#they will throw you to the side and push you under a crumbling building to save their own skin

[dandelions-143]

Obsession 4

Part 1 , Part 2, & Part 3

Minho Masterlist

All Member Masterlist

Word count: 6908

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, Sexual content and explicit scenes, Violence and physical aggression, References to criminal organizations, Toxic family dynamics, Emotional manipulation, Possessive behavior, Mentions of abuse of power.

Authors Note: I hope you enjoyed this ending to Minho and Y/n's story. They will likely make an appearance in the next member's story. Thank you all so much for your support! Happy reading!

Summary: Is this the end of Minho and Y/N's story, or just the beginning? Continue reading to discover how Y/N navigates Minho's possessive nature and whether Minho truly captures Y/N's heart.

Minho crumpled the note in his hand, his fingers trembling with barely contained fury. He threw it across the room, watching as it bounced off the far wall and fell to the floor. A sudden burst of rage consumed him, his vision blurring red at the edges. With a guttural roar, he lashed out, his foot connecting with the coffee table. The sturdy wood splintered under the force of his kick, sending books and papers scattering across the hardwood floor.

Not satisfied, Minho turned to the nearest wall. His fist flew forward, knuckles cracking as they met the plaster. Pain shot through his hand, but he barely noticed it, too focused on the hole he had just created. Bits of drywall crumbled to the ground, a physical manifestation of his shattered composure.

Panting heavily, Minho ran a hand through his disheveled hair. He knew he had important matters to attend to for his father - meetings to schedule, deals to close. But in this moment, none of that mattered. His mind was consumed by a single thought, a burning desire that overshadowed everything else. He was going to get you back, no matter what it took. Your willingness was irrelevant; he had made up his mind. With newfound determination, Minho strode towards the door, his eyes glinting with a dangerous resolve. The hunt was on.

---

Minho's heart raced as he sped through the city streets, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The familiar sight of your apartment building loomed ahead, its brick facade a stark contrast against the darkening sky. He screeched to a halt in the parking lot, tires squealing on the asphalt. Without hesitation, he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

Reaching your door, Minho paused for a moment, his breath coming in short gasps. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fished out the key he had secretly made weeks ago, a smirk playing on his lips. The metal felt cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his anger. The lock clicked open with a satisfying sound, and he pushed the door wide, stepping into your studio apartment.

"I'm home, darling," he called out, his voice dripping with false sweetness. The words hung in the air, unanswered. As his eyes scanned the small space, his triumphant grin faded. The apartment was empty, silent save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of a clock on the wall. You were nowhere to be seen. The air still held traces of your perfume, taunting him with your recent presence.

Minho's jaw clenched, his earlier rage threatening to resurface. He stalked through the apartment, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. He checked every corner, throwing open the closet doors with such force that they rattled on their hinges. Clothes swayed from the impact, but there was no sign of you. He even peered under the bed. But it was futile. You had slipped through his fingers once again, leaving behind only the ghost of your presence.

Standing in the center of your living space, Minho's eyes narrowed dangerously. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles still raw from his earlier outburst. This was just a minor setback, he told himself. His gaze swept over the room once more, taking in every detail, searching for any clue to your whereabouts. He would find you, no matter where you tried to hide. The thought of you escaping him only fueled his obsession. And when he did find you, he vowed silently, he would make sure you never left his side again. The hunt had just begun, and Minho was nothing if not persistent.

Frustration and determination etched deep lines on Minho's face as he stormed out of your apartment, slamming the door with as much force as possible. He raced down the stairs, his expensive leather shoes barely touching each step. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, but one thought stood out crystal clear - the club where you worked. It was his only lead, his last hope.

As he sped through the city streets, the world outside his car became a blur of turned off neon lights and shadowy old buildings. His grip on the steering wheel tightened with each passing second, knuckles turning white with the force of his resolve. The leather creaked under his grasp, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.

Screeching to a halt outside the gentlemen’s club, tires leaving dark marks on the asphalt, Minho barely remembered to turn off the engine before leaping out of the car. The cool night air hit his flushed face, but he barely noticed. The pulsing beat of music that usually spilled out onto the street, was replaced with silence. As he approached the entrance, his eyes locked onto the burly bodyguard standing just outside the entrance. The man's imposing figure doing nothing to deter Minho's determination.

Without breaking stride, Minho shoved past the startled bouncer, his shoulder connecting forcefully with the larger man's chest. The bouncer stumbled back, caught off guard by the unexpected assault. "Hey, you can't just-" the bouncer began, but he stopped short once he realized who had just shoved his way into the building.

Inside, the club was a stark contrast to its usual vibrant atmosphere. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting an eerie glow that accentuated every imperfection. The worn edges of the plush velvet chairs were frayed, their once-rich color now faded and patchy. Scuff marks marred the once-gleaming dance floor, telling tales of countless nights of revelry.

A handful of staff members were scattered around, their movements deliberate as they prepared for the night ahead. Two bartenders meticulously polished glasses behind the bar, the soft clink of crystal barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. Near the stage, a pair of dancers stretched languidly, their lithe bodies casting long shadows across the floor. In the corner, a janitor mopped halfheartedly, his mop leaving streaks on the already grimy tiles.

Minho's eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for any sign of you. His desperation mounting with each passing second, he called out your name, his voice cracking with emotion as it echoed off the empty walls. "Where are you?" he shouted, his tone a discordant mix of anger, pleading, and barely concealed panic.

He stormed through the club, his expensive shoes squeaking on the freshly mopped floor. With reckless abandon, he threw open doors, the hinges groaning in protest. He yanked aside heavy velvet curtains, sending clouds of dust billowing into the air. The staff members froze in their tracks, watching him with a potent mixture of fear and confusion etched on their faces. Some cowered behind the bar, while others pressed themselves against the walls, trying to become invisible. Minho paid them no mind, his laser focus solely on his desperate search.

As he neared the dressing rooms, the scent of stale perfume and hairspray assaulting his nostrils, a petite waitress stepped forward hesitantly. Her uniform was slightly askew, and she nervously fiddled with the hem of her skirt. "Excuse me, sir," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with trepidation. Minho whirled around, his intense gaze locking onto her like a predator spotting its prey. She flinched visibly, taking a half-step back, but steeled herself and continued, "If you're looking for her, I think I saw her go into the back office earlier. She seemed... upset."

Without a word of thanks, not even a nod of acknowledgment, Minho spun on his heel and headed towards the office. His footsteps echoed ominously in the quiet club, each step deliberate and menacing. The sound reverberated off the walls, growing louder with each passing moment, as if the very building was amplifying his determination. The hunt was narrowing, the net closing in, and his prey was close. He could feel it in every fiber of his being, a primal instinct guiding him forward. The anticipation of confrontation, of finally having you within his grasp, sent a shiver of dark excitement down his spine.

Minho stalked down the narrow back hallway, his expensive shoes making soft indentations in the worn burgundy carpet beneath. The dressing rooms flanked him on either side, their doors adorned with peeling gold stars and faded names. The musty scent of old perfume and makeup powder hung heavy in the air, but his focus remained solely on the office door at the end of the corridor. It stood slightly ajar, a thin sliver of fluorescent light spilling out onto the dingy floor, casting long shadows that danced along the walls.

As he approached, your voice drifted out, stopping him in his tracks. The familiar sound made his heart race. "Why do I have to be the only one to dance for Mr. Lee now?" The words were tinged with frustration and a hint of fear, your voice trembling slightly on the last word.

For a moment, Minho's heart leapt, thinking you might be referring to him. His pulse quickened with anticipation, only to have that hope crushed moments later. The manager's gruff voice shattered that illusion, his words like sandpaper against Minho's ears. "The man owns this place. You have to do as he says. He told me you no longer dance for anyone else. Only on the main stage and only for him. Not even his son. Just him." Each word felt like a personal insult, stoking the fire of Minho's rage.

That rage boiled up inside him like molten lava, his vision blurring red at the edges as blood rushed to his head. His hands trembled with barely contained fury, and without hesitation, he burst through the door. The wood splintered under the force of his entry, sending splinters flying through the air. The door hinges screamed in protest as it slammed against the wall. In two long, purposeful strides, he reached you, his arms wrapping around your waist like steel bands. With one fluid motion, he hoisted you over his shoulder, the scent of your perfume filling his nostrils.

You immediately began to protest, your legs kicking wildly in the air and your small fists pounding against his broad back. Each impact was like a butterfly's wings against stone - noticed but ineffective. Your silky dress rode up slightly, and Minho's grip tightened possessively around your thighs. But he paid no heed to your struggles, your protests only fueling his determination.

He turned to face your stunned manager, who had stumbled back against his desk, papers scattering to the floor. Minho's eyes blazed with fury and possessiveness, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched visibly. "She quits," he snarled, the words dripping with venom, each syllable sharp enough to cut glass.

Without waiting for a response, Minho spun on his heel and strode out of the office, his movements fluid despite carrying you. Your continued protests echoed down the hallway, bouncing off the walls like a desperate symphony. But he remained unmoved, his grip on you tightening with each step, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs. The rapid beating of your heart against his shoulder only confirmed what he already knew - he had found you, and he had no intention of ever letting you go again. The thought sent a dark thrill of satisfaction through his body, a predator finally claiming its prey.

---

The ride from the gentlemen's club to Minho's penthouse was suffocating in its silence. You sat rigidly in the passenger seat, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, gaze fixed straight ahead through the windshield. The city lights blurred past, casting intermittent shadows across your face. Your jaw was set, lips pressed into a thin line, every muscle in your body radiating tension and defiance. The leather seat creaked softly whenever you shifted, the sound almost deafening in the oppressive quiet.

Minho's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his eyes darting between the road and your reflection in the side window. Only once did he break the silence, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant as he asked, "Are you okay?" The question hung in the air, unanswered. Your only response was to turn your head slightly toward the window, shoulders stiffening further. The rage that had been simmering inside you was palpable - fury at his controlling behavior, at his presumption, at the way he'd ripped away your autonomy without a second thought.

As they drove through the glittering nighttime cityscape, something shifted in Minho's expression. His grip on the wheel loosened slightly, his shoulders dropping from their tense position. A realization was dawning, seeping into his consciousness like a slow-rising tide. Force, possession, control - none of it would give him what he truly wanted. He could keep you physically present, could surround you with golden chains, but your heart would remain forever out of reach unless freely given. By the time the elevator doors opened to his penthouse, his mind was made up. He would have to try a different approach - gentler, more patient, more vulnerable. He wouldn't let you leave, not yet, but perhaps he could show you a side of himself that might make you want to stay.

---

Once inside his vast penthouse, you went straight to the room he had reserved for you and locked the door. You lay on the bed, stewing in your anger with every intention of staying there indefinitely. Sleep claimed you for a while until your growling stomach woke you. Cautiously, you unlocked your door and crept into the hallway, hoping Minho was nowhere in sight.

The delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen had your mouth watering instantly. As you cautiously approached, you could see Minho moving with practiced ease around the space, stirring something in a large pot while checking what appeared to be rice in another. The domestic scene before you was so at odds with his earlier violent behavior that it momentarily stunned you into stillness.

He must have sensed your presence because he turned, dark eyes finding yours immediately. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the gentle bubbling of whatever was cooking and the soft whir of the overhead ventilation. His expression was unreadable, but somehow softer than before, the sharp edges of his earlier rage smoothed away.

"You must be hungry," he finally said, his voice quiet and controlled. "I'm making kimchi jjigae. It'll be ready in a few minutes." He gestured to one of the barstools at the kitchen island. "Sit."

Despite every instinct screaming at you to turn and run back to your room, your growling stomach won out. Slowly, cautiously, you perched on the edge of the barstool, watching as he returned his attention to the stove. The domesticity of the scene felt surreal, like you had stepped into some alternate reality where Minho wasn't the man who had just forcibly kidnapped you from your workplace.

The steam rose from the bowls as Minho set them down, the rich aroma of the stew filling the space between you. He settled onto the stool beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. For several minutes, the only sounds were the quiet clink of spoons against ceramic as you both ate.

"Why?" The word escaped your lips before you could stop it, barely above a whisper. "Why me? Why... all of this?" You gestured vaguely at the penthouse around you. "What makes you think you can just take me from my life?"

Minho set his spoon down slowly, deliberately. His dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. For a long moment, he just stared, as if searching for the right words to explain something inexplicable.

"The first time I saw you dance," he began, his voice low and measured, "it wasn't just your beauty that captivated me. It was the way you moved - like you were telling a story only you knew. Like you were somewhere else entirely." His fingers traced the rim of his bowl absently. "I've spent my whole life surrounded by people who want something from me - my money, my influence, my family name. But you... you didn't even look at me. You were completely lost in your own world, and I..." He paused, jaw tightening. "I wanted to be part of that world. I needed to be."

His hand clenched into a fist on the counter. "The more I watched you, the more I realized I couldn't bear the thought of anyone else having that piece of you. The thought of other men watching you, desiring you..." He shook his head, as if trying to dispel the image. "It consumed me. You consumed me. And yes, I know this isn't right. I know I'm being selfish and controlling. But I can't..." His voice cracked slightly. "I can't let you go. Not now. Not ever."

You stared at him, a mix of emotions warring in your chest - fear, anger, but also a strange flutter of something else at the raw vulnerability in his voice. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words and complicated feelings. Finally, you pushed your half-eaten bowl away, stood up from the barstool, and retreated back to your room, leaving Minho alone with his confession hanging in the air.

---

As the days went on a strange routine developed. True to his word, Minho never forced himself on you or demanded your attention. Instead, he gave you space, allowing you to retreat to your room whenever you needed. The penthouse became your gilded cage, but one with surprisingly comfortable boundaries. Every morning, you'd wake to find fresh clothes laid out - designer pieces in your size, each one carefully selected. The kitchen was always stocked with your favorite snacks and drinks.

What struck you most was the consistency of the evening meals. No matter how busy his day had been, Minho would return home and cook. Sometimes elaborate Korean dishes that filled the penthouse with mouth-watering aromas, other times simple but comforting meals. He never demanded that you join him, but you found yourself drawn to the kitchen more often than not, settling into what had become your usual spot at the island.

The dinners were mostly quiet affairs, punctuated by the occasional question about your comfort or needs. He never pushed for more, never demanded conversation or gratitude. But you could feel his eyes on you when he thought you weren't looking, filled with that same intensity from the first night - a mixture of possessiveness and something deeper, something almost like reverence.

You had opportunities to leave - the door wasn't locked, and you knew he wouldn't physically stop you. But something kept you there. Perhaps it was the strange peace you'd found in this luxurious prison, or maybe it was the way Minho's carefully maintained control seemed to crack a little more each time you voluntarily joined him for dinner. Whatever the reason, you stayed, watching as the lines between captivity and choice began to blur.

---

One evening, as Minho was gathering his things to leave the office at his father's business, his movements were unhurried and casual. Despite his recent distractions, he had managed to complete all his assigned tasks, maintaining the delicate balance between his obsession with you and his familial obligations. The fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the empty office floor as he shrugged on his expensive suit jacket.

His footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway as he headed toward the elevator, but the sound of multiple approaching footsteps made him pause. Four men, all wearing black suits that barely contained their muscular frames, blocked his path. He recognized them immediately - his father's personal security detail.

"What the fuck are you guys doing here?" Minho's voice was sharp with irritation. "I'm leaving. The work day is over." He attempted to push past them, but one of the men, a particularly burly individual with a scar across his left eyebrow, grabbed him by his lapels and slammed him against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs.

The man leaned in close, his breath hot against Minho's face. "Your father wanted us to send a message to you for taking his best dancer from him." The words were delivered with a cruel smile that promised violence.

Before Minho could react, a fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Another blow landed in his stomach, forcing him to double over. The men surrounded him, raining down punches and kicks with practiced precision. Pain exploded across his body as they methodically worked him over, their knuckles leaving bloody marks on his face and torso.

But something inside Minho snapped. Years of suppressed rage, of living under his father's thumb, of being controlled - it all came boiling to the surface. With a primal roar, he launched himself at the nearest attacker. His fist connected with the man's nose, producing a satisfying crunch. The sudden ferocity of his counterattack caught them off guard.

Minho fought like a man possessed. He used every dirty trick he knew, every ounce of strength in his body. One by one, the men fell. An elbow to a throat here, a knee to a groin there. Blood - both his and theirs - spattered across the pristine hallway floor. When the last man dropped, Minho stood among them, chest heaving, his expensive suit torn and stained red.

He knelt beside the scarred man who had started it all, grabbing him by the collar. Blood dripped from Minho's split lip as he spoke, his voice a deadly whisper. "You tell my father that if he touches y/n, I will kill him." The words carried the weight of an oath, cold and absolute. Then he released the man, straightened his ruined jacket, and walked away, leaving the groaning bodies behind him. His face was battered and bleeding, but his steps were steady, fueled by a determination that made him look more dangerous than ever.

---

The kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of simmering soup when you heard the front door open. Your hands were busy flipping a grilled cheese sandwich, the butter sizzling in the pan. You'd gotten more comfortable in his kitchen over the past weeks, learning where everything was kept, settling into an odd sort of domesticity that you tried not to think too hard about.

"I'm in here," you called out, not turning around as you carefully lifted the golden-brown sandwich onto a waiting plate. "I hope you're hungry. I made tomato soup and-" The words died in your throat as you finally turned to face him.

Minho stood in the kitchen doorway, his usually immaculate appearance in shambles. His expensive suit was torn and bloodied, his face a canvas of bruises and split skin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You watched as the tension in his shoulders visibly eased at the sight of you, his dark eyes softening despite the violence written across his features.

"You're cooking," he said softly, as if that was the most remarkable thing about this moment, not the fact that he looked like he'd been through a war. His gaze took in your messy bun and the silk pajamas that whispered against your skin as you moved, a possessive warmth creeping into his expression despite his battered state.

"Minho..." You stepped toward him, hand reaching out instinctively before you caught yourself. "What happened to you?"

He let you guide him to the master bathroom, his usual iron control giving way to an unexpected docility. Your hands trembled slightly as you helped him out of his ruined jacket, revealing more bruises blooming across his arms. The white dress shirt beneath was spattered with blood, and you carefully unbuttoned it, trying to ignore the way his muscles tensed under your fingertips.

Your breath caught as the shirt fell away. Despite the fresh bruises marring his skin, you couldn't help but notice the lean muscle underneath, the way old scars traced paths across his torso telling stories of previous violence. Minho watched you through hooded eyes as you wet a washcloth with warm water, his hands finding their way to your waist when you stepped between his legs to clean the cuts on his face.

The bathroom felt smaller somehow, the space between you charged with an electricity that made your skin prickle. You could feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of blood. His grip on your waist tightened almost imperceptibly as you dabbed at a particularly nasty cut above his eyebrow.

"My father," he finally said, his voice low and rough. "He sent his men to teach me a lesson." His thumb traced small circles against your hip, the gesture almost unconscious. "He's angry that I took you from the club."

You found yourself leaning into him despite yourself, your free hand resting on his shoulder for balance. The intimacy of the moment wasn't lost on you - the way his breath ghosted across your collarbone, how his dark eyes never left your face as you worked. It was dangerous, this closing distance between captor and captive, but in that moment, with his vulnerability on display, the lines seemed to blur even further.

