#the weight of the situation settles in the pits of his soul

[ayyisasra]

Just thought y’all should know my head is cooking up some good angst right now!!!!

Thinking about ghost basically being stuck in the past chasing you. Finally finding you and then you’re just like “you have to let me go Simon”

Only that you’ve been dead for a while and that he’s been chasing a ghost of you for a long time now.

[aces-personal-whore]

Doflamingo x Defiant!Reader Smut Ch. 4

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5]

Welcome back, fellow Doflamingo enjoyers! Chapter 4 is here! This is just your average smut with Doffy; nothing too out of the ordinary. There's slight Stockholm Syndrome in this chapter, but not really compared to the upcoming chapters. Reader isn't pregnant yet, but as I mentioned in my post, they will be.

☣️WARNINGS: NONCON/RAPE, dubcon, NSFW, MDNI, smut, sexual assault, abuse, violence, aggression

Themes in this chapter: NONCON/RAPE, forced submission, forced creampie, breeding, degradation and humiliation, manipulation, false affection.

Notes: PLEASE KEEP IN MIND THAT THERE IS NONCON/RAPE THROUGHOUT THIS ENTIRE FANFICTION. THIS FANFICTION IS VERY GRAPHIC AND MAY BE TRIGGERING, UPSETTING, OR DISTRESSING TO SOME READERS. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!!

P.S. I'm sorry if I forgot to change any pronouns/names/etc. ;-; I'm still trying, aight. I do update these after I've reread them and gone through them a couple times, but there may still be some things I miss.

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[Chapter 4]

As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the window, your mind slowly emerged from the depths of sleep, the memories of the previous night still hazy, fragmented, lost in the fog of exhaustion. The weight of Doflamingo's arms around you served as a stark reminder of your new reality, a constant presence, a physical manifestation of his claim over you.

Your hand moved to your stomach, and you felt a difference, a subtle change that sent a jolt of panic through your system. It was bigger, rounder, a testament to the acts committed in the darkness of night, a reminder of the violation, the assault, the twisted pleasure that had been forced upon you.

Your heart raced, your breath quickening, as the realization of what had transpired sank in. The exhaustion that clung to your bones, the heaviness in your limbs, it all made sense now. Doflamingo had taken you, used you, claimed you, even in the depths of your unconsciousness.

Fear gripped your heart as you glanced over at Doflamingo, his face serene, peaceful even, in the throes of slumber. He looked almost human, almost gentle, a far cry from the monster that had violated you in the night.

But you knew better. You had seen the darkness in his eyes, the cruelty in his smile, the sadism that lurked beneath the surface. And now, with him lying vulnerable beside you, you saw an opportunity, a chance to gather information, to arm yourself with knowledge that might aid in your escape.

With trembling fingers, you reached out, gently lifting his eyelid, exposing the auburn depths of his eye. It darted around, a sign of the REM sleep that gripped him, but you could see it, the window to his soul, the reflection of his innermost feelings.

You studied it intently, searching for a glimmer of humanity, a shred of decency, but all you saw was the same cruelty, the same hunger, the same twisted desires that had driven him to claim you, to use you, to possess you.

But there was something else too, a flicker of something darker, more sinister, a hint of the true depths of his madness, the full extent of his depravity. It sent a shiver down your spine, a cold, icy dread that settled in the pit of your stomach.

You gently lowered his eyelid, your mind already racing, planning, scheming, determined to find a way out, to break free from the chains that bound you to this twisted, depraved existence.

As you lay there, trapped beneath Doflamingo's possessive embrace, you couldn't help but feel a sense of despair wash over you. The reality of your situation, the cruelty of your captor, the hopelessness of your predicament, it all threatened to overwhelm you, to crush you under the weight of its darkness.

For now, in this moment, you allowed yourself to savor the peace, to cling to the smallest shred of normalcy, of humanity, that you could find. You closed your eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to still the racing of your heart, the trembling of your limbs, the fear that gripped you like a vice.

In your mind, you escaped to a different place, a world where you were free, where you were safe, where you could live without the constant threat of Doflamingo's cruelty. You pictured yourself walking down a sunlit street, the wind in your hair, the warmth of the sun on your face, the laughter of children echoing in the distance.

It was a fleeting fantasy, a momentary escape from the horror of your reality, but it was something, a small piece of hope to cling to in the darkness. And so you let yourself drift, let yourself dream, let yourself imagine a world beyond the confines of Doflamingo's kingdom, a world where you could be free, where you could be you.

But even as you lost yourself in these dreams, you knew that reality would come crashing back down soon enough. Doflamingo would wake, and the nightmare would begin anew. But for now, in this moment, you allowed yourself to hope, to dream, to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out, a chance for a different life, a future beyond the shadows of Doflamingo's reign.

And with that hope burning in your heart, you closed your eyes and waited, ready to face whatever horrors the day might bring, ready to fight, to resist, to survive, no matter the cost.

You inched your face closer to Doflamingo's, your heart pounding in your chest, a mixture of fear and curiosity driving you forward. The proximity to him, the intimacy of the moment, it was both exhilarating and terrifying, a dance with danger that you couldn't resist.

His face was peaceful in sleep, a stark contrast to the cruelty and sadism he displayed when awake. It was almost as if he were a different person, someone capable of kindness, of empathy, of humanity. But you knew better, you knew that beneath this facade lay a monster, a twisted being who reveled in the suffering of others, who found pleasure in the pain he inflicted, who saw you as nothing more than a possession, a plaything to be used and discarded at his whim.

Yet, despite this knowledge, you couldn't help but be drawn to him, to study the contours of his face, the curve of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows. It was a fascination born of fear, a morbid curiosity that you couldn't ignore.

Slowly and cautiously, you moved even closer, your breath mingling with his, your heart pounding in your ears. You could smell him, the scent of his skin, the musky aroma of his body, and it was intoxicating, a heady mixture of masculinity and danger that both repulsed and attracted you.

In this moment, suspended between sleep and consciousness, you felt a strange connection to Doflamingo, a bond forged in the crucible of your shared experiences, a twisted sense of intimacy born of the pain and suffering he had inflicted upon you. It was a perverse and sickening realization, but it was undeniable, a truth that you couldn't escape.

The thought of kissing Doflamingo, of initiating any form of intimacy with him, filled you with a confusing mix of desire and revulsion. The rational part of your mind screamed at you to stop, to recoil in disgust at the idea of showing any affection towards your captor, your tormentor, the man who had violated you in the most heinous ways imaginable.

And yet, some dark, twisted part of you yearned for it, craved the forbidden touch, the illicit contact, the brief illusion of control in a situation where you had none. It was a sick, masochistic urge, born of the trauma and abuse you had endured, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of agency in your own body, your own desires.

The hypocrisy of it all wasn't lost on you. Here you were, considering kissing Doflamingo without his consent, when he had already violated you in your sleep, had forced himself upon you, had used your body as his own personal plaything. It was a double standard, a twisted logic that only made sense in the warped context of your current reality.

But in a strange, perverse way, the idea of kissing him, of taking this small, secret action without his knowledge, without his permission, it felt like a form of rebellion, a tiny act of defiance against the man who held such complete control over you. It was a way to reclaim a shred of your own autonomy, to assert yourself in a situation where you had been stripped of all power.

So, with a deep breath and a racing heart, you leaned in closer, your lips mere inches from his. Your eyes fluttered closed as you pressed your mouth to his, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through your body. It was a soft, chaste kiss, lasting only a moment, but in that brief instant, you felt a rush of emotions, a confusing blend of shame, guilt, and a twisted sense of empowerment.

You pulled away quickly, your heart pounding, your breath coming in short gasps. You felt dirty, tainted, defiled by the very act of kissing your captor, your abuser. And yet, there was a small, sickening part of you that relished in it, that found a perverse thrill in the secret, forbidden nature of the act.

You knew it was wrong, that it only served to further complicate your feelings, your emotions, your very sense of self. But in this twisted, broken world that Doflamingo had created, where your body and your will were not your own, even this small, misguided act of defiance felt like a victory, a tiny spark of resistance in the face of overwhelming oppression.

The contrast between Doflamingo's steady, relaxed breathing and your own rapid, shallow gasps was a stark reminder of the power dynamics at play, of the control he held over you, even in the depths of his unconscious state. It was a sobering realization, one that made the twisted desire to press your lips against his once more feel all the more wrong, all the more perverse.

And yet, the thought of violating him, of taking something from him without his consent, it was a potent temptation, a siren song that called to the darkest, most broken parts of your psyche. It was a way to reclaim some semblance of control, to assert your own agency in a situation where you had been stripped of all power.

As you stared at his peaceful, sleeping form, you couldn't help but be drawn to the idea of defiling him, of tainting him in the same way he had tainted you. It was a sick, twisted thought, one that made your stomach churn and your head spin, but it persisted, a nagging, insistent voice in the back of your mind.

You knew it was wrong, that it would only serve to further complicate your relationship with Doflamingo, to blur the lines between victim and perpetrator, between the oppressed and the oppressor. But in this twisted, broken world he had created, where your body and your will were not your own, it felt like the only form of resistance available to you.

With a heavy heart and a racing pulse, you leaned in once more, your lips hovering just above his. You paused for a moment, the weight of your decision pressing down on you, the consequences of your actions hanging in the balance. And then, with a deep breath, you pressed your mouth to his once again, this time with more force, more determination, more desperation.

The kiss was more intense this time, a violation of its own, a theft of his unknowing participation. It was a twisted, perverse act, one that you knew would haunt you, that would leave a stain on your soul that could never be washed clean. But in that moment, as you pulled away, your heart pounding, your breath ragged, you felt a small, sickening sense of satisfaction, a twisted triumph in the knowledge that you had taken something from him, that you had asserted your own agency, even if it was in the most debased, depraved way possible.

You knew it was a hollow victory, a temporary reprieve in the face of the constant oppression and abuse you faced at Doflamingo's hands. But in this twisted, broken world, it was all you had, a fleeting moment of control, a brief, shining beacon in the darkness of your captivity. And for now, that was enough.

As you lay your head back on the pillow, the arousal you felt from the forced intimacy with Doflamingo lingered, a disturbing reminder of just how twisted and broken this situation had made you. The thrill of the act, the adrenaline rushing through your veins, it had awakened something primal within you, something you hadn't even known existed.

You tried to push the feelings aside, to rationalize them as a product of the intense circumstances you found yourself in. After all, in a world where your body and will were not your own, where control had been stripped away and replaced with constant degradation and abuse, it was only natural to seek out any small scrap of power, any fragment of agency, no matter how sickening or depraved it may be.

As you waited for Doflamingo to wake, your mind raced with the implications of your actions. You had crossed a line, had violated your captor in a way that you knew would only lead to further complications, further pain, and further suffering. But you couldn't deny the twisted sense of satisfaction you felt, the perverse thrill of having asserted yourself, even if it was in the most debased, depraved way possible.

Your heart raced as you felt Doflamingo stir, his breathing becoming more labored, his body shifting beneath you. You tensed, preparing for the inevitable confrontation, the punishment that would surely follow once he discovered what you had done. But even as fear gripped you, there was a part of you that was almost eager for it, a sick, twisted desire to face the consequences of your actions, to prove to yourself that you could endure whatever he had in store.

As Doflamingo's eyes snapped open, you braced yourself for the inevitable confrontation. But as the moments passed and he showed no signs of noticing your transgression, a wave of relief washed over you, easing the tension that had built up in your body.

It was a strange sensation, this mixture of relief and confusion. Part of you wondered how he could have missed such a blatant act of defiance, while another part rejoiced in the fact that he had been oblivious to it. You couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment, a twisted pride in having gotten away with something so heinous and forbidden.

Doflamingo sat up, stretching his arms above his head, completely unaware of the violation you had subjected him to. As he turned his attention to you, you couldn't help but feel a pang of fear, wondering what dark desires might be lurking behind those calculating eyes. But at the same time, you felt a flicker of hope, a small, secret knowledge that you had asserted your own agency, even if it was in the most debased and depraved of ways.

As he leaned in close, his breath hot against your skin, you steeled yourself for whatever twisted games he had in store. The moment Doflamingo forcefully spread your legs, you couldn't help but release a groan, a mixture of pain and pleasure that you tried desperately to hide. The way his fingers probed your most intimate places, it was a violation, a degradation that cut to the core of your very being.

"Why are you so wet? Did you think about me while I was asleep? Did you touch yourself, imagining it was my hands on your body?" Doflamingo growled, his fingers still buried deep inside you. "Answer me, slut."

The questions hung heavy in the air, accusatory and mocking, a challenge to your very sanity. You couldn't deny the truth, couldn't hide the fact that your body had betrayed you, had responded to the very man who had violated you so brutally.

"N-no," you whispered, your voice trembling with fear and arousal. "I didn't…"

Doflamingo's eyes narrowed, his grip on your thighs tightening painfully. "Don't lie to me, you fucking whore," he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "I can smell your arousal, feel it on my fingers. You're getting off on this, aren't you? On being used, degraded, violated?"

He punctuated his words with a thrust of his fingers, a harsh, punishing motion that sent shockwaves of pleasure and pain coursing through your body. You couldn't hold back the moan that escaped your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated need.

"Fuck," Doflamingo groaned, his eyes darkening with lust. "You're even more pathetic than I thought. Getting wet from a little forced fingering, like a bitch in heat."

He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips to taste your essence. His tongue darted out, lapping at the slick evidence of your arousal, his eyes never leaving yours. "Delicious," he purred, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips.

"I think it's time I gave you what you really want, don't you?" he asked, his voice a low, seductive growl. "Time I fucked that tight little cunt of yours, claimed you as mine in every way possible."*

With those words, he positioned himself between your legs, his hard, throbbing member pressing against your entrance. You knew what was coming, knew that he would take you, use you, violate you in the most brutal of ways. And yet, some sick, twisted part of you craved it, yearned for it, even as your rational mind recoiled in horror.

As Doflamingo's hips surged forward, driving his cock deep inside you, you couldn't hold back the scream that tore from your throat, a sound of pain and pleasure, of violation and twisted ecstasy. And as he began to move, to pound into you with a force that threatened to break you, you surrendered yourself to the darkness, to the depravity, to the sick, twisted world that Doflamingo had created, where pain and pleasure were one and the same, and all that mattered was the brutal, primal dance of dominance and submission.

As Doflamingo's conclusions washed over you, a wave of relief swept through your body. He had misinterpreted the reason for your arousal, attributing it to his own twisted desires rather than the dark, depraved acts you had committed in your own twisted attempt at rebellion. It was a small victory, a momentary reprieve from the consequences of your actions, but that relief was short-lived.

In a desperate attempt to escape, you tried to wiggle away from underneath him, but his grip remained firm, his weight pinning you down. Your efforts only seemed to spur him on, a cruel, mocking grin spreading across his face as he watched you squirm beneath him. "NO!!" you screamed.

"Stop struggling," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "You know you want this, you're so wet for me. Just give in and let me take what I want."

Doflamingo's massive cock slammed into you over and over again, you could feel yourself breaking, shattering into a million pieces. The pain was overwhelming, a searing, white-hot agony that consumed your every nerve ending. You screamed and thrashed beneath him, your body writhing in a futile attempt to escape the brutal onslaught.

"Look at you, crying like a little bitch," Doflamingo sneered, his hips never ceasing their relentless thrusting. "You act so tough, but deep down, you're just a weak, pathetic slut who loves being used."

His words cut deep, each syllable a knife twisting in your heart. You wanted to scream at him, to tell him how wrong he was, but all that came out was a choked sob, a pitiful, broken sound that only seemed to fuel his cruelty.

"I bet you've been dreaming of this, haven't you?" he continued, his voice dripping with mockery. "Fantasizing about me fucking you, claiming you, owning you completely. Admit it, you love being my slave, my personal fucktoy."

He reached up, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were wild, crazed with lust and sadistic glee. In that moment, you saw the true depths of his depravity, the utter lack of humanity that lurked within him.

"Say it," he demanded, his grip tightening painfully. "Tell me how much you love being my whore, how much you need my cock."

You shook your head frantically, "NO!" Tears streaming down your face, your body shaking with the force of your sobs. But Doflamingo was relentless, his thrusts growing harder, faster, more brutal with each passing second.

"Say it!" he roared, his face contorting with rage. "Or I'll beat you until you can't walk, until the only thing you remember is the feeling of my cock destroying your worthless cunt!"

In that moment, broken and defeated, you knew there was only one way to survive. With a final, shuddering sob, you met his gaze, your eyes empty, defeated.

"I love being your whore, Doflamingo," you whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue. "I need your cock, please fuck me and use me." Tears poured down your face as you spoke

As the words left your lips, Doflamingo's eyes lit up with a twisted sense of satisfaction. He praised your "admission" as if it were a confession of your deepest, most hidden desires. In his eyes, you were no longer a victim, but a willing participant in your own degradation.

"That's right, you're just a filthy little slut who needs my cock to feel alive," he growled, his thrusts becoming even more forceful and brutal. "You were made for this, to be used and abused by someone like me. I'm glad you finally accept your place."

He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, "You're mine now, completely and utterly. I'll fuck you whenever I want, however I want, and you'll thank me for it."

As he spoke, his hands roamed your body, groping and squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples hard enough to make you cry out in pain. Each touch was a reminder of your new reality, a world where your body was no longer your own, but a plaything for Doflamingo to use as he pleased.

Despite the pain and humiliation, you couldn't deny the dark, twisted arousal that began to build within you. Your body, traitorous and broken, responded to his touch, to the brutal, relentless pounding of his cock. It was a sick, perverse reaction, a betrayal of everything you once held dear, but it was undeniable, your orgasm drawing nearer. Doflamingo's fingers danced on your abdomen as they undid the strings around your cervix. You could only sigh in relief knowing the onslaught of his wrath was almost over. "Doflamingo…" you choked out, your voice hoarse from all your crying and screaming. "Please… don't… I don't want this…"

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, your protests only serving to fuel his twisted desires.

"Oh, you want me to stop?" Doflamingo sneered, his eyes glinting with sadistic glee. "Too fucking bad, because I'm going to keep fucking you. You don't have a choice. I can feel how good it feels for you; you're practically gushing for me."

As he spoke, his thrusts grew more forceful, more brutal, his cock plunging deeper and deeper into your most intimate depths. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that threatened to shatter your very being.

"I love using you," Doflamingo groaned, his voice thick with lust. "You're perfect, a goddess designed solely for my pleasure."

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing over you with a force that left you gasping and shaking. Despite your desperate attempts to suppress it, your body betrayed you, squirting all over Doflamingo as your walls pulsed and clenched around his throbbing cock. The sensation was intense, a raw, primal ecstasy that consumed every fiber of your being.

"Fuck, that's it," Doflamingo growled, his hips slamming into you with a final, brutal thrust. "Cum for me, show me how much you love being my personal fucktoy."

You could feel Doflamingo's own climax approaching. His cock swelled even larger, stretching you to the limit as he pushed deep, his glans nestling against your cervix. With a roar of triumph, he began to ejaculate, his hot, thick seed pouring into your uterus, filling you with his essence once more. His testicles, heavy and swollen with his potent seed, churned and contracted, pumping wave after wave of his semen into your body.

As the final drops of his essence spilled into you, you could feel the connection between your bodies, the intimate, primal bond that had been forged through your shared ecstasy. Exhausted and spent, you lay beneath him, your body a broken, violated shell.

As Doflamingo's massive cock slid out of you, leaving you feeling empty and exposed, you could feel the gentle tug of his strings working their magic once again. The cervix he had so skillfully manipulated was now sealed back shut, a physical barrier to prevent any of his precious seed from escaping your body.

Doflamingo collapsed next to you, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. You lay there, defeated, your body aching and sore from the brutal assault he had subjected you to.

"You did well," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "I knew you would make an excellent host for my offspring. Your body is perfect, a temple designed solely for my pleasure and reproduction."

His hand reached out, caressing your stomach almost tenderly, as if he could already feel the life growing within you. The gesture was a stark contrast to the brutal, violent act that had preceded it, a reminder of the complex and twisted nature of your captor.

"I can't wait to see you pregnant with my child," Doflamingo rasped, his voice heavy with exhaustion from the brutal coupling you two had endured. "You're going to look so good carrying my offspring."

