#sweet silvery revenge

[sweetsilveryrevenge]

uhm . sorry fall boys. this song is good but. it hurt me. it snuck up from behind and took me out it hurt and was mean and I'm a little upset now. sorry boys. don't make me cry next time . well. You've made me cry before and it's been okay but. this one I don't think really. I like it. this time. I. am a little bit sad .

[crystalline-echo-chamber]

echo chamber revival who up

[callsigns-haze]

His darkness, my flame: The start

Azriel and YN ended things for good. Things that happened during her release may have been bad: Azriels lies were worse. Now he lies with another she is alone at night with her son until someone breaks into her home sweet home.

Pairing: Ex!Azriel x reader....Eris x reader

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Discussions of parenthood and the challenges associated with it, including postpartum experiences

Plays as a sequel of my series His Shadow or as a own fic!

The night enveloped YN in a shroud of darkness, the only sound being the occasional rustle of leaves outside her cabin in the mountain forest. The faint glow of the moon filtered through the window, casting a silvery light that danced across her room. She stirred from a restless sleep, her eyes fluttering open to the digital clock on her bedside table that glowed ominously in the stillness—2:37 AM.

A sense of dread washed over her as she turned her head slowly to the side, careful not to disturb the peaceful slumber of her three-year-old son, Knox, who was nestled in the room beside her. The weight of silence pressed against her chest, a reminder of the responsibilities that tethered her to wakefulness.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the coolness of the sheets where Azriel used to sleep. Now he lies with that stupid high lady's sister Elain. The memories came flooding back—his gentle presence, the way he would wrap her in warmth, the way Knox had once cooed in his arms as a baby. But those days felt distant now, almost like a cruel dream.

Her fingers brushed against the rough wood of the drawer beside her, pulling it open with a soft creak. Inside, she found a small assortment of pills, a mix of painkillers and anxiolytics that she had come to rely on since fleeing the pleasure houses that had once held her captive. Each pill felt like a bittersweet promise of relief, a temporary escape from the haunting memories that lingered, reminding her of the choices she had made. She took a handful, her throat tight as she swallowed them dry, desperate for a moment of calm.

Rising from the bed, she moved quietly through the cabin, each step deliberate as she navigated the shadows. The chill in the air prickled against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the memories that filled her mind. She entered the small kitchen, seeking solace in a glass of water. As she poured the cool liquid, the sound of the stream echoed in the silence, her heart racing as the night seemed to whisper secrets she wasn’t ready to hear.

But then, a soft creak shattered the tranquillity. YN turned sharply, her heart pounding in her chest. In the dim light of the kitchen, a figure sat in one of the chairs, shrouded in darkness. The flickering shadows revealed the glint of a dagger as it twirled effortlessly in the figure’s hands. Panic surged through her, and she instinctively stepped back, her body tense and ready for a fight.

“What do you want?” she demanded, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides.

The figure leaned back, the dagger spinning to a halt in his palm. “We have the same goal,” he replied, his voice smooth, yet laced with an unsettling confidence. “Revenge on the Inner Circle.”

YN narrowed her eyes, her mind racing as she tried to place the voice. “Who are you?” she asked, her breath hitching in her throat.

With a fluid motion, the figure pulled back his hood, revealing sharp features framed by tousled hair and a piercing gaze that seemed to glow even in the shadows. “Eris,” he introduced himself, a smirk playing on his lips. “Son of the Lord of Autumn. You may have heard of me.”

Recognition flickered through YN, a mix of surprise and wariness. “What do you want with me?”

Eris leaned forward, the dagger still glinting in his hand, an unsettling charm emanating from him. “You have a unique perspective on the Inner Circle’s power plays. I believe we could help each other.”

As she stood before him, uncertainty clawed at her heart. The weight of her past decisions and the tangled web of loyalties and betrayals pressed heavily upon her. The night was still young, but in this moment, with a dangerous stranger offering a path toward revenge, YN realized that her life was about to take another unpredictable turn.

A/N: let me know if you'd like to be tagged

[cho-aaacho]

Oh, love, hug me 'til I smell like you.

Masterlist

Characters: Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi and Choso.

Gojo Satoru

Oh, my dear God. Gojo can be a bit clingy at times, always trying to act cute whenever he craves an embrace from you.

Sometimes, he pretends to be an annoying, adorable puppy, just to hit your nerve, poking your shoulder, kissing your cheeks down to your jawline, and tracing the contour of your collarbone, all while maintaining an intense gaze on yours. 

When you're in a good mood, you'll lovingly pat his head, gently running your fingers through his silvery white hair, expressing how adorable he is. 

A gentle purr accompanies his delight, and he cozily nestles on your lap and snuggles, leaving you sighing at the charming antics of your big baby boy.

You love the sensation of wrapping your arms around him, embracing his warmth, breath, and love, and sharing your sweet scent. At times, you can even hear his adorable heartbeat. 

A sense of relief washes over him as you hug him, sealing a gentle kiss on the top of your head and feeling the sensation of his love. 

His palm gracefully glides along your back, and with a playful sparkle in his eyes, he teases, "Satoru has been a good boy lately, so he deserves a hug from his angel."

Geto Suguru

Well, he's very aggressive. You can't even find a good example to describe this man.

When he craves a hug, he'll get one; it's not even a mere request—it's a love spell you can't resist. With a single gaze and affectionate words, you'll fall into Geto's charm; you'll find yourself ensnared between reality and a daydream.

He gets everything he wants, and you become a living example of his obsession.

You can sense his very love and devotion in him, and he is planting the doctrine that you, and only you, are worthy of his love and devotion.

When you try to hug Geto Suguru, he'll be the one who holds you tighter, strong enough until you can feel his warmth stroking your skin and humiliating your thoughts. As you hug him, he hums softly, saying something about the weather, the stars, the veil of the night sky, and absolutely about himself. 

Then whispering, "I want to hug everything... every... single... inch of your soul. I want to take my sweet time, savoring every part of your essence until I find my way back to your lips..."

Nanami Kento

Cute.

He always wants a hug every time he goes home from work. He shows a hint of clinginess but still adds affection whenever he tries to hug you. 

He loves it when you surprise him with a warm hug from behind while trailing your cute, tiny little arm around his waist and pressing your body against his.

Nanami will accept the hug and eventually release his revenge about hugging you back, sealing a kiss on your cheeks, and counting how many times you whisper his name.

A surge of euphoria courses through your veins as you sense the warmth of his arms wrapped against your body, allowing him to be immersed in your affection. 

You surrender to his plea and let yourself drown in his delicate body, his fingers tracing across your back, letting you sense his stubbornness.

"That was a great and satisfying hug, but I want more. I want to feel you more. I want to press my body against yours and hold you tightly to me."

Fushiguro Megumi

Honestly, you find it adorable because whenever you meet Megumi, he'll shyly ask for a warm, nice embrace, burying himself in you, half sleeping, and letting your arms reach him. He buries his face between your chests, relishing the sweet notes of your cologne and fully immersing himself in your very presence.

In those moments, he'll murmur about various things; some are cute stories, some are just compliments, and it's so endearing whenever his voice resonates with your ear.

Whenever you hug Megumi, he is always initiating a conversation, and now you can hear him rumbling about his school days, friends, an annoying teacher, and his favorite restaurants. His eyes will sparkle when he mentions his favorite part. A subtle rose-colored tint graces his cheeks, adding a touch of shyness to the conversation.

In public spaces, he tends to gently hold your hand as you two walk side by side, occasionally brushing your shoulders and seeking comfort by resting on your shoulder.

"You know what could make your day better? If I just give you another hug right now."

Choso

He is extremely aggressive. Whenever his arms are wrapped around your body, he catches you off guard, and it surprises you.

In public, Choso showered you with affection and love, boldly claiming your entire presence as his and causing onlookers to give annoyed glances.

When he desires something, he'll claim it, and you understand the reason behind his assertiveness.

His favorite part is wrapping his arms around you from behind, creating a lovely connection between your soul and his heart.

Because people will see that you're already with someone else. You're his and his alone.

He allows your body and imagination to fall into his embrace, making your heart pound like a wild animal. As he senses your shyness, his voice grows soothing, then he seals the intimate moment with a brief kiss on your cheek and adds, 

"Do you feel it—do you feel it—the way our bodies touch each other? The way we complete one another?"

[ofsappho]

Heartless

🔞 Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, smut in the next chapter (and the chapters after).

Reader is disabled/chronically ill (and so is the author)

You need health insurance. Ghost is sick of sharing living quarters with the rest of the 141. Soap, your childhood friend, thinks the two of you can fix each other’s problems.

Or, Ghost and you have to convince his command that you didn’t just meet each other and your marriage is totally, completely, 100% legit. Not for any, more practical reasons. And, of course, your married-couple accommodations only have one bed.

Chapter 1:

This will either be the stupidest decision you’ve ever made or the greatest stroke of brilliance you’ve ever had. And there is no in-between.

When Soap ducks his head into the coffee shop, you’re more than a little relieved to see him in one piece, plus or minus a few silvery scars scattered across his face and peeking out of his sleeves, the collar of his jacket.

And the dumbass aviators you bought him as a high school graduation present hang from the dip of his shirt. You know Soap thinks he looks badass, but the placement reminds you more of ‘Patagonia dad who likes hiking’ than it does ‘mysterious hardened special forces dude.’

He’s so built that he has to carefully pick his way between crowded tables, just so he doesn’t knock over someone’s drink or trip into a random stranger’s elbow.

You more or less tackle him into the biggest hug you can. “Soap! You’re not dead!” Ever since he joined his super-duper-top-secret whatever the fuck, you’ve gotten used to the communication dead zones in your years-long friendship. The silence never stops worrying you, though.

Johnny chuckles and practically lifts you off your feet. “Neither are you! Congratulations!” You know he’s relieved to see you as well by the way he ruffles your hair.

You fucking hate it when he does that, which is, of course, why it’s become a tradition every time you see him.

He pisses you off, you piss him off. “Twinning!”

The glare he tosses your way has all the menace of a kitten attacking a curtain. “Fuck does that mean? You know I can’t keep up with your American slang.” You’re a good friend who pre-ordered his ridiculous caramel latte with extra caramel, and Soap sits happily in front of it.

He learned that he enjoyed heart-stoppingly sweet drinks on accident - a case of mistaken identity where you unintentionally grabbed Soap’s macho Americano, and he drank half of your caramel latte in revenge. And here you are, years later, watching him slurp down a milk foam heart.

“Awww, too much for the brain cells you have left?” Teasing him as easy as breathing and a welcome distraction for the anxiety attack-inducing question you must ask.

The general coffee shop ambient noise swells in your ears. An espresso machine malfunctions, almost loud enough to make you jump, and you try to disguise it by sipping your iced tea. No caffeine; you’re nervous enough without it.

“I could have you arrested for that,” Soap quips. Please. As if you’d let him try. One call to his commanding officer about his pre-service shenanigans, and you’d have his ass court-martialed.

“Abuse of the power of the Armed Forces? Very ethical.” You raise an eyebrow and lace your voice with haughtiness, even flicking some hair over your shoulder.

Then you need to pass Johnny a few napkins to mop up the latte dripping from his nose out of laughter. “I’m glad to see you,” He tells you, and the sober, knowing look in his eyes makes your stomach drop out. He doesn’t miss a thing. He’d probably be dead or fired from his job if he did. “Though I know this isn’t a social call.”

Well. You’re in for it now. “Yeah, unfortunately, it isn’t.” The words taste like dust in your mouth, and the lemony-black tea barely washes it out. Just to give yourself something to do, you pop the plastic lid off and tip a couple of ice cubes into your mouth before chomping down.

“What’s going on?”

How do you summarize the horrifically, brutally stressful whirlwind of the last few weeks without inspiring the annoying, patronizing pity you’ve gotten from literally everyone else you’ve vented to? You’re not a victim to be coddled or a child to be given advice you’ve already thought of, tried, and failed at.

“I’m losing my health insurance at the end of the month” is what you decide on in the end.

