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norikuna · 2 months ago

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ACHILLES COME DOWN — ryomen sukuna

prologue. → you had given the king of curses what he had wanted the most, an heir, borne of the wife that he loves. but for one typically vicious and unshakeable, you wonder why sukuna is left so shaken by how much your daughter takes after him.

you wonder at how the vast ribcage of a demon and a cold killer, who can make the sun rise in the west if he so wished, was once the ribcage that held the beating heart of a young boy, with little space for him, or his mother, in this world.

pairing. ryomen sukuna x afab!reader

warnings. reader is sukuna's wife and they really love each other, just in their own twisted way. tried so hard to not make sukuna ooc so he comes across as an awful bitch sometimes. mentions of violence, blood, giving birth. lots of angst, hurt, comfort, mild fluff, suggestive, dubious in parts of the backstory, heavy focus on sukuna's childhood. sukuna calls reader 'woman' and 'brat.'

word count. 8.4k song inspiration. achilles come down — gang of youths

a/n. this artwork by @innaillus lives rent free in my head, it was the driving force for this fic idea...wanted to make this something different to what i usually do.

mp3 you crave the applause yet hate the attention, then miss it, your act is a ruse. it is empty, achilles, so end it all now, it's a pointless resistance for you.

for all the jujutsu and sorcery that flourished in the world, with unearthly displays of mastery over lief and death, you loathed how none had devised a technique to pluck an unborn child from the womb, and deliver it to the world without pain, without effort, and without this infernal ordeal that had left you slumped against silk cushions.

the air of your chambers hung heavy with a languid quiet, steeping in the residue of suffering, triumph, and undeniably, the light scent of iron in the air that made you wrinkle your nose.

the faint rustle of bloodied sheets reached your ears, punctuated by the rhythmic hum of the cicadas just beyond the paper screens, their song rising and falling like the tide of some ancient hymn.

summer lingered there, stubborn and sweltering on your brow, as the tremor of your hands betrayed the harrowing hours of labour behind you, though it had felt like centuries.

she was impossibly small, your daughter, her form as delicate as ceramic from the kiln, and just as luminous. her hair, peach-pink and fine as spun silk, gleamed softly in the amber glow of the lamplights, a gentler echo of her father's sharper strands.

the infant stirred in her swaddling, a tiny yawn parting her perfect, bow-shaped lips before she blinked up at you with wide, unfocused eyes.

the sight of those eyes stopped you. their hue was unmistakable — the very shade of your own, what a mirror of familiarity nestled in in the impossibly round irises of the child.

your breath hitched, and then a laugh escaped you, weak and thin from exhaustion.

the sound startled the maids, their hurried motions faltering for an instant, but you paid them no mind. your fingers simply brush over the baby's smooth cheek, marvelling at the warmth of her, at the life so newly arrived, and yet so firmly tethered to you.

"one question answered them," you murmured, the words falling from you, "two eyes."

what an absurd observation, a flicker of thought that should not have mattered in this moment. yet it did tug at you. you had wondered often during the long, sleepless night of pregnancy, whether this child would resemble their father entirely. whether this child would inherent that jagged, fearsome visage and the shadow that hung over the king of curses.

you had privately hoped that there would at least be something of you in the child, something gentler, and tethered to the world of men.

your musings were interrupted by the low murmur of voices beyond the screen, followed by the familiar sound of footsteps, deliberate and unhurried.

the servants hushed themselves immediately, and a moment later, the door slid open.

"lord sukuna," one of the accompanying nobles intoned, bowing so deeply that the hem of his crimson sokutai kissed the polished stones of the floor.

what a redundant announcement, for sukuna's presence often needed no introduction. you would swear that the chamber, warm with the glow of the lamplight, shrank beneath the weight of him.

even the cicadas outside seemed to hush their song as his shadow stretched across the tatami mats.

you felt his gaze before you saw it, — those piercing rust eyes, a force unto themselves. they lingered on you, a single breath held between one moment and the next, before shifting to the swaddled bundle cradled in your arms. you studied his face, willing yourself to decipher the mask of his granite expression.

hope tugged at you, fragile and foolish, searching for some flicker of sentiment, some crack in the marble of his countenance. yet his features remained inscrutable, as if carved from stone by a hand too cruel to grant softness.

but you knew your lord husband well. the absence of visible emotion was not the absence of feeling. his silences were not voids, but rather labyrinths, frustratingly so often. still, you watched him, not daring to speak, as sukuna moved with inhuman grace, as his steps no longer made sound on the floor.

your eyes fell on an odd object being carried in one of sukuna's four hands. dark silk was wrapped tightly around a small, irregular shape, and the bundle was unassuming at a glance. but you knew that nothing sukuna did was without purpose, without some motive.

but his eyes did not hold the indifferent glance of a man acknowledging his heir. it was something sharper, and heavier.

what did he see in the infant's tiny, sleeping form? what judgement had he already rendered in the silence that stretched unbearably to every corner of your quarters?

was this displeasure? disappointment? no, there was no anger etched into the sharp planes of his face.

but sukuna had wanted a son, he had said so, enough times that had left you running your anxious hands over your swollen belly. the thought coiled around your heart like a serpent, tightening with each second.

an heir must be strong. he had said it once, not long after you had first told him of the child growing within you. and in the quiet hours of that autumn night, you had wondered what strength had meant to him.

was it the unyielding will that had carved his name into infamous legend? the power to command, and collapse armies and legions, to bend the wills of mortals, and curses alike? a boone that could only truly be carried by a son?

you had never dared to ask the alternative.

swallowing your doubt, you finally spoke, unable to bear it any longer, "sukuna," you said, your voice quieter than you had intended, and even to your ears, it sounded raw with ragged exhaustion, "you have a daughter."

the words lingered, fragile as a spider's silk, trapped in the web of this room. it seemed that the maids, nor the nobles, dared to raise their eyes, as their breaths seemed to hang on the response.

now his shadow was cast over you, dimming the light of the world around you, but his four eyes flicked between the child at your breast, and then to your face.