[nayziiz]

Shadows | LN4

Summary: [Mafia] In the face of dire financial troubles, Lando receives a desperate plea from his father to unearth a lucrative solution within the family business. Fueled by the pressure to rescue his family from ruin, Lando stumbles upon a seemingly perfect venture—using luxury cars as a facade for the clandestine world of drug trafficking. With the unexpected partnership of Amelia Rossi, his father's best friend's daughter, Lando believes he has found the ideal accomplice. However, as the Norris family collides with the ambitious Russells in a ruthless bid to establish their dominance, the perilous path Lando has chosen places not only his newfound enterprise at stake but also entangles Amelia in the dangerous crossfire that unfolds.

Warning: Violence, drugs, blood, smut, fluff, guns

Pairing: Lando Norris x OC (Amelia Rossi) - appearances from other drivers

Masterlist

Chapter 9

Amelia's longing for Lando consumed her thoughts day and night, leaving her restless and unsettled. For weeks, she grappled with the dilemma of how to extricate herself from her relationship with Charles, knowing that her heart belonged to someone else. Each passing day only intensified her desire to be with Lando, overshadowing any semblance of contentment she had found with Charles.

Finally, after much deliberation and inner turmoil, Amelia mustered the courage to confront Charles and bring an end to their relationship. She approached the conversation with trepidation, fearing the pain she would inevitably inflict upon him. Yet, she knew that prolonging the inevitable would only cause further anguish for both of them.

With a heavy heart, Amelia explained her feelings to Charles, expressing her deepest regrets for not being able to reciprocate the love and devotion he had shown her. To her surprise, Charles received her words with a sense of understanding and grace, accepting her decision with a quiet resignation.

"It's clear that things haven't been right between us for some time," Charles conceded, his tone tinged with a hint of sadness. "I've always known that there was something holding you back, something you couldn't quite put into words."

Amelia felt a pang of guilt at the pain she saw reflected in Charles's eyes, knowing that she was the cause of his heartache. Yet, she also felt a sense of relief at having finally freed herself from the constraints of a relationship that could never fulfil her deepest desires.

Amelia's heart raced as she contemplated the forthcoming conversation with Lando. She knew that she couldn't keep the truth hidden any longer, not from him. The weight of George's blackmail hung heavy on her shoulders, a burden she could no longer bear alone. Lando deserved to know the full extent of the turmoil that had plagued her, to understand the reasons behind her actions and the sacrifices she had made.

Summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, Amelia resolved to lay bare her soul to Lando, to reveal the depth of her feelings and the truth of her circumstances. She knew it wouldn't be easy, that the words would likely catch in her throat and her voice would tremble with emotion, but she was determined to face him with honesty and transparency.

As the rain pelted down relentlessly, turning the world outside into a blur of grey, Amelia's car sputtered to a stop on the side of the deserted road. The sudden jolt as the engine died left her heart pounding in her chest, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. With a frustrated sigh, she glanced out the window, only to find the rain coming down in sheets, obscuring her view of the road ahead.

For a moment, she sat there, frozen in disbelief, the reality of her situation sinking in. She was stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no one in sight to offer assistance. The realisation sent a shiver down her spine, a wave of panic threatening to overwhelm her.

But then, with a steely determination, she pushed aside her fear and set to work. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment and stepped out into the pounding rain. The cold water soaked through her clothes, plastering her hair to her skin and sending shivers down her spine, but she refused to let it deter her.

With nimble fingers, she popped open the trunk and retrieved the spare tire and the jack, her hands shaking with cold and adrenaline. She struggled to loosen the lug nuts, her fingers slipping on the wet metal, but she refused to give up. With each grunt of effort, each strained tug, she felt a surge of satisfaction, a sense of empowerment coursing through her veins.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she managed to loosen the last lug nut and remove the flat tire. With trembling hands, she positioned the spare tire in place and began to tighten the lug nuts, her movements slow and deliberate despite the pounding rain and the chill that seeped into her bones.

At last, the tire was secure, and she lowered the car back down to the ground. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, a sense of pride swelling in her chest. Despite the odds, she had managed to change the tire all by herself, a feat she had never thought herself capable of.

With a weary smile, she climbed back into the car, her clothes clinging to her skin and her hair dripping with rainwater. She turned the key in the ignition, half expecting the engine to protest, but to her relief, it roared to life without hesitation. With a sense of triumph, she pulled back onto the road and continued on her journey towards the Norris estate.

As the windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the downpour, Amelia's vision blurred not just from the rain but from her tears streaming down her face. Each droplet on the glass seemed to mirror the turmoil in her heart, a tumultuous mix of regret, fear, and longing.

She couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gnawed at her insides, the fear that she had irreparably damaged her relationship with Lando. With every passing mile, her doubts grew, each mile marker a reminder of the distance that now seemed to stretch between them.

Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, a whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. She replayed their last encounter in her mind, the pain in his eyes, the hurt in his voice. She wished she could take it all back, erase the words that had driven him away, but she knew that was impossible.

All she could do now was hope, hope that he could find it in his heart to forgive her, to understand the choices she had made, to see past the mistakes she had made and remember the bond they shared. She knew it wouldn't be easy, knew that trust once broken was not easily mended, but she was willing to do whatever it took to make things right.

Amelia's hands trembled as she dialled the familiar code for security, her heart pounding in her chest with each press of the buttons. The rain continued to pelt down on the roof of her car, adding to the sense of urgency that fueled her every movement. She couldn't shake the feeling of desperation that gripped her, the need to find Lando and set things right between them.

After what felt like an eternity, the gates swung open, and she drove through, her tires splashing through puddles as she made her way up the winding driveway. The estate loomed before her, grand and imposing, a silent witness to the drama unfolding within its walls.

As she parked in front of the imposing front doors, her hands shook as she reached for the handle, her fingers numb with cold and fear. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what lay ahead, before stepping out into the pouring rain.

The security guards, ever vigilant, approached her as she made her way to the door, their expressions unreadable behind their rain-soaked uniforms. She gave them her name, her voice barely above a whisper, and watched as they exchanged a knowing look before asking her to wait.

“Mr Norris, Miss Rossi is outside.” One of the two security guards called Lando.

Lando's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Amelia's name. He had been lost in thought, his mind consumed with thoughts of her, when the security guard's voice broke through his reverie.

“Amelia?” He repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, disbelief colouring his words.

“Yes, sir.” The guard confirmed, his tone neutral but tinged with a hint of curiosity.

Lando's mind raced as he processed the news. He hadn't seen Amelia in weeks, not since their last encounter at Carlos Sainz SR's birthday party. And now, here she was, outside his family home, seeking him out.

“Let her in.” He instructed, his voice steady despite the turmoil churning within him.

The security guard nodded in acknowledgment at Amelia signalling for her to continue towards the front porch of the house. With a heavy heart, she made her way up the steps to the front door, the rain soaking through her clothes as she went. Each step felt like a weight upon her shoulders, a burden she could scarcely bear. But she pressed on, driven by a determination that bordered on desperation. She could feel the eyes of the security guards on her back, their silent scrutiny weighing heavily upon her. But she pushed aside her doubts and fears, her resolve hardening with each passing second.

As Amelia approached the front door, she couldn't shake the feeling of nervousness that gnawed at her insides. Her heart raced in her chest, and her palms felt clammy against the fabric of her coat. She could hardly believe she was here, standing on the doorstep of Lando's family home, about to face him after weeks of uncertainty and turmoil.

The door swung open before her, revealing Lando standing on the threshold. Despite her dishevelled appearance, she couldn't help but notice the concern etched into his features as he took in her bedraggled state.

“Amelia.” He breathed, his voice a mixture of surprise and relief.

“Lando.” She replied, her voice trembling slightly as she met his gaze.

“What happened? Are you OK?” He immediately asked, assessing her physical state and well-being.

“I... I had a flat on the way here and it started raining.” She explained, her teeth chattering as she spoke.

“Fuck, get inside. Let's warm you up before you catch a cold.” He insisted as she stepped aside to let her in and be enveloped by the house’s familiar warmth.

Lando took her up to his room where the fireplace crackled. Lando watched her closely, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. It was unlike Amelia to be so quiet and reserved, especially in his presence. Usually, she exuded confidence and vitality, her presence filling the room with energy. But tonight, she seemed weighed down by something, her usually vibrant demeanour dimmed by the events of the day.

He took a seat beside her on the plush sofa, leaving a respectful distance between them, yet close enough to offer his support if needed. He studied her features intently, noting the exhaustion etched into the lines of her face and the weariness in her eyes. It was clear that she had been through a lot, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly, his voice gentle as he broke the silence that hung between them.

Amelia's gaze met his, and for a moment, she seemed to waver, as if debating whether to confide in him. But then, with a sigh, she shook her head, the weight of her emotions evident in the gesture.

“I don't know.”  She admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Today has been... a lot.”

Lando nodded understandingly, his gaze softening as he reached out to gently squeeze her hand in a gesture of comfort.

“You'll need to shower to clean up.” Lando suggested as his eyes swept over her again. “Staying in wet clothes will just make you sick.”

Amelia nodded silently, grateful for the suggestion. She knew she must have looked like a mess after struggling with the flat tire in the rain.

Lando couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity wash over him. This routine, of taking care of Amelia in times of need, felt almost second nature to him. He ran the water, adjusting the temperature to ensure it was just right, all the while lost in thought.

Amelia began to undress, peeling off the wet and muddy layers of clothing that clung uncomfortably to her skin. The sound of the running water served as a soothing backdrop to her thoughts, offering a momentary respite from the events of the day.

Stepping into the shower, she let the warm water wash over her, cleansing away not just the physical grime but also the emotional weight that had settled on her shoulders. With each drop that fell, she felt a sense of renewal, a fresh start beckoning on the horizon.

On the other side of the frosted glass door, Lando remained respectful of her privacy, keeping his eyes from her body and allowing her space to cleanse both body and mind. He retrieved a fresh set of clothes from his room, selecting items he knew would offer her comfort and warmth.

Returning to the bathroom, he left the clothes on the counter, a silent gesture of care and consideration. He lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on the closed shower door, before retreating back to his room, giving her the time and space she needed.

The warm water cascading down from the showerhead felt like a soothing balm against her tired muscles and weary soul. As she washed away the mud and rainwater, she couldn't help but let her thoughts drift back to the events of the day. The confrontation with George, the emotional turmoil of ending things with Charles, and now, seeking solace in Lando's comforting presence.

Despite the chaos swirling around her, there was a sense of peace to be found in Lando's home, in his room, in his kindness. She couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for his unwavering support, especially in her moments of vulnerability.

Once she had finished showering and dried off, Amelia emerged from the bathroom feeling somewhat refreshed and rejuvenated. She found Lando waiting for her in the bedroom by the fireplace. She looked refreshed and revitalised, a shadow of the weary figure who had entered the bathroom not long before.

Their eyes met briefly, a silent exchange of understanding and gratitude passing between them. Lando offered her a gentle smile, wordlessly acknowledging the strength and resilience she had shown in the face of adversity.

“Feeling better?” Lando asked nervously, careful not to overstep any boundaries or trigger any trauma.

“Yeah. Thank you.” She murmured softly, her voice tinged with gratitude as she approached him. Lando offered her a warm smile in return, his eyes reflecting genuine concern and compassion.

“Anytime.” He replied simply, his tone sincere as he gestured towards the seat on the sofa next to him.

Amelia nodded, a small but genuine expression of gratitude as she sank into the comfort of the sofa by the fireplace. With Lando by her side, she knew she could weather any storm, finding solace in the unwavering support he offered.

As they settled into a comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire providing a soothing backdrop, Amelia allowed herself to relax, the tension of the day slowly melting away.

“You probably hate me.” Amelia eventually spoke, breaking the silence and tension in the room.

“I could never hate you.” Lando assured her as he turned to look at her instead of the crackling fire in front of him.

Amelia's voice wavered slightly as she responded to Lando's words, a mixture of relief and vulnerability evident in her tone. She couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames of the fire instead. She swallowed heavily before offering the explanation for her actions.

“There's a video.” Amelia started, unsure how to broach the conversation.

“What video?” Lando asked, confused.

“Of you and me having sex in your club's office.” She explained, her voice shaking.

Amelia's words hung heavy in the air, the weight of their implications settling over them like a suffocating blanket. Lando's expression shifted from confusion to disbelief, his features contorted with a mixture of shock and anger.

“How is that even possible? Who would do something like that?" He demanded, his voice laced with incredulity.

Amelia's gaze faltered under the intensity of his scrutiny, the weight of her guilt pressing down on her like a crushing weight.

“It's George. He's been blackmailing me, threatening to release the video if I don't comply with his demands.” She admitted, her voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire.

Lando's jaw clenched with fury at the revelation, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The mere thought of someone exploiting their most intimate moments for personal gain filled him with a sense of righteous indignation.

“That son of a bitch.” He growled, his voice low and menacing. “I swear, if I ever get my hands on him…”

Amelia reached out and placed a gentle hand on his arm, her touch a silent plea for restraint.

“Please, Lando.” She implored, her voice tinged with desperation. Lando's expression softened at her words, the fire in his eyes giving way to a deep well of compassion and understanding.

“That's why... that's why you were so adamant about not pursuing anything.” Lando suddenly realised.

“And, I know I hurt you with the stuff I said. I'm so sorry, I should have told you.” Amelia admitted, shame and guilt swirling in her chest.

“I understand. And, I forgive you, Amelia. You don't have to apologise. None of this is your fault.” He replied, his voice gentle and reassuring. “Why did you decide to tell me?”

“Because nothing made sense anymore. I couldn't be without you, Lan.” Amelia conceded, her deepest feelings coming to the forefront.

“Ah, Milly.” He whispered and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch a tender caress against her skin.

“I am so sorry, Lan. I'm sorry I hurt you.” She continued, the tears threatening to spill from her eyes once again.

“It's fine, baby. All that matters is you're here now.” He assured her as he wiped a tear from her cheek.

Lando kissed her temple and then her forehead and then eventually her lips before pulling her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her.

“I didn't know what to do, Lan. I just wanted to protect you.” She further explained as she leaned against him, appreciating his warmth and comfort.

“I know, baby, I know. But you're where you belong. You're safe here. We'll worry about this in the morning, but right now, you need to eat something and get warmed up.” Lando suggested, rubbing circles into her back.

“You've always been so good to me.” Amelia murmured, her voice soft and filled with emotion.

“I do it because I love you.” Lando replied, his own voice equally tender. Amelia looked up at him, her eyes searching his eyes for reassurance.

“Say it again.” She whispered.

“I love you, Amelia Marie Rossi.” Lando said, his voice unwavering as he spoke the words that meant everything to him. A smile tugged at the corners of Amelia's lips, her heart swelling with affection.

“I love you, Lando Norris.” She declared, her voice filled with conviction.

“Yeah, I know.” Lando replied, a playful grin spreading across his face as he leaned in to kiss her gently on the forehead.

Their laughter mingled with the crackling of the fire as Amelia leaned in to kiss Lando again. The touch of their lips ignited a warmth that spread through them both, dissolving any lingering tension or uncertainty. In that moment, all that mattered was the love they shared.

“And, I will love you for the rest of my life if you'd let me.” Lando added, his signature grin not wavering.

“You say all the right things.” Amelia giggled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again.

[godling-jesse]

prompt #004 -  a golden boy's plea

The concept wasn't foreign to him. Going to the temple, sitting down in front of his father's statue, that was almost a daily ritual to him. So when Chiron mentioned creating pathways, communicating with his father, the son of Apollo had to scoff. What the fuck had he been doing these past few weeks, and why wasn't he getting any answers? It had gotten to the point that he'd decided to avoid the situation all together. While he watched demigod after demigod go to the temple, throwing magical parties, making their prayers and feel heard, feel answered, all Jesse could do was watch. That familiar feeling began to settle in the pit of his stomach. As much as he tried to be good, to be there, to be perfect, that hollow feeling of inadequacy always seemed to pull him down. Why could he watch demigods connect with their parents so easily, and he constantly felt like he was being left on read with his father. Hell, it was story not unlike the one he'd shared with his mother.

It had taken Jesse a while to gather the nerve. It had gotten to the point that he very well might have been the only demigod at camp who hadn't made that 'pathway' yet. Part of him decided to just fuck it off all together, he didn't need his father, he'd gotten this far without him after all. There was another part, a louder part, that just wanted to know why? Why wasn't he good enough? What could he do to prove himself worthy? Was there even a way? Those were the waves of uncertainty, of longing to be the Golden Boy he'd always been expected to be. First as being Dianna Diaz's son, now being the son of Apollo. The weight to live up to that had been crushing, and the fear that he might not every live up to either roles was damn near devastating. He wouldn't leave it at that. He couldn't.

It had been just before sunrise when Jesse entered the amphitheater. It was early enough that he'd appeared to have been alone, the entire came was asleep. While that much wasn't on purpose, he was glad to have the privacy. With a guitar strapped around his back, he looked up toward his father's domain, regarding it warily at first. He wet his lips, "It's me again, Dad," he began with a heavy breath. He didn't know why he'd had such a big pit in his stomach. He'd started many a conversations with the damn statue, saying that same damn thing.

So what was different now? In the back of his head he knew, he knew that this was what would change everything. His final attempt at reaching out to his father. As far as he was concerned his father would either recognize his worth, or he would lose him for good. "I'm supposed to come here and pray to you, open up a connection with you to bring us closer," he let out a tut, "As if I haven't been trying to do just that for the past month. Either you don't care, or you haven't been listening," taking the guitar from around his back, he sat down cross legged and set the instrument in his lap. "I realize… I've been trying to get your attention, to prove to you that I am worthy to be here, that I am your son, and you didn't make a mistake in claiming me." He let his gaze drop for moment, contemplating. "So I figured this time, I'd say what I have to say a little louder."

He began to strum a chord from his guitar, a heavy, minor chord that reverberated gently across the theatre. The melody itself was a somber one at first. It illustrated where his head space had been in relation to his father. A melody of longing, with chords of fear, riffs of waning hope. The the tune lingered for just a moment, before he began to bring in words to it.

"i'll always be outshined by you, it never takes too long no matter what I say or do

i still see your glow till the moment I'm gone."

The notes came smooth, heavy. This wasn't an upbeat song, it was a song from his heart. His mother had always told him while words and speeches could touch a persons mind, nothing could bare your soul the way that music could. He continued to play, going into the second verse, demanding not to be seen as weak, how his own radiance was bright, how he didn't need to kept on the sidelines, that he was worth the faith he had in his father, but he needed to be free. The music seemed to grow louder now, the guitar being amplified by an unseen source, he the end of the song came, and the guitar and his voice seemed to grow louder, more confident.

"i come here bended knee as i try to make you see that i'm everything you think you need, fighting this fight.

"but you're neither friend nor foe and i won't let you let me go because, the one thing that you must know is that i'm my own sunlight"

The final chord rang through the amphitheaters as the sun began to rise over the hills. His voice melted with the guitar in an almost magical swell. His music filled every inch of the stadium just as the sunlight poured in. He wasn't sure if the camp could hear him, but at this point he didn't care. It wasn't about the camp, it wasn't about the expectations put on him by Chiron or Xanthe. It was about him pushing past his insecurities, that darkness, to reach his father. As the note finally faded into a hum, Jesse was left standing there, panting, eyes never once leaving the sky as the sun beamed down on him.

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

"Are you in pain like I am?" (Robin)

✧ ━━ 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 : 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝙱𝚈 𝙳𝙰𝚈𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴

Job 14:22 ... “But his flesh upon him shall have pain, and his soul within him shall mourn ... ”

The verse echoed relentlessly in Robin's empty skull while he allowed his sickly green eyes, heavy-lidded and glistening, to roll downward in a slow, deliberate motion, searching for that woeful mask that had become all too familiar. Once the two met it was a standoff of expressions; and worse their gazes met only at the grave conclusion of the question. Such an implication brought a flicker of amusement to sparkle in his mind. It was hard to deny how comical it was to Robin that their reunions so oft spiraled into such theatrical displays of anguish, as though each conversation had to be stained by the melodrama that seemed to seep from them like fresh sap.

