pelvis had shaken your very being from your body, but you’re almost certain you feel a smirk dance against your pulse.

Dampness clings to your skin, fear and delight, horror and bliss drawing the perspiration from your pores. Joel loves it– lathes his tongue against your throat to taste the salt of you as he buries his cock deep inside of you. He’s bruising you.

You try to say his name, but it dies in your throat before you even mouth it. Joel hears it anyway– he always does. Listens to the tremor in your thighs, pays attention to the tightening of your abdomen beneath his palm, takes heed of the strain of your leather boots when your toes curl. He responds likewise, roughly pushing his thumb into the throbbing swell of your clit.

It rocks through you, materialising so quickly there’s no way to halt the faint cry of bliss swallowed by Joel’s palm. He halts his thrusts suddenly, each muscle in his body stalling in fear as you come apart around his fat, throbbing dick. Tears well and stream from your eyes, bleeding into your hairline as you thrash against the seering pleasure.

“F-Fuck–” Joel chokes quietly in your ear, and suddenly he’s pulsing, painting your pretty pussy with his cum. There’s so much of it, seeping from your folds and streaming down the inside of your thighs as he fucks it into you, face contorting with bliss as he overstimulates himself through his orgasm just to draw out the sensation a little longer.

When the dust settles, no infected claw at the door. There’s no runners who have heard your cries, silence falling on the corridors of the hotel beyond the hinges of the wardrobe. Instead, an altogether different monster rears its ugly head and sinks its teeth into your flesh. Neither of you will admit it– can admit that the fear of being found, of being torn limb from limb and devoured had been enough to force a mind-shattering orgasm from Joel. No, you can’t admit it, but you can’t forget either.

The cum leaking from between your legs as you both continue your journey back to Boston makes sure of it.

pedro pascal/kinktober masterlist:

@xwing-baby , @mybugboy , @pansa-1-san , @pedrosprincess , @cosm1c-babe , @lil-stark , @heart-atttack @crybaby-blue-blog, @ssimelttilgniht @2pacacabra @pauldanosgf @leithatnight @kirsteng42 @dindjarinsmut @s0ftgabby @milly-louise @aynsleywalker @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @uncassettodiricordi @howellatme @mortallyuniquepeach @maviee @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @stvrlights-world @alloftheboysivelovedbefore @girlofchaos @s-u-t @pintsizedsunshine @djarin-dreams @solidly-indulgent @bii-aan-ckaa @casa-boiardi @maelstrom007 @nikisfwn @levi-llama @haunt3dh3art @lundenloves @rentaldarling @cyberpr1m3 @jedi-in-crocs @yunggoblin @spideyman-peter @iaur @cool-iguana @paleidiot

@bloodmoon-bites @wiltedwonderland @doggydale @limegreenbabx @namelesshumanperson @ninahhh-brahh

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ghoularaki · 7 months ago

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w3lc0me t0 th3 fr3aksh0w <3 | 2

↠ summary: Your ex-boyfriend not satisfied with how the relationship ended comes back to teach you a lesson its best to keep your mouth shut. Some secrets are best left unspoken.

↠ word count: 5,926

↠ pairing: todoroki touya x reader, takami keigo x reader, geten x reader

↠ genre/warnings: angst, smut, college/dark web au, DARK CONTENT, yandere! dabi, bullying, stalking, blood, mention of drugging, noncon touching, breaking and entering

series masterlist

“Do we really have to be here?” You grumbled to your blonde companion.

In front of you, a house party bellowed through the streets with trashy music. The booming bass almost blew out your eardrums and you weren’t even inside, yet. Standing on the sideway right before the entrance, you were reluctant to walk further into the home.

A few stragglers sat on the lawn, sipping out of disposable cups, obviously filled to the brim with cheap alcohol. What everyone really wanted was inside. Which only filled you with dread. A party filled with coked out college students only meant one thing: Dabi and Keigo were inside. Though Toga promised you, this party wasn’t like that.

Speaking of the girl, she threaded her arm through yours and tugged you closer to her chest. “Yes, we do! I’m so sick of you rotting away in your dorm. Ayame is complaining about you.”

“Of course, she is,” You rolled your eyes at Toga’s lame attempt to convince you.

Sensing you were about to run away, she squeezed you tighter—she sure was strong for such a small girl, “It’s too late to change your mind, now. Let’s go, it will be fun!”

She’s right, you would have to just grit your teeth and try to enjoy yourself as much as possible. You could only hope neither of those men were there, but you knew not to hold your breath. A party meant profit as if Dabi and Keigo didn’t already have the money.

With you in tow, Toga speed-walked into the front door. You grimaced when you heard one of the men wolf-whistle at you two as you passed them on the lawn. Before you could make a biting remark, Toga shoved into the door. You coughed and waved your hand in front of your face. Smoke permeated around the house, a strong mix of weed and tobacco.

The room’s illuminated with low-lights and a few multi-colored disco balls. You hated frat boys with a burning passion. Crossing through a hallway, you were already met with couples making out against the wall. The further you went, you into a kitchen where people were trying to make drinks or pigging out on snacks. Before you could reach for something to drink—you were going to need it if you were going to stay long—Toga pulled you into the living room.

There sat on the couches was the old friend group, or at least to you. Toga still hung out with them, but you were very much outcasted after the break-up. If they only knew what really happened.

From what you could see Mirko and Shigaraki sitting next to each other, no one else from the group. That made you sag at least a little bit. You could deal with Mirko if Shigaraki and Toga were with you. While Toga wholeheartedly defended you, Shigaraki neutral, the rest of the group—Mirko, Keigo and Bubaigawara—didn’t particularly like you anymore.

“Hey, guys!” Toga greet with a wide smile, her sharp canines on display.

“Yo,” Mirko replied back with a lazy grin. It slightly dropped when seeing you but she didn’t say anything.

Shigaraki merely nodded his head, but otherwise kept to himself, sipping from his own cup.