"she will spill much blood on this earth," his voice as deep and steady as the foundations of the earth itself, "like her father."

the words struck you, like a hammer reverberating against a bronze bell in the quiet air. had you not braced yourself for his disappointment, for the cold practicality that so often shaped his actions?

but you were glad to see something else in his eyes, certainty, conviction, and even the faintest glimmer of traitorous pride. relief simply swept over you, filling in the spaces where paranoia and fear had coiled.

a small smile broke across your lips, though it felt fragle, as if one wrong word could shatter the moment. nevertheless, the lingering doubts that had clung to you, as heavy as a sunrise fog, began to dissolve in his searing presence.

"i am glad," you murmured, "that you are not angered. for i did not give you a son."

sukuna raised a single thin brow, his expression as unreadable as always, though the faintest trace of something akin to amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, "any child of my blood will be strong. i am glad that my wife did not pass from blood loss during childbirth."

you melodramatically sighed but a laugh danced on your mouth, that was essentially a heartfelt confession of sukuna's love for you, in his own twisted way.

"well," you replied, doing your best to sound bolder than you felt, "if you're feeling so magnanimous, you may as well tell me what that is."

your gaze was in the silk-wrapped bundle that still rested in his lower right hand, "could i hope that it's a loving gift for me? your wife who did not pass from blood loss?"

the ghost of a droll smile quirked sukuna's lips, a rare thing that seemed to thaw away some of the cold ice on his features, "you will get your gift later," and there was the faintest flicker of heat in his tone, the sort that made your stomach twist and your cheeks burn anew.

you quickly lowered your gaze, pretending to fuss with the edges of the infant's swaddle. the maids had suddenly busied themselves with unnecessary tasks in the farthest corners of the room.

"this," sukuna continued, lifting the package, "is for her."

for a moment, his words didn't register. you blinked, surprised, and your eyes flicked from the mysterious artifact to the tiny, slumbering child in your arms.

"for her?" you echoed, and the idea of the king of curses bring an item for a child, his child, felt strange, but tender in its unfamiliarity, "what is it?"

instead of answering immediately, he sat his hulking form beside you, sinking the silk of your sheets further into the wood frame. the wrapping fell away at his touch, revealing what lay within.

a spear, small and exquisite. wickedly sharp, and glinting faintly even in the dim light. it's shaft was adorned with intricate carvings of coiling dragons and parting clouds, and it had clearly been crafted for a hand far tinier than sukuna's own.

"a...weapon?" your stomach turned faintly, blanching at the sight of something so deadly meant for someone so fragile, unease colouring your voice.

sukuna sighed at your tone, like he had already predicted your protests, "it is tradition. a blade is the first gift given to a child, in the house of a warrior. it must be a promise."

"a promise of what?" you asked, though you weren't sure you truly wanted to hear the answer.

"of strength. that a child will grow strong, regardless of blood or lineage."

you looked at your daughter, so small and so impossibly fragile, and then down at the spear, the fine metal glinting faintly in the amber lamplight. you were certain that if you were to lay a finger on the razor edge, it could split your flesh apart with blooming drops of wine-red blood.

"she is but a few hours old," you murmured, "what strength must she carry already?"

sukuna's gaze was umoved, but not unkind, "the child carries a burden whether she knows it or not. the world is not kind to those who are weak. would you not see her survive it?"

a harsh truth, but spoken without cruelty. you studied sukuna's face, bathed in the lamplight, searching for something that you couldn't quite name. for all his barbed edges, you could have sworn his words nursed an older grudge. but you knew, in your heart that he was right, your daughter had been borne of a mortal mother, but of an immortal father, of a darker thread in this world.

a father, one who did not know how to speak of love, but who offered it in the only way he knew.

to sukuna, love and violence sat hand in hand, bloodied and stained.

"still," you said, deciding to drop the serious protest, for now, "a strange world you live in, where a weapon is a fitting fit for a infant? your wisdom knows no bounds," and your voice was laced with the teasing incredulity that he would tolerate only from his wife.

his crimson eyes flicked toward you, calm and unbothered, though the faintest smirk curved the corner of his mouth, like a blade just shy of unsheathing. "admittedly," he said, his deep voice like thunder rolling across a distant plain, "i hadn’t realised that babies were so… round. and weak. and plump."

"you were a baby once."

"never. i was born with the taste of blood and flesh already in my mouth."

"you’re insufferable," you said, though there was no real heat in your words. sukuna was not as naive as he pretended to be; you knew this game too well. his dry humour was his way of stirring you, drawing you out, even now.

"well," you said with a soft sigh, gesturing toward the swaddled bundle in your arms, "set the weapon aside, my dear warlord. for now, at least. let her meet her father before she’s introduced to steel and blood."

for a moment, his gaze lingered on you, unreadable as always, though something unspoken and hesitant flickered there, like the glow of embers beneath ash. then, with a small incline of his head, he relented.

"very well, pass the brat," he muttered, his tone lower now, softer.

you extended the child toward him, her tiny form impossibly small against the vastness of his marked hands.

for a fleeting moment, you worried — fearful that his strength, so absolute, might overwhelm her delicate frame. but when his fingers brushed against the blanket, they were steady, almost reverent.

he took her into his arms, his hold firm yet astonishingly gentle. what a beautiful little thing, you thought, as she stirred faintly, her little face scrunching in a way that made your heart ache with unexpected tenderness, for her and for this rare moment of quiet from your husband.