He knows exactly what that means for you. For your future. Soap shakes his head ruefully. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You’ve been sick for a while, diagnosed the year after the two of you graduated high school. The kind of sick that is simply a freak accident of nature, causing your body to attack itself over and over until the day you’ll drop dead from complications. It wouldn’t take much; maybe a regular infection burning you alive with a fever your crippled immune system can’t stop, or a benign cut from a kitchen knife that will bleed and bleed until you’re halfway to the coroner’s office.

And then there’s your shitty, damaged, degenerated spine that keeps you in bed for weeks at a time with crippling, numbing pain.

Without health insurance, things won’t look good for your quality of life. And you like your quality of life to be decent. You’d settle for passable.

Really, it sounds worse than it is, and you try to console him. “It’s okay. It was eventually going to happen. I had hoped to have a little more time, though.” You remember the call from the insurance company like it just happened yesterday. You were loading dishes into the dishwasher and listening to Fleetwood Mac on the radio. And some poor customer service representative told you they were increasing your monthly payments beyond what they knew you could afford, so they’d have to drop you.

You watch him open his mouth as if to tell you that you should’ve said something sooner. But he’s been deployed for the past four months. He pauses and resets to something a little more helpful. “How can I help?” That’s something you have liked about Johnny a lot since you were kids. He cares more about what he can do.

Your anxiety permits your lungs to take one big, fortifying inhale. “Well…” Dragging it out will only make this worse, you know, but you really, really, really hate that it’s come to this. “This is fucking embarrassing.” You tried to find a way to pay the premiums; you really did. But you work forty hours a week already and trying to get more shifts, maybe find a new job, do this, do that, appeal, all of that has been futile and draining. “Will you marry me?”

He drops his half-empty cup on the table, forceful enough that some of the coffee spills out. “What?”

Soap’s partially-scandalized shock is not what you hoped for as a reaction. But you suppose you shouldn’t have expected anything better.

The worst part of this conversation is over. It can’t get more nerve-wracking. “Marry me. Like. Get legally married. I could get on military benefits, and my meds would be covered.” He doesn’t swing your way, but surely signing some paper and standing before a judge is, like, not the most terrifying thing Soap has ever done. “And- and I know there’s stuff in it for you, too, like a better apartment or whatever. I can cook. Better than you, that’s for sure.” One of your friends had to teach him how not to burn water.

He just sits there in silence. “Please,” You add on softly. Desperately. This is your last-ditch attempt, your Hail Mary.

At last, Soap’s shoulders slump, and you know, from that alone, that he’s gonna say no. Miracles are rarely performed for ordinary people. “I would if I could, but… I’m sort of already married,” He sighs, then winces, waiting for your inevitable unhappy outburst.

…

You blink a few times, brain furiously recalibrating everything you know. John got married, and he didn’t even invite you? Or tell you? You’re supposed to be his friend. That’s so rude, ouch. You would have even gotten him some expensive shit off his gift registry.

A fucking Keurig, for God’s sake. “What? Who?” You demand, more outraged that he would leave you out of his life than you are over him declining your proposal

Underneath that deep, sunburnt tan, you see Soap blush. “Jeremy from final year.”

You’d throw your empty cup at him, but he’d just duck. “I knew you were fucking him! I knew it! You tried to gaslight me and say you weren’t, but I saw the hickies on his neck!” There were only so many times Johnny ducked out of a math classroom covered in sweat, followed shortly by your classmate, before you put the pieces together.

Oh, but the rest of your friends called you a conspiracy theorist and told you to mind your business. Now, who’s laughing?

Soap holds his hands up in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ sign. “He needed health insurance. We’re married on paper. Haven’t seen him in a few years, but I know he’s doing alright.” Naturally, he’s already selflessly committed marriage fraud. You honestly should’ve seen that coming; that’s why you wanted to propose in the first place and figured you’d have a slim chance of success.

“Shit.” Now you’re back to square one. And it’s a shitty square, with walls that close in around you with every passing second.

The regret in his eyes overflows when he sees your slumped shoulders, how you’re picking at your cuticles hard enough to bleed. “‘M sorry. If I wasn’t locked down, you know that I’d do it for you in a heartbeat.” The worst part is that you know he’s being sincere, not just parroting empty platitudes.

Right. Well. That’s it, then.

You rub at your closed eyes, then at the stress wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Fuck. It’s fine, I know. I will… I’ll figure it out,” You sigh. Less than convincing, but it doesn’t need to be.

There are probably options you just haven’t thought of yet. Or maybe you can work something out with your doctor, where you only get your meds every other month. “I got it covered. Don’t worry about me.” You instantly see Soap rush to shake his head, to tell you that he’s always worried about you. You want to chastise him, tell him that he has plenty of things to be worried about in his own life. “Shush. It’s fine.” But you don’t have the heart to rake him over the coals for it now, so you settle for that.

You should go. You have things to do, things that include crying in your bed with the curtains drawn and urgently refreshing your email to see if anyone's gotten back to you. New jobs, aid organizations for low-income people, any further bad news.

Soap catches your wrist before you can say the appropriate goodbyes and rush out of the cafe. “Look- hold on- let me… let me ask my… friends.” He wrinkles his nose as he says it with an odd, stilted tone. Like ‘friends’ is a replacement for something he can’t say out loud in a civilian setting.

You can put the pieces together. “Is that what you’re calling your coworkers?”

“That’s classified, shut up.” His Scottish accent pops out there stronger than good malt whiskey. Hope is an easily-caught flame and far more difficult to extinguish. When you smile at him, you find it’s not entirely false. “Let me ask around, okay? They’re good guys. You might need to do the heavy lifting with your sparkling personality, but I can try.”

‘Sparkling personality’ is sort of ominous. ‘Don’t give them shit,’ is what he means to say. That’s fine, you’ve worked in customer service before. You can be on your best behavior.

You’re not exactly sure what kind of dude would be willing to marry a stranger, even if that is the kind of dude you want to marry.

But desperate times, desperate measures. “Thank you. Really. It would mean the world and…  would probably save my life.” You didn’t mean to get as choked up at the end as you do. No one else has been willing to help you, though, and Soap’s answering hug feels like desperately needed hope reviving itself in your chest.

“I’ve got you. And I hope I can help in the end, even if it’s not what you originally had in mind.”

-

Soap runs through his team members in his mind as he waits for the gate guard to scan his ID, trying to recall who’s tied down and who isn’t.

Captain’s got a wife, he thinks, and he’s a wee bit too old for you anyway.

It takes a second for the starry-eyed guard to hand him back the card and lift the gate.

You picked a good time to call him up; not only is he in town, menacing the local army base, but so is the rest of the 141—a rarity.

Vargas would certainly charm you, but Soap trusts Alejandro with you about as far as he could throw him.

Out of all the idiots he went to school with, you’re the only idiot who stuck around through the early years of his service, and you pursued your friendship like a hound after a fox even when he couldn’t properly reciprocate.

So John feels some responsibility for looking out for you, as you’ve always looked out for him.

Garrick wouldn’t be a half-bad choice. Dependable, responsible. Friendly, so your sham marriage would at least be enjoyable.

His mind drifts to his own errant mostly-platonic husband as he parks the borrowed car in his numbered space. Jeremy. The last time they spoke was over three years ago? Maybe four. Jeremy had found himself a new boyfriend and called to let him know, asking if Soap wanted a legal divorce. He was moving to some godforsaken corner of America. Florida? Maybe. That place has got too many fuckin’ states for him to remember them all.

They worked it out - they’d stay married, and Jeremy would keep out of his way. No love lost.

Roach could do it for you in a pinch as well. A little quiet, but maybe you’d work out something like him and Jeremy. Staying out of each other’s way.

Soap dismisses Lieutenant Riley without a second thought. On his best day, Ghost is about as inviting and amenable as a particularly hungry great white shark. And even if God himself came down from Heaven and changed Ghost’s heart to be interested, Soap would worry about you.

A lot. Even more than he already does, since the day you sobbed in his arms after school when you were first diagnosed. Since that day he had to help you out of bed because you could neither walk nor miss any more class.

Does he trust Ghost enough to fight alongside him? To have his back when there’s a gun against his head? Absolutely. Does he think Ghost would treat one of his oldest friends properly, befitting of the funny, kind, vibrant person you are? Abso-fuckin’-lutely not.

So that puts Gaz and Roach in his top choices for you and Vargas as a last-tier resort.

Armed forces worldwide, in Scotland and America, are all about efficiency. Eliminating redundancy.

And if that’s the excuse Johnny uses to justify blindsiding his whole team at once, so he doesn’t need to have this conversation three damn times and hear three separate rejections? That’s between him and God.

He herds them like sheep, plucking the Captain from his office, Garrick and Alejandro from conditioning in the gym, disturbing Roach’s book. Ghost appears out of nowhere as if summoned by the disturbance and falls in behind Soap. Not a single damn sound, of course. While that’s useful on deployment, he still has to tamp down on the instinct to jump every time he sees a skull mask hovering out of the corner of his eye in everyday life.

No matter. The lieutenant will likely wander out when the subject matter is revealed. It would raise more red flags if he told Ghost off.

He barely gets Lt. Riley through the pool room door before Captain jumps him. “Sergeant. What’s the trouble?”

That’s fuckin’ rude. “Why’d you assume I’m in trouble?” He indignantly replies. Except… yeah, there was that time he borrowed a humvee he had no permission to touch, and Captain covered for him to Laswell. Shit. “Well, I’m not.” At least, not this time.

Soap opens his mouth to argue this because it’s hardly fair for Cpt. Price to point fingers only to be cut off. “What is it?” At least Price has the decency to file the sharp edges off of his voice this time.

Right. He almost feels guilty getting sidetracked over something so stupid when he’s gathered everyone here for an infinitely more important reason.

Where does he start? How the fuck does he proposition them without sounding absolutely mental? “I… Hear me out.” Instantly, Garrick shakes his head ‘no,’ and Cpt.’s face remains as unmoved as a brick wall. Definitely not how he should have opened. “Wouldn’t be asking if the situation wasn’t desperate.” Soap opens his hands in the vain hope that the gesture will make them listen, at minimum.

You loathed hospitals and doctor’s offices when you first got sick. Now, you see the inside of them so often that it hardly fazes you. Still, Johnny always went along when you asked. So you wouldn’t have to be alone.

The countless memories of holding your hand as some faceless nurse sticks an IV in your elbow is the motivation that steps on the gas. “I have this friend,’ He tells them.

“You have friends?” If Vargas weren’t separated from him by the pool table, he’d reach over and stick an elbow in his side. What is it, official ‘piss off Sgt. MacTavish’ day?

They get in a laugh at his expense. “Shut up, you reprobate.” He puts enough bite in his tone to cut through the ruckus with the keenness of a knife. “I have this friend. Since I was a lad. She’s a good girl, good person. She needs our help.”

Everyone knows what he means by ‘good person,’ and the mere mention of a civilian girl in distress softens Gaz’s scowl and Alejandro’s scorn.

Their Captain nods, now significantly more amenable to this conversation than he was at the beginning. “Help?” Progress is progress, and for the first time, Soap allows himself to think he might be able to persuade someone.

“Yeah, well… you know these fuckin’ Americans. They don’t give a damn if people die like dogs in the streets. She lost her health insurance, and she’s… She’s ill. She’ll be ill for the rest of her life.” That’s something Johnny will never understand about this side of the pond. The NHS was never good, but at least it exists. All that freedom and shit, for what?

“Sorry to hear that. Fucking shame,” Price murmurs. 

“I was wondering if any of you might be interested in marrying her. For the fuckin’... benefits. I dunno know what exactly they are, but she mentioned new living quarters for her soldier.” He really ought to have looked this up beforehand and found some other things to sweeten the pot. “I’m already married. Had to turn the poor lass down, and I told her I’d at least ask you lot.”

Their captain gets up and off his ass like the stool’s on fire. “Alright. MacTavish, I’m leaving the room now. I’m going back to my office, and do not disturb me until you’re done,” He orders, mustache practically fuckin’ bristling with urgency. “I didn’t hear or see a thing.” With his parting words finished, Johnny watches the man book it out of the pool room in double time.

While he understands and appreciates the discretion, was that truly necessary? They’ve all done exponentially worse things than this.

His first choice makes a break for it, too. “Sorry, Soap,” Garrick declines. “I’m out. I’m sure she’s a delightful person, though being friends with you doesn’t speak highly of her life choices. But that’s a big ask, and I just don’t know her.” The sergeant taps him on the shoulder as he walks out in a silent show of support.