His fingers brushed against the fluttering pages of his novel before he finally set it upon his chest and peeked back down towards the Shroud. Robin’s rose petal lips curling into a smile where his sharp canines glinted like daggers, his head canting with an inquisitive twist with an amused hum. He tapped his index finger to his chin twice, ready to reply but his mind was all too swiftly ensnared by the word "pain", compelling him to envision a canvas of flesh splashed with crimson hues. Usually, such musings would prompt Robin to abandon the moment and plunge headlong into the gory depths of his imagination, to dance and revel in the torment it offered and inflict it a thousand fold on their darling, waiting lambs. Yet today, he resisted the pull of those wicked depths, instead drawing his focus back to his companion.

... And only when his vision narrowed on that weeping mask did his expression begin to fall — and like the first raindrops of a storm darkening a bright day, what had always teased the horizon's edge had finally come overhead to downpour. Those exaggerated features, ever frozen in a state of sorrow, seemed now to pulse with life, and it was then that Robin swore he could almost see the pleading face beneath, eyes wide and desperate for understanding.

A wave of nausea suddenly swirled around within him like a serpent in his gut.

His mouth struggled to form words, the syllables racing up his throat, thick and cloying, like bile that clawed and clung to every groove and muscle fiber. It felt foreign, as if each word was a sharp fragment of glass lodged in his throat, refusing to pass. His teeth were not made to utter pleas for mercy or gentle reassurances; they were to shred and tear into each new heart spillage. His mouth was a pit of razors. Oh but his eyes conveyed truths far beyond the reach of his trembling lips. For they had transformed from flickering lanterns into widened pools, an unsettling sense of concern reflecting across their selenic surface. He pulled back quick and nestled back into the cradling arms of the elder oak he had taken lounge in.

Robin shifted uncomfortably at the sinking reality of his situation; his silence was a heavy answer to Ghostface's question, and he knew that it was too late to try and hide it away. It was a truth he only recognized through the visceral sensation of fear creeping throughout his body, a thousand skittering legs brushing against his skin, crawling across his arms and threading through his hair, only to finally settle beneath his collar like a tightened noose. She was angry with him.

" ... Do you delight in tormenting me, Grave Walker?"

Robin stared up into the mirage of leaves as he fought to keep his voice light, the laughter in it a fragile shield against the storm of Her fury, as if pretending it wasn't there could somehow make it dissipate. A moment passed. Then two before he swiftly descended from the dense tree canopy, each branch bowing slightly under his weight and emerging from the emerald foliage, he peeked out like a star breaking through the thick blanket of winter clouds. Both heels clicked against the tree's massive roots once he stepped down upon them, and he was careful not to let the curve of his heel peel off any of the bark as he hopped down in front of Ghostface and straightened back to a tall and proper position.

In the lowlight his pale figure acted nearly as a wisp of moonlight caught in a crystal hewn lamp, undimmed against their dreary surroundings. Yet for all of this grace Robin could only observe them with a mix of concern and curiosity, and his heart was pounding as he searched for the right words to bridge the deep welling chasm of understanding between them. It was a task made all the more daunting by the creeping sensation of Her influence, looming and threatening to ignite his recollections into flames of panic. But he struggled through, the tip of his gloved finger grazing the brittle edges of the leaves that clung tenuously to their branches just above his wintry head, each touch seemed to rustle a plea to be able to hold on just a moment longer. Perhaps that was his own heart speaking. Finally, after a heavy pause that seemed to stretch into eternity, he released a sigh and his quaky voice began to speak:

"Come, little leaves," said the wind one day. "Come o'er the meadows with me, and play' Put on your dress of red and gold,— Summer is gone, and the days grow cold." Soon as the leaves heard the wind's loud call, Down they came fluttering, one and all ...

Slowly he sank down beside his companion, not daring to look into that damned mask when he was far too aware of how his own had slipped off and splintered all over the dirt and grass. Frankly why he had started reciting poetry he did not know, maybe it was easier to borrow the eloquent words of others rather than reveal the rawness of one's own thoughts … although tragic it was that his mind had decided on a sonnet that teetered on the brink of oblivion. It middle section was elusive as vapor, it was impossible to recall it all. Then again it would be quite the request to be able to do so, his memory was a scattered mess after all; even the simple recollection of his late sister's eyes eluded him. …. Then, like a sudden flash of memory surged forth. Yes… he did have a sister — she was … buried here, some where …

"F-Fondly we've watched you in vale and glade;Wilst thou dream of our loving shade?"Dancing and whirling, the little leaves went; Winter had called them, and they were content. Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds, The snow laid a coverlet over their heads.

He let himself rest his companion, quick to give into gentle surrender to the fatigue that clung to him, his eyelids fluttered shut and he took a weary breath. By the end of his retelling his voice had grown soft enough that the breeze nearly overtook it. And it was in this serene stillness that Robin’s fingers timidly found their way to Ghostface’s, curling around them. The world around him blurred and he sensed himself drifting, that was before Her stare seemed to pierce through the haze, igniting a fire within his chest that he could not ignore lest it incinerate him from the inside out. He tightened his grip, “Spring never came…” he murmured, “The leaves did not become the bright blooms of April, and the sun did not return.”

The air felt quite thick and heavy now, each breath made him feel like he was sinking into the ever waiting dirt. That would almost be preferable. Robin cast his gaze downward, wishing the ground would open and swallow him whole; he was desperately trying to gather the scattered pieces of his composure and the urge to scream bubbled up his throat. Why did he always make such a fool of himself? Yet, amidst the moths drawn irresistibly to fire, his hesitation burned away with their delicate wings,

"I ... I do not remember the taste of water," he began, "nor the call of birds at dusk… or when the moonlight fell over the hillsides. All I once was, all that the world once was has passed away. But you ... you I remember." As the last words left him, found himself paralyzed, staring wide-eyed at the Shroud while every hair stood at attention on the back of his neck. His brain felt as though it was swelling to burst. Then, with a sudden urgency, Robin leaned in close, his breath a whisper as his lips brushed against the fabric's edge of the Shroud’s hood. He murmured low as if the very act of speaking could draw the ire of unseen forces.

"Grave Walker, hear my warning and heed it well. I do not know what it is you are trying to seek by angering her -- but She will have vengeance, She will take all of you … and you will beg for death before the end." Another squeeze of Ghostface's fingers, "Do not ask me to endure such a thing. Do not."

[ceceliaahathaway]

Cecelia's heart raced as Gideon's tension radiated through the darkness, his grip tightening around her wrists. Despite his attempt to maintain composure, she could sense the uncertainty in his voice, juxtaposed by her own excitement. What? George and Isobel, didn't do things in halves.

The abrupt, piercing scream shattered the oppressive silence, its reverberations echoing through the darkness and stirring a tumult of conflicting emotions within Cecelia. While her pulse quickened with a surge of exhilaration, a whisper of caution cautioned her against recklessness.

She understood the gravity of their situation, the lingering spectre of danger following in the wake of recent events. Yet, beneath the veneer of apprehension, an undeniable thrill thrummed through her veins, beckoning her towards the unknown depths of the tunnel. Besides, neither George nor Izzy had any associations with the shadowy underworld that Cecelia found herself tangentially involved with.

"Of course, darling. Please, be careful. I'll wait right here for you..." A pause, a laugh, was he kidding himself? "Let's not delude ourselves. I'm not staying behind. I'm coming with you, because clearly, someone needs to watch your back. Remember, I'm trained in three martial arts and rhythmic gymnastics. What are you going to do? Direct our murderer to death?"

She crept deeper into the darkness of the tunnel, her footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls, before she finally reached a weathered door. With a creak, she nudged it open, wondering where they had ended up now. She groped around cautiously, making sure to avoid Mr. Sensitive Gideon in the process, until her fingers found a light switch on the wall. The butler's pantry? Her gaze snapped to an unsettling scene unfolding before them: a bloodied knife resting ominously on the counter, its presence accentuated by a trail of crimson stains. Their next clue!

"What do you--" The shriek wail of a car alarm sliced through the tense atmosphere, jolting Cecelia into recognition—it was her own vehicle's alarm. What in the world? Had she accidentally triggered it with her keys? No, that couldn't be right; she'd checked her coat and left the keys at the coat check earlier. "Apologies, that's my car… just a moment," she interjected, momentarily breaking character as she swiftly made her way through the house, dismissing a few concerned guests along the way. Retrieving her coat, she extracted the keys and hastened outside to rectify the situation.

As Cecelia stepped outside, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach at the sight before her. Her cherished Aston Martin, once a symbol of her (and Adam's) success and refinement, now served as a canvas for her deepest shame—photographs of her affair with Ayaz plastered across its elegant surface. Each image was a piercing dagger to her heart, a cruel reminder of the betrayal that had shattered not only her carefully constructed facade but also led to Adam's recent departure. He's not coming back, Cece.

"No..., no, NO!" She scrambled, paying no mind to Izzy's concerned inquiries or the bewildered stares of the other guests as she approached her tarnished car. "No, no, no, no, no!!" With trembling hands, she began to tear at the damning images, each rip a testament to the unraveling of her carefully guarded secrets. Was he looking? Was he judging?

Weighted with sorrow, Cecelia painstakingly cleared a small space on the windscreen, her eyes refusing to look anywhere else.

The once-glamorous evening now lay in ruins, its allure overshadowed by the harsh reality of her own indiscretions and the painful consequences they had brought with them.

With a heavy heart and a soul burdened by regret, she sank into the driver's seat, the echoes of her shattered illusions ringing in her ears. Without a word, she turned the key in the ignition, the engine's low purr a mournful accompaniment to her solitary departure. With one last glance up towards the house, the guests, and Gideon, Cecelia swallowed and broke away.

This was the end.

He practically has to break into a jog to keep up with Cecelia's imperial march across the ballroom. Feeling certain he'd manage it in far more dignified a manner were it not for the vice-grip on his hand. They enter the library, immediately ensconed by silence.

"Didn't expect to see you here either. Didn't know you knew the couple." Gideon begins carefully, trying to read her expression as she sweeps purposefully across the floor. Is she still mad at him for last time? For his abruptness with her on Awards' night?... But she'd accosted him in the men's washroom, is it honestly on him to apologize for that?

"Hey, about last time—" But if she cares or not about last time, Cecelia hides it well, cutting him off with instructions on looking for clues. "Right. Secret passageways." Gideon echoes, unable to hold back a disbelieving scoff. What does she think this is? Scooby Doo and Guess Who? There's no way George and Isobel would splurge that much money just to—

A loud click echoes in the chamber, followed by the sound of cranks and pulleys as one section of a bookcase gives way to exactly that. Oh God. He doesn't have to glance at Cece to imagine the look of sheer triumph on her face. Who'd thought it was a good idea to indulge that? Sure enough, Cecelia starts to sing, the bossy tone he's used to hearing slipping into something buttery smooth as she croons the chorus to New York, New York. It's a low, pleasing sound, and he's disturbed to find she can more than carry a tune. It shouldn't come as a surprise, given she must possess some eye and ear for talent to hire the Vixens she manages, but he'd never thought...

No, he'd rather not think of that, actually. And doesn't need to dwell on it further, as Cecelia turns away and disappears through the new opening in the bookcase, leaving him to look around once more in amazement, wondering what other trinkets in the library were actually just props set up for the party's benefit. Had they really spent good money on this??... He's starting to wonder why he's friends with these people.

'GIDEON, GET IN HERE!'

Christ. He practically jumps out of his skin and it has nothing to do with any farcical possibility of murder. "Ladylike." It's delivered on half a sigh, half a grumble as he rolls his eyes and moves to follow in the direction of her voice. "It's Mr. Holliday, actually. One would think you'd know that, given we've been married... How many years has it been, Dearest?" He's put on his American, but there's a good deal of sarcasm in it this time. Truth be told, as the Rutherford begins fumbling in the dark, he'd rather discuss Guildford. If she and Adam got out safely. If all her girls did, too. Something real.

"Anyway, the theme of this whole shindig..." He starts to opine in the dark. "It's a bit... much, no?" To call it uncouth would be putting it mildly. "I mean after what happened. Not that George and Isobel would know, they weren't in attendance as far as I know bu- Hey!! Watch it, that's my-... Would you just-" His 1920s wife has taken to batting her palms over his torso, in search of a cellphone he doesn't actually have on him. Trying to restrain her arm before she pokes his eye out, Gideon grits out;

"I know we're meant to be married but for goodne-"

A shrill scream goes up somewhere behind them and they freeze, one of Cecelia's wrists in each of his hands. He can see the whites of her eyes in the dark, but where she looks excited, thrilled — he's lived too many of these scenarios in real life to play-act the appropriate response. And wouldn't this be just the perfect set-up for a real life homicide?... He's being irrational, he knows, but dread begins to trickle down the back of his neck. He releases her wrists. "How 'bout you just stay here, okay? I'll go take a look. You wait, and when I return we can go through the rest of the tunnel together."

[hisoknen]

kinktober day 6: praise warnings: smut, rope bondage, suffering, breathplay wc: 2.9k

a/n: hi hello reader!! super excited to share this one as a rope fanatic! however, this is NOT a guide/blueprint to any kind of play you want to try. thank you so much to @10millionyearsdungeon​ for beta reading and giving me amazing feedback! this is a softer more sensual kinktober day i hope you enjoy!

“And your safewords, kitten?” Aizawa secured the hardpoint, doing a few more checks to the bamboo before coming down to your level. His hand reached out to cup your cheek, waiting patiently for your reply.

After discussing the scene he had in mind, it was time to begin. He was crouching down in front of you while you were kneeling at his command. Dressed in only a pair of silk panties, you could feel the air in the room kissing your naked flesh. 

“Red stop, yellow check-in slow down and green good.” You breathed, he was lightly pinching at your cheeks, your eyes threatening to shut and absorb the feeling of him caressing your skin. Your heart was racing, mind and body hungry for anything he was ready to give you. 

“And if something's your mouth?” he presses a small ball into your palm, a little bell jingled inside of it as he wrapped his yours to close it.

“Drop the ball, red. Uh, uh uh, is yellow, and for green, nod.”

“Good girl,” he sits down, “turn around.” You do as you’re told, untucking your knees and turning your back on him. Your body sinks into his hold, his thighs on each side, trapping you in place. He begins littering kisses on your neck and shoulders, calming your racing mind with soft words and chuckles.

Ever since you found your way into Aizawa’s arms, you’d experienced more than you could list in one sitting. Together you slowly explored your boundaries, trying new things out and pushing each other to grow. You had a genuine and deep submission. It was the heartfelt kind that came from trust, respect, lust, emotional connection.

You’d always found a strange comfort in suffering. Nothing aroused you more than suffering for someone you loved and having them look into your pleading eyes and offer you their tender violence in return.

When you could do something that made your partner feel good, you felt the world around you bathe you in warmth. You found catharsis erotic—a harmonious battle between instincts and surrender.

But this desire always seemed to put you into sticky situations. You’d find partners who didn’t care for your soul or body. They wanted your suffering for their pleasure and theirs alone, treating you as though you were disposable. Broken people sought out broken people, or so you thought.

Aizawa was different. It was an exploration for both of you, an equal exchange. He cared for your mind as much as he desired your body. He treated you like an invaluable treasure. It always felt so safe being wrapped in his ropes, no matter the sadistic ideas he would bring to fruition. 

Trailing his fingers up your shoulders, kneading softly at the muscles. He leaned in, placing a kiss at your neck's junction right behind your ear. Your mind is already spinning from the small ministration. His breath tickled the spot he knew sent spots to your vision.

"Are you ready, kitten?" He purred against your ear. Without even brushing his fingers against the aching spot between your legs he already had you dripping and feverish.

Nodding, you turn your neck to the side to give him more access. He nips at the skin, slowly bringing your arms behind you, hands rubbing up and down, easing your shoulders back. 

Dragging the rope slowly a few inches above your wrist, he ties a single column securing your wrists together, pulling the tension up. Aizawa wraps two bands around your front above your breasts, over your other arm to the right. Skimming his fingers against your chest, he looks into your eyes, silently asking if everything feels right. 

Lazily smiling up at him, you rub your middle finger against the thumb's padding to check, nodding. You feel the tug as he drags the ends through where the initial rope went from your wrist to the arm, reversing the tension and locking it off. The push and pull were like a lullaby rocking you to sleep. 

There was a tug when he secured a knot in the back, his fingers feeding between the rope and your arms and where the jute is placed, fixing the tension evenly. He continued to the left, wrapping two more bands a few inches below the first, trapping your breasts in between.

After months of playing with Aizawa, you had his movements memorized, it was like dancing. Each time he moved, your body followed obediently as he secured the stem, feeding rope into the harness. 

Pushing your body forward, his warmth leaves you. He brings the rope over the bamboo, pulling your body up in the slightest. Reaching down, he takes it through the bite created on the stem pulling it taut.

“It’s been a long week, hasn’t it? Not enough time to play. I hope you’re not upset, kitten,” his husky voice sinks into your ears. It’s smooth like honey, and the tender promise it leaves has your skin prickling. His foot pushes against your shoulder, body leaning to the side just enough to feel the tension applied. 

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” He steps away, pulling the rope on the upline. The tug has you on your knees once more, slowly getting onto your legs as he aids you with a steady pull. Once both of your feet are flat on the ground, he secures the upline stepping out of your line of vision.

He lightly taps your ass, and you quiver at the touch. Crouching down, he wraps two bands around your ankle, securing a single column and capture loop. His hand grasping the pit of your knee, hoisting it up.

You stare in awe at each movement he makes, watching his fingers work rapidly. Balancing on one leg you search his eyes as he pulls your leg up, tossing the ends of the rope over the bar. He brings the working ends into the bite and back over the bar to secure the knot.

The shift in weight adds pressure to your hips and gut. Your knee is at the same height as your hips, restricting your breathing slightly. While it’s nothing crazy, it does spike your interest. He was being far too gentle. You don’t notice that he’s untied the line to your harness, jerking it up in one swift motion.

A yelp resounds throughout the room, your entire body weight now depending on your ability to hold yourself up by your toes. There is tension on your arms and leg in the air but nothing compared to what it will be if you happen to falter.

Your breath hitches and you start to relax your body, checking your thumb once again to see if it’s numb. Your head is bowed, watching the shake in your legs as Aizawa circles around you. He pulls your chin up roughly, his eyes dark scanning your features.

That was the look you were waiting for. He presses a fervent kiss against your lips, fingers flicking across the heat he’s left behind. 

His other hand comes up, waiting at the entrance of your mouth. Licking your lips you open wide. Slowly he eases his fingers in, circling the pad of your tongue, edging closer and closer to the back and gagging you. Your throat convulses around him, only prompting him to go back even further fingers tickling the back of your tongue.

He lets out a muffled groan pulling his fingers out, gliding the slick digits down your neck to your breasts, swirling around your nipple and pulling.

Your eyes are fixed on him as he moves the rope holding your leg further from your body, setting your body off balance. Breathing through your nose you hop, trying to reset your toes on the wood.

"Tongue out, kitten." You obediently loll it out from your mouth. His hands disappear to his back, bringing out a clothespin. He opens its teeth and clamps it down onto your muscle. Wincing and letting out a pained groan, you look up at him with pitiful eyes filled with affection and adoration.

Grabbing another rope, he wraps it around your waist tightly, pushing out your breath. He connects it to the bamboo, leaving you sputtering around the wood, pulling desperately for the room's air to trickle into your lungs.

Aizawa drops down, settling onto the floor. Grabbing your shaking leg, he rubs the skin and leaves lingering kisses, taking a final rope from his side. Trailing his fingers sensually up your calf, he sets the jute below the bend of your knee, pulling it through and trapping your calf into place.

Your eyes widen in horror at the realization of what he's about to do. He pulls the rope tight, pain shooting up your leg and straight to your center. A strangled gasp ripples past your open lips, saliva beginning to drip from your tongue onto the floor slowly.

“Already?” His lips are parted, watching you intently through hooded eyes. He runs his hands through his hair, gazing up at you hungrily.

“We just started, kitten.” He holds the rope tight, tying it around your trapped muscle, each one tighter than the last until he reaches right above your ankle. The dull ache of the clothespin is nothing compared to what awaits you.

“Are you ready to breathe again?” You hadn’t even noticed that you’d stopped, too busy imagining what he was about to do. Taking a deep breath through your nose, you hold it nodding down at him.

“1, 2-” you breathe out the second he gets to two, knowing he never waits until three.  Your gut tightens as he crosses over the rope the opposite way, constricting your calf more than before, creating spaces where the rope touches and the muscle remaining is pushed tight against the confines, pulsing.