Skipping over, Toga brought you with her and almost sat on the spot next to Shigaraki, but he tugged you down onto the empty spot next to him. Pouting, Toga sat on the arm of the couch instead.

“Meany,” She grumbled to the older man.

“Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

At that she fake retched multiple times while you giggled. Shigaraki pinched you in retaliation.

You slapped his hand away, “Ouch! I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re being annoying like her. I made you sit here so I didn’t have to deal with her-”

“Hey!”

He glared at her and continued, “But I forgot you guys were two peas in a pod.”

Toga slung an arm around your shoulder and leaned down so her cheek pressed against yours, “And don’t you forget it!”

“So we are all buddy-buddy with the snitch now?” Mirko asked with a raised brow, peering over from Shigaraki’s form.

Toga’s happy expression quickly fell to a deepset scowl, “If you want to join the Y/n hate club, go hang out with Dabi and Hawks.”

“I was trying to, but you guys had to come over here. Why don’t you take the hint?”

Mirko usually wasn’t such a bitch. If anything she would do anything to stand up for a fellow girl, but you got between her and her precious molly by ratting out Dabi. So anything she said, you took with a grain of salt. She’s definitely at the bottom of your list of people to worry about.

Though, none of that mattered when her words confirmed your worst fear. You were too naive to believe none of them would be here. Panicking, you looked through the crowd of people for a spec of either man. Lately, where one was the other soon followed.

“Don’t be a bitch,” Shigaraki snarked, “Thanks to Daddy’s money Dabi isn’t in jail anymore so you can be coked up as much as you want again.”

“Excuse you, I take molly not coke.”

“Oh yeah like that makes you so much more morally superior,” He sniped.

Huffing, Mirko crossed her arms, “As if you aren’t high off your ass right now.”

“I gotta be to deal with your ass.”

“I need a fucking drink,” You said, having enough of their bickering.

It’s good to know they both never changed. Mirko really only hung out with the group because of Keigo so she frequently got on Shigaraki’s nerves. Though, his constant snark didn’t really help him in the making friends department.

The group really started with Dabi and Keigo’s friendship. Those two had been thick as thieves since middle school. Mutual benefit really does form a strong bond.

Then came Shigaraki, Toga and Jin. Shigaraki met Dabi towards the end of high school, and since he was acquainted with Toga, she followed along. And where Toga went, Jin soon followed. The two of them bonded over being abandoned by the system so when Jin turned eighteen, he took in eleven year old Toga.

Mirko didn’t come in until she met Keigo during her second year of college. You were the last to join. About two years later you joined when you met everyone through Dabi. At first you were known as his girl, but when Toga found out you two were the same age, she welcomed you in. In no time you found a small family with all its dysfunctions. Only for it to quickly burn to ashes a year later.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you got off your seat much to Toga’s protests.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Her voice tittered on concern.

You waved her off, “I’ve got it. I’ll get you a drink too.”

“Get me one, too!” Mirko yelled to you but you flipped her off over your shoulder.

You didn’t care to listen to how she laughed as you walked further into the crowd. As the night grew darker, the party picked up. Around the nicely furnished kitchen, people surrounded the counter stack with bottles of alcohol and juice. Skipping over the fruity drinks, you looked for any cans of beer or preferably something that didn’t taste like piss. A can was easier to cover with your hand than a cup. Less likely to get roofied. You didn’t trust frat boys as far as you could throw them.

Standing on your tip-toes to see over the heads hoarding the counter, your heart dropped. Leaning on the wall across from you stood Dabi. He seemed deep in conversation with a pretty girl, a sleazy smile twisted on his face.

You could only hope he finally moved on, but no, you spotted the tiny baggy filled with white powder dangling between his fingers. Taking the time to admire him, he didn’t look any different from the past couple weeks you had avoided him. His hair still a deep black, tattoos covering most of his skin. The snake bites caught in the low light, winking at you.

Falling back on your heels, Dabi noticed you amongst the crowd. The smile on his face slipped into something darker, like a wolf catching a rabbit, teeth all bared.

“Fuck,” You seethed to yourself.

Stumbling backwards, you watched Dabi tell the girl something. Her disappointed expression spoke volumes. Whipping around, you stumbled through the thickened gaggle of party-goers. Instantly, you looked to the couch to get help from Toga and Shigaraki, but instead of them, a new couple were cuddling close.

Redirecting yourself, you raced through a hallway and raced through the stairwell. More people crowded the stairs, but you pushed past them. Angry shouts followed you, but you didn’t care. There’s a banister, you raced over, catching the eye of Keigo still on the first floor.

You went down a more secluded hallway and ripped open the door closest to you. The door revealed an empty bathroom. Slamming it closed, you shoved your body against the door. Gripping the knob, you sagged against the slab of wood.

A shriek pierced through the still air. Your eyes snapped to make eye contact with yourself through the mirror. Another bang had you yelp again.

“That’s where you been, doll. Hiding from me, hmm?” Dabi’s muffled voice came from the other side.

Scrambling to the knob, your hand frantically felt for a button. You were out of luck. There’s no lock.

When you don’t respond to him, he banged against the door harder. The knob twisted in your own grasp, and you reached both hands over to stop him from opening the door.

“Don’t fucking make me break in there, you’re already in deep shit, princess. Let's do this the nice way.” He breathed into the door. Dabi didn’t shout as he uttered those words, but you heard him well enough.

“Fuck you!”

You screamed again when he hit the door right where your head was. He tried more frantically to twist the knob open.

“Fine! Be a bitch.”

The jiggling of metal filled the small room. Another yelp left you when he opened the door a crack. Slamming your shoulder against the wood, you didn’t let him open another inch. Slipping down, you fell on your ass. Planting your feet against the sink cabinets in front of you, you slouched down to be a human door wedge.

You stifled a shriek as the door shook from him throwing his shoulder against it. He repeatedly threw his body weight against the wood. The hinges creaked with the force.