“‘Course.” With each man who leaves, his worry increases.

What voicemails will await him after he returns from the next mission? That things went horribly wrong, and you’ll be hospitalized for the rest of your life, or maybe even dead?

Whatever it is, there won’t be anything he can do by then. That’s the worst part.

“Yeah, can’t do it either, Sarge. I got a girl already.” Right. There goes Sanderson.

At least Alejandro has the decency to look genuinely sympathetic. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

Soap watches him leave and wonders if you’re still awake. It’s not late for him, but who knows? Maybe you keep normal hours now. “Yeah, I will.” You’d prefer to hear the bad news as soon as possible, but he would hate to wake you for it.

But he can’t ignore the ghoul haunting the corner any longer. “What are you still doing here, Lt.? I’ve gotta tell her I can’t help, and I don’t think you’d care to overhear that conversation.” His voice is a little sharper than is nice and proper, overflowing with prickly irritation like too much tea in a cracked cup. Of all the times for Ghost to not mind his fucking business…

“…what she look like?”

“What?”

And Riley’s got the audacity to repeat himself, slower, as if he’s stupid. “What does she look like? Got a picture?”

“Is this a joke?” Simon should stick to shitty quips about goldfish. At least those are tasteful.

The man doesn’t laugh, shake his head, or leave now that he’s successfully rattled Soap. He just stands there, as grave as always. Motherfucker. He means it. “Fuckin’… yeah, hold on,” Soap sighs as he fumbles for his phone.

He’s desperate because you’re desperate. He tells himself that, over and over, as he looks for a half-decent selfie. You’re a big girl, you knew what you were risking when you asked him for help.

Ghost takes his phone in his gloved hand. “Not bad,” He murmurs after a while. “I’ll do it. Marry her.”

A beat passes. Soap lets another one go.

Alright. The grace period is over and done with. “This is a really shitty, serious thing to mess around about. Genuinely. Don’t do that to her or me. This is about her health. Her life.” Johnny likes Lt. Riley. Really, he does. Even under all the freaky mask shit.

But this is mean-spirited. It would almost be out of character. It’s one thing to be careless if his sparring partner walks away with permanent nerve damage. This is fucking cruel if he doesn’t mean it.

Ghost can read minds now. “I mean it.” His chuckle makes Johnny fix his surprised expression into something more stern and imperceptible. “She’s desperate, isn’t she? I’ll do it.” When he walks closer, the changing light makes that skull on his face flash in and out of existence.

“Why?” If he can’t come up with a somewhat satisfactory answer… Soap’s fist can probably reach him fine from here.

And in a rather remarkable show of humanity, he watches Ghost pinch the bridge of his nose through his mask. “Think I like listening to you snore? Or fuckin’ Roach chattering on Discord at four in the morning?” Johnny never knew Ghost was such a little princess about that. Who would’ve thought?

The other man huffs a laugh. “Need my beauty sleep.”

“Yeah, you do, the mask’s not doin’ you any favors,” Soap retorts as if on autopilot. That’s only their longest-running tiff. You’ve got your work cut out for you to deal with that ugly mug, he thinks.

“You want me to help her or what?”

Right. Right. “Sorry.” He examines Ghost’s body language, searching for any hint of dishonesty. “If you so badly want out of the shared bunks, how come you haven’t found someone else yet? Or some other way?”

“You think girls are lining up outside my door proposing marriage? You can’t even find me off duty. Now I ain’t gotta find… some other way,” He says before leaning back against the wall, at ease now that his argument’s been made.

“Fair point.” Fair, but fucking dumb. “I’ll tell her. She’ll say yes, I know she will.” Jesus, does he wish he’d been able to persuade Garrick.

Soap considers exactly how much you should know about your intended before this shit goes down. On the one hand, it might be better for you not to know much, other than that he’s found someone relatively trustworthy and willing. On the other hand… interacting with Lt. Riley is something that should only be done after signing a covenant not to sue.

“Whatever you do, don’t hurt her. She’s been through enough already. And I meant it when I said she’s a good person. Too good for either of us.”

Nobody gets through secondary school untouched. Especially not at that prissy international school you met him at, filled with over-privileged rich kids and army brats scraping the bottom of the barrel. Like the two of you.

When you were fourteen, you picked him up by the scruff of his Scottish neck with a smile on your face, then hit the bastard who hit him first. Thick as thieves ever since.

“And if you can’t find it in you to be nice, just… promise you’ll leave her alone.” At least you’re more than capable of making Ghost’s life a living Hell if he fucks with you. He takes comfort in that and a healthy amount of glee at the possibility of watching that play out. He’s got a front-row seat, after all.

Riley shakes his head. “As long as she ain’t a burden, MacTavish, no need to fuss and cluck.”

For a moment, Soap almost pities him.

“Don’t hurt her. Promise me that, right now,” He stresses. Just in case. At least eliciting this agreement might remind Ghost in the future to stay his hand.

The other man sighs. “I won’t,” He says at last. And Soap can tell he means it.

“Get out. I’ll let her know.”

[chaos-in-deepspace]

L&DS Xavier: Marker Magic | Drabble

I HIT THE POST BUTTON PREMATURELY. So anyway...comedy fic. With Xavie Baby? More likely than you think.

Pairing: Xavier x Reader Warning: None Disclaimer: This is an original fan work for “Love and Deepspace”. Do not repost on other platforms or plagiarize. All characters shown in this fic is 18+.

Blog Information | Masterlist

Xavier

The rule with dating Xavier is you had to accept that sometimes he was just going to fall asleep and forget about plans you made. You should’ve known when you heard the door to his apartment opening around the time you were waking that he wouldn’t make it. What he always did at night was confusing and he never bothered to tell you that information.

You could only sigh now as you looked at the man sprawled on his bed. In his defense, he did look adorable when he was asleep like this. You were thankful he had put your fingerprint on the lock on his door so you could come and go as you pleased…still….you were a bit spiteful. He could’ve at least sent a message to let you know he was out late and needed to reschedule. 

You then got a devious idea, a smirk etching onto your face as you looked around. You walked to his kitchen, finding a marker that was lovingly placed there for making notes on a pad nearby. You took it, twirling it in your hand as you went back to Xavier’s room. You looked down at his sleeping, peaceful figure and decided to ruin the image.

He normally slept like a rock so you doubted this would wake him. You popped off the top of the marker and began working on your newest art piece. Lines were easily drawn on his smooth skin as you used your hand to adjust his face where you needed and cover as much as you could. His face twitched adorably and it reminded you of a sleeping bunny.  You were almost satisfied when you felt something.

Xavier’s body rolled over, his arm reaching out to the warmest object nearby, you. You got dragged down to his chest, pressed against it as his grip locked you in. For a second you thought you had woken him up, but upon further inspection he was still asleep, the gentle snore was proof of that.

Still, you were fucked if you stayed here. He’d no doubt be annoyed with you drawing on him and would try to take revenge. You wiggled in his grasp, trying to push him away. After a bit of a struggle, you managed to toss yourself out of his arms and onto the floor. You fell with a loud grunt, the sound of your body hitting the ground was enough to finally wake up Xavier.

You saw his silvery blonde hair poke up and look around before he spotted you. He rubbed his eye and noticed how your legs were almost up in the air, knees hooked to the edge of the bed and your upper body lay on your back on the floor. You looked ridiculous right now…but he looked worse.

You couldn’t help but snicker, reaching for the phone in your pocket and snapping a photo. The flash stunned Xavier as he went to rub his eyes and let out a yawn. He called your name gently, “What are you doing down there?” he mumbled tiredly. He could see you laughing on the ground at something and his half-asleep brain registered it had to be his appearance.

In your laughing fit he was easily able to grab your phone and look at himself. The first thing he notices was the giant dick drawing on his cheek, and then the random little doodles and what he assumed was a butt over on his chin. How childish…and of course you’d be laughing on the ground due to it, almost in tears.

Xavier tried to wipe off the marker but noticed it didn’t even smudge. He saw it was still on the bed and looked it over. Both of you read the words at the same time.

Permanent.

Why this fucker had a permanent marker on his fridge was a question you’d ask till the end of time. All you knew was this man wouldn’t be able to go out in public for at least a few days until it rubbed off.

This time when he called your name it was no longer sweet. You cleared your throat, “Xavie baby, don’t do anything rash.” You tried reasoning but it appeared your pleading would get you nowhere.

You let out a blood-curdling scream when he grabbed you by the ankle, dragging you up as you struggled to get away. He got you on your back and pressed down on you with his hips, “I’m not doing anything rash. This is just…returning the favor.” He said, the marker approaching your face. Oh, you were fucked.

Next one will be posted today and it's the NSFW drabble bby, have fun!

[lya-dustin]

Vengeance is Mine

For @maidmerrymint

Very loosely based on Pasión the telenovela by Televisa and will be a series

Technically oc but written as a reader's pov

Cw: death, drama, pirate au, manipulation, revenge

7/17/24: so i know i said this would be a series but idk its just not letting me continue it. Probably because Aemond is no Ricardo de Salamanca and I don't really like damsels in distress. If one of yall wants to finish or make something with it, feel free to ask.

He is not the boy he was four years ago.

Aemond had lost control of Vhagar, and she had eaten Lucerys Velaryon over Shipwreck Bay and began the bloodiest war since the Conquest. In the ensuing chaos Aegon was killed by Rhaenys at Rook’s Rest and Aemond banished from Westeros on the penalty of death.

It was only because of you that he was spared his life.

Vhagar had not survived long after Aemond the Kinslayer proved his mettle as mercenary and led him to be forced into joining a pirate’s crew to survive. Now he was the Valyrian, Captain of the Mother’s Sorrows.

His mother blames you for their misfortunes most of all.

Had you not existed Ormund Hightower wouldn’t have betrayed them, had you not existed he would have Vhagar and burn down her enemies to something lower than ash and Aegon would still be alive as King. You had no child from Lyonel Hightower even as his stepmother whelped bastard after bastard, mother claims you have poisoned your own womb to ensure Jacaerys became king.

Alicent’s anger had turned to madness from the grief, he had seen. Though he could not blame his mother for losing her sanity after seeing her father and son’s heads be paraded about the city with her in chains of gold behind them.

She was dying, Helaena had written days ago.

Winter Fever had swept into Westeros and just when it seemed to have died down, Mother had contracted it from her Septas in the motherhouse by the sea she has been locked in since Aegon’s reign fell before its six-moon mark.

Aemond knows it is a death sentence for him to see her, but he just needed to see her. just once more to say goodbye.

And he does, the Matron of the motherhouse smuggles him in as Osferthe, a dragonseed turned Septon, in case anyone catches a glimpse of his silvery hair.

“My son! my sweet boy, have you come to me at last?” His mother is drenched in sweat, skin flushed with fever and despite the ice in her bath, she is hot as dragon’s breath.

“Yes, mother, I have come to see you. You are on your fourth day and all will be well again,” he swallows back the grief of knowing she will not live to see the dusk turn to day outside of her window.

She is kept as a lady of her status; Rhaenyra had not been the tyrant he had been told she’d be after Luke took his eye. She is wary of them but has not handed them to the executioners or the confessors.

Helaena is happy with her husband who dotes on her three children as if they were his and has a daughter, little Daenaera, who their mother has gone as far as to call a bastard. Daeron, their brother, had wed Rhaena of Pentos after being knighted by Rhaenyra a king would have done. They had fared well, better than him in any case.

“My sweet boy, do not lie to me. I know it won’t be long before I join my mother and father and your sweet brother in the seven heavens.” She tries to reach out to touch him beyond the thin curtain of her bed, but she is too ill to even lift her bone thin arm. She had taken to fasting until he came home once and for all, it was why the illness had become fatal to her. “I want you to promise me something so I may rest easy, my love.”

“Anything you ask I will do, mother.” Against the Septa’s warnings he moves aside the curtain and takes her hands, not caring he would sicken and die as she will.

“I want you to ruin her. I want you to avenge us against her no matter how it is done. For me, for your brother.” She whispers her last request just as her body is wracked by a seizure.