He lifted his hand to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek. "So what will you do?" you asked softly, setting the cloth down and pushing his dark hair away from his brooding eyes. "You work for him, right? Doesn't he have all the power?"

Minho's eyes darkened, a flash of something dangerous passing through them. "I'll protect you," he murmured, pulling you closer until you were pressed against his chest. His lips ghosted along your jaw as he spoke, each word a warm caress against your skin. "We can run away together. The possibilities are unending for us."

Your hands trembled where they rested against his bare chest, caught between wanting to push him away and pull him closer. His grip tightened slightly, possessive yet gentle. "Whatever we decide," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, "I'll take care of you. Be someone you deserve."

Your lips met his in a heated rush, all the tension of the past weeks flowing into that single moment of connection. His response was measured, controlled - so different from his usual domineering nature. His hands remained gentle on your waist, letting you set the pace, letting you take what you wanted from him.

The kiss deepened, and you could taste the metallic hint of blood from his split lip, feel the slight wince when you pressed too hard against his bruises. But he didn't pull away. Instead, he let you explore, let you take control for the first time since this strange dance between you began.

When you finally broke apart, his eyes were dark with desire, but there was something else there too - a vulnerability you'd never seen before. His thumb traced your lower lip, his touch feather-light. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I need you to be sure."

You met his gaze steadily, a slight nod answering his question. Without hesitation, you reached for him, fingers trailing along his jaw. "I'm sure," you whispered, the words carrying the weight of everything unspoken between you.

In one fluid motion, he lifted you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you were something precious. Your breath caught at the tenderness in his touch - so different from the violence you'd witnessed in him before. He carried you to his bed, the silk sheets cool against your skin as he laid you down with utmost care.

Minho's eyes never left yours as he slowly began to undress you, each movement deliberate and reverent. The silk pajamas whispered against your skin as he slid them away, leaving you exposed to his hungry gaze. But instead of the rushed passion you expected, he took his time, starting at your ankles with feather-light kisses that made you shiver.

He worked his way up your legs with agonizing slowness, mapping every inch of your skin with his lips and tongue. His hands followed the path of his mouth, leaving trails of fire in their wake. When he reached the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, your breath hitched, fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you.

"Beautiful," he murmured against your skin, his warm breath making you tremble. His touch was worship, each kiss a prayer, each caress an offering. He took his time exploring every curve, every hollow, treating your body like a temple he'd been waiting his whole life to pray at.

Your thighs quivered beneath his touch as his strong, calloused hands slowly spread them apart, his fingertips leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. His heated gaze darkened with raw desire as he took in the sight of your arousal, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in anticipation. A deep, possessive growl rumbled in his chest, the primal sound sending shivers down your spine. He leaned forward with deliberate slowness, his warm breath ghosting across your sensitive skin before pressing reverent, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, each one moving closer to where you needed him most.

His mouth found your center, tongue tracing delicate patterns that made your back arch off the bed. Each stroke was deliberate, worshipful, drawing desperate sounds from your throat that seemed to fuel his passion. Your fingers tangled in his dark hair as waves of pleasure coursed through you.

Minho groaned against you, the vibrations adding to the overwhelming sensations. "Your sounds," he murmured between kisses, "are the sweetest music I've ever heard." His grip on your thighs tightened as your body writhed beneath his devoted attention.

His talented tongue circled your sensitive bud with increasing pressure, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that made your thighs tremble. When his lips wrapped around your clit and began to suck gently, stars exploded behind your eyes. Your back arched off the bed as waves of pleasure coursed through your body, his name falling from your lips in desperate gasps.

He worked you through your orgasm with gentle laps of his tongue, only pulling away when your tremors subsided. Rising to his feet, Minho's hands moved to his belt, unfastening it with deliberate slowness. Your eyes followed his movements hungrily as he stripped off his remaining clothes, his impressive length springing free.

In the dim light, you could see the map of scars across his muscled form - some old and faded, others still pink and new. Each mark told a story of survival, of strength. They were as much a part of him as his intense dark eyes and gentle hands. The juxtaposition of his dangerous past and his tender touch only made him more magnetic, more irresistible.

You rose to your knees on the bed, reaching for him with gentle hands. "Let me," you whispered, and something flickered in his dark eyes - surprise, vulnerability, desire all mixed into one. When you guided him to lie back against the pillows, he complied without resistance, his muscled body relaxing under your touch.

Moving between his powerful thighs, you took your time exploring him, trailing soft kisses down his chest and abdomen. Your lips traced the edges of his scars with reverent tenderness, showing love to every mark that life had left on him. His breathing grew heavier with each touch, his hands fisting in the sheets beside him.

When you finally reached his impressive length, you began with feather-light kisses along the shaft, delighting in the way it twitched beneath your lips. Your tongue darted out to taste him, tracing delicate patterns from base to tip. A low groan escaped his throat, his hips lifting slightly off the bed, seeking more of your touch.

"Y/n," he breathed, one hand coming to tangle gently in your hair. The tension in his body told you he was fighting to maintain control, to let you set the pace. You rewarded his patience by taking him into your mouth, inch by inch, your tongue swirling around his sensitive head.

His sharp intake of breath spurred you on. You worked him slowly, reverently, alternating between gentle suction and long, languid licks. His fingers tightened in your hair, not controlling, just connecting, grounding himself in your touch as pleasure coursed through him.

With practiced skill, you took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you increased the suction. His length pulsed against your tongue as you worked him with passionate dedication. Each bob of your head drew increasingly desperate sounds from his throat, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

When you felt him begin to tremble beneath you, you released him with a final, lingering lick. His eyes were dark with need as you crawled up his body, your skin sliding against his. Positioning yourself above him, you slowly sank down onto his length, gasping at the delicious stretch as he filled you completely.

His hands found your hips, steadying you as you adjusted to his size. The look of pure adoration in his eyes made your heart flutter, even as the pleasure of being so intimately connected threatened to overwhelm you.

You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sensual rhythm that had both of you gasping. His hands tightened on your waist, guiding your movements as you found a perfect tempo together. The moonlight streaming through the windows painted silver patterns across your joined bodies, turning this moment of passion into something almost ethereal.

Minho sat up suddenly, pulling you tight against his chest as he continued thrusting up into you. His lips found your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses as one hand slid up your back to tangle in your hair. The new angle sent sparks of pleasure through your body, drawing a desperate moan from your throat as he hit that perfect spot deep inside you.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak, your bodies moving together in perfect synchronization. His lips captured yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as his thrusts became more urgent, more desperate. The coil of tension in your core wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

You could feel him getting close - his controlled rhythm faltering as passion overtook technique. His movements grew increasingly desperate, hips snapping up with primal urgency as his kisses became messier, more demanding. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks, anchoring you against him as you rolled your hips to meet each powerful thrust. When your name fell from his lips, it was reverent yet raw - "Y/n... oh god..." - the words muffled against your throat between ragged breaths.

This transcended mere physical pleasure. Each touch, each kiss felt like an act of worship, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. Your heart swelled with an emotion far deeper than desire, threatening to burst from your chest. In that moment of perfect connection, you surrendered completely to the feeling, knowing with absolute certainty that you were irrevocably his.

His thrusts grew erratic, hitting deeper and harder as you both chased your release. When it finally crashed over you, it was overwhelming - waves of pleasure coursing through every nerve ending as your walls clenched around him rhythmically. Your breathless cries of ecstasy mingled with his deep, guttural groans. His hips stuttered as he followed you over the edge, his release hot and pulsing deep inside you as your bodies trembled together.

Completely spent, you collapsed onto his heaving chest, both of you slick with sweat and struggling to catch your breath. His heart thundered against your ear as his hands traced lazy patterns along your spine. Despite your shared state of dishevelment, he held you close, refusing to let go.

Minho's lips found your skin again, pressing tender kisses along your jaw and down the column of your neck. Each touch was filled with affection, marking you as his in the gentlest way possible. Wrapped in his strong arms, surrounded by his warmth, you drifted off to sleep listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing and the gradual slowing of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

---

The next morning you were woken up by early morning light drifting in from the large windows. Your body was a bit sore as you rolled over onto your back, stretching your muscles slowly. As you moved the blankets rustled next to you revealing a very cute and puffy looking Minho. He was still a sleep and you couldn’t help but stare. His hair a mess, his lips pouty and pink.

You couldn't suppress a soft giggle at the sight before you - this dangerous, powerful man now looking utterly defenseless in his sleep. His usual sharp features had softened, making him appear almost boyish. The contrast between his daytime intensity and this vulnerable state made your heart flutter. With gentle fingers, you traced the strong line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble beneath your fingertips. Your touch wandered up to follow the elegant slope of his nose, admiring how his long eyelashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks in the morning light. He was devastatingly handsome - the kind of beauty that made your breath catch every time you looked at him. When your fingertips ghosted across his full bottom lip, you felt him beginning to stir beneath your touch.

"Having fun?" Minho's voice was thick with sleep, a deep rumble that sent shivers down your spine. Though his eyes remained closed, a knowing smirk played at the corners of his mouth. His morning voice was deliciously husky, each word dripping like honey. Your pulse quickened as those dark eyes slowly fluttered open, still heavy-lidded but instantly focused on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

Before you could stammer out a response, his strong arms snaked around your waist. In one fluid motion, he pulled your naked body flush against his, eliminating any space between you. The heat radiating from his skin was intoxicating - he was like your own personal furnace, radiating warmth and comfort. His firm chest pressed against yours as you eagerly molded yourself to him, your legs tangling with his beneath the sheets. You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine.

You both lay there in silence for a while, basking in the peaceful morning stillness. The gentle rise and fall of his chest against yours and the soft caress of his fingers along your spine created a bubble of serenity that you wished could last forever. But the weight of reality couldn't be held at bay indefinitely.

Minho's voice, when he finally broke the silence, carried a gravity that made your heart clench. "You know, my father won't stop," he said, his jaw tightening visibly. "He sees you as something I’ve taken from him - a possession, a bargaining chip. He'll never understand that you're not his to claim." His words hung heavy between you, laden with unspoken fears and promises.

You sat up slowly to look at him properly, the silk sheets sliding away from your body. Though the morning air was cool against your exposed skin, you barely noticed it. Minho's eyes remained fixed on your face, his dark gaze intense with a mixture of concern and fierce protectiveness. The vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache.

"Minho," you whispered, reaching out to trace the worried crease between his brows. "I'm with you. Whatever we need to do... whatever battles we have to fight, whatever sacrifices we have to make - I'll do it all as long as I'm with you. Your father, the organization, none of it matters compared to this - to us."

The impact of your words hit him like a physical force. You watched as his carefully maintained walls crumbled, leaving him completely bare before you - no longer the feared enforcer or the dutiful son, but simply a man in love. His hands trembled slightly as they came up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing softly across your cheekbones. The tenderness in his touch contrasted sharply with the intensity burning in his eyes.

He pulled you close, capturing your lips in a kiss that spoke volumes. It was desperate and gentle all at once, filled with gratitude, fear, hope, and above all, love. When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes bore into your soul with newfound determination. "Then we leave," he breathed against your lips, his voice rough with emotion. "We'll disappear, start fresh somewhere they can't reach us. Make a life for ourselves far away from all of this - just you and me."

Tags:

@hyunjinhoexxx @ihrtlino @vixensss @doohnut @kpflyn @rylea08 @sheerfreesia007 @tsunderelino @rockstarkkami @moonchild9350 @myflowercloud @143hyunes @luvyblossom @thisaintredwine @jisuperboard @velvetmoonlight @skzfelixlove @athforskz @cashtonsbetch @babigriin @seunmong-in @cookiesandcreammy @bangchans-angel @iovecb97 @juskz @fawnpeaks @chuuyaobsessed @tirena1 @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @simpforleeknaur @mihoonz @redlightsrachaaa @minniesverse @everythingboutkpop @yaorzu-blog @catlove83 @syedazarintasnim @sapphirewaves

[lunawlw]

so all the talk about land back along with abolishing the police, down with capitalism, all cops being bastards, punching nazis, being gay doing crimes, and black lives matter was just a fucking lie from yall huh

[chidorrrita]

・❥・and I just might know you too

the worries of a scientist never go away but you make them slightly better

: ̗̀➛ viktor x gn!reader

: ̗̀➛ cw: just sweet fluff, s1 act2 vik, angst if you squint your eyes and have watched s2 (but no spoilers so don't worry)

: ̗̀➛ wc: 1k+

: ̗̀➛ a/n: My finals are coming up and I’m feeling incredibly stressed so in the spirit of things I thought of making Viktor equally stressed so we can tear our hair out together

Progress Day is only a week away and Viktor couldn’t be more stressed. He’s spent almost every day he can at his lab, opting to sleep in his makeshift bed and eating subpar cafeteria food in order to try and finish the grand machinery he and Jayce have planned to show off. 

On the rare occasion, you drop by his little lair to leave an important paper from his apartment or a home cooked meal. He gives you a curt thank you and immediately returns to work leaving no time for distraction as you are often his biggest one. You had once come with plans of eating lunch with him, which he greatly appreciated, but had to turn down as he surely would not want to leave your company and work would never be done. So you keep your visits short if only to save Jayce the headache of yet another unfinished stack of papers on his desk.

The week slowly passes, uneventful and boring with Viktor cooped up, unable to share his new findings or sassy wit, which you sorely miss, but soon Progress Day arrives. 

The entirety of Piltover is buzzing in excitement and everyone at your job can’t seem to stop talking about what “Golden Boy” Talis has in store for them this year. Although it is a very exciting day, your giddiness is not towards the new fancy technology or the colorful parade, but rather a certain, currently distressed, scientist. Your boss yells over the commotion for everyone to settle down before sulking off to his office and you count the minutes until your shift is over.

The moment the clock hand hits three you are out of there, missing your boss once again shouting over the desks demanding a thank you for half-day of work, and rush out the door and towards the trolleys taking people to the center of town. You hop on the back just as one is leaving, nearly tumbling over your impatient feet before grabbing the copper pole, watching as the buildings get smaller in the distance as you approach the ever growing academy building. Leaping off the trolley, you race inside, taking two steps at a time on the several staircases until you find yourself in front of Viktor’s lab once again.

You rap your knuckles against the door once then twice. On the other side you hear light shuffling and the sound of a metal crutch hitting the floor until the door opens to an exhausted looking Viktor. 

The bags under his eyes have gotten significantly deeper, and his suit quite wrinkled no doubt from hours of hunching over his desk. His face visibly lightens at the sight of you 

“What a welcome surprise. I thought you were coming here after the ceremony.”

You step through, eyes scanning the messy state of his lab, crumbled paper strewn about the floor and varying sizes of metal gears taking up most of his desk.

“I was but my boss let us out early today. A sign of his endless generosity.” You draw out your words, elegantly throwing your hands up, as your boss is anything but generous. Chuckling to yourself, you spin on your back foot towards Viktor, taking in his disheveled appearance, the fluffy spikes pointing in all different directions. “I hope that’s okay.”

He lets out a light laugh, nodding his head. “Of course.” 

Closing the door behind him and settling into his stool pushed to the corner of his desk, the only part that isn’t covered in gears. You saunter over, leaning against the side of the desk, peering at piles of paper with chicken scratch writing that could only belong to Viktor. How he’s able to read his notes is beyond you. One of science's greatest mysteries. 

The desk creaks as Viktor places his elbows upon it, a hand above his brow then dragging it down his face in frustration, shutting his eyes. A low grumble escapes his chest before he blurts out “I just don’t understand.” 

You turn your head slightly, but stay silent and let him continue, and he lets out another dejected sigh. “The professor won’t allow us to present our new technology. We could be changing lives right now.” 

Now you’ve never been very scientifically inclined, but you have learned that much in the field is controlled by shady deals and red tape through Viktor. This must be another one of those cases and Viktor has never been one to care for what he would call “petty office politics” even concerning the Council. 

There isn’t much you can do other than comfort him, so you take his tired hands in yours, rubbing slow circles over his overworked tendons. “I’m sorry Vik.” 

His voice softens, relaxing against your touch. “There's no need to be sorry. It’s not your fault.” 

He momentarily leaves your hold to guide you in front of him, moving his papers and patting the empty spot on the desk. You oblige and gently take a seat as to not disturb the rest of his contraptions. Opening your legs, you scoot his stool closer with your feet, and he smoothly slots in between, head resting against your chest. The soft beating of your heart calms him, and he melts further into you. 

Your hand reaches up to brush through his thick hair, tucking it behind his ear, bending down to whisper, “it will all work out. I’m sure of it.”

He snorts and gives you an incredulous look. “How can you be so confident?” 

Your reply comes easily. “Because I know you. You’ll find a way. You always have.”

Any response he had dies on his tongue and instead he gives you a sheepish smile, cheeks turning slightly red at your compliment. You smile back, leaning forward to give him a chaste kiss which only turns him even more red. He retreats back to your chest, arms circling around your waist squeezing tighter than before. 

Perhaps you are right. All this will work out in the end and he can do what he set out to be. Not merely a scientist chained to create whatever his contributors wanted but someone who actually helps people. Perhaps even help the people of Zaun. Give them the same hope you have given him.

He presses a kiss just above your heart, a promise to you and himself that he will stay true to his dream. 

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - VI

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence, divider by animatedglittergraphics

6. creature of the night

In the back of the yellow taxi driven by the faithful Chas, John makes a point not to touch you. You are so heartbroken by the events of the past half hour that it does not even register that Chas is driving you somewhere other than your mutual apartment building, until you pull up in front of a dilapidated storefront declaring “BOWL, BOW, BOWL” on the neon sign. 

“What…?”

“My friend Beeman’s place. Somewhere to lay low,” John explains, throwing open the door of the cab.  

“Thanks, Chas,” you say, because John never seems to find it necessary to do so. 

“Sure, y/n,” answers the young man. “Hey John–” 

John slams the door shut on Chas’s question. 

“You’re so mean to him,” you sigh.  

He only answers that with a snort, coughing to the side. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” 

He leads you through the doors, and up some stairs to a living space above the bowling alley. It is long, with high ceilings, white subway tiles, and crumbling lead paint on the paneling. A bank of windows stretches all down the wall. 

It’s an interesting space, but the windows could be a problem for you, come dawn. 

“There’s a big closet in the other room,” he assures you, like he can read your mind. 

He directs you into a chair at a long table, and all business, starts loosening his tie. 

“John…wait.” 

“You don’t have time to wait. You look like shit, and his blood will contaminate your ability to fight him.” He cocks his head, looking down at you. “Unless you don’t plan on fighting him? You looked pretty cozy when I found you.” 

A thread of heat dances down that connection between you, and you pause with surprise as you recognize it for what it is. Jealousy? After the way he’s avoided you? Is he fucking kidding right now? 

“You look like shit,” you counter, and you realize it’s true. His skin is sallow; there are dark circles under his eyes. He was always slender, but now he borders on too thin. You know he doesn’t take care of himself, but this is beyond the usual abuse. Was he not sleeping or eating because of you? You think on what Wick said to you. He doesn’t look good. I won’t have to wait long for you. What the fuck did that mean? “Are you ok?” you demand, standing to examine him more closely. 

“I’m fine,” he grouses, backing away. 

