#thread: even dead gods still dream | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

beloveds-embrace · 13 days ago

Text

(p5/final part of fae poly 141 x cursed human reader || masterlist || cw: ANGST) peep the chapter title in the masterlist :D

It came as a quiet- one so deep and vast that even the winds forgot to blow.

The castle knew before anyone. It held its breath, the great hearths snuffing down to embers, the stones cooling beneath its bones. The will-o-wisps blinked out, one by one, not in fear, but reverence- so that today, no one will be led astray. The trees along the garden paths stopped their whispering, leaves still mid-quiver, branches creaking as they turned inward toward the heart of the estate.

Thrain raised his head beneath your chamber window.

The stag, so old and rooted in legend no bard had sung his name rightly in an age, stared skyward as snow began to fall. Slow, soundless. Not cold. Each flake shimmered faintly with magic, with memory. With you.

Inside, the chamber was dim and quiet, lit only by the pale glow of starlight seeping through frost-laced glass. The scent of lavender and winter clover hung in the air, soft and faded like a lullaby remembered from childhood. Curtains, woven with moon-silver threads and embroidered with wards to keep the darker dreams at bay, shifted gently in the breeze that wasn’t there. The room itself seemed to breathe slower now, as if matching your rhythm- one long inhale, one longer silence.

You lay nestled deep beneath layers of velvet and fur, of wildflower-threaded quilts and fae-woven linens that shimmered faintly with old enchantments. Johnny had insisted on them each morning, draping warmth around your ever-fragile frame even when spring had melted the snow and kissed new green into the garden paths. It was his way of trying to keep you rooted here- on this side of the veil.

Your breathing was soft and faint. The curse had slowed in its cruel unraveling, tugged back again and again by the desperate, tireless magic John poured into you. Every drop of power he possessed, every ounce of his life force, siphoned away over the years in hopes of buying you another day, another breath, another smile. It worked for a time.

But nothing lasted forever, and John knew that.

He had known before the sun set.

He sat beside you, unmoving, save for the way his hand combed endlessly through your hair- gentle, reverent, trembling. His other hand held yours, your fingers loose and still, warmed only by his touch. Your head rested against his chest, your face tilted toward the hollow of his throat like a child tucked beneath a parent’s chin. You hadn’t spoken in days, not truly. Only murmured fragments- echoes of half-remembered songs, unfinished questions, and once, the name of a star he hadn’t heard in years. You’d sounded so happy… John’s heart had wanted to tear itself apart.

You were quiet now in the way ancient things are quiet. Like a garden gone to sleep beneath snow, like a book with no more pages left to turn.

John whispered stories to you anyway.

He spoke of the first time you met- how he thought you were too stubborn to survive the fae court and too soft to ever bend it. How wrong he’d been. How the court, the world, and even he had been reshaped around your steady, patient will.

He told you how Simon had found you one morning feeding the ghosts of the orchard, and how Kyle still carried your pressed flower charms in his armor. He recounted Johnny’s latest disaster in the kitchens and how you’d once laughed so hard at him you cried- and gods, how he wished he could hear that sound again. He told you all of it, weaving memory into magic and memory again, as if with enough words, he might stitch your soul into staying.

And as he held you, his voice frayed around the edges.

"I love you," he said. Not for the first time. Not for the last. The words cracked like porcelain dropped from too high a shelf. “Still. Always.”

Your breathing, already shallow, paused, and he stilled in turn.

Then, you sighed- just once. A sound as soft and weightless as the falling of a single petal from a long-dead flower, peace in each strand. A sound of release, a breath unburdened.

And then- you were gone.

No thunder nor flash of light, and no violent wrenching. Just absence- the soul's candle guttered in silence.

Your fingers slipped from his. Your warmth, so long faint, faded fully. Your face went still in the most peaceful way, a small smile carved on your cheeks like something ancient had simply returned to the earth it loved. The faintest glow that had always clung to your skina your humanity tempered with magic, your life steeped in love- shimmered once, and then dimmed like a star blinking out.

John did not move.

He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

The grief did not crash into him; it hollowed him, slowly, like the sea does to cliffside stone. He stared down at your face, memorizing what he already knew. The curve of your lips. The flutter of lashes against your cheek. The small scar on your jaw from where you’d once fallen in the Queen’s Gardens.

John did not weep even if several tears tracked down into his beard. His hands, too strong to tremble in battle, now trembled with the soft weight of your body in his arms. He could not weep, for he knew this- this was your peace. He had done his best to find a cure, but- life was not kind.

A low, resonant groan echoed through the castle, neither man-made nor fae.

The very walls- alive with magic older than time itself- mourned you. A wail of stone and a s sigh of timbers. Crystals embedded in the ceiling chimed once and shattered and the lights in the sconces flickered to ash. The wind outside did not howl- but it bent, as if bowing low to the one it had once braided through wildflower hair.

And still, John did not let you go.

He held you through the coming dark, his chest silent but for the uneven quake of breath between shaky breaths, his magic still curled around you like a desperate tether. And for hours, he simply rocked you. As if in this moment, you were still alive. As if holding you long enough might unmake the inevitable.

But death, like magic, answers to no king.

And your body stayed still and at peace.

You had left with no anger in your heart, no hatred nor guilt. You left only love, quiet and worn and fierce- threaded through every inch of the man who now mourned you.

A soul as lovely as yours could never die cruelly.

It simply… drifted home, and John understood that even if he felt something shatter so deeply it echoed across every realm.

You were gone.

No cry and no shudder, just the soft parting of a thread from a tapestry.

Later, it was Simon who walked in first. He did not speak, only looked at John- stone-eyed and trembling, and knelt beside the bed to touch your cooling hand. Kyle arrived moments later, lips parted as if he might beg you to wake. But his voice failed him and so he sat on the floor, pressing a kiss to your palm and weeping quietly into your skirts.

Johnny didn’t believe it.

He shook his head, muttering, “No, no, not yet, not today, she promised she’d stay-” over and over, until Simon caught him and held him still while he sobbed like a child.

The castle keened.

The bellflowers shriveled in their hanging baskets. The ivy browned and curled. The air itself bent with sorrow, and the spirits of the hallways- kindly, playful little creatures- huddled in corners, their small eyes wide with grief.

Outside, Thrain bowed his antlers low and walked slowly through the gates of the high keep. His hooves did not echo and no one stopped him.

He climbed the stairs, impossible though they were for a creature of his size, until he stood in the doorway of your chamber. And all the men- wounded and raw and grieving- stepped aside for they knew.

He had come for you.

With reverence, Thrain knelt beside your bed. He took in your face- still so gentle, still so full of grace, even in death. He pressed his massive muzzle to your chest and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then, with a breath of magic so quiet even the fae barely felt it- your soul slipped free like morning sunlight spilling through an open window.

It rose, soft and warm, radiant with the echo of every kindness you’d ever given. Every time you’d kissed a servant’s brow or sung to the garden or asked a crying will-o-wisp what was wrong. Every time you’d called Thrain your dearest friend, every time you’d held hands with the men, and every time you’d forgiven John with that smile- always that smile.

And Thrain caught your tender soul.

Delicate, light as wind through reeds, and glowing like the first star of twilight. He cradled it in a curl of his antlers, the shadows of your memory flickering through the air around him- your laugh, your hum, your gentle little sighs of thought. He stepped carefully back from the bed.

John sank to his knees, and he still did not cry. There was no breath left in him to do so.

Thrain walked. Out of the castle and through the mourning halls, the bowing dryads, the crumbling roses, the silent sprites. Through the gate, down the weeping forest paths, across the river that had frozen at the moment of your death.

He walked and walked, until no living soul would reach his pace and spot.

And when he reached it, the veils parted for him alone, and he stepped into starlight.

The trees there had no bark, only silver and the roots sang hymns and chants. The sky was soft and black and full of ancient light. Thrain stood at the edge of the great pool of souls, and he bent his head low.

He did not let you fall.

He lowered you with gentleness carved from centuries of patience and pain, until your soul touched the surface of the pool like the caress of a mother’s hand.

And the water welcomed you, for you were a memory that would never die. A memory that caressed the space between his antlers just before he returned alone.

And the men- your men- stood at the gates, waiting, and they bowed their heads as he passed.

And John, still dressed in the clothes he wore when you left him, touched the place in the air where your soul had once lingered and whispered, for the last time:

"I love you."

The castle echoed the words for centuries.

And the world, though emptier, remembered you in everything that still dared to be kind.

“Will you still love me when I forget what love is?”

“Always.”

699 notes · View notes

meatsaint · 5 months ago

Text

The Genius, Michael Gavey.

Michael Gavey x Reader.

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, masturbation, foul language, loss of virginity, cum control.

English is not my first language, so I hope you will forgive me if there are any mistakes.

oneshot.

Michael’s good at a lot of things, and he knows it. Brilliant, really. Genius, if we're being honest. Maths? Please—he’s never even touched a calculator. Numbers are his domain, his sanctuary, the one place where he feels entirely at ease. Books too��though never fantasy; he’d rather lose himself in something real, something concrete. But everything else? Social skills? A complete disaster, really. Painful to watch.

It’s not as if anyone’s queuing up to see what’s behind those smudged glasses or that same red sweater he pulls on every Monday. And that's fine. Honestly, it is. He's made peace with it. It’s their loss, isn’t it? That's the mantra he clings to, the thread keeping his fragile ego intact: They're the ones missing out. And God, doesn’t he need to believe it.

When you arrived in Oxford, it hit him hard. Why? Because even when he was buried in the silence of the library, there you were, watching him. Always watching. Maybe intending to read a book—upside down, no less—or lounging with your legs thrown over a table, headphones blaring as if you couldn't care less about the world around you.

Michael Gavey isn't used to being seen. For fuck’s sake, he’s Michael Gavey. Nobody. Invisible, as he’s always preferred. But then you came along, and suddenly, invisibility wasn't an option. You became something else entirely: a problem, a distraction, a bloody nuisance he couldn’t seem to get rid of. And maybe, deep down, that’s what scared him most.

So, naturally, his response was to start staring back. Maybe if he leaned into being a proper weirdo, you’d back off. But no, of course not. You didn't flinch. You just stared right back, unwavering, unbothered. It didn't take long for one of the teachers to step in, warning him, of all people, to knock it off. And you? You just smiled. Smiled like you'd won some secret, twisted game, baring all your teeth like a predator who'd just cornered its prey.

When he squinted at you, furrowing his eyebrows in some attempt to decode whatever the hell was going on, you simply glanced at the table, still grinning like you had a secret you were dying to keep.

What was your problem? Were you planning something? Was there a game being played here, something sinister he couldn’t quite see? The questions clawed at him, gnawed at his focus, and yet, no answers came. Only that smile. God, he hated it.

Things weren't improving, no, they were deteriorating rather quickly. And it all took a turn for the bizarre when, in the dead of night, he awoke still half hard, with his shorts drenched in cum and his mind? Cluttered with vivid memories of a particular dream from the previous night. Never had he scrubbed a piece of clothing with such fury in his life; this treacherous body was doing him in. And the most egregious part? His cock was a bloody jest, because even after such mortification, he had to wank off once more just to make the torment subside.

That day, the Oxford corridors felt like they were smoldering beneath him, each step fueling the inferno inside his chest. His sneakers might as well have been on fire for how much he burned with rage. And then he saw you, loitering by your locker, looking infuriatingly calm as always. It was like you wanted to drive him insane.

He stormed over, slamming your locker shut with a single hand, his nostrils flaring like he was ready to tear you apart—not literally, of course. Well, maybe a little. He was unraveled, utterly tormented, and you? You were only making it worse.

“Stop.” The word came out flat, almost pitiful, his voice cracking under the weight of his irritation. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded and bloodshot, as if they’d been scorched by his fury.

“With what?” you asked, tilting an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk tugging at your lips. Carefree. Effortless. It made his teeth grind in pure frustration. He didn’t even understand why he felt so unhinged—just that he did.

“What the hell do you want?” he barked, his voice echoing down the corridor. Heads turned, a few people pausing to glance at the scene, but you didn't so much as flinch. No fear, no embarrassment. You just leaned lazily against your locker, staring at him down like you had all the time in the world.

“Your number, to start with, would be great.” The words hit him like a physical blow. His pupils dilated so fast it felt like the world had tilted. If darkness swallowed everything right then and there, he was convinced he’d still see you.

And that’s when everything shifted. You weren’t messing with him—not in the way he’d thought. No, you were interested in him. The realisation hit Michael like a slap, and even then, his perpetually self-loathing brain struggled to piece it all together. For once, his stupid mind was just that: stupid.

But then the messages started, tentative at first, and something clicked. You actually got on—really got on. It was strange, almost unnerving, how much you seemed to have in common. You liked some of the same nerdy things as him, and he found himself listening to bands he’d previously written off because you mentioned them. Slowly, the conversations moved out of his phone and into the library, where you started sitting at the same table.

People noticed, of course. Curious glances trailed after the two of you, some even daring to linger when Michael—Michael Gavey, of all people—was caught smiling. Not a smirk or a grimace, but an actual smile, albeit half-hidden behind his hand. But it was there, and for once, he didn’t mind. Not entirely.

And then, on a Friday night when everything seemed eerily serene, the text message arrived. 'Do you want to come to my dorm?' Panic ensued. Perhaps it's a tad presumptuous to assume you want to fuck him, isn't it? Yet, he was presuming precisely that. But the truth is, Michael has only kissed one girl in his entire life; otherwise, his knowledge comes from pornography, books about the human anatomy, and the hushed conversations in the men's locker room. And it's not that he didn't want to; in fact, he wanted to, desperately so, but the truth was that no one seemed sufficiently captivated to offer him the chance. But you, you were offering. Maybe. What does one do with that?

He took a shower, donned his usual jeans and a white shirt, slipped on his sneakers, and even spent time before the mirror wrestling with his blond hair, to little avail, of course. He decided he wouldn't be a coward; he had this chance, maybe, and he wouldn't squander it with timidity. He made his way to the girls' dorm on campus, garnering more than a few disdainful looks from the passing girls. It was just because it was him; if it were Felix sneaking in, they'd be all smiles. But who cares? There was only one person he hoped would truly appreciate his presence. He reached your door, his breath caught in his throat, and knocked so feebly that perhaps he thought you wouldn't even hear. Pathetic, honestly.

But you heard him, and when you opened the door, he froze for a moment. You'd just taken a shower; your skin was still slightly flushed from the hot water, wearing an oversized shirt, once black but now faded to grey, and some pajama shorts that honestly looked more like his underwear than actual shorts. He swallowed hard, managing a crooked smile. You leaned against the doorframe, your smile much more genuine.

"You came." The words slipped from your lips with such ease, rolling off your tongue with a genuine satisfaction that straightened his crooked smile.

"Yeah, well. It's not like I have anything better to do, of course." His reply lacked the sharpness he'd rehearsed in his mind, accompanied by a glance at the floor and a stupid, silly smile.

"Yeah, of course." You laughed, rolling your eyes, and turned your body to give him space to enter, if he wanted to, though he looked as if he might bolt at any second.

But he didn't run away; no, he actually stepped inside. The room was like most others, yet he was struck by how orderly it was. Like any typical dorm, there was the TV, the two single beds, a small table, and in the corner of an adjacent smaller room, the bathroom. The scent of cleaning products lingered, indicating you'd taken the time to tidy up before inviting him over. This shouldn't have pleased him as much as it did, but it did.

"Just take off your sneakers before you lay on the bed," you said with that nonchalant tone of yours, picking up the TV remote from the table.

He glanced at the paused movie on the screen before turning his attention to the bed. His mind wasn't exactly racing as he sat down, beginning to untie his sneakers, but his focus soon shifted to the side of your face. He was transfixed by how your hair framed your features, how your lips were so perfectly shaped, and how your eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. He had to run a hand over his face, nearly knocking off his glasses, to bring himself back to reality, blinking several times to refocus on removing his sneakers.

"I chose 'Evil Dead,' but they didn't have the classics." Your voice drew his gaze upward again. You casually made your way to the bed beside him, practically throwing yourself down, causing the mattress to bounce. "Is that a problem for you?" you asked, turning to look at him, your eyes locking with his.

His throat visibly tightened as he swallowed, while you didn't even blink. For a moment, he found it a rather amusing jest. What could a girl like you, with the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, with lips that curved into the brightest smile he could imagine, possibly want with him? He was either the luckiest bastard in the world or the biggest delusional of the year. But that was fine, at least for now.

"No, it's not a problem at all," Michael mumbled, unsure if he was referring to the movie choice or something else entirely. But it would suffice either way.

He saw you smile widely, and you felt you should, noticing his blue eyes dilate behind his glasses. Looking down where you had crossed your legs beneath you, you tried to focus and simply pressed play on the movie. The low noise from the TV soon filled the room, the colors of the film painting your faces and reflecting in Michael's glasses. The silence was comfortable, as always. The sounds of calm breathing filled the space, but well, his eyes weren't really on the TV; they were on you. To the point where he had to rest his hand on his face, just to appreciate it, perhaps.

"You know, watching a movie works better when you're looking at the screen," you commented, your eyes still fixed on the screen, though you felt the heat from his gaze on your cheek.