“I promise you I will not rest until it is done.” Aemond the Kinslayer vows as his mother’s convulsions end the Queen in Chains.

His mother has yet to be buried in Kingslanding when the Gods show him revenge is what they need from him.

You had been beset by slavers when traveling from Kingslanding to Oldtown by ship because your husband didn’t want to be emasculated by your dragon nor was travelling by road a possibility. Amid the Daughters' War, Sharako Lohar had taken a gambit and paid for it with his life just as Lyonel did when his folly overrode all good sense.

Aemond did not give a shit about Westeros beyond Daeron Velaryon’s safety for Helaena’s sake, but he couldn’t get close to Rhaenyra unless he had a reason to be welcomed back. The Stepstones would have been a nice gift, but in you he had an even better thing to offer.

“Unhand me! I am Princess of Dragonstone and demand you return me to my mother!” you shout with as much authority a soaking wet girl shivering under a ratty woolen blanket can muster.

“Dear Aemee, is this how you thank your saviors?” he hasn’t called you that since he took your maidenhead the night his father died. Then he had loved you, and you were to be his wife and it wouldn’t even have mattered if there was a babe in your belly before your nuptials.

Now you were the widow of Lyonel Hightower as well as the Queen’s heir. Rhaenyra’s only legitimate child and only daughter. You were worth a kingdom, or in his case, a royal pardon.

And something far worse, the source of your mother’s ruin.

You are treated well, washed and dressed in the clothes found in a trunk stolen from your ship and given the Captain’s Cabin as ordered by Aemond.

Aemond who everyone believed dead three years past.

Aemond whom you had loved since the two of you were children.

Aemond who had murdered your little brother.

“I didn’t die with Vhagar that night, I was saved by pirates who put me to work like any other slave. I earned my freedom and my ship by proving my salt, as you Velaryons put it.” He is reserved in ways he was never with you, but he serves you watered down wine to settle the nerves you hide and even offers you food off his own plate, so you know it isn’t tainted.

“I am grateful to the Gods that they spared you, I feared Daemon had a hand in your murder, well, attempted murder.” You admit taking the mulled wine avoiding the staring he elicits in you.

He had changed, skin a golden tan, with the scruff of a fine beard on his chin and a hardness to him similar and yet unlike the one he had before this all happened.

“If he had, he would’ve succeeded, but alas it was my own overconfidence that did me in. You always said my arrogance knew no limits when you were cross with me.” Aemond joins you at his table, and stares at you to see how the last image of you compares to what he sees before him.

Last he saw you; you were a maid of six and ten begging your mother for his life. Dressed in mourning for your brother with your heart torn between the young man you loved and the fact he had killed Lucerys and been celebrated for it. But you had fallen to your knees and used the Courts favor for you to change her mind and banish him instead.

He was not allowed to see you after, not allowed to take anything save his weapons, some coin for lodgings and whatever Vhagar’s saddlebags had.

Alicent had been made to kiss your feet in thanks so he knew his mother’s life would be taken as well if he dared to rise against Rhaenyra.

The absolute loathing in the deposed queen’s face was something you could never forget.

You had not wanted that, but no one asks what you want anyways. If it pleased mother, she could disinherit you in favor of Jace and you would not be able to say anything about it.

“I am sorry for your loss, Aemond. I know how much you loved her.” You say knowing what had brought him to this side of the Narrow Sea.

“You know why I rescued you, don’t you.” He does not beat around the bush, and you nod knowing this was not done out of the goodness of his heart. He would buy himself safety to at least pay his respects to his mother or put an end to his exile.

“Mother would pay anything for us, the least she could do is allow you to say goodbye to your mother.” You know she would never end his exile; he had killed Luke in under a peace banner, but your life had to be worth something or else you know he would’ve let you die.

He nodded in agreement and the two of you supped in silence, you had not been fed since you were captured and almost forgot your manners to which he even smiled at the turn of events.

“Did you love him?” Aemond asks a question you had known would come. You could not simply forget a love that had been nurtured through a lifetime together, vows made in secret and a sense of belonging you could never find with anyone else.

“I prayed more often for the Stranger to take him than to change his heart.” You admit knowing he would not tell. “I would rather the throne went to Jace and his daughters than let his seed take root inside me.”

“I have to say widowhood suits you, Aemee.” He liked your candor going by the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I must enjoy it while I can, mother will be hounding me to remarry and keep those vultures from circling about me.” You may as well had professed your love to him given you had only been with two men your entire life. But the two of you had as much chance of being together in this life as the Wall crumbling to the ground.

“I could help you with that, once you gain me a pardon.”

You shouldn’t agree to this, but you do. What other choice do you have? Aemond killed your brother and become a cold-blooded pirate whose reputation preceded him. He could toss you overboard or sell you like the pirates sold Johanna Swan.

“Tell her grace I will not release her daughter unless my terms are agreed.” The Valyrian orders his quartermaster to deliver his terms, along with proof that you and the others rescued were unharmed. He could not dock in Westeros until he was assured no arrests would be made the second, he entered their waters. “Be sure that the men you take with you spread their stories, Cole.”

For your alleged safety he shares his bed with you. He claims his men could betray him to ruin you and, as the prince he was raised to be, he sleeps beside you with his sword between the two of you. Even here in his hideaway in Essos, you are not let out of his presence.

By the time the two of you arrived here rumors had flown that you had celebrated Lyonel’s death with Aemond these past nights, his doing of course.

It was said that Rhaenyra had grown paranoid, that she had Lady Misery’s spies keep watch on everything you did as well. His half-sister would hear of how you shared Aemond’s bed and hardly left his side and believe you are the whore she is.

Rhaenyra will force moon tea down your throat like Viserys is said to have done to her and only he would be able to comfort you over the loss of your mother’s trust.

It would be easy.

You have always loved him; he could tell you the truth about what happened that night and you’d be the Aemma who would believe the moon was made of cheese if he said so.

You would hate him after, but he saved your life making the two of you even, so he no longer owes you anything.

“What will you do if she refuses?” You ask, hiding your fears well, but not good enough for him to be fooled by it. You could never fool him, he knew you better than you knew yourself, he’d wager.

You lay beside him, as the two of you used to do for so long. The sword removed by your own volition as he wormed his way back into your heart little by little. You have yet to give into your pining for him, but you will do it soon enough.

“I’d keep you until she gives in. I could never hurt you, silly girl.” He answered caressing your soft face with a calloused hand knowing you’d eat up his words like you always did.

You’d hate him after, even if he wed you and tied your claim to his when he usurps your mother, you would hate him for it.

But his mother would rest peacefully and that was all that mattered.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

So we have doll reader, but what about a doll Legacy?

You know those hyper-realistic marionettes at carnivals that have all their limbs attached to strings and you can move all of them? Imagine reader makes one of Legacy and just has the puppet chomp and claw at him all the time like a kitten-sized version of moth!

The jaws make little wooden clacks every time you try to make the puppet bite him and his claws make the same skittery noises when you drag it across the floor!

ohh my moon and stars you can teach him to puppeteer the mini him and have Foul Legacy inception

the puppet's little wooden teeth do very little damage, a miniscule chomping sensation on Legacy's claws, but he still lets out a gasp of mock horror, pretending to be in agony with yelps and whines. you laugh as he flops over, sticking his tongue and playing dead. deftly you poke his tongue and he squawks indignantly, licking your fingers as revenge. you sit the puppet squarely on his chest, tilting its head this way and that just as Legacy does. he grumbles and sulks a bit before he can't resist the urge to smile anymore and breaks out into a fanged grin. the puppet dances around happily, the strings shining with a thin, silvery sheen, tapping his face with its tiny claws. you can't quite mimic Foul Legacy's wonderful chirps and trills, but still, you try your best, and he chitters with sweet amusement at the noise

if not the sounds he makes, you've become an ace at copying his mannerisms in your little puppet, down to the way he walks and the way he naps in the sunlight. if Legacy falls asleep anywhere, there's a very high chance he'll wake up to the doll next to him in the exact same position, no matter how melted or puddle-like he might've been. in his sleepy haze Legacy shakes himself and sits up slightly, moseying his way over to the puppet. he flops down beside it, gently nudging the wooden thing closer until it's cozied up to his chest much like a cat, or how he would pull you closer on rainy days to keep you warm and safe. it smells like you, the puppet- like you and nice wood and paint- something you made with your own two hands to have Legacy close at all times

you arrive home to the same sight, at it seems that perhaps the puppet is smiling, too

[sunflowerabyss]

Crescent Resurgence

Pairings: Older!Remus Lupin x Reader

Bitten by Remus Lupin after an attempt to comfort him many years ago, you are left to navigate the challenges of lycanthropy alone. The resurgence of Voldemort brings you back together in the Order of the Phoenix, forcing Remus to seek redemption after all those years.

Warning: Angst. Slight comfort?

____________________________________________________

The night hung heavy with the weight of secrets and regrets as the moon cast its silvery glow over Grimmauld Place. For fifteen years, Y/N had lived in the shadows, mastering the art of solitude and survival. The scars, both physical and emotional, bore witness to a life shaped by the bite of a werewolf, and the absence of the one who had inflicted the wound.

The transformation was always a dance with pain, but that fateful night, a month after the tragic events that had torn apart their world, it became a brutal confrontation with the demons that lingered within Remus Lupin. Y/N, in her panther form, had watched over him, determined to be the support he so desperately needed. Yet, the trauma of loss had rendered him careless and hostile. In a moment of unbridled aggression, he bit her, causing her panther form to shift back into a vulnerable human.

Acceptance of death had washed over Y/N as she slipped into unconsciousness that night, only to awaken the next morning in a haze of agony. Survival instincts kicked in, and she learned to navigate the torment of lycanthropy on her own, crafting a modified Wolfsbane potion that not only eased the pain but hastened the healing process.

The rage within her burned like an eternal flame, fueled not only by the pain of the bite but by Remus's inexplicable disappearance. He was a ghost, a memory, and for years, Y/N wrestled with the love that refused to fade and the fury that refused to be silenced.

The Order of the Phoenix, in its desperate search for allies, found Y/N. Moody tracked her down, relentless in his pursuit of warriors. Driven by a desire for revenge for the friends she had lost, Y/N agreed to join the cause. The journey led her back to Grimmauld Place 12, a place steeped in memories both bitter and sweet.

Sirius Black, alive and well, greeted her with open arms. The warmth of his embrace contrasted sharply with the chill that swept through her when she saw him – Remus Lupin. More scars adorned his tired face, his hair graying, and a visible weariness etched into his being. He was a reflection of the years they had spent apart, the years of silence that screamed louder than words.

The meeting began, a gathering of familiar faces and strangers bound by a common enemy. Harry Potter, the spitting image of his parents, entered the room, and Y/N couldn't help but marvel at the echoes of a past that seemed simultaneously distant and achingly close.

As the meeting concluded, Y/N made a swift exit, her heart pounding with a mix of emotions. The night air offered a temporary reprieve, but Remus followed her outside. The tension between them crackled like electricity as words, long unspoken, spilled into the air.

"You left without a word," Y/N accused, her voice steady but laden with years of hurt.

Remus, a shadow of his former self, nodded solemnly. "I couldn't face you. I couldn't face what I had done to you."

The confrontation escalated, a whirlwind of accusations and admissions. Remus, burdened by guilt, conceded to the pain he had caused. Y/N, refusing to be swayed by words alone, stood her ground, her heart torn between love and resentment.

"I will never forgive myself for the pain I've caused you," Remus confessed, his eyes reflecting the depth of his remorse.

A heavy silence hung between them before Y/N, her voice edged with sorrow, admitted, "I loved you. I never wanted to be apart."

The admission hung in the air, a fragile bridge between past wounds and uncertain futures. Remus, understanding the gravity of his sins, asked the question that loomed over them both. "Do you still love me?"

The answer, honest and raw, escaped Y/N's lips: "I don't know."

A nod passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the fractures that time had failed to heal. Remus bid her goodnight, his figure disappearing into the shadows of Grimmauld Place.

_______________________________________________________

Weeks passed since that night and Y/N found herself standing alone in the courtyard of Grimmauld Place, a burdensome storm of emotions raging within her. The confrontation with Remus reverberated through her mind, and the weight of uncertainty pressed heavily on her chest. Sirius emerged from the dimly lit entrance, concern etched on his face as he approached her.