You don’t believe him, and the two of you stand in the kitchen facing off with each other, both pissed, though you suspect, for different reasons. 

Somehow you know if you keep pushing him, John will just refuse to talk to you at all, stubborn bull of a man that he is. So you change tack, appealing to the know-it-all in him. 

“What…is he?” 

“John Wick is a hybrid,” Constantine explains matter of factly. “Half human, half vampire. Your perfect predator. They have to drink vampire blood to stay alive, and they can live a long time.”

“He drank my blood,” you admit, touching the marks at your throat that still have not healed. Usually such an injury would have sealed over by now. “But then…he gave me some back.” 

Constantine snorts. “Yeah, I saw that.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. 

“He said…I reminded him of someone he once knew.” 

“When you’ve lived as long as he has, probably everyone reminds you of someone,” John scoffs. 

“He slaughtered all of don Juan’s vampires, at Perla. Juan was going to hold me hostage to bait you. But then Wick came up the stairs, and…Jesus Christ. It was a massacre.” 

“Yeah. He does that.”

“Juan got away, and Wick…spared me.” 

“Spared you, huh? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

Your annoyance spikes. “You know, for someone who has been avoiding me like the plague, you sure seem to care about who I kiss!”

“You can makeout with whoever you want, sweetheart, I couldn’t care less. But what the hell were you doing at Perla?” 

His tone suggests he might feel otherwise.

“Hunting.” 

“At the Master’s own club? Are you kidding me?”   

For a moment you are taken aback, and then you really see red. “I didn’t know it was the Master’s club because you’ve never fucking told me anything, John!” Seething, you go on, “You didn’t have to fuck me. You didn’t have to feed me. But it would have been nice if you could have at least prepared me!”

In the end you are toe to toe, and points to John for not flinching while your eyes are flashing orange and your fangs are bared. 

“I tried,” he insists through his teeth, a lot more calmly than you. “But everytime I’m around you…”

You share blood and body fluids, is the short of it, and you know he’s not wrong.  

You let out a long breath, trying to calm down. The following inhale does not exactly help you; it’s all John, his yummy cologne and the scent of his skin and that beautiful essence coursing beneath it and jesus fucking christ no wonder he hates you. 

You retreat, turning your back on him, trying not to cry, trying not to yell, and trying not to tackle him to the floor to drink him down.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and you mean it. “I didn’t know how to control it.” You think about that golden thread between you, and the way don Juan taunted you, and the name slung so freely by the vampire hunter like it was an insult. Maybe you have an inkling of why John’s been avoiding you like the plague. “What did I do to you, John?”

“I know you didn’t mean to.” 

He sounds as miserable as you feel. 

“Mean to what?”

“You made me your creature, y/n. Familiar, human servant, famulus, bonded, thrall, Renfield. You want all the names for it?” 

You turn to look at him, your heart breaking all over again. “I just…liked you, John.” 

More than liked him, apparently, but you’d rather die than admit it now. 

He nods, suddenly very interested in a stain on the wall, his jaw clenching. “I liked you too,” he admits. “But this is…not good.” 

You feel that light inside you, that warmth that is a part of him, somehow, a part of you. You tug on it, and he can’t help but look at you then. “It feels good?” you say.

“Yeah.” He takes a step closer towards you. “But if I was damned before…” Another step. “I’m really fucked now.” 

You shake your head, at such a loss. What kind of a God would forsake his children so freely, if not a complete sadist? Isn’t he supposed to be all love and forgiveness?

“We’re not bad people, John.” 

“I know. It doesn’t matter. There are rules.” 

“You know, you’ve never told me…why you think you’re going to Hell?”

“Because when I was a teenager, and driven to despair living in an institution because of the things God gave me the gift to see…I killed myself. I spent two minutes in the fiery pit before they brought me back, but it was enough. It’s…pure agony, y/n, and it lasts for an eternity.” 

Your lip quivers as the magnitude of what he’s telling you sinks in. Growing up, Heaven and Hell were such abstractions to you. Something you suspected your parents threatened you with just to get you to behave. But hearing him say it like this…you believe him. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, John. Can it be undone? Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” 

Sadly, he just shakes his head. Does that mean it’s irreversible? With a heavy sigh he sits down in one of the kitchen chairs, pulling over his bottle of Ardbeg and splashing a couple fingers into a glass. He doesn’t offer you any–not that you’d want it, but still rude. You shouldn’t be surprised by now. “I admit I didn’t think you could even do it yet, you’re so new.” 

You think about the power the two of you called up, the last time you were together. You’ve always been fire together, even when you barely knew each other. Isn’t that worth something? How is that not something gifted by God, if indeed that motherfucker does exist?

“Are you ready now?” he asks, sounding resigned, pulling his collar aside again. 

You look away, because the sight of his bare throat affects you like a teenager with a PLAYBOY centerfold, making you flush all over. Jesus Christ, will you ever not want him so much? 

Even with your belly full of dhampir blood; his pulse calls to you with a siren’s song.

His heart beats for you, your deepest instincts whisper, even while your head knows it's all a wishful thought.

“I can find someone else, John. I’ve caused you so much trouble.” 

The sound he makes at the thought of you with someone else low in his throat is nearly a growl–but then ends in a violent cough.

You take a step closer. “Are you sick? Do you have the flu or something?”

He actually laughs at that–then coughs some more. “No, I don’t have the flu.” 

“Then what?” 

The bitter curl of lips he offers you hurts your heart. “The irony is, I’d probably be dead by now if not for you.” 

“What?”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

“I’m dying, y/n. I’ve got cancer.” He spits the last word, as though he finds it utterly absurd, like an insult God has personally bestowed upon him.

You feel as though the floor has dropped out from under you, a ringing in your ears like you were at ground zero of an explosion. Cancer? All the things this man has faced…and…he’s got fucking cancer? 

“How long have you known?” Your voice cracks with the effort to keep it all in.

“Not long.” 

“Prognosis?” you ask quietly, fearing the answer like the monster under the bed. 

“Not good.” When he sees your lip trembling he adds, “Please don’t fuss.” You don’t have much blood to spare, but you feel the sting of tears start to well in your eyes again. “And definitely don’t cry. Come on, y/n.” The admonition turns into a coughing fit. He turns his head, covering it with his sleeve. When he lowers his arm you see the stain of blood from his lips, and your heart hits rock bottom. 

“Oh my god. You should be in a hospital!” 

If you can sense so much, how did you miss this?

“Well…I’m kind of busy trying to save the world right now. Whatever Hell’s cooking up this time, it’s big. I can feel it. If I don’t stop it…nothing up here might matter anymore anyway.”

“Ok…what do we need to do?” 

He snorts. “We? Oh no. You’re staying out of it. I leave you unsupervised and you get tangled up with the Master of the City and the world’s most dangerous dhampir in one night?”

You clench your jaw, trying to hold it in. Your despair, and your frustration, because for someone so smart this man sure can be a fucking idiot. 

“John, you should be in treatment!”

He shrugs, paying you that rueful half smile that ties your heartstrings up in knots. It would be a full on grin for most people. You realize that he would fucking hate it if you started weeping all over him, but this form of expression of your grief for him is acceptable. This, he’s actually enjoying, the weird bastard. 

This man is going to be the death of you. 

You are on the verge of chewing him out when he tugs at that connection between you, and that golden coil inside you flares to life. You shudder, closing your eyes, hardly able to keep yourself from crawling into his lap. You’re trying not to be a horny mess in the middle of this serious discussion–and failing badly. 

“Feel that?” 

“What is it?” He has so much more experience with this metaphysical stuff than you. 

He chews on his answer for a long time, before finally admitting, “I’ve been doing some reading. I think…we’re bound.” 

“Bound how?” 

“Our life forces,” he tries to explain. “We can…feel each other. It’s how I found you tonight. I felt you calling me, I knew you were in trouble. And we make each other stronger. I think…you’re keeping me alive, for now, but I don’t know for how long. The cancer’s still getting worse, just…slower.” 

“You should have told me.” 

“I…didn’t know how,” he admits. Most people would have added, I’m sorry, but not John Constantine. 

You finally get up the courage to take another step closer, standing between his spread legs. You reach out to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the line of his dark hair around his ear. You should have noticed immediately that he was looking gaunt. His eyes close under your touch, a long sigh escaping him, and you sense how horrible it’s been for him to carry this burden all alone. Always so alone, your John, and mostly, by his own choice.  

“If you need money for chemo I’ll get it for you.” 

His lips twist with amusement at hearing that. “Yeah? You gonna rob a drug cartel for me, Miss Vigilante?” Such is the state of the American healthcare system, that such extremes might be necessary.

“That’s not a bad idea.” 

He laughs, then regrets it as the coughing takes over. “Jesus. I’m sorry,” you say, patting his shoulder.  

“This is why I can’t be around you,” he snarks deadpan. “I’ll lose a damn lung.” 

You sigh, unable to stop yourself from thinking about the woman you saw him with last night. 

“Does…Angela know?” 

He blinks at that. “No, why would she?”

“Isn’t she…your girlfriend?”

Again, he starts to laugh, then forces himself to be still, squeezing his eyes shut. “What? No, we just met.” His dark eyes are practically sparkling as he looks up at you now, unbearably smug. He thinks this is funny, and you are so not going to tell him you were ready to chew through the concrete of your apartment building after seeing them together. “She’s helping me with a case. Or I’m helping her. The demon half-breeds are up to something big. I think they’re after her.” 

“Oh.” You are the worst, because rather than sympathy for that poor woman, all you feel is relief. “I…that’s awful.” 

“Yeah. I warded her apartment while I’m trying to get to the bottom of it. If she stays put, she should be fine…in theory.” 

“Oh. That was…nice of you.”

You can tell John is fighting not to smirk at you. “Yeah, that's me.”

Annoyed by his cheek, you insist, “You like her though. I could tell.”

“She’s alright,” he answers, interested in a knot in the table suddenly.

“You want her. I guess I don’t blame you. She’s pretty cute.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“I’m dying, for one.”

“All humans are in the process of dying.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Just saying. Better not waste your time.” You're interested in the floor too, as you say this. The thought of him with another woman claws at your insides, but you try to handle it like an adult. 

“You trying to get rid of me now?”

“Did I ever have you?”

If you’d still had to breathe, you would have held your breath, waiting for his answer, yearning for some acknowledgement of what is between you. But he only shakes his head, at you or himself you’re not sure, pouring himself another drink.

Your heart sinks like a stone to the bottom of a cold, cold lake. 

“You trying to clear your dance card for John Wick?” 

“You mean Jardani?”

“Oh, Jardani?” he singsongs mockingly, fluttering his lashes. “No one’s called him that in this century.”

“Fine. Whatever his name is, the answer’s no. He scares the fuck out of me.” 

It’s mostly true, though maybe not for the right reasons. 

“You didn’t look too scared, in the alley together. You looked like you were going to eat each other.”

You kind of did exactly that, and you didn’t know it was possible to blush as a vampire, but goddammit there it is. Cherry red heat, blistering your cheeks and the tips of your ears. 

“I don’t have to take this from you,” you growl, turning to go, though where you have no idea. 

“Hey, wait.” He catches your hand in his, and you are reminded somehow of the last time you were together. You have the control not to throw him onto the floor this time, just looking at him from under your lashes. 

“I’ve been waiting, John,” you finally say, and there’s no accusation in it now. Just resignation. Because if what he says is true–you’ve got the time to wait, but he definitely doesn’t. It seems surreal, that he could actually be fatally ill.

He sighs, and you marvel at how much this man can convey with the expulsion of some air. Annoyance, and maybe even some regret.  “I warned you, when this whole thing started, that I’m not boyfriend material.”

Why does hearing him say that hurt so much? You feel the sting of tears again, but you don’t let them fall. “I never expected you to be my boyfriend, John.”

“Then what did you want from me?” 

He seems genuinely curious, maybe as confused about all this as you are, and looking down into his soulful dark eyes you realize you don’t actually have an answer. You have all these feelings for this man, all this emotion that feels like a goddamn electrical storm crackling inside you, and yet…what did you want from him? Chocolates? Flowers? Love poems? You fucking knew better than that. You weren’t going to date like a normal couple. You weren’t going to move in together or meet each other’s parents. “I don’t know,” you admit, sounding as surprised as you feel. “Just some acknowledgement, maybe, that I meant something to you. 

He lifts an eyebrow to that. “Okay. Consider it acknowledged.” 

Somehow, this doesn’t exactly satisfy you. Disgusted, more with yourself than him now, you try to retreat again, but he won’t let go of your hand. 

“I like you, y/n,” he says with emphasis, squeezing your palm like there’s something you’re supposed to be reading between the lines. “But I don’t have anything to offer you except a target on your back. I’ve brought you nothing but trouble.”

“Is that what you really think?”  

Does he hate himself so much?

“I know it, y/n.” 

You can’t help but think of the joy you’ve felt in his arms. The pleasure, and the triumph, and the utter elation. That is why you have chased him, you realize. Because in the fleeting moments in which you catch him–you feel like you’re on top of the world. No one else has ever come close to making you feel the way John Constantine does–and if you say any of this out loud you’re afraid he’ll roll his eyes and laugh at you. 

With his handsome face in your hand you lean down as though drawn by a string, hoping to show him how you feel instead. Can’t he feel it, through this connection between you? The way you adore him? You think you feel it start to glow, and if you can invoke that magic you shared before, then surely he’ll understand. Maybe he will value himself more, if he understands how precious he is to you. He watches your approach with parted lips, his eyes fixed on you. But at the last minute he turns his head, and you freeze with mortification for his rejection. 

“You’ve still got dhampir blood in your mouth,” he says quietly, not meeting your gaze. 

He’s not wrong, of course. You didn’t exactly have a chance to brush your fucking teeth–and maybe that is pretty gross. 

You disgust him. 

You are a bloodsucking creature of the night, and even if he’s dying inside, he’s a demon hunter to the bone. 

Why you ever thought he could love you, is anyone’s guess.

[xtrafluffyteddy]

Burn

Guardian Demon! Ghost x reader

the lengths youd go to save the ones you love have no limits

For as long as you could remember Ghost had always been there no matter the situation he was there. You were getting mugged after a night at the pub? Ghost was there and all that was left of that man was a couple of teeth and a finger. Held hostage by enemies being tortured for information you didnt have? no worries Ghost was there to make sure no one would make it out alive except for you. The sigil branded in between your shoulder blades promised hed be with you until he could one day eat your soul.

unbeknownst to you Ghost had gotten more attached than he should have what was suppose to be just protection turned into something more, something he craved more than eating your soul he wanted you in your entirety only wanted your eyes on him only wanted your heart to beat for him.

this mission was suppose to be simple infilitrate, gather information, and get out so you decided to not call upon Ghost for this one what a stupid mistake that was seeing as the plan immediately crumbled when you entered a seemingly empty building not realizing that you had set off the incendiaries until the flames started eating the building one floor at a time "get out of there, were coming" Price shouted through the comms as you ran as fast as you could down the stairs avoiding falling debris the best you could

once you got to the bottom floor you covered your mouth to avoid inhaling to much smoke shielding your eyes from the unbearable heat that the fire emitted "fuck" you rasp as you duck and weave fallen beams and exposed wires only to be stopped by a large part of the ceiling slamming down in front of you blocking your only way out "fuck fuck fuck" you panic spinning around to see if there was anywhere you could run only to be enclosed on all sides "Ghost please" you whisper panic settling in your chest "fuck plea" you began only to be pinned under a falling piece of the ceiling crying out in pain

just as you felt like you were gonna give up, that you would never make it out alive there he was in all his glory, your Ghost, your demon walking through the fire like it was nothing pushing debris out of the way with ease "Simon" you rasped rarely ever using his real name "im trapped" you groaned looking down at the debris pinning your legs only to be met by Ghosts steely gaze as he picked it up with ease throwing it somewhere as he scoops you up cradling you close to his chest his hand placed over the sigil that connects you two "ive got you, no need to worry anymore" he reassured as he carried you out of the building where the rest of the 141 was waiting to take you to safety Ghost never leaving your side.

note: i may continue with demon ghost but i dunno

[donnieslvrgrl]

just had to write smth based on this, thank u @speaknow-sw for reminding me<3

cw : dom! don, fingering, praise, implied age gap (reader is 20-25), daddy kink if u squint, slight somno, don calls himself god

don had woken up earlier than you, as he usually does. grunting softly as he rolls to his side to pull you into him, nuzzling his face into your neck as he does.

breathing in your scent, and humming contently as you snuggle back against him in your sleep. ass pressing up against him and making him painfully aware of the morning wood he was sporting.

his hand moves slowly over your stomach, fingers sliding under the waistband of your shorts and into your panties, finding you’re already soaked.

he makes a noise, somewhat of a growl, into your neck. fingers spreading your folds and you start to stir. brows furrowed together in confusion as you begin to turn.

barely even able to speak before don’s pushing you back down, “shh, it okay, baby.” he coos, raising to his knees and feeling his chest swell with pride when you settle back into the plush bed easily.

removing his hand so he can remove your shorts and underwear. eyes quickly falling on your cunt. glistening in the soft light of the morning, and he can’t help but grin at the sight of you.

“so pretty, little lamb” he murmurs, big hands smoothing over your thighs and ass. squeezing softly at the soft, supple skin. lip caught between his teeth as he brings his hand to your cunt again.

you whimper into the pillow, fingers curling around it as your hips move on their own against his fingers. jaw falling open as he moves slowly, circling your clit with practiced ease.

“so eager this morning, angel” he chuckles, amused look on his face as he watches your hips move on their own. you nod, a soft “mhm” falling from your lips as he quickens his fingers a bit.

“need you, donnie” you whine, raising your hips off the mattress a bit as you look back at him. “patience, angel” he rumbles “you know i love to look at her” he groans, spreading you open and watching as you clench around nothing.

“such a pretty pussy” he coos, fingers swiping through your folds a few times. “this all for me, lamb?” he rasps, teasing your entrance and smiling at the way your breath shudders

heat rushes to your cheeks as you whine, wiggling your hips impatiently. glossy eyes fluttering shut as he gives into your pleas, long digits sinking into you.

“so fucking tight” he groans, head dropping to press kisses along your back, fingers building in pace as he feels you start to relax. “so good for me, takin my fingers so well” he whispers into your ear, fingers now thrusting quickly.

you reach back, fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer to you. “fuck, donnie!” you cry, head twisting so you can pepper kisses along his jaw. writhing and whining under his grasp, thighs beginning to shake as you near your release.

his fingers slip out of your cunt, hand gripping your hip to turn you on your back. “there’s my pretty girl” he coos, smiling down at you as your glossy eyes flutter up at him.

he leans down, capturing your lips in a heated kiss as his fingers slip back into your heat. fingers curling and hitting that soft, spongy spot that has you crumbling under him.

you cry out into his mouth, hands finding purchase on his shoulder. nails digging into the skin as you throw your head back into the pillows, and endless plea of his name falling from your lips.

“tell me, angel. what is it that you need?” he whispers, brows furrowing together as he watches your face contort in pleasure.

“wanna cum, please! please, donnie!” you whine, teary eyes gleaming at him, moaning softly at the soft growl he lets out. dropping his head into your chest as he works diligently between your legs.

“go on, little lamb. cum on God’s fingers, hm?” he rasps, head lifting back up once he hears your breath hitch, free hand coming to rub circles on your clit as your orgasm crashes over you.