"I prefer to watch you." His words were barely above a whisper, but they reached you, making your smile widen even more.

Your eyes flicked to him, while his remained steady, though he felt his palms sweating against his cheek. He was nervous, and his attempt at an impassive expression wasn't fooling you. The words that left his lips were just truths, and seeing you smile, it was good to see you smile, it brought a subtle curve to his own lips. Sighing, you drew your knees up to your chest, resting your chin there, unsure of what to make of his words or of him. Just as he was unsure of what to make of you or how much you unsettled him.

"I hate almost everyone here except you." Your words mirrored his in tone, quiet, perhaps too intimate to slip out.

They made him pause, just looking at you, wondering. Time seemed to stand still, the screams from the movie not reaching your ears; things were quiet, almost silent. And that's when his hand rose, wrapping around the back of your neck, perhaps with the most courage he'd ever mustered in his life. Your lips parted slightly when you noticed him shifting on the bed to get closer, and you responded in kind, leaning towards him, your hand hesitating before also reaching up to the back of his neck, slipping between the golden strands to hold him firmly. Bringing your faces close, your breaths began to mingle, and soon all that was reflected in his glasses were your lips, all his attention focused solely on them.

"You're trouble, and you want to know why?" Michael whispered, your gaze falling to his lips as they formed the words. They were thrown at your face, raw and direct. "Because it seems like after I met you, there's been something wrong with my brain." He lifted his thumb to trace your bottom lip, as if to commit it to memory.

"Yeah?" Your response lacked strength, not truly. "That's good, because it seems like after you I'll never be the same." Whispering another confession, now it seemed more than fitting, even with your breathing too rapid to say much more, or what you truly wanted to.

A faint smile touched Michael's lips, perhaps an attempt at composure before he leaned in closer. Tilting your heads in opposite directions, your noses brushed against each other, the taste of each other's breath mingling on your lips, shared. His lips were the first to part, capturing your lower one slowly, almost tentatively, until yours responded, capturing his upper lip. The kiss started slowly, your lips moving together with an unhurried grace, despite your quickening breaths at the contact. His free hand found your waist, attempting to pull you closer, while your hand tangled in his hair, gripping it almost in a fist.

But it wasn't enough, far from it. Leaning forward, Michael guided you both down onto the bed, supporting himself with each hand on either side of your head, positioning his body between your legs, which parted to welcome him. One of his hands slid down to your thigh, lifting it and pressing it against his side, your hips naturally seeking each other, and his already hardened cock brushed against your increasingly aroused intimacy. Sounds escaped between kisses, your hands sliding to grip his back, when Michael pressed your bodies together again, rolling his hips and drawing out a sly moan from his own lips, making it difficult to continue kissing you.

Your hands reached for the hem of his shirt, attempting to pull it up, but his hands caught yours, pinning them above your head, fingers intertwining there, as he pulled back just enough to look you squarely in the eye. His heavy breathing made his chest rise and fall, sweat causing his glasses to slide down his nose.

"I..." the words seemed reluctant to escape as he gazed down at you, your lips flushed and your chest heaving. He didn't want to dissuade you, but he had to say it. "I've never done that."

Your only response was to lift your head from the bed, seeking his lips and succeeding in a gentle capture, with him lowering himself to return the kiss. Though not deep, your teeth nipped at his lower lip, tugging gently, perhaps trying to draw him closer. Your fingers pressed against his above your head, yearning to be free, you just wanted to touch him, feel him, it didn't matter if he was inexperienced, if you had to guide him step by step, or if this was all you would have, feeling him like this above you.

"Just touch me, I don't care," you murmured against his lip, without the strength for more words, which in response prompted him to roll his hips against yours again, closing his eyes with a moan, just as your head tilted back, lifting your hips to meet his movement.

His hands released yours, and you quickly grabbed his shirt, pulling it up and off him, and he reciprocated, lifting yours inch by inch until he could pull it over your head. Without a bra, your breasts were bared to him, making him pause. His lips went dry as he took in the sight of your hardened nipples, ready for attention, despite his momentary hesitation. You saw it in his eyes, in how they flickered to meet yours, and your hand reached to caress his cheek before grabbing the back of his neck, gently guiding him toward your chest, arching off the bed to ensure he understood your consent.

And he understood more than clearly, leaning down to kiss the space between your breasts before moving to one, enveloping it with his mouth entirely, using his hand to squeeze it firmly. The sensation of your skin against his mouth elicited a low sound from him that vibrated through your body, prompting you to grind your hips against his already hard cock. His tongue followed, swirling around your nipple, sucking as if his life depended on it. His mouth salivated, saliva running down your chest, glistening your skin with his essence. His free hand went to your other breast, squeezing it tightly, his lips trailing kisses to the other side, his tongue sliding along until it reached your other nipple, circling it with fervent enthusiasm.

"Fuck," you murmured, your intimacy throbbing, squeezing as you leaned on the bed to create friction against his erection, making him to bite the nipple in his mouth to stifle a loud moan.

His lips left your chest, observing the glistening, swollen flesh from his attentions. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight, going straight to his core. He looked down to where his hardness met your shorts, stopping himself from climaxing right there, taking deep breaths.

"Tell me..." his words trailed off, his lips struggling to draw in breaths. "Tell me how to be good for you." His whisper was broken, he was too far gone to really care about it.

You smiled, even in the throes of your overwhelming need for him. One of your hands took one of his, slowly guiding it to your core, and he watched intently as you slipped it inside your shorts and soaked panties, biting his lip as his expression contorted with pleasure. Slowly, you positioned his fingers perfectly over your clit, starting to move them in circles, making your breathing quicken further. Fortunately, Michael was a quick learner, or perhaps just desperate enough. Your fingers left his as he took over, moving them faster, circling over your soaked clit. You tried to reach for his hardness in his pants, but with his free hand, he caught yours and pinned it to the bed.

"Don't." The words came out swiftly, a desperate command because he knew well that if you touched him, he would cum right then and there.

You accepted it, not attempting to touch him again. Feeling his fingers slide over and over your most sensitive spot, the sounds began to fill the room, the wetness so intense it seeped through your pajama shorts, and he could hardly believe his incredible luck. His eyes moved to your face, noticing your parted lips, your cheeks flushed red, and your breasts, still glistening from his saliva, seeming to beckon him. One of your hands gripped his wrist, and he could see from your expression how close you were. The hand that had been holding yours to the bed released it, moving to the back of your neck, lifting your head to make you look down.

"Watch," he murmured, sliding his thumb perfectly over your clit, and you felt like stars were bursting behind your eyes even as you complied and stared.

You saw his hand moving inside your shorts, the veins in his forearm pulsing with the effort, the muscles there flexing. His hand held you tightly, almost encompassing your neck. And when his fingers started moving side to side, you knew you were finished. Your lips parted completely, a groan trapped in your throat escaped, you tried to throw your head back but his grip prevented it, and then, your walls clenched, he could feel the pulsing around his fingers, your belly flexing as you reached your climax, clamping your legs around his forearm.

Your body goes limp on the bed, your thighs still trembling as his hands slide from your neck down to your thighs, smearing his taste there. He grips the hem of your shorts, pulling them down along with your panties. When his eyes meet your pulsing, glistening pussy, a sigh escapes him, eyes closing momentarily to regain control. You hear the sound of his pants being unzipped, him kicking them off along with his underwear. Your eyes open just in time to see him grip the base of his cock, bringing the head to your sensitive clit, eliciting a tight, desperate moan from you.

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, dragging the precum-slick tip of his cock across your clit, making your walls clench as he watches. His free hand runs down the inside of your thighs, ensuring they're coated in your own wetness.

He squeezes his eyes shut in pure ecstasy, rubbing his cock from your clit to your entrance, gripping the base tightly to stave off his climax. Your thighs tremble, your hands gripping the sheets, but nothing seems to alleviate the intensity, there's no escape. You're consumed, completely. Your hips start to move desperately for contact, even as your body protests, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart. He rubs once more, the almost sinful sounds echoing off the walls, mingling with his low moans and the contractions of his stomach. You can tell he's doing everything in his power not to cum.

"Can I?" He opens his eyes to whisper, looking directly into yours, and with no strength left to speak, you simply nod.

He sighs deeply before positioning himself at your entrance and pushing inside, feeling your walls resist yet yield as he presses in until fully seated, your groins meeting. A drawn-out moan escapes your lips as his head falls back, a soft groan leaving his throat followed by a sequence of breaths that made his entire body tremble. Michael pauses, trying and failing to calm his racing heart and the overwhelming sensation of your hot, tight insides. Leaning forward, he rests one hand on the bed while the other removes his glasses, setting them aside. Your hands rise to the back of his neck, bringing his forehead to yours, holding it there as he makes the first thrust. Both of your lips part, your moans and breaths mingling.

His thrusts were deep, yet slow. He would withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, each time making your eyes squeeze shut tighter and your head press against his. The sweat on your foreheads seemed to meld you together, turning you into one entity. His eyes opened, burning into your face, and you met his gaze, your eyes filling with tears of pure pleasure as he thrust even deeper.

"I like you," he murmurs, cupping your cheek as his other hand grips the headboard, making the wood creak. A smile graces your lips, almost cut off by his cock sliding in deeper.

"I like you too," you manage to reply between ragged breaths, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck as if it's your lifeline.

He brings his lips to your forehead, giving you a long, lingering kiss, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he brings his hand to your mouth, and with that signal, he starts thrusting with all he has, making you scream into his hand, which hopefully muffles the sound. He rests his own mouth there to also muffle his moans, feeling sweat run down every part of his body, mixing with yours. The bed bangs against the wall, your eyes roll back when he hits that sweet spot inside you, your hands lifting to dig your nails into his back. As your walls clench around him, he feels your climax spill out, soaking the sheets and his lower abdomen. With a louder moan, he quickly pulls out, his cock spilling his cum over your belly.

He releases your mouth and the headboard, letting his full weight rest on you, his head finding solace in the crook of your neck. Your arms encircle his neck, keeping him close as your entire body trembles with the aftershocks of pleasure. Both of you are exhausted, both satisfied. Michael's thoughts drift back to the early weeks of knowing you, how he wished you would vanish, and now, how he dreads the thought of you leaving, like everyone else. The irony might have drawn a bitter laugh from him if he weren't so physically spent.

"I wasn't bluffing," you hear him murmur into your neck, capturing your attention amidst the sensations still coursing through your body. You slowly turn your head towards him.

"What?" you whisper, perhaps fearful that even a slight increase in volume might make this moment slip away, just as much as he is. His eyes, those blues that most people overlook, capture your senses.

"I really like you." Hearing those words again, this time not in the heat of the moment, did something different to you stomach, perhaps quickened your heart more than the entire act itself, burned your skin more than anything else.

Drawing him closer with your hand, you adjust his position so he lies on your chest, where he places a gentle kiss. Your fingers delve into his hair, and you cast a brief glance to the side where his glasses still rest. A smile graces your lips because the truth is, you are utterly and hopelessly in love with the genius Michael Gavey. The irony is that he doesn't seem genius enough to realize it.

#smut #michael gavey #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #aemond targaryen #aemond #house of the dragon #oneshot #saltburn #fanfic #x reader #aemond x reader #hotd aemond

562 notes · View notes

ghost-proofbaby · 1 year ago

Text

IT WILL COME BACK (E.M.)

"honey, don't feed me - i will come back."

summary: when eddie came back from the upside down, he was different. and you finally come to realize just how different the man you saved truly is one night, when push comes to shove.

pairings: kas!eddie munson x reader

warnings: mentions of BLOOD (in sexual manner), mentions of BITING (in sexual manner), allusions to possible coercion (consent is still explicitly stated - trust me), mentions of death and trauma, mentions of eddie's canon death, taking a lot of creative liberty with expansive vampire lore across all media, mentions of murderous dreams? (eddie dreamt about killing reader idk), oral (f receiving), smut. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - 18+ ONLY.

wc: 7.7k+

a/n: i told y'all i'd write a serious biting/blood kink fic one day - today is the day. very lazily edited so beware.

When Eddie came back from the Upside Down, he was different.

There were subtle changes at first. Small, minute details that were easy to ignore. Everyone could turn a blind eye to them — everyone figured they would fade once the boy healed. His healing was first priority, and whatever lingered after could be dealt with.

Get Eddie better. Then question all that lingers.

A simple plan. A genius plan. A torturous plan.

The two of you had been friends, if you could even call it that, prior to it all. Teasing in the hallways, working on school projects here and there when in shared classes, he was your favorite (and only) dealer when you craved something to make sleep come just a little bit easier. He had been familiar — an old ghost you'd grown comfortable with, long before you’d seen those large and wet eyes looking back up at you in the boathouse.

Long before he’d pieced together the puzzle pieces as to why you’d needed the weed to cancel out the nightmares. Long before he’d processed exactly what those nightmares entailed.

But then, you’d fought for him. You’d fought with him. And most importantly, you’d bled with him.

God, you had bled for him.

Something admirable had blossomed in that short time. Eddie’s entire life had fallen apart, thread by frayed thread, and that new planted emotion had been the only solid thing to emerge for him to absolutely cling to. You were more than a fellow classmate to pass by in the hallways. You were more than his favorite customer, always weaponizing fluttering lashes and puckered lips for a discount he’d have given you regardless.

You were a force to be reckoned with, and had ignited a hunger in him like no other.

That’s all he had thought it was when he’d awoken in his living room — not the distorted version but the real one — to you screaming for the others to help you as you’d sealed his wounds. That’s all he had thought it was when you’d come to visit him as wounds turned to scars, and stabbing pains turned to hungering pangs. So he had tried to bury it, listen to Harrington and Wheeler and Buckley when they told him to take time to readjust. He’d locked away that hunger and focused on his healing, just as everyone else had, and told himself it was just residual feelings.

Residual feelings had been bound to happen after seeing someone bloody their hands, with your own blood, for your survival.

And in his burial, he’d never considered a similar hunger igniting somewhere deep within you.

You visited far more often than you should have. Returning time and time again to change his bandages, taking on one too many shifts at the hospital during his unconscious spells and baring your teeth for anyone who got too close. The sweet blood on your hands hadn’t washed away in that first shower; you swore, if you looked closer, you could still see the stain of nearly losing him across your knuckles.

Physical wounds were easier to heal than the internal ones. It was easier to lather on antibiotic lotion than it was to sleep soundly at night. Both of you came to realize that quickly in the weeks that followed Eddie’s return from the dead.

His nights were plagued with bad dreams, with thirst and cravings he couldn’t quite name. He’d wake up, burning up from the inside out with a fever that never existed. Tearing skin. Puncture wounds. Blood spilling across floors and his lips alike. He could never tell if the shivers that traced his spine had been from the cruel visions that had become his nightly visitors or if it was due to his perpetual drop in temperature that had worried Nancy since the very first night home from the hospital, that had concerned the nurses who piled blankets atop him during his week long sleep of recovery.

Your nights were even less kind. Horrific memories were the demons that haunted you — remembering the way you had watched Eddie cut that sheet rope, remembering finding him bloodied on the ground, remembering the warmth of his blood seeping across your palms and how when your ear had turned just as heated with it as you pressed it to his chest. Only to hear nothing. Emptiness.

His heart had stopped for minutes. Plural.

It had been your steady rhythm, your desperate hands and your gasping breaths breathing into his lungs. You’d sunk your claws into him, caught them right between his ribs and had decided he couldn’t leave you.

Some nights, when you wake up screaming, you can still taste his blood on your lips. You sometimes still swore that when you’d checked for a pulse after that, you hadn’t heard anything. Still worried that Eddie Munson’s heart never really restarted and resumed beating.

The worst was when you’d stare through the faded grey of mornings plastering across your room’s walls, and could still remember that initial look in his blown out pupils, once honey brown swallowed in pure black as he’d taken his first breath on his own.

Hunger.

You’d felt it, too. Shame riddled you on the nights you’d come down from the nightmares and remember it; it was as though the Universe had snapped back into place the moment you’d watched his chest first rise. A need so ardent to remain at his side. A chain clicking into place, binding both yourself and Eddie to one another, unaware of just what price had been paid to keep the boy that had laid under you in this world. Unaware of the hunger you had struck the match too that would become both your downfalls.

And so it had been buried. Something alive, even with your doubts of Eddie’s liveliness, and choking on dirt while six feet under. You and Eddie, two sides of the same coin, had decided to not speak of it. He never told you how he had come to be able to pinpoint your heartbeat in every shared room he entered, throat burning as his gaze always settled on you, and you never told him of the matching aches that had shamefully sparked within your chest and between your hips for him.

A hunger to be near one another. A hunger to devour. Neither of you really understood the heaviness.

“How are you feeling today, Eddie?” Steve asks as he sits on the edge of the new bed in the new apartment in the new part of town the Munson men now occupy.

Government money could go a Hell of a long way. Especially after your home had been devastated by the aftermath of alternate dimensions and unheard of evil being defeated.

“Fine,” is the only response Eddie can muster.

In reality, every time anyone came near him now, he burned. His throat tightened till it was surely raw, he swore his teeth sharpened until a mere slip of his tongue against his canines could bring the taste of metallic blood to his mouth. His entire body would tense with every person that walked through his door.