"Y/N," he said, his voice low and empathetic. "I know that seeing Remus again is difficult. He's been through a lot, and so have you."

She looked at Sirius, gratitude flickering in her eyes. "It's just… it's been so long, and I thought I had moved on, but seeing him again brought back everything."

Sirius placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to have it all figured out right now. Give yourself time."

Feeling a mix of gratitude and sadness, Y/N nodded. She retreated to a quiet corner of the courtyard, taking deep breaths to steady her racing heart. The night air was cool, but the turmoil within her was hotter than any flame. It was a blend of love, resentment, and the jagged edges of memories that had never quite faded.

As she stood there lost in thought, Remus emerged from the shadows, his footsteps hesitant. He approached her, his eyes reflecting a myriad of emotions. Y/N steeled herself, preparing for another round of the emotional storm that seemed to follow him.

"I… I know I hurt you," Remus began, his voice filled with regret. "I can't change the past, but I want to make things right. If that means staying away, I'll do it. I just… I can't bear to see you in pain because of me."

Y/N met his gaze, her eyes a mixture of sadness and determination. "Remus, you don't get to decide what's right for me anymore. I've spent years learning to live with the consequences of your actions, and I've become stronger despite it all."

He sighed, a heavy acknowledgment of the truth in her words. "I never meant to leave you alone, to make you bear this burden on your own."

"And yet you did," Y/N replied, her voice firm. "You left without a word, and I had to learn to survive without you."

Remus ran a hand through his graying hair, a gesture of frustration and remorse. "I understand if you can't forgive me. I don't deserve it."

The air was thick with tension as Y/N considered his words. "Forgiveness is a process, Remus. It's not something that happens overnight. I need time to figure out what this means for both of us."

He nodded, a silent acceptance of the reality they faced. "I just want you to know that I never stopped caring about you."

Y/N looked away, a mixture of sadness and longing in her eyes. "Caring is not enough, Remus. I needed you to be there for me, and you weren't."

The conversation lingered, suspended in the night air like the unspoken words between them. Eventually, Y/N turned away, her resolve unwavering. "I need some time alone. Don't follow me."

Remus watched her retreating figure, a heavy heart filled with remorse. The courtyard remained silent, shadows playing on the stone walls, as both Y/N and Remus grappled with the ghosts of their shared past.

Days turned into nights, and Y/N navigated the war-torn world with a heart heavy with conflicting emotions. The Order of the Phoenix, bound by a common purpose, continued their fight against Voldemort's forces.

One day, as she stood by the fireplace at Grimmauld Place, watching the flickering flames dance, Remus approached her. The lines on his face spoke of battles fought, both internal and external.

"Y/N," he said quietly, his gaze searching hers. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said. I understand that I can't change the past, but I want to be there for you now. If you'll let me."

The room fell silent as Y/N considered his words. She saw sincerity in his eyes, a glimmer of the Remus she had once known. The wounds of the past still lingered, but perhaps, in the midst of the war, there was room for healing and reconciliation.

[sciatu]

Sulla brezza marina che dalla spiaggia sale fino a questi monti dove la terra si spacca per la sete, su questo vento leggero che prende forza attraversando le chiome argentate degli antichi ulivi e le oscure fronde dei dolci gelsi, su questo sospiro d’amore infinito che il mare dona alla terra, su quest’amore si adagia l’anima mia e con questo amore s’invola, inseguendo ricordi e ballate, rivedendo le anime disperse tra gli antichi terrazzamenti, tornando alle case addossate sul monte come gregge che vuole difendersi dal caldo. Resto qui, ad osservare il tempo fermarsi, in quel vuoto che la felicità crea quando ti nasce dentro e tutto cancella, tutto giustifica definendolo provvisorio, sentendolo fragile ed eterno. Divento la fatica dei tanti che si vendica ed in poco trova tutto il necessario per essere, al di la delle vetrine scintillanti, dei paradisi mercenari. Scrivo solo per non dimenticarmi, per saziarmi domani ancora ed ancora rivivere la serenità di adesso.

On the sea breeze that rises from the beach to these mountains where the earth dry splits for its thirst, on this light wind that gains strength crossing the silvery foliage of the ancient olive trees and the dark fronds of the sweet mulberry trees, on this sigh of infinite love that the sea gives to the land, on this love my soul rests and with this love it takes flight, chasing memories and ballads, seeing again the souls dispersed among the ancient terraces, returning to the houses nestled against the mountain like a flock that wants to defend itself from the heat. I stay here, observing time stop, in that void that happiness creates when it is born inside you and erases everything, justifies everything by defining it as temporary, feeling it as fragile and eternal. I become the fatigue of many who takes revenge and quickly I find everything is necessary to be, beyond the glittering shop windows and the mercenary paradises. I write only for don't forget myself, to satiate myself again tomorrow and relive the serenity of now.

[sweetsilveryrevenge]

wearing my kitty cat gloves outside because mrrrp:3 miauuu ^•.•^ meowwwwww and FUCK normies. FUCK EM. hate those bland fuckers. I will punch you with these on. meow bitch.

[acatalystrising]

SOOOO I have been on a ROLL with Moth to a Flame, and in a sudden burst of inspiration, I have chapter five already finished! Now we’re getting to the twisty turny fun of this story, but I’m only getting started. This one has much more angst then the previous chapters, so buckle up, buttercups…we’re in for a ride.

This chapter is rated MA for cannon violence, mentions of past trauma, and abuse.

Here is a link to chapter six!

Moth to a Flame Chapter Five

It had been many years since Boba Fett had awoken to a nexu’s distinct call, but waking up to a woman curled against him? Much longer.

In fact, he couldn’t recall if he ever stuck around long enough for any of his flings from his younger years to wake up the morning after. He’d been…different back then. Cold, selfish, and calloused. Uninterested in anything beyond an empty night of carnal pleasure.

Much had changed since those days - he had changed. Perhaps Fennec had been right - there was a chance he’d grown softer. But the years of a hardened life of bounty hunting would do that to anyone - especially to one who almost became sarlacc food.

He hadn’t intended to fall for anyone. Especially not now, heading a gotra, when he was arguably as busy as he’d ever been. Hadn’t ever thought he wanted or needed trivial things as romance. But you had ensnared him - smile as bright as the suns themselves, warming something in his heart that had been cold for so long. And he hadn’t been able to shake you from his mind, try as he had.

A weight of shame settled in his throat as you shifted with a soft groan, plush lips parted ever so slightly, blissfully asleep. But he noted with growing interest that you instinctively shifted closer, nestling yourself against his chest. You were so soft, small, and warm - the exact opposite of him; a man with more blood on his hands then you would hopefully ever know. And yet you trusted him enough that you invited him into your home, into your bed…such intimacies were foreign to him.

Your life couldn’t be more different than his - spending your days caring for others, for the animals so many ignored. It was so…sweet. Another thing he’d never expected his future self to admire in anyone, instead of scorn.

Yet he knew you had your traumas. Pain that had shaped you. There was a certain strength to you, hiding under that warm smile - a strength that only hardship and trials forged.

You shifted again, turning on your stomach so you were resting on his chest, chin tucked against his neck. He tentatively rested a hand on your shoulders and you mumbled something unintelligible, snuggling even closer. He couldn’t stop the small smile from curling his lips, equally unable to stop himself from carding his fingers through your hair. You mumbled again, slowly waking, and his smile broadened. Stars, you were so…perfect. His fingers brushed your hair away from your neck, and the moment it bared your skin, his smile waned, hand freezing in place.

Two long, silvery white scars ran diagonally across the back of your neck.

They were old, a testament to something that happened years ago - but it did not stop a nearly possessive rage from filling his chest. He’d been in his prior profession for many years. Long enough to know the marks of a collar when he saw them. Slavery? Empire? Something else?

Who, or what, would dare to harm someone as kind as you? He took a shuddering breath, willing himself to remain calm, even as his hunter’s mind already was calculating. Wondering who had hurt you. If they were still alive so he could exact his revenge. Because he would, without hesitation.

You only knew him as Daimyo, but Boba knew what he was truly capable of. And for the first time ever in his years, that scared him.

“Boba?” Your voice was thick with sleep, and he blinked, resuming his hand’s gentle caress through your hair as you shifted, blinking, sleepy gaze falling on him.

“I’m here, little one,” he fought to keep his tone soft, gentle. Pushed down the indignant rage he felt at your past pain.

There was nothing he could do to make the past hurt less. But perhaps he could do something, in his own way, to ease the pain of the present.

“Mm, you stayed,” you rested a hand on his chest, fingers brushing over his shirt in a gentle soothing motion. “Didn’t…didn’t wanna inconvenience you.”

Stars above, how could you ever inconvenience him? He chuckled, gathering you into his arms and pulling you closer. Your eyes widened a bit, but you stayed relaxed, leaning into him with a smile.

“You never could. This okay?” He watched your face for any signs of discomfort, relief flooding in his chest when you nodded.

He didn’t know what happened. Didn’t want to treat you any different. But he decided to keep his discovery a secret for now. At least until the time was right, if ever, to broach the subject.

“Mhm. You’re so…warm,” you closed your eyes again, that smile still gracing your lips, as too clung to him tighter. “Haven’t cuddled with anyone in so long.”

“Never have, so I’m not one to judge.”

The words left his lips before he had a chance to ponder them, and they made you start, eyeing him with renewed interest, as well as concern.

“Maker, Boba, I hope I didn’t…” you moved to get up, face flushing an adorable shade of red as you quickly became more awake. “I just…”

“Easy, sweet girl,” he guided you back against his chest, gently twining one of his legs with yours. “First time for everything.”

He didn’t miss the renewed blush that worked its way from your cheeks to your ears, and kept a mental note of that for later. It was interesting how…

“It’s okay, I really haven’t either…” you dipped your head, hiding your face against his neck. “Not like this, anyway. Thank you…for staying. It…means a lot.”

Your voice had grown softer, body language shrinking, as if you were trying to make yourself smaller. That simply wouldn’t do.

“Don’t hide that pretty face, mesh’la,” his fingers found your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his. “No shame in it. We’ll just learn together, hmm?”

“O…okay,” you nodded, still blushing furiously, so soft and warm against him, it nearly drove him mad. “I…I’d like that.”

Stars, Boba wanted to kiss you. Kiss you senseless until you forgot about your insecurities and fears, your sole focus on him. He wanted to take you apart piece by blissful piece, make you feel good, feel safe…

Damn, he was in deep.

Before he had a chance to respond, a series of shrill yowls broke the silence, loud and demanding.

“Oh kriff. The loth cats…ughhhhh…” you groaned, face scrunching up in an adorable frown. “I don’t wanna get up…”

“Me neither, princess. But there are others depending on us.” Boba shifted, pressing a kiss to your forehead before releasing you from his hold, and as you sat up with a groan, he already missed your warmth.

Kriff. For the first time ever, in all the things he’d done and experiences he’d had - Boba Fett had never once been a sap. But, he wagered he’d have to listen to his own advice.

There was a first time for everything.

-

You hadn’t ever expected your life to amount to this.

You, taking a well-earned break after your breakfast rounds, a cup of steaming kaff in your hand…and the Daimyo of Tatooine in your kitchen.

He was back in his armor, though you now knew exactly how muscular he was underneath it, as you’d suspected - a fact that would trigger another blush if you thought about it for too long.

He leaned against your counter, gloved hands resting on the smooth stone surface, looking almost too casual for someone of his reputation.

“I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure you have a lot to do.” You regarded him with a raised brow, finding something altogether fond in his gaze. “Normally I do. It’s just been a slow season.”

He nodded, clearly thinking, gaze almost lazily sweeping your kitchen. Probably a skill picked up from bounty hunting, you surmised, wondering what exactly could be so interesting in your small, humble home. His eyes drifted back to you and stopped, locking you in his gaze, the corner of his lip curling in a grin that was almost sinful.

“Perhaps you’d want to spend more time with the rancor? See how he’s doing?” His shrug was nearly boyish - quite ridiculous looking, really, for someone dressed head to toe in beskar. But his gaze never once left yours. “Sure he’d love the company.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, and you swallowed hard. He really, really liked you. Him. Boba Fett. Liked you. For some reason, this emboldened you…urging you on in this little game you two had found yourselves playing.