“that’s it, angel. such a good girl” he coos, fingers still working as your hips buck into him. loud moans falling from your lips as it washes over you in waves.

“so pretty like this, baby” he murmurs, hands now sliding over your hips and up your sides as he leans over you. “did so good for me” he coos, pressing kisses on your cheeks and lips, fingers massaging your hips and thighs.

“mm love you, donnie” you manage to get out, eyes fluttering as your arms move to wrap around his neck, pulling him into you.

“i love you too, angel” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your hair before pulling back just enough to see your face. “and good morning”

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [02]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: canon-typical violene, patching up Reader, author pining for Lockwood

Summary: Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their demeanours are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems striking like a flash of bright lightning—quick-witted and assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off that he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Notes: [01] | [03]

Words: 7.3k

A/N: Nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming positive feedback I got for chapter 01!! Thank you so much for everyone who's joined the ride. I hope you guys will enjoy this as much as I!! (I'm on my 4th rewarch of Lockwood & Co. and I still delight in noticing all the small details they put into the show. Also. Lockwood's voice! Makes! Me! Weak!

02: for whom the bell tolls

each man’s death diminishes me, for i am involved in mankind. therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee

      — John Donne

The Rotwell dormitory you live in, nicknamed the Lions Den, is a stocky brick house taking up a good chunk of Dovehouse Street. There used to be a hotel there, way before the Problem, and then an apartment complex for the rich elderly until Rotwell bought the whole building and its private gardens just to prove they can. Echoing the classical Georgian townhouses of Chelsea built out of pale toast and earthy red shades of brick, every residence features timber-panelled walls, triple-glazed windows, and smoked oak floors throughout.

The front entrance has glass doors sliding open for anyone entering. Somehow, the foyer always smells like pine needle polisher. To the right side is a row of mail boxes with each tenant’s name, on the left side is the guard’s office, separated from the foyer by sleek glass panels. Someone decided to put a whole rainforest inside, monstera, rubber trees, philodendrons. They nearly swallow tonight’s agent covering the shift: a bulky, young girl with dark curls to her chin looking like a malformed porcelain doll—delicate features on top, sinewy muscle stretching the seams of her wine red agent jacket going down. She stares at you for a moment, blinking with her long black eyelashes.

You wave.

She doesn’t wave back, and returns to painting her nails a vibrant yellow you could pick out from space.

Inside your mail box, you find ads and unpaid bills, reminders to pay said bills, and a very unflattering drawing of you working out in the dormitory’s underground gym area. You crumble the note and throw it back inside, slamming the window shut.

Your two-room apartment lies at the end of a long corridor, facing the backside and gardens. It is a copy paste of all other living complexes inside this building: a small entrance leading into a spacious living area with a cream-coloured two-seater couch at its centre, a solid cherrywood desk next to the curtained window and a heavy antique armoire twice your size pushed against the wall. Behind an ornate cedar door is the small bedroom, king-sized bed and heavy bureau and all that makes it look more like a hotel room advert than a place where you could wind down after a hard day.

As always, you stand in the hallway for a moment before turning the lights on. It is quiet, the room smells of polished wood and washed laundry. As always, it feels as though the walls are closing in.

You flick the light on and stash your rapier inside the umbrella rack by the front door, ignoring the two trash bags waiting to be thrown out. The laundry has been hanging for three days, but there was just no time to clean it away because you’re barely here—every minute spend within these walls is taken up by sleeping, eating or occasionally staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling and counting the heavy thuds from above whenever the agent living in the upper apartment decides it is time to practice tango in high heels at three in the morning.

You cross the room and open the window, letting in the cool night breeze. The smell of dawn hangs in the air, crispy and cold like the crackling of dry leaves. It will take only a few more hours for the sun to rise and draw London’s people from their homes to go about their daily lives. Jobs, grocery runs, late afternoon dates, strolls through the parks. When the world wakes up, you turn in to sleep, bloody, beaten and bruised, but alive.

You wonder if every day will be like this. Fight against the Problem and only chip away at the immeasurable scale of its extent. This night, you have secured two Sources, stopped two hauntings. But how does this affect the grand scheme of things?

Your head hurts. Best to leave the existential crisis for another day; right now all you need is your soft pillow and the familiar smell of your lavender-detergent. The Problem will still be there once you wake up; it will not ruin those precious hours asleep where you don’t have to worry about anything.

Every apartment has a tiny kitchen and bath adjacent to the living area. A cup of tea before you turn in, and maybe one or two of those chocolate chip biscuit a client gave you last week in appreciation for driving off the Lurker in her basement.

The kitchen looks just like you left it: as though a salt bomb has gone off. There was no time to put away the dishes or give the pan a quick scrub before you left for your shift, and now the leftover burnt bits stick to the dark surface. The half-full cup of coffee has grown cold since the morning, left forgotten. You’re too tired to clean up. It’ll have to wait until you wake up, or maybe even after the next shift.

You consider throwing your head back and screaming for a second when all of a sudden an intense hate for this apartment geysers up and threatens to swallow you. It is tiny, suffocating. There is nothing personal about this—you could disappear from the world and it would just become someone else’s responsibility and property. Nothing would indicate that you left a mark in this place.

Putting the kettle on the stove, you pick out your favourite mug with a broken handle—Kipps’s fault when he knocked it off the table a couple months back—and return to the living room. Your coat smells of burnt fabric from ectoplasm. The agency is very strict when it comes to appearance and representing Rotwell's splendid work ethic, so replacing it will put another dent in your account, but that is still better than going through the same trouble as last month when you appeared with a chocolate smudge on your jacket and every supervisor spotting you gave you hell for it.

Half-shrugged out of your coat, you walk back, past the closed window.

And stop.

Slowly, you turn. Only your own reflection stares back at you—wide-eyed and dishevelled from today. There’s a dark patch on your shoulder where ectoplasm has eaten like acid through the fabric of your coat. The lock is latched firmly on the inside, the metal clip winking at you under the Tiffany lamp’s reflection. Suddenly, everything depends on how still you are against the moving world.

Where did you leave your rapier? Ah, inside the umbrella rack back in the hallway. What’s the closest bludgeon weapon you can get your hands on? Only an empty Pringles can, yesterday’s dinner.

In the window’s reflection, the dark patch on your shoulder rises, distorts. Grows a head. Even with the room plunged into silence, your heart beats rabbit-fast and you hold your breath to keep from making a sound. Just this once, you’re thankful you were running late this morning and didn’t have time to clean up the leftover breakfast on your office desk that stands against the wall. Not even five steps separate you from the blunt silver knife glinting under the lamp with specks of dried jam on its blade.

The shadow behind you grows bulky shoulders and broad arms. When it steps onto the small area just a little to the right from the entrance, the wood creaks.

The world jerks back into motion.

You lunge for the knife on the table when a hard body slams into yours. You crash against the wardrobe, your head hitting the hard wood with a loud crack. The room spins as all air is knocked out of your lungs. You notice a blurry shadow rising in front of you, and your body moves on autopilot—rolls to the right and falls to the ground just in time to dodge a fist punching a hole into the wardrobe.

Nauseating headache throbs like lightning flashes in the back of your head as you scramble back to your feet, wheezing from the pain spreading through your body from the impact. Your rapier. You need your rapier.

Wood splinters when your attacker draws his hand back. He is almost two heads taller than you, completely clad in black. Even his face hides behind a ski mask. All you see are two pinpricks of unfathomably dark eyes as though this man has gazed into an abyss and the abyss has gazed right back at him.

He doesn’t move for a second, stands as though frozen on the spot. Only his hand flexes, relaxes. Clenches. Silver glints off his gloved knuckles. He is here with one intention only: to hurt you.

You don’t have time to ask why. His legs are longer; he closes the distance between you with two long steps, swings his arm towards your face. You spin and fling yourself over the backrest of the sofa, bounce off its cushions and jump to your feet on the other side. With furniture between you and the intruder, you finally force yourself to take in deep breaths. Think.

The smell coming off of him. You recognise it. Grainy, woody with a fruity note. The sweetness you picked up earlier this night must have been caramel. Alcohol.

“Look, if this is about me bumping into your table earlier at the Green Goose, you could just ask for a proper apology,” you press out between gritted teeth. Your whole body feels like a giant bruise, sore and laden from exhaustion.

Every step he takes around the couch, you mirror until it becomes a dance of bodies and mind to see who gives in first; who slows down and loses focus.

At first you believe the noise to be your frantic breathing—or his rattling wheeze, but then you pick it up. A rough, scratchy voice.

“Dickey … need … dickey …”

Your muscles are so taut you fear they might snap any second. Another circle around your couch you go. “What? I don’t—I don’t know what that is.”

“The … the key,” he repeats, louder this time. “I need the key.”

“Key? What key?” You feel the gnawing urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the vertigo of this situation. “I don’t have a key—”

The memory flies back so fast it nearly knocks you out like an incoming brick. Bronze, small, resting within the cushions of a small seal. Disappearing into the deep pockets of a black coat. The echo of death and violence still sticking to your fingers even through the fabric of your gloves.

You round the couch again and stop, the desk at your back. The knife is just in reach. “I don’t have that key.”

“I saw it. He gave it to you. You have no idea how important it is to us.” His voice rises to a snarl, the quality rougher than satin scratching over bark.

“He never gave—” Another memory hurtles your way—it is a wonder you don’t pass out from a concussion. The candy. It is still inside your pocket, suddenly heavier than a stone.

Everything makes sense now.

You take a step back towards the table. “You’ve got it all wrong,” you say, your words tumbling over themselves in their haste to get out, “I don’t have the key, and I don’t know where it is. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“LIES!” he hollers, and punches the backrest of your couch. The loud thud is like a gunshut, and you move, whirl around and grab for the knife—and completely misjudge where it is. Instead, your hand slaps on the dirty plate.

It could be worse.

Heavy steps thump behind you. You grab the plate, turn and hurl it at the man. It slams into him, shattering into thousand pieces.

You fly past him, towards the hallway and umbrella rack where your rapier is waiting. Stretching your hand out, your fingers brush against the silver handle—

A hard grip catches the end of your trenchcoat, yanking you back. The blow comes out of nowhere, slamming into your face so hard you see stars. Your back teeth clang together. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as pain radiates from your cheek. Something sharp and hard slides across your knees, slicing the fabric of your jeans clean in half.

Fingers curling, tightening their hold around the familiar hilt, you turn and draw back your arm, and let it snap forward like a snake lashing out and sinking its venomous teeth into its prey.

The silver-tipped edge of your rapier drives into the man’s shoulder and he cries out in pain, staggers back—and takes your rapier with him. He curls his gloved fingers around the thin blade and yanks the tip out of his shoulder, throwing your weapon to the ground where it lies useless and completely out of reach.

He reaches into a side pocket and draws a jagged, razor-sharp knife.

On second thought, maybe you should just run.

You bolt for the hallway once more, this time aiming straight for the door. The sound of a fast-moving object sailing towards you—something moving quickly and swiftly and with enough force to slice the air in half—makes you throw yourself forward, just in time to dodge the glinting edge nipping your hair.

You yank at the handle, letting white light spill into the apartment from the outside hallway.

Two thinks happen at once.

You wrench the door open and squeeze through the narrow gab. The man behind you slams bodily into the door and you hear a pained groan. At the same time, something sharp cuts through your trenchcoat and jacket. Searing-hot pain explodes in your left side.

You manage to push through and shut the door with a loud slam. A second bang shakes the door; he must have run into it again trying to chase after you.

Hot pain radiates from your side. You grit your teeth hard enough your jaw hurts and follow along the hallway all the way back to the foyer.

When you reach the night guard’s office, there is nobody inside. As if this night couldn’t turn even worse. A small glass bottle lies disturbed on the table, spreading yellow nail polish like spilt blood on its surface. The girl must have knocked it over, now gone to fetch a cleaner.

Great.

You throw yourself under the table and disappear from sight; somewhere on the first floor a door slams shut.

There has to be a way out. A way to draw attention; a way to drive him away. As your eyes rake across the room to find something, anything, they land on a red button behind a small glass window. The ghost-alarm in case of hauntings inside the dorms.

You crawl out from under the desk and scurry across the room, heart beating in your throat. If you turn and he is behind you …

Slamming your fist into the small panel, the button gives away without any resistance.

Sirens blare in the building. More doors slam—opening this time as hundred agents emerge from their rooms. Voices echo from the hallways, drowned by the sprinklers going off and raining salt from the ceiling like little diamonds.

You back into a corner, wide eyes staring at the foyer and counting down the seconds until your attacker enters—any moment, any moment, any moment. Only agents begin to spill into the hall, pale faced, groggy from being rudely awakened after tiring shifts.

With the imminent threat gone, the adrenaline pumping through your body slowly ebbs away—leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion, and mind-numbing pain as though your whole body is one giant bruise.

Your clothes stick to your skin, something warm tickles down your side. You cross the room on wobbling feet, forcing yourself not to look; convincing yourself that it is just coffee, just like a few hours ago when you sat in the booth next to Kipps.

The phone receiver on a corner stand is heavier than you remember. Your fingers move as if possessed, finding the familiar numbers on the dial. It rings. Once, twice.

Tears prick in the back of your eyes as it keeps ringing, your call remaining unanswered. Maybe he hasn’t come home yet. Maybe he is still out. Your throat is dry. You feel like an animal trapped against a corner. Suddenly, everything goes blurry.

Click. Kipps’s tired groan is all you get for a hello.

“Quill,” you choke out. Because despite having to call DEPRAC or maybe an ambulance, Quill Kipps will always be the first you turn to in moments of crisis. “Quill, I might have been stabbed.”

Silence. On the other line, you hear fabric rustling, as though he is crawling out of bed.

“What,” Kipps says, his voice rough from sleep, “the fuck.”

You still don’t know what is so special about the address Kipps has sent you to compared to the hospital or Scotland Yard where you assume they are more qualified to handle your dilemma, but you hope that you arrive soon because the daggers the cab driver keeps throwing at you seem more lethal than the gashing wound in your side.

When he finally stops the car—abruptly enough to launch your body against the frontseat—you rummage through your pockets and empty them completely, leaving a generous tip for bleeding on his car seats.

You barely manage to close the door behind you when he speeds off, leaving a dust trail behind.

The sky is turning cotton pink on the horizon. Dawn spreads light and hope across the city, bright and clear, and very painful for your strained, exhausted eyes. You turn away, taking in your surroundings.

The cab has left you in a residential area at the centre of London where the Victorian semis look like they might belong on old postcards from better times, before the Problem. 35 Portland Row is an inconspicuous, four-level house at the very end of the street. Just like its neighbours, it would not suffer from a new repaint, or maybe just a good clean-up.

A lone shadow sits by the stairs leading into the building, rising when you approach. Kipps looks like you feel: his hair sticks out in all directions and there are half-moons of shadow under his eyes, as if they have been smudged there with coal. He rubs the back of his neck as though that would release all the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Worry is etched deep into his face—worry and guilt, and it is an expression you haven’t seen in a long time. It makes your heart clench, turning it into something small, hard, and cold.

He meets you halfway and catches you when you stumble into him, allowing yourself to be held at last. His hold on you is strong and hard, until you hiss when sharp pain from your wound makes it hard to walk. Kipps’s hold lightens.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, his long fingers gently nudging your head left and right by your chin. You’re pretty sure there is a nasty bruise blooming from the punch.

“Turns out someone out there really wants that bloody key,” you say, unable to put quite the heat into the words like you wanted.

The effect is pretty much the same.

It is like a door slamming shut; his expression closes off completely. He puts your arm around his shoulders and hauls you up the stairs. To your surprise, the door is already unlocked and swings open when he pushes against it with his other shoulder.

You enter into a narrow, dark hallway, only illuminated by light streaming into it from an adjacent room. The house smells of iron and salt, leather coats, and a curious dusty, musty tang. On both sides of the walls hang weird masks and odd curios on shelves. Everything about this entrance screams extravagance, but also something inexplicably homely. The complete opposite from your apartment. Voices sound from the first door to your right, silencing upon the front door clicking shut behind you. Now everything is dead silent.

Kipps leads you past an old, chipped plant pot that functions as an umbrella stand and rapier holder. They are old French models with specks of ectoplasm stuck to blades, and dents in the hilts. One long, black umbrella is bent in the middle as though someone had used it as a weapon and didn’t get around to throw it away.

You emerge into a small, cluttered living area containing a fireplace, an old sofa and a few sturdy armchairs grouped around a coffee table. Heavy dark curtains obscure half of the window where the first streaks of sunlight steal through the gap, showing dust dance in the light.

Three heads swivel your way, all in different states of confusion. You recognise one face.

Anthony Lockwood jumps out of his armchair. It has only been a few hours since you last saw him, and so far he has only taken off his black coat. His white shirt is wrinkled, his black tie thrown over his shoulder. There is something restless about him, like a moth fluttering from flame to flame.

Kipps slides you into the free seat on the sofa right next to a giant pile of crumpled ironing. Shirts, pants, and briefs tumble to the ground as you finally allow yourself to slump into the seat and let your guard down.

The room tilts for a moment. You close your eyes, trying to comprehend today’s events. Multiple voices bombard you from all directions and turn into a pounding headache at the back of your skull.

A metal lid clicks open. Careful hands remove your coat, then lift your shirt where the blood has seeped into the fabric, making it stick to your gashed skin. When your eyes flutter open, Kipps kneels before you on the rug, a deep worry crease slicing through his forehead as he inspects your wound.

“Well, good news. It’s not that deep,” he observes. With swift fingers, calloused from handling rapier and tools, he takes the antiseptic and a clean wipe from the first-aid case—expert hands that are used to medical attention; that know the dance of patching up wounds and tending to injuries. You doubt it is something any agent will forget, even when they have served their duty.

When he applies the disinfect after cleaning the blood, you hiss; your body tenses from the pain. “Cool. I’ll thank him next time I see him,” you say through gritted teeth.

Kipps gives you a curt, quick look—but there is still some relief; relief that even now you can be snippy.

“Did you see his face? What did he look like?” Loockwood asks. He’s leaning over the back of the couch, hand holding onto the backrest hard enough his knuckles turn white.

“I don’t know, I was busy trying not go get turned into a shish kebab.” You kick at Kipps when he dabs the gauze a little too hard into your wound.

“Stop moving,” he warns.

“That didn’t work out much,” a girl’s voice notices drily.

You open your eyes. Behind Lockwood’s shoulder, two agents stare at you, blinking their wide eyes like owls.

The boy’s nose twitches. “She bled on the new rug, Lockwood.”

You feel like an exhibit in a museum. Lucy Carlyle and George Karim. Names only familiar to you because you can’t remember a day where Kipps has not complained about them as much as about Lockwood.

“Yeah, why exactly—am I here?” You shift in the seat. Something is poking you in the back. When you pat the cushion, you find an old, dry biscuit.

Behind Lockwood, Lucy gives George a long, pointed look. Seems like this isn’t the first time they witness someone finding leftover snacks in the crevices of their couch.

“You said he was looking for the key?” Kipps is applying gauze to your clean wound which makes everything just a little better; you begin to feel like a human again. Now all you need is a good, healthy amount of sleep. Preferable for the next three days.