Control. Whatever was happening to him, Eddie needed to exercise control.

“Just fine?” Steve continues on, not catching the drift as he puts down the bag of things he’d bought at Eddie’s request. Basic things — painkillers, packs of cigarettes, a 6-pack. Some habits die harder and can’t be controlled, “You look like shit, Munson.”

“Gee, thanks, Stevie.”

Everyone had assumed the dark shadows beneath Eddie’s eyes would fade. They assumed his cheeks would eventually fill back out. They assumed he could wash away the ashen shade his hair now flatly flowed in. It was as if the life had been drained from Eddie since that day, and they had all assumed it would eventually flow back into him.

It never did. Just as his new hunger lingered, so did the look of Death.

“Sorry, man,” Steve throws his hands up, shrugging a bit before he stands, “Just being honest. It’s the best policy.”

“Is it? Is it really?”

If honesty was the best policy, Eddie could have filled the room with it. He could admit about the nightmarish wants, needs, he’d been keeping at bay. He could admit the way his irritation had been growing this last week every time another body, another friend, walked through his doorway and it wasn’t you. You, who had begun to plague the night terrors. You, who Eddie was beginning to crave far more than he had before he’d stared the afterlife down the barrel of the gun.

Steve just looks at Hawkins’ newest zombie boy, sighing, “Look, I don’t know what’s got you pissed off-“

“The whole dying thing, for starters.”

“-or why you’ve insisted on being an asshole to all of us these last few weeks-“

“Again, I died.”

“-but you’ve got everyone but me scared to visit you. We’re all scared of you biting our heads off, dude,” Steve finally finishes with a scowl.

Everyone. It’s unspoken that you’re included in the generalization.

It occurs to Eddie that maybe, just maybe, he should be kinder if he ever wants the ache of yearning to see you again to fade. If that’s what he could call this ache.

By the time Steve has left, Eddie’s still thinking about his warning. About the way he had been unusually cruel since coming back to life, since waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed. It made sense initially. But he wasn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed anymore — he was home, or as close to home as he could get, and he was technically safe.

The issue was that he’d accepted his safety. Everyone who had wanted Eddie Munson dead was now six feet under themselves. No, the bigger issue at hand was everyone else’s safety.

Your safety.

Once he’d realized you were the staring lead in his violent fantasies, he had stopped calling. Half of your absence last week had been his fault.

No one really bothered to look deeper into it. Steve didn’t press as to why Eddie’s fridge had remained empty, Nancy didn’t take second glances at the odd books on vampire tales that were now littering all the free real estate of Eddie’s room, and you hadn’t questioned the coldness of his tone whenever he spoke to you. The chill of his words had grown icier than his own palms, desperate to keep you at arm’s length until he figured out what had changed in him that day he came back to life.

He wanted you near. He wanted to rip your throat out. He wanted your blood to stain his mouth and neck just as his had stained your hands. That was an issue. That wasn’t normal.

Something had changed in Eddie Munson, and it had terrified him to his twisted core, and no one had cared enough to notice. Not yet.

–

It took you two weeks to be fed up with the radio silence.

Eddie stopped calling even Jonathan (the only one of the group he found he didn’t want to devour whole, as it turns out). When everyone had mentioned it in passing, it had only reminded you of the sleepless nights you’d be enduring. That small voice in the back of your head that had called out to you in the dead of night, the whisper of come to me that echoed all the way across a broken town.

Come to me.

Sometimes you swore it was Eddie’s voice calling to you. Sometimes, you nearly left your own new apartment in the dead of night, and let your legs guide you to the undead boy you had single-handedly revived.

Tonight was one of those nights. Your stomach was twisting, your head was pounding, your bones were aching. Every single inch of you hurt as it listened to that soft calling, and at some point, you gave in.

Hunger. You were insatiable with the need and drive to be at Eddie’s side. Warnings from the others be damned.

One thing leads to another. You find your coat, you find your car keys. You find yourself driving the deserted streets of Hawkins in the middle of the night. You find yourself on the Munson doorstep, knuckles shaking and aching with the knowledge that just beyond the wood of the door, he was there. You don’t have to see him to feel him; his thrumming presence, his anchoring existence.

Come to me.

The door swings open before you get the chance to knock. This string tying your two souls together is not a one-way channel, it seems.

“Why are you here?”

You watch him wince as the harsh words leave him. Immediately, you know that the abrasiveness is on instinct. Just as something claws inside of you to be near him, there is something within him howling to keep you far from him.

The polarity of two magnets. Some nights, surely, his twists in a way that would draw him to you, just as yours will twirl with the sensibility that whatever has changed within him should give you cause to run as far away from him as possible.

But tonight, your magnetism only yanks you closer to him. He doesn’t even invite you in, and yet, you find yourself stepping over the threshold of the new apartment.

“You’ve gone quiet,” you whisper as an answer. It’s not what he wants to hear, grimace deepening, nearly a scowl now, “I just… It’s been weeks. I…”

I missed you. I needed you. I heard you in my dreams and I’ve never had much self-control when it comes to you.

Magnets are a useless metaphor for whatever is happening here between you. A better comparison would be the cliche image of a moth to a flame; he’s dangerous, threatening to burn you alive, and you still find your heart fluttering after him hopelessly. You’re going to get scorned, and you’ll still never learn. You’ve fallen victim to a tired narrative that you’d rolled your eyes at in a plethora of books. How many times had you sworn that wouldn’t be you? Just how many eye rolls had you exhausted at the mere idea?

And now, here you were, on his doorstep. Grasping for something you’re not sure either of you can give.

“I’ve been dealing with a few things,” he mutters as he shuts the door behind you, shielding you both from the chill of the night. The room is still cold, especially in his radius, “Didn’t think it would make much of a difference.”

“You didn’t think I’d care if you just stopped calling?” you turn slowly, taking in the state of the living room. Wayne was clearly gone for the night, work most probably, and several books littered the coffee table. Eddie had been the one reading them, lounging on the couch.

The last time you had seen him, he couldn’t even sit up in bed on his own.

He’s keeping an unusual distance, nearly leaning back out of your vicinity, “Figured you were busy.”

He’s never been this short with you. His words are choked up, his body tense with pain. You assume it’s just his injuries bothering him.

You couldn’t be more wrong, but you’re completely unaware.

“I brought you back from the dead, and you think I’d still be too busy for you,” you laugh humorlessly, fully in disbelief at his pitiful excuse, “Eddie, we could find out Vecna didn’t really die, those damn cracks in the Earth could open right back up, and the first person I’d care about finding is you.”

The animal inside that had been yearning for his presence is satiated for now, but you can still feel it lurking in the darkest depths of your mind, ready to call out a new request at any moment. It’s the distraction that has you spilling pathetic truths.

The only response he offers you is a dead stare. With eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowed up by darkness.

“You could have called,” your voice cracks, body shaking with the effort not to take a step closer to him, “You could have just let me know you were still alive.”

“I-”

He cuts himself off when he’s the one taking a step closer. His entire face twists with pain, and you give up keeping your distance. In an instant, you’re at his side as your hand reaches out for his bicep.

He flinches away. Something inside of you burns.

Your hand is hovering in the air between the two of you, and in this lighting, you swear the skin is still stained with the blood that won’t wash away.

“Please don’t,” he begs, “I’m fine, but… please.”

You don’t know what he’s begging for. Distance, for you to pull your hand away, time – you don’t know what he needs.

“We should sit down,” you insist, finally pulling your hand as far from him as possible but making no move to put the space back between you two, “Has anyone helped you with your bandages? If your wounds got infected-”

“They didn’t.”

“If you didn’t change the bandages, they definitely could have-”

“They’re not infected,” he grits out, but he’s still walking over to the couch regardless, “They’re healed.”

Healed.

Mere weeks ago, those wounds were still deep enough to keep you from ever achieving a full night's rest. Deep enough to worry you to the core that you would wake up to them finally having consumed him. Deep enough that you all assumed it would take him months, not weeks, to recover.

“What do you mean they healed, Eddie?” you whisper, almost reaching out for him as he sits down.

Your hand twitches, but the echoes of his begging and his flinching keep it at bay as you stand before him.

“I mean, they healed,” he huffs, nostrils flaring as he takes deep breaths. He’s looking anywhere in the room but at you, his gaze subverting you with purpose. As though the mere sight of you, the mere proximity, is painful to him, “Don’t know how, don’t know why – they just did.”

“So why are you still in pain?”

A sharper intake of breath. A hush of silence falling over the apartment. Even the buzz of the building’s AC unit has faded from all your senses. It’s just you and him, and a heavy quietude like no other.

Until he finally breaks the surface tension, breathing out, “You.”

Your heart drops. That tug inside your chest, the one taut as you look at him right within your reach yet still so far away, almost snaps.

“Me?”

He nods with a harsh swallow, “I- Look, I can’t explain it, but when I came back, I came back…”

“Different?”

He doesn’t have to explain it. You’d felt it.

The moment his eyes had opened, just moments after what should have been blissful victory. The taste of his blood heavy on your tongue, a terrible sweetness that had choked you rather than its initial metallic twang. The whispers of his voice in your mind.

He wasn’t the only one changed from whatever had occurred that night.

“Different is a good way of putting it,” he nods, looking up with apologetic eyes, “It’s not you. It’s cliche as fuck, but it really isn’t – it’s me. I died, and you brought me back, but I don’t think either of us knew the cost.”

The yearning. The nightmares. The unmanageable needs. The hunger.

“What was the cost?”

He almost doesn’t hear you. Your voice is a whisper, tone weighed down with the curse of knowing.

You might not have known the cost when you were pressing your palms into his chest through your wretched sobs, functioning as his heart and lungs for nearly a minute, but you think you might have a clue now.

All that had been tethering you to him since he’d come back to you, all those webs and strings that had formed their knots around both of your necks. He’d changed, and you had plummeted right into the chasm of the unknown with him.

His blood on your tongue, sweet as honey.

Blood shouldn’t be sweet.

He grabs one of the books off the coffee table, motioning for you to join him on the couch. Under the weight of your realization, you’re nearly under a trance. All he has to do is wave a hand, and you follow.

You’re at his beck and call. Just like you had been when he’d been calling out for you, yearning for you.

“Don’t make me say it,” he mutters under his breath, tossing the book into your lap the moment you’ve sat down. This time, you’re mindful to keep your distance.

This time, you’re painfully aware of the compromising situation the two of you have found yourselves in.

The book is older, leather-bound and worn from years of readers’ careless hands breaking the spine. The corners of every page are weather, close to disintegration. The entire thing could easily pass for a Halloween decoration.

It’s not. You flip open to the title page, and if Eddie didn’t appear so deathly serious at your side, you would have scoffed.

“Dracula?” you question carefully, running a finger over the delicate script of the title, “Eddie, I don’t-”

“I’m not insane,” he interrupts you, “I’m not fucking- I swear to you. I’ve gathered up every goddamn book about it that I can. Fictional, nonfictional. Just- there’s obviously a Hell of a lot more fictional material to work with, okay?”

A vampire. He’s convinced he’s a vampire.

And even worse – you’re convinced right along with him.

You turn your head to look at him, trying to find the right words, but all you find is Eddie burying his face in his hands, head nearly hung between his knees.

“I can’t eat normal food anymore,” his voice is muffled, “That was the first sign. Couldn’t stomach it, made me throw up for hours when I tried. And then all those nurses kept talking about how I was healing faster than they expected. Most of my smaller cuts – those healed in under a day,” he finally lifts his face just enough to turn and peer at you through all the stray curls that fall into his vision, “My vision and hearing were the next things I noticed. Remember how I had a nonstop migraine those first few days?”

He doesn’t need to convince you, but the argument is compelling, “It… wasn’t a migraine.”

He shakes his head. “Not even close. Just turns out that it’s a killer to get used to fucking superhuman night vision and impeccable hearing. I still can’t handle being out in the sun very long. I don’t… burn up or any of that shit, but… it just…” he trails off, shoulders falling in defeat before he throws himself back against the couch. When he continues, his tone is flat, devoid of all emotion, “I keep having these dreams about you, too. Bad dreams. Terrible dreams.”

You shut the book, toss it back onto the coffee table, and decide to Hell with keeping your distance.

You need it. Even if he’ll only allow you to get an inch closer to him, you need it.

“What do you mean by terrible dreams?” you ask, breath catching at the end of your question as you scoot yourself closer on the couch. Even with such a small movement, Eddie is quick to notice, eyes flicking to you quickly with a sense of urgency flashing behind them.

“Don’t,” he lowly warns.

“What’s happening in your dreams, Eddie?”

Another inch closer. His jaw clenches.

“Sweetheart, do not-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Your knee bumps into his thigh, and you watch him go rigid. Hands turning to fists, eyes pinching shut and face twisting with the same pain he’d worn the ghost of when you first arrived at the apartment.

The moment you touch him, you see it. The flashes of his nightmares, all those terrible actions haunting him every time he closed his eyes. You. Your blood. That hunger.

Like a blackhole in the center of your stomach, it burns viciously as it sucks the air out of your lungs. It threatens to cave your entire being into itself until there’s nothing left. Not even a crumb of who you once were.

But it's not yours. It’s Eddie’s.

That pain on his face is only exhibiting a fraction of what he was feeling. That dizzying craving that he’d miraculously been keeping at bay since you’d simply entered the building, not even yet knocking on his door. You hadn’t even been in the same room as him yet, and he had still known. Had smelt you, had felt you.

He could almost taste you.

“You…” you have to shift your knee away from him, break the touch, break the connection, “You haven’t fed since you woke up.”

“I haven’t fed, period.”

With the connection severed, he somehow finds it in himself to open his eyes once more. You don’t know how – if he’s feeling what you’d just been privy to, you’d be an incoherent mess on the floor. Something feral and unrecognizable.

Although, maybe he was nearly there. You couldn’t see his pupils. That same look when he’d first woken up – a man swallowed whole by hunger.

“You’ve been dreaming about ripping my throat out,” you say it as a matter of fact, not a lick of judgment in your tone.

It wasn’t you scrutinizing him. It was what you had seen, with one simple touch.

His voice is hoarse as he echoes in confirmation, “I’ve been dreaming about ripping your throat out.”

You should probably be afraid. All your survival instincts should be kicking in, your feet should be carrying you towards the door, you shouldn’t be leaning in closer.

“You know what really sealed the whole vampire ordeal though, sweetheart?” he breathes out, your eyes fluttering shut at the lull in his hushed tone.

Just as you’ve been leaning in, he’s been slowly turning his body to face yours, hands twitching at his sides. He’s no longer retreating from your presence, sucking down breaths in harsh gulps the closer you grow to him.

He’s losing control. You’re losing control.

That thread, vibrant red as it draws you near him, is clear as day now. A noose around your neck. A road to your damnation.

A road to your hunger.

You hardly hum in response, completely entranced now. Had he ever been capable of this before? Of holding you beneath such an inescapable spell with such ease?

Probably.

He doesn’t use his words to answer. Instead, he finally takes the plunge.

His head ducks down towards your neck just as his hands lose the war, grabbing onto your hips, dragging you dangerously close to him until his lips hovered just over your pulse point. And by some strength that you certainly don’t possess, he stops there. Letting his lips barely brush against your soft skin, breath coming out in pants for you to feel, to relish, to get lost in. And just as soon as those pants, those waves, become a comfortable pattern to succumb to, you feel them.

His fangs.

Grazing over your sensitive skin. Sharp tips nipping at a surface they could so easily break, pierce with one wrong move. Your pulse is thrumming beneath the surface, heart racing painfully as Eddie’s grip turns bruising.

Come to me.

“Please.”

You’re the one begging now. It goes against every rule you’ve ever seen applied in fiction. If a vampire is baring their fangs against your neck, you should be reaching for a stake. The only noise escaping you should be a scream for help, not the pathetic whimpers beginning to slip out.

“I can’t,” you feel his gasp more than you can hear it. Your blood is too loud, roaring in your ears as you feel the fangs slip with his words, “I can’t.”

That hunger you felt, the one that had called out to you through the night and led you right to his doorstep, is unavoidable now. You need him closer, you need him to do this. For the first time since you had saved his life and tasted his blood after the Upside Down, everything seems to click into place. All he needs to do is let them sink into you, take that final leap of faith and reprieve that ache you’ve battled for weeks now.

You’re so close. So close.

“Eddie, please,” you’re nearly sobbing, hands gripping onto his shoulders, trying to pull him in closer.

But you’re no match for his strength. You don’t know if it’s a new addition with his vampire business or if there was always more to him than met the eye, but he easily stays stoic against your attempts, not moving a centimeter. Still hovering, still just barely making contact with your heartbeat.

“I-” his head drops slightly, tip of his nose beginning to trail down the side of your neck, mouth no longer dangerously close, “You saw my dreams-”

“I trust you.”

You do. You trust him even more now than you had when you first stumbled upon him in the boathouse. More than when he had pleaded his case, promised he hadn’t been the one to kill Chrissy Cunningham. The trust comes easier than breathing as his nose nuzzles into the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“You shouldn’t,” he mutters, fangs now brushing your collar bone, “You really, really shouldn’t.”