A single poke of his finger will have tears surfacing in your eyes. But maybe he wouldn’t press on it this time. He forces his finger underneath the rope to lock it off, sending waves of agony course through you.

You rip your leg away from him, bringing it to your chest to relieve the pressure, but the moment you do, all of the weight shifts to your chest, arms and the opposite leg. A frustrated grunt leaving your wet mouth. It was as if he had woven the rope around your body with a banner that said, choose your preferred method of suffering.

Landing your foot back gently back onto the ground, you look down at him with pleading eyes. With the weight of your body resting on one painfully constricted leg, your muscle tries to escape the confines, pulsing against the rope and radiating up your side.

“Whas dah for?” Aizawa pulls a metal rod from his pocket. He grabs onto your leg, pressing the metal into your constricted flesh, a shriek leaves your lips and you strain. While the tension in a section lessens at the push, another side begins to ache and throb. That was the game. Your body and bottom leg are aligned, but the leg in the air is forward, hips sinking along with your chest. More pressure. Less air.

“Can you take a little more for me?” He looks up at you with admiration and lust, chest rising and falling heavily. A sob wracks through your body, your instincts tell you to scream no, but your body wants more. You had your safewords. Aizawa would listen to you if you needed to stop. Shaking your head, you try desperately to hold onto each gulp of air, remembering to check your fingers.

You nod down at him as he presses down again. The more your breathing falters, the less you can manage the pain and hold your body up. Your leg is trembling, threatening to lose its hold on the ground. You can hear Aizawa’s breath falter as he takes in your cries and plea’s. His pupils are lust blown with a devious glimmer.

Standing up, he comes to face level, pressing down on the pin and releasing the pressure. The moment it’s removed, the ache comes back tenfold, blood returning to where it was restricted. Sucking in the droll on your lips, you stare up at him defiantly.

“Sick fuck,” you spit out. You want to scream and lash out at him. Rake your fingernails down his back and draw blood.

“‘Sick fuck’ is not your safeword.” The moment the words leave his mouth, tears of frustration bubble into vision. 

“Use your words.”

“It hurts Shouta-” you blubber through quivering lips.

“I know.” He purrs, stroking your face with fingers wet from your tears. He understood that you were suffering. That this was painful and frustrating for you. But most of all, he understood that you were suffering for him.

“Good girl, I’m so proud of you.” You smile, shivering at the warmth of his praise. He kisses your nose, bending down to untie the binds on your leg. Wincing at each shift you moan at the release.

Aizawa’s fingers stroke the imprints left behind fingers kissing your sensitive flesh. You glance down seeing his cock straining against his pants, a damp patch showing just how much he was enjoying this. 

“Please,” you whisper, pulling against your restraints. He follows your eyes, running his hands along the length of his covered cock, squeezing. It’s been so long since you had tasted him, felt him.

“What is it, kitten?” 

“I want to touch you,” he chuckles, lying on the ground to watch you, hair pooling around his head as he looks up. Your chest is rising quickly and heavily. Looking into your eyes, he waits. You nod to signal green, and he presses his foot into your stomach, absorbing the choked cries you let out while you struggle to take breaths in.

Your only comfort and control are swept away from you as your leg is lifted off the ground. Your tears land onto his face, one at the corner of his lips. He dips his tongue out, pulling it into his mouth. 

“You look so pretty like this, kitten.” He pushes himself off the ground with his elbows. The pain was distressing, bleeding into your veins, but he continues to praise you for taking it. Your head is spinning, and your cunt is dripping, the pain and pleasure rolling off one another.

He stands in front of you, fingers dipping down to push your panties to the side. His fingertips brush against your soaking core, body still shaking with sobs.

“If it hurts, why are you so wet, Y/n?” You look up at him shamefully, his voice is condescending, head tilted and eyebrows quirked. His fingers glide over your sensitive clit, slowly circling over it. You bite your lip to hold back a needy moan. Aizawa’s fingers plunge into your cunt, curling his fingers immediately, ripping the cry from you.

He starts roughly jerking his hand, pounding his fingers against your g-spot. You let out whimpers and grunts as he rubs at your insides. The pressure from the waist rope increases and floods your cunt as your leg begins to give out.

“Shouta plea-” you hiccup, begging for more. With one hand reaching out to hold onto your raised thigh the other continues to search the depths of your pussy for the orgasm you owed him.

The insistent squelch coming from you is pathetic; the pain of the rope and the brutality of his ministrations begin bleeding together. Looking down, you can see your arousal spilling out from your cunt all over his hand. 

He breathes heavily against your ear. “You’re so good to me, kitten. Suffering so beautifully for me.” Mewling between sobs, you want to ask for more. You can feel that you’re about to cum, your cunt squeezing around him desperately.

Your leg loses its strength below you, the pressure of the rope squeezing your waist, pushing you even closer to the edge. But he pulls away at the last second, leaving you clenching pathetically around nothing. 

You let out a silent scream, frustration, and desire filling you, thick tears falling from your eyes. Your breath is faltering, mind hazy and racing.

“Such a needy little slut.” Aizawa walks behind you, untying your leg from the rig, holding it as he places it on the ground. The waist rope is next to loosen and fall to the ground. He welcomes your body tightly against his own, as he lowers the final upline until you are both on the floor.

Your body feels like jelly, thoroughly spent, head leaned back against his chest while you breathe in the sweet air, filling your lungs. Bringing your legs up to your chest. 

Small whimpers still fall from your lips when your legs are torn apart, his fingers plugging back into your abused hole. You can feel his erection prodding against your back. You pant, grabbing onto his wrist to anchor yourself. He holds your limp body against his solid chest.

“You did so well for me today," his fingers explore you, setting flame to the dwindling embers. Kind words and praise in tune with the thrusts of his fingers, your vision flickers.

"Cum for me," the soft commanding words are all it takes to send you over the edge, the pressure of your orgasm pushing out his fingers as you soak the floor. Rubbing at your clit he helps you ride out your orgasm. 

You can hear Aizawa sucking on his fingers between closed eyes, tasting the mess you made before kissing the top of your head. Your body is spent, shivering and aching, a soothing hum of satisfaction riddling your veins.

He is caressing your arms' marks, memorizing what is left of the memory of you in his ropes. He pulls the blanket over to your sniffling body, holding you tightly.

"Thank you, kitten." he hums as darkness takes over.

—

kinktober masterlist

tags <3 @thewheezingwyvern​ @linestrider​ @idratherliveinbooks​ @mx-minxx​ @kenmasmyvibe​ @leeswritingworld​ @katsukis-sad-angel​ @trafalgar-temptress​ @dabis-kitten​ @stainedglass-wings​ @thirsthourdemon​ @zyrielwolf​ @shadowmountain @secondhand-trash​ @tomurasprincess​ 

[cullxtheherd]

✨

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 ✨ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐮𝐩

𝚂𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔 - 𝙶.𝙾.𝙼.𝙳. [🆇]

Lucifer lounges, lazy against the throne back and in and out of an uncharacteristic afternoon slumber. He has been busy at work since his return to the surface and places his hopeful bets on just over-doing it, but? In the growing, worrisome pit of his stomach he knows something is wrong. 

It is taking longer and longer to regenerate grace and, over time, it is taking its toll - visibly, too. Nick's face is a pitting, ruddy mess. Splotches of darkened, flaking flesh mar his skin and, by most accounts, he appears to be a rotting, husk of a man.

Feeble in appearance but weighted in deception. 

Hiking a yawn across his vessel's face he rises, slowly into a creaking, groaning stretch complete with some of his favored, four letter expletives. Moving to the antique hutch behind the dais he secures a bottle of stolen grace for now and one, more importantly, for later.

It is a strange thing to be banking on being insufficient and he mourns the feeling of consistent, continual effervescence. Being cut off from Heaven is a bitch, to say the least.

Using teeth he undoes the cork to the thumb-thick vial, downing the precious, luminous essence without much thought to it - it is something he has done countless times in the past few weeks. Crowley’s little dungeon of tortured souls was proving to be very valuable to him as a veritable grace farm and that was the tip of the Enjoyment Iceberg for him.

Taking in a breath he finds it odd that he feels odd and he runs a set of palms down the front of his torso, smoothing - checking for leaks? Cracks? Something.

Anything.

Reality whirls in a way that has him cursing; he knows exactly what is happening to him, “Oh fuhH-AaH!” The void forming around him shudders, swallowing him whole without leaving any scant piece of evidence behind as to its existence in the first place.

Lucifer isn’t sure what he’s done - who he’s pleased or ticked-off to have found himself in such a situation once again. It has been years since he has been summoned to anything but The Cage which is tailored to him; made specifically for the task, but this? Anything but.

“Holy shit sister,” He says, boots meeting solid ground for the first time in what feels like seven years. Stomach rolling he catches a flash of blonde and a put off, barely there smile before he is doubled over, fighting waves, “Is this- hhaaUuL- IS THIS what NAUSEA IS?!”

It takes a few, sputtering moments before he can upright himself and he takes a deep, stabilizing breath. Getting a look around he settles, intangible feathers rearranging and his palm steeple against the rise of his belly. Despite appearances and circumstances he recovers quickly.

Raising a nose to the air he scents visibly, purposely. Burnt, reeking ozone and? “Jesus fucking Christ,” He isn’t one for amicable greetings especially for one of her kind, “How many dimensions away did you just drag me- have you no respect,” He raises his nose again, just to be sure, “Witch.”

[hostiae]

while compromise made sense towards a bigger purpose — compromise isn't the same as selling your soul. every day under the saviors' roof depleted just a little more of him. it wasn't supposed to be that way. early on, shane saw something to believe in with them. he was a savior, same as the rest of 'em, aligned ( or so he thought ) with their system, their way of doing things. it made sense. before they'd found him, he could barely process life among a group again. the weight of what he lost still heavy, the wedge that had been driven between him and the people he'd tried his damnedest to protect was far wide. he'd never been much of a loner, not before the world collapsed to swarms of the dead. he'd thrived amongst people, a pillar of the community, right? the problem was he saw what needed to be done too soon. he knew how to survive before people were ready to swallow that reality.

there's a part of him that wonders if that's what negan thinks he's doing ( there's another part of him that doesn't give a damn what it is ).

he could say it about a lot of what happened, a lot of what they had to do to survive. hell, he can say it about how brutal they sometimes had to be, because messages weren't taken easy and vulnerabilities were always exploited. but he can't say it about sherry's situation. negan's wives weren't a part of surviving. as far as he was concerned, that was a man that needed to come back down from his fantasies. putting sherry in the situation that he did ( hell, that even dwight had condoned it by giving up ).

their home wasn't supposed to be a prison. and while there's few he'd trust with his thoughts, he can see sherry. they're more alike than not, aren't they? they're both stuck in this damn place, slowly hollowing out. shane's dark eyes narrow in thought, brow furrowing as the seriousness of what she suggested settled in. no matter how much control the sanctuary had, they still had some agency didn't they? even if it cost them. they had it. he'd already had to change so damn much from the start. he wanted to finally feel at ease with the man he was becoming. but lately? he felt at odds all over again.

❝ what's the point of livin' if we're walkin' around like one of the dead, right? ❞ there's a nervousness in the pit of his chest, but adrenaline stirs his blood all the same. it's risky, but if there was one thing he could do, it was take a risk. ❝ a sanctuary's gotta be more than just four walls, it should mean somethin' — and if it doesn't — ❞ his eyes only leave hers for a moment, double checking the room, as if there could be ears or eyes giving them far too much attention. there isn't as far as he sees.

❝ we've gotta find somethin' else, ❞ he's agreeing, gaze snapping back to hers, locking in. ❝ there ain't anything holding me back here, you go, i go. ❞ no, it was half-true. if sherry stayed, that would keep him there.

【❖】  ――――  SHERRY'S  GAZE  REMAINED  FIXED  ON  SHANE,  ABSORBING  HIS  WORDS  WITH  A  HEAVY  HEART.  She  could  sense  the  weight  of  his  burdens,  the  struggle  he  faced  between  survival  and  morality.  In  a  world  where  right  and  wrong  blurred  into  shades  of  gray,  it  was  a  constant  battle  to  hold  onto  one's  humanity.  The  sanctuary  they  once  sought  refuge  in  had  morphed  into  a  prison  of  their  own  making,  each  day  chipping  away  at  their  spirits  until  all  that  remained  was  a  shell  of  who  they  used  to  be.

AS  SHANE  SHARED  HIS  INNER  TURMOIL,  SHERRY  FELT  A  PANG  OF  EMPATHY  FOR  HIM. They  were  two  lost  souls  adrift  in  a  sea  of  chaos,  clinging  onto  fragments  of  their  past  selves  while  navigating  the  treacherous  waters  of  the  present.  His  words  resonated  with  her  own  struggles,  the  gnawing  doubts  and  simmering  anger  that  threatened  to  consume  her  from  within. 

TWO  KINDRED  SPIRITS  AMIDST  THE  CHAOS  WHO  COULD  CHANGE  EVERYTHING  IF  ONLY  THEY  DARED  TO  TAKE  THAT  LEAP  OF  FAITH.  ❝ I  understand,  ❞  Sherry  finally  spoke,  her  voice  carrying  the  weight  of  years  worth  of  pain  and  regret.  ❝  It's  like  we're  walking  a  tightrope,  trying  to  balance  between  survival  and  losing  ourselves  in  the  process.  The  choices  we  make,  the  actions  we  take  -  they  all  shape  us  into  someone  we  hardly  recognize  anymore.  ❞  She  paused,  letting  the  heaviness  of  her  words  settle  in  the  air  between  them.  Despite  the  despair  that  lingered  in  her  heart,  there  was  a  flicker  of  something  else  in  her  eyes  -  a  glimmer  of  resilience,  of  defiance  against  the  cruelty  of  their  reality.  ❝  But  here  we  are,  ❞  she  continued,  her  voice  gaining  a  steely  edge.  ❝  Still  standing,  still  fighting.  Maybe  that's  all  we  can  do  in  this  messed-up  world.  Keep  going,  keep  pushing  back  against  the  darkness,  even  when  it  feels  like  it's  swallowing  us  whole.  Why  do  we  stay  when  we  know  we  don’t  belong?  We  could  just  leave,  you  and  I.   ❞  Sherry  met  Shane's  gaze  head-on  hoping  she  wasn’t  making  a  mistake  in  taking  this  leap  of  faith.

[wyn-n-tonic]

Golden, Like Daylight -- Part V

Word Count: 2,005 Warnings: PTSD. Allusions to sex (it borders on the edge of smut but we should know by now I'm shit at that). Hint of a praise kink. Bit of marking kink. Death. Ben Affleck. Author's Note: The last few chapters have taken a lot out of me, I put a lot of my own experiences with PTSD and mental health into them. I tried to make this fluffy, I needed that comfort after a hard week and I feel lighter for it. As always, thank you so much for your kind words and loving this like I do.

MASTERLIST | PART: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX

“Fuck you.” Benny stares straight into Tom’s eyes. "This is my fuck you money.” The held breaths are louder than gunshots, waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come.

Cold Camp Davis grunts a laugh, “We don’t have enough men to carry all this money so we might as well be warm.”

Benny giggles like a child as he grabs a strap, zippo clicking to ignition again.

The laughter that bubbles up is like a light, warmer than the thousands of dollars burning bright against his eyes.

Frankie, you might as well take your salary out on the front lawn and pour some kerosene on it.

He hears it so clearly in his head and in his heart, Leah teasing him for all the lights being on the first time he took her home.

Tom stands up, dumping an entire case down to tinder in the cold air.

Eight dates in and she’d already witnessed one of his attacks. It was the third date, he’d wanted to take her home that night. His body on hers for hours. Wanted to make breakfast the next morning, having already committed to memory the way she takes her coffee. Instead, she spent that night holding tightly to his hands as his panic crescendoed in the backseat of his car.

If it wasn’t then that he realized he loved her, it was in the way she turned to look at him when he quietly said,

The lights being on make me feel safe.

It wasn’t pity, like he’s used to. It wasn’t the look somebody gives a broken man with a broken mind and a broken soul. The only change he found in the already soft features was an understanding behind the dark eyes staring back at him.

This fire makes him feel safe now.

He’s always straining in the dark. It’s not just about watching his six. It’s all twelve hands on deck with two eyes and a ringing in his ears so intense he can feel it in his toes.

But here? It beats back against the edges of gloom that have continuously threatened to consume him.

He can sweep enclosed spaces in minutes, assess the situation and the danger within. It’s a lot harder in the extended wilds, nothing but the moon to guide the eye.

Before Leah—and for a while there after—he combed room for room upon his arrival home. He’d ask her to stay in the car, his conceal carry coming out as soon as the door would swing open.

He’d sheepishly grin, collecting her from the passenger side after his survey and she’d hug him. Holding tightly around his middle section, pressing her cold hands up under his shirt to that hot place where his heart beats and whisper with genuine gratitude,

Thank you for protecting me, Frankie.

It was never condescending, that’s all he ever wanted to do. Protect her. Protect himself. Protect the men giggling like schoolboys around him right now.

And he liked being told what a good job he did at that. —————

“What's Frankie short for?” Barely audible, her breath fanning across his chest as she continues to catch it. Like willing waves of normalcy in the aftermath of a hurricane.

“Francisco.”

“Francisco,” she repeats, dragging out the o. “Do you like it?”

“Used to make me feel like I was in trouble, very harsh coming from pissed off higher ups and even angrier parents but it sounds…” he thinks on that for a second, the events of the night still rippling through his body, “a lot sweeter in your mouth.”

“Watch yourself,” she hums a kiss into the flat plane of his breast before sinking her teeth into the flesh there, biting as hard as she can.

A chuckle vibrates from deep within him, “one hell of a bite too, I won’t soon forget.”

He looks down into her eyes, bright with mischief as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth now. He’d had hickeys before but never like this. He surveys the purple marks across his body, somehow burning brighter than the rest of him, and a contentedness pools in the pit of his stomach. Her stamps on him in easily hidden spaces to match the lipstick stains she’s started marking across his right cheek in the moments before they walk into the bar or the restaurant.

Little ways she says mine.

And he is hers. He knows it in the steady way his lungs rise and fall underneath her now.

He brushes a soft wave from where it tickles across her nose, “is Leah short for anything?”

Her nose scrunches, “not a goddamn thing.”

“Do you know what it means then?” His large hand is sprawled across her lower back, the weight of it an anchor.

Don’t leave me, it says.

“I don’t know,” she drawls, the slight twang coming forward in moments of exhaustion and inebriation, “just think my mama liked the sound of it is all.”

His heart is blazing underneath her cheek as she settles against him once more, her soft voice tumbles towards him, “Francisco…” as her eyelashes brush against his skin and he swears he can count them all on sensation alone.

“Yeah, baby?”

He feels a smile tug at her lips, stopped in its tracks where she’s rooted into him. It’s the first time he’s called her that.

“I have nightlights.”

The light makes her feel safe too. —————

He’s standing over Tom’s body and he hates to admit it but the feeling washing over him is one of relief.

Relief mingled with guilt.

Guilt that nobody was watching his six, his back wide open to the world behind it. Five seasoned fucking veterans and nobody watching the higher ground.

Relief at the silence he knows will engulf the group now. No more orders from a child who should’ve never been granted the lead to begin with.

Guilt because he was climbing up a fucking rock when he should’ve been doing his job as a friend and brother.

Relief that it wasn’t his brains splashed across stone.

His head is fucking pounding and it has been for days, pain dulled by consistency but never not there.

At least I can feel my fucking head.

He thinks of all the other things he can feel now, the things service beat from his body.

The ache in his limbs, heavy with exhaustion.

He’s dreading adding the dead weight of a dead body to the load.

The pang in his stomach, too used to consistently hot food.

He wants black coffee and bacon and tiny spoonfuls of sweet potato puree he airplanes into his own mouth to show Luna it won’t hurt her. Hell, he’d take the mushed peas right now.

Benny’s sobbing. The one amongst them all that never breaks is the broken one now.

He’s staring off again at everything and nothing, Santiago and Will unfurling bags for the body.

What a present to bring home.

It was always the risk they faced, they knew it.

If you were lucky, truly lucky, you came home whole. Untouched, unscathed, unmarred. The safe deployments, the technical shit, the brains behind the operations never seeing bloodshed. Everybody else though? Some were held together by duct tape and pure grit.

Others tied up in a flag with a bow.