“Oh, just the rancor?” You dared to prop your hands on your hips, shooting him a wink. “Or do you just not want to take your hands off me?”

Boba smirked, pushing himself up from his reclined position, something dark flitting through his gaze. Maker, did he just growl? His approach was quick and near silent despite his broad, armored frame, yet another reminder of exactly who it was you were dealing with. You blinked, heart hammering loudly in your chest, as he stood behind you and leaned down until his face was next to yours.

“You’ve no idea what these hands want to do.” His breath washed over the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Careful, little one. Before you bite off more than you can chew.”

Oh kriffing gods. Maker above.

Every damn curse your poor brain could conjure. You were in trouble. So much so, and you could already feel the heat pooling between your legs, assuredly soaking your underwear. Perhaps he was right…maybe you didn’t know what you were fully getting into, with a man like him.

But contrary to popular belief, you weren’t just a sweet, nice person - all bark, no bite. And he’d learn it, too, if he hadn’t guessed it already.

“I think,” you shifted in your seat to better face him, nearly losing your resolve when you saw the look of absolute hunger in his dark eyes. You swallowed and took a breath before continuing. “I’ll survive. How about this, I need to take care of some of the sick ones before I’ll be free, but I’d love to stop by later if that’s okay?”

Stop by. Stop by?

Sheesh, here you were, taking about visiting the kriffing palace like it was a daily house call. Anxiety wormed in you stomach as Boba regarded you with a smirk, capturing your chin in his gloved fingers and holding your gaze to his.

“You’re always welcome,” he turned to retrieve his helmet, shooting you one last smirk before donning it with practiced ease. When he spoke again, his deep voice was rough, rumbling through the vocorder like the thunder of a promising storm. “See you soon, little one.”

-

The suns were still high in the sky when you walked to the barn, a bucket of feed in one hand and a lead rope in the other. Hopefully your sick bantha was finally well enough to go out to pasture, making that one less thing you had to worry about.

You stifled a yawn as you entered, the familiar smell of hay, sunbaked sand, and the herbs you dried filling the air. The bantha lowed, the deep call making you smile as you saw her horned head peek over the massive stall you’d built for these occasions.

“Hey girl,” you placed the bucket down beside her stall as you looked her over before entering. “Feeling better?”

The bantha called again, shaking her head from side to side, horns rattling against the walls. You sighed, taking the lead rope in both hands, eyeing her with a small frown.

“I know, you want out. Work with me, and you’ll be there quicker.” You pointed a finger at her, pointedly lowering your voice to get the point across. “No bolting, understood?”

The bantha only lowed again, except this time, she shook her horns with a snort, banging the walls with a sharp cry. Unease twisted in your gut and your frown deepened.

“What’s wrong, girl?” You stepped forward, knowing the creature well enough to know something was amiss. “Something scaring you? It’s okay, everything’s alright.”

“I wouldn’t say that if I were you.”

A feminine voice broke the silence, and a pair of hands wrapped around you before you had a chance to react, pulling you away from the stall and onto the ground.

“Stay down, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Kriffing hell, get off me!” You twisted against your attacker, managing to land a punch somewhere before your arms were twisted behind your back. Something slipped around your wrists with a mechanical click, and you finally screamed, lashing out with your legs.

The bantha shrieked behind you, and you heard the walls of the stall rattling as she tried to break free. Maker, was she trying to help? You were not going to go down easy. Whoever was attacking you would soon learn that. You’d been through too much to be killed by some mugger.

You rolled around with a grunt and grabbed the lead rope with your bound hands, readying yourself to spin into a swinging strike…

Until you recognized the person standing behind you, a vibroblade in her hand.

“Kali?” Confusion flooded you in waves, and you stepped back, giving yourself more distance. “What the hell? Is this some kind of joke?”

The woman only smiled sadly, something altogether cold in her normally warm gaze.

“I’m afraid not.” She stepped forward and you narrowed your eyes, gripping the lead rope tighter, grateful for the heavy iron hook dangling at the end. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. “What can I say…”

Something stuck the back of your head so suddenly, you didn’t even register the moment your body hit the ground. But damn, you felt the pain - cascading down your shoulder, aching in your spine…

Kali smirked with a dismissive shrug. “I tried to warn you.”

No. No, no, no…

Panic, true panic set in as another person stepped into your fading line of sight.

Not him. Anyone but him.

“You…” you groaned, spitting out a mixture of blood and saliva, glaring despite the dread that seized your heart with terrifying finality. “You’re…dead. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Some of us don’t like staying dead,” the man in the clean pressed Imperial uniform merely chuckled, a thin, dry sound. “I’d think you of all people should know this…consorting with bounty hunter scum.”

“Go to hell…” you tried to stand, tried to fight, but he merely raised a blaster at your head with a smirk.

“Oh, you’ll be wishing you were there, soon.”

The muzzle flashed, and the man’s icy gaze flared red - the last thing you saw before your world faded to black.

-

“I’m sure she’s fine, boss.” Fennec’s voice was steady as ever as she strode by his side. “Maybe she just needed a night in.”

Boba merely grunted, taking the now familiar path to the veterinarian’s office. He was admittedly worried. He hadn’t heard a thing from you since the morning, and he did his best to push his fears down.

Had he scared you? Gone too far with the teasing? Accidentally triggered you? Maker knew what hell you’d been through…

“Just wanna know she’s safe.” He turned down the following road, your humble clinic appearing around the bend.

But all the lights were out.

A cold chill rippled down his spine, and he instinctually lifted his rifle, Fennec echoing the action. They slowly approached, looking for any sign of a threat, but nothing appeared out of place. That wasn’t always a good sign. He dropped his rangefinder and ran a thermal scan, looking for any sign you were inside…

But aside for the much smaller heat signatures of the animals, the house was empty.

Boba Fett wasn’t accustomed to panic.

He was the hunter, the one who made other people panic. He’d prided himself in his cool, calculated demeanor that had aided in earning his reputation. But this…this was new.

And this was one of the reasons why he’d never let himself fall for anyone. Every single person he’d even shown a shred of kindness too had suffered terrible ends. And the last thing he wanted was for that to happen to you, too.

“Check the barn.” He knew Fennec would follow, always watching his back, even as he nearly ran to the next building with bated breath.

Please be inside. Please be safe.

But even in the dark, he saw the barn’s double doors had been left ajar, the female bantha peering out at them with a lonely groan that nearly resembled a whimper. And he already knew, judging by his scanner, that there weren’t any other life forms inside.

“We’ll find her.” Fennec stoped beside him, but even her voice had dropped, twisted with unease.

“You’re right.” Boba lifted his rangefinder with a snap, gloved fingers nearly shaking as a rage filled his chest - a rage he hadn’t felt in a long time…since the day he’d lost the only other person he’d truly loved. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm, to remain in control.

To think like the hunter he once had been, and as fate dictated, would be again.

“I will.”

[human-psyche]

INCARNADINE.

" nobody told her eternity was never once selfless... "

title: incarnadine

characters: jimin x reader, some taehyung x reader

genre: victorian era, romance, dark, sire bonds, vampire!jimin, mature content

about: y/n had everything. wealthy parents, a big house, a loving fiance, dresses, servants, jewelries, socialite parties, anything she could ask for; all she needed was to name it, and she'd have it. she was known as the most beautiful girl in her town. but, just like that, she loses everything in one single night, including herself, and she falls into the arms of a sweet nightmare disguised like a dream: park jimin, a vampire who offers her the only poison she craves: revenge…at the price of being sired to him.

a/n: chapter one will be up soon, share if you like. also follow me for more bts stories and content, and feedback is much welcome.

. . .

The door to the room creaks, allowing a shadow to filter through candlelight. A figure enters the luxurious, aristocratic chamber, his steps firm and steady. 

"You..." Y/n recognizes him instantly as he advances and the moon casts its silvery shine upon his beautifully deadened features, his pale skin and sea like, glassy eyes setting on her heavily; she greets his presence by scrambling back, no longer envisioning him as an angel of deliverance. He is no such thing, she notes internally, because if he was...she wouldn't be alive anymore... 

"Hello, miss L/n."

"Do not come near me." she gets off the bed and walks around it, letting it be their barrier. "You...What am I?" 

"Quite not human, though neither are you like me. Not yet..."

"What have you done to me?!" 

"Your emotions are out of control right now. You need to calm down." he provides her with an answer she didn't ask for, placing a glass on the nightstand. 

Y/n's nose flares一 it's blood. It is as if she makes the connection on instinct before she can even spot the red, crystal like liquid inside it, her senses suddenly oversensitive. 

"No, no...What is happening to me一 What is going on with me?!" she trembles, feeling agitated.

"You're in transition."

His words travel the room to her like a ripple in the ocean, causing Y/n's thoughts to go numb. 

"No, no, no..."

"Shh..."

His whisper is abruptly to her ear, arms around her. It takes her a few seconds to comprehend that he moved in the blink of the eye. 

Jimin doesn't need to quiz who this "Taehyung" was because he touches the engagement ring on her finger. 

Y/n backs off, returning to her anger. 

"Stay away from me."

"Don't you want to know who started the fire?" 

"I said stay away from me!" 

The first object she can get her hands on from the nightstand, a candle holder, flys through the air torwards him, but the vampire catches it swiftly and tossess it to the floor. She goes to the vanity next, a perfume bottle hitting the closet as it misses him, then a comb, a hand mirror. 

Jimin gets fed up with her rage and appears in front of her一 pinning her down to the bed with his hand on her throat. 

She bounces slightly from the movement, her breath uneven; she watches him, like a deer cornered by a wolf, defiant yet delicate. 

"Do not test me, L/n Y/n," he states, calling her by her full name. It elicits wonder, on how he came to know who she is. Perhaps he heard about the fire, the town must've been up in an uproar...

"You were unconscious for two days. The transition lasts for three days…this is your last night. By the time the full moon reaches the highest point, you either turn or you die. The choice is yours. If you drink that blood…I will give you something you will thank me for: revenge."

CHAPTER 1 |

[el-michoacano]

only the dead know

Takes place during Plan and Execution, and it's mostly canon compliant!

Ship: Lalo x Nacho

Rating: T, primarily for gore

Partially inspired by a gorgeous art post by @chomchomcherrybomb that was inspired by @sn4ilbitez and @rwsucculent. Hope it's okay to tag you guys!

READ ON AO3

.

Nacho-- Or this thing that looked like Nacho-- was riddled with bullet holes. Moonlight filtered through them, dappling Lalo's chest and the concrete walls of the sewer in silvery light. Lalo had been seeing it for quite some time, but getting used to such a thing didn't seem possible. It was small, only as tall as Nacho had been, and it was shrinking all the time, ashen skin drawing tight around its bones as it rotted. Some of those bones were exposed, bleached white from the desert sun. The radius and ulna were visible in its right forearm, and though Lalo couldn't see it from this angle, three vertebrae were exposed at the back of its neck, where a coyote had gotten it. Its left eye was missing, and much of the eye socket was visible, too. It was grisly, and Lalo looked away.

It was late, but he hadn't been sleeping. He had never been much of a sleeper, and here lately, the insomnia had gotten even worse. He had loved it once, had found it useful, even, but it was getting old.

Not that sleep was a refuge. The thing that looked like Nacho was in his dreams, too.

Betrayal could do that to a person, Lalo supposed. It haunted you, having someone you trusted turn on you like that. He should have seen it coming, but he'd been blinded by something he still firmly refused to name.

He missed the way things had been before. He missed his bed. He missed his hacienda. He missed Cecilio and Miguel and all the others, even Ciro. He missed Yolanda most of all.

And Nacho-- He missed Nacho, too. It was something unforgivable.

Was this rotting creature truly what had become of Nacho? Was it a ghost? A hallucination? Was it simply the result of regret and too little sleep?

Whatever it was, it said, "This is your fault."

Lalo ignored it, his binoculars held to his face as he scoped out Lavandería Brillante. He'd been here two days already, watching Fring and his men come and go and come again. Paciencia, he told himself. His time would come. His revenge would come.