He doesn’t stop you when you move to straddle his hips. Your weight settles onto his lap, and he only fights to keep his face burrowed there in your shoulder, arms now moving around your waist to hold you tightly to him.

His self-control is impeccable. You’d admire him and all this impressiveness another time, when something inside of you wasn’t lamenting his resistance.

All at once, it occurs to you how to give him the final push.

“Did I ever tell you how sweet your blood was on my tongue after I brought you back?” you start, sighing, rolling your shoulders to expose more of your neck, grip on his shoulders tightening, “All that blood, all those tears, and I still can’t forget how welcome that warmth of you was in my mouth. How I needed more. How I pictured it every night, after every nightmare-”

He breaks.

One moment, his nose is buried in your skin. And the next, his fangs are.

You weren’t sure what to expect, but relief would have been low on your list. You gasp out in initial shock, but as you feel his teeth dig in, it’s as though something has snapped. The ache has been satiated, preening as you feel the warmth of your blood contrast the chill of his chin pressing into you.

If there’s any pain, you don’t feel it through the haze of pleasure.

Ice shards spread through your bloodstream, but the point in which Eddie’s mouth is connected to you radiates heat. He’s pulling you into him, letting go completely and relinquishing all that control as he nearly purrs against your skin in satisfaction. That connection is back, two minds linking with a heavy click, and you can feel all his pleasure mingling with your own. Satiation, desperation, adoration – the plethora of emotions all swarm your head and block out any better judgment.

You’d let him drain you dry, if that’s what he needed. If nothing more than to hear those soft moans as his fangs sink even deeper.

He pulls back too soon, though, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as quickly as he had given in to both your desires, he’s putting an end to them. He hadn’t taken much blood, but your head is swimming from the loss all the same. Your grip has gone slack on him, hands slipping down to just barely cradle his biceps while his own touch stays unyielding around you.

You can hear his thoughts. Or rather, maybe more aptly put, you can feel them.

He wants to devour you. Wholly, ruthlessly.

He looks up at you with pupils still blown wide, chest heaving and a small scarlet drip trailing from the corner of his mouth. For the first time since he’d come back to you, he looks alive. Hair fluffed in a halo around his head, skin tinted with a healthy glow and unmistakable blush, bags beneath his eyes faded for the time being.

You were never quite sure if Eddie Munson’s heart had ever restarted, knew for certain that it hadn’t now, but you swear you can feel its pulse finally thrumming for you.

I need more.

It’s his voice in your head, echoing in the empty space as you look down with wild eyes to match his.

But it’s your voice in his head when you respond instantaneously.

Then take it.

Something unspoken lies there in the need. He doesn’t move back to your neck, doesn’t bite down and drink his fill of your blood. He only stares for a few seconds, watching the welt of blood that pools from each puncture wound of his making. His eyes follow when it runs down your skin, as though he might lose it should he so much as blink. Down, down, down. Following the trail that his nose had followed minutes before, across your collarbone until it stains the neck of your loose shirt.

My pleasure.

His hold proves helpful when he quickly changes positions, roughly throwing you down onto the couch before he’s settled between your thighs, crawling his way up your body. He pays close attention to the maroon trail on your throat, his tongue cleaning up after his mess, savoring the taste of you on his tongue.

Sweet as honey.

His tongue only pauses for a moment over the bite wound, pressing into it, making your back arch as you press yourself fully into him. Your head digs painfully into the cushion behind you as you expose your neck, wanting and begging and pleading all without words.

“I think we should take this off,” he plucks at the hem of your shirt, tugging hard before he begins to carefully lift. His freezing knuckles brush against your burning skin, eliciting a whimper from you, “Before we make an ever bigger mess. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?”

A sultry tone you’ve never heard from him before. Honeyed words, familiar to how he once spoke, but entirely new in the way they curl around you. There’s a confidence there, a baiting that he’s luring you with.

“Yes, please.”

He could ask anything of you in this moment, and you’d be eager to comply. Fueled by your desire for him before the events of spring break, worsened by his new condition. A bright, red, vibrating thread. You couldn’t severe the tie if you wanted to.

And you most certainly did not want to.

Your shirt is removed, his hands careful despite the way they shake. His words may be smooth, but each move is jagged, the only sign you had that he’s still exercising control.

“And these?” he whispers, lowering his lips to your sternum as he toys with the band of your pants. His fangs scratch down the center of your stomach as it quivers with each breath, careful to not break skin as they make their presence known. You nearly lose all capability to speak until he says, “Use your words, baby. Tell me I can take them off.”

Yes.

His eyes flare, looking up to you, “Use your words. Not your mind. I want to hear how badly you need me – I want everyone to hear you beg.”

The words strike straight to your core. Lashing out in your lower stomach, burning deliciously.

It’s more than putting on a show. He needs to know you want this.

“Take them off,” you gasp out, hands wandering to tangle in his hair, “Take- Take it all off. I’m yours, Eddie.”

Shaking hands perform a dance you had long since fantasized about. In easier days, when Eddie had been uninvolved in the episode down, heart still beating along as he would bounce his knees in front of you and his fingers would idly fiddle with his pencils and pens. A yearning, a wanting, you’d always held for the boy.

He used to be an escape from it all. A pretty thing to daydream about when you weren’t worried about monsters. And now – he was one of the monsters.

Your monster. Tied to you inexplicably, brought back by your hands and your stubborn efforts.

His lips and fangs are one in the same, trailing along your body as he finds a home at the apex between your thighs. Even in undeath, he’s the most beautiful thing your mind could conjure.

You’d forgotten how he was privy to your every thought until he reacts.

“You’re too sweet,” he murmurs, smirking salaciously as he mouths innocently at that sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tongue darting out to lick a cool stride before he breathes out against it. It has you writhing beneath his hold, “You’ve wanted this all this time, sweetheart? Wanted to see me, between these pretty thighs, making you scream my name?” His mouth falls open a bit wider, the sharp canines pressing but not sinking against where he had just licked. He holds there, eyes locking with yours, until he pulls back to cockily say, “Could’ve just said something, y’know. Didn’t have to bring me back from the dead to have me devoted to you.”

Finally, finally, he lets his fangs sink back into you. The soft meat of your thigh is more pliant in his mouth, and he doesn’t linger as long as he had on your neck. One nick, just enough to start the blood flow, before he’s pulling back and licking hungrily at the scarlet liquid. Less for feeding, more for marking.

Marking you as his, just as you have with him. His methods just appeared a bit more physical.

He’s quick to avert his focus on your cunt, no warning before the tongue still covered in your blood is taking long strides over your entrance and clit. Devotion. That was the only word to describe the way he was unraveling you, alternating between indulging in your sweet cunt and returning back to that bite, going as far to even sink his teeth in a second time to take a proper drink of you. His chin and lips grow slick with it all – with the blood, with your wetness, with his own saliva. A starved man with a feast before him.

The way he’s rutting his hips into the couch as he slings your legs over his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed.

It’s a mess. A wonderful, satisfying, enchanting mess.

Beautiful. So beautiful, all mine.

His voice has you teetering on an edge of new carnal pleasure. Completely consumed by him, your hands tugging viciously at his curls. His face is round once more, eyes and cheeks no longer sunken in, vitality being breathed into him with each taste of your blood.

Let me touch you. Please.

You beg over that connection, trying your best to not buck your hips mercilessly against his tongue. You feel his wicked grin.

“You’re already touching me, sweetheart,” he reaches up, untangling your fingers from his hair for emphasis before he’s pinning them to your sides, “And what did I say about using our words? Hm?”

“Need more,” your voice is wrecked as you tilt your head back, wrists straining against his hold, “I need more.”

You’re fully light-headed now, the blood loss finally catching up. Maybe you were about to let him drain you dry.

And what a beautiful way to die. At the hand, at the fangs, of the one you had fought so urgently to bring back to you.

One last timid lick to the wound on your thigh, and he’s crawling his way back up to you. The mess doesn't phase you as he kisses you hungrily – the blood remains sweet rather than metallic, the remnants of your juices still on his tongue – and you meet him with an unbridled fervent. Nipping at his lips with your own dull canines as if you were the one looking for a bite of vivacity.

You don’t know when he lets go of your wrists, or when your hands find their way up beneath his shirt. The specifics don’t matter once he’s naked before you, clothes discarded messily to the ground with your own. The only thing that matters is the weight of him, the reminder that he was still here as his hips roll into yours and the head of him catches on your entrance.

He had been dead. For minutes. And you had brought him back to you.

The process had taken longer than the mere CPR administered, had taken weeks of whatever waiting game you two had tortured yourselves with, but you had him now. He was yours. You were his. There wasn’t a deity, a monster, an omniscient being in this world that could take that away from you. Not even Death herself.

“Last chance, baby,” he whispers against your lips, holding himself up so that not a single inch of his skin pressed to yours. You nearly cried out, missing that connection, missing him. Your hunger, the hunger for him entirely, rattles your bones once more, “Say the word, and I’ll-”

“No,” your hands pause their exploration of skin jagged with scars. Reminders of those few dreadful moments in which the world existed without Eddie Munson in it, that would fade in time but never fully disappear. Always there, just like the stain of his blood on your palms. Always there, just like your desperation to have him at your side. “I meant it when I said I’m yours. I’m not changing my mind. I want this.”

His skin is back on yours, body laid fully along your own road map, and it all comes flooding back. The pain of seeing his lifeless body, the nights spent in an eerie hospital room, baring your own teeth at any one who came too close to the man you had pulled back from the ledge of Death. The anxiety, the fear, the relief, the yearning – it all accumulates as he’s pressing into you, brimming you so full that there’s no room for memories of nightmares.

He’s here. He’s yours. You’re his.

His heart didn’t need to beat for you to accept that truth.

You can’t decipher which chants of your name fall from his lips for others to hear, and which ones whisper in the depths of your mind for only you to bear witness to. Each curse, each grunt, each moan – there for you and only you anyways. You’re entirely unsure if your lips even separate once as he thrusts, cock brushing somewhere deep in you that has you clenching around him.

And if his fangs wander, it only adds to the pleasure.

Blood, sweat, and tears all mingle between your bodies. He’s holding you tighter than water, as though you’re at risk of disappearing from him at any given moment. But that link between your two minds, your two souls, is unwavering. It’s the only thing grounding you to the moment as your half curls around his waist and your heel digs into his lower back. Urging him, pressing him, taking him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says it out loud, this time. You feel his lips brushing against your ear as he does, “Gripping me so tightly. This pussy was fucking made for me.”

Every movement only unlocks something more feral inside the two of you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red lines to trace over once it’s all said and done. There’s enough shallow bite marks across your neck that you’ll be wearing scarves for weeks, months. The others might question it, strangers might stare, but the pride you feel as he marks you is unmatched for any anxiety about it.

That black hole of hunger is no longer swallowing either of you whole. That debilitating pain, that animal inside, has been tamed.

When his hips begin to stutter, mouth no longer capable of the strength to properly bite you as his lips only smear the soft spattering of blood pooling at the base of your throat, you’re already there. Squeezing him tightly, sucking him in, voice raw as you let everyone know who’s ravishing you.

Eddie.

Hawkins’ newest zombie boy – Hawkins’ newest vampire.

The climax is just as pleasurable as the lead up. The haze lingers long after his spent has dripped out of you, long after he’s collapsed into your body with exhaustion and contentment. The blood dries, the wounds clot – but that haze doesn’t falter.

As long as his skin presses to yours, you feel that caress of his mind against yours.

“Did…” you’re breathless as his face nuzzles into your nude chest, a few mindless hums of gratification still slipping from him as you bring a hand to toy with the curls at the crown of his head, “Did any of your vampire books say anything about… that?”

The connection. The bloodlust. The spell you swear he still has you under, even as it’s all said and done.

He snorts against your skin, “Not that I, uh, recall.”

“What? You mean to tell me in all your research, you never dived into any vampire smut?” you tsk jokingly, a calm smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He lifts his head, and you swear, those honey-brown irises have threads of a deep maroon now, “You’re slacking, Munson.”

“Why read about it when I can just experience it?” he coos, letting his nose and lips drag across your still hot skin before he rests his chin on your sternum, “Besides, I mean – we’ll need to do this again, won’t we, baby? For research.”

Your head still spins. Your body aches in a welcome manner. There will be a need for explanations to others, for actually researching his condition, later on. But for now, it’s enough.

The pounding behind your ribcage, the one you know Eddie feels for the both of you when his ear presses to your chest, is enough.

Of course, lover.

That thought stays between the two of you. The world doesn’t need to know what can’t hurt them.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

join my taglist!

#ghost's stories #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #kas!eddie munson #kas!eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #reader essentially became soul bound to him womp womp #don't drink a vampire's blood kids #i really didn't edit that intensely i spent two hours fucking with photoshop #if it's bad it's bad #finally dipping my toes into kas!eddie tho wahoo #vampire!eddie munson #someone requested eddie with this song forever ago but i lost the ask #eddie reading dracula to figure out if he's become a vampire is actually so fucking funny to me

1K notes · View notes

getobitchs · 5 months ago

Text

What You Took From Me - R. S.

✧.* content warning : angst, fluff ig?

✧.* w/c : 1.07k

✧.* n/a : nothin

✧.* tagline : @sugurus-thoughts ; (text me to be on the next tagline)

₊ ⊹🪻 ✧ ˚i

The Heian era was a time of elegance and tradition, where the beauty of the cherry blossoms mirrored the fleeting moments of happiness that mortals clung to. For you, life had once been simple, your days spent tending to the small garden by your family’s home, your nights bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. Until him.

Sukuna.

You had met him by chance — or so you had believed. A man of devastating beauty and an aura that sent chills down your spine, he was both terrifying and magnetic. Sukuna wasn’t just a man; he was a force of nature. A god among mortals, cloaked in an ever-present air of danger and power.

Yet, despite the fear he inspired, he had chosen you. Out of all the women in the land, it was you who had caught his eye. And in an act of defiance against both his nature and the world that feared him, he had married you.

At first, you had been afraid, unsure of his intentions. But Sukuna — when he wasn’t reigning over curses or instilling fear — had been a surprisingly gentle husband. He brought you rare flowers, sat beside you while you worked in the garden, and listened as you spoke of your dreams and fears. He wasn’t one to smile often, but when he did, it was like the sun breaking through a storm.

You fell in love with him, despite the warnings whispered by the wind and the shadowy aura that clung to him like a second skin. And for a time, you were happy.

But time was unkind to mortals.

Your health began to wane, your once-strong body betraying you as the years passed. You tried to hide it, to keep the growing weakness in your limbs and the ache in your chest a secret, but Sukuna knew. He always knew.

He watched helplessly as you grew weaker, his frustration manifesting in the crackle of his cursed energy. He could destroy entire villages, topple kingdoms, and command legions of curses, but he couldn’t stop the inevitable march of time. He couldn’t save you.

You died one spring morning, the scent of cherry blossoms heavy in the air. Sukuna had held you in his arms as you took your last breath, his four crimson eyes fixed on your face as though he could will you back to life.

“I’ll find you,” he had murmured, his voice breaking in a way you had never heard before. “No matter where you go, I’ll find you again.”

And then you were gone.

Centuries passed.

For years after your death, Sukuna clung to his memories of you, reliving every fleeting moment of happiness he had shared with you. He tried to forget, to bury your image beneath the blood and chaos of his reign, but no matter how much he destroyed, no matter how many lives he claimed, your face always lingered in the corners of his mind.

When he was eventually sealed, he welcomed the silence. If the world had nothing left to offer him, perhaps oblivion was the only answer.

But fate is cruel, and the threads of destiny are never truly severed.

In 2018, Sukuna awakened, dragged back into the world through forbidden sorcery. It was a strange new time, filled with loud machines, flashing lights, and a world that had forgotten his name. He should have reveled in the opportunity to spread fear and reclaim his throne, yet his mind was elsewhere.

The centuries had dulled nothing. He still thought of you. Your laughter, your touch, the way you had looked at him as though he weren’t a monster. He had lost you once, and the thought of living without you again filled him with an ache he couldn’t name.

Then, one ordinary evening, he saw you.

You were standing outside a café, bathed in the soft glow of a neon sign, your laughter carrying over the hum of the city. Time seemed to freeze. Sukuna’s crimson eyes locked onto you, his heart — something he had long believed dead — thudding painfully in his chest.

It was you.

You looked different, your modern clothes and styled hair unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking you. The shape of your smile, the way you tilted your head as you laughed — it was the same as it had been centuries ago.

For a moment, he could only stand there, staring. He had spent so long believing he would never see you again that the sight of you now felt like a dream.

You didn’t notice him at first, engrossed in your conversation with a friend. But then your eyes flickered toward him, and the world shifted.

You froze, your laughter dying in your throat as your gaze met his. There was no recognition in your eyes, but something passed between you — a spark, a faint pull that made your heart stutter.

Sukuna crossed the street without hesitation, his movements as smooth and predatory as they had been in the Heian era. He stopped in front of you, towering over you, his presence commanding your full attention.

“Can I help you?” you asked, your voice polite but wary.

His gaze softened as he took you in, his crimson eyes scanning your face for any hint of familiarity. “Do you believe in fate?” he asked, his voice low and resonant.

You blinked, startled by the question. “I… I guess?”