“He thought I had it on me. Said something about … how important it was to them.”

Lockwood perks up. “Who is them?”

“Well, he didn’t give me a list or anything.” You pull out some stray socks from under your bum and let them join their siblings on the ground. Slumping into your seat, you notice it is quite comfortable. You’re sinking into the cushions and there is something calming about the smell of old wood and the heavy curtain’s detergent. “But he was desperate. It seemed like … I don’t know. He’ll be in serious trouble without it.”

“Well, good thing it’s with DEPRAC now,” Kipps says, settling back on his heels after he finishes bandaging you up. The silence hanging in the room is stifling. Kipps looks over the backrest of the sofa at Lockwood. “You did bring it to DEPRAC like we agreed to. Right, Lockwood?”

Slowly, Lockwood leans away from the sofa as though that is the only appropriate measure to take in case Kipps decides to hurl himself over the sofa and strangle him. He has the good manners to look almost contrite. “I might have missed out on the chance to deliver it to Inspector Barnes,” he says slowly. His face is calm and betrays nothing, like the blank statue of a saint in a cathedral.

Kipps is on his feet in an instant. Red patches of rage have broken out over his face and throat. “You lying, conniving piece of—”

Lockwood claps his hands loudly. “This just proves that we cannot let anyone except professionals handle this case. Least of all DEPRAC. Someone’s after it because they know whatever that key unlocks is important.”

“Or he was the Visitor’s killer and he knows it could be evidence,” George points out. “Like Annabelle Ward and Fairfa—”

Lucy slaps her hand over her coworker’s mouth. Her wide eyes stare at him, then pin you down. George blinks, then nods slowly.

You raise your hand. “You know, being the one who got stabbed over this, I veto you let the adults handle it.”

Lockwood gives you a dazzling smile. “Overruled.”

“Let’s sleep on it first,” Lucy says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll decide what to do next when we wake up. And yes, leaving it with DEPRAC is still an option.” She looks over at Lockwood, her eyebrows raised. You can’t think of many who manages to make a proposition sound like a threat.

“First reasonable thing I hear any of you say today,” Kipps scoffs. There is still anger in his voice, but you don’t think it is directed at anyone specific this time. This anger smells of frustration. It stems from knowing days like these are in the fine print of becoming an agent. The danger from having to deal with the living from time to time, which can be so much more dangerous than the dead. He turns to you. “Let me drop you off at a hotel.”

“I—” You don’t want to be alone, not after tonight. But Kipps also lives in the Fittes dormitories and they are mercilessly strict when it comes to non-employed visitors, despite being a senior supervisor like Kipps who enjoys some privileges.

“We must assume whoever attacked you might be out there still tracking you,” Lockwood says, and leans forward to settle his elbows against the backrest. His white shit stretches taut over his shoulders and back, catches over his spine. He lowers his dark eyes to you, within which swims a quiet, but solid confidence as though he has never faced a situation he couldn’t handle. It makes you want to rely on him, a thought you quickly push away the moment it steps into your mind. “We have a spare couch in the library you can crash on until morning—” He glances over his shoulder towards the window where sunlight peaks through the heavy curtains. An almost coy smile captures his lips, showing the hint of a dimple. “Until we wake up.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I can?”

Both Lucy and George give Lockwood the sideye. “She can?”

Lockwood frowns. “Unless you have somewhere else to go?”

“A couch sounds perfect.” You are tired enough you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. You throw Kipps a quick look. He doesn’t look happy, but even he realises this is better than leaving you all by yourself.

With nobody objecting, George heaves a defeated sigh. “Let me go and pick up the empty chips bags,” he says, and shuffles out of the room. You hear wood creak when he stalks down the hallway.

When you tear your eyes away from where he left through the door, you notice Lucy keeps staring at you with an odd look you can’t place. As though she doesn’t really know what to think of you and why you are suddenly here, only 'here' doesn't seem to apply to the living room of her home. It feels like she doesn't seem to know why you have suddenly stepped into her life. She manoeuvres around Lockwood, painstakingly making sure there’s furniture between you and her.

Kipps is by your side helping you up. He follows Lockwood's directions through the entrance hall. You pass the stairs to the end of the hallway where George is carrying an armful of empty bottles and plastic bags out of what you assume must be the library.

It is a small, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. No light sneaks inside with the heavy curtains shrouding the windows. Up to the ceilings, hardback volumes are crammed into black, heavy shelves that line all four walls. It smells of books and ink and printed paper, making you immediately feel at ease under the dim, warm light of an old standard lamp tucked into a corner.

Kipps makes sure you’re comfortable on the leather couch, throwing a worn, chequered wool blanket over your legs. He looks at you for a long moment. Then he seems to crumple inside, like paper; he sinks down in the leather chair opposite you, and puts his face into his hands. “I should have just told Lockwood No when he asked for someone with Touch. I never wanted you to get involved like this.”

“It’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it?” you state, but there is no malice or accusation in your voice. You are too tired for that.

Still, Kipps makes a sound like a kicked puppy. When you look over at him, you see him pale and slumped down, like someone who’s taken so many blows that the doesn’t want to stand anymore.

Your grab for his hand and squeeze until he returns your gaze. His pale green eyes look haunted. “I don’t think this is anyone’s fault,” you say. “Least of all yours.”

Kipps purses his lips. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Maybe,” he allows. He scrubs at his face, eyes flitting over the hardcover books surrounding him. You grow drowsy with every steady ticking of an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace. To your side is a small, mahogany Victorian pedestal table with a leftover cup next to a stack of London Society magazines. “Or maybe I should have been more careful,” he continues. “Be more careful. So this doesn’t happen again.”

The fog of sleep that almost takes you is cleanly cut by his words. You blink against the dizzy feeling that tries to pull you under; dragging you down like wet clothes when you swim. You let go of his hand and sit up. “You are not responsible for me,” you say, unable to keep the heat out of your voice now. It comes back full force, scathing and blazing. “I can look after myself perfectly fine, and I would not have you waste your life away because you think you are obliged to protect me.”

“You could barely fend off that attacker by yourself,” he shoots back—his voice strains to remain diplomatic, calm, but this is Quill Kipps, and he has never been capable of putting the lid on the smouldering fire when it comes to your safety. “I made a promise and I mean to keep it until you’re retired and old and stop getting into danger—”

The rage that always lives inside you rears when he says that ugly word—promise. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh.

“You are not my brother,” you snap. “And I don’t want you to be!”

All colour drains from Kipps’s face, then comes back in a rush of angry red as he tries to keep his anger under control. You know a lot about rage. How hard it could be to rein it in without a lifetime of practice. How it could eat you up inside.

He stands, slowly, calmly—and that is so much worse than when he explodes. This is him in his upset mood that you call ‘scary-calm.’ It is a calm that makes you think of the deceptive hard sheen of ice before it cracks under your weight.

“Quill—” you begin, but he is already moving towards the door.

“If I were Matthew,” he says at the threshold, not looking at you, “I would actually be able to protect you.”

It is a blow not meant to be a blow, and yet it drives through your chest like a poison-tipped spear. It stirs up age-old dust from a past you try to bury so hard that now you choke on it.

Matthew. Mat. Mat is gone because of you. And now Quill leaves you too.

You jump to your feet, ignoring the piercing pain in your side and stumble after him. Kipps disappears down the hall, then you hear the front door open, and slam shut.

You close your eyes and bang your head silently against the doorframe. Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat and your fingers shaking. All day you felt like walking on a tightrope, and now a single misplaced step sends you plunging. You have never felt this alone before.

“Do you do that because you enjoy it, or because it feels good when you stop?” says a drawling voice from the corridor outside.

Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their presences are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems bright like a flash of lightning—quick-witted, assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off, he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Any retort dies on your lips when he throws something your away, and you catch the first object mid-air, pulling a face when your wound protests. It is cold and heavy—a pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. The second thing hits you in the shoulder and clatters to the ground. A package of painkillers. If you would look up the word Oops in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Lockwood’s current expression.

You bring the ice pack up and press it against your cheek. “Thanks.”

Lockwood gives a crooked smile. “Plenty of time to figure everything out later. If you need anything, our rooms are just another floor up.”

Your mouth is dry. He isn’t nice because he wants to; he too does it out of an obligation. “OK. Thanks.”

He crams his hands into his pockets, eyes raking from your feet up to your face. It seems as though there is something else Lockwood wants to say, but he decides otherwise and ends up simply nodding before he ducks back towards the kitchen where you can hear the hushed, urgent voices of Lucy and George.

You retreat into the library and shut the door gently. Only the clock’s ticking fills the room now, so loud it is almost grating against your ears. You tug your gloves off gingerly and place them next to the magazines. The skin on your knuckles and the back of your hand is dry like sandpaper. Later this evening, you have to make sure to get your hand lotion.

Ignoring the unpleasant feeling, you lie down and shimmy under the blanket. You tug your hands close to your chest where there is no danger to accidentally touching anything—you know there is no threat from objects belonging to the living, but after almost a decade of experiencing death echoes ranging from mild joy to severe depression, it is soothing to know that the gloves conjure a sense of separation, of safety. Without them, you feel naked and vulnerable.

Just a few hours of sleep. Then you’ll figure out what to do. Maybe you can pretend the whole day didn’t happen—run a few jobs, clean up your room after the attack. Return to normalcy. Return to your day-to-day life before you got roped into Lockwood & Co.’s business and their wayward modus operandi.

You close your eyes and pretend you don’t feel strangely safe listening to the muffled voices coming from the other room.

Something has taken a hold of your legs.

Your stomach roils with panic as you thrash against its grasp, smelling damp soil and rotten leaves—someone is trying to put you under the ground, bury you alive in unholy ground where all hope and virtue is lost, just like—

You jerk free—

—and fall.

The floor is hard and unyielding, slamming you awake on impact. The pain follows right after, radiating from your side to the rest of your body. Groaning, you try to turn to your other side, but with your legs still half-entangled in the blanket, you don’t make it far.

There was a dream. At least you think there was a dream. You can’t remember much, only the smell of rotten soil and copper.

From under the closed door, you see a slim sliver of late afternoon sun peak into the dark room. You lie very still for a moment, even though your back and neck hurt from being curled up on the small couch all night. It is not the foreign place that startles you, but the noises that belong to a lively home: cabinets open and close. Dishes clatter. Water boils. Voices drift through the walls, muffled but heartily warm and bright. It smells of heated butter, herbal tea, and something burnt.

A home. This is a home where people come to wind down after work, to be vulnerable, to pick up the broken pieces after a case.

For just a minute, you close your eyes and imagine this is your life. Your home. This is your room, smelling of books, ink, and candles. Somewhere downstairs a cup smashes into bits, but there is only laughter, bright and cheerful—someone shouts a jolly “Luce!”

You pop your eyes open; the pipe dream dissipates. Your body is a medley of bruises and aches as you get up. Kipps was right, the cut isn’t too deep, you didn’t even bleed through the gauze during the night. You look at the ornate clock hanging above the fireplace. It is past three o’clock. You have to be at Rotwell’s in an hour.

Blinking against the sting in the back of your eyes, you get up and grab your gloves from the small table and your torn, dirty Coat hanging from a chair’s armrest. The fabric stinks of blood and sweat, but there is no time to get back home and change into clean clothes. You can’t get late to work a second time this week.

Your initial plan to just march through the front door and leave doesn’t work out when you pass the open kitchen door. It is a small, cluttered room with a huge table in its centre like a pillar of strength. Several plates with food have been placed down, breakfast served for three people: boiled eggs in cute little eggcups, sandwiches, a fruit bowl, some hot, greasy sausages just out of the pan. There is flatbread and right beside it a plate with small bites like fruits, walnuts, sliced cucumber and radishes.

The agents of Lockwood & Co. coordinate around each other in a way that seems like a practised dance—Lucy swiftly dodges George carrying a plate with doughnuts while Lockwood steps out of her way striding towards the water kettle without even looking.

When she pauses and says something to him, he does that thing you find annoyingly attractive in men: since he’s much taller than Lucy, Lockwood leans down and tilts his head towards her to hear her better. He has a striking side profile, all sharp lines and elegant curves, a pointed jaw.

You see him smile, and grow increasingly annoyed at how effortlessly handsome he is.

George clears his throat, and then all three are staring at you standing in the doorway.

Lockwood’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Hiya.”

Lucy’s mouth twitches into something that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be a smile or a scowl.

George notices you looking at the food on the table and promptly says, “We don’t own enough dishes for another person.” He calmly closes the cupboard behind him where you see another stack of plates and cups.

“Wasn’t interested. I’m not much into burnt toast,” you say like a liar. George huffs in offence. “I have to go anyway. Work and all that.”

Three heads nod at the same time, a conjoined Hydra.

Remembering you have something like manners, you quickly add, “And thanks for letting me stay.” That should be enough pleasantries. You hastily make your escape through the front door and manage two steps downstairs before you hear footsteps behind you.

“One more thing,” Lockwood says, propping himself against the doorfrome. You wonder if he owns any other piece of clothing other than his white shirts and ties. “Regardless however we proceed with our case, it would be to both our benefits to work out an association. There is no harm in having friends in established circles.” He puts on a smile, one you recognise from meeting him for the first time. Charming, but bashful, he plays coy to try and pull you around his little finger.

So this is how he wants to play it.

You slip into your jacket and smooth down the fabric to appear at least somewhat dignified. “We are not friends, Tony,” you say, and notice with some satisfaction the tick in his jaw whenever someone uses that nickname. “And frankly, if our paths don’t cross anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind. Now, if you excuse me—“ well aware of the ectoplasm stink and the tears in your jacket, you push your shoulder blades together— “we at Rotwell are quite busy with actually solving the Problem instead of playing detective games.”

With a confidence you don’t feel at all, you grant Lockwood one of your sly grins, your usual selling argument whenever you’re wearing your Rotwell armour. Lockwood’s face remains impassive. When you turn, heading out to the main street to get a cab, you feel his eyes burying like a dagger into your gut. In the distance, a church bell rings on the quarter hour, and you try and remember the poem about the bell tolling.

A/N: I cheated a little, the Rotwell dormitories are pretty much the Auriens Chelsea apartment complex. I'll upload a masterlist for this sometime this week to keep things a little more organised.

Taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse

(Just a heads up, if I can't tag you, it might be because of your settings)

[astyrial]

hold on, for me thomas x teresa (angst) synopsis: canon divergence for thomesa week word count: 1k warnings: death, bleeding, explosions masterlist | requests are open

    the veins in janson's forehead pop out, thomas' fingers feeling the pulse racing through his jugular. despite janson's hands pulling at thomas' shirt, ripping sections off, he can still feel the muscles with every clench. "you'll regret thi-" janson's now gravely voice is cut off by the sound of snapping, his eyes bulging. 

  no amount of blood-curdling noises or the sight of janson's tongue jutting from his mouth can stop thomas' blind rage. their capture, the experiments set on them, newt's body filled with a metal bullet. all of their lives were consequently ruined by janson's actions, by his blindness for something else. thomas' hands stay wrapped around janson's throat, body limp.

  the sound of explosions burst his eardrums, face red with anger. even the palm of a hand slapping the side of his face can't seem to shake him from such violence. a noise, a voice of sorts, shouts in his ear. he can't quite tell what it is, the noise a mere buzz compared to the building falling around him. "he's dead!" minho appears in front of him, shaking his shoulders to bring thomas back to his senses.

  "he's dead," minho's voice softs as thomas stares back into his eyes, knowing he finally got through to the runner. 

  thomas finally lets go of janson's neck, bruises forming where his hands were, leaving an eerie shadow. he stumbles upwards, minho helping him stabilize before pulling him close, shouting in his ear, "we put them all out of commission! we need to go!"

  two explosions rattle the storage room. minho and thomas push through the dust and debris as they run for the maintenance room, ignoring the walls crumbling around them. a piece of ceiling falls next to them, sending thomas to the ground, his arm scratched and soon to be bruised. minho grabs at thomas's arms, one hand under his armpit, pulling him until his feet can gain traction.

  the ground rumbles as another explosion goes off in a nearby room, throwing minho against a wall. his body slams into the wall, a groan leaving his lips. "we need to hurry!" thomas shouts, pulling minho, trying to throw minho's arm over his shoulder.

  minho stumbles to follow him, nearly running into brenda who appeared from another hallway. as thomas lays eyes on her, he instantly thinks to teresa. where is she? is she injured, dead? as if he manifested her himself, she runs up to them, tumbling through the rocky flooring. 

  she's dirty, blood smeared around different parts of her clothing. teresa's gaze lands on thomas, the sight of a large piece of ceiling tearing from the rest of it. she shouts for him, running towards him, "get out of the way!"

  just as she jumps towards him, the piece falls from the ceiling. every part of her wanted to make up for the pain she had caused thomas, even if she believed in wicked's intentions. she wanted to watch him grow old with happiness in a free land. she wanted him to love her just as she did for him. maybe, in a way, he does, especially when he takes the last second to push her away.

  the ceiling collapses onto thomas' legs and midsection. it crushes his bones and organs, blood seeping onto the tile flooring. "thomas!" her voice screeches at a tone that never seemed possible for her, completing taking over the sounds of rocks colliding around them. 

  his face is covered in grime, and she can't help but run to him, yelling his name again. she pictures him nearly dying to gally, the spear just nearly colliding with him. the thought of wicked taking a saw to his skull, blood splattering. he could've died in so many ways, in so many times. yet, now, when all he could've done is let teresa do the right thing, he can't stop it. 

  "thomas! please! please, i can't do this without you! i'm sorry!"

  he looks over at her, eyes meeting hers, watching as the blue fades into a clouded gray. his mouth barely moves, the sounds of his voice quiet and only audible as she moves in closer, "me too... i only ever cared for..."

  his lips stop moving, time freezes around teresa and all she can do is watch, "thomas, just hang on a little longer! please! you have to hang on just a little longer!"

  she brings her hands up to his face, pushing back the hair that hung down, "thomas, just a little longer, for me." tears build up in her eyes, cascading only after it begins to blur her vision. for a moment, she realizes that that could've been her. teresa could've been the one to have left thomas alive. she could've taken the easier route than being alive without the only person she ever truly loved. 

  teresa's hands pull from him as someone yanks her away from thomas. they pull vigorously, her body numb and unable to fight whoever had the strength to still save her. after everything she did, after everyone decided she was the betrayer. they still pulled her through the rubble and continuous falling of the building around them. when she finally catches a glimpse of who was pulling her, minho, she knew that this was her defining moment.

  minho, the man who hated her since the building, the one who never trusted her, saved her. maybe it was because she attempted to save thomas. maybe it was because he knew that thomas would've done anything to save her if he had the chance, and that was enough for him. she held back tears and strengthened herself enough to make it through the maintenance door with them.

  on the other side is a flat trans, the room empty of any other people. she looks over at minho and quickly follows him towards the flat trans. the echos of flames crackling behind them accompany the thick booming of the building slowly falling and crushing every room with it. any second they could be dead, but all teresa could think of before jumping forward into the icy grey wall is thomas.

a/n: i hope you all enjoyed (or at least at much as you can lol)! @thomesa-week

[patchworkgargoyle]

oc fic: freaks to the front

For @strangerthingsocweek!! This isn't the first idea I had, and I wrote it in a rush, but hopefully it's fun.