"how...small," sukuna said, almost to himself, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. the crimson of his eyes softened as he gazed at her, no longer the gaze of the strongest jujutsu sorcerer or a fearsome curse, but something far more human, a shadow of a man he might have once been.

"infants tend to be," you replied softly, watching the way his expression flickered, but you shifted closer to him, "here, let me unwrap her."

with careful hands, you unwound the swaddling cloth, each pull of fabric careful. the delicate folds slipped away in a quiet hustle, revealing the soft, flushed skin of the newborn, her form small and fragile in the dim glow of the chamber. a scattering of fine, rosy hairs crowned her head like the first petals of a spring bloom, soft and fleeting.

but then, as the last of the cloth unraveled, the room seemed to still. beneath her, something did not quite belong.

four arms. for, just like her father, another set of limbs was stacked underneath the first.

a chill ran through you, but you kept your gaze fixed upon her. the sight was no less miraculous for its strangeness, no less wondrous, but something shifted in your chest, a flutter of uncertainty.

oh, your darling baby girl.

your breath faltered for only an instant, and then a wry chuckle escaped your lips. "no wonder it hurt so much pushing her out," you griped, the words an attempt at brief levity.

the maids behind you had stilled, their eyes wide with shock, their breaths drawn in in silence. but you scarcely noticed or cared for their reaction.

your attention was on sukuna, and the subtle change that passed across his features like a shadow moving across the face of the sun.

at first, there was nothing — no word, no sound from his tight, pursed lips. his crimson eyes flickered over her, shifting from the unexpected sight of her four arms to her face, as though searching for some other sign of familiarity. his hold on her, though gentle, became uncertain, the steady grasp of one used to absolute control now wavering in the presence of something too delicate to tame.

no one would have seen the change in your husband, but you did. you always did.

"ah, sukuna," you whispered, "it’s alright. hold her properly."

sukuna's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in the corner of his mouth, painted with all the sweetness of rancid milk gone sour. but at last, he obeyed.

slowly, deliberately, his hands shifted, cradling the child with a kind of reverence that seemed foreign to him. the baby stirred faintly, her small hands brushing against his bare chest, and for the briefest of moments, a flicker passed across his expression — something that could have been warmth, or tenderness, or even pain, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

just as swiftly, his face returned to its usual impassive mask, the stoic countenance of a cruel warlord, implacable and untouchable. the walls of armour, built up over years of battle, of bloodshed, closed in around him once more, and you were left with the unmistakable sense that he had retreated behind them.

your brow furrowed as you watched him, "what's wrong?"

"nothing, woman." he replied curtly, and you could already sense the serrated edges of his tone, the one you would hear when his mood had gone afoul.

he placed the newborn back into your arms, and you nestled the infant close to your breast — and you blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of the gesture, your fingers stinging from the instantly cool touch of his skin.

"you have done well," and his voice was low, clipped.

a fleeting silence followed, thick with the weight of his half-hearted praise, or rather lack of his apparent love.

"done well? sukuna - " you repeated, unable to mask the incredulity in your voice, "my lord, that is all you have to say?"

his eyes rested on yours, cool and unyielding. beautiful and terrible, in the way that a soldier may have admired a temporary moment in time watching crimson shimmer and soar across the sky, before it fell down in acrid blood rain. terrible, all the same.

on any other day, his infuriating brevity and sharp demeanour might have sparked a flame of annoyance in your chest, but today...was not quite so. though the shadow that rest upon him would not reveal itself, you searched his face nevertheless for what had unnerved him so. but as always, sukuna's features were as unreadable as ancient stone.

his gaze flickered for a moment to the maids who lingered at the edges of the room, their wide eyes watching with an almost palpable curiosity. and without a single glance at you, or the baby girl nestled in your arms, he turned away in long strides, past the threshold and onto the balcony that held the evening's last fading light.

you let out a long, slow sigh — at the poison that had sunk its furled teeth into your husband once more. this was hardly the first time he had withdrawn into his own sullen, brutal thoughts, locked behind walls that you had not the key to breach. and it certainly would not be the last. you could only hope that this ill vein of his mind would not end in someone's pumping blood being spilled over the floors.

"uraume," you called softly, glancing toward your friend and confidant, who had been standing silently near the wall, having accompanied sukuna.

the short, silver-haired sorcerer turned their rosewood eyes toward you, their expression as stoic as ever, like frost that had settled over granite.

their hands were folded neatly in front of their heavy snow-robes, but you caught the faintest quirk of their brow as if to say what now?

you gestured toward sukuna's figure on the terrace, brooding and awfully solitary, "what has gotten into him?"

uraume shrugged, as unimpressed as always, "would that he has found himself in one of his moods again. you know how he is."

you frowned, not entirely satisfied with their answer, for what ill mood could have sunk its claws into sukuna after the birth of his only child. but still, uraume had known sukuna far longer than you had.

"can you hold her for a moment?"

at that, uraume hesitated, their stoicism faltering for the briefest second, "me?" they asked, their cool tone clipped but their light-teak eyes darting to the baby with thinly veiled interest.

"yes, you," you said with a wry smile, "ah, don’t pretend as though you don’t want to."

their lips pressed into a tight line, but you saw the way their hands moved almost instinctively, reaching out before they could talk themselves out of it. with practiced care, you transferred the baby into your friend's arms, watching as uraume's stern demeanor softened, just slightly, as they looked down at the tiny bundle.

"careful," you teased, adjusting the swaddle around your infant daughter, "she might charm you into smiling."