His lips curled into a smirk, though it lacked the malice it usually carried. “You should.”

Your friend nudged you, murmuring something about him being strange, but you didn’t move. There was something about him that felt… familiar.

“Have we met before?” you asked, your voice hesitant.

His smirk faltered for just a moment, replaced by something more vulnerable. “In another life, perhaps.”

You didn’t understand what he meant, but there was something in his gaze that made your chest ache, a strange and inexplicable feeling of loss and longing.

Sukuna didn’t press further. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to frighten you or risk losing you again. But as he turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll meet again,” he said, echoing the promise you had made to him centuries ago.

You stood there, watching him disappear into the crowd, your heart heavy with an emotion you couldn’t name.

And for the first time in centuries, Sukuna felt hope.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #more sukuna fluff bc why tf not #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen ryomen

164 notes · View notes

utilitycaster · 7 months ago

Text

I like that the Raven Queen, who made the decision to take on an immense and (at least to her understanding at the time) unending responsibility is the one who calls Bells Hells out on their endless indecision.

It's been...interesting, shall we say, tracking this "party of NPCs," and tracking the fandom response throughout. The initial reception to "party of NPCs" was actually a rather cold one. This took place early in the campaign, prior to the Gnarlrock fight, and at the time a lot of people who shipped Imogen and Laudna were actually extremely resistant to the idea that Imogen was the "main character" of the campaign (as seen in the fallout from the gnarlrock fight, in which the bulk of attacks from the fandom were on Imogen). I've had complicated feelings on Taliesin's reads of this campaign specifically - he tends to have a very good understanding of his own characters that doesn't necessarily expand beyond them - but that phrase was indeed pretty valid. I think about the WBN interludes, in fact, in which the cast plays using NPC statblocks, and what a true party of NPCs for Bells Hells would look like, since it would be quite simple to draw up.

Allied NPCs in TTRPGs rarely act without guidance from the PCs. I've cast a critical eye in the past towards certain meta (particularly romantic in nature, regarding Yeza or Essek or Gilmore not making moves) for this reason, because while villains and antagonists move throughout the world generating obstacles, allies exist to be directed. They have their limits, of course; they have their own priorities and motivations and cannot be persuaded against their nature, but they can be guided at oblique angles from the GMs initial intent given enough work from the PCs. They're still people with thoughts and feelings and dreams, to an extent, but rarely do they make decisions that would conflict with those of the PCs.

That's the problem with a party of NPCs. NPCs take direction. They serve as support, but they're not in the driver's seat. And the Raven Queen has noticed.

The attitude within the fandom towards "Party of NPCs" became far more positive over time, and I wonder if it should have. People began to lean perhaps too heavily on how Bells Hells were people from nothing and nowhere, discarded. This is of course objectively false when comparing across parties (can we really say Imogen had a worse childhood than Vex? Chetney to Caleb? Even Ashton to Fjord?) but were it true, that in and of itself wouldn't be a problem. D&D backstories are often tear-stained and blood-soaked, full of unjust accusations, dead or neglectful parents, failure and regret. D&D is a game about coming from very little but a disproportionately good stat block for a commoner. It is unavoidably about amassing power. Starting off as a party of NPCs is fine. You should not still be a party of NPCs at the endgame.

I mentioned the gnarlrock, and I've mentioned an emphasis (or overemphasis) on this party's lack of agency and I think that remains the problem. Ludinus's villainy is rich, complex, and multifaceted, but a consistent element of it is his eternal false insistence that he - Martinet, founder and head of the Cerberus Assembly, Archmage - is just a little guy, chaff in the wind of the will of the gods, without free will of his own (he says, as he places his thread outside the reach of the Matron). That too is a theme in fandom discourse: free will and intent. Is Imogen justified in being angry at Laudna for breaking the rock if that wasn't Laudna's intent? (yes.) Is Orym on a quest of vengeance, with a death wish? (no, but if he were it wouldn't matter.) Was it wrong to pressure Fearne to take the shard instead of letting her make her own choices? (yes.)

Did any of you, perhaps in preschool or kindergarten, since that's about the age when this happens, have someone pull your hair and for adults to say "it's because they like you?" I find this is a good way to convey the importance, or unimportance, or intent. Because when your hair is being pulled, at least if that is the extent of the problem, it doesn't matter if it comes from the misguided affections of a four-year-old admirer who doesn't know how to use their words, or a six-year-old who just grabbed the most obvious material with which to test the limits of the safety scissors, or an eleven-year-old bully. Your hair is being pulled and you want it to stop. It doesn't matter if the person secretly likes you or if they want to hurt you; it matters that no matter the intent behind it, they are doing so. And if you reject the affections of your fellow preschool classmate because you think they might pull your hair, that's a fair consequence.

Bells Hells' indecision is some sort of cosmic hair pulling. They have reasons for faltering, and some of those reasons are understandable balking at an immense weight placed upon them and some of those reasons come from a deeply self-centered place in which their individual pain is used to blot out the suffering of countless others. But in the end, even that doesn't matter. Their histories don't matter. We don't need another series of introductions of where they come from and what they've done. We need people who can make decisions and who will act.

The Raven Queen seems to have been convinced they will. I'm not sure. But I think we are in agreement that inaction is, regardless of the intent behind it, no different than active harm. It would be irresponsible to continue to be a party of NPCs; if they truly are lost and forgotten fuck-ups, they have a responsibility (as the god of death once did) to abdicate and find a replacement.

#critical role #cr spoilers #bells hells #much as i remain intrigued by the February 11 2021 dropoff it feels a LOT of people hit a specific wall this week #and since i'm more aware of it i think it's a combination of last ep + tlovm airing #but i suspect some of it is the issue being stated so nakedly. should have happened a WHILE back as several people have mentioned #long post

265 notes · View notes

exo-raskreia · 8 months ago

Note

hey.... i wanna know your honest Thoughts on the jjk ending? Give a rating out 10. Honestly i'm ranting. I mean the good things in the chapter were sukuna's conclusion, the flashback with gojo , queen utahime being alive yay and the nice art with everyone at the end. Usually i would wait for a story to finish before ranting/judging but my god this kinda sucked. I don't want to be too critical but god I am just disappointed and kinda mad. Overall it is an okay/mid manga ;). Gege is not worst writer but ughh. Aot or mha sure they have their flaws but my god..These should never be compared to THIS. so now we could really say that gojo stayed south. With the full chapter, this does not change my opinion cause it still kinda sucks overall even with the whole north vs south meaning. Nothing really changed in the society or lessons maybe except for yuji and sukuna. The kiddos all really went back to missions huh after everything. I have alot to say with relationships and bonds, wasted potential on many aspects but that is a whole other discussion. i totally understand we can't write a backstory for every single character but that is not what i am insinuating here and yes there should be room for a little literary interpretation . That a whole different topic... Anyways I agree with alot your rants. i would like to hear your opinions. In the end we never got to see a gjhm flashback unfortunately. Ok so let say gojo is dead dead I find it hard to believe no was like remembering or acknowledging not even his comrades ( examples shoko, utahime etc_ or the students (i mean i am pretty sure these characters would but i would like to SEE it you know) and so many hints were gearing for gojo's revival but it is meaningless... and was used for pr ngl that's sad. Maybe the anime would do better at some aspects but i will be salty anyways. i will see uta's dance ;) animated so that i looking forward to and ig the maki's massacre. it looks like it's open ending but really!? They are some loop holes but HEY FEAR not we will probably see answers to our questions in the q&a segment! sigh. I lowkey do not want a "jjk part 2" it is draining. Gege when i catch you. I think gege intended this story to be short oh well. I have alot to say but this gonna be a novel lol. Sorry for errors i was in a moment and i hoped you understood what i wanted to say. Hope the gojohime fandom would not die and looking forward to see some nice content.

Thankyou

I already went on a mini rant here. If I have to rate the ending, I'd say maybe 2-4 out of 10?

JJK really did turn out kinda mid. It has an easy anime to get into (the anime carries it mostly 🫣), to recommend for newbies, but that ending will make one hesitate to recommend it now. Maybe wouldn't even bother to.

I'm also disappointed & mad. I don't even wanna consider that Gojo is fully dead (cuz Gege went about it so terribly). Gege skipped Gojo's whole month after his unsealing then killed him off-panel a few chapters later. The north & south thing was pointless. We didn't even get to see Gojo make a choice. There were so many hints about his potential revival but they amounted to nothing.

Summed up in this image:

This Tweet sums up the terrible mishandling of Gojo's character too 😡. This other short thread pretty much says that his "death" didn't make sense for Gojo either; accepting to stay at the airport is him regressing to his teen self. It doesn't properly conclude Gojo's character arc at all. He was meant to MOVE ON from the loss of his "springtime of youth" & continue to strive for a better future with his comrades & students; the future that HE DREAMED OF 😤 (oof, don't wanna rant further on Gojo; don't wanna make this longer 😅).

Honestly, the fan theories made the story seem much better than it actually was. At least with this ending, people can finally start seeing & admitting that Gege isn't a great writer. I've certainly never thought he was 😒; I once went on a rant here about most issues with this manga, one of them being how terribly fast-paced it is. This story is the definition of wasted potential. So many missed opportunities.

Whatever Gege comes up with for the databook, it'll be infuriating. He'll try to fill in the plot holes but man, I don't think it'll be satisfying. He might not even answer the burning questions everyone has (just like Kub0 never answered everyone's burning questions about the Bl3ach ED, or more like, no one dared to ask. Maybe he himself didn't allow those questions for his interviews 😒). Hope ppl don't give him any more money, especially cuz he's still milking Gojo, such as with that Hidden Inventory movie no one asked for.

I kinda wanted a Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 1 ending (lol) & then on to the supposed JJK part 2, esp cuz of this sketch here but Gege fumbled hard.

Wonder if Mappa could deliver but we'll see. I only care about GojoHime's 200% Hollow Purple now. Gege made me lose most interest I had for other things getting animated. Just thinking about that ending will mostly ruin my experience... 😞

I also hope the GojoHime fandom continues to thrive. We've always lived off of crumbs... Hope ppl continue to make headcanons, fanfics, fanart, etc... I wouldn't want ppl to leave such a beautiful ship with so much potential 🥺 (I've been thru this type of thing before with Bl3ach, so despite the disappointment, I've stuck around in my ship fandoms only. I don't engage with anything else in that series. Another beloved series of mine also ended terribly but unfortunately, the fandom kinda faded or became inactive cuz it's a manhwa 🥺; if it at least had a proper anime adaptation, then...).

Let's stay strong, GojoHime fam! 🥹❤️‍🩹

#anti jujutsu kaisen ending #anti jjk ending #gojohime #jjk spoilers #gojo satoru #screw gege #reiapost #ask #slight additions

94 notes · View notes

marvelskies1969 · 1 month ago

Text

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, sexual assault, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 1]

(Chapter 9)

Orders on the Table

The walk to Bucky’s place wasn’t long as they stopped on the way to whatever diner they could find that night, but the Brooklyn air had the kind of chill that crept into your coat and settled into your bones.

Still, it felt easier than it had in weeks.

It hadn’t always been this quiet between them. There used to be noise—constant bickering between her and Steve, Bucky’s dry humor weaving through it like a thread, tying them all together. Back then, the walk home was full of life and laughter, even when the world outside didn’t have much to offer.

Now, it was different. Not cold exactly—just quieter. Calmer.

Y/N walked beside Bucky with her hands tucked into her coat pockets, her breath visible in the frosty air. Every so often, her shoulder would bump his, gently, like it was by accident. But he didn’t step away.

Neither of them said much, but it wasn’t the heavy kind of silence they’d gotten used to lately. It was... bearable. Comfortable, even.

Whatever had shifted between them after last week—after the hospital, after he saved her, or maybe a conversation they hadn’t quite finished—it was still there, lingering just under the surface. But it wasn’t sharp anymore. It wasn’t awkward. It just was.

Bucky glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring straight ahead, jaw set against the wind, but there was a softness to her face he hadn’t seen in a while.

She caught him looking and quirked a brow. “What?”

He smirked faintly. “Nothing. You just looked like you were about to start another argument.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up. “Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes. I’m saving my energy.”

“Smart. I’d win anyway.”

“In your dreams.”

There it was—that flicker of familiar rhythm. Just enough to feel like home, but different now. Grown up. Complicated.

They reached his family’s brownstone, the stoop dusted with the season’s first frost.

“Be quick, Buck,” Steve grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t wanna freeze to death out here.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, smirking as he fished his keys from his jacket. “You grew up in Brooklyn, pal. Don’t be such a baby.”

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, expecting warmth, the faint smell of dinner, the usual familiarity of home.

Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Because there—on the table, right by the door—was a single envelope.

His name was printed across it in bold, official lettering. The kind that didn’t leave room for questions.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

The silence behind him was thick.

He didn’t have to turn around to know Y/N and Steve were staring at it, too.

No one moved.

For a second, he considered not opening it.

As if ignoring it would make it disappear.

But he already knew what it was going to say.

He already knew what was coming.

The words might as well have been written on the walls.

Steve was the first to step forward, his expression unreadable as he exhaled slowly. “Buck.”

Bucky swallowed hard, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without another word, he reached for the letter.

The paper felt too crisp beneath his fingers, too final. He slid a finger beneath the seal, tearing it open in one clean motion.

Y/N barely breathed.

His eyes flickered across the page, scanning the words he already knew were coming—but seeing them in print made his chest tighten.

107th Infantry. Deployment: Immediate. Germany.

Germany.

Of all places.

He stared at the word, the reality of it hitting him like a punch to the gut.

Germany. The heart of it.

His throat was dry as he exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back before setting the letter down on the table like it hadn’t just changed everything.

He forced a smirk, but it was weak. Too weak.

“Well.” His voice was hoarse, but he cleared it quickly, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Guess I finally get to see Europe, huh?”

Steve didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him. Really looked at him.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“When?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up the letter again, eyes narrowing at the details at the bottom.

“End of the week.”

A sharp inhale from Y/N.

His smirk faltered for just a second. Just long enough for her to see it.

“End of the week?” Her voice was careful, but he could hear the tension behind it. “That’s—that’s barely any time at all.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, dropping the letter back onto the table. “No kidding.”

Steve clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to do something. But there was nothing to do.

This was happening.

Bucky didn’t get a say in it.

None of them did.

Y/N was still looking at him. He could feel her gaze burning into him, searching his face like she was waiting for something.

He didn’t know what.

So he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

She thought back to how defenseless she had felt that night at the bar, until Bucky came to the rescue. With war looming, she'd be in more danger than ever, and he would be.

That’s never gonna happen again. Not while I’m around.

It played in her head.

The clock on the wall ticked.

And they all wouldn't know what came next.

25 notes · View notes

extravagantliar · 19 days ago

Note

heyyy what if casadh and peepaw : a kiss while being reunited after a long time.

sunday monday tuesday wednesday kisses // selectively accepting // @aestuum & this one also has a lot of @keepslore ( and @hoboblaidd ) in it for max damage

Minrathous shakes, the beam above them creaks, and dust falls, nearly like flakes of fresh snow, but there is no keen chill or coverage, just Varric brushing them off his desk. They end up falling to the floor, decorating the parchment cast to the wayside.

"Why are you awake?"

Varric's shoulders straighten momentarily as he registers the voice as Dhavi's, and he leans back to meet her eyes. "Same as you. Can't sleep."

Dhavi seems to accept that as the truth, as she is one of the few people who knows about the haunting inside his head, or the previous haunting — now there are whispers that Solas is out there, not that his health allows him to be out there. Still, Varric wonders if Dhavi has seen him, but that thought is pushed aside.

She steps into the room, making herself comfortable on the edge of a couch crammed into this makeshift office. It doesn't even creak under her weight, and for a moment, he wonders when the last time someone truly worried about her — he had not made this easy on anyone; that thought is let loose. She speaks, and it's like a thread gone and lost between fingertips.

"Are you writing home?" Dhavi leans forward, a smile still on her features, "The girls must miss you both."

Some words want to come about how he's also caused a lot of heartache, that he's still unsure if any of this is real or not, it feels that way, and ink stains parchment, but when he closes his eyes, dreams dare to blot in. Still, sometimes Varric is not sure if he's watching the end play out, but there is always a voice yelling at someone to take the shot, and then it goes dark, just a reminder and a soft voice that he had to go home. "Yeah." He laughs instead. It's really enough for now. "How is the research going?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Right, dead."

"No, that's not it," Dhavi states, fist thumping against the sofa. This is a slope to an argument — one they've had since an open fire about who was right and who was wrong, who was worth it and who wasn't and since he reappeared alive but in frail health. "You'd do something irrational — and then die, again."

"Done that already, I think it's up there with jumping into the fade." It's said softly and catches her off guard, goading them both into a laugh, a time nearly ten years ago, things less complicated — somehow. He opens his mouth to make another comment, a comment about how he quits. Still, someone else is at the door from the maze of rooms that currently make up their new headquarters as a so-called war of gods carries on above and shakes them all again.

There are a series of formalities, and Dhavi nearly excuses herself, but the news isn't nearly as privileged as that, or as it should be; it boils over, and the Shadow Dragon runner huffs, "Rook — Rook is here."