Daddy’s not coming home but here’s a purple heart for the dress uniform he’ll never wear again.

I should’ve done more.

He’s not getting a purple heart for this.

I should’ve held on tighter.

He didn’t die in service to his country, he died in service to himself.

I should’ve made a bigger issue of the weight.

Another family he’s failed to protect.

I should’ve said no. —————

The darkness is cut through with a warm glow in every outlet as the clock tips over the edge of midnight.

Wednesday, the eleventh of October.

Nose to nose, the excitement of the day hangs over them like a wave threatening to crash. A giddiness in their bed forcing sleep to the edges of thought.

“Do you think they’re gonna know?” Her voice is soft, featherlight. Trying not to disturb the peaceful bubble they find themselves in now.

“No,” he lifts to press his lips gently into hers, “but I can’t promise I won’t shout it out on the altar.”

Panic takes her eyes, he knows it all too well and he’s gripping tighter before she can inhale. Fingers splayed across the small of her back, the weight of it a comfort to the tender bones and aching muscles.

I'm right here, it says.

“Breathe, breathe,” he’s speaking softly into her hair, “it was just a joke, baby.”

“You're not funny, Francisco Morales.” She speaks it like a fact, like she doesn’t spend hours in his arms filling his head with the music of her laughter. She says it like he isn’t watching smile lines appear in real time, falling more in love with each one.

“Would it be so bad though? If I did? If people knew?” It’s hope in his voice that she’ll say yes. That he can announce to his best friends all at once, every single one, before Santi leaves again. He doesn't want his happiness to arrive by text message. He wants to see the light of congratulation dancing around him.

“I don’t want to jinx it,” she’s scared, “besides… it’s not traditional.”

He scoffs, “what about us has ever been traditional, mi alma?”

“I'll make you a deal,” her fingers run through the stubble along his jaw, thumbs lingering over the patches, “don’t shave this tomorrow and you can tell the boys.”

“You want me to keep this malnourished shit on my face? For our wedding?”

Her giggles vibrate against him, “Yes. I have plans for it after you say I do.”

He growls, “this deal sounds pretty sweet to my lazy soul, what do you get out of it?”

“Hmm…” she brings her hand up to tap on her chin, “well, to begin, I’m getting a hot husba—”

“Debatable.”

“I'll fuck you up, Morales, take the compliment.”

He laughs a kiss into her, “what else?”

“Benny and Will will become automatic attack dogs around me, I’m fairly certain they will clear their schedules for all of April to stand guard outside the room. My own personal security team.”

He laughs again at the truth in her words, “what else?”

She pushes forward again, taking his lip between hers. A soft kiss with the burning desire for more.

“I’ll wake up on Thursday morning with a rawness between my legs that I’m usually only gifted on the weekends.”

His grip tightens, any suggestion of sleep leaving his body in a rush of blood straight through him, “I will never shave again.”

“Don't threaten me with a good time, my love.”

He rolls himself into her at that, kissing down her jaw. Her neck. The sensitive skin of her breasts, low lying cotton barely above indecency. He raises the hem, the curve of her belly burning hot against his lips, two hearts now beating inside her.

He grabs the elastic around her hips and gently pulls, kisses so soft across her pelvis they feign an innocence to his true intentions. Her legs kick out to help discard the fabric tangling her ankles as he settles broad shoulders at the base of her being.

Her fingers twirl through the soft curls that have been crushed against a pillow for hours by her side.

He kisses her soft thighs, slowly dragging his rough cheek against the delicate flesh.

“Francisco,” her fingers flex tighter as he looks up to meet her eyes, “don’t be such a fucking tease.”

He smiles wide, the devilish grin splitting his face as he drops his eyes to where she wants him, the fever that’s taken over her body in the last three months beckoning him in.

His hands are heavy on her hips, clenching deep purple into her. Marks in easily hidden spaces, his little ways of saying mine.

TAGLIST: @justanotherblonde23​ | @greeneyedblondie44​ | @icanbeyourjedi​ | @princess76179​ | @bbuckysbeardd​ | @notcookiebelle​ | @knivesareout​ | @phoenixpascal​ | @lexi-b-writes​ | @empress-palpat1ne​ 

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

Supposedly 

A/N: this was a request sent in that inspired me a lot for some reason and i figured i’d do it cause i haven’t done any demon!h and demon!reader in a while so i gave it a go and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out :D enjoy!

Anonymous: This may be too cutesy for them, but do demon!harry and demon!reader ever cuddle after they fuck? Or they fall asleep separately but wake up in each other’s arms and just try to play it off awkwardly 

word count: 4.5k

content: some angst but nothing major, fluff, mentions of nudity, and some cocky asshole demon!h because that’s his Brand laidese and germs!!

///

Despite the emotionless, unattached agenda demons tend to uphold, let it be known that Harry didn’t really mind what was happening at the moment. 

On the surface level, from an outside perspective, this definitely doesn’t fit the bill for what is expected from his kind. Cuddling is an action reserved usually for real couples that have a sentimental bond, which he and Y/N are very much not. He’s not even quite sure what they are, really. Their relationship— if he can even call it that— was born out of three very important, adequately limiting notions: a mutual understanding, the desire for a convenient warm body, and sheer boredom. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

The mutual understanding was that neither of them wanted a genuine significant other, given what they are, so it was established that feelings were to be kept out of this arrangement completely. Emotions lead to complications, complications lead to a falling out, and a falling out would be inexplicably messy considering that they’ve shared the same friend group for well over a decade now and neither are willing to let a booty call mishap ruin that. Feelings stay dormant, end of discussion. 

The desire for a convenient warm body is pretty self-explanatory— Harry and Y/N had known each other for a while now so there was no annoying getting to know you phase, they both agreed that they found the other attractive, and they both live relatively close to one another so it was a pleasant set-up with minimal issues. Harry could shoot her a text at three in the morning and she’d be at his place in less than five minutes, or vice versa. There was no spending hours at a bar trying to pick someone up, no time wasted learning what the other person likes and dislikes, and certainly no fretting over birth control tactics to keep up appearances— they were both dead, which is a morbid advantage but an advantage nonetheless. It was easy access, easy fun, and easy clean-up. 

The sheer boredom aspect was just that. It had started on a drunken night out with friends, where— by a series of fortunate events— Harry and Y/N had ended up together post-bender, sitting in his car in the parking lot of a club. They had been waiting for him to sober up to drive them home and she had made a passing comment about not wanting to turn in for the night quite yet. He’d blinked at her sluggishly, absentmindedly reaching over to tuck a rouge strand of hair behind her ear because he was getting secondhand irritation from it tickling her nose. He’d spoken up, voice numb and thick from the alcohol. “What do you wanna do, then?”

Y/N had glanced over at him, eyes half-lidded as they had raked down his lean tattooed chest, his unbuttoned silk sheer shirt leaving very little to the imagination. When she’d pinned her gaze back up to his, her eyes had inked black as they’d flitted to the palm of his hand for a second, a suggestive glint washing across their reflective surface as the corner of her pretty mouth had quirked. “I have a decent idea of exactly what I wanna do.”

And now here they were, with many restless, heated nights, ruined bed frames, and rumpled sheets littering their past, as well as their immediate future. 

And here Harry was, slowly blinking awake after one of those said nights, cruel scratches itching across his back as they finish up healing, an empty content still bubbling at the pit of his stomach. 

His lashes flutter open as he inhales a large sigh, flinching at the bright sunlight filtering its way through the lightly swaying curtains. The only sound in the room is the soft thrum of the air vent at the far corner of the ceiling, alongside Y/N’s soft, rhythmic breathing. 

In his barely conscious state, Harry goes to do what he always does the morning after he’s spent a night doing Y/N’s back in: he goes to stretch. He does most of the work more times than not— courtesy of his dominant tendencies— but she always gives him a run for his soul. Anything he dishes out, she usually returns with the same amount of energy and will. Last night hadn’t been any different and the ache at the bottom of his spine and along his inner thighs proves it. 

Harry instinctively goes to lift his arms above his head, reaching for the top of the headboard to use it as support. He is stopped cold when he realizes a foreign weight is keeping one of his arms pinned to the bed. 

He knuckles at his eyes with his free hand, ridding them of the last residues of sleep, and then drags his palm up his face and through his mussed curls to comb away his disorientation. He cranes his sore neck to the side and downwards, eyebrows jolting up in surprise when he’s met with a wall of fluffy, tangled, mandarin-scented hair. 

Harry lifts his head up slightly, neck straining to see over the back of Y/N’s wild halo to make sure that the image before him isn’t some type of exhaustion-induced mirage. 

It’s odd for her to be so near him— she usually likes her space; says that being too close in proximity for too long is irritating. It’s why she usually sleeps with her back to him at the other end of the bed, and why he’s gotten accustomed to giving her the majority of the mattress space. Despite the fact that it’s his flat, she’s stubborn, hard-headed, argumentative and frankly, he’d rather just forfeit the extra leg room instead of bickering for thirty minutes just to end up losing anyways. It’s gentlemanly, in a sense. Minimal, but it’s something.

Given Y/N’s general disgust for excess contact, it’s no shock as to why Harry is utterly baffled right now. He’s about ninety-eight percent sure she’d fallen asleep all the way across the expanse of his sheets so how did they willingly end up here? How did they end up with her bare back pressed to his chest, her legs intertwined between his, and his arm wrapped almost protectively around her waist, wedged between her hips and the bed. 

Harry would never outright admit it but...he’s not necessarily mad about it. 

As he lays there for a few more seconds, absorbing the situation with an expression of pensive dismay pinching his face, he slowly comes to terms that he’s actually starting to enjoy this.

The warmth of her smooth skin gradually undoes the knot of confusion between his brows. The sensation of her back flushing against his chest as it rises and falls with her breathing erases the unease dipping the corners of his stinging mouth. The way she’s started to unconsciously rub her calves gently up and down his own makes the last traces of unsettlement melt off his face, replaced by an appearance of subtle affection, lips parting in blank wonder. 

Harry relaxes back into the plushness of the mattress, eyes remaining glued to a blissfully ignorant Y/N. His thoughts are scurrying around the inside of his skull, attempting to get accustomed with this new experience, having a difficult time arranging into place. He’s aware that he seems to be taking easily to what’s unfolding, but there’s an unsteady bubble inflating in his chest. He knows that if he lets himself dwell in this too much, it’ll end up biting him in the ass later, most likely as a wave of undealt emotions and crippling loneliness; that’s baggage he’s spent too many years compartmentalizing for it to all just come bursting out. 

All those decades of locking away his issues are in danger of resurfacing, and all for some harmless hugging? Doesn’t seem like a fair negotiation, and he knows plenty about negotiations. 

However, he can’t seem to make himself pull away. 

Especially not when Y/N suddenly shifts in her sleep, turning onto her other side so that she's now facing him, snuggling deeper into his body and tucking her head into the junction between his neck and collarbones. Her annoyingly soft, hot lips smear against his throat, settling into the dip at the center where a pulse would normally be present. The feeling of her exhales washing across his cold skin sends a wringing down his spine, a hushed “fuck…” escaping his dry mouth as the warmth behind the gesture spreads upwards, spilling redness into his cheeks and along the shells of his ears. Her hands come up as loose fists, pressing between his pectorals lightly, her own naked chest flushing against her forearms. 

Surprisingly enough, her supple chest isn’t at the forefront of his mind at this instant. Instead, he’s focused on the intimacy they’re sharing in this moment, unbeknownst to her and stressfully beknownst to him. 

Harry’s free hand acts of its own accord, coasting upwards towards her face and moving her chin over a bit until his palm can comfortably nurse her jaw. He rubs the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip slowly, every ridge and bump sending miniature shots of electricity surging through his veins, his eyes falling shut at this strange form of pleasure he hasn’t felt in ages. 

Y/N just looks so beautiful like that, in such a vulnerable state that he knows for sure no one else has ever gotten to witness— at least not in a very long time. 

No one else has gotten to see the way her lashes sit atop her cheekbones so delicately, her face soothed by sleep, not a wrinkle or grimace in sight. She looks as if she were made of porcelain, her features nothing short of perfect. No one has gotten to witness the way she mumbles a handful of incoherent, groggy words, her mind lost in a meaningless dream, or the way her nose twitches in the cutest manner as a draft from the air conditioning runs across it, causing her to sniffle. No one has seen the way she gives into his touch, her face cradling deeper into his hand, chasing the uncommon gentleness behind his demeanor and it hadn’t occurred to Harry that maybe— just maybe— she’s craving this type of innocent bliss, too, though he’s certain she would never confess to it if she were awake. 

Harry runs his hand down the slope of her bruised neck and across the curve of her shoulder, tracing the teeth marks he had left the night before. The tip of his fingers follow down the incline of her torso, wriggling around her side, his wrist resting upon the faint dip of her waist. He cups her lower back with his large hand, borrowing a moment to appreciate the way it fits flawlessly. He then leans forward some to give his reach more length, his digits carefully trailing up the middle of her spine, the action timid and tranquil. 

He looks down at her from over the tops of his colored cheeks, chewing on his bottom lip nervously as he continues to lull his fingers up and down her back. Y/N releases a shy whimper of gratitude, her whole body bathing in a light shiver. She does like it.

Harry swallows thickly, moving away a few locks of hair off her shoulder with the tip of his nose, glassy jade irises studying her facial expressions to make sure she’s still asleep. He puckers his tingling lips, pressing a bundle of chaste kisses to the fading bite marks on her staticy skin. If his heart still beat, he feels like it would be glowing right now. 

He tilts his chin up, settling it on top of her head and sighing in satisfaction as he feels her steady breathing wash across his Adam’s Apple, her flyaway hairs tickling his nostrils. 

He decides to stay like that for a while,  just basking in her company within this tender setting that he knows he probably won’t receive again anytime soon. Harry lays there, limbs woven between Y/N’s as his black-polished nails scratch gently at her back, swimming in his numb thoughts. 

After what feels like hours— but is realistically just ten minutes— he goes to gingerly shift the arm stuck beneath her body, trying to regain some circulation. Y/N stirs, resulting in him freezing in place to prevent a mishap, his mouth finding her warm forehead and placing a lingering kiss between her brows. It eases her. 

Harry waits five minutes before trying again.

He manages to escape this time around, lifting his arm above his head and twisting out the cramp in his wrist, then folding it behind his head. He allows his eyes to shut once again, intent on spending a bit longer milling in this bubble of domestic peace.

His plan is shattered to pieces by an alarmed, angry sentence. 

“What the fuck?”

His eyelids fly open, ice materializing across his entire nervous system. 

Shit.

Y/N launches upwards, sitting up rigidly with her face contorted in startled repulsion, clutching his blood red sheets to her chest as her hair stands up in tousled tuffs. “What in Lucifer’s red, barren hell are you doing?”

Harry now has two distinctive routes to pick from: confess to partaking in the unorthodox cuddling, or fake it and say he was asleep as well and that it had all been an unintentional mistake. 

It’s hardly a choice. 

He flings his arms away from the other demon’s body as if sickened, shooting up into a seated position and slouching back onto his palms, a look of agitated horror plastered across his sleepy, handsome features. “What do you mean what am I doing? What the fuck were you doing?”

Y/N blinks at him as if he’d just stabbed her between the eyes with a demon blade, irises momentarily flitting black with nerves, the area under her waterline webbing with dark veins. “What do you mean what was I doing? You were the one with your arms around me!”

Harry narrows his sight at her pointedly, thick brows furrowing with faux resentment. “You were the one with your head snuggled into my neck and your hands on my chest!”

“You were the one kissing my forehead!”

“You were the one rubbing up on my legs!”

“Because you were close to me!”

“Because you rolled over here!” 

“No I didn’t!”

“Oh, so what?” Harry snaps sarcastically, drawing forward and crossing his arms over his chest adamantly. “Did an angel sneak in and place you there? Because as I recall, you always sleep on the left side of the bed, so what were you doing on the right?”

Harry’s accurate counter renders Y/N speechless, her mouth parting quizzically as if waiting for a response to magically appear. Her eyebrows cinch down begrudgingly, the gears in her head spinning on overdrive, trying to piece together an appropriate rebuttal. Her grasp tightens on the blanket covering her bare body. “Well, I...I don’t know—I don’t think I—”

Harry cocks his head to the side expectantly, loose curls falling across his forehead as he shrugs his brows with a condescending air. He mimics her with a high-pitched voice. “Well, I— I don’t know— I—I don’t think I—I—I—”

Y/N’s face goes sour as heat floods her cheeks, fire threatening to spark across the tips of her sizzling ears. She yanks the sheets off of him, holding them with one hand as she uses the other to begin crawling across the bed towards the edge, a haphazard defense thrown over her shoulder. “Shut up! It wasn’t on purpose!”

Harry scoffs in dark amusement, not even bothering to cover himself up. He bites into his cheek to keep from exploding into a round of triumphant laughter; he can’t believe he managed to turn the tides so quickly. “Oh, so you admit it was you, then?”

Y/N dismounts the atrociously tall bed, stumbling over the long linens as she desperately searches for her clothes. “No! I’m just saying that whatever happened, it didn’t happen intentionally!” 

“Obviously.” The brunette demon snorts, shaking his head for subtle emphasis, crossing his ankles offhandedly and returning both arms to the place where one had been prior— tucked behind his head casually. “What do you think we are, mortal?” 

“Of course not.” Y/N agrees quickly— a little too quickly, which hints to Harry that she might be trying to cover something up. Perhaps she wasn’t as disgusted by this as she had led on…

He watches as his friend— he uses the term lightly— shuffles around his room, peering at the floor in an determined quest to find her jeans, underwear, and black lace blouse. Or maybe she’s just hellbent on avoiding eye contact with him. 

“Y/N…” His tone has lost its arrogantly mocking edge, softened by what she can only decode as...guilt? 

She ignores it and doesn’t answer, nearly passing out in relief when she spots her panties and bra hanging off the doorknob to his closet. She snatches them swiftly, panning her gaze around the rest of the room for her leftover clothes, spotting them in a pile sticking out from underneath the opposite corner of the bed. They’d probably gotten kicked there in the heat of the moment. 

Harry repeats himself a little louder, adding onto his comment to try and stifle some of the embarrassment radiating from her. “Y/N, you don’t have to leave. You usually stay for breakfast.” 

Y/N scoops up her outfit, settling it into the crook of her right elbow and squaring her shoulders as if ready to brace a hellhound. Their gazes lock and he feels his stomach flop when he sees the vulnerability she’s obviously trying to hide. She’s good at it, he’ll give her that, but if he stares intently enough, he can just make out the traces of conflicted longing leaking into the disinterested facade around her pupils. 

“It’s fine, Harry.” She sighs heavily, her tone drastically different from the unkempt girl that had been floundering about just seconds ago. She’s now calm, cool, collected, and scaringly so. “I have somewhere to be later. Meeting someone to close a deal.”

She shrugs one shoulder indifferently, grabbing a handful of the sheets arranged around her figure and pulling away, dropping the bedspread at his feet and leaving herself completely nude. 

And there she is, the Y/N he so well knows. The same one that uses sex appeal as a shield. 

She’s managed to spackle the cracks that had appeared in her typical barrier of heartlessness, her confidence and ease leveling off once again. She places her clothes on top of the crumpled sheets, picking out her cheeky bright red panties from the heap and working them up her tempting legs. Harry can’t help but notice the hickies covering her inner thighs, as well as the finger prints staining her hips. 

Y/N catches him ogling, smirking to herself now that she has her composure back in order. She hooks her index finger around one of the straps in her bra, lifting it up and bouncing the lace lingerie in front of him teasingly. She raises her eyebrows at her lover provokingly, a sultry air pouting her lips. “Think you can help a girl out?”

Harry licks at his slightly chapped lips thoughtfully, eyes flickering between the article hanging off her hand to the sly grin decorating the edges of her pretty mouth. When he speaks, it’s low and thicker than usual, accent heavy. “Of course, pet.”

His legs thunk emptily off the bed and onto the floor, a small grunt catching the back of his throat as he pushes himself up onto his feet. He is most definitely sore. 

His footsteps are soft against the carpeted ground, faltering as he rounds the corner of the mattress. 

Y/N eyes his every move, suckling her bottom lip at the way his muscles flex and contract under his sun-kissed skin. She doesn’t let herself wander below his waist though; she’s never one to pass up flaunting her power of will. 