“Stop being a brat, and open the door for daddy, baby. I swear we can put this behind us,” He cooed through labored breaths.

“You’re insane!” You screeched back, turning your head so he heard you better.

He upped his banging at your insult. Your body thumped with each pound and kick.

You knew you could only hold him off for so long, so your eyes bounced around the room for anything to defend yourself with. Your legs already vibrated from strain.

“What’s going on here?” Another voice joined you two.

Dabi finally took a break to address Keigo. Through the door, you listened closely, thoroughly screwed.

“She locked me out.”

“You do know the door doesn’t lock, right?” You can taste the snark dripping off his tongue.

“No shit,” Dabi seethed, “She jammed the door closed.”

Keigo gave an impressed whistle, “The little snitch really doesn’t want to be near you, huh? Must be the ugly mug.”

“Are you done?”

His boyish laugh sent a shudder through your body, “Don’t be so pissy. I’ll help you.”

On top of the counter sat a hair dryer forgotten and not plugged in. You didn’t stop staring at it as both Keigo and Dabi slammed against the door. From the force, you were pushed forward, the door opening a crack. You tried to push back, but an arm got in the way.

Knowing you were done for, you scrambled onto your feet, and pushed your back against the counter edge. You hid the dryer behind you, slipping it down so he couldn’t see it through the mirror, hand ready to grab the handle.

The door swung open so hard, it smacked against the wall before swinging back around. Keigo caught it with his hand, the slap causing you to jump. Dabi stood off to the side, letting Keigo take the reins to bring you back to him.

“Where have you been hiding, we missed you, Y/n,” Keigo smiled wide. That same douchey grin he used to get his way.

He sauntered further into the room, ready to corner you, leaving you nowhere to run. As he went to grab your arm, you pulled the dryer from behind you and aimed.

Crack!

“Fuck!” Keigo growled as he grabbed his nose. Blood flowed out like a waterfall. Red staining his lower face, hands and the floor it dripped onto.

Wasting no time, you dropped the dryer and raced out the room. Not letting Dabi be able to catch a stray arm, you booked it back into the party. Your hands shook as you refused to turn behind you, being weaker than Orpheus.

Dabi watched on as you flew by him and away from his view. Keigo came out of the room, still clutching his bruising and bleeding nose. The dirty blond went to follow you, but Dabi grabbed him by his arm.

“What the fuck, man?” Keigo questioned him, blinking through his teary eyes. Getting hit in the face hurt like a motherfucker.

A smirk danced on Dabi’s face as if he’s amused, but his crazed, blown out pupils told Keigo otherwise.

“She knows how to dig her hole deeper. Don’t worry, birdbrain, we’ll get her back for that in due time.”

Humming to yourself with your hands in your pockets, you tried to give off an air of aloofness. Tucked in your palm, a knife ready to be used. You knew these streets well, frequenting the shadier parts of town for over a year now. The streets themself were safe, but since the party you refused to walk around unarmed.

Dabi lurked in every corner, shrouded in shadow, waiting to get the jump on you. Or at least that’s what your paranoid brain told you. Plus Keigo being in on Dabi’s warpath to get his vengeance didn’t comfort you at all.

Warm hued lights danced across your face as the sun slipped down the purpling sky. The blaring street signs illuminated the darkening alleyways. People were sporadically spaced among the different shops, cigarettes clinging to their lips. Mainly older men with tattoos crowded the stores. Despite the implications of who they were, you didn’t feel scared.

Gangsters were the least of your worries.

Turning left, you entered a dead end alley with a shop tucked into the corner. Soft light poured in from the window onto the shiny pavement. No sign indicated who or what occupied this tiny corner.

Opening the creaky sliding door, a bell rang into the cramped space. The desk to the left of the door sat empty of the man running the place. At the sound of the door shutting closed, you heard some clattering somewhere in one of the back rooms. You raised your eyebrow when a different voice than you were expecting called out for you to wait.

Instead of a man with a head of fully grey hair, circle sunglasses and a sleazy smile, out came one of the last people you wanted to see.

“Where’s Giran?”

“Why the fuck are you here?”

Both of you said at the same time.

Neither of you laughed as you stared at each other. You didn’t hold a lot of resentment for the man, but most of it had to do with how close he’s to Toga. It stung what side he picked after everything.

“Where’s Giran, Bubaigawara?” You repeated yourself.

The older man crossed his arms, obviously uncomfortable. “He’s somewhere around here. He’s doing a deal!” The truth slipped out while his conflicting voices argued with each other.

Mimicking his stance, you hugged your arms to you. “Well do you know when he’ll be back? I was supposed to get tatted by him.”

“I can do it. Well, that’s too bad, bitch!”

Ignoring the second part, you asked, “Are you sure?”

“Fuck off! Yeah, let's go.” He beckons you over his shoulder.

Following the man into one of the rooms through the door. He closed it silently and starting look around for cleaning supplies. You watched him wipe down the chair.

“Where have you been? Who cares!” Bubaigawara asked.

Absent-mindedly, you answered him, “Just at school. Still stuck in the dorms, trying to save up to get an apartment. Same old bullshit.”

Standing in the middle of the room, you glanced around. You hadn’t been here in months and nothing changed.

The room was tiled with a dark, cheap material and the wallpaper peeling from the corners. Hung on the wall were different frames of Buddha, Jesus and various sizes of crosses. Giran surely wasn’t a religious man, but he liked the irony.

Under the frames sat the desk that looked more like a tool box than anything else. The dark metal drawers lined with various tattoo guns, ink and needles.

Not too long ago Dabi had been the one to show you the shop. Three months into the relationship you had let him tattoo you. It wasn’t that good as he wasn’t a tattoo artist, but you still loved the tiny skull he imprinted into your inner wrist. Or you once did. Anytime you look at it now, a concoction of emotions swirl in your stomach. You debated getting it covered up, but you let it serve as a reminder. Though you knew the real reason, you're scared of what he would do if you got rid of it.