"unlikely," uraume deadpanned, but the faintest ghost of warmth touched their dulcet voice.

the evening air was cool as the breath of a shadow, brushing against your skin, and you watched as the pale pink petals of the gardens below fluttered in the winds, falling in gentle arcs around the estate.

you sighed, wrapping your robe tighter around your form, as the sheer fabric clung to your skin like the last vestiges of warmth that the day had offered. the coolness was a balm, but it did little to ease the deep ache in your legs, nor the weariness that had clung to you like a second skin now, so soon after an arduous labour.

you made your way onto the balcony, the rough floor beneath your feet cold and unyielding — and there, sukuna sat, his broad frame hunched slightly over the stone bench.

you paused, only a slight shadow behind him, unsure whether to disturb the stillness of his thoughts or let him be. the space between you was...heavy, but you broke through the silence.

"are you going to tell me what's wrong," you asked, trying to keep a lightness to your tone, "or are you planning to brood out here all night?"

you could only hope that you had not overstepped, for his moods were as tempestuous as the wild storms of summer's monsoons. although his promise of blood on skin, and guts on the table, had never been directed at you.

a flicker of irritation had brush over sukuna's face, as his gaze remained fixed on the horizon. a warning, perhaps, a retreat?

for a moment, you lingered where you stood, wondering if it would be worth your time to weather whatever tempest brewed within the king of curses. and you hesitated, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and place a hand upon his broad shoulder. but something held you back, not tonight.

instead, you settled beside him, the cold stone of the bench biting into your thighs and abdomen through the thin fabric of your robe, a deep cramping that you wished you could settle with a steaming bath.

for a long while, sukuna said little. but you heard his small exasperated sigh, at the inconvenience that you had apparently created for him. a subtle movement in the dark silk of his robes, and without a word, he spread the folds of his garments wider so you could move closer to the searing heat of his bare skin, and rest upon the fabric, rather than the icy rock currently beneath your pelvis.

"sukuna, please. are you well?"

"why wouldn't i be, woman?" but the words fell between you, false and brittle in the warm air, betrayed by the clench of his jaw.

it must be of little standard, how you're pleased that sukuna has not blasted his beloved wife into cinders, and so you press on, undeterred now by the silence.

reaching out, you take one of his four hands, so much stronger than your own, into your grasp. your fingers weave into the thick tattoos marked on his skin, over faint scars that must stretch back to a golden age, long abandoned by the world. but here, his skin is warm and living, and solid beneath your touch. it is rough in places, like a weathered boulder, but there is no resistance in his grasp, no usual sharpness in a retreat.

"i wonder," he mutters, and you look up from studying his hands in surprise, "what mine own parents must have thought when i was born."

your breath catches, for sukuna has never spoken of family, not once in all the years that you have known him. after all, you had seen your husband in reminiscence many times, usually after a great flagon of rich drink.

about stories of battle and triumphs, of how greatly he enjoyed severing a stray general's head from the man's body, of how excellent the wine was five centuries ago, or how he found it a nuisance that it was no longer acceptable to chase after servants with a crossbow for the fun of the hunt.

but never had a word been uttered of those who came before him.

"you've never mentioned your family, sukuna," and you don't miss how his hand twitches under your hold, "never heard a single thing about the last king and queen of curses."

the sharp, razor lines of his body tighten, and sukuna does not smile, does not soften. his face is as unreadable as ever, like a mask carved from iron wood.

"i come from no such line, certainly not from kings," his tone is flat, only a mild sneer in his voice as the prospect of nobility, and you watch the handsome slope of his nose in the twilight, the stern profile that you had grown to admire in the time of your...tumultuous marriage.

he speaks the words like they are the final bookend of a story, the last page, with nothing left to say. but you tilt your head, watching the hard line of his jaw, and the way his fingers mildly tighten around your own, like an anchor.

"who were they?"

sukuna finally turns his head to face you, the faintest shift in his posture as his eyes finally meet yours. the look he gives you is cold, disinterested, and the subtle roll of his lower eyelids betray a flash of frustration and anger.

you frown at the fleeting, cutting gesture, but it is nothing new for you, "it was just a question. i've just never heard you speak on this before."

sukuna rolls his broad shoulders, half-hearted and dismissive, as though this conversation itself has suddenly become an inconvenience that he's barely willing to entertain. how typical.

"never found it relevant."

you aren't sure what is more unbearable now, the dull throb in your legs that still lingers from the birth, or the faint copper tang of the afterbirth that you're certain is now pooling on your robe, or the heavy, oppressive heat of the summer air that seems to suffocate in your throat.

but somehow, all of it combines to make your husband's behaviour just a bit too much, even for you, the one who has become so accustomed to the emotionally stunted king of curses.

"please, sukuna," and you loathe how it sounds as though you are begging once more, hoping there's no hint of the bitterness of your tone, no crack of anger, but it is hard to tie that mask in place when it seems like every part of your body is breaking, aching and exhausted, "i just gave birth to your child, our child. everything hurts, and i'm tired, and i just want to rest," you pause, and the words slip from your mouth before you can stop them, "and now you're off sitting here, and you didn't even want to hold her? what am i supposed to do?"

even you are surprised by the rawness in your own voice, the trembling that has begun to spread across your chest, until you realise with a quiet shock that your eyes are wet, and your face is streaking with tears that leave your head laden and heavy. you had not meant to lose composure like this, but now there they are, hot and clinging.

and sukuna's usual stoicism seems momentarily shattered. he's staring at you as if you have sprouted horns, as though an extra head has sprung from your neck. it is a subtle change, the faintest narrowing of his brows, the way his lips press together in an effort to tamp down whatever rude words he was going to spring forth upon his already fraying wife. but at this point in time, you do not care to read him, nor to decipher the layers of his complex, decaying heart.

but his rough hand reaches out, almost clumsily, and they brusqely brush the damp streaks from your cheeks. the gesture is far too gentle for one who only responds to strength, violence, and sometimes, decapitation.

but it is the first gesture of tenderness that he has offered in what feels like an age, "stop that, woman. this does not befit you," and the edges of his robe catch the falling droplets from your face, dampening the silk.

and sukuna's mouth is now downturned, the edges of his lips twisting in that familiar, inscrutable way. you wonder, for the thousandth time, how he ever reconciles the savage nature of the beast that he has become, with the faintest echo of what was once humanity beating in his chest, "wasn't trying to upset you, brat."

his voice pricks at you, and you wipe the last remnants of tears from your skin, but there's a sudden warmth in your cheeks, at the embarrassment of breaking like this, rather than lingering sorrow.