You all might get sick of me and Dominik by the end of this week tbh, but too bad.

Pairing: transmasc OMC x Unnamed Freak || Rating: T for language || Words: 1,192 || Tags/Side Characters: Canon setting, post-season 4, Kali Prasad and her crew, Dustin Henderson, Jeff, and Gareth. Title from Freaks to the Front - Amyl and the Sniffers, mostly for the Freak reference and also for the vibes.

When Kali had told him they had to go help her sister, Dominik hadn’t imagined this.

Spending a couple days on the road to drive through Indiana to get to a shitty little town? Easy. Dodging past a military blockade? Fucking concerning, but not that different from evading police. Seeing ash fall from unsettlingly dark clouds that flashed with red lightning? Well past concerning and right into what the fuck is happening?

Kali sat in the front passenger seat of the van, staring intensely out the windshield as she told Funshine where to go, apparently getting directions from her telepathic sister named Eleven, of all things. Dom had seen a lot in his short time with Kali, he knew all about her strange powers, but he hadn’t heard the whole, basic rundown of her story until now.

Figures that the government would be running shitty experiments on little kids. That the experiments worked was still wigging him the fuck out.

“Turn left,” Kali said, and the van veered around a corner, jolting and rocking over some rubble, knocking Dom off-kilter and into the wall with a metallic thud. Axel whooped, loud in the crowded space, Dottie cackling from the floor, and Dom just glared at them. He looked to Mick, who was watching the tiny town speed by with a serious frown.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked, and Mick shook her head.

“Hard to tell. Kali, where are we going?”

“El said some of her friends are in trouble, asked us to pick them up on our way,” she said calmly, before giving another direction. Funshine sped up.

“I hope they aren’t more brats like she was,” Axel grumbled, and Mick shot him a look.

Dom craned around to look out the tiny window by his head and saw a crumbling building whiz by. “This place looks like a fucking warzone,” he said under his breath, hearing Mick hum in agreement.

 Kali glanced into the back. “We’re close. Dottie, get ready to open the door, El says to watch out, and that guns won’t hurt it, only push it back.”

“It? What do you mean, ‘it?’” Dom asked, sounding more shrill than he’d admit, but the van barreled over more debris and interrupted anyone who might’ve poked fun. His heart raced in his throat when Kali told Funshine to speed up, and for the first time since he’d been kicked out of his home, Dom regretted throwing himself in with these maniacs.

“Get ready,” Kali commanded, and Dom’s hand clenched around the handle of his machete. Dottie clung to the door handle next to him, ready to whip it open, and Axel and Mick braced, guns at the ready anyway.

Tires screeched, Dom tensed, and the door whipped open. He launched himself out of the van, brandishing his machete, shouting at the five people he spotted immediately. “Get in!”

All five looked at him. Or, four of them did. It was only when he had a chance to pause that he saw the fifth was way too tall and didn’t have a fucking face. It was a maw of teeth and flesh surrounded by… petals, or something, and his skin crawled just looking at this—this monster. In real fucking life.

Then it roared, or screamed, sounding like a chainsaw on crack, and absolute disbelief was the only thing that kept him from fleeing from the thing in terror as the sound of it pierced his eardrums and made his hair stand on end.

“The fuck is that!?” Axel screeched.

“Demogorgon!” one of the actual humans said, and Dom was shaken from his fear when he realized he was a child.

“Like fucking Dungeons and Dragons!?” Dom yelled, and the kid gave him a surprised look before shouting at the other guys as he raced to the van.

The monster roared again and tried to follow, but Mick and Axel started shooting, bullets not even piercing its sickly grey, leathery skin. But the impacts distracted it, knocked it back, and Dom motioned for the kid to haul ass and praying to a god he didn’t believe in that that thing wouldn’t recover too quickly.

The kid barreled past with a slight limp, shouting at the other guys as they scrambled into action. When he reached the van, Dottie hauled the kid inside, getting out of the way for the others. Two clambered in, but not before the monster got its bearings, straightening up as he heard the telltale click of a pistol out of ammo. Shit.

The shortest, a floppy-haired guy, spat fuck fuck fuck fuck as he ran. Shaking its awful, disgusting head, the thing walked, and then picked up speed. Dom backed up to the van and said, “Kali, do something!”

“I’m trying,” she hissed.

Of course, right then, the guy tripped. Dom darted forward on instinct and snagged his hand, yanking at him as he flailed for balance.

But the monster was on them.

Shouting, “Go, go, fucking go,” Dom hauled them both backwards into the van. His legs hit the floor, he toppled back, and strong hands grabbed his arms and pulled him and the floppy-haired guy clung to each other in a blind panic.

The monster lashed out, one massive clawed hand raking down the guy’s leg before grabbing his ankle. He screamed, and Dom acted without thinking. He kicked, teeth bared in a furious grimace, steel-toed boot colliding wetly with the meaty, tooth-filled hole that passed for a mouth. Someone yanked the machete out of his hand and started chopping at the thing’s arm as he kept brutally kicking out.

Tires squealed and spun until they caught on the pavement and the van lurched into motion just as the monster let go with a wounded, wailing gurgle. The person behind him pulled Dom and the guy further in and Dottie slammed the door closed, leaving that horror in the dust.

The van was quiet except for the road of the engine and everyone’s panicked breathing. Dom blinked, realizing that Axel and Mick were still by the door. Who the hell had gotten them in the van?

Dom looked back and came face to face with the biggest of the four guys. His pretty blue eyes were still wide with fear, but he was looking back at Dom, darting over his face, inevitably glancing at all his piercings before pausing at the ones in his lips just a touch too long. When Dom’s jaw dropped in surprise, the guy blushed and looked away.

His usual recklessness reared up, fueled by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Thanks for the save, darling,” he purred, smirking, and the guy’s face flushed an even deeper red.

“Dominik, can you not be a slut for one minute?” Axel sneered, and Dom just flipped him off, still watching the cute guy’s face as he tried to look at anyone but Dom. Oh, he was cute, and Dom thought he might have fun in this shithole called Hawkins after all. Aside from the fucking monsters.

The floppy-haired guy put an end the awkward pause. "Could someone please do something about my leg?"

[callofthxvoid]

WHO: Minnie Garcia, Xander Garcia, and Lia Flowers

SUMMARY: Minnie makes a choice.

"You know what," MINNIE mumbled halfway through her pumpkin cookie. "I wasn't sure this would work flavour-wise. But it totally does." She looked over at Lia with a wide smile before spotting Xander approaching behind her. "Eyy, there's the future dad," she greeted with a big wave. "You want a pumpkin cookie? I may have bought too many."

XANDER had an easy grin on his face when he spotted Minnie and Lia. "That's me!" He said chuckling before glancing at Lia, "Cal was happy to take Juniper, said he might even nap in his office if she gets too tired." Turning back to Minnie he shook his head, "Hey we can always take turns throwing them into Scout's twister, not sure how she's staying fed in there."

"The texture is really good too. Soft but not too soft" LIA nodded about the cookie as she tore off another little bite. She had finished the bite as Xander came up and gave him a smile, "oh good. It's probably getting close to her nap time actually." She tore off another bit of cookie as Xander mentioned Scout, "wait Scout is dressed like a twister?" She asked with a soft laugh. Now how had she missed that?

"She's a menace in that thing, she can't even see out of it," MINNIE replied with an amused laugh, handing two cookies to Xander before going back to her own. Breaking a piece off, she popped it in her mouth before a soft rumbling under her feet caught her attention. "Wait, did you guys feel that?"

XANDER shook his head, "My mom has been wrangling her all day," glancing at Lia he grinned again, "Vetoing twister as future costume for any of the kids." Taking the cookies he'd been about to break a piece when the ground shook. Both cookies slipping from his hands and cracking on the ground. Staring he watched as when they landed cracks appeared on the ground, following one up the side of the building they were next to. It felt like things had gone in slow motion, a window shattering above them, his head whipping down to look at Lia and Minnie panic clear on his face as the rumbling got worse.

"We should get away from the building" LIA said, she'd seen movies and shows with earthquakes, and being in or around buildings was always a recipe for disaster. "I need to find Cal." She started to look around in hopes that maybe he was nearby with Juniper.

MINNIE glanced between Xander and Lia before nodding in response to the latter's statement. As the ground shook beneath them, making it harder to keep their balance, she pulled both of her companions in front of her while managing to narrowly avoid a piece of debris that fell near her. She let out a small breath of relief, briefly staring down at where it lay on the ground beside her, before looking back up. Immediately, her eyes widened when she saw where Lia was standing—seemingly focused on looking around for Cal and Juniper. "Lia, watch out!" Minnie shouted as she stepped forward and pushed Lia out of the way, toward Xander, before part of the building that had previously cracked crumbled down on her.

XANDER was stumbling back away from the building as the ground rumbled. He was trying to get his footing, grabbing Minnie briefly when some debri fell near them. Hearing her call Lia's name he dropped his hand from her turning his body fully towards Lia. Barely brings his hands up to catch her when Minnie shoves her into him, trying to regain both their balance. He's about to ask if she's ok when he hears a crunching sound, head whipping up he feels his body lock up as he stares at where Minnie is now laying under rubble. He can see blood starting to surround her, "Minnie…?" The name barely above a whisper as his grip loosens on Lia.

LIA had no time to register what was going on when she was being pushed forward by Minnie into Xander. One ankle rolled as she went forward and winced some at the sudden jolt of pain that hit. The focus on her ankle is cut off when she hears the same crunching sound and her focus is drawn over to the rubble now there. Where she had been….where Minnie now was. "Xander" she reached for his hand, tugging at him. "Xan we have to go" It's all a shock and she is shaking herself, but the longer they stay there the more dangerous it becomes for them too.

The last thing MINNIE remembered seeing before everything went dark was Xander catching Lia. Another sigh of relief left her lips before she found herself on the ground, buried in debris, barely coherent. Vaguely, she registered that something was very wrong and that she was in a lot of pain, but as her eyelids grew heavy, it was getting hard to focus on that. It was getting hard to focus on anything at all. "Xander," she mumbled, vaguely aware of Lia's voice, although it sounded far away.

XANDER feels Lia tugging on him, but he can't move. He thinks he says Minnie's name again, vaguely he can hear people around him, thinks he hears Knightley whose checking on Lia. "Minnie, she needs…", he's moving before he can think rushing to her side. "Minnie," his hands are shaking when he touches her face, his visions blurring and he's having trouble seeing. Someone's tugging on him again and a broken sob slips out when he sees blonde hair before he registers that it's Zarina not Minnie. "I don't…I…" His body's shaking, "What…what do I do now…"

LIA tried tugging on him more, understanding why he isn't moving, but growing more afraid that if he doesn't that something else bad is going to happen. She felt Knightley pull her away in order to check on her. She watches Xander, wanting to be there for him to comfort him, but she isn't sure how much use she's going to be.

MINNIE blinked. Each second felt slower and slower, the outside world growing more and more distant until eventually, it was just her. The patches of light she could see coming through the debris were so blurry that she barely registered them as light. The voices were quiet, a low hum and a whisper in the wind to comfort her as she lay in what she now understood were her final moments, the very last moments of her life. She took a second, a second to mourn herself and apologise to Wylie, before she let out one last breath and smiled.

You're going to be an amazing dad, Xander.

XANDER's too out of it to register that Zarina's a lot stronger than he thought, tugging him up and away. He knows he shouldn't but he looks back, feels something crack inside him before he has to turn to keep up. It's not until they're at the fire station with Lia on a cot that he's reaching for her hand. "I… I'm sorry about your ankle… I should have caught you better… I should go find Juniper or my siblings or… " Trailing off he's leaning against the cot shoulders slumped. "Lia… What the hell do I do now?"

LIA shook her head some as he apologized for her ankle and now catching her better, "you caught me just fine" she swallowed as she moved her thumb over the back of his hand. "I don't know" the answer is honest because she truly doesn't. What were any of them supposed to do now?

[magnoliacharmed]

Chapter 3 - Keep Thundering

[Also available on Archive of our Own!]

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4

Summary:

The worst hangover you'd ever had leads to an argument with Kevin and a meeting with Sting.

Author’s note: 18+

Your entire being was consumed by darkness.

Your physical self was enrobed in some sort of void, a fog that followed you around at your lowest moments. Shifting around under the comforter, you kicked off the heavy blanket for some semblance of freedom. Even with the air conditioner on full blast and your body unrestricted by clothing, you still felt trapped. Your breaths gasped and hitched in a desperate attempt to fill your lungs with air. No matter how much your brain screamed at you to just open your eyes, your lids wouldn't open. When you finally felt like you were reaching your last moments on earth, your body shot out of bed.

The cool air of the room whirred around you but it didn't provide the relief you needed. The sheets were drenched in sweat, the comforter on the floor completely kicked to the other side of the room. Strands of your hair stuck to your forehead and lips. Your mouth tasted faintly of toothpaste and heavily of whiskey, the residual alcohol sending your stomach into flips. Your hardest, most strenuous workout at the gym hadn't even made you lose your breath this way. It was an ordeal to even look down on the carpeted floor below you. The way your vision moved in and out of focus made you feel like you were standing at the top of the Empire State Building, staring down at the scenery.

The whiskey bottle was tipped to its side. The liquid was drained completely from it, which wasn't a huge cause for concern. Hangovers weren't usually such an ordeal for you, so why today of all days did this one feel like literal death? Glancing over at the clock radio on the nightstand, your brain short circuited at the flashing numbers in front of you.

12:00 AM.

12:00 AM.

12:00 AM?

There was no way it was the middle of the night, unless you slept for twelve hours straight. With the jolts of panic you experienced through the night that made you wake up, that just didn't seem possible. You slid out of the bed and onto the floor in one large slither. You were nothing but a worm, a giant sniveling worm fueled by shame, liquor, and inadequacy. You weren't good enough to walk, you didn't deserve it. Your eyes crumbled around you while you blinked into the darkness of the room. Why was it so dark?

Crawling over to the window was a journey. With every pathetic knee forward you couldn't muster up the energy to push the negative thoughts away. A drum beat pounded away rhythmically in your head and it was preferable to the awful things you thought about yourself. Finally you reached the curtains. An anguished grab at the bottom of one kept you from collapsing completely on your back. Your heart began to beat out of your chest with the amount of effort it took to hold yourself up. A fling of the heavy fabric above you showed just why it was so dark outside. Your ears rang at the sound of the curtain rings sliding against the rod.

It was pouring. Rain beat against the windows harshly as if it was threatening to break its way in. It was so dark outside you weren't surprised at why you thought it was night time. Your eyes shut as you placed your cheek against the freezing cold glass of the window. This rain was just what you needed. Thunder boomed close by with a flash of lightning shooting through the air shortly after. If the earth was this upset you figured you could be too. Grabbing at the curtain again, you hurled yourself up onto your feet. Your body swayed at that amount of movement and you had to place your hands on your knees to keep from throwing up. Shuffling to the room phone you sat down on the edge of the bed and dialed down to the front desk.

---

Sting awoke with a start. His head felt like it'd been dunked in a bucket of ice water. The alertness was foreign to him, exciting but strange. His hands reached up to scratch at his hair in confusion. He could've sworn that you were in his bed last night? There was no sign of you anywhere in the room… must have just been a vivid dream. Turning onto his side he saw lightning flash outside of his window. Looked like it was going to be bad weather for the day. There was no way they were going to hit the road any time soon. That was fine by him in any case, gave him a reason to relax.

As he got up from the bed and stretched the previous night came to him in flashes. He remembered talking to you backstage. You were covered in… soda? Why was soda dripping off of you?

Oh yeah. All of a sudden, everything returned to him. The quips, the insults, bat pulling, lips by your ear… coming to the thought of you. He winced at that last part, almost as if he'd been burned. It was a "I touched the hot stove top" kind of burn, the one where you knew not to do it but did it anyway. A simmering irritation bubbled in him. He was hard again. You kept doing that to him. With a groan he rushed into the bathroom and started the shower. After stepping under the water, he reached down to grab at himself. Maybe he could get you off his mind this way. His grip tightened around his cock as he stroked himself.

"Hi, superstar. Still thinking of me?"

Sting gasped at your voice whispering in his head. The sensation was too much, it felt too real.

"When are you gonna hurry up and fuck me already? I know you want to…"

He stopped to catch his breath, his eyes glazing over at his impending orgasm. His lids shut in an attempt to ground himself.

"Let me show you just how much of a slut I am for you, Stinger… if you can handle it." Your laugh was mocking.

Sting spilled into his hand with a growl. It washed down the drain quickly and his irritation was now replaced with embarrassment. You were even brattier in this particular fantasy. The way you talked back to him was so irritating, so hot. He wanted to shut you up. The ringing of his cell phone shook him out of his head. He walked back out into the room and picked it up in a slight daze.

"Steve, it's Kevin."

The daze was still showing on Sting's face. Him and Kevin weren't close friends. They got drinks together and shared a few jokes once or twice, but neither man would choose each other as their best friend. The only thing they had in common was you. You'd never had a better friend than Kevin. You both never thought a platonic relationship could be so strong. Sting though… he couldn't figure how he felt about you. He just knew whatever it felt, it was intense.

"What's up? Is this about--"

"Yeah, it is. I was trying to tell you last night that she's been kind of… sensitive recently. Bischoff has been messing around with her, making her think she's not important in the company. It's bothering her. That's why she was in that mood last night. I promise you man, she's usually a lot nicer."

Sting didn't have a lot to say. Of course Kevin would defend you, you were friends. He was the one who advocated for you to get signed to WCW in the first place. The wind blew the trees outside violently. This was shaping up to be some storm.

"What is her problem with me? I've barely even talked to her."

"I honestly don't know. Why don't you give her a call, actually? It'd be good for you to talk it out. She still hasn't gotten a damn cell phone though, so you'll have to page first."

Kevin gave Sting your pager number and a weak excuse to hang up. Sting didn't mind. His head buzzed at the idea of talking to you. A normal conversation. Maybe you would even come to a truce. Sting stared at your number on the notepad below him.

---

"Hi," Your voice was entirely too gravelly. You sounded like you'd been drinking salt water for the last few days. "I just woke up and I… my alarm clock is blinking."

There was a pause before the front desk woman spoke. "Yeah, the power went out for a few hours last night. We can send someone up to reset the time on it."

"That's okay, thanks though."

The woman didn't even attempt to pretend to be a beacon of hospitality. She sounded over it, both bored and exasperated. You imagined her rolling her eyes at the sound of the phone ringing. This soothed you for some reason, knowing that you weren't the only miserable person in this hotel. With a click of the phone you both hung up at the same time. As soon as you put the handset down, the tinny noises of your beeper rang through the room. Digging under your clothes from the previous day, you squinted your eyes at the numbers and the time. 10:18 AM. Kevin's phone number. Your hand shook as you picked the phone back up to dial him.

"Get a cell phone. They're gonna put a crazy charge on your room bill for making this call."

He always managed to have a quip ready.

"Kev, man. What's up with this weather? Feels like it came from out of nowhere."

"It did. I was watching the news and they were just as surprised about it, too. Looks like we're gonna be stuck here for at least another day."

You groaned at this news. The last thing you wanted was to be stuck in this hotel room alone. At least the power was back on.