Dhavi is quick to stand, but it takes Varric a moment to follow her down the maze of hallways that make up the Divine's manor. They crisscross into a more tactical space, and he waits. Dhavi ducks behind a curtain and into the room he knows is housed at the centre, and the others greet Casadh and the rest of their team. It starts with Mae and Dorian, so he waits — there are too many people around, as others have appeared and even people have streamed around him, as if Varric is a stone in the river. There is a swell of voices, people gathering and cheering, and he can hear how it's not like the cheer of a rowdy game, it's not the crowd of a bar, it's that tired reminder that they have made it now, for now. It fizzles away, like most do and falls flat.

Then it's likely people falling into place or quiet wayside, as some duck back under that tattered curtain and excusing themselves around him, likely returning to their postings as well. Varric's hand taps against the brass head of the cane, his thumb on the faint outline of the inlay. It is not a dream, that is highly unlikely at this point — there is proof at this point, but he's waiting.

Time ticks like a clock, time like a song, something he now hears as a dull lull at all times, the same thing that had been carried along in stories but never felt like his own. It doesn't linger in his mind for long. No, there is a hand that pushes that curtain out of the way. There is a pause, and Varric can hear them talking to someone, correcting a medical calculation on the fly, and Varric cannot help but laugh. It isn't loud, but it draws a pause, a pause in which they stumble over which strain of yarrow to use to help with clotting and what to use next, but that dies as Varric is met with a familiar set of eyes, a set that looks him over twice and an expression that changes too quickly for Varric to even take a stab at.

"Hey, Kid."

"I...is this a dream, Varric?"

"Shit, if it is, where's your losing hand?" That breaks something, and Casahd takes two uneasy steps before the rest falls apart, and Varric finds himself catching them, mindful of his shoulder. Still, they tuck as close as they can and Varric swallows, quelling the thoughts in his mind whirling about dreams and dismay, things that had led all of them here, and the man that still seems to be running somewhere in the above, seemingly to place it all on stern and sure shoulders.

Varric leans up, not that they need to lean far, but the move to press their forehead to his own, one of Varric's hands coming to rest on the back of their neck. "I can't trust my own memory, but trust this, trust that this is not a dream." What a terrible nightmare this is, that grapple of being near alive or nearly dead cracks with something that sounds like a near sob, so maybe for once he has lobbied the correct words at the right person. "Casadh, hey." There should be a story that comes to verify identity. Still, it's instead for a moment his mind sparks that shared dream, one of many, one of the ways that souls are bound and tied in fashions — three very different souls, all thrumming and crashing together wildly, drastic and beautiful music.

There are words also that should come, words of apology, words of worry, but they are drowned out by a mournful sound, a memory that didn't know, a spectre that looked like him, and all the things that are disjointed against his shoulder. Casadh is now in a near slouch against him, and Varric moves his hand from their neck to their shoulder, turning them both enough to press a kiss to a tear-stained cheek. Varric is unsure if they are his or mixed in with Casadh. Instead, it is words that still jumble out. The cane falls free of Varric's grasp; he will regret the motion, but they are pulled against him as tightly as his shoulders allow.

"I can explain myself, but I am so happy you are alive."

Those words will be repeated again to another person—as Dhavi is right, he is foolish, and seeing this through might stop his heart, but he's made it back to others, he's made it back here, so there is one more thing to do.

But for now, he presses his lips again to Casadh's cheek.

It is warm, they're alive.

For now, they take this moment.

#.i was wrong to you ( AESTUUM )#aestuum #.family is something like it ( KEEPSLORE )#.you were never a regret ( HOBOBLAIDD )#i just think this is right at the end of the last gambit and everyone is tired so we have this #i kiss everyone on their heads in this #There is a small wink to Sid and the kids too

14 notes · View notes

blkgirl-writing · 1 year ago

Text

Refuge for the Wicked

"Sharing a Blanket" from flufftober (In march)

Gale Dekarios x Durge!reader

Summary: You can't escape the faded memories of your haunted past, and sleep is nothing but a nightmare. Gale can't seem to sleep either. Maybe some extra warmth will help.

A/N: Prompt from @flufftober

(spring), I started late so I just started on 6! I might go back and write the first few. Also writing alongside my wonderful friend @ficbrish who made this fic happen, thank you! Also thanks to Jane Eyre for being my background audiobook and reminding me of big words.

TW: Dark Urge reader, (vague morbid thoughts, mentions of blood and gore, mentions of anxiety attacks), fluffy overall dw.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

In the dead of night, when the fireflies and stars lit up the sky, the air was too quiet to stand. Your head buzzed like frantic bees in a fallen hive, trying everything to get out, the brutal bloodied images flashing across your vision. No refuge for the wicked, You'd told yourself over and over, when sleep couldn't take you. But, You had been proven wrong.

Gale hadn't had the best rest either, used to the comforts of his tower, his warm tressym on his lap, and endless books to ease his mind into sleep. He had seen you turning in your sleep, and laid a gentle hand on your shoulder, whispering an invitation to his own tent. You had refused, worried about your cruel hands during slumber. but gods above, any sound had to be better than bitter silence, and one thing you knew about Gale, was that there would never be stale air.

It became pattern, after a few nights. The others would sleep, and you'd sneak away to his cozy corner, and Gale would talk. About anything, really. Gale shared his fondest memories, read a chapter from his small stash of literature, and even teach you a few simple spells. Your favorite was when he'd recite the most romantic poems. They felt warm, somehow. stirring something deep within you. Those nights, you'd rest peacefully, no dreams or nightmares, just darkness. Gale's voice became the only comfort in your world. And even nights he could sleep effortlessly, you found yourself wandering into his tent, curled up in the opposite corner from him.

This night, however, neither of you could sleep, and yet there was still quiet. It felt like hours,

"It's certainly cold tonight," Gale muttered.

"I can start another fire closer?" You offered.

"No no no, let me." At a snap of his fingers, a flame appeared in the dirt just in front of his tent. Never wavering and never moving, just taking the edge off the nipping air.

A few more moments passed, and you tucked your knees to your chest, hands cupped over your mouth to stop the numbness from climbing further up your fingers.

"Come here, you're freezing to death," Gale pulled the blanket over, opening up a space for you right next to him. Maybe he saw your hesitation, or maybe he wanted you next to him just as much as you wanted him, but he outstretched his hand to yours, his soft but calloused fingers wrapping around your frozen ones, and ever so gently pulled you towards him. Knowing it wasn't just an empty offer was enough for you to settle into him, his arm wrapped carefully around your waist, your head nestled into his shoulder, and finally, warmth enveloping your body underneath his big, heavy blanket.

"Thank you." This...was nice.

"Any time." His fingers played with a loose thread on the blanket, just by your hip. "You're more than welcome to keep your things here."

"Oh," Was all you managed, eyes fluttering away from his face for a moment. this closeness was something to be afraid of, you knew deep down you were supposed to be alone. But in his arms, you felt a calmness that you'd never known before. But you felt like you didn't deserve that bliss. "I don't need a tent or anything."

"I'm very sure you could manage on your own, but you don't have to." Gale spoke softly, almost like he was telling a secret, a small smile forming"You've spoiled me, I can't quite sleep right without you next to me."

You blinked, staring into the flicker of the fire before you. All you could think about was the soft fabric on your skin, so opposite from the biting that ran through your blood, and the warmth he brought from his touch, his body comforting and steady against yours. "Are you saying you miss me, Gale?"

"Quite a bit, actually." You could feel his eyes on you, but you hadn't dared to look, not yet. You knew there was kindness in his stare, it sent shivers down your spine, a sign that you didn't deserve the caring offer he implied, asked of. Your body rejected that but gods above did you want nothing but it. Because with him, Your mind was free, heart full, body light.

"I would really love that." You replied. Finally, a smile, from happiness, and not morbidity. You leaned further into him, intertwining your legs with his, Gale resting his head on top of yours, placing a barely noticeable kiss on your forehead.

"I'm glad you spoke to me."

'Hm?" Gale spoke, voice low and gravely, clearly between the realm of wake and sleep.

"I'm glad, that you spoke to me, to come to your tent that night."

"Oh," Gale rolled further into you, getting more comfortable, "I wish I had sooner." and with that, he drifted into sleep, the fire extinguishing in a wisp. Leaving you to think about his words, and your thoughts. You truly did love, that he invited you once, and again to stay, and he really meant it.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

just before sunrise was when you silently awoke from more night terrors. Astarion still off in the woods, surely feeding. otherwise, everyone was sound asleep. Or so you thought.

You had a few minutes in your own thoughts, sitting up and staring blankly into the dim glow of the distant campfire. Gale, with his big heart and smart mouth, won you over, no denying it anymore. It was clear when your small respite of nightmares, dreams filled with him, almost fighting to keep you sane.

"Good morning." Gale leaned on his hand, looking at you with a groggy fondness, like you were the sunrise and sunset, beautiful and full of life. His eyes nearly glimmered when he looked at you through his sleepy eyes.

"I thought you were asleep." You smiled, cozying back into the warm blanket, the cold morning air still too crisp, or you just used it as an excuse to be close to him again. And as if he read your thoughts, he drew you closer to him with a gentle touch.

"Stay" He whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, oh gods above his voice sounded like warm whiskey and the smoothness of turning new pages. "-please"

Well, there was no denying that. You couldn't pry yourself away from Gale. You held him tight, as if he'd wake up and realize his mistake, you had mistaken his words and actions and never felt this comfort again. His warm breath tickled your lower neck, his head on your chest, eyes barely open, but fixated on you. under the blanket, shielded from the light of the day, heavy eyes not daring to look away from his.

He smiled. A soft smile, but full of light. His lips were slightly chapped, eyes tinted red, details you missed upon his face at a distance, now fully on display as you tilted down. lips inches from his.

Your eyes flickered closed as he sank further into you. Gale enveloped you, body and soul, connecting in a sleepy haze, melting into a kiss. Only stopping for air, a mumbled word, and another kiss. Countless kisses, ending in peaceful slumber.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

TAGLIST

Please reach out if you wish to be added!!

@shyminnie07 @makers-breath @claryvoyantfray @black-sapphic @fapqueen

146 notes · View notes

skyheld · 27 days ago

Text

set after the end of this thread

When the sleeping draught wears off, there's a faint chill sitting at the base of his spine, spreading through the spiderwebs of vessels and nerves into every inch of his being. Hakkon is working his magic again. His heart is beating steadily to send it into every damaged muscle, every weak joint and failing organ; his lungs are drawing air with perfect rhythm. The pain is down to a level where he's grown to expect it, constant but not overwhelming, a reminder of weakness but not a weakness in itself. He turns his head without his neck protesting and finds the infirmary empty, but a plate of food and a teapot kept warm under a towel on the bedside table. There is an orange, already peeled. His heart gives a lurch.

But there is one thing he needs to do before he thinks about anything else.

He spends the day resting. Casadh comes to sit with him, as do some of the others, and he tries to be straightforward about how he feels despite his age-old habit of hiding any discomforts. It gets easier by the fact that he isn't in so much discomfort. He feels... tender, like the hours after a very strenuous activity with the muscles still recovering, but nothing is actively wrong. He feels well enough to join the others for lunch in the dining room and to sit outside reading after. Sometimes he feels Hakkon's consciousness rising within him, as if the war-god would try to talk to him. Ameridan pushes him down. Hakkon puts up a semblance of a fight, but avoids a true battle of wills.

He goes to sleep in his own bed, without a sleeping draught. There will be no dreamless sleep this night. He lies down and closes his eyes—

—and before him is a wintry forest on a steep mountain slope. The trees are dark evergreens with snow weighing their branches, or small birches so narrow and straight they seem like a forest of spears without their leaves. But the snow isn't the pristine white of the newly fallen; it is trampled, muddied and turned pink with blood. A battle has stood here. The slain are nowhere to be seen, but so are the imprints of their bodies in the snow, their bloodied footprints and handprints, their spilled guts.

And their killer, Ameridan assumes, is standing in front of him, with the red slurry of snow up to his ankles.

They still mirror each other. Even in the Fade, in a dream, Hakkon wears his body, his wretched, worn-down body, and Ameridan can see it. In spite of the thick Avvar coat on top of it, in spite of the haughty stance, in spite of the way Hakkon eating for him has filled out his cheeks to how they used to be, he can see it. He looks unwell. Maybe not so unwell as before Hakkon, but not better, either. It has simply changed from plain weariness, allowed to exist, to the immense strain of ignoring it.

His strength is a thin paper, stretched over a fragile frame. He is a ghost before he's even dead.

But he shows none of his discomfort. Instead he lifts his chin and stares his reflection down. "So you have chosen this."

He has never seen Hakkon in this shape before, so it is difficult to read him—but he thinks the war-god seems defensive. More defensive than he has seen him before. "Chosen what?"

"We had an alliance", Ameridan says, his voice flat, his enunciation precise, his expression calm. "You were to keep my body together physically, so that together we could take the up the fight against the Evanuris. You went against those terms. You tried to rewrite our alliance to better suit your own interests."

"I did not—"

"And so now there must be hostility between us." His voice strikes like a lash. "Now I must distrust you on every turn. I must expect you to turn against me again, to change the terms at a whim again. This is what you have chosen."

"I have no intention—"

"Your intention has no bearing. What matters is what you have done."

Hakkon snarls, and snow whirls around them, already speckled with red as though the very sky is bleeding. "I have chosen nothing, changed nothing. I needed to make a point. The Warden would not listen. Next time perhaps they will."

"And what did you choose to make a point with? Me. My body, my pain—"

"Would you have rather I use theirs?"

You should not have used violence at all, Ameridan wants to snap, but this is Hakkon. What else does he have? What else does he know he can do? At times he can see a strategist in him, a leader, even a diplomat—all those things are part of war. But they are tiny specks in the force of destruction, the press of armies, the slaughter on the battlefield.

"You make this into something it is not", Hakkon says, stepping closer. The snow melts into the white streaks of his hair, bleeding some of its old colour back into it. "If there is hostility between us, if there is distrust, then that will be your choice. For me there is no difference."

"You can say that! There is no threat to your well-being, not as long as it is needed for mine!"

"And there is no threat to yours. You were never in danger. I kept a close watch on your heart rate, even though you could not feel me."

The crack of thunder is instant, the lightning freezing them for a moment in time; only then does Ameridan realizes it has gotten dark, and what's falling from the sky is no longer snow but blood-stained ashes He swallows a scream of frustration and fights his anger down with long, deep breaths. He doubts any spirit would dare trespass in Hakkon's part of the Fade, but that is no reason to risk it.

"You do not understand", he says. "And I suppose that is not your fault, because you are a spirit. Pain, of the kind you put me through, is not something I can brush off once it's gone. It is not something I can forget."

"Is it not? You do it all the time."

The snow has melted. Now the blood is black on a thick layer of mud. At his feet a banner lies torn and trampled, bearing the heraldry of some long-dead ciriane house, and around them rises the crumbing walls of a long-besieged city.

He wonders if this is where it began. When people now, in this age, speak of the siege of Cumberland, they only remember that Drakon enlisted the help of mages to break through it, and paved the path for the signing of the Nevarran Accord four years later. They envision a heroic charge through the darkspawn, the emperor at the head of a cavalry attack, the city gates opening for the first time in six years to let the last remaining warrior's out to meet him. They do not know, or understand, seven months of battle before that charge, inching forwards with their dug trenches and their palisades and their camps, pressing the darkspawn further and further up against the walls. They do not know or understand advancing a hundred yards on a good day and coming to the edge of what was once a village, setting up a new perimeter line through an old tavern, breaking through a trapdoor into a cellar to look for foodstuffs preserved for six years and instead finding the villagers, huddled together, a pile of bones surrounded by emptied waterskins.

They will never know losing Little Dread. The dagger that was a mercy because the other option was the taint.

Forgetting pain and weariness and fear, brushing it off—it was necessary then. It was the only means for survival, his and others. He simply never picked it back up.

In the dream, Ameridan brushes a layer of ashes from the front step of the tavern and sits down heavily. "You came to Casadh without my knowledge, while I slept. Because you knew I would not have wanted it."

"What should I have done?" Hakkon asks, kicking at a plank half-buried in the bloodstained mud. It was the sign hanging above the door once, the fanciful lettering cut in half. "You would not have gone had you known."

"You should have asked."

"And gone against your wishes, rather than your knowledge?"

He glares until the other him tosses the plank to the side. "You might as well, do you not? You have shown clearly what you care for my wishes, or my comfort. If they ever become a nuisance to you, you can simply dispose of them."

"You insist on reading it that way?"

"How else should I read it?"

Hakkon shrugs. Ashes are settling on his shoulders, smearing the red across the winter coat. "Is this how you want it then, Inquisitor? Hostility. Distrust. You say I chose it, but I offer you a different choice. I can do no more than that. It is up to you to take it."

Ameridan's eyes narrow. It is a clever deflection. The strategist, the ruthless diplomat at work. He nods as though to acknowledge it and sighs, like one defeated. Hakkon watches him, not convinced, but not anticipating the next step either.

"Casadh says that before you left, before you let go of your control, you stood up", Ameridan says, and as he says it he stands himself, as though to illustrate. "You were sitting down and you stood up so that I would fall. You wanted to cause me pain."