Bubaigawara cleared his throat to pull you from your thoughts. He had everything set up and you climbed onto the reclining, black chair. Sitting in his stool, it creaked under his weight.

“So what did you want?”

You pulled your phone from your pocket and flipped it open. A new message from an unknown number greeted you.

you done ignoring me? answer me or else you won’t like what i’ll do

from: unknown

sent 6:56 PM

Rapidly deleting the message, you pull up the image you saved. Bubaigawara leaned in closer and squinted at the piece you wanted.

“Where do you want it?”

You bring your right leg up and tug your thigh high down to show the space above your knee.

He nodded in understanding and got to work. Slumping into the cushions, you closed your eyes and sank into the buzzing of the gun. You barely flinched when the needle pierced the fragile skin.

Your phone vibrating pulled you from your stupor. Flipping it back open, the number texted you again.

i can’t wait to break you y/n

from: unknown

sent 7:11 PM

Furrowing your brow, you stared at the text harder. Dabi rarely called you by your first name unless he’s being serious. Staring intensely at the numbers, you scoffed at the realization. You thought you blocked him ages ago.

dabi wouldn’t be happy knowing ur texting me keigo

from: snitch

sent 7:12 PM

not as unhappy he will be when you answered me instead of him

from: unknown

sent 7:12 PM

get bent

from: snitch

sent 7:13 PM

talk big game when it’s over a screen. don’t worry you’ll learn soon can’t wait to see you sweetheart

from: unknown

sent 7:13 PM

Uneasy, you swiftly blocked his number as well and placed your phone down. Staring up at the ceiling, you followed the water damage lining the yellowing plaster.

“What’s that face for? I don’t care!”

Turning your head, you looked at the man in front of you. His thick arms bulged as he shaded his work. Face serene, while he tattooed was the only time Bubaigawara’s raging mind stayed silent.

“It’s nothing.” You waved him off. He wouldn’t get it.

“Tell me.” His tone serious. He rarely showed his age, always very childish in his mannerisms, but times like these, you remember he did take care of Toga at some point.

Gulping, you chose your words carefully. “Dabi’s back.”

He paused for a moment before continuing, “Yeah.”

“You know?”

“Where do you think he’s staying?”

This made you jolt up and rip your thigh away from him. “Is he here? I-I thought he went back home. Like his dad put him on house arrest.”

“You know for a fact he would rather go to jail again than ever go back there.” He grabbed your thigh and went back to finishing the piece.

“Jin, you didn’t answer me. Is he here?” Your lip wobbled.

At you calling him by his first name, he looked up at you. “No. Yes!”

“Okay,” You sagged into the chair once more and clutched your hands to your chest. Staring at the door, you watched in apprehension of your ex walking in at any moment.

Bubaigawara continued his work, dipping back into the ink every once in a while. His warm palm on your skin burned. You didn’t want him or anyone to touch you. You were stupid to come back here. Of course Dabi would stay in the shop, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Though, now you know to avoid this area.

The silence didn’t last long when he spoke up again. “So is Dabi texting you? He’s real upset, ya know?”

“Mind your business,” You snapped, fear overriding your system.

“You hurt my friend.”

You shook your head at his ignorance. “No, he hurt me. You don’t even know a quarter of what happened. Instead of you guys blaming me for Dabi’s actions, open your fucking eyes.”

“You put him in jail, why? Because you guys got into a spat?”

A laugh broke from your chest, “So that’s what he’s telling everyone what happened. Cool, good to know. Are we done?”

He took the gun from your skin and wiped off the excess ink and plasma. He properly wrapped it as your other leg bobbed up and down.

“Yeah, we’re done.”

“Thanks.” You roughly shoved your thigh high back over your thigh and stomped out of the room.

Slamming the sliding door open and shutting it closed just as aggressively, you flipped up your phone. Dialing Geten, he answered after one ring.

“Come get me, please?”

Bubaigawara watched you stomp out, confused. He didn’t get you or the situation at all. Dabi told him you were being overdramatic and lied to the cops to get him in trouble. Yet, you seemed terrified knowing Dabi could be in the shop. He dismissed it as you not wanting to confront the fact you lied and snitched on your boyfriend, and everyone else in the group.

He finished cleaning and breaking everything down and went back to the front. Moonlight streamed in from the windows. Glancing at the clock, it had been nearing midnight. The time had passed a lot faster than he thought.

After tattooing you, he’d been in his own head for too long. Unanswered questions swirling in his head. He would have to talk to Toga later. Afterall she had sided with you despite everyone else being pissed, saved for Shigaraki who didn’t care.

Reaching for the binder to calculate earnings and funds, the door had opened with a bang. In came Dabi with a sour look on his face. Ripping off his jacket, he half-hazardly threw it on a stray chair.

“I’m going to kill her,” Dabi muttered under his breath.

“Are you talking about Y/n? What crawled up your ass!”

Dabi glowered at him, suspicious, “What about it?”

“You’re so pissy! She seems to be why you have been in a bad mood since you came back,” Bubaigawara shrugged.

“No fucking shit she has been. The bitch has been avoiding me. I just want to talk, but she acts like I’m going to hurt her or something.”

The older man thought for a moment, “Well she was just here and told me she’s still at the dorms. Maybe you can talk to her there. Or stop bitching about her!”

A grin broke out on his visage, the burn scar on his cheek dimpling. He leaned over the counter and condescendingly patted Bubaigawara’s face. “You not being all there really works wonders. Thanks for the info.”

Dabi walked back out of the shop, waving over his shoulder.

Bubaigawara blinked, a foreboding feeling that he did in fact do something stupid clung to him.

Curled up on your bed, your finger traced over the healing tattoo through the saran wrap and your thigh high. The sun hung high in the sky, but the muted light barely penetrated the blanket thrown over your head. After Geten had picked you up from the parlor your anxiety had only skyrocketed.