"if you're that desparate to know, my mother was a servant."

you blink, unsure whether you are hearing correctly, for sukuna's voice does not even falter, despite the apparent chink in his impenetrable armour. but this is no great surprise, perhaps, his mother had been a concubine to a lord, some powerful man, or the emperor himself?

sukuna had now looked away from you, his gaze turned to the darkened sky, "lived in the palace. or actually...worked there, didn't get to even live there. they had her live in some shack off on the edge of the estate," and his voice is like the wind in a sealed tomb, bitter and stale.

"with the animals," you murmur, and it is not intended to be cruel. you know better than to speak so carelessly with sukuna, and you have learnt that pity is something he cannot abide, he abhors it. has never wanted it, not from you, his wife or queen, nor any other.

but now sukuna grunts, low and gutteral, "don't even remember much of it. could only keep a stupid goat in there, at best."

you find yourself absently fiddling with the hem of your robe, the thin fabric slipping through your fingers, past your nails.

"and your father?" you wonder if he can hear the question that hangs on the edge of your words, a powerful man? even the emperor of that time had been known to dabble in jujutsu, and other forms of more foreign magic from the continental homeland.

"no name that i would waste my time mentioning," and sukuna's tone is heavy with disdain, and a sneer has spread on his face, having slipped past the mask of constant indifference, "or a name that i would have even bothered to find and learn. clearly...didn't care for the likes of mother. some lowly foot soldier she met one night, never appeared before her again."

you're not quite sure how to respond, how to fit his surprising words into a world that you're familiar with. you, born with royal blood in your veins, a lineage of kings and khans. you, who grew up in a palace with a gruff but loving father, and an overbearing but kind mother, or the warmth of a large band of siblings swarming around you.

you, who had never gone to bed cold, always had a fire on her back, had grown up with jewels draped across your neck.

"must not have been easy, sukuna."

you watch him closely, and you can tell that he's doing his utter best to wave your gaze away, to disguise this as a casual tale, one to be dismissed on the morrow. but you wonder, with a sense of sorrow, if there is a single living soul alive who has been privy to this story, aside from uraume, most likely.

but sukuna shrugs, a quick and careless motion, and the movement tousles his head of rosy hair, sharp spikes swaying, "she said i had been born in a time of famine," and you can hear him running his tongue behind his teeth, "that she had to serve the emperor fine banquets everyday, while she came home to not even two sticks of wood to put together for a fire."

and then, he turns his second pair of eyes on you, those crimson eyes that seem to see straight through the world, "said she had no idea how i even survived to birth," and your lower region pangs at the mention of your recent labours, "that it was a miracle that i had been born strong enough to live past a few hours in the cold."

you squeeze his calloused hand again, a soft press of rare reassurance to one who most likely does not care for such sentiments, and this time he allows it — a kind mercy you think, born of some unwilling guilt that lingers from having you weep.

for a fleeting moment, his hand remains, coarse over yours, but his expression hardens once more, like magma went hit with the cool wind. he pulls his hand away with a swiftness that makes your heart ache.

"sounds like she really loved you," you hum, but the words sound weak even to your own ears. unable to change anything, or stitch over whatever scars shaped the king of curses, but you say them anyway, fumbling for something to offer.

his scarlet gaze flickers to you once more, and for a moment, you think he might scoff. but instead, sukuna gives you a peculiar, twisted look, as though caught between disbelief, and a painful, begrudging acknowledgement.

"i- sure," and his voice is lower than the muted tone that you're accustomed, rough but listless, "used to sit there, putting scraps of cloth together for the winter. from the sacks used to carry feed for the horses."

you wince, unbidden, as the image cuts through you like a blade. of a faceless child draped in rough, burlap-like cloth, and a mother's raw hands working to piece together anything that might keep her son warm through the cold winters. but it is hard, hard to see that faceless child as the king of curses now, no matter how you peer up at sukuna's stern profile.

you think of your newborn daughter, her soft and downy cheeks. the way she had nestled into you with such implicit trust. you try to imagine the same tenderness in the woman who was the mother of the demon later known as ryomen sukuna, but when you close your eyes all you see is death and war, blood painting four hands as they pulled off man's head, clean at the jugular — at your wedding feast.

"how did you survive?" and the question feels intrusive, almost cruel, but he's only given you a fractured and worn story, a thread that you're dying to follow.

sukuna gives you a sharp look, his brows knitting as he takes in the mild teary hitch in your voice, "don't start getting weepy on me now," he huffs, coarse but not callously, "you asked to know. and don't think i'm going to sit here, and hold your hand through it."

you nod, chastened but affronted, as he continues, "i did what any child would have done. stole what i could from under the carts of merchants, bread from the palace, scraps from the barracks or medicine."