"He's gonna kill you," the thing that looked like Nacho said. It was at Lalo's side, down on one knee, close enough that Lalo could smell the rot on it. The odor lingered sickly-sweet under the familiar scent of Nacho's cologne. It made Lalo's heart clench in his chest.

He spared a quick glance in the thing's direction, asking, trying and failing to keep his tone light, "Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both." It was looking at Lalo with its single eye, its head tipped to one side. The other eye had been taken out by a bullet, as far as Lalo knew. A flower grew from the grisly wound, a desert bluebell, incongruously alive amongst so much dead flesh and rotten blood. "When you're dead, you get to know everything."

Turning his gaze back out of the storm drain and across the street, Lalo asked, "And you're using this to, what, warn me? You wanna protect me, Nachito?"

It didn't seem to have an answer for that, and instead, it said, "I tried to keep them from killing everyone else. I wanted it to just be you."

"Que amable," Lalo drawled.

"I'm glad they didn't get you," the thing that looked like Nacho said, and a shiver of something that was far too much like longing to be comfortable raced down Lalo's spine. It felt hot and sharp, like a million tiny needles, like Nacho's name was being tattooed onto him, deep and inescapable. "It would have been quick. It's gonna be quick this way, too, but at least you'll suffer a little. It's still better than you deserve," it added, almost as if it was a mere afterthought.

Lalo hummed to himself, but it did nothing to block out the thing's voice. It was soft, but there was a gurgling sound beneath it. Tío Hector had held the gun himself, the rumors had said. How he had managed to lodge a bullet perfectly in the hollow of Nacho's throat was unknowable. A miracle, maybe. Was there a word for a bad miracle? Bad luck on Nacho's part. Mala suerte. At least he'd been dead when it happened.

"I know you think about me," the thing said.

It wasn't wrong. Lalo thought about Nacho often. He thought about avenging his staff, about getting even for what had been done to his staff and to Tío Hector, about being the one who had gotten to put Nacho down like the dog he was.

"I know you miss me," it said, its voice soft. How could someone so treacherous have such a gentle voice?

That wasn't wrong, either. But it was a secret, held tight to Lalo's chest, where no one would ever find it. How could this thing possibly know about it? It would have taken a switchblade and a pair of pliers to dig it out of him.

"You dream about me." It stepped closer. "You call out for me in your sleep." It reached for Lalo, and when it touched the back of his neck, at the same spot where its own vertebrae were exposed, he shuddered. Its fingertips were so cold they burned. Lalo would have done anything to have Nacho touch him like this when he was alive, and it felt traitorous now. This wasn't the Nacho he wanted. But, he thought, it was better than no Nacho at all. "You pray for my soul when you think God isn't listening."

Lalo's chest hurt. He'd hoped he'd never have to hear that voice again, and to hear it this way, half-dead and full of dirt and blood and regret... He sighed, his hands white-knuckled around the binoculars. He wasn't even looking through them anymore, though he did his best to keep his gaze trained on the guard who was trying to look casual in front of Lavandería Brillante. Neither the guard nor Lalo himself were handling their tasks very well.

The thing that looked like Nacho-- No, it was him, wasn't it? It was full of bullet holes and coated in old blood, but it was him.

Was this a punishment? Was this Nacho being cursed to roam the earth due to his betrayal? Was this him returning willingly to seek revenge?

Nacho hadn't even gotten a proper burial; He'd been left to rot in the desert, his bones picked clean by vultures and bleached by the sun. He deserved better. He was a traitor, yes, but he had been young and full of promise. It was a tragedy, though Lalo couldn't say it was unexpected after what had happened.

"You miss me," Nacho said again. He was watching Lalo now with his single eye. It was the same deep, warm brown that Lalo remembered, but it was clouded over. It got worse every time Lalo saw him. "Even after what I tried to do to you, you miss me every damn day."

Lalo missed him every damn second, but he didn't say so. Nacho would know anyway, wouldn't he, if death had really given him all the answers?

"I know," Nacho said, as if reading Lalo's mind. Could the dead do that? Lalo's hands shook around the binoculars, and he released them, letting them clatter to the floor and supporting himself against the lip of the storm drain. The concrete was rough under his palms, and he used the feeling of it to ground himself. There was an especially sharp bit digging into the underside of his ring finger on his left hand. It felt like a wish that would forever go unfulfilled; It stung like betrayal. He could feel blood dripping down his hand, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the ghost away. It did no good. He'd been seeing that decomposing face behind his eyelids since he'd heard the news of Nacho's death.

Softly, his voice almost lost to the sound of a car rumbling by, Nacho asked, "Who're you trying to fool?"

Lalo said, "Myself." It wasn't working.

[gingersnaaps]

tetraphobia

maybe seijoh's revenge doesn't always have to be on the court. maybe seijoh's revenge can come in the form of fucking kageyama's sweet little girlfriend.

wc: 3.3k

tags/tw's(PLEASE READ): explicit n*fw, noncon, gangbang, mindbreak, victim blaming/guilt, forced infidelity, hints of sadism, anal, double penetration, deepthroat, cunnilingus, sorta overstim? idk this is very nasty, fem!reader with inner genitals, timeskip!characters

a/n: this is for @somecravings' gangbang collab! this work features the seijoh four.

i don’t want minors interacting with my content

“I wonder where Tobio-chan found himself such a cute girlfriend.”

The words freeze you in your tracks.

A tall, well-built, man leans against the wall of the hotel hallway, the cramped space making him loom large in front of you. You think he’s a stranger at first - but a closer look at the waves of his chestnut hair, his molten hazel eyes - and memories of the pictures Tobio had shown you flood back into your mind.

Oikawa Tooru, he’d told you. Teammates at Kitagawa Daiichi, and then rivals at Karasuno and Aoba Johsai. I took away his last chance to make it to nationals in high school. Now he’s on Argentina’s national team. Looked up to him a lot, but we had a… strained relationship.

His eyes flicker back to the faded yearbook photos, an unmistakable note of bitterness in his voice.

The very same Oikawa Tooru from his pictures stands in the hallway leading to your hotel room, arms crossed and eyes glittering with amusement.

Almost as if he’d been waiting there for you.

“He’s out celebrating his win, isn’t he?” he says, cocking his head to one side. “Along with the rest of his team.”

He steps closer, walking towards you until he’s mere feet away. You can see where the hem of his blue jersey peeks out from beneath his jacket, the white of his teeth glinting as he grins. Up close, he’s even more intimidating, and you suppress the sudden surge of discomfort that crawls beneath your skin.

Your eyes flit back and forth, eyebrows creasing in confusion. “Is there something you need?”

“Yes,” he says, his hand reaching out to stroke gently along your cheek. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor, sweetheart.”

Panic seizes you when his cold, calloused, fingertips brush lightly along your skin, your heart thudding as discomfort rips through your body. You don’t know what his intentions are, but his words scare you. There’s nothing genuine about his tone, nothing kind, and years of too-close encounters with men have left you wary and alert. His touch is invasive, contemptuous, mocking, and you jerk away from his hand in an attempt to backpedal-

Warm hands clamp down around your shoulders in an iron grip. Your heart sinks as you realize you’ve got nowhere to go, dread seeping into every vein in your body.

“I’m a little late. Sorry.”

The voice at your ear is a low rasp, his tone nonchalant, but you can hear the message that undercuts it as clear as day: you’re not going anywhere.

“Don’t worry about it, Iwa,” Oikawa says, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your face up forcefully until you’re staring directly into his eyes. “You got here just in time to help me out. She looked like she was about to run away for a while there. Can you imagine?”

The man behind you - Iwaizumi Hajime, you recall - chuckles. “Wouldn’t get very far.”

Your blood runs cold at the implication of his words. Your stomach churns, an awful, nauseous feeling that makes you feel sick, shoulders tensing as you struggle against Iwaizumi’s hold.

“Hey,” he warns quietly. “Don’t make this harder on yourself.”

His words almost make you want to laugh; he says them like he’s trying to help you, like he genuinely cares about your well-being. You remember the late-night talks you and Kageyama would have, the ones where he’d describe his days spent in middle school, secluded and walled off from the other players on his team. There was always one name he spoke with a particular reverence: Iwaizumi Hajime. Tough. Strong. Kind. A good man, he’d emphasized. I’m glad he was there during those years.

Well, this certainly was a reality check, wasn't it?

He removes his hands from your shoulders and wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you pressed close to his side, as if a reminder of you how powerless you are in this position. “Come on, baby,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“It’d be rude to keep Makki and Mattsun waiting any longer."

Oikawa slides his fingers into yours until the two of you are holding hands, humming happily as Iwaizumi escorts you down the hall towards your own hotel room. It takes every last ounce of self-control to stop yourself from crying and screaming on the spot, to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over, to save yourself the embarrassment of breaking down pathetically as these people - these assholes - watch.

You get the feeling that they’re not going to leave you alone out of pity.

They escort you to your hotel room, passing by rows and rows of rooms that blur as your vision tunnels. Their presence is suffocating; Oikawa’s fingers brush against your wrist, rubbing tender circles into your skin, and you can feel Iwaizumi's warm breath on the crown of your head.

Oikawa grabs the key card from your purse, sliding it into the scanner, and pushes the door open when it lights up green.

Your heart stills with fear as they drag you inside, flicking the light switch open until the room glows softly.

There’s two more people sitting in the bed.

A tall, lanky man waves in acknowledgement, nudging his companion in the side as his eyes flicker appraisingly over you.

The other man looks up, tossing his phone aside, blowing aside a stray strand of strawberry-pink hair.

“Hmm. I hate to say this, but Oikawa was right,” he says, a wry grin on his face. “What a pretty girl.”

You feel so vulnerable with four pairs of eyes roaming over every inch of your body, your mind running rampant with fear and anticipation as they admire and scrutinize. And you’d be right to be scared, because there’s so much they can’t wait to do, so much of you they’ve been dying to explore, so many of their little fantasies that they’ve been waiting for the right girl to help them act out.

You’ll help them out, won’t you?

Without warning, there’s a pair of hands on your waist insistently pushing you downwards, applying steady pressure until your legs collapse and you’re forced to your knees.

“So impatient, Iwa.” Oikawa clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You won’t even let her get settled in?”

There‘s a huff of annoyance above you. “The more you talk, the less I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Alright, alright.”

Oikawa slides a hand onto the back of your neck, the other moving to grip your hair. His touch is gentle, fingers stroking along your pulse point, but you know it won’t last if you misbehave. You have no illusions about the kind of person he is, not when his hands maneuver your mouth and throat into nothing more than a warm fleshlight for his friend.

Iwaizumi palms himself in front of your face, hands skimming over the bulge in his jeans as he groans in pleasure, and pulls out his half hard cock, veins throbbing and flushed with arousal. Cupping your face in his hand, he fits the tip to your soft lips and tilts your chin upwards to meet his piercing, lust-filled eyes, his gaze swirling with want.

“Open up for me like a good girl, okay?” he growls.

You can’t help the way your cunt pulses at his tone, an intoxicating rush of fear and desire that leaves your mind hazy and mouth dropping open. He doesn’t waste the opportunity, pushing his cock into your warm, wet, mouth, a moan falling from his lips as he thrusts his hips forwards. You retch at the intrusion, instinctively jerking your head backwards, but Oikawa’s grip on your neck tightens as he holds you in place. He crouches down, lips finding your ear as Iwaizumi starts sliding in and out of your mouth.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “If you take it like you’re supposed to, he won’t last too long.”

At those words, his hands push your head forward, impaling your throat on his cock, holding you down as you choke and drool and retch. Your eyes redden as silvery tears drip through your lashes, panic rising, vision turning to static, the pain in your lungs growing unbearable as Oikawa’s smile turns razor sharp. “Atta girl,” he encourages softly, his thumb wiping away one of the tears running down your cheek. “I think he’s gonna cum soon if you keep this up.”

If you keep this up. As if you have a choice.

Iwaizumi’s thrusts grow more erratic, fucking you rougher and faster as he slams in and out of your throat. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath. “Such a good fucking girl for me. Got such a - such a perfect little mouth, taking me so well,” he says, breath catching.