Harry stops about a foot away, taking the bra from she is offering and holding it out for her to slip into. She does so at a mind-numbing pace, her toes curling as she feels his warm fingertips running the material up her arms and onto their designated spot on her shoulders. He tugs at the hooks gently, pinning them into place and tucking the tag in, exactly how he’s seen her do countless of times before. 

He then runs the palms of his hands up her arms, sighing softly at the silky sensation of her skin and giving her shoulders a dismissive squeeze. “All done.” 

Y/N turns on her heels to face him, looking up innocently through her lashes, lips quirking into an easy smile. “Thank you. Such a gentleman.” 

Her playfully seductive personality is unbearably contagious, seen in how Harry returns her action with a coy scoff and a simper of his own. “For you, always.”

“Well…” Y/N turns her lower half to the side, showing him her ass for significance, which is covered in the unmistakable print of his hand and rings. “I wouldn’t say always.” 

Harry’s pursed lips break into an even wider shit-eating grin, his cheeky laughter echoing across the walls of the apartment, his arms absentmindedly folding across his broad chest. “Yeah, well, you can’t say it’s one-sided, can you?”

He points towards his neck, stretching his chin upwards so that she gets a good view of all the fading love bites she’d left there the night before. 

Y/N’s giggles match his. “Touché.”

Harry rummages through his drawers as she finishes getting dressed, shimmying into her tight jeans and throwing her shirt on, finger-combing her hair into a decent state. He comes up with a pair of maroon briefs, slipping them on as he walks back towards her, letting the elastic band snap into place against his lower abdomen. 

The two demons with benefits stand before each other, Y/N with her braided black sandals swung over her shoulders and Harry with his hands fixed on his hips nonchalantly. 

“You really can’t stay for breakfast?” Harry inquiries one last time, lifting his eyebrows curiously. “I’m making those cinnamon bun waffles you like so much.” 

Y/N sighs grandly, clutching her chest dramatically as if it physically hurts her to decline his offer. “I’d love to, but work is work. Don’t really have a say.” 

Her friend nods in understanding, well aware of the truth behind her words. “It is what it is, then.” 

“However...” Her sudden continuation makes his head perk. She reaches up, carding her fingers into his messy curls and combing them back from his face, tucking a handful of rebellious ringlets behind his small ears and giving him one final self-assured smile. “Do y’think you could maybe save me two and I can come pick them up tonight?”

Harry cranes his head to the side, placing a slow peck to the palm of her hand and then biting into her skin jokingly, a certain lewdness painted all over the deed. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Great.” Y/N quips happily, wrapping his curls around her knuckles roughly and hauling him in for a sloppy, dirty kiss that leaves his teeth numb and his face buzzing. 

Once she breaks their mouths, lightly panting with her skin a darker shade than before, he has to blink three times in order to reign himself back in. His ability to form coherent sentences right now is about as useful as alphabet soup; he just gives her a jerky nod instead. 

Y/N wipes at his swollen lips with the pad of her thumb, giving his cheek a playful pat. “I’ll see you then, H.” 

Harry can’t tear his eyes away as she leaves, his bedroom door clicking shut behind her, the soft, distant thunk of his front door accompanying the sound a bit later. 

Fuck, that was something is the first comprehensible thought that registers in his mind. 

It was absolutely something and who knows how differently it would have gone if he had admitted giving into the weakness they had both sworn off of. 

That notion haunts him for a while— the idea that he could have driven her away for good if he had confessed that his emotions had bleed through their arrangement. Sure, it had only been this once, but Harry has a horrible gut-wrenching feeling that he’s unlocked a box deep in the back of his skull that won’t easily be chained down again. 

He thinks this over again and again as he prepares his morning meal, the looming uncertainties of it all causing him to check out of reality here and there, resulting in a few burn marks across his hands and two charred waffles in the bin. 

As Harry finally sits down to enjoy the food that had nearly not made it to his plate, he finds himself mentally running through the awkward encounter he and Y/N had faced this morning. He can’t stop himself from dwelling on the expression he had seen crack through her eyes earlier— one that showed she seemed to be feeling the same kind of emotional turmoil he was. It opens too many unanswered questions for their future and he hates himself for being so worried when nothing had truly happened. For all he knows, it could have just been a trick of the sunlight that had been streaming into the room. He’s getting himself out of sorts for nothing. 

However, as he goes in on a forkful of his cinnamon-glazed pastry, one pesky detail suddenly launches him into a coughing fit. 

It was so minuscule he had missed it the first fifty times he had run through the events, but it had decided to prick him in the brain now, the weak dam of reassurance he had built crumbling to ashes.  

After Y/N had woken up, saw what was happening, and their fight had ensued, she had made a comment about how Harry had kissed her forehead. 

On the surface, it had seemed unimportant because yes, that is exactly what he had done. The problem arose when he remembered that she had been dead asleep when he had done that. 

Supposedly.

He had gone to remove his arm from below her body, she had fussed a bit, he had pressed his lips to her forehead to ease her, and she had remained asleep for a while longer until he decided to finish removing his arm. That final motion was what had awoken her.

Supposedly. 

If she had been unconscious the whole time they were cuddling, then how did she know he’d kissed her?

[whump-town]

God’s Gonna Cut You Down

Part 2!! (you can find part 1 here)

Warning: threat of domestic abuse and you know bad words

January 1972

It had been mortifying when Richard was caught with another woman and his prideful smile and easy shrug of the situation had only hurt Mary that much more. Through everything else, the drinking and the yelling and the hitting, Mary had still been able to tell herself that Richard did these things because he loved her. Extra whiskey washed down his stress, made him smile easier, and touch her like he meant it. When he raised his voice she’d already left him no other options, she just can be so forgetful. And… he’d only hit her a few times. Always when he was drunk and she’d messed something up. Anyone could forgive that.

The affairs… that was the first time Richard had done something with the explicit intent of hurting her. He hadn’t even cared when she’d cried. Had smiled when she told him about her friends, the way they meet her with high noses and expressions of disgust. He’d spun her into a pit of isolation, her own mother didn’t even want anything to do with her.

Persistently, desperately, Mary kept going back to her mother. She knew about her father, the affairs he had with his students over the years. Praying on the young university girls, the very reason they had hesitated to send her to Mary Baldwin. In the end, money and her pleading won through and she went to get a degree in English her eyes on being a teacher. That’s where she met Richard, five years older and making his way through law school.

Her mother might snuff her now but she is no different, neither are any of the women who treat her so differently now.

Her mother had caved after a few months, grew afraid of the way that weight seemed to melt off of Mary. It was unhealthy and fearing her daughter’s life she’d succumbed to her and offered her the advice that had been given to her: a child. Unfaithful men are just confused but this is not beyond Mary’s control, she just has to give him something to have. Men just need a little extra help, they’re just confused. They understand possession, though, and while they might not be afraid to hurt the lives they've made with wives give him a child and he’ll change.

That’s all it takes.

Having a baby was supposed to fix everything. Mary’s mother told her that babies make men happy and that if she wanted to settle Richard to settle down then a baby would do just that.

But she kept losing the babies. A little girl who they hadn’t named, blindsided by their grief. Two miscarriages far too soon in the pregnancy. Another when Richard pushed her into the stairs-- she’d told him it was for another reason and they didn’t tell a soul they even pregnant. After that, they stopped keeping track and she stopped telling him when one kept or when one didn’t.

Mary Hotchner might not make good on a lot of her promises but this time, she tells herself, this time is different. He’s just so little, hardly the size of her forearm. He’s their second chance, this tiny little baby is going to save their marriage. How wouldn’t he? Always watching the world around him, hardly ever cries, and always content just to be placed in the swing so long as he can see everyone.

She’s just changed him when Richard gets in. “Do you want to hold him?” she asks with a hopeful smile. He’s swaddled in his blankets, arms tucked to his sides, and sleepy drunk on milk. “He’ll probably go right to sleep.” Richard only held him in the hospital, only when a nurse made him.

Richard looks at the baby in her arms, up to Mary’s dark brown eyes and back down to his son’s soft blue eyes. He scoffs, “I don’t want to touch that little bastard.” He throws his briefcase down on the floor, kicking his shoes off in the same general direction. Carelessly, he brushes past them. “Why don’t you go give him to the bastard you had to have fucked to make him?”

Mary scrambles, unsure what to do. “Rich--”

He turns, blind with rage and she can feel the force of his words hit her sternum. Feels the baby in her arms jolt at the impact, whimpering as he squirms in his confines. “Don’t!” Richard demands leveling his finger at her. His eyes flick to Aaron and she holds him closer, turning her body so that she’s between them. Aaron cries out, kicking at the blankets wrapped snuggly around him. Richard lurches forward. “Shut him up!” Mary steps back. “I said shut him up before I--”

This baby is a second chance to their marriage, it’s going to change everything she just knows it.

----------

March 1973

Toddling on baby fat legs and clutching the sippy cup in his left hand, Aaron follows his mother across the lawn. Occasionally, he stumbles but is quick to right himself clutching at his mother’s freely billowing dress and going on. He’s much smaller than the other babies, underweight and not very tall, but he’s only a year and three or four months so he’s got time to blow them away. Mary’s positive her bright boy will manage it. He’s smart, they’ll see, small but he’s so very smart. Just like his daddy.

“Come here,” Mary beacons the baby from the edge of the backyard. His back is turned to her but she knows the look that has taken over his features. Those dark eyebrows knitting together as he dances his little fingers across his sippy cup-- brain working a mile a minute to figure out what it is that he’s discovered now. He makes a little sound, more to himself than to her, before turning to face her. She gets a glimpse of that confused look before a bright smile breaks across his face and he squeals happily before running to her.

She’s not sure what it is but she doesn’t like it when he gets that close to the woods. The thick trees line the property and every chance he gets, if he’s not rolling in the mulch of her flower garden, he’s standing at the trees watching. Aaron’s always watching. It scares her just how silent he is, the way he makes nearly no sound when approaching and will stand forever just content taking in the world around him. She thinks that’s why she wants him nowhere near those woods.

The woods are full of death and she wants all of his life and his curiosity to stay away from it. She knows what it is, knows what the woods do to men. To little boys with a little too much curiosity.

“Come to mommy,” she praises, opening her arms and enveloping him. Wiggling about in her arms but not to get away just to make her hold tighter. So she does, groaning and squeezing him until he’s breathlessly giggling. Enthralled by the pressure of her arms and perfectly content with the warmth of the day and her love.

----------

December 1974

He’s been sick all week, succumbing to a fever ravishing his tiny body. Outside snow pours down in thick clumps, the other children howling with joy every few hours as their parents let them back out in it. Snowmen pop up in lawns and footprints betray every hiding spot they run to but there is a clear, unabashed joy eating through the neighborhood. Aaron can only listen for it, falling in and out of naps on the sofa. Sniffling miserably and basking in his mother’s attention when she comes with a thermometer and whatever remedy her mother had called to inform her of now.

Richard gets home early, taking the time to knock the snow off his work shoes before seeing the mop of dark hair that betrays his son’s inactivity for today. He drops his briefcase by the door, scowling as he glances in the kitchen and finds Mary frowning into a pot. “What’s the boy doing inside?”

Mary jumps, not expecting her husband to suddenly appear like that, not having heard him pull into the driveway. She puts the lid over the soup and wipes her hands on her apron. “Sick,” she answers quickly, not sure how Richard is expecting her to answer. Not sure which of his personalities she’s playing with. Afraid an answer of such quick, unapologetic truth will sour quickly but blindly hopeful for the man she married. The man so eager to have children.

Richard hums, turning on his heel, and Mary’s heart stops as she realizes he’s going right for her Aaron. She fists her apron in her hands waiting in fear of what he intends to do.

He squats down by the sofa. “Aaron,” Richard calls softly. He brushes a thick strand of his son’s hair from his face, the lock heavy with his sweat. His hand swallows the cheek he strokes softly, Richard never really thinks about how small his son is. Now, as he sees Aaron’s body curled in on itself, fingers clutching his blanket to his face, and he can’t deny just how small the boy is. “Hey buddy,” he whispers when Aaron’s eyes start to flutter.

Aaron looks up at his father but does not utter a word.

“Come here,” Richard picks him up. Moving him so Aaron can wrap his arms around his father’s neck before Richard tucks his blanket snuggly around him.

“Where are you going?” Mary asks, stepping back when Richard stands and moves from the living room. She has no idea what his intentions are. To take Aaron up to his room? The poor boy could hardly make it down them this morning. She’d had to carry him to the couch in fear of the way his little legs had shaken under him. Is he silently boiling over with rage? Going to throw her baby out into the snow, command that he acts like a child. Go play with the others?

Richard presses a kiss to Aaron’s forehead, rubbing his back when he rises, soothing Aaron’s mindless whimper. “He hasn’t been able to see the snow,” Richard whispers, mindful of the boy tucked against his neck. He can feel his raging fever against his own skin, too hot to the touch. “Gonna cool him off,” Richard explains with a smile.

He steps out on the porch, smiling back at his wife as he shuts the door. Aaron shifts uncomfortably against his chest but Richard settles on one of the porch chairs and brings the edges of his coat up over him. The world is softened by the snow and the old groan of the chair Richard rocks them back and forth on. Aaron’s breathing becomes laborious, his little chest heaving as he rasps on each breath. The silence makes the awful sound deafening.

“You with me, buddy?” Richard asks, pressing his cold hand back to Aaron’s face. His son isn’t much of a talker, not even at three or in the rage of his terrible twos. He’s always just been much more content to watch and hum out his little replies. Odd behavior for people of most ages but it’s nearly alarming from a three-year-old. The way he cocks his head to the side when asked a question, a little hum before he conjures up a one 0r two-word response.

Today Aaron writhes against Richard, whimpering at the weight across his chest. The way his lungs feel as if they’re swelling but he’s too young to know the words. “Hurts,” he whispers. “Hard.” Each breath is hard to pull in as if his lungs are trying to squeeze shut around it. They ache deeply, all over.

Richard keeps rocking. Rubbing Aaron’s back and humming the faint tunes of songs under his breath until, eventually, Aaron falls back to sleep. He doesn’t carry the boy back inside until Mary calls them in for dinner. Richard holds his son through dinner, cherishing the way Aaron clings to him. 

There will be very few moments like this ever again between father and son.

[hyunjilicious]

Kaer Morhen. Geralt of Rivia imagine

A/n: This contains 0 spoilers for the TV shows. However, it contains mentions of smut and violence. Also a tad bit of angst.

Summary: Geralt and y/n and a few others prepare for a battle. Losing Yn is one of his biggest fears, and tried to do everything in his power to make sure that won’t happen. 3.7k

Warning: i was too lazy to edit. i will tho, soon. Tell me what you thought please!!! I loved writing it and i love hearing your opinions!

-

"And what happens if the shield falls?" Triss asked, roaming around the room with her arms crossed, carefully studying you up and down.

"The shield won't fall unless I do" you spoke with confidence, dead set on doing everything in your power to keep the castle, Ciri and everyone else involved, safe.

"Then, no" Geralt commanded, pushing himself off the wall, "No way we're doing it this way"

"It's already settled" you countered, knowing that was the only way you could help. Even as one of the most powerful sorceress the Continent has ever seen, with elven blood running through your veins, in combat, you were still a weak link. You needed space, and safety to recover your stamina, so standing on top of an isolated tower and casting spells from there was the best option.

"Nothing's settled" Geralt huffed, "There's no telling how long the fight will last or how strong their army will be, you can't keep that shield up on your own"

"I can" you said with confidence, "And I will"

With that you stormed off. After years of going through this on again off again wannabe relationship, Geralt knew better than to bug you when you clearly wanted to be left alone. The night was done, yet he decided he'd get a head start of the roof work that was scheduled for the next morning, as something about your attitude was obviously making him rather uncomfortable. You stood in front of your bedroom window, projecting his image on the glass in front of you. Dangerously close to the edge, he made his way tile by tile across the roof, and despite noticeably giving his best, he failed at giving the structure the stability it needed. You chuckled, a silent sigh also escaping your lips - you wished he was inside the castle, in the same room as you - yet your pride didn't let you admit it, even to yourself. His raspy grunt reached your ears, and it wasn't from your projection - he had realized on his own that he did a piss poor job, and shouldn't have even tried to being with. Seeing as he would soon be making his way inside, you killed the spell and moved to your bed.

When Geralt passed through the door, you looked up from a book you had just opened, "Nice of you to finally join me"

"Y/n" he sighed, unbuttoning his black shirt and sliding it off his shoulders, "I-"

"Yes, yes" you cut him off, "You're mad at me, but to be completely honest with you-"

"I'm not mad!" he yelled, voice all hoarse, proving his words wrong. He walked to the foot of the bed and leaned on one of his legs, "I'm not mad" he corrected himself, this time on a much more reasonable tone, "It's just that I get the feeling this is a sacrifice"

"If it means it will keep Ciri alive and far away from The Wild Hunt, then call it whatever you want"

"You love her, don't you?" he asked, for the first time in days, avoiding your stare. However, he did it for you. He knew how much it would take for you to admit such a thing, even to him. He kept looking away, willingly giving you the upper hand and allowing you to believe you were strong enough to face him. After all these years, you still came first, no matter what.

"Geralt-" you sighed, the pain in the pit of your stomach making your voice sound weaker, "I-"

"Decades ago-" he cut you off, "When we first met, everyone said you were power driven and ruthless, when all you wanted was a child. All this time-" he said, shaking his head in disbelief, "I thought you gave that up"

"I never give up" you said, clearing your throat. Tears were coating your eyes, but no matter how much a weakness sign you considered it, you didn't turn away, "Let alone on a child. Especially Ciri"

"Y/n" Geralt said softly, grabbing your elbow, "We can still find other ways"

Not at him, but you were angry. The situation, and especially the wait, the calm before the storm, were driving you crazy, and with controlling your emotions, you never had a good history. "I don't care who comes, however many mages they may have, how big their army is or how revolutionary their weapons are, if they can do it, so can I. I'm not gonna grab a sword and try my luck, or cast spells in the middle of the field, it's a sure way for me to die. I will do everything I can to keep this castle and everyone inside it safe, and no one can stop me"

With that you walked past him, and opened the door, "Now come, Lambert and Eskel promised us some extravagant Toussaint wine and they're waiting downstairs"

Geralt followed you without fighting back this time. You were all expecting to have at least two days until the fight, so whether he did actually give up and accepted the fact that you were going to have your way, or if he just decided to post pone the argument, was above you, and to be fair, at that hour, you didn't even care. You all drank, and had a good time, well, as good as the times allowed. There was a strange atmosphere in the air, giving the impression that you all sat down to make sure no one would be taken away without a proper goodbye. None of you would have admitted it, but you were all thinking it. Crach an craite turned out to be the soul of the gathering, Dijkstra's never ending stories seemed much more appealing after a few glasses of wine, and at about 5am, almost everyone was back in their rooms, sleeping or making up for lost time.

Earlier that evening, you had no intention of joining the others in drinking, you wanted Geralt all to yourself but after the talk you had, you needed some space. However, the alcohol washed out the bad taste his words left in your mouth, and now, as you two found yourselves all alone in your shared bedroom, your initial intentions were starting to show again. He welcomed your lips against his with longing desire, holding onto your waist harder than you would have normally accepted. Your weight was as none in his hold, and he carried you effortlessly to bed, laying you down gently before climbing on top of you. His muscular body towered over your fragile frame, and as always, having him wrapped around your finger aroused you to no end. There wasn't time to waste on foreplay, even if you were sure he enjoyed it as much you did. Geralt lewdly hurried to explore the skin your black leather attire showed, dragging his lips along your collarbones, before biting down into your shoulder, for the sole purpose of hearing your moans.

"Geralt" you sighed, grabbing the sides of his face so you could look into his eyes.

His teeth sank deeper, making your cry out his name again.

You felt his chuckle tickle the skin at the base of you neck, just before he looked up, "You're so beautiful" he said in awe.

Wanting to keep your composure, you controlled your facial expression, but your cheeks still reddened. The smile that materialized onto his lips proved that he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you. When your lips connected, it felt more electrifying than ever. Unlike times before, you allowed him to take full control. Geralt didn't question it at all, but you knew he sensed something.