"Relax, you get a damn break. You need it." As soon as Kevin spoke those words, he imagined your face screwing up on itself. He knew better than to mess with you when you were hungover. From the scratchy tone of your voice alone it had to have been an extra rough night.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it fuckin' means. You acted like a bitch last night. Don't let whatever weird problem you have with Sting mess the show up."

"Are you kidding me? He was being a dick! Did you call him to give a lecture too or is it just me who gets the pleasure?"

"That's not my responsibility, it's Bischoff's."

"As if Bischoff gives a fuck about what the golden child does. I'm not your responsibility either. Thanks for calling to ask me how I was doing, by the way. That was very caring of you."

"You just said I wasn't responsible for you!" Kevin paused, a frustrated noise cutting short in his throat. "Look, I'm not gonna baby you, okay? You're my friend and I care about you, but you're an adult. Stop making your problems everyone else's problems. You need a day alone to figure your shit out because you're in no shape to go back out in front of everyone so soon."

The tears that ran down your face felt like lava. Your already dry eyes stung even more from how salty they were. As hard as you racked your brain for a response, you just couldn't come up with one. Kevin was right and you hated it. You tried your hardest not to betray your feelings but the need to sniffle was too strong.

"Yeah. Alright Kev, I'll talk to you later."

He began to speak as you gently pressed the phone back down into its cradle. There was nothing else you could say. You wanted to be pissed at Kevin, as Sting, at Bischoff, at the whole world really… In the end, the only one you could be angry at was yourself. You were causing your own problems. There was no point in taking it out on him.  Leaning back against the sheets, you stared up at the ceiling and let the tears flow. The muscles in your forehead were incredibly strained. You dreaded having to turn on the lights but there was no point in sitting in the dark. You reached over for the phone one more time. The same woman picked up again with the same amount of boredom in her voice.

"Hey, can I get-- uh. Some Tylenol? Do yall have Tylenol?"

"We can send some up."

"Okay. Do you have champagne? And orange juice?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll take that too. Can someone change my sheets also?"

The woman repeated back your requests and said it'd all be done within the next half hour. That gave you just enough time to shower and change. You stared down at the whiskey bottle on the floor again, wondering if you were embarrassed enough to hide it away from the hotel staff. You weren't. You flipped on the lights in the room and bathroom, then ran the shower water as hot as possible. Before you knew it the pulsing water of the shower head prickled at your scalp and back. You washed yourself up and continued to stand under it until the water ran cold. A shiver got you to shut off the water and grab a towel.

Stepping out of the shower, your sheets were fresh. The nightstand contained a few small cartons of orange juice, multiple packets of extra strength Tylenol, and a cold bottle of champagne. The time was even fixed on the clock radio. You grabbed up the cartons and stuffed them in the mini fridge, slamming the door shut and falling on the bed. The little packets had two Tylenol each in them. You ripped open a packet frantically and dry swallowed them while hastily opening the champagne. The pop of the bottle sounded like a bomb. You chugged some of the sweet bubbly liquid down, then burped instantly and loudly. You'd feel better soon enough, you thought as you turned the TV on and flipped through the channels. Just as soon as you settled on a melodramatic made-for-TV movie, your pager beeped again.

You didn't recognize the number, but that wasn't any cause for concern. You moved back over to the room phone and dialed the number absently. Sting's cell phone rang and buzzed in his hands. You called back so fast he didn't have time to prepare himself.

"Hello?" You both said at the same time.

Your face darkened. Sting.

"How the hell did you get my beeper number?" You spat at him.

Whoa, already pissed. Again, hot. And ridiculous. He'd barely said a word!

"Kevin gave it to me."

The two of you stayed silent on the line for a long stretch of seconds. What was the point of all this?, you thought. You just wanted to watch this stupid movie and get drunk again.

Sting cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pulled his jeans on. Looking in the mirror at himself, he wondered why he was even going to all of this trouble.

"Listen to me. I don't have any time for this 'I hate you, you hate me' back and forth thing. You're distracting me, and you're not important enough to distract me this much. Tell me what hotel you're staying at, I'm coming over and we're talking this out."

You had to admit that the sternness in his voice made you wet.

"I'm not telling you--"

"Stop acting like a fucking brat. Where are you staying?"

Sting was to the point of hanging up in your face. This is what he deserved for trying to be the bigger person. A vein throbbed in his neck as he waited for you to speak.

Oh, man. You were way more turned on than you thought you were capable of being. Ha-ha, you'd made him mad again! You upset him so easily it was hilarious. His nerves were so easy to press on.

"Hilton, room 1215. Hurry up," You slammed the phone down. Good luck to him trekking through the rain just to yell at you.

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

BTHB 2023 - Fill 3 - Passing Out From Pain

For anyone who wanted Mariano to get a break, here you go! Back to Will for a little bit c:

TWs: Gore, impalement, crushing injuries, building collapse, death

"Bennett?" Sophronia called, coughing. Dust choked out the meager light that dotted the roof of their space, and she had to tug her shirt collar up over her nose and mouth to even think about breathing. "Bennett, can you hear me?"

William's soul was nearby. That much was certain. Even if it was too dark to see, at least she could feel him.

Gingerly starting to crawl, Sophronia winced as sharp debris dug into her knees. It didn't matter, really, her clothes were bloody enough from the initial collapse of the floor and walls. Something had gouged her side when she fell, deep enough that even breathing felt like overdoing it.

William still hadn't answered.

Getting deeper into their makeshift cavern, she finally heard something. A hitched breath with a squeaky, breaking sob. It came from where William's soul was.

She froze for a moment, trying to discern if it was really from him. When was the last time she'd heard him sound like that? Could she remember? Was it when he was a freshly dead, shivering soul of a teenager? When he was escorted to her after escaping Daniel?

"Will?"

The noise abruptly stopped, traded for a shuddering gasp. "Sophie...?" She felt sticky fingers brush against her wrist, and instinctively she tapped into her magic.

Magenta light filled the area, and only thing that stopped her from audibly reacting was her years of experience in the field. "Bennett--I'm here." She said, unable to take her eyes off of William’s chest.

A dull metal rod disappeared into the dark fabric of his coat, dyed darker by blood. Twisted concrete bloomed at the top, rising up and away like a horrific flower. Trailing down his pinned body, it took Sophronia another second to realize that the metal seemed to be the only thing holding him in place.

"I'm--this, this sucks..." He managed to gasp out, a desperately suppressed laugh threatening to shake him. "Is anyone else...are the others okay?"

"Yves and Charlotte managed to get out before it all came down. They're helping the living, right now." Sophronia said, taking note of the busy souls above them. She could feel Charlotte helping people out of the wreckage, and Yves hovering in one spot--doing triage, most likely. "I need to get you out, alright?"

William struggled to take another breath, his face twisting when he did. She heard a dull scrape, metal against something hard, and felt her stomach turn. "It broke...it's through my sternum." He managed, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab at the rod. "It--god, Soph, it's...I don't think you're go-onna unpin me."

Sophronia swallowed hard. "I know. Let me--" Another rumble cut Sophronia off, and her magenta eyes snapped upwards. The concrete above them started to shift, dust starting to stream down.

Sophronia managed to throw herself over William as it all fell, stifling a harsh cry of her own as her side lit up with pain. Her chin pressed against his dust-caked hair as though she could shield him from more damage. His chest trembled against her own as the world crumbled around them.

A muffled scream erupted beneath her, and she felt William arch despite the metal through his chest. He was a line of tension, shaking from the force of it. He fell quiet, and then still.

When the avalanche of concrete stopped, Sophronia pushed herself back upright. Amid the choking dust and the slowly seeping blood from her side, she found her own head was starting to spin. "Bennett?"

Looking to her other side, Sophronia saw the reason he'd fainted.

The heavy concrete that had fallen from its own weight had landed on William's legs. She didn't dare touch--one look at the odd, jagged lumps under his pants fabric told her everything she needed to know. "Okay, that's alright Will." She said, taking a breath. "This makes it much easier, good job."

It was a miracle he wasn't still conscious, really. He would've clung to awareness as long as possible--to life as long as possible. It would've made what she needed to do more uncomfortable for him.

Instead, she ran her fingers through his messy, bloody hair, and wordlessly slipped her other hand into his chest. Her fingers met no resistance as she passed through his shirt, past skin and bone, until she found his soul and plucked it out. As his body dissolved into purple smoke, Sophronia could finally get them both to help.

[midori-laboratories]

Ashes In The Fall - Chapter 14: The Road Less Taken II

Book 2 of the Calendula Chronicles

Resident evil, Wesker X OC

Story Summary: Marigold Ashford escaped the mansion, only to face new incarceration with a familiar jailor. She may yet have to make a deal with the devil, if she can unearth what this Faustian bargain would cost her.

There is always something left to lose.

Chapter summary: Marigold comes up with a business proposition.

The last light of the day was fading when Wesker pulled the van up to the warehouse. Given the situation rapidly unfolding, it was the only really viable place to stage operations from. About half a dozen vehicles already lined the side of the building. Suits and soldiers of varying pedigrees ran between the building and the vans, barking orders, and carrying gear.

He parked at the end of the row, turning off the ignition. They sat quietly for a moment. Finally, Marigold spoke. “To what end?” He glanced over to her, waiting for more.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “It’s escalating. If it’s in the water system, then it’s going to spread fast.” She paused. “Is it like the mice?” She asked, voice small.

Wesker sighed. “It is,” he confirmed.

Marigold stared straight ahead, not reacting. “In the woods too. They didn’t seem that dangerous. Just…sad.”

Wesker’s brow creased slightly. “I had assumed you had simply avoided them. Did they not come after you at all?”

Marigold seemed to fold into herself without moving. “I wasn’t entirely myself. But…no.” She thought about it. “They felt…hungry. Everything felt hungry. It’s hard to explain, and it felt easier to push the lot away and keep moving.” She seemed about to say more, but she glanced at him and stopped short. Then, a look of dawning horror came over her face. “They…bite, don’t they. To infect. That’s what’s happening in the town. Mindless, biting automatons.” She looked over at the people running back and forth across the lot, touching her mouth with an unsteady hand. They were carrying gear. Electronics. Storage containers. “What is all this? To what end?”

Wesker seemed to sigh again, more quietly this time. “We still have people in the city. Some of them are embedded in Umbrella itself. With the town crumbling as it is, they have an opportunity. This is the closest facility to the town to coordinate and support those operations.” He paused, then in a quieter voice, he said, “I know the infrastructure. The chief of police is likely barricading roads as we speak- Umbrella pays him to do as much. William would have been out by now were he not attacked. Some things need to be seen through.”

Marigold had spent years working with academics and researchers who jealously guarded their results. She didn’t need to ask more. But…”That’s a narrow window. They won’t allow this to spread beyond the city.”

Wesker nodded. “There’s self-destruct mechanisms and paramilitary from Umbrella that will descend on the town and salvage what they can. They won’t leave evidence.”

“Not that.” She shuddered at the thought anyhow. The company itself had turned into a behemoth in her absence. Although more likely, it had just matured and metastasized. “The actual American military. The world might have changed a bit in a few decades, but they’ve been hand in glove with Umbrella for long enough. They’re the market for all of this, yes?” She didn’t wait for a response. She was starting to get good at reading the answers in Wesker’s silences. “Complicit. If they can, they’ll throw Spencer under the bus as hard as they can and bomb the town out of existence. Spencer would have the leverage secured to buy himself some cover…”

Wesker nodded, mildly amused. It was easy to forget that she had once been a senior VP at Umbrella, albeit one focused on outreach. She darted a look at him and grimaced. “I only know that because I brokered the connection….” she trailed off, raising her head as a thought coalesced. Her eyes went wide.

“Just how secure is the phone line here? ”

-----

They made their way past the people running through the lot. Some glanced at the newcomers. One or two did a double-take - the young woman trailing the operations commander was barefoot, and looking curiously around like it was her first day on the job. They quickly shrugged it off. There were other things to concern themselves with, and that sort of thing usually came out through the grapevine sooner or later. They’d set up, get what they needed from the site, and break it back down as soon as the crisis passed.

She looked around at the throng, worrying her lip. Eventually, I may want my gloves back.

Wesker shot back, You were hardly worried before.

Your two muppets have a sensible level of self-preservation. What am I going to do? Infect you further? She smirked. You don’t put out that sort of red flag anyhow. Marigold paused. Frowned. I don’t think I got to Doctor Birkin. I shouldn’t have been able to…hear that.

You can still hear him?

Not exactly. It’s like a headache composed of cicadas and tinnitus. It’s…quieter than it was.

They reached the small, adjoining office where Wesker had been spearheading the operations in Raccoon City. Before he could ask her to explain herself, she looked around and said, “This is where you’ve been going, these last few weeks. It smells like you.” She pinked. “It’s odd. Being able to say that sort of thing out loud.”

Her eyes fell upon the phone on the desk. “Might I use this?” She asked. If they can trace it back, I might have to go elsewhere.

“Wait,” Wesker said, reaching past her to open a desk drawer. A small pile of Nokia phones sat, charged and ready. It was never a bad idea to have a burner available, in his line of work. “These ones are programmed to block the number on the other end.”

Gingerly, she reached in and plucked out a little black phone, awkwardly flipping it open. The affected movement was becoming familiar to him- less a mild distaste of the environment, as she had meant it to be perceived, but rather exaggerated care to not break her surroundings. There was a bird-like quality to the way Marigold handled things, especially considering how small and fragile everyday objects must have seemed at this point.

She looked back up at him, clearly waiting for him to excuse himself. He looked back, calm, implacable. Her mouth thinned. Fine. **She stepped around him, carefully, to sit. Carefully avoiding Wesker’s gaze, she dialed.

-----

The line rang thrice before clicking open. The voice answering it was both familiar, and not at all. “Hello?”

Marigold laughed in surprise before catching herself. “My goodness, is that little Derek? My word, how time does fly.” She smiled a little at the sharp I take of breath on the other end. He might or might not actually remember her. There was a good chance she only existed as a ghost story to this man. “I trust then, that this call was expected?”

Derek C Simmons, scion of the Family, paused for a brief moment at the other end of the line. He sounded much like his father, truth be told. A shuffling sound on the other end broke the silence. “Ah,” Derek said. “It may have been. Are you alright?”

“This is hardly a social call, if that’s your meaning.”

Daniel did something to the phone. The quality of the sound changed very slightly. “My- he just came in. I’ve put you on speaker.”

Marigold smiled. Good boy. “Very good. I am sorry to have taken so long to call. I’m afraid I was rather detained for some time.” Daniel’s voice could be heard in the background, a sharp bark with a rough edge from age. “Are you aware of the current situation in Raccoon City?”

Wesker shifted uncomfortably behind her. She could feel him at her shoulder. She looked up at him and rolled her eyes. Settle down.

Daniel’s voice finally crackled over the line. “Arklay’s been settled.” He was being careful. That meant he understood she wasn’t able to speak completely freely.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she said flatly. “Do you expect me to believe that you’ve heard nothing?”

A long pause. “Your uncle called earlier today. He has leverage that would survive a missile strike. There, in the city. They need time.”

Marigold paused. “Leverage.”

Daniel sighed. “Contracts. You did your job too well, peach.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “So I keep getting reminded.” Then- “you can’t possibly mean….”

“Lots and lots of construction over the years. Lots of new homes and jobs.” A frustrated sound from Derek. “Smug old bastard. Blathers on about the ‘wisdom in gifts’ they’d shared over the years with the world.”

Marigold blinked. “Oh.” She made a face. He actually had the gall to hand them the encrypted access key, and they didn’t even notice. “Ugh. Of course. Safehouse, then?” She turned to watch Wesker’s face when she asked the next question, suddenly glad he had insisted on staying. “In-house, I presume. When would this have been done?”

“Late eighties. They installed a couple of researchers who were starting a family. We have a list, but there’s heavy CCTV surveillance all over the city. Not worth the risk in peacetime.”

“And too many fires to put out when things are falling apart,” Marigold supplied. Her eyes narrowed. Wesker had near turned to stone at this news. She cocked her head very slightly to one side. You know whose house this is? Wesker gave a small nod. **

“You’re certain of this,” she said out loud into the phone, eyes on Wesker. Daniel made an affirming sound on the other end of the line. Wesker, in his turn, replied, It’s the house Birkin was installed in when they moved to the city. Spencer installed them in a new development home as a wedding gift. Annette convinced him to move closer to downtown a few years later, but another researcher was moved right in after.

Marigold looked at him a long moment, mouth tight. Then, “I wonder, Daniel. Perhaps you’ve considered whether it’s time to divest.”

Daniel made an approving noise on the other end of the line. “Ah, Rome burns, dear. In the end, we’re all just barbarians, are we not, dear Placidia?”

-----

A short conversation (and another, somewhat indignant explanation about why the elder patriarch had called her Placidia, after hanging up) later, Marigold snorted in disgust. “I have a theory.”

Wesker waited, and she continued. “The lot of you failed art school, and are taking out your dramatic histrionics upon the world.” She threw up her hands. “It’s the simplest explanation.”

Wesker’s jaw twitched in irritation, and she turned her palms forward in apology. “I keep thinking that the cloak and dagger nonsense is over, and then realize that everyone I grew up around subscribes to it wholeheartedly. Riddles in plain sight. I wouldn’t need brute force to access what they’re asking for.”

“What you offered.” He finally said.

Marigold leaned back and looked at him with a faint scowl. “What you absolutely let me offer while standing proctor over me the entire time. Anyone left in the city is going to have their hands full, will they not? This wasn’t even on their radar.” Her frown deepened. “What am I missing, then?”

Wesker finally spoke, choosing his words carefully. “It’s more than the people. If the NEST was compromised, the city may be infested. Experiments were run across multiple species. Insect, avian, crossbreeds. Do you really expect me to believe you’re prepared to deal with hordes of civilians? You said yourself you have little combat experience.”

The comment was a baited hook; he had seen the intelligence on the old Ashford estate; seen the abandoned ranges. The cold smile that drifted across her face still forced him to suppress a shudder. “I said, I try not to touch people. Taking them apart is detrimental to discretion, you see.” The smile faded, though not completely. “Have you ever been sent to Romania, in all your work? Near Brasov, a little place in the mountains?” Wesker stilled and she sensed the affirmation. “I told you, Arklay wasn’t the first little trap I’ve been sent into.” Just this first one I didn’t walk back out from, she finished, in his head. “Spencer was always going to model his life’s work after that. Why else would I have come armed to the lab? I normally carried more than that, to be clear. Besides, they gave us a timeline for how long it would take for Congress to set an exclusion zone. The real deadline is likely much tighter.”

“You want to see it, don’t you. Why?” It made sense. Besides, there was a set of gear in storage in this very building that had been ordered with her in mind. He hadn’t imagined her to be so eager for it. Ready to jump into the fray...

No. Not quite eager, that was the wrong word, but…close. He had himself been planting the seeds for this, with a different target in mind. She had that look in her eye again - the same one she got whenever he prodded her about Alexia.

Did he want her cooperation? Yes. Would she be capable of forwarding his goals in Raccoon City before the collapse came down? Given the headstart she had given the team, it was probable.

Marigold Ashford was still a slippery creature. She’d gone out of her way just now to remind him that her network was still intact, still ready to be called upon. If she were this determined to go in, the motivation was almost certainly personal.