"medicine?" you ask, your curiosity slipping through.

sukuna's expression darkens, and for the first time, there's a flicker of something far more raw in his eyes, and you don't quite appreciate the way he's glowering at you as if it were your doing, "she was sick. sometimes."

the words are clipped, meant to cut short any sympathy you might try to offer, but they lodge deep in your heart all the same. and in a cruel corner of your mind, a thought emerges.

was it birthing him that made her sick? did it consume her spirit and body, the birth of the king of curses?

fortunately, and unbeknownst to your lord husband, shame rises to your cheeks as swiftly as the notion comes, hot and furious. you swallow it down, forcing your lips to stay shut, horrified with your own insensitive thought.

but now the silence is stretching before you, as a long yawn. you glance at him again, at the defiant set of his shoulders, and you shake your head of the ridiculous surge of protectiveness towards a beast, one such as sukuna. but you still cannot picture him as a small and gaunt boy, with quick and desparate hands, trying to survive a life that he did not ask for.

"she must have been proud of you."

sukuna sneered, but it lacked its usual edge, "proud?" he shakes his head, glancing at you with an expression you can't quite name, "would've wanted better than this."

better than what? you want to ask. better than the wealthiest man in the realm? the most powerful sorcerer in written history? the king of curses?

but what do you know? and so, the words don't come. instead, your fingers twitch in your lap, aching to reach for him again, and knowing that he would just pull away once more.

"and yet, men compose sonnets of your power. the king of all the light and shadow touches," and your voice must be laced with a quiet wonder, at what it is to be so feared, but it is not admiration.

"my mother did not want that for me," sukuna says, his tone sharp, ruminating with a hard expression, "but i did it anyway. they wouldn't take me at first, not a child with no family to present him, nor gold to weigh in his favour," and the words are low, and biting, as if speech sits bitter on his tongue, "so i took up the sword. trained until i was good enough to join the legions."

"and then?" though you know that there is little point in asking, for the tale is now one that you have heard before. written in dried blood, and throughout history. it is famous on the mainland, on the islands, on the continent, to where the horse-lord khans are now raising great empires. but hearing it from sukuna's mouth feels different, like tracing your fingers over the jagged edge of a rough wound.

"sought power in other place," and now he's looking down at you, physically, but also knowing him, quite literally, "soft thing like you has never seen the rest of the world, but there were masters who never answered to a throne."

"crushed every army of the great clans, north to south, every squad of the sun, moon and stars. brought them to their knees, one by one, and tore their throats out," and you can hear how sukuna's tongue kisses his teeth when he speaks, as if he's reminiscing the taste of beautiful iron in his mouth, "and when it was done, the emperor, the same one who ruled while my mother and i rotted on his estate...he bowed to me."

"they invited me to the harvest festival after that," he continues, his lips twisted in a bitter smirk, "in the capital. worshipped me like an idol, some ancient hero."

it's never lost on you on how sukuna's tone is the most pleased when thinking about how blood rips from ripe arteries and wounds. but his eyes are colder than the snow-capped mountains of the earlier months, and they betray no joy nor triumph. it is simply what happened, as if told from the vantage of a stranger.

you hesitate, the next question caught in your throat. but the need to know burns brighter than your fear, "your father," you say carefully, and there. the tell-tale clench of sukuna's sculpted jaw, "he was a soldier, was he not?"

his eyes remain fixed beyond the terrace, where the light faded long ago. for a moment, you think that sukuna has not heard you. but then, he speaks, his voice akin to the rumble of thunder on a faraway horizon, "my father," and his tone is entirely devoid of feeling, "could have been one of the soldiers i killed, i care not."

"what did you mother say after all that?"

for a moment, the silence stretches between you, heavy and unyielding. and privately, you have grown much tired of this brooding quiet, but you fancy not being blown to ashes alongside the rest of this estate, so you let him linger.

but sukuna has inhaled sharply, and his wandered gaze has snapped back with an edge you hadn't expected, "i wouldn't know," and now, this feels more like an open wound, "died when i was twelve winters."

there is no softness in his tone, no tremble or catch to suggest the pain of memory, for it is too old and too familiar. but the world around you seems to dim as he still speaks, "hadn't learnt reversed curse technique by then. hah, if she had lived longer..."

and sukuna closes his mouth with a snap, as if an unseen poison has dredged to the surface. for it is not within the king of curses's nature to regret. to wonder what if?

you can see it in the way sukuna's hand clenches at his side, the subtle twitch of his mouth. it is not grief that overtakes him, nor even regret. it is something darker, colder — a wound that time has turned to scar tissue but never truly healed.

and again, you try. to imagine her, a woman bent by the weight of a hard life but still fierce in her love for her son. you still cannot see a face, but you can picture frail hands threading through coarse fabric into a makeshift tunic, telling her son stories to chase away the hunger and cold of the night. and you wonder about fate's cruel hands, for her son would first grow into a man, and then something crueler and inhuman, one who could topple armies and empires, one who sung fangs into still-beating hearts. but not in time to save her.

it is a sad story, but you know better than to offer your apologies. one thing still lingers in your mind, pressing against your thoughts like a stone beneath rushing water.

"what does this have to do with your daughter?"

your husband suddenly looks at you, quizzical, and he's faintly confused. you frown, clarifying before he can twist your meaning, "it's just...you seemed upset after holding her. i thought -"

sukuna's expression shifts, a flash of irritation breaking through his impassiveness, "what? that i loathed the sight of her?" his lips curl into a smirk, laced with a drier humour, "hope she got my brains, and not yours."

you scowl at him, your indignation quick but shallow at his cheap barbs. without much thought, you jab an elbow into his bare side. but he doesn't flinch, of course he doesn't. but a mild smile breaks through, faint as dawn's first light. and for now, it's enough for you.

but then sukuna's face clouds again, and the weight of his brooding thoughts seems to settle over him once more. you sigh, and venture a guess, your voice quieter now, gentler, "you’re worried about her because she was born as you were."

sukuna scoffs, "tch! don’t make me sound so weak and weepy, like you."