Everytime it was you on top of him, riding his cock into the depths of the night as his longing stare burned your skin. It was always you the one who pushed his buttons and never allowed him to finish whenever he needed. You always had to push him, even just the tiniest bit. You rarely ever did what he asked you without making him beg for it. You saw him on his knees in front of you, calling your name in what was probably the most needy tone he was capable of. The sight of him squirming under you, with his eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, fists clenched and thighs convulsing, was your favourite of them all. However tonight it was quite the opposite. He had you on all fours, crying out his name. He kissed away the tears of pleasure that ran down your temple, and smiled proudly when you, for the first time begged him to let you finish. Three times. That night was all about what he wanted; he loved you in all the right ways, sending you on pleasure spirals with every chance he got. After ruining the sheets while he went down on you, lapping away at your core, you clenched your thighs on each side of his head in some pathetic attempt to control yourself. With a smirk, Geralt's lips moved from your clit to the skin of your left inner thigh, leaving inflamed purple marks all over your warm skin. When it came to the second orgasm, he had you panting on all fours as he clutched a fistful of your hair into his hand, pulling your head back. His lips treated the your shoulders and neck in all the right ways as he pounded deeply into you from behind. Your moans decorated the night, and it ended with another round, this one slower and more passionate than anything before. He was laying on top of you, moving every so gently against your now sensitive body. When his lips weren't longingly loving yours, his cheek was pressed against yours, his breath fanning onto your ear.

After that, after you both came down from the heights of pleasure he worked so hard for, you just collapsed into each other, and tried to get some sleep, "I love you, Y/n" Geralt said, right before dozing off.

"And I love you" you answered, with deep honesty.

You would have never admitted it to him, but as you both laid in bed, you realised this sudden change of character was coming from your hidden fear of not ever seeing him again after the battle that was to come. As he feel alseep with his face tucked deeply into your neck, you knew he was thinking just the same. Your mind didn't allow you to rest without taking a quick peek at his thoughts, and the taste of blood engulfed your senses as you bit your lower lip in order to stop yourself from crying. A small cottage, quite poor and mostly empty, with a strong fire lighting up the main room was what you saw first. Then you saw yourself. And him. Snuggled into each other in a dark corner, sleeping, and with definetly less worried looks on your faces than you had now. You couldn't pull away from his thoughts just yet, you kept watching as Ciri with Vesemir came moments later. The four of you sat down at a table, eating ridiculously festive food. Geralt's left hand was on your thigh, and when he kissed you, even if it was just a dream, he imagined you tasted like garlic. That thought alone watered your eyes. Back when you two had just met, in unknown circumstances, you mentioned to him that you couldn't expect people to take you seriously if you smelled like garlic, despite it being one of your biggest pleasures. At that time, he laughed it off, kissed your lips and with a shake of his head, continued the conversation. Never again had you two talked about this, or had you eaten garlic, yet this was on his mind right now. Damn him. You didn't want to die. You lived a long life and achieved more than most people could even dream of, but for Geralt and Ciri, you wanted to live.

-

You stormed down the stairs of the castle, screaming at the top of your lungs, "They're coming! Everyone wake up!"

In a matter of seconds everyone rushed downstairs, strapping their swords and getting ready for a fight you were most likely destined to lose. Ciri's life was at stake, and none of you was willing to back down. Previously, you had pondered, and came up with the best defence strategy.

"Remember," you said, facing each of your allies in turn "Aldair albeeh mirva. Anything happens and you need help, chant this"

Shortly after revising the plan, everyone went to their spots, waiting for the attack, while you rushed to the tower. Knowing the Wild Hunt wouldn't come rushing towards you from a distance, you counted on a locating spell, that even though couldn't pin point their exact location, was able to let you know how close they were. When crystals of ice appeared in the air around you and you were able to see your breath due to the drop in temperature, you put up the first shield. This was the easy part, keeping the frost away. Now, you gathered all your power, and worked on locking a second shield, one that was designed to force the armies to come in in waves, giving your people time to fight them off without getting surrounded.

Struggling with this task, there wasn't anything more that you could do. It was draining your powers at an alarming rate, but you were dead set on keeping the shields up until you could no more. The fight went on for almost two exhausting hours, there was no way for you to know if everyone was alright and no way to stop and check. Everything around you was a blur, the sound of the fight going on below you was muffled as you concentrated every inch in your body to make sure your defence wasn't cracking. Despite being all in, body and soul, you still heard it.

"Aldair albeeh mirva"

Fuck. It was Eskel's voice. As you tried to figure out his exact location, you heard it again.

"Aldair albeeh mirva"

And again. And again and again. Muffled. Unclear, and screamed by different voices. Triss, Keira, Dijkstra, Geralt. They were all losing their battles.

-

"Um, Geralt?" Lambert huffed as the two of them fought side by side, "Is Y/n ok?"

"Why?" Geralt called with exasperation, turning to his fellow witcher, "What happened?"

"Look around you, man" he wailed, pointing to the sky, "The force shield is down. We're surrounded"

They retracted to a more isolated corner, speaking to each other just above a whisper, "We called for her, she knows what she's doing!" Geralt said and despite not showing much emotion, he said it more to convince himself than his friend.

"Brother, she didn't answer" Lambert spoke dramatically, breathing heavily. Silence settled as he didn't want to say anything more, afraid he'd set Geralt off. He was too late. In a fit of manic rage, Geralt sprung forward, rushing straight into the battle.

"Cover my back" he yelled over his shoulder, "I'm heading to the tower"

Eskel sighed knowing how bad of an idea it was, but after shaking his head, he drew his sword, ready to jump back into the action. They were surrounded, casting signs after signs, their stamina running out and muscles starting to cave. With every passing moment and with each of the wild hunt's knights killed, they were closer and closer to caving. Their blows weren't as precise anymore, not as strong, and nowhere near efficient enough to keep up with the enemy's army. Following a heavy blow into the small of his back, Geralt fell to the ground, sword slipping out of his hand and landing meters away. Before he managed to regain his composure, Eskel threw himself on top of him, and generated a shield, held in place by the sign of Quen, strong enough to keep them alive for just about 30 more short seconds. Each blow received weakened their defence, and once Eskel couldn't hold the shield anymore, it exploded with a blast, throwing the knights and their hounds just a few steps behind. It was no where near enough. All this stunt did was buy them about a minute more, as before they knew it, their throats were surrounded by countless of sharp sword tips. Incapable of feeling emotions, Geralt's eyes still watered, Ciri's and Y/n's faces being the only thing on his mind. Realizing there was no way out, he gritted his teeth, and the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes were the merciless fangs of a ghostly hound, jumping towards his jugular at full speed.

Then nothing.

Nothing happened. Nothing bit him. No blade pierced his body, and filled with confusion, he creaked his eyes open only for his jaw to drop. The hundreds of fighters that were surrounding them were now hanging in the air, slowly rising to the sky.

"What the fuck-" Eskel muttered, turning from side to side.

Geralt paid no attention to him, and in the distance, between the floating bodies of his enemies, he spotted Y/n, high up in the air. With her head thrown back and arms raised horizontally, she levitated about 10 meters above the sea of still warm corpses. Her fingers moved slowly within a ball of purple gas. Geralt was too far away to see, but her veins pumped rage and chaos forming little sparks of fire all around her frame - her lifting the soldiers off the battlefield being just the beginning. Looking to the side, it wasn't hard for him to spot his allies.

Keira was in a trance, on top of the castle's wall. Before Geralt got a chance to rush to her, Triss came running, ushering everyone inside, "Shelter, now!!" she screamed, voice cracking.

"Y/n?" Dijkstra who had just joined them asked.

"Yes" approved Geralt, "And Keira. We can't leave them"

Triss was in no way in the mood for their antics, "She's gonna burn them to ashes and we're gonna fucking die too if we don't move! And now!"

Somewhat relieved, Geralt, along with every other still standing member of their group, ran into the castle. "Are we even safe here? And Keira?" he asked.

After catching her breath, Triss looked at everyone in turn and explained, "Keira is keeping the frost away so y/n's spell won't be as difficult to cast. And yes.." she sighed, "We're safe here, y/n will redirect the flames upwards"

He didn't like this. Not one freaking bit. Rushing to the window, he saw y/n now fully surrounded by that violet gas. Every piece of glass in the castle was trembling, the floor shaking as bits of cement and stone were falling from each of the corners of the room. He wanted to object but he knew going out there was not an option. After a few difficult breaths, everything before his eyes went white. Everyone was thrown off their feet as a loud explosion pushed them meters back, all slamming into the walls behind them. Nothing was audible except for a loud plain ringing deep inside his ears. Geralt found himself literally paralyzed for what he thought were a few seconds, but as soon as he found himself able to stand, he rushed outside. It was now way past dusk, meaning he'd been out for at least a few hours. Once again, and harder this time, panic enveloped him tightly.

Outside, grass was no more. The walls were black with ashes, with Keira standing in front of them, her back towards the castle.

Geralt stepped over burnt corpses, making his way to her. As the sorceress heard him approach, she turned to him, face white and a few too many layers of unshed tears covering her eyes.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it. "She's gone"

-

Heavily bleeding, your feet trembled one in front of the other, carrying your weight the last thousand of feet before reaching the nearest location you could only hope was safe. Around you, laid a deserted village at the foot of the Baarg mountain. At this point you couldn't afford being wrong, so you trusted your gut and walked through a gap in a fence, circled around the cemetery, and followed a path that led you to an empty cave. You sighed with relief, and felt a tear roll down your cheek as you pushed through the darkness, using the last bits of magic left in your body to light up a torch you found laying around. Tens of years ago, this cave used to belong to an elven mage, the only one in history to ever manage to control not only space, but also time. His legacy was so infamous and controversial, that his names was banned from use. This however, didn't stop tens of hopeful magic creatures from trying to learn his ways. It relieved you to no end to see that no one had actually reached this point. Having a story this famous; errors and fake facts were destined to be spread. If not for Geralt and his many connections, you wouldn't have known about this place either.

The entrance to the deeper levels of the cave was guarded by a pack of rock trolls, which took very little magical effort to convince to obey you.

"If any one comes looking for the elf's cave, this isn't the right one. If any one comes looking for me, I'm not here unless Geralt of Rivia asks. Geralt of Rivia, in flesh and bones, not anyone else" 

“Trolly knows, this cave not good”, the creature groaned, "Geralt of Rivia good. Everyone else bad. Trolly likes not if you not Geralt are"

"Perfect" you sighed, and walked further into the cave. Seconds later, you had made it. All the knowledge you ever needed was inside there. Every potion, herb, recipe, crystal or spell book, everything was at arm's length. As soon as the door slammed behind you, you fell to your knees and crashed onto the floor. After 13 days of walking through dangerous unknown woods on the exact other side of the continent, you were happy to finally close your eyes within safety.

[depressedhatakekakashi]

Out There Somewhere

Au: Soulmate AU

Words: 2271

Characters: Hatake Kakashi, Minato

Summary: After a terrible nightmare, Kakashi make's a discovery that could change everything.

One haunted angry eye glares at him, blood spilling from Obito's mouth as he speaks words that never reach his ears. Half of his face is covered by the boulder that crushed him, but Kakashi can still see all of the hatred and anger no problem.

Obito's wrath is clear as day, and even as he shrinks away begging for Obito to leave him alone he knows he deserves this.

That it's his fault Obito ended up like this.

His failure

So when a bloodied hand reaches out to him, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him directly into Obito, he doesn't fight.

The only thing that leaves his mouth is an apology as the anger and hatred swallow him whole.

Surging up in his spot, Kakashi's scream echoed in his tiny bedroom. Sweat dripped down his forehead and neck as he scanned the room for any sign of the face that haunted his nightmares.

Nothing.

Where the relief is supposed to wash over him, he instead feels a dull ache in his chest. A reminder of the emptiness that lingered in his heart since Obito's death.

'Soulmates are someone who we share a part of our soul with'

That's how his father had explained it to him when he noticed the first mark on his body. A small owl perched on top of his shoulder in bright blue colours.

The sign of a platonic soulmate according to his father.

Growing up, Kakashi had never put much weight into those little pictures that littered his body, but after Obito's death, he had come to understand just why his father looked so sad when he explained soulmates to Kakashi. It wasn’t just knowing that he’d look at his body and see the brilliant blue colours had faded to a black, but the empty feeling deep inside of his soul.

And the worst of all was that it was all because of his failures as a leader.

It was because of him that Obito was gone. A fact that he had to live with that was imprinted on his skin for the rest of his life. Which was why he had avoided looking at himself in the mirror since his return.

Avoided seeing that brilliant blue owl sitting there, now a dull black. Lifeless and empty.

“Obito…” placing a hand over his left eye, he stared into the emptiness of his bedroom and struggled to calm his nerves. To at least be able to relax his shoulders and get rid of that crushing feeling in his chest. The one that felt like his ribs were collapsing in on his lungs, crushing them under the intense weight and making it difficult for him to breathe. “I-”

His hand dropped to his side.

“Would you even hear me?” he asked, wishing that there was a ghost hovering somewhere in the air around him who could answer his questions. “Could you ever forgive me?”

Deep down a part of him tries to speak. To remind him of Obito’s words, and the promise he made to his friend before he was forced to leave him alone in that cave. Crushed under the weight of boulders that should have killed him instead.

He doesn’t hear it though. It’s too quiet in a sea of anger and hurt.

Giving his head a shake, he settled his free hand on top of his knee and pushed himself to his feet. With an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, he made his way towards the bathroom.

It might be too early for a shower for most people, but there was no doubt in his mind that he’d find it impossible to sleep again until he did something to calm his nerves.

After a long, warm shower, the tight feeling in his chest had eased just a little. Enough that he could finally breathe without feeling like he was being suffocated by his own body.

Though there was still a troubled feeling deep in his gut. As if he was missing something important that was right in front of his face.

Pushing aside those thoughts for the moment, he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel off of the back of the washroom door.

Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed his towel off of the back of the bathroom door and quickly dried off his body. Once he was sure there were no stray droplets on his legs are arms, he turned his attention to his hair.

A far more daunting task. Since the thick silver strands loved to cling to water for hours, leaving him with few options at his disposal. The best choice was usually to let his hair air dry, which was easy to do when he had to run off to training early in the morning.

But with a glance at the clock to confirm that it was only three in the morning, he decided for the less enjoyable route of wrapping the towel around his hair and leaving it like that for the next hour or two.

Once the towel was in place, he turned to leave the room, except as his eyes glanced over the mirror he couldn't help but notice the soulmate mark on his shoulder.

The one he had been trying so hard to avoid for weeks since Obito's death. Refusing to allow himself to see the truth of the situation.

Scared of the blacked-out owl waiting for him to notice it.

Except, when he noticed the mark in that passing glance it wasn't black.

"Ignore it," he muttered to himself. "It was a mistake. It couldn't be…"

But what if it is?

The question tugged at his heart, demanding an answer no matter how much it might hurt.

What if…

His eyes scanned back towards the mirror, stopping just at the edge and sitting there. Refusing to move, no matter which direction Kakashi tried to look. Denying him the safety of refusing to seek out the answer and refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. No matter how heartbreaking that answer may be.

“You can do this, Kakashi,” giving himself a moment, he focused his attention on his breathing.

In

Out

In

Out

In

Once it no longer felt like his heart was about to jump out of his chest, he focused his attention on the mirror. The shape of his eyes were the first thing he noticed. That familiar sunken look that many people often mistook for a bored expression, rather than just the way his eyes were.

When he got sick of looking at his eyes, he moved downwards to the mole on the right side of his chin. A secret that few in Konoha knew about, and one of the few things he recalls being attributed to his mother growing up. While everyone loved to talk about how much he looked like his father, even after the white fangs fall from grace, the memories of that laughter in his father’s voice whenever he would poke his mole and talk about how he got that from his mother never faded. A sweet memory that his mind refused to give up, even when he had tried so hard to forget about his father.

Finally, he dragged his eyes down to his shoulder. To that spot that was always covered by his shirt, and that he had avoided looking at since Obito’s death.

The soulmate mark.

Still, the same brilliant blue that it was the last time he saw it. The owl’s eyes sparkling a little under the bathroom’s light. So caught up in the beauty of his soulmate mark, something he had tried for years to ignore, he almost forgot what those brilliant bright colours shining under the light meant.

And then it hit him. The realization smacking him in the face like one of Obito’s punches.

“He’s alive.”

The words burned in his throat. As if his body was trying to tell him that it was a lie. That his eyes were playing a trick on him. No matter how many times he looked at the mark though, it was always the same.

Brilliant blue shining up at him with such vibrant colours that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.

Obito was alive. He had to be.

He was alive, and they had left him under all of that rubble. Alone and probably scared out of his mind with the crushing weight of all of those rocks on top of him.

“Someone must have saved him,” his mind raced, searching for any logical explanation to how this was possible. If Obito was alive, there was no way he would still be stuck under that rock. He wouldn’t have access to food or water there and would have withered away during the time Kakashi spent ignoring his soulmate mark.

Just the thought of it made him sick. When Obito needed his attention the most, he ignored him, failing to protect him all over again. It was as if the world wanted him to know just what a terrible friend he was. That he shouldn’t be put in charge of any missions in the future, because all that would come out of it is disaster and death.

“Minato-sensei,” picking himself up, he turned towards the bathroom door and made a swift exit. Determined to get dressed as quickly as possible and out the door. “He’ll know what to do. As soon as I tell him he’ll have a plan. I know it.”

He had to. If his Sensei didn’t know what to do, then Kakashi would be lost. Ever since he was five he had looked to the older man for guidance. He was one of Konoha’s best shinobi for a reason. That meant he had to have an answer when Kakashi didn’t.

Once Kakashi showed him the mark on his shoulder, he’d have a plan to find Obito and rescue him. Kakashi was sure of it.

Can’t just leave for a rescue mission.

We need more information.

It could be wrong. We don’t know everything about Soulmate marks.

Minato-Sensei’s words echoed in his ears, but no matter how hard he tried Kakashi couldn’t make any sense out of them.

“You...but, Obito…” his heart broke at the thought of leaving Obito out there, alone with no one watching out for him. “We have to find Obito, Sensei! He’s out there and we-”

Minato held up a hand to silence him, a look on his face that Kakashi had never seen before. Not of happiness or disappointment, but annoyance. “I’ve heard what you have to say Kakashi, but it’s not as easy as you seem to think. If Obito is alive he’s no longer in the same spot. Finding him will be difficult and-”

“I can use the hounds!” Kakashi insisted. “I’m sure there’s still some of Obito’s scent on his stuff. We packed it all away sure, but something must still smell like him. If we go back to Kanabi bridge we can just have the hounds track him from there.”

His idea was met with a sigh.

“Even if we could go back to the cave, which we can’t, it would have to wait,” his Sensei continued. “Lord Third has a mission for you. One that he needs you to lead.”

A mission? He was expected to lead a mission when Obito was out there alive, waiting for them to find him?

“I thought we weren’t supposed to leave our friends behind,” the words burned in his throat, his mind a war zone of emotions. The reminder of what happened to his father for holding and supporting those same beliefs boiled deep inside of him, but for the first time in years, those weren’t the thoughts that overwhelmed him the most.

For once, he was more concerned about the friend that he had lost.

The person he had spent so much time hating and scolding, that by the time he finally started to think of him as an actual friend he had lost him.

If there was even the smallest chance that he could save Obito, he had to take it.

“It’s not up for discussion, Kakashi,” Minato-sensei cut him off before he could even attempt to argue. “Lord Third is sending you out on your mission tomorrow. I know you’re worried about Obito, but he’s going to have to wait for now. Once the mission is done we can try and figure out a way to find him.”

“Yes, Sensei…”

It broke his heart to think that Obito had to wait. That he wasn’t allowed to grab Rin and search for their teammate, their friend, right away.

They were leaving him out there alone, in who knows what kind of condition, and there was no guarantee that they would even be allowed to go after him even after this mission. For some reason, even with that promise from his sensei’s mouth, it didn’t feel genuine.

There was no doubt in Kakashi’s mouth that if another mission came up, the search for Obito would be pushed back again.

The village always came first after all, even before one’s teammates.

He had learned that years ago, and even with Obito’s voice in his ear reminding him to put his teammates first, he didn’t always get the choice at the end of the day.

If the Hokage and his Sensei told him that he had to take care of the mission first, that’s what he did.

To save himself from ending up on the wrong end of his weapon, just like his father.

[mrs-hyperfixed-writes]

Mirrors and Madness

Could you write a oneshot about y/n who is still stuck in the mirror, at the border of madness, and Actor Mark rescues them? Requested by Nekotsuki314159.