Just like Oikawa had predicted, he doesn’t last much longer after that, hips stuttering when he spills down your waiting throat. He tastes warm and slightly salty, the last few drops of his cum dripping down your chin as he presses a thumb to your lips and wipes away the drool collecting at the corner.

There’s a horrible, sinking, feeling settling inside you as he grabs the collar of your shirt and hoists you up with him onto the bed, your limbs going limp as you let him press an open-mouthed kiss to your trembling lips, his tongue slipping inside of your slack mouth.

You feel used.

Up close to Iwaizumi, you can see the flush of arousal coloring his bronzed cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, all the physical evidence of just how good you made him feel, and your stomach churns.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel fingers softly stroking at your clit, light, teasing strokes back and forth that leave you whimpering. A twinge of arousal pulses in your cunt as you hear words murmured against your inner thigh.

“Didn’t even try to fight back, did you?” There’s a gentle laugh from the pink-haired man beneath you, soft and terrifying, and the light brushes turn into more insistent circles. “It’s almost like you wanted it.”

Iwaizumi’s tongue curls deeper into your mouth as he deepens the kiss, leaving you gasping for breath.

“I had no idea you’d turn out to be such a slut,” he hums, mouth latching onto your thigh. “Although I’m really not complaining.”

“C’mon, Makki, don’t be so mean to her,” Iwaizumi chuckles, his teeth scraping roughly against your lips.

“I’m only telling the truth.”

The fingers circling your pussy creep upwards, grabbing onto your hips and pushing you down against the mattress. “Keep those legs spread nice and open for me, okay?” Makki says, voice sweet and cloying.

When the flat of his tongue brushes against your clit, his breath huffing warm on your folds, your thighs twitch involuntarily. It’s as if he’s made it his mission to eat you out as slow and light as possible, his kitten-licks and teasing strokes sliding along your folds and circling around your sweet spots without ever truly giving you the satisfaction that your cunt craves.

And he can tell you’re starting to break.

As Iwaizumi’s mouth moves down to suck at your neck, lips brushing along the erratic heartbeat of your pulse point, your hips jerk upwards against Makki’s waiting mouth as a moan slips out from between your lips.

He sucks at your aching clit, the steady, constant pressure making you writhe in his grasp. “Cute little cunt wants more, doesn’t i?” he coos.

You don’t dare say a word, face flushed with embarrassment as you bite your inner cheek in embarrassment. Makki’s right.

He’s right, and you hate that he’s right, hate how good he’s making you feel with every long, languid, lick, with every brush of his lips that leaves your walls throbbing in search of more.

A hand picks up your limp wrist, guiding your fingers until they wrap around something warm and hard, something incredibly thick and so, so, long -

You freeze as you realize it’s a cock.

“Mattsun’s blessed, isn’t he?” Makki laughs from between your thighs. “Maybe now you’ll understand that I’m really trying to do you a favor. We want these sheets stained with cum, not blood.”

You swallow nervously. That monster cock, so big you can barely fit your hand around it, is going inside you.

You’re paralyzed with dread, not even bothering to fight back as he maneuvers your palm up and down along his length, wrapping his much larger hand around yours as he uses your fist to help jerk him off.

All the revulsion in the world can’t stop the slow, mounting, wave of pressure building inside your core, growing stronger as Makki sucks with more force against your clit. Crooked fingers push inside your slick, needy, hole, his nimble digits searching and prodding, the pads of his fingertips rubbing insistently at your g-spot.

“See?” he murmurs. “‘m making you feel so good. You’re gonna be nice and ready when I’m done with you.”

You want to scream. You feel like a whore for enjoying anything at all; bile and guilt rising in your throat as white-hot arousal throbs in your cunt.

You’re strung out along the edge when you feel another mouth descending on your body, a tongue flicking out to tease at your nipple. You see a flash of chestnut brown hair as Oikawa looks up at you, a smirk curving at the corners of his mouth, almost as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, knows where your limits are and how to push right past them.

It’s too much for you to handle, too much for you to take. Three mouths ravage your body, tongues flicking out to lick at your neck and suck at your nipples and drag along your clit, silky and sensual against your soft skin, all while your slack hand pumps steadily along the shaft of a huge cock.

When an orgasm rips through your body, it’s like something stolen, something taken from you, and as your hips buck and thrash wildly, an emptiness settles in your stomach after you’re all fucked out from their ministrations.

What’s wrong with you?

At this point, you don’t feel like much more than a sex doll for the four men, all spread out and useless as you lay your head in Iwaizumi’s lap. He strokes gently at your hair, brushing a stray strand out of your face.

You barely even react as Mattsun manhandles you up, large hands positioning your hips until the head of his fully hard cock sits at your entrance, sliding just the tip into your loosened, clenching, hole.

“Ready?” he asks, his half-lidded eyes glinting with amusement.

He doesn’t really care about your answer.

“One… two… three.”

He forces you down on his cock, pushing your hips further and further down as you squirm and struggle and moan from the stretch. Your mind goes foggy as you feel the drag of his cock against the front of your walls, burying itself so deep in your cunt you can almost feel it in your stomach.

Mattsun likes it when his dick makes girls feel good, of course, when he fucks them better than their boyfriends, when he makes them cream and gush after barely moving.

He likes it better when he makes girls go stupid.

As he looks down at you, a warm rush of arousal twists in his gut. Your eyelids flutter in pleasure, mouth open and panting, small hands fisting at his shirt as you moan softly. It’s just too big for you to take, isn’t it? You can't handle being used like a pretty fuckdoll, or eaten out until you cream, or to be impaled on a cock so nice and big you can barely think straight. A string of drool falls from the corner of your mouth, but he doesn’t bother cleaning it up. You look better ruined, he thinks.

You’re dragged out of your fucked-out daze when a voice crawls into your ear, taunting and cruel, and a warm dick presses and slides along your ass.

“Bet Kageyama’s never tried this before,” Oikawa says.

A spurt of terror grips you as you hear the thinly-veiled anticipation in his voice, his fingers trembling with excitement as they grope at your ass.

He holds back a laugh at the way you freeze, shuddering in a mixture of fear and pleasure as Mattsun rolls his hips up and thrusts his cock even deeper. He knows he guessed right, judging from your cute little reaction, a high-pitched, pathetic whimper dropping from your lips as brushes his cock against your hole.

He hopes it hurts.

When he presses in, it’s a slow, aching, stretch that leaves you feeling raw and split wide open. Unlike the dull pain from Mattsun’s cock, this one is a searing, brutal, torment, a stinging intrusion in your tight hole that forces a choked gasp from your lungs.

“Wish your boyfriend could see us right now,” he breathes, pressing a gentle kiss to the crook of your neck. “Feels so good squeezing my cock, so fucking nice and tight.”

Tobio.

Panic races along your veins. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, breasts bouncing slightly as your breaths come shallow and rapid.

“I can’t imagine how he’d feel - seeing his perfect little angel getting stuffed so full in both her precious holes.”

The tightness in your chest bursts as tears stream down your face, cries and moans coming out thick and stuffy as you sob. You know he’s right. It didn’t matter that it was forced, that you said you didn’t want it - you already came once, didn’t you? And judging by the tense pleasure pulsing at your clit, you were due for another sooner or later.

Oikawa laughs. “It’d be awful if he came back right now, wouldn’t it? Just in time to watch his precious little girlfriend getting raped by his former senpai.”

Mattsun snickers, bring a hand up to swipe at your clit. “Look,” he says softly, tilting your head until you lock eyes with Makki.

He’s fisting his cock rapidly, a hungry, predatory, expression on his face, tongue darting out to lick at his lips as he lets out a pleasured groan.

It’s better than almost any of his gross little fantasies. He’s not sure his favorite porn videos will ever be able to compare to the sight of you being fucked stupid and split in two by his friends, two cocks sliding in and out of your tired holes as you cry.

You squeeze your eyes shut as the first waves of the orgasm begin to roll over you. Mattsun’s deft, long, fingers toy with your clit, stroking you insistently through the wild jerking of your hips as he feels your walls fluttering and creaming around the base of his dick. The pleasure is intense, unbearable, almost impossible to hold back, even as disgust crawls beneath your skin at the feeling of being stretched wide open.

Maybe they were right.

All those times you’d thought about what you’d do if this happened, every single night when you’d lie awake and tell yourself, i’ll fight back. i’ll resist. i’ll make them regret ever forcing me -

They were all lies.

Oikawa feels a sick sense of satisfaction as he watches the turmoil in your expression. He can tell by the slump of your shoulders, the bitterness in your gaze, the way you turn over to your side and curl up into a fetal position - they broke you, turned you into a mindless, slutty, fuckdoll, showed you who you really were.

Kageyama can have you back now. He’ll come into this hotel room, horrified at the sight of you passed out and naked, and call the police. Maybe he’ll help wash you up, bring you a cup of tea as you sob and insist that it wasn’t your fault. Maybe he’ll even believe you, despite the way you’ve stained the sheets.

But things won’t ever really be the same for you.

They made sure of it.

if you liked this, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! my inbox is always open :)

[deaddoveadventures]

The devil’s words were alluring. They were like fine wine laced with poison. At first sweet and intoxicating, but then deadly as nightshade. The warlock’s smirk had been all but wiped off his face, Raphael’s warm, devilish breath lingering against his ear as he peeled away layer after layer of the Half-Elf’s well-groomed defenses until there was nothing left but the darkness that dwelled within him.

Power. Destruction. Revenge. He wanted to see his patron bleed. He wanted her to suffer for what she had done to his companions and to him.

His companions, too, were what he desired. To hear their voices again, their laughter. To right the wrong he had done to them.

But the warlock told the Cambion none of that.

“If I had that power I desire, dear Raphael,” Curumë said instead, his hand clasping the hilt of the heavy dagger at his side as he drew it from its sheath, “you’d be the very second on my list. Preceded by that other wretch of a devil who dared to lay her hands on me.” The weapon gleamed in a hellish orange as the light of the shabby inn’s fireplace reflected across its smooth surface. Only the runes etched along its middle blemished the silvery metal, like unholy stains on a moonlit pond.

Hellfire smoldered in the cambion’s eyes, but the Half-Elf had a fire of his own. It burned ferociously behind the amber orbs of the warlock as he pointed the tip of the dagger at Raphael's throat.

“But perhaps, fiend, you like the thrill yourself.” Curumë moved the weapon a little closer—too close to be comfortable. Close enough to draw blood if he so desired. “Perhaps you like to play with fire that seeks to consume you in return.”

The warlock sneered, but it was a bitter one. His threats were hollow for now, an amusement for the other at best. They were, however, promises as well. A vow the Half-Elf had taken the very moment he’d lost his soul at that temple.

A grating noise sliced through the tension in the room as Curumë suddenly returned the weapon to its scabbard. “What freedom is there in becoming a devil’s errand boy?” he asked, taking a step back to escape the stink of sulfur that threatened to smother his senses. “What is that opportunity you speak of? Why are you after the dagger so eager to drink your blood?”

Raphael’s eyes gleamed, catching the flicker of defiance that danced behind Curumë’s golden gaze. How deliciously typical of mortals, he mused, always so quick to reject what they didn’t yet understand. The warlock’s sneer was met with a lazy, confident smile, the cambion seeming to drink in the hostility with a sort of amused indulgence. His fingers drummed idly on the counter, the rhythm deliberate and slow, like the ticking of a clock—time, of course, being a commodity Raphael always had more of.

"Ah, you wound me, truly," Raphael drawled, his voice rich and smooth, though the edge beneath it was unmistakable. "To think you’d liken me to those... lesser devils with their crude contracts and empty promises. No, no. You see, I appreciate the complexities of a soul like yours. What you call chains, I call opportunity—freedom, if you know where to look." He leaned in, his breath warm and spiced with sulfur as it ghosted near Curumë’s ear, his words a seductive whisper wrapped in dark intent. "But, if perhaps isn’t good enough for you, little rebel, then tell me—what is?"

Raphael pulled back slightly, just enough to meet the half-elf’s gaze with an unnerving intensity, his brown eyes now glimmering with hellfire beneath their surface. "You can play coy, resist all you like, but we both know your hunger, don’t we? Power calls to you like a song, and it’s only a matter of time before you answer. So, why not cut through the pretense and ask for what you truly desire?" His smile widened, sharp and knowing