As if sensing this thought (surely not), Marigold practically growled in frustration. “I would have thought you wanted half a reason for a good field test. I need to see. If it’s just one little house in the suburbs, I could slip in and out with very few problems. So what am I missing?”

Albert Wesker closed his eyes a moment. There was one complication to the plan that she hadn’t considered. “The security system would be wired into the Umbrella Security Service. The security system is normally on low level- it would have to be, for a residential area like that - but this isn’t a normal circumstance. The system is alarmed to go straight to Chief Irons, on whose discretion, the security forces Umbrella has on hand can be deployed immediately.”

“Oh,” Marigold said after a moment. “That could be a complication. Still. Good thing you’re not the one volunteering.” She smiled, slowly. “Besides, I doubt anyone would really try to stop me from spitting in that man’s eye at this point, from my understanding of the situation. I don’t think this will be terribly complicated.”

“That may be so,” Wesker allowed. “But if you’re to have support on this, you would have to go in with a plan. There will have to be some level of oversight - you’re still technically a civilian. And,” he continued, one hand coming up to cup her jaw, “We’ll need to come to terms on a few things.”

[twistnet]

boxed in [ matt murdock ]

⋯ SUMMARY ; matt takes it upon himself to teach you how to box ; you have some... unethical methods of winning up your sleeve

⋯ WARNINGS ; female!reader,smut [ sexual innuendos, guiding, cowgirl position, unprotected sex -- no glove, no love ] + mature language 

⋯ NOTES ; this content is strictly for those 18+ ; any minors // ageless // blank blogs interacting with this post will be blocked

matt pushed the door to fogwell’s open, holding it open to allow you to step through the threshold and into the old space. coming around beside you as you dropped your bag to the bench and started to pull off your winter gear.

the snow had been relatively bad lately, surprisingly early for the area of hell’s kitchen. yet, regardless of weather, matt was still making the trek out to the gym for his training sessions. you always offered to join him -- a mix of worry as he tended to get himself into trouble and you enjoyed getting to watch him in action.

matt wraps his hands, stepping up and into the ring to start his circuit when he looks over at you, “why don’t you come up here with me?” he calls from the ring with a smile. you slightly surprised by his offer, not seeing how it would benefit you. previous times you had accompanied matt to the boxing arena, you had wondered off to do your own thing, having found enough equipment laying around to complete some of your regular workouts.

“come on, you come here with me all the time and go to do your own thing. let me show you how to box for a change.” you snort, climbing up and on to the boxing platform, “you want to teach me how to box?” he nods enthusiastically, stepping over to the ropes that surrounded the ring and separating the ropes enough for you to slip under and join him.

“are your hands wrapped?” he questions, head tilting in curiosity as you respond, “yes, they are.” he nods, turning to step in line with you, “good, now i’m gonna show you some basic movements and you try to follow them.”

“how will you know if i’m doing them right?” he pauses for a moment, gesturing toward his ear, “i can hear how a punch moves through the air.” the response causes you to snort, almost falling into a fit of laughter, “if you can hear how a punch goes through the air, then how is it i keep having to patch your ass up almost every night?” you tease, causing him to chuckle as he shrugs his shoulders, “i don’t have an answer for that... anyways, lets just get started. unless you want to keep taking verbal jabs at me.”

he walks you through the basic movements, correcting your form whenever something sounds off and lets you try again. eventually, complimenting you and feeling a sense pride wash over him as you complete a circuit of air throws. 

you work for over an hour, building a sweat as matt couches you from the side, mirroring each of your movements with adding perfection before stepping over to adjust your stance. he steps back after you’ve bent over, breathing heavy and deep from your chest as you wipe the sweat from your forehead, “how was it?” he asks gently, handing you a water bottle as to all but crumble to the floor.

“hell. i don’t see how you do that every day.” you grumble against the cold floor, a stark contrast to how warm you’re running after the unexpectedly intense workout matt had put you through. he shrugs his shoulders with a soft smile,“oh, but i usually have someone throwing punches at me. this is a little different.” 

you pull yourself up to your feet, standing just a few paces in front of him as you reach out, “show me how?” he hesitates a few moments, not wanting to hurt you in anyway considering the differing level of experience between the two of you. he outs his mouth to state so, narrowly avoiding a quick jab of your hand near his side, blocking it before you could get any further, “really?” he questions with slight offense, which doesn’t last long as you throw another series of moves his direction, watching as he blocks each one with precision and grace.

it continues for a while, matt throwing in a few jabs himself to see how you react. chest swelling with pride when he catches you mimicking his movements from before. he takes it easy on you, not wanting to hurt you to throw something too advanced in your direction.

until he knocks you from your feet, wincing as you land quite roughly on your back. he’s immediately kneeling down to your side with apologetic eyes, “i’m sorry sweetheart, i didn’t mean to be so hard on you - oof!” you roll him over onto his back just as he lowers his guard, your legs straddling his hips as hands pressing into his chest, “sorry, babe. but i thought you would have known of that trick by now.”

he chuckles to himself, not ready to let you know that he sensed what you were getting ready to do and simply let you, "i’m only not rolling you back over due to the slight wheeze in your right lung.” your face scrunches up in confusion, taking a deep breath to find the very faint sound of wheezing, “there it is. why don’t we take a break?” he suggests, hands moving to your hips to slide you off his lap.

you push back against him with a little defiance, “i’m quite comfortable where i am. it’s not often i get to be in this position.” the words were innocent enough -- meaning you hadn’t been able to pin matt to the floor for the past hour as he kept winning. however, the words lit a fire in matt’s mind, and thought back to the pleasurable rounds of intimacy you had over the past week, and it was safe to say, you were right.

“i agree, it’s not often you are on top.” he observes, smiling softly as he hears the sound of blood rushing to your cheeks and the way your heart speeds up in the slightest. he tilts his head, hands rubbing gentle circles at your hip bones before he’s ever so slightly rolling his hips up to brush his building erection against your core.

the action throws you off guard, a needy moan leaving your lips has you feeling embarrassed as you attempt to scramble off his lap. yet, his hands hold you in place, “was this what you planning on? getting me into this position so you could be on top?” he teases from his position under you, jutting his hips up to brush against yours. this time more deliberate in his actions and actively grinding you down against his cock.

you moan out, hands bracing against matt’s chest as your hips move on their own accord. the bruising grip on your hips just pressing you down further. your clit catches the seam of your leggings, sending you into a mewling fit as matt’s hands guide your to rut against him faster. then, there’s a pause, before a silent agreement is made and then a slight rush as you quickly slide off matt’s lap, kicking off your gym shoes and the leggings and panties you had on. matt’s sweatpants pulled down far enough to free his throbbing cock.

you settle back atop him, hand wrapping around his length to jerk him a few times before hands steadily guide you to hover over his cock. holding you in place until the head catches your entrance before slowly guiding you down until your fully seated and flush against his pelvis. a shared, broken moan fills the gym as your hands rest back against matt’s chest. a deep breath as you adjust to him, hips rolling experimentally as you stretch around his cock.

matt waits for you to move, letting you set the pace before his hands come to rest at your hips to help guide. the pace is slow, hips rolling as his cock drags along your walls, taking time as your clit brushes against his naval.

sucking in a breath when you squeeze him, nails biting into the flesh at your hips in efforts to keep himself from taking over -- after all, you won this fair a square. yet, it doesn’t stop him from jutting his hips up to meet yours, slightly throwing you off rhythm. you raise a brow his in direction -- not that he can see.

“come on, angel. i know how bad you want to come. so, why are you drawing it out?” he purrs from the floor, gulping down his words with a light curse as you tightly squeeze him again. you decide in that moment to take pity on him, rolling your hips with a little more speed, matt’s hips thrusting up to meet your hips, driving himself deeper into you.

you whimper, chin dropping down against your chest as instinct takes over, hips moving on their own accord just chasing after the high building in the pit of your stomach. matt groans below, hips sputtering as he feels you tighten around him, squeezing him like a vice before he’s spilling in you with a low moan, feeling your own orgasm wash over the two of you as he strokes himself a few more times to empty himself fully.

your arms give out, slumping against matt’s chest with a grunt. knees hurting and thighs straining from the position. hands glide along your back, coaxing you back to a normal breath before caressing your face, “that was quite the workout.” you mutter against his shoulder, earning a deep chuckle from the man below you.

blog navigation ⇢ [ marvel masterlist ]

[spectorings]

This is terrible, and quickly written with no proofreading but I’m so horny for these two men and I needed to write this. It ended up being waaaaay longer than intended and like??? It’s just bad and it reminds me why I literally can’t write actual imagines or fics and why I write headcanons instead lol

COMPLETELY NSFW HORNY SHIT - SEX AND THREESOME TYPE SLUT STUFF PLS (it’s about Chris Redfield and Piers Nivans)

Fuck, just imagine having sex with Chris, him slamming into you and you biting down on the inside of your cheek to desperately stay as quiet as you can so no one hears. Chris behind you, one hand pulling your hips back towards him so he can get as deep as possible, his other hand around your throat, pulling your head back towards him. He’s groaning in your ear, telling you how good you feel around his aching cock, how long he’s been waiting to fuck you senseless. Then out of nowhere, Piers walks in to ask his captain something, only to see his captain screwing the brains out of you. He stands in shock, just staring at you both like a deer in the headlights, you look up embarrassed but you can’t get any sentences to form as Chris just continues slamming into you mercilessly. Instead of Chris freaking out or stopping, he asks Piers what he wants but Nivans has completely forgotten, he’s just staring at you instead, his cock getting harder by the second as Chris pulls you back to be sat in his lap, giving Piers a full view of your naked body. Chris signals for Piers to come over, to help him make you cum, and sheepishly, Piers agrees.

Imagine he walks over, his hardened bulge clear as day pressing against his trousers. Chris stopped moving inside of you and has an arm wrapped around your waist to stop you from desperately bouncing on his fat cock. Piers stands in front of you, not exactly knowing what to do, and you just hear a slight chuckle from behind you - Chris pulls out, to your dismay, and he pushes you to your back, pulling one of your legs to the side so your slick pussy was on full show to the young man in front of you. You quickly looked away and felt a large hard grab your chin and force you to look back towards Nivans, “why don’t you give her a taste, Nivans?” Piers gulps, not being able to tear his eyes away from your glistening cunt, your slick covering even the inside of your thighs. He slowly gets down on to his knees and wraps his arms under your thighs and places his hands on your hips, pulling you forwards toward him. Without giving you a chance to even move, he’s already tasting you, his tongue flicking across your sensitive clit, moving in circles before he pushes his tongue into your hole. You throw your head back and let out a low moan, subconsciously grinding your hips against his face to have more contact, as you do Chris latches on to one of your nipples. He roughly sucks on your nipple and rubs his tongue over it a few times like an apology before doing it again, his hand rubbing up toward your other breast, and rubbing your sensitive nub between his finger and thumb. You instinctively pull on Chris’ hair, yanking at it without any thought, the pleasure just too overwhelming. As you do, Piers takes advantage of your distracted mind and pushes two fingers deep inside of you while his tongue continues working miracles on your clit.

Piers pushes his fingers as deep as he can, searching for that soft spot inside of you that would make you crumble in an instant, without searching for long he finds it and makes fast work of moving his fingers against it. Your legs squeeze against his head as you begin feeling that all familiar knot build up in the pit of your stomach, your legs start shaking and your breathing becoming more unsteady. Chris notices and one of his large hands come up to your throat, lightly squeezing the sides, just enough to make you barely light headed as you cum everywhere. Piers groans against your cunt, licking up your juices like it was the only meal he’d eaten in the last week, he slowly pulls his fingers out of you and licks them clean before looking up to you. He’s breathless and Chris just looks down towards him, noticing how clearly and unbearably hard he still is, and all Chris does is nod. “You know, you should probably sort that out” Nivans looks down and palms at his cock through his trousers and shudders, he looks up at you and you bite your lip, spreading your legs further apart as an invitation. Piers gladly accepts unbuckling his belt and making quick work of pulling off his trousers and boxers, his cock finally springing free. Chris moved back out of the way slightly, allowing Piers to climb over you, the head of his cock resting against your entrance as his head rests in the crook of your neck. He finally pushes in you, and he let out a loud groan as he did, gripping to the mattress below you. He slams into you at a quick pace, barely able to control himself as your gummy walls squeeze around his pulsating cock, he bites lightly on your neck as you moan loudly into his ear.

After not even five minutes of Piers fucking into your pussy, Chris sighs and leans down, giving you a few light kisses before giving you a little smirk. Chris lightly palmed at his cock, still being hard from being inside of you not long ago. He rubbed his hand down the side of your body towards your arse as you lifted your legs to wrap around Piers’ hips. Chris had a glint in his eye and you and Nivans both knew exactly what he was hinting at, without missing a beat Piers pulled you up to him so your chest was pushed against his, making your arse fully bare to Chris - who in one fluid movement was behind you, his chest pushed up against your back…

[touyasdoll]

Dreaming

Follow up to this drabble.

Minors DNI

Pairing: Denki x reader

Warnings: car sex, daddy kink, unprotected sex, biting

——————

The sun had quickly tucked itself beneath the horizon, leaving just the stars and dimmed, yellow streetlights to light your way. Denki fumbled with the keys in his hand once you found his car in the sea of vehicles outside of the concert venue.

It didn't help that you were standing behind him, kissing along the part of his shoulder that was exposed beneath his tank top while your hands roamed to the front of his shorts, rubbing gently at the base of his cock. He swallowed hard, clearing his throat as he suppressed a groan, frantically clicking the unlock button before throwing the back door open and sliding across the seat, taking your hand in his to pull you inside and straight into his lap.

He reached over to pull the door shut before capturing your lips in a frenzied kiss and resting his hands on your ass to give it a firm squeeze as your knees fell on either side of him. You carded your hands through his hair, giving it a gentle tug while you rolled your hips on top of his. He pressed your hips down, shifting his hips upwards to meet yours as a low groan left his throat.

"I'm not dreaming, right?" He chuckled between kisses, his hands wandering up your sides to pull at your tank top until your bra was exposed.

"No," you giggled quietly, reaching back to unhook your bra while you sucked on his bottom lip, nibbling on it gently while he helped you shed the garment, leaving your breasts completely exposed for him to massage in his grasp. "But if this was a dream," you moan, arching into his touch as his mouth closes around your nipple and you cradle the back of his head. "What would you want to happen?"

"Mm," he closes his eyes, tongue toying with the sensitive nub, one hand pulling gently at the other while his other hand slips back over your ass and he looks up at you through his lashes. "If this were a dream? I'd already be inside you, baby."

His lips connect to your neck, tongue roving over your heated skin as he kisses and sucks and you keen, tossing your head to the side as you pant and run your hands over his chest, undoing his shorts in a hurry.

"What're you waiting for then?" You tuck your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and he's quick to lift himself off the seat, allowing you to free his leaking cock. "Fuck," you marvel at his length as you spread the precum on his tip along his shaft, stroking his cock languidly. "You're gonna stretch me out so good, aren't you?" You smirk, kissing along his jaw to his neck, sucking on his pulse as his hips buck into your grasp.

"Fuck yes I am," he sighs, hands scrambling to undo the front of your shorts while you grasp his shoulders as he spins you to the side, laying you down to hunch over you while he peels your bottoms off.

“Fuck me, daddy,” you whine, toying with your clit as you spread your legs wide. “Please..”

“Oh my God. I must be dreaming,” he shakes his head, leaning over and diving between your thighs while he pumps his cock, moaning between your folds while he takes a generous taste of you, tongue pushing it's way inside you while his nose nuzzles against your throbbing clit.

"Shit," you groan through gritted teeth, pushing your fingers into his hair to lift it away from his face as you watch him greedily lap at your core.

He slips his middle finger inside, tongue laving against your clit while you clench around his digit, tossing your head back and shifting your hips forward, fucking yourself on his finger.

"You really want it, huh, baby?" He murmurs, kissing your sensitive bundle of nerves while he grins up at you, adding a second finger.

You nod, mouth hanging open, brows knit together as you throw your hips forward faster while he kisses and nips at the skin along your innermost thigh, his moans vibrating through his lips.

"C'mere," he sits up, curling two fingers at you and you comply, tossing your leg over him as you sit up to straddle him.

He holds your hip, his cock pressed between the two of you, keeping you in place while he tucks a finger beneath your chin, holding it under his thumb as he looks into your eyes.

"Hey," he speaks quietly, a gentle smile on his lips. "I know things are moving a little quick right now, but I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I really like you. I'm not trying to just hit and quit it, okay?"

It takes a moment for his words to permeate your lust-adled brain, but your eyes soften when they do and you rest your hands on his neck, swiping your thumb along his jaw as you search his gaze.

"I'm not trying to do that either," you smile softly, "I really like you, Denki."

"Really?" His eyes light up, full of hope and excitement that melts your heart.

"Really," you nod, a breathy laugh leaving your lips as you press them to his.

His fingers press into the flesh of your hips as he sinks you down onto his cock, groaning into your parted lips while you keen at the stretch before claiming his lips again, moving them more needily against his while you roll your hips, letting your arms drape around his neck.

The windows fog, the cab of the car becoming thick with the smell of sex and the tension of young love, avidly being explored in the easiest way there is to navigate it.

His hands are all over you, mapping out every dip and curve of your frame while your hands dig into his shoulders, your new favorite set of handlebars, as you ride his cock, burying your face into the crook of his neck as the pressure between your legs builds and builds and builds, so close to crumbling as you whimper in his ear.

He slips a hand between you, his middle finger swiping back and forth against your clit while he coos in your ear, "You gonna cum for me, beautiful?"

You don't get the chance to respond before you're gushing in his lap, shaking in his grasp as his arms close around you, holding you in place against his chest while he leans back and thrusts up into your, wanton groans and grunts echoing off the clouded glass windows until he pulls out, his cock slapping against his abdomen as it erupts, spilling his seed onto his sweat-slicked skin.

"Still think you're dreaming?" You smile against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to it as you lean back.

"Yes," he chortles, still breathless as his hands slide up and down your thighs. "I'm not the brightest bulb, but I know enough to recognize that you're outta my league."

"Shut up," you shake your head, pushing on his shoulder playfully as you sit beside him to gather your clothes and start pulling them on. "I uhm, I was thinking though, if maybe you'd like to just come back to my place? I'm sure Mina wouldn't mind giving Kiri and Kats a lift if you wanted to just head there now?"

"I'd like that," he nods, lifting his hips up off the seat to pulls his boxers and shorts back up. "If you're sure?"

"Oh, I'm sure," you grin, leaning in and kissing him sweetly as you turn to face him, sitting sideways on the seat while you chew on your lip, looking him over with adoration in your eyes. "I'd really like to spend the night with you, if you'd be willing to stay. Maybe we could go for a round two?"

You lift a brow, dancing your fingers along his collarbone and he perks up, "Yeah?"

"Maybe a third or a fourth," you shrug nonchalantly, a sweet smile on your lips as your watch your fingers glide across his skin and briefly glance up at his electrified eyes. "Whatever you're up for."

"I'm up for losing count, baby," he chuckles, pushing his hands into your hair to pull your lips to his, kissing you deeply. "I'm up for whatever, long as you're there."