You had stayed the night, but you decided to come back to the dorms afterwards. Lying through your teeth, you told Geten you didn’t want to be late for any more classes. You both knew you were fibbing. You didn’t show up to your classes today. Going straight to your room, you ignored Ayame’s snark and launched yourself on your bed. It’s been hours and you still haven't moved.

Sleep couldn’t even claim you. The paranoia that Dabi would find you shot your system. From outside your cotton cocoon, your phone buzzed multiple times. You couldn’t muster up the courage to read the messages. They were most likely Geten and Toga checking up on you, but deep down you knew Dabi wouldn’t be easily curved with being blocked.

Your phone started to ring with a bubbly tone. Groaning, your hand shot out from the blanket and felt around the sheets until you grabbed the tiny device. Dragging it under with you, you flinched from the screen piercing your eyes. You saw Geten was calling.

“Hi,” You meekly answered.

“How’s my girl doing?”

You shrugged while mumbling a quick, “I don’t know.”

Geten’s silent for a second before responding, “I’m going to come pick you up. I don’t like leaving you alone especially since you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just a lot right now and I don’t even know where to start.”

“Maybe from the beginning?” His tone dripped with sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes with a smile, “Thanks asshole, why didn’t I think of that.”

“Anytime. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

The call ended with a click.

With an enormous sigh, you dropped your phone and curled further upon yourself. Working up the courage to pick yourself up from your tiny pity party, you hear the door knob turn.

Your face pinched in confusion. Ten minutes surely haven’t passed. The door opened and closed with an extra click. Whoever came in, locked the door.

A concoction of fear and perplexion overtook your system.

Peeling the blanket off, you called out, “Geten?”

A scream pierced through your chest at the sight of black instead of white hair. Dabi does nothing to stop your screech and stands by the door with crossed arms.

Crawling further up the bed, you clutched onto your blanket like a pathetic child.

“How did you get in here?” Your breathing hitched and your shoulders bounced with every inhale.

“Passed your roommate in the hallway,” He shrugged. “What a bitch, right? Didn’t even question who was asking.”

He unfortunately took the words right out of your mouth. But you couldn’t really blame her. How was she supposed to know your crazy ex’s actively stalking you.

“Get out, Dabi,” You tried to sound firm but even you could hear how your voice wobbled.

He started walking closer until his knee leaned on the side of the bed. Pulling the blanket to the side, he grabbed your calf and dragged you further down the bed. Screeching, you tried to kick him away, but he pressed further into the muscle.

Propping his body over yours with a hand by your head, he engulfed his form with yours. With your free hands, you pushed and hit his chest.

“Get off! Get off me!” You screamed and thrashed your head side to side.

With clenched eyes, the world around you blended into that damp alleyway. Smoke from both the gun and fire stuff their way into your airways until all you can taste is ash.

Dabi gripped your cheeks and shook your head with vigor. Blinking through the tears, you see his indignant expression above you. Toggling onto his baggy shirt, you both wanted to pull him close and as far away as you could.

“What the fuck is up with you?”

“G-get,” You gulped to suck in more air, “get away from me.”

He dug his fingers further into your mandible, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. You owe me an explanation.”

“I think putting your ass in jail is enough of an explanation. What do you want from me?”

“I want to know why my girlfriend-”

“I’m not your girlfriend!”

The hand on your jaw trailed down to wrap around your neck instead. No pressure was put, but the threat very much apparent.

“I forgot about your new favorite pass time, that fucking albino loser.” Malice dripped from his tongue, “You lie to him too?”

Guilt strewn across your face at the jab. “Dabi, look, you know I’m so-”

“You don’t get to be sorry after the bullshit you have pulled.” The veins on his hand bulged as it absentmindedly tightened around your throat further.

“Geten is going to be here soon, so you better leave,” You grasped for anything to get him off you.

Dabi laughed with a deep husky tone, “You think that prick scares me? I would be more worried about yourself if he finds you in such a compromising position with your ex.”

Kicking up a fuss again, you tried to kick him but he placed his hand under your thigh and brought your knee to your chest. The skirt you were wearing hiked up to show your black and pink skull panties.

Crawling further upon you, he straddled your free leg so your whole body besides your hands were trapped under him. Nudging his knee closer to your exposed core, he dug into your slit but didn’t move. You fought the urge to squirm as you would only grind on his leg, falling right into the palm of his hand.

Completely frozen, Dabi took advantage of your petrified state and tucked a finger under your right thigh high and pulled it down. His warm fingers dragged down your slowly exposed skin until the sock sat at your ankle. Leg in tHE air, he nosed at your calf until he hit a particular spot. There, sat on the middle of your calf a scar the size of a quarter. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

Chills ran down your spine when Dabi kissed the old wound. The skin long since healed over and discolored. The chunk of skin and muscle gone from your calf bound you together better than any chain or rope could.

“There’s no one in this world that will love you like I do. This,” He dug his thumb into the scar, “Right here is proof of my love.”

What a load of bullshit, you wanted to say but kept your mouth shut. What he did wasn’t love, it was misdirected anger and obsession. Anything he did was never for you, but himself.

A knock on the door had both you and Dabi snap your attention towards the person behind it. You held your breath, praying it wasn’t Geten.

“Y/n, I forgot my keys!” Ayame called out.

Your ex turned back towards you as you opened your mouth to scream. The hand on your neck, shoved two fingers down your throat. A wet, ugly gag echoed in the space between you two.

“Scream and I’ll beat your ass bloody,” He sneered, nose to nose.

Tears bubbling over, you nodded in agreement and clutched onto his wrists. Dabi kept his focus on your mouth, not caring Ayame kept pounding on the door. Dragging his fingers an inch back, he thrusted them back in but more gentle. This time you didn’t gag but your throat did tighten.

“Fuck, there’s my good girl,” He sighed into you.