"ryomen," you say, letting his name stretch out, both affectionate and exasperated, "it's alright to care about your infant daughter. no one is going to topple your throne over it."

"i'd invite them to try," he snarls, shooting you a hard look, like you were going to raise an army later that day.

"it wasn't easy for me," he adds, and the edges of his words are brittle, "didn't quite have that grasp on jujutsu when i was younger. ended up even melding flesh together to try and hide two arms out of four. or...almost crushing them together so they would break and bend."

"what a cruel strife, delivered upon a child," you're frowning, at the vivid imagery and at how sukuna delivers it in such a matter-of-fact way.

but your husband dips his chin, and you're left staring and wondering, just what it would take to have him break away from his unholy pride, "a fair exchange," he says, "wasn't a stranger to what people called me. or thought."

"you know what the difference is?" and you've paused long enough for the words to settle, to break him out of his reverie, "our daughter has a loving father," and sukuna's face twitches.

"and," now, you point at yourself, "a loving mother. i do think she will grow up strong."

you almost say that she will grow up safe, happy, content. peaceful. but you had stopped yourself, for you had pushed the king of curses enough for one night, emotionally at least, and you know that 'strong' is something that he respects, something that he can hope for without feeling lesser for it.

"she better," he grunts, and you smile at the faintest glimmer of pride slipping into his voice, pride at what he deems a worthy creation from him, and you, "i don't care if she was born today, i need to see her cursed technique."

"sukuna!" you snap fiercely, and it just draws a rich laugh from him, one that makes you sigh too, for you think that your husband is often (and ironically) like the sun. for when he blazes far too hot, and bright, you can feel the burn sting. but when sukuna glows, all tend to clamour to bask in his rare warmth.

you laugh with him, the sound light in the still of the night, and before he can pull away or grumble something sardonic, you press a soft kiss to his cheek. sukuna huffs above you, the noise low and guttural, a half-hearted complaint about how he is being suffocated, but you feel the warmth bloom under your lips.

and it is sweet, in its own odd way, at how his creamy skin flushes quickly, betraying him, and his lower set of eyes flutter close. for a brief moment, the king of curses is almost bashful, the storm clouds parting as quickly as they came.

as you rise to your feet, you feel the ache in your thighs, but you tug lightly at his hefty arms, urging him, "come, my lord," you say, your tone teasing but warmer, "come see your daughter now."

sukuna doesn’t move at first, his gaze following yours, tracing the place where you had just been sitting. his expression shifts, darkening as his eyes fall on something. "is that blood?" he asks, the words sharp and low.

you glance down, catching sight of the vivid smear on the stone—a crimson stain stark against the dimly lit fabric. your shoulders tighten, a flicker of embarrassment sweeping through you before you remember that this is not your fault, and you glower, your voice bristling. "afterbirth," you mutter, crossing your arms as if to shield yourself from the moment. "would have been nicer to pass in my own bed."

the faintest quirk touches his lips, an almost-smile that flickers and vanishes as quickly as it came. "you must be hungry," he says, his tone succint but carrying the faint edge of something softer—something close to concern, though he would never name it as such, and call you foolish if you did.

you sigh, the weight of exhaustion pressing against you like the tide, for you desperately wished to rest, "you have no idea," half a complaint, half a confession.

sukuna doesn’t reply immediately, but you catch the way his gaze softens, lingering just long enough to remind you that, despite his gruffness, he cares more than he lets on. perhaps, in his own way, he is just as raw and exposed as you are now.

again, you tug at his marked arms, insistent, and he sighs — long-suffering, as if your request were a monumental task. yet, he rises, uncoiling his tall frame until he towers over you, the shadows darkening most of what is around you.

before you can utter another word, he sweeps you close, all four of his arms encircling you with an ease that borders on reverence. his lips brush against your forehead, fleeting but gentle, a moment so tender it nearly takes your breath away.

and then, like clockwork and a theatrical grimace, sukuna pushes you away, his expression twisting into an exaggerated mask of disgust. it's his strange, unpolished way of showing affection, and you can’t help but snicker, the sound light and unburdened.

"you’re ridiculous," you tease, though your smile lingers, soft and warm, and he mutters some comment about how he doesn't even like you.

"you know,” you begin, "i asked uraume to hold our daughter in the meantime."

His eyes widen, incredulous, and for a moment, he looks genuinely doubtful, "huh, this entire time. uraume cannot have agreed to that."

"they did!" you insist, triumph lighting your voice, thinking of the petulant sorcerer probably making faces at your baby indoors.

sukuna shakes his head, muttering as if the mere notion defied all reason, he who had seen mountains turn to dust and oceans part. "unbelievable," he says, his tone caught between disbelief and faint admiration, as though uraume's rare acquiescence were an impossible feat.

you had returned indoors, arm entwined with one of sukuna's which had pulled you close with a sudden, almost possessive gesture.

and lo and behold, you found uraume still kneeling by the cradle, with their eyes fixed on the infant, who was staring back at the ice-sorcerer with curious intensity, oddly knowing for one so small.

and uraume, typically stoic and cold, leans in loser to the child, now gentle and cooing, "yes," they murmur, "and when you are all grown up, you will listen to me. i don't care if sukuna has a stroke. your father is prone to theatrics, and your mother is prone to equal dramatics. but you can learn from the best there is, me."

sukuna, ever the cynic, guffaws, "i hope you are not indoctrinating my heir," you laugh at the flicker of amusement in both sets of his eyes.

you catch the briefest glimpse of an embarrassed flush on uraume's pallid cheeks before the sorcerer quickly recovers, lips pursing in an exaggerated show of indifference.