"I wanted to shock them."

"And what did you want to shock them with?"

Silence. The ashes are falling like snow, white and clean.

Hakkon's gaze falls away. "Your pain."

A wind moves lightly through the spruces on the mountainside. And they stand in front of each other, mirrors, old and worn down, as the snow settles on the ground, covering the blood stains.

Ameridan looks into his own face, a face that has seen so much death, so much grief, so much pain. There was a time, not long after their alliance had been established, when he thought he might be able to influence Hakkon in some way, that his spirit might change the other—not into something gentle, never that, but perhaps into something more honourable, something better. There have been times when he has thought it is happening. Times when he has felt Hakkon's magic at work before he's even registered the pain of an enemy's hit, times when he has worried for Casadh and the war-god has assured him they will be fine, they are capable enough.

Now he thinks of how war must stain his soul like ashes. How could he expect him to find honour in the memories of darkspawn? What gentleness is there to rest in among so many graves?

"It does not make you right", he says. "You acted maliciously, and you know it. But I recognize that you treated my body the way I treated it, without regard for my own comfort or health."

Hakkon meets his gaze. It is still hard to read his expression, but it has lost all its bravado. "It was not my intention to change the terms of our alliance. It stands. I want it to stand."

"Then you will respect it?"

"I will." A pause, a flicker of doubt. "Will you listen to the Warden?"

"I will listen to their suggestions."

Hakkon is quiet a moment. Then he lowers his head. He bows, just slightly, as the snow melts in his grey hair. It is not a spoken apology. Maybe it is more a recognition of a game well played.

Ameridan nods once, then turns. As soon as he does the winter forest is gone, and he is awake, blinking into the dark of his room.

#ameridan:ic #hakkon:ic #ameridan:verse:sorrow in my heart #drabble #oh man i feel like there are still a dozen things this doesn't touch on but gjdhgfjfjk it's so long and its so late #are they okay?? not sure but they are something #and that something is better than what it was before

10 notes · View notes

thatacotargirl · 11 days ago

Text

The Boundless One (1)

This is the first chapter of The Boundless One, which will follow Lydia, based in the Winter Court in the ACOTAR universe. It takes place after ACOSF, so all those relationships are canon, and the war as we knew it is over. But there's a fun little twist coming, so I hope you enjoy!

I am back to writing after a year-long hiatus because I got myself WAY too stressed keeping up with all the stories and stopped writing for pleasure. There might be pauses between chapters whilst I get into a rhythm that works for me, and the chapters will be shorter than they used to be, but I am feeling inspired and ready to share again!

Blurb:

The Winter Court knew from an early age that Lydia was something special.

When her nursemaid had caught her using wind magic to spin her own cot mobile, and promptly fainted on the spot, they were surprised to see her with such a high level of magical comprehension at only 14 months old.

When her father had found her, aged 5, wielding fire magic to light the fireplace in her bedroom on a cold, snowy night in the Court, he was astonished to see his daughter handle magic that didn't flow in his, or his mate's, veins.

And when her family saw her resurrect a bird on their Sunday morning walk, aged 11, they knew Lydia had a power within her that was unparalleled to any who had come before.

Lydia's POV

They say I was born during the longest snowstorm in a hundred years. The kind of storm that carved glaciers out of valleys and blanketed the Winter Court in silence so deep, it felt as though the world itself was holding its breath.

My father says the wind stilled the moment I took my first. That the moon broke through the clouds and painted my cradle in silver light, as if the gods themselves were watching.

As if they knew something we had yet to learn.

By the time I could walk, I was bending wind to my will. By five, I lit fires with a glance, despite no flame ever having touched the veins of my bloodline. At eleven, I placed my hands over a dead finch and whispered breathe, and it did.

Some called me gifted. Others, cursed. I have been watched more than I have been raised.

The Winter Court is not cruel. But it is cold. Measured. A kingdom of frost-carved palaces and quiet propriety, where magic is kept tight and clean, wrapped in layers of etiquette and tradition. I never fit among them. My magic spilled over; wild, unbound, shifting like stormlight through my veins.

They tried to teach me control. I learned to hide instead.

I could pull light from shadow, water from stone, open hidden doors in the fabric of the world with only a whisper. I studied the ancient spells, the forbidden languages, the dead magics that should have faded with the last age. I listened to the hum of the world and found I could answer.

I am called a thousand things in secret: Witch-born. Dream-touched. Star-blessed. Some even call me god-marked.

Most days, I live in quiet. I walk the ice-laced halls of the palace like a shadow - seen, but never quite touched. I train alone. I read too much. I listen to the silence between words. I do not dream easily. But when I do, the dreams are not mine.

They began two years ago, subtle at first. Flickers of fire across snow, wings against a bruised sky, the feeling of being watched by something far older than time.

Then came the voice.

Low. Ancient. Not unkind. Like thunder wrapped in velvet.

A dragon.

Not one from this world. The magic tasted different - brighter, wilder, like lightning caught in ink. It came at night, when I let my wards drop, when my mind drifted just enough for the veil to thin.

“Not all darkness is born of evil,” it said. “One walks with shadows but does not belong to them. Another pulls at threads that were never theirs to hold. The breaking has begun. Come, god-marked one, before the false power spreads its root".

I don’t know where it comes from. Not yet.

But lately, the whispers are getting louder. And they’re not just asking.

They’re calling.

Tag list - @nickishadow139 @dee-writes-smut @minnieoo @st4r-girl-official

@courtofjurdan @mirandasidefics @lilah-asteria @nyxbranwenn @impossibelle

@mybestfriendmademe @hauntedstudentobservationus @julesofvolterra @acourtofbatboydreams @rogersbarnesxx

@skylarkalchemist @sidthedollface2 @aehllitas-blog @fullmoon-94 @acourtofbatboydreams

@aehllitas-blog @fullmoon-94 @5onedirection5 @mindofthescattered @rcarbo1

@dumblani @melmo567 @myheartfollower @bravo-delta-eccho

#a court of frost and starlight #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #acotar #a court of mist and fury #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #a court of silver flames #azriel shadowsinger #cassian acotar #rhysand acotar #rhysand #sarah j maas

15 notes · View notes

kami777 · 5 months ago

Text

Sneak peak of Chapter 1 of Zombie!CheongMyeong fic!

———————————————————————-

Darkness.

An all encompassing void was all that Cheong Myeong could see. His senses had long dulled, and there was only an echo where his body used to be. He couldn't bring himself to care, even the beating in his chest was but a distant memory,

‘I'm dead now, why do I need to bother with things like that?’

A jolt.

‘Huh?’

Something stirred and awakened in his mind, a collection of strange sounds reverberated in his head, almost unbearably loud after not hearing anything for god knows how long. The creaking of a heavy door, then the slam of it shutting, distant, unintelligible muttering, speaking slowly with a tone so sad a strange nauseous sensation settled in his skull.

‘Who is that? What are they saying?’

The sound of steady footsteps on stone, walking, walking away from him.

‘Hey, Wait, Where are you going? Why are you walking away?’

Light fills his mind, the scenery blurring on the edges, like a dream. He can see people in front of him, maybe 5? 6? They all blur together as they walk away, slow and steady, down a path that feels all too familiar.

‘Hold on, don't leave, why are you leaving?’

Something desperate gripped his heart, as if something dear was being ripped away from him, but the feeling was suspended, without direction.

Something dear?

‘I have already lost everything dear to me’

Images of his sect brothers fluttered through his mind, the blood, the death, the countless mangled bodies as far as he could see. Pain ripped desperately at his heart.

‘If only I was stronger, then maybe some more would have survived’

‘There is nothing more I can do’

Cheong Myeong felt himself sink, the darkness of earth encompassing him once again, it was comfortable, familiar. A memory echoed in the back of his mind, the strong hands of his sahyung laying his small, not yet scarred body, gently into his bed, the warmth of the blankets descending and wrapping around him, comfort, safety. The light of a single candle illuminates the room, flickering over the lines of his sahuyng’s face, ever so softly, fingers brush through his hair, and a light melody reaches his ears.

‘Ah, my sahyung is singing to me’

His body is warm and the pillow under his head is soft and cold, he thinks this is the most comfortable he has ever been. The candle light flickers again, through the shrinking cracks of his eyes he can see the red-pink edges of the embroidered plum flower on his chest, the light lines of thread glowing in the light.

‘Mount hua…’

His consciousness fades slowly, but something in his mind fights it.

The blinding image of people on a path fills his brain again. He strains his vision, looking desperately, for something, anything. One man, in the back of the crowd, falters in his steps, slowing to a stop.

‘Turn around! look at me! do anything!’

The man hesitates, the world goes silent, he turns slowly to glance back, the wind blowing gently through his robes, lifting them lightly off his chest.

Pink.

Five petals, embroidered together, the string fraying slightly at the edges. The craftsmanship is poor, and the robes are old and weathered, but he could recognize it nonetheless.

Mount Hua.

His home.

The place he gave his whole life to protect.

The smell of plum blossoms and the taste of wine.

A fire lit in his soul, something that had laid long and dormant. The will to fight.

But something else still resided within him, a reminder of all that he had lost, a compressing grief, the knowledge that he cannot change the past no matter what he does and who he kills. The urge to give up and rest.

Two thoughts battled in his mind, one shining brighter and brighter until the other fades away entirely.

‘I want to sleep’

‘No’

‘I want to go home.’

————————————————————————-

This is my very first serious fic ever so feedback is welcome and encouraged! Please let me know if anything is difficult to understand 😭

#return of the mount hua sect #return of the blossoming blade #rotmhs #rotbb #cheong myeong #chung myung #fanfic #writing #first fanfic

14 notes · View notes

jesterfairy · 3 months ago

Text

.♠︎.💜 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭 💚.♠︎.

Chapter 12: The Things That Hurt

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter Word Count: 4,362

Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.

As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.

A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.

Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance

Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, dead dove do not eat

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter 12: The Things That Hurt

Alina stared at the cracked wall, feeling herself dissolving into the silence. The Joker hadn’t returned yet, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt a sliver of relief.

The new bedding had been a cruel paradox—a small mercy wrapped in humiliation. For the first time in ages, she'd slept deeply, the thick flannel sheets and plush comforter cocooning her in warmth. But the comfort felt like a violation, each thread a reminder of his control.

She tried to distract herself, opening her favorite book, Jane Eyre, eyes scanning the familiar pages. But the words barely registered. No matter how hard she tried to focus, her mind kept circling back to what he'd done—the violation replaying in vivid detail.

Worse still, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

His voice. The way it had thickened with pleasure...

The guttural groan he’d made when he marked her.

Her stomach clenched, bile clawing up her throat.

But beneath it, somewhere deep—somewhere she didn’t want to look—something even worse coiled in the dark.

Something ugly.

Something forbidden—

She couldn’t stop replaying it.

"God, you're so perfect like this, doll."

The way he had said it—raw, wrecked, thick with hunger as his eyes raked over her exposed body...

Her breath stilled, fingers tightening around the book in her lap.

No. She shouldn’t be thinking about this. She had never felt more powerless, more defiled—

So why was her pulse hammering so fast?

Why was she trembling—not just with revulsion, not just with rage—but with something she couldn’t even bear to name?

The memory of his voice—the way it had broken when he'd come undone—sent a shudder through her so deep she swore she could still feel it.

"You have no idea how hard it is... not to touch you right now."

Her breath caught, her entire body recoiling as the words slammed back into her, dragging something monstrous to the surface.

Because it hadn’t just been a game to him.

Hadn’t just been another way to humiliate her—

He wanted her.

Not just as a victim. Not just as something to break.

No.

He wanted her in the most primal, uncontrollable way.

A tremor rocked through her, violent enough to nearly knock the book from her grip.

Stop it. STOP It!

She clamped her hands over her ears, as if she could physically crush the thoughts before they could take shape.

But it was too late—the knowledge was already inside her, slithering through her mind like poison.

She had made him lose control.

Not just anyone. Him.

Gotham’s nightmare. The man who owned fear. The man who had nothing human left inside him...

And yet, when he had looked at her, when he had come apart over her, there had been nothing but hunger.

Unrestrained. Unrepentant.

Primal. Dangerous. Raw.

It was filthy.

And the most revolting part? Some small, wretched piece of her had thrilled in it.

Because he wanted her.

Not in some vague, teasing way. Not like when he had toyed with her, sat her in his lap, whispered filth into her ear just to watch her squirm.

No.

This had been deliberate. Planned.

He had wanted to mark her like this. To humiliate her. To make sure she felt it—knew it.

And that should have destroyed her. It should have made her want to claw her own skin off.

So why—

Why was she still thinking about it?

Why was she sitting here, breath too fast, stomach twisting, thighs pressed together so tightly it hurt?

Her body was betraying her.

It was sick. Wrong.

Something inside her had split wide open, jagged and raw, a wound she couldn’t stitch back together.

She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached, nails biting into her palms. But it didn’t matter.

She could feel it.

Something had shifted, something had changed, and she couldn’t force it back into place.

She couldn’t unhear his voice.

Couldn’t unfeel the weight of his desire.

Couldn’t erase the knowledge that Gotham’s monster had come apart over her.

And now, he was inside her. Tangled up in her mind, her skin, her pulse.

There was no undoing it.

And that terrified her more than anything.

She wanted to rip the knowledge out of her skull, bleed herself dry if that’s what it took to erase it.

Because if she couldn’t erase it—if she couldn’t stop feeling this—

Then what did that make her?

She sucked in a sharp breath, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth.

No. She had to stop this. She had to focus.

He was gone. He had left.

And maybe—maybe—he wasn’t coming back.

The thought hit her so suddenly, so violently, that for a moment, the sick, spiraling mess of emotions inside her stalled.

Maybe he wouldn’t come back this time.

Maybe he had finally managed to blow himself to bits, or get taken out by a rival, or captured by Batman.

The idea of him being gone—really gone—flickered through her mind, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine it.

Perhaps it would be better to be left here, never to see him again, even if it meant her own death—

A mercy compared to facing him once more and discovering what fresh horrors he had in store for her.

Her stomach twisted, nausea slamming into her.

God. How could she have ever allowed herself to see him as almost human?

In those fleeting moments when they’d discussed her books, she had noticed the exhaustion in his eyes, had even wondered what kind of pain might lurk beneath his madness, what haunted him in the dark.

But no.

He wasn’t human.

He was a shell—twisted, sadistic—a monster whose heart pumped nothing but venom and hatred through his veins.

Every breath he took was poison.

Every word a toxin designed to destroy.

Whatever humanity might have once lived inside him had long since rotted away, leaving behind a creature that thrived only on chaos and pain.

The thought of his return made her stomach twist, her heart pulse with dread.

The dim, flickering light barely held the darkness at bay, casting long, sinister shadows that crawled up the walls like waiting phantoms. Every sound—the steady drip of a leaking pipe, the groaning of the ancient building—echoed unnervingly, making her flinch at the smallest disturbance.

She wasn’t safe.

She'd never be safe again.

Even in his absence, his shadow coiled around her, pressing against the walls, curling into the cracks of this place like something alive, waiting.

A heavy silence settled over the room, so deep that even the constant dripping of the pipe seemed to stop.

It was unnerving.

Unnatural.

Like the building itself was holding its breath.

Alina’s pulse quickened, her eyes darting to the door, half-expecting it to burst open.

But nothing happened.

The silence stretched on, oppressive, as if the room itself was waiting.

Her mind raced with possibilities—had he left her for good this time? Was she finally free?

Or, was this just another one of his twisted games?

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe.

Her heart pounded in her chest, every beat growing louder in the unbearable quiet.

And then, faint but unmistakable, she heard it—

The distant tap of shoes on concrete.

Her breath hitched, and the silence shattered.

The door groaned open behind her.

---

His footsteps echoed ominously as he entered the room, slow and deliberate, but she kept her eyes fixed on the floor. Her whole body was taut, every muscle coiled with tension.

Don’t look at him. Don’t let him see what he’s done to you.

She could feel the heat of her anger building, but she held it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

As he casually sauntered in, Alina sat rigid on the edge of the mattress, every muscle taut with tension. Her silence was deafening, a wall she had erected between them, cold and guarded.

The Joker, however, noticed everything. He took in her stiff posture, the way her jaw clenched, the way she avoided looking at him.

His grin widened.

“Still mad at me, doll?” he teased, leaning casually against the wall. “You’re not gonna hold a little fun against me, are you?”

Alina’s fingers curled tightly into the fabric of the blanket she's degraded herself to get, her knuckles whitening. She didn’t respond, keeping her cold, emotionless mask firmly in place.

But inside, she was boiling. Her mind screamed at her to stay silent, to hold onto the last shred of control she had. She knew he wanted this—wanted her to break.

The Joker’s eyes flickered with amusement as he strolled further into the room. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t tell me you’re still sulking over what happened. I didn’t even touch you. Not really.” His voice was mocking, his grin wide and wicked as he reveled in her silent rage.

That was it.

Something inside Alina snapped.

She shot up from the bed, her heart hammering in her chest as she finally let the fury spill out. “You’re sick!” she spat, her voice trembling with the force of her anger. “You think humiliating me like that is some kind of game? You think you can just—”

The Joker threw his head back and laughed, a deep, wild sound that filled the room. He was enjoying every second of her outburst, his eyes sparkling with twisted delight.