With firm strokes, he fucked his fingers in and out of you. Drool dripped down from his fingers and your lips, caking your chin. Your eyes went hazy as you were swallowed by bright blues, him never breaking eye contact.

The buzzing of your phone broke you from your trance. Dabi pulled his fingers from your mouth and brought them to his own. Sticking his pierced tongue out, he licked and sucked your saliva off his fingers.

Whipping the excess wetness on his pants, he grabbed for your phone before you could protest.

“Looks like your boyfriend is here.”

He dangled your phone in front of your face to see the message. You reached out to swipe the phone but he pulled the phone back and far above you.

“Dabi, please!”

“He can wait.”

“No, he’ll get suspicious and come up here and-”

He flung your phone onto the floor and got back into your face, “Why do you care what that reject thinks, you’re mine.”

“No I’m not! When will you get that through your thick fucking skull.”

“And when will you get it through yours that you belong to me! You put me away to serve time and I still came back. You’re gonna have to kill me to get rid of me for good.”

His nostrils flared while he stared down at you with such contempt. Every word he said, he meant. Like a cockroach he would survive and crawl his way back to you.

“I need to go,” You tried to reason.

“Fine, have it your way.”

Forcing you back onto the bed, he dropped your leg to grip your shoulders. Pinning your hips down with his. With one hand, he pulled your shirt to the side. Licking the exposed skin of your neck, he nibbled and sucked at the skin.

“Stop, you’ll leave a mark,” You whined as you kicked your legs out.

The flesh tingled as his teeth scraped against it. His lips did not leave anything untouched.

Nosing up to your ear, he said, “That’s the point.”

With more fervor you bucked your hips to throw him over, but he stayed steady. Likened to a rabid animal, Dabi bit into your neck hard to tame your thrashing. Your breath left you with piercing pain. Luckily he didn’t break skin.

Satisfied, he pulled away and examined his artwork. There was no hiding the bruises littering the side of your neck. Getting up and off you, Dabi blatantly adjusted the hard-on in his pants.

Pulling yourself up, you watched him flick open the lock. Looking over his shoulder, a wide smirk stretched over his burnt skin at your pathetic form. He pointed to the side of his neck.

“Have fun explaining that to your little boyfriend.”

You slapped a hand over your neck and flinched at the raw skin. Cackling, he slammed the door closed, leaving you in your shame.

#yandere dabi #yandere x reader #yandere touya #yandere bnha #yandere dabi x reader #yandere hawks #dabi x reader #yandere #yandere male #bnha smut #hawks smut #dabi smut

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in-daddy-price-we-trust · 2 years ago

Text

All I Wanted - Part 1

summary: when you are kidnapped discovered by TF141 they can't help but fall in love.

pairing: 141 x fem!teen!reader (platonic)

warnings: mentions of child abuse, drugs, canon typical violence

Part 2

A/N: this is like my first fanfic in a while, and first on tumblr (yay!) any tips and tricks would be so helpful!

this also plans to be a series but posting might and will be inconsistent, thank you in advance!

You always had a difficult life. Being abused by your parents up until you ran away at 13. After you ran away, you got in with the wrong type of people, promises of hope and money, food and validation was all they needed to say to get you hooked in their business of organised crime. Some good came out of it however, they gave you a home and how to defend yourself. They taught you how to shoot a gun and the best place to make someone bleed. They taught you nothing else mattered except them, they became your new family.

You were 15 when you were tasked with transporting a couple crates of weaponry and drugs. The organisation you joined knew you well enough and practically raised you to be the strongest you were. So one cargo ship to Amsterdam later, you find yourself in a rotting, metal warehouse, wearing pink apparel, pink puffy skirt and a white hello-kitty shirt. A baby pink cardigan is draped over your shoulders and over-the-knee white knitted socks. A chrome covered knife strapped to your thigh.

“Zus, how much for it all?” he stood across from you, a cigarette lit between his lips taking a long drag as you assessed his question. His black, slicked back hair elongated his face and the three piece suit almost made this deal professional.

“How much are you offering?” was all you said as a small smile graced your lips, ‘the higher the offer, the better’ you remember being told before you left. They weren’t the best weapons but they were definitely worth at least a couple K.

“25”

a grimace, “80”

a growl, “40”

a hum, “55”

“65. Final offer,” his teeth were bared, almost like he was sweating already.

A sinister, sweet smile stretched across your face, “Wonderful, and how are you wanting to transfer that?” out of seemingly nowhere you pulled out a notepad and pen, writing down the bank details before you gave him a pointed look, “You have one week to transfer the money, or I will have your head.”

His face paled, almost embarrassingly so. For how innocent you appeared to be, you knew how to handle yourself in these situations. You turned to walk away, the sound of baby pink mary janes clacking against the concrete as you bounced towards the rusted metal doors, sliding them open as you looked back at the man one final time, “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” and leaving.

You were good at your job. It was easy, for the most part. Gather intel, pass forward that intel. Transfer somewhat illegal items from one holder to another. So it comes to you as a bit of a surprise when you exit through the dusty doors when a bullet wizzes past your face, luckily just missing you. Swiftly pulling out the hand-gun out your waistband and shooting in their direction. You wish you had your sniper, but it was left in the hotel room you managed to stay at.

As you shot in the direction of the fire, you failed to notice someone sneaking out behind you, kicking your knees in. Dirt caked your socks as the grip on your gun became loose. Acting as quick as possible, you flipped onto your back, retching the knife from its holster. Before you could act, black invaded your vision as you felt pain shoot from your head. Shit.

White light invaded your vision, a grumbled swear leaving your dry lips at the pounding in your head. "Jesus Christ," your wrists hurt, rubbed raw by the shitty metal handcuffs they strapped you in, "Whose bedroom did you get these out of? Couldn't even afford good quality cuffs?" fell out of your mouth before you could think to stop it. No one reacted.

It was a van, you could tell that much. The interior white with small wooden benches lining it. Two men sat on either side of you whilst the other two sat across. From what you could make out, another pair sat at the front, driving to this unknown destination.