And since @the-tragic-hero-and-you wanted more Actor content.

How many years has it been? You didn’t know, for your own sanity you had stopped counting the cycles of sunlight and moonlight that streamed down through the windows.

On the other side of this mirror, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just solid darkness that you were able to stand and sit on. You had watched this mansion fall into a decrepit ruin, home now only to spiders and their prey. Not even vagrants wanted to sleep in this place. They had tried, but as soon as they had glanced at the mirror and glimpsed a misty dark shape banging against the broken glass and making noiseless screams they had uttered shrieks of their own and ran for the hills. You had been well beyond subtlety at that point, the sight of another person had filled you with such an intense hope that you had lost all sense of self-control and started raving for them to help you. But no one ever visited this place twice, afraid of the silent demon in the mirror. You had become the town’s resident Bloody Mary.

All they saw was a dark shape, but on the other side of the mirror you could see yourself clearly. The colour of your skin, the length of your hair, your fingernails. You were still wearing the clothes you died in - a white shirt and simple dark trousers. Everything was still there on this side of the mirror, only visible to you. That made it worse, knowing that no one would ever see the person behind the dark shape.

So, stuck in this hell, all you could do was think. And you had been thinking for so long. It had been one hundred years, not that you would have known that. And for the millionth time, you thought of Damien. You thought of the Colonel. You thought of Celene. You thought of Abe and Chef and Benjamin.  And you thought of Mark.

You had been so angry when they had shut you in the mirror. At everyone. Even today you still were, anger and pain were old friends. Damien was supposed to be your best friend, but that had meant absolutely nothing in the end. Him and that bitch Celene had condemned you to something you wouldn’t have wished on your worst enemy. The Colonel had killed you, the evidence of his crime still a fresh wound in your stomach that never healed. Whatever Damien and Celene had become probably sported the scar, but you had no body to heal it. Your soul was bare, and the wound had gone right down through it. You had grown used to the pain. Your white shirt had been glued to your skin with the dried blood.

Finally, your thoughts had turned to Mark. You had hated him most of all at first, angry at his entire failed plan for revenge. But all this time to think had brought sorrow into the equation. The Colonel had gone mad. Damien and Celene had had no choice you supposed - even if you still held hate in your heart for that Seer. And Mark. A poor heartbroken fool whose wife had hadn’t even had the decency to leave him before fucking his best friend. So you had forgiven them. . . Most of them.

And sometimes, like today, you entertained the thought of Damien coming back for you. Taking you out of this place.

You almost laughed. The idea was so hysterical that it might as well be a cruel joke. It was almost a guarantee that you weren’t even on Damien’s mind. You were forgotten. You probably weren’t even important enough to be a thought in the back of his mind. And then you were laughing, so hard that tears were running down your face in great big drops. You hugged yourself, your ribs beginning to ache. From a certain point of view the situation was so funny! So funny that you couldn’t stop the shrieking laughter that bubbled up from your throat.

Then laughing gave way to sobbing.

You fell on your knees, hugging yourself even tighter to keep from falling apart. Then the sobs turned to screams. Screams of unbridled anguish that threatened to tear your throat apart. You gripped fistfuls of your own hair and pulled, trying to use physical pain to distract you from the mental torment. But it was useless. Your head was a whirlpool of negative thoughts, a volatile mix of the desire for someone to help you, the anger and lust for revenge, and a degree of self-blame for staying here and getting caught up in the situation. But you were Mark’s friend just as much as Damien was. How could you just leave after what had been done to him?

I’m such a fool Mark, you thought to yourself.  

You raked your nails down your face, stinging red marks rising in their wake. You screamed even louder. You were hanging on so tight to that last shred of sanity that you possessed. You clung to it like a man lost at sea clings to a piece of wreckage. But as you screamed and cried you wondered if letting go would be such a bad thing? Losing your mind had been your bogeyman when you had first been imprisoned here, it had been the only thing you had. But as you sat there, trying desperately to hurt yourself, you seriously considered just letting go. Just sinking down into the comfort of insanity, where these thoughts couldn’t reach you.

Let go, a voice whispered inside your head. And you were prepared to. You calmed yourself as you felt your fingers slipping from the piece of driftwood holding you aloft, as you started to slip into the abyss.

SLAM!

You yelped, clinging back on for dear life in fright. That had been the door. Someone was in the house, and by the sounds of their footsteps they were coming towards the shattered mirror. You picked yourself up from the floor, prepared to throw yourself against the glass and beg for their help, shame overcoming you at the thought of how easily you were going to give up. But as you rose and came face to face with the person that had saved you from giving into the madness you paused. You knew that face.

It was Mark.

And he was staring right at you with a look of utter devastation on his face. He was staring at you as if. . . as if he saw you. Not that dark shape that others saw, but you. He was scanning you, taking in every detail. His eyes lingered on that gunshot wound, and he winced.

He looked awful. He had bags under his eyes and dark circles to match that spoke of many sleepless nights. He had lost weight, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a month. He wore a red jacket, so some things never changed. And his eyes. His eyes were full of such sorrow that it broke your heart. You had never seen him like this. Never seen him vulnerable. Before, he had used his arrogance and pride to shield him, but now he was strppied bare and exposed to the world. Exposed to you.

And with all the questions that raced through your mind, all the conflicting emotions that threatened to cleave your heart in two, you could only think to ask, “Why did you come back?”

And he heard that. You, who had spent so many years in alone with your own screams, were heard. And you were heard by the very man that had been involved with this. But regardless, relief ran through you when he answered you. Oh, to hear a voice that wasn’t afraid. To hear a voice that wasn’t your own.

“I missed you. . .” he trailed off, seeming to know that it was a poor reason to come back after all this time.

You wanted to laugh again. But if you did you might again descend into that pit of madness and never be able to climb back out. And the thought of scaring him off with that insanity grounded you. Instead a single tear rolled out of your cheek. He had missed you? The idea that he had been thinking of you at all sent conflicting emotions racing through you.

“You left me,” you whispered. “Damien left me. The colonel left me. Everyone left me.”

“I’m sorry (y/n).”

Another tear fell. He had meant that apology with everything in his being. The Mark you had known wouldn’t have apologised if you had tortured him for it. What had happened to him? What had broken him.

“I should never have left you here (y/n),” he said with watery eyes.

He hadn’t forgotten you. He saw you. He heard you. He came back for you. Late perhaps, but he came back.  

“I forgive you.”

Because you did. There was a voice that told you to try to reach out and grab him. Pull him in, take his body and be free. But you ignored it, because he came back. He hadn’t forgotten about you. And that whirlpool of pain and anger began to settle again. It wouldn’t be calm waters yet, not for a long time. You both still had issues to work through, but now you had each other.

“Take me with you?” you begged, letting the raw desperation creep into your voice.

He nodded and reached out a hand, his fingertips stopping short when they gently thudded against the glass. You stared for a moment, unsure of what to do, and when you looked at his face for guidance he gave you a smirk. That smirk was so familiar that it nearly sent you sobbing again. Apprehensively, you reached out your hand too. It also thudded against the glass from your side, but there was something else. You could. . . feel his fingertips against the glass. He was so warm. Mark worked his entire hand closer to the glass, never once breaking contact with your skin.

You nearly fainted when his hand reached right through the glass to fully grasp yours tightly.

Then he pulled.

And the feeling of euphoria when he pulled your hand right through the mirror towards him was indescribable. You cried out, unable to keep these feelings to yourself, tears of joy instead of anguish streaming down your face as you looked at him. He was pulling you through slowly, a look of intense concentration on his face. He never let go of your hand, and when your arm was fully free of the glass he used his other hand to grip onto it.

And as you were pulled out into the biting air, you solidified. You were developing a body. You could feel the air and dust against your bare skin. Against your shoulder. Against your face. He didn’t take a moment to stop, only hooked his arm under your shoulders when your top half was out. Soon your legs followed, and with a final pull and an arm hooked under your legs, you were out.

The Actor fell to the floor, grunting as your weight fell on top of him. You did sob then, but this time it was because of the feeling of the air and dust, and most importantly the feel of Mark’s warmth underneath yours. You wriggled around, lying on top of him so that you were chest to chest.

“I’ve missed you so much (y/n),” he whispered, pulling you closer to him as if afraid you would disappear, a hand gently running through your hair.

You drew back suddenly, going to feel those gunshot wounds. But you didn’t. They weren’t there anymore. All that existed in their place were scars. Mark traced them with his fingers, something like wonder on his face.

You pulled yourself away from him and attempted to stand only to collapse again. After so long without a physical body learning to walk again was going to be difficult. Mark chuckled, whispering something that sounded like baby deer to himself. Instead of helping you up, he stood and hooked one arm under your shoulders and the other under your leg, carrying you in his arms.

You snuggled into his chest, murmuring about how he would never be alone again. He murmured back the same thing.

[supernatural-freek]

Knife To My Throat

Dean x Sister!Reader, Sam x Sister!Reader

Synopsis: Hello! I have a very angsty request!!! Winchesters x sister!reader. The reader is the boy's half sibling and always seems to be forgotten. She goes through memories of them forgetting about her for early years to present. [Never picked up from school, left behind on a hunt, having to clean up after them,stuck with research,chores,ect.] It makes her snap when she was put in a life threatening situation[kidnapped for a couple of months] and they didn't even notice she was not in the bunker.

NOTE: This is a lot sadder than I thought it would be, I’m so sorry. I’m also sorry if this wasn’t quite what you were looking for but once I started I couldn’t stop and- I mess around with the ages too, so don't worry about the canon ages.

There is a trigger warning for this one. It’s not the happiest of one shots.

REQUESTED

MASTERLIST

.

Your life passes in snapshots.

.

You’re 12, the product of something between your mom and a man whose two sons stare at you with blatant resentment. You’ve slandered something, soiled someone’s image or reputation. They’ve come to your school, you see, and they know who you are. They don’t take you with them when they leave, and you’re not sad to see them go.

When you tell your mom that the Winchester boys can’t possibly be your brothers, she laughs sadly until she starts crying and holds you tightly throughout the night.

.

She dies when you’re 14, two years after Sam and Dean had taken one look at you and decided that didn’t want you. Someone contacts John, and you hear the Impala before you see it. It’s a majestic beast, big and proud and growling. You desperately want to touch it.

John does’t let you stay for the funeral. He’s not being cruel, he’s just gotta get back to something. You sit in the back with Sam while Dean sits in the front with John.

“I don’t really hate you,” Sam whispers, sneaking you a lolly. You take it shyly. Sam smiles. “I’m Sam.”

“I know,” you say, and his smile grows instead of wavering, and you know that things won’t be too bad if Sam’s around.

.

Sam leaves when you’re 16, a teenage girl who’s prone to flinching at sudden movements but can stand next to a firing gun and have a spine of steel. Sam storms out the front door in a flurry of anger and deadly hate. John shouts something about not coming back, and Sam shouts back that he doesn’t care, and then the door slams.

He doesn’t say goodbye.

Dean comes to your bed that night, wordlessly asking for comfort. You roll over and let him lie next to you before you’re cuddling in to his side and crying as silently as you can. Dean’s body shakes, but the darkness hides if he’s got tears too. You fall asleep like that, and when you wake up, Dean’s already moving around the room and there’s no way to tell if last night had been real.

When you, Dean and John pile into the Impala, you think that it’s awful lonely in the backseat.

You miss your brother.

.

You’re almost 18 when you and John have your first real fight. You’ve argued before, fuck knows John can’t be around another living thing without arguing with it, but this time there’s a slap from you and a threat from him and Dean has to step in the middle.

He picks John over you. 

You can’t say it doesn’t hurt, but it’s expected. You stare at them, so alike in their feelings and their actions and their pain, and you scoff and shake your head and say, “I hate this family.”

“You aren’t hunting, Y/N, and that’s final!”

“And why not?” You shout back, and Dean groans because here you both go again. It’s the same argument you’ve just finished, but the anger is still rippling under your skin so you don’t walk away. “Am I just some glorified nurse? Here to clean up the messes?”

“You weren’t supposed to be my responsibility,” John seethes. He’s said it before. It doesn’t really hurt much anymore. “I’ve already lost Sam because of this life. I won’t lose you too.”

You give up fighting. It’s too tiring. You can’t be bothered.

.

When you’re 19, Dean comes back half-dead and without John.

You keep calm and stitch him back together again, going through too much alcohol and too many strips of cloth. You run out of dental floss for stitches, but you make fucking do, because if Dean dies on your watch, you may as well die too.

He’s not coherent the whole time he’s with you, mumbling about ghouls and blood and John, but you can’t spare a second to worry about John now, not if you want Dean to live. You manhandle him, pretending that he’s just drunk and not concussed and bleeding out. 

“Fuck you,” you hiss at him as you cover him with the sheets on the bed, sitting by his side as he sinks into a troubled sleep. “You problematic fuck.”

John doesn’t come back until three days later. He’s not horribly injured, but the claw mark on his chest has smeared blood all over his front and he looks like death incarnate. He sees Dean, still unconscious on the bed, and grunts, settling into the seat at the table and closing his eyes.

“Fucking ghoul,” he sighs, and then you’re attacking him with whatever medical supplies you have left.

Dean wakes up the next day, takes the keys, and drives you and John far away from that little town. You never tell him that you left your story book on the bedside table. 

It had been the last thing you’d had of your mothers.

.

You’re 22 when Sam truly settles back into hunting. 

You know he misses Jess, know that he’s got too much weight on his shoulders, know that he wants to find Dad just so he can go back to pretending he doesn’t miss his old life. But he settles into it after a while, sitting in the front seat with Dean. 

It’s still lonely in the back.

.

You’re 23 when John dies. 

Dean and Sam are without injuries. You have a broken arm that doesn’t get properly treated before you’re leaving the hospital in the dust, the taste of ash still on your tongues.

.

Everything goes to shit when you’re 24. There’s something about Sam, him being a Chosen One, and Dean says that John had wanted him to kill your brother, and it’s all so confusing. You know about the visions, and you trust the visions, but then Sam and the other kids like him are mutating into something else and you’re afraid.

You know it’s the Demon, good old Yellow-Eyes, but you don’t matter to him. You don’t matter to anybody. Bobby sees you sometimes, but that’s because Bobby is an old soul in an old body and knows what it is to be in the background.

Ellen sees you too, but only because you remind her of Jo. “Don’t let them boys walk all over you,” Ellen tells you one day, when you’re sitting at the counter at the Roadhouse after the boys had taken off on one of their adventures without remembering you. “Honey, you aren’t a doormat.”

“I’m not much of anything,” you tell her and then you finish your beer and motion for another.

.

You’re 25 when Sam dies and Dean sells his soul and leaves you with two brothers who are forever tainted with the cold tang of death.

Dean shoots the Demon.

You’re 25 when you look at schooling options for adults.

.

The Hellhounds come for Dean sometime after you turn 26, and you have nightmares about Sam’s cries and Dean’s blood until you have to start taking extreme measures, like pills and alcohol and concussions.

You and Sam crash at Bobby’s house once, and you sleep easier than you have since your brother went to Hell. 

When you wake up, Sam is gone and he doesn’t come back. Bobby looks at you with pitiful eyes, but you keep your head down and make yourself a list of permanent chores to do just so you have a purpose and won’t have to kill yourself.

.

Dean comes back while you’re still 26. You’ve given up on schooling, which is good, because Dean wants to look for Sam, and you have to scramble to get in the back seat of the Impala before he takes off with a squeal of the tires.

Bobby sits in the front. It’s not any less lonely in the back. You seem to care less now, and you wonder if it’s because the nightmares have sucked out your soul and no you’re just hollow and beaten and sad, and you don’t care anymore that your brothers don’t really care about you.

.

Sam causes the Apocalypse. You’re turning 28 the next day.

.

You meet Cas when you’re 28, but you aren’t important so he doesn’t see you. The angels don’t see you, your brothers don’t see you, and Bobby loses sight of you somewhere along the way. You slip through the cracks.

You go on a hunt on your own and it goes fine. 

You’re disappointed that you don’t die.

.

You’re 29 when Sam jumps in the Pit with Lucifer and Michael. Cas isn’t God, and you aren’t important enough for anybody to take as leverage. Zachariah had taken Adam and Sam, but he hadn’t taken you and that should tell you to quit while you’re ahead, but you’ve already decided you’re a lot cause with school and there’s nowhere else for you to go. 

Dean goes to Lisa and Ben. Cas disappears. You float around and you pretend you have purpose. You think your name becomes a legend amongst the hunters. Something about you being a ghost, here one moment and gone the next. 

You’re too cold to cry, really.

.

You’re 30 when you attempt to kill yourself and fail.

.

Nobody comes to get you until you’re 32. Sam loses and gains his soul in that time. There’s someone named Samuel. There’s Alpha monsters and Death and walls in minds that shatter far too easily, and then Cas is the new God, but he’s sick.

You run into the boys on a hunt. Dean says your name with the reverence of someone who has seen God and laughed. He talks to you, and it’s nice, and then he tells you about Leviathans and Cas and your heart breaks and you crawl into the back seat of the Impala and stare out the window.

Hunters still talk about the Ghost.

Dean doesn’t know that it’s you.

.

You’re 33 when Dean and Cas go to Purgatory, and you’re 34 when Dean comes back.

You’re 33 when Cas comes back, too.

.

You’re 35 when Metatron casts the angels out of Heaven and Sam fails the Trials. It’s a mess, but there’s Kevin and the Bunker, and the angels falling look like dying stars and it’s oddly beautiful.

Kevin likes you. It’s strange because Kevin doesn’t really like anybody else. You think that its nice to be seen, but then there’s Crowley and demons and your brothers are important again and you quietly make enough food that nobody stares and clean up afterwards. 

Your room stays bare. Nobody comments. You don’t think Sam or Dean could point out which room you claimed as your own anyway.

.

You’re 37 when Dean gets the Mark of Cain. It’s scary and it makes him into something harsher and more unstable. You try and keep quiet around him, because he seems almost hyper-aware of you now and he keeps eyeing you.

You make food and you do beer runs because that’s the role that they accept, and that’s the role you know. Charlie braids your hair once. It feels like something a sibling would do.

.

The Darkness brings Mary back when you’re 38. 

Mary looks at you once, understands who you are and what you represent, and then she turns to her boys and smiles. You are 39 years old in a world that doesn’t want you, and you’re invisible to everybody in the damn room.

You can’t harbour any anger for Mary though.

You’re just so unbearably tired.

.

You’re on the cusp of turning 39 when someone steals you off the road when you’re waiting for the boys to come out from questioning a witness. You don’t know who they are, but you know they want information on your brothers, they want someone to experiment with.

They want a hunter.

They want the Ghost.

Torture becomes old soon enough, so they play mind games. It takes them a while to adapt to your apathy though, but once they understand that forcing you to imagine your brothers being nice hurts more than making you think they hated you, things get going.

You don’t talk. But you hurt.

You hurt, you hurt, you hurt.

.

You’re 39 when you make your escape, killing everybody there and returning to the Bunker covered in blood and wounds and you are afraid.

“What the fuck,” Dean says in a tight voice as you stumble down the stairs. Cas is already charging towards you, a glowing hand held out. You flinch away. but he’s persistent, and your wounds close slowly. “Y/N?”

Sam stares at you with wide eyes. You stare back without saying anything. Cas gently brushes his hand over your shoulder. You croak miserably and he pulls away.

“Where were you?” Dean asks.

(You’re 39 when you realise that nobody had noticed you were gone.)

You turn away, intent on going back to your plain little room, but someone holds your arm and you can’t take the touch. “Stop,” you beg and whoever is holding you lets you go. 

“What-” Sam gets cut off by the guttural wail that rips from your throat.

“I was gone for months!” You seethe, voice cracking and rasping. You are 39 and you are breaking, breaking, breaking. “You didn’t come for me, you’ve never come for me.”

The Ghost, the Ghost, the Ghost.

“I am nothing and I am nobody, but I should have been somebody  and you took that from me and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

Cas reaches for you again. “Let me ease your troubles,” he says and fingers touch your forehead and nothing happens. “You are in too much pain.” he murmurs. “I am sorry.”

“So am I,” you whisper, and then you turn away from your brothers and you go to your plain little room.

.

You are 39 and half-Winchester when you press a gun to your temple and pull the fucking trigger.