“Oh, I know it’s a game,” he said, grinning at her with manic glee. “And the best part? You’re playing right into it.”

Alina’s chest tightened, her hands shaking with fury. “You think you’ve won just because you can make me feel this way? You’re nothing but a sadistic—”

"Ohhh, there she is."

His voice dropped into something almost reverent, eyes gleaming as he took a slow step toward her.

"My angry little doll."

The words slithered into the air, thick and indulgent. Like he was tasting them, savoring the shape of them in his mouth.

"Alina on fire. I love when she comes out to play."

She barely had time to process the words before she realized—he was close.

Too close

Not touching her. Not quite. But standing just near enough that she could feel the heat of him, feel the ghost of his breath brushing the edge of her cheek.

A shudder threatened to wrack through her, but she locked her body rigid, refusing to give him the pleasure.

His gloved fingers twitched at his side. Just barely. Just enough for her to notice.

Like he was holding himself back.

Like he wanted to grab her.

Her stomach twisted violently at the thought, her pulse thrashing.

He chuckled, breath slow and thick, dragging out the moment like he was soaking in every last drop of her reaction.

“Mmm, you get so pretty when you're mad,” he purred, almost thoughtful. "That little tremble in your hands... the way your lips tighten, all pink and tense..."

His grin sharpened, voice dipping lower. Hungrier.

"And you know what's funny?" He tilted his head, watching her like a puzzle he was piecing together. "I don’t even have to touch you to make you feel this way, do I, sweetheart?"

Alina’s breath hitched.

She could feel it again—that twisted, horrible pull he had over her.

The way he didn't just get under her skin—he burrowed deep, carved himself into her thoughts until there was no way to scrub him out.

And then, for just a breath—a fleeting, unbearable second—his eyes softened. The grin faltered, almost imperceptibly, as if he felt it too.

Her chest tightened. No.

But the question slithered in before she could stop it...

What if he did touch me?

She clenched her teeth, horrified by the thought, horrified by the way his words slithered through her, curling tight around something dark and restless inside her.

Her fists balled at her sides, fury burning through the shame.

“You’re vile.” The words were raw, nearly spat from her mouth. “You make me sick.”

Joker exhaled sharply—almost like a laugh, but softer. Intimate. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, eyes half-lidded as if savoring something just beneath the surface.

“Ohh, Alina," he murmured, voice dropping into something thick and pleased. "Now you’re just making me blush.”

He winked, mocking her, teasing her, drinking in her disgust like a fine wine.

She wanted to kill him.

She wanted to claw his face off, spit at his grin, anything to make him stop looking at her like that.

But she couldn't.

She could only stand there, seething, heart slamming against her ribs as he inched back, his gaze still locked on her like a predator waiting to pounce.

And then, he grinned. That goddamn grin.

Like he’d already won.

Like he knew something she didn’t.

She couldn’t believe how much he was enjoying this—how he seemed to feed off her emotions, reveling in every ounce of hatred she threw his way. It made her stomach turn, but it also terrified her. He was twisted beyond anything she had ever imagined, and the more she fought back, the more he seemed to love it.

He took another step closer, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her blood run cold. “Come on, doll. Don’t stop now. Tell me more.” His grin stretched wider. “Tell me how much you hate me, you know how it gets me going.”

Alina’s clawed back the urge to strike him as she glared back at him. The defiance still burned within her, but she realized with a sickening clarity that no matter how much she fought, no matter how much she lashed out, he would always twist it, always turn it into something he could use against her.

He thrived on her rage. Her hatred only fed him.

Alina's pulse still hammered in her chest, her body stiff with fury and confusion. Her outburst had done nothing but fuel his amusement.

Then, without warning, the Joker stepped back. The wild glee in his eyes dimmed slightly, and his grin softened, if only by a fraction.

He just… watched her.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, dragged over her face, drinking in every flicker of emotion, every ragged breath. A slow, measured study.

"Mm, that fire. God, I love it when you fight me." A slow, deliberate pause. Then, just as she opened her mouth to hurl another insult, he tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, as if some new thought had just occurred to him.

A thought that pleased him.

"But you know, dollface… maybe I do owe you an apology."

Alina blinked, thrown off by the sudden change in his demeanor. She didn’t trust it.

"What?" she asked, her voice thick with disbelief.

He chuckled softly, a sound far less maniacal than before. "I’ve been... rough on you, haven’t I?" He rubbed his chin as if contemplating something serious. "Maybe I’ve been a little too focused on the fun and games." He waved a hand dismissively, as if brushing aside her earlier anger.

"How about we start over? No tricks this time."

She stared at him, unsure of what to make of this sudden shift. It felt like a trap. It had to be.

But before she could form a response, she heard the soft rustle of plastic. A bag. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pull out two white takeout boxes, setting them carefully on the table. The scent hit her first, warm and mouth-watering—so different from anything she’d smelled in days.

The Joker noticed her shift, a small grin tugging at his lips. “A peace offering,” he said with a shrug, opening the first box.

Inside was a fluffy, golden omelet, so perfectly cooked it seemed to melt into itself. Next to it, crispy hash browns, fried to perfection, glistened with just the right amount of oil. Two slices of toast, already buttered, sat next to a bundle of jam packets tucked around the side—her favorite kind, strawberry.

Alina’s stomach clenched in hunger, the aroma overwhelming her senses, but he wasn’t done.

He opened the second box, and the sweet scent of pancakes filled the air. A stack of them, perfectly browned, thick and warm, sat neatly in the container. Several extra packets of butter and syrup were nestled beside them, promising indulgence beyond anything she’d had in what felt like forever.

And as if that weren’t enough, he reached into the bag again and produced two styrofoam cups—one warm, one cool. The first held hot tea, steam curling invitingly from the small hole in the lid. The other cup was filled with cold, refreshing apple juice, the condensation beading along the sides.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away. The food looked and smelled amazing, almost too good to be true, like something from another life. Her mouth watered despite herself.

She looked at him, her voice tight with skepticism.

"What do you want?"

His grin returned, but this time it was subdued, almost gentle. "Nothing, doll. Just talk. I’ve been curious about you, and I think we’ve had enough... excitement for today." He chuckled softly, pulling up a chair and gesturing for her to sit at the small table.

Her instincts screamed at her not to trust him, disgust rising in her throat as her eyes flicked to the very spot where she had been pressed against the rough wood. The memory of his mocking tone echoed in her mind, and she felt a wave of revulsion so strong it almost stopped her in her tracks.

Could she really sit there, act like none of it had happened?

But the scent of the food was too tempting, gnawing at the desperate hunger she'd been trying to ignore.

She moved slowly, watching him closely, waiting for the inevitable twist in the game.

She forced herself to sit at the table, even as a shudder ran through her body, the rough wood beneath her hands triggering flashes of the degradation she’d endured. She could barely bring herself to look at it, let alone touch it, but the Joker pushed the containers toward her, his eyes fixed on her with a strange intensity.

"Go on, eat. It’s real."

With a defiant glare, Alina snatched up the fork, stabbing the omelet with unnecessary force, as if it could bear the brunt of her fury.

She shoved a bite into her mouth, refusing to savor it—but the taste, the warmth—it was all too real. Against her will, her body responded, the simple comfort of food pulling at her defenses.

"You know," the Joker began after a stretch of silence, leaning back in his chair, "I don’t just... do this for anyone. Most people, I just take what I want, and that’s the end of it. But you..." He paused, studying her. "You’re different."

Alina swallowed, her heartbeat quickening. "Different how?" she asked cautiously.

He smirked. "You're a conundrum, dollface. Timid, quiet... like you're trying to disappear most of the time. But then, out of nowhere, there's this fire in you, something fierce." His gaze flickered with intrigue. "It’s rare, finding someone like that. Someone who doesn’t give up. Doesn’t break, no matter how hard I push."

He tilted his head, studying her with a dark fascination. "That’s what makes you interesting. You don’t fit in one box. You’re not just scared or tough, timid or fierce. You’re both." His eyes gleamed. "Makes me want to know more about you... what else you’re hiding in there."

Alina’s mind spun. This had to be another manipulation, another game. But the way he spoke, the way he seemed genuinely intrigued—it threw her. She couldn’t tell if he was playing with her or if there was something more to it.

She hesitated, unsure of what to say. But as she ate, as the warmth from the food spread through her, the tension in her body began to loosen. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, she didn’t feel like she was on the verge of collapse.

The Joker’s eyes never left her, but his grin had faded into something more unreadable, something that unnerved her even more. He seemed patient, waiting for her to open up, to say something.

"Why are you doing this?” Her voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “Why the sudden... kindness?”

He tilted his head, as if he hadn’t fully considered the question himself. “You’ve been through a lot, doll. Maybe I’m just feeling generous.” He leaned back, the intensity of his gaze pinning her in place.

Her stomach churned, but not from hunger. This didn’t fit—the Joker she knew thrived on fear and pain. Yet here he was, offering her food without demanding anything in return, watching her with an unsettling curiosity, almost like she was some sort of experiment.

The omelet turned bitter on her tongue.

And then it hit her.

She was grateful. Grateful for the food, for the reprieve, for the fact that he wasn’t hurting her.

The realization was suffocating.

But worse than that—far worse—was the fragile comfort his presence brought. The warmth of the meal. The absence of pain. Her body, traitorous and weak, relaxed under his watchful eye, as if beginning to crave this twisted version of mercy.

A wave of revulsion crashed over her.

She should want him dead. Gone. Anything to end this nightmare.

But beneath the disgust twisting in her gut, she couldn’t ignore the horrifying truth: some part of her wanted this—the brief, sick illusion of safety he gave her tonight.

And she hated herself for it.

Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to focus on the food, desperately hoping it would distract her from the truth festering in her mind.

The meal was warm, comforting. Too comforting. She forced herself not to savor it, but each bite was better than the last. She felt herself loosening, just a little, the tightness in her chest easing.

And he didn’t seem in any rush to ruin it. That was the part that got to her—the waiting, the wondering when he would shatter this fragile peace, what game he was playing, and what would come next.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, his voice casual but laced with that unmistakable edge, “I noticed something interesting in your apartment.”

Alina tensed, fingers tightening around her fork. She knew he’d been there—he'd made it impossible to forget—but hearing him say it so lightly, like a shared memory, sent ice down her spine.

"What did you notice?" she asked, careful to keep her voice steady.

He leaned back, watching her with a glimmer of playful menace, like they were merely discussing the weather. “Oh, you know…” He shrugged, that crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Your art.”

Her stomach twisted. Not that. Of all the things he could have fixated on, why that?

"I gotta say," he continued. "I had no idea you were so... talented." His voice lowered as he spoke, the words rolling off his tongue with a strange mix of mockery and sincerity. "Lots of pain in those strokes, huh? Darkness... But you’ve got something going on there." His tongue flicked out, licking the corner of his mouth.

"Something... beautiful."

Alina’s pulse quickened. Beautiful? Coming from him?

She opened her mouth to argue, to deny it, but he kept talking, and it felt like he was slicing through her defenses with every word.

"You’re not just slapping paint on a canvas, doll," he said, almost sing-song, his voice taking on that playful lilt that made her heart race. "You’re working through some stuff, aren’t ya?" His grin widened as if he’d uncovered some delightful little secret. "There’s... brokenness in it. Yeah, lots of pain... but the good kind." He chuckled softly.

She gripped the edge of the table tighter, her breath catching in her throat. Why was he doing this? Why was he talking about her art this way?

"You’re painting what’s inside," he continued, tapping his temple with a gloved finger. "What’s really inside. Most people don’t have the guts for that." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"But you do, sweetheart."

Alina stared at him, her chest tightening.

Why was this getting to her? Why did his words feel so sharp, so cutting?

"I paint for myself," she muttered, her voice tight, trying to deflect, trying to hold onto her defenses.

"Of course you do," he replied, his grin widening, the playful tone never leaving his voice. "But doesn’t it feel good to know someone else gets it?" His voice was sweet, deceptively tender. "That someone sees the... truth in it?"

She swallowed hard, her throat tight. How did he know? How could he see her so clearly when no one else ever had?

No one had ever really acknowledged her art like this. No one had ever seen it that deeply.

"You don’t have to say this," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You’re just... messing with me."

His laugh was soft. "Oh, dollface, believe me, I mess with a lot of things, but I don’t mess with art." He wagged a finger at her, almost scolding. "Art’s where the soul gets laid bare, where all the little secrets come out to play." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"And you... you’ve got a lot of secrets, don’t you?"

She clenched her fists in her lap, trying to steady the tremor in her hands.

She hated how close he was to the truth

"It’s like... I don’t know," he mused, waving his hand theatrically, "a Gothic novel, yeah? A little tragedy here, a little beauty there. That’s what you’re after, right? You’re painting the stuff everyone else looks away from. The broken, ugly parts of life. The stuff that... hurts."

Alina’s breath hitched. Gothic. Tragic. Beautiful. He was saying all the things she had always hoped someone would see in her work, but had never dared to believe anyone would.

"I don’t care what you think," she managed to say, but the words lacked conviction. She knew he heard it.

His grin grew wider, his eyes gleaming with delight. "Oh, come on, sweetheart," he purred. "I see through you. You don’t have to pretend with me." He gestured to the air between them. "We’ve already got this... connection. You can feel it, can’t you?"

She wanted to deny it, to shove him away and reject everything he said. But the truth clawed at her, insidious and undeniable.

There was something between them—something twisted, unspoken, that had sparked the moment their eyes met in the bank. He had seen through her defenses, her pain, and even the darkness she kept hidden.

He saw her in ways no one else ever had—he understood.

And that terrified her.

"Most people," he continued, leaning back casually, "they’re too scared to face the ugly parts of themselves. They shove it down, hide it away, slap on a happy face. But you..." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You get it. You see the world for what it is, and you’re not afraid to paint it."

Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts a tangled mess. How was he getting to her like this? How had he broken through so easily?

"You paint what you feel," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "You paint what hurts. And that’s why it’s beautiful." He stood up slowly, his eyes still locked onto hers, that unsettling smile never leaving his face.

"That’s why I like you."

His stare left her feeling stripped bare, vulnerable. What was happening? She couldn’t tell if this was manipulation or something else. Yet the way he spoke... it was as if he could see straight through her, as if he understood her better than she even understood herself.

And that scared her more than anything.

"You don’t know me," she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands shaking in her lap.

He chuckled, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Maybe not. But I know enough." He tapped his head again, smiling. "And the more I know, the more I like."

Her breath caught in her throat as he turned toward the door, his casual steps sending chills down her spine. He paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the handle as he looked back at her.

"Get some rest, dollface," he said, his voice soft but laced with that familiar menace. "We’ll pick up where we left off later."

The door clicked shut behind him, and Alina sat there, the air suddenly too thin. Her breath shuddered in her chest, her heart pounding hard enough to make her head spin.

She stared at her trembling hands.

What had just happened?

He had gotten inside her head—deeper than anyone ever had—and it terrified her. She wanted to dismiss his words as part of his twisted game. He was the Joker, after all—a monster, a master manipulator. None of it could be real.

But it was.

He had seen her. Not the mask she wore for the world, but the raw, broken pieces she poured into her paintings—the parts no one else had ever truly understood.

And as much as she hated it, hated him… a small, broken part of her felt relief.

Relief that someone finally saw her.

The thought made her stomach churn.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the feeling away, but it lingered, heavy in her chest. He had reached into the darkest parts of her and pulled them into the light, and instead of recoiling, she felt seen… and understood.

Her breath hitched.

And then came the worst realization of all—

She hadn’t wanted him to leave.

Her body went rigid. No. That couldn’t be true. She hated him.

But the more she told herself that, the more the truth festered—raw and reeling.

Because in his absence, the room felt colder. The silence, more unforgiving.

And the memory of his voice—that low, mocking purr—echoed in the hollow spaces he’d left behind.

Her mind betrayed her, conjuring the phantom heat of his presence, the morbid comfort of knowing exactly where the danger was… instead of fearing when it might return.

What had he done to her?

She didn’t know where the hatred ended and the twisted connection began.

She buried her face in her hands, the weight of her confusion pressing down like a vice. This was what she wanted—freedom, escape. But in the suffocating silence, all she could think about was him.

And that realization shattered her.

More completely than anything he had ever done to her.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

A/N: Sorry this one took a bit to get out! The last chapter left me so shook that I just had to skip ahead and fully write and edit the first official smut chapter 😂!

I know I’ve been dragging this slow burn out, but don’t worry—the next chapter? Things go down. And the one after that? Pretty sure it’s going to make us all scream (because writing it almost killed me, lol).

Alina’s in deep, and things are only getting messier. The lines between fear, desire, and control are blurring. Poor girl has no idea what's coming...

Thank you so much for all the love on the last chapter! Your comments seriously motivated me to keep writing and perfecting this story. Knowing real people are out there enjoying this means everything. So please, if you’re up for it, let me know what you think of the story so far! Even a simple emoji makes my day! 💚☺️💜

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)

@furisodespirit

Navigation Links:

Masterpost | Next Chapter →

17 notes · View notes