Maybe you should have been more scared. More begging for them not to hurt you. Four big, burly military men could definitely kill you much easier than you kill them.

They studied you like you studied them. The one on your left was most likely the oldest, a fisherman's hat upon his head and mutton chops-moustache combo was the dead give away. He had his eyes closed and arms crossed across his chest, legs spread wide.

You couldn't make out the one on your right quite as well. A black balaclava with painted white skeletal teeth paired well with the upper half of the skull mask he wore. He seemed to be in a similar position as grandpa, although he had an ankle resting on his knee instead, head tilted back against the cool metal of the van.

The two across from you seemed younger. One had a darker complexion, his eyebrows furrowed in a thoughtful expression. He was smaller than the rest but no doubtfully as strong.

Lastly was the man with a mohawk. His eyes bore into you the most, not so angry and more trying to figure out who you were. Breaking you apart and putting you back together with his eyes. Childishly, you stuck your tongue out at him. His face morphed into one of slight surprise before rolling his eyes and looking towards the front.

It was quiet. The hum from the light ticking like a clock in your ear. Trying to gauge where you were and how much time had passed, your foot started tapping on the floor.

"Stop," A gruff voice said suddenly making you jump before mumbling a sorry at the skull-faced man. It was quiet again. It numbed your senses, sending shivers down your spine. Gravel sounded under the tires before voices outside sounded, signalling your arrival.

The doors pulled open, sunlight shining in. As mohawk and shorty left, skully pulled your arm to tug you along out with him, a short yelp escaping past your lips at the action.

You tripped over your feet, pins and needles shooting up your legs from sitting for so long. "Can you be gentle?" you spoke as you found your footing, "Please?" it was tacked on at the end for at least the tiniest bit of sympathy.

Skully looked down at you as he continued to drag you towards what you hoped was a five-star hotel with bed and breakfast. At least your death would be a quick one.

The halls blurred together until you were sitting in a leather chair in someone's office, back to the door, although you felt the looming presence of the men behind you. Mutters were heard outside before the door clicked opened, footsteps and a click again.

Gramps stood in front of you, leaning over the dark stained oak table. He had a file in his hand, putting it on the desk before sliding it over to you. "What do you know of El Sin Nombre?" it wasn't as much of a question than you'd like but an order for information.

Your mouth was so dry it felt like you swallowed cotton. As much as you wished to answer him, you look at him with furrowed brows and a confused expression. It took you a couple minutes before words formed in your throat, "Who?".

He didn't enjoy that answer. One of his hands slapping on the desk as he seethed, repeating the question again as if that would change your answer.

"I don't know who that is! I can't help you," you felt that burning sensation under your eyes as you desperately tried to convey your emotions. Tears meant weakness, and that's the one thing you didn't want to show to your captors right now.

Pairs of eyes hammered into your head. You felt like a child again, staring down at your toes being told off for not doing the dishes or not being quick enough to grab a beer. You braced for the hits, the punches to your ribs as you made promises that fell on the deaf ears of your mother and father.

"Price," A voice sounded behind you, soft and comforting. An accent coated the words that flowed through the air you didn't pick up on. The more time passed the more your eyes stung, tears slipping past your defences. Shoulders shaking as you try to curl into yourself, strings of "I don't know" and "I'm sorry" being nothing more than mumbles.

The room grew cold and quiet as you sobbed. Footsteps couldn't be heard over your own cries, so when an arm wrapped around your shoulders, you jolted. Expecting this is where you get hit. Bracing for the impact and sting they usually brought with them.

Instead, the arm pulled you into their chest, hugging you close and stroking your hair, along with shushing you softly. It only made you sob harder. When was the last time someone hugged you like this? Sure, you got the occasional pat on the back for a job well done, but never an embrace like this.

Time passed through your fingers like sand, not knowing how long you sat there for before you calmed down. The arms didn't pull away until you did, cringing at the wet patch you left on the man's shirt. Speaking of, you looked up to see mohawk looking down at you, eyes soft and an equally soft smile. "Y're alright now lass?" his accent leaked into the words, a curt nod allowing him to pull away and stand up again.

A heavy sigh sounded above you as you dragged your eyes up to meet who you presumed was this 'Price' figure. "What’s your name?"

Gears turned over the question in your head, thinking of an answer. Technically, you lost your name when you left home, gaining a couple new names at the gang.

Your silence was taken for an answer. "What are you doing in Amsterdam?" this you could answer.

"A business exchange. I'm just the messenger, I don't know any of the customers - I promise! - I just get the money and dip. I promise I can't help you-" you were hyperventilating at this point.

"It's alright sweetheart, deep breaths, calm down for me, yeah?" Price's voice was gentle now, seemingly not wanting the same thing to happen.

"Can you tell us where you're from? Who you work for?" He asked once he saw you calm down.

"Uhm- I'm from England. And I don't really work for them but I'm a doberman. They're some organisation that took me in," you weren't really interested in going into full depths of your life with these complete strangers.

Although, you felt the gazes lift off you and onto Price, his own eyes looking back at his men, a million silent conversations happening right above your head. Price inhaled sharply before he asked his last question, "How old are?"

"15." The air knocked out of his lungs.

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pandoraspurgatory · 2 months ago

Text

Ghosts of Hanahaki

Tomura Shigaraki x Fem!Reader. Implied established relationship. HANAHAKI disease AU

Graphic themes ahead, Minors DNI. TW below

TW: Su1c1de in graphic detail, death, vomit, blood, major angst/whump. No happy endings here! You’ve been warned

Tomura wheezed, he couldn’t yet decipher what was sweeter, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth or the hint of magnolias on his tongue.

His lungs burned, what left of his shallow body paced around the leagues home, his footsteps accompanied by the sound of retching and laboured coughs. He grimaced in pain as the petals fluttered out of his mouth with each hack, chrysanthemums weren’t so beautiful when covered in mucus and blood

The league had little to no fight left, not for Tomura, he was long gone. The house was a filthy mess, what was once a home filled with laughter and enticing schemes, was now a cesspit of despair and utter loneliness.

The bath was still stained with blood even months later, what left of you settled in the grout of the bathroom tiles. Scrubbing the remnants of you felt like a final farewell nobody was yet ready to confront.

Mouldy bumpers and half smoked cigarettes lay littered in the dining room, a memoir of Dabis attempt to ignore the situation. Toga had left weeks ago, hopefully to someplace better, you always wanted her to do bigger things anyway.

Hanahaki disease wasn’t near as much of a threat as it used to be, not with the quirks and technology possessed by people in this day and age. It was painful of course, but easily treatable with specialised medication and a hint of shame walking out of the doctors office.

Not Tomura though, the moment this started and a small pink petal escaped his lips, he made his decision to rot in the shame of his fatal mistake. Atoning for his ignorance in a slow form of suicide.

Tomura knew of the cures, with how rotten, heinous and sex obsessed society was, most of the population was bound to develop Hanahaki at least once in their lives. In some cultures it was almost a right of passage, a fucked up version of loosing one’s virginity.

2 months ago the unthinkable, though painstakingly unsurprising finally emerged through the cracks of your well played facade.

Instead of going out in a blaze of glory, surrounded by your comrades as you fought to save society and liberate the slums of the streets… You died convulsing and choking on rancid tasting vomit in a battered porcelain bathtub, wrists slit and eyes dull.

It was hours before you were stumbled upon, taking effort to end yourself while the league were out of the house, it seemed like the most polite thing to do.

It’s what you attempted to convince yourself, in truth you didn’t want your mind to be swayed, or to risk any chance of survival. Truely believing it was better this way, and maybe it was in the long run, it’s not like finding out is an option after the actions you imposed on yourself.

_________________

Tomura walked through the half broken in entryway, Spinner tailing close behind him. After slumping down on the couch, Spinner poured two glasses of whiskey into the fanciest cups they had, handing one to Tomura as he loaded up his league of legends disc.

Solo mode did have its perks of course, though Tomura found it much more stimulating fighting against his best friend. It was often crudely competitive of course, though a quick dose of dopamine before whatever mission was forced on them next.

Through laughter and slowly sipping at their drinks, as well as yelling at painfully long loading screens, the distant sound of dripping slithered its way into Tomuras ears.

He was easily overstimulated in the best of situations, however with the clearly unpaid wifi bill disrupting the game paired with the cheap whiskey dancing on his tongue, he felt himself slowly slip into frustration.

“Fucking Toga, left the tap on again, just another water bill on my ass”

Spinner smirked, taking a quick swig before responding “Relax it Shig, your Master will pay for it, you know that… your girl home?”

He ran his hands through his greasy hair, groaning in frustration, muttering something under his breath about how Toga should know better “yeah, probably having a nap, she’s sleepy”.

Minutes went by quickly as the game finally loaded after Spinner blew the grocery money on the wifi bill. The quickening dripping sound only drilling into Tomuras ears more each second. With a unsatisfied groan Tomura forced his way off the couch, kicking over a Mountain Dew can as he trudged his way into the bathroom. Spinners rapid clicks of the controller didn’t drown out the sound that came from the other end of the house moments later.

The shrill cry pierced his ears. He didnt need to think twice about who it came from. Spinner had heard Tomura in all his moods, whether it was a raspy laugh at a shitty joke, or a grating shout at the wifi failing. Spinner consistently recognised the voice of his closest companion.

He hadn’t heard Tomura like this before, Spinners legs moved faster than his thoughts as he sprinted towards the bathroom, he didn’t know what to expect. For all he knew it could be the second time Tomura encountered a spider in the toilet, though something was amiss.

The scene was gruesome, scalding bile threatened to force its way out of his throat as he looked at the situation before him. The League of course was no stranger to murder and death, but to those who deserved it, those who single handedly carved their own macabre demises.

You laid in the bathroom, in an old t shirt of Tomuras. Your eyes wide open and face covered in vomit and half digested pills. Spinner had never bothered to notice how strong blood smelt prior to this moment, it was sharp and metallic, enough to make him want to collapse. Your wrists dripped onto the tiled floor, mimicking a tap not screwed tight enough.

Blood pooled on the ground below, slit wrists coagulated with dark sticky clots that melted to the floor. How long had you sat here? 2 hours? 3?

The silence was broken by Tomura, his voice shaky on the brink of a mental break, he hissed through clenched teeth.

“She’s sick Spinner, get a glass of water and I’ll put her into bed”

He was taken aback, he knew Tomura wasn’t the most mentally stable man out there, though this had snapped something in him.

“Hurry up Spinner!” He begged, taking long dragged breaths as he rocked back and forth, holding your face in his hands. “She needs to go rest!”

Spinners heart raced. The empty look in your eyes, the purple marks indicating blood pooling under your skin, the way your joints cracked as Tomura attempted to move you.

People would have to be blind to miss the fact that rigor mortis had embraced you before Tomura did.

Dabi and Compress arrived soon after, it took hours of pleading, convincing and restraint to pry your cold and stiff body from Tomuras desperate grasp.

__________

Dabi knew

Spinner knew

Compress knew

Twice knew

They all knew that Tomura didn’t have long left, it was no use fighting the inevitable. The only good parts of him rotted into the tiles, just like you.

What was the point of curing his disease when he wasn’t rejected, but cruelty abandoned by the one who claimed to love him to most?

Only a matter of days later flowers sprouted from Tomuras body. The final stage pastel petals brought much needed comfort to him, much like the hands of his family he dawned on his body when you first met.

The reminders of the lives he took worn on his body as he took his last breath in the bathtub, a last ditch effort to be closer to you.

As much as the league tried to convince him it wasn’t his fault, it was his antidepressants clasped in your hand when he let go of your body.

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