"i do not care for this pudgy thing," uraume huffs, the words a touch too hasty as they thrusts the child back into your arms, clearly uncomfortable with the softening of their usually unyielding nature.

and when sukuna's peering down at the child, with barely veiled interest, the same set of eyes that you carry end up meeting blood-red eyes with teeth.

your daughter, promptly robbed of uraume's gentler attention and less-monstrous features, begins to wail, loud and teary, as sukuna growls, affronted.

"can't you put the child back in you?"

the linked artwork belongs to the artist. but the header and writing belong to curtins.tumblr.com. likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated, but do not repost my work!

#sukuna x reader #sukuna #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna ryomen #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna jjk #ryomen sukuna #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk sukuna #sukuna x y/n #jjk x you #works #SHES FINALLY DONE! this took me sooooo long idk i really struggled w trying to nail sukuna right #sukuna smut #jjk smut #daphworks

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littlefireball · 1 month ago

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ᴡʏ|[ᴍ]|ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴀʀʏ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ x ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.2ᴋ

Summary: You fall in love with someone…not your neighbor, not your classmate…but your imaginary friend, the devil in the mirror.

(a/n: inspired by ITZY's imaginary friend. Highly recommend this song!!)

youtube

You can always hear the whispers coming from the mirror, while everyone else remains unaware. They dismiss it as mere of your imagination, labeling you as a psycho or a weirdo with no friends or relationship. At first, your parents broke or replaced all the mirrors in the house to root out the problem. Yet, here you are, still chatting away with the mirror in the dead of night.

As night falls, the figure within the mirror transforms, revealing its form. The darkness within the glass deepens, shifting into the visage of a man, or I should say, a devil. This creature, hidden from the world's eyes, now stands before you, its presence both chilling and intriguing.

"Come here, love."

His whispers slither through the air like venom, numbing your thoughts and ensnaring your mind, compelling you to grasp his hand and surrender your entire being to his embrace. Though he felt icy to the touch, an insatiable fire ignited within you, leaving your cheeks flushed with warmth.

His fingers delicately tilted your chin upward, the emerald glow around you pulsating with perilous allure. You silenced the alarms ringing in your head, letting your body's yearning take control. Rising softly onto your toes, you pressed your lips against his, which glimmered with an irresistible charm beneath the silvery moonlight.

"I want you so much…"

His voice is a low, sultry murmur, laced with an intoxicating blend of possessiveness and longing. The hunger in the devil's gaze is unmistakable as his hands slide down to seize your thighs, pressing you down with a firm grip. His eyes remain locked on yours, lips grazing against yours, the coolness igniting a shiver that dances along your skin, a frosty thrill that only intensifies the heat surging through you.

As your back meets the ground, his weight presses down on you, his breath against your skin a husky whisper of desire. He leans down, his lips mere inches from your ear, a low growl rumbling within his chest.

"You're mine."

Their bodies intertwine amidst the moonlight, a dance of fire and ice. The devil kisses you without care and gentle but only lust, intense and urgent. You don't resist, instead surrendering to the wave of emotions that washed over you and wrapping your arms around his shoulder to bring him closer.

He draws you nearer, his lips gliding along your jaw, descending to your neck, where he pauses, relishing the fragrance of your skin. You arch your back, beckoning him deeper, your body alive with desire. His grip on your hips tighten as the kisses deepen, his tongue slides deep to your throat, exploring all the sweetness and claiming you as his. Their lips meet with a burning passion, then part, only to find themselves drawn back together in a desperate embrace.

"Wooyoung…"

You whisper his name as if it's the only word that can slip out from your lips.

"Yes…you're mine." He repeated, his eyes darken with desire, his tone growing deeper, almost a growl. "Mine to devour, to claim."

The cold attacks you as he sits up straight, aiming his length to press hard on your clothed clit. He presses his finger firmly against the bud, stroking it rhythmically, coaxing soft moans from your lips. His cool fingers glide up to your bare thighs, gripping the waistband tightly before tugging it down with a swift motion. Your dress rides up to your waist, revealing your partially exposed body beneath him.

"Beautiful…"

His gaze devours every inch of your bare skin, while his hands glide along your beautiful curves. The gentle touch halts as he thrusts into your snug hole, striking your most sensitive spot in the depth. Your toes curl and your back bends, his freaking big size causing your eyes to squeeze shut. He pushes your thighs aside to stretch you wide, pinning them firmly as he continues to roll his hips into you.

The curve of his big cock clearly shows underneath your skin, making your belly swell slightly. As his arched tip reaches the depth, he withdraws a bit and enters back, colliding with your spot over and over again. The only noise echoing in your room is the ragged sound of your moans and the soft thud of skin against skin, amplified by the stillness of the night. Your hands have no place to rest, so they find their way up to his dark arms, fingers curling into tight fists, nails pressing into his flesh.

"Look how tiny you are compared to my cock…"

His hand reaches down your stomach, admiring how his cock submerges your core and how you suck him in with your best. He is captivated by this view, almost as if he's ensnared by it. Initially, you were merely his prey, a plaything, a means to satisfy his breeding desire. But now, everything has shifted. He cannot bear the thought of anyone else laying a hand on you, speaking to you, or even standing close. You belong to him and him alone; no one else can lay claim to you as he does.

"Oh dear, you know I can't get enough of you."

His movements grow more intense, sending shivers through your body with every deep penetration. As the climax draws near, your chest constricts with anticipation. In a swift motion, he raises your legs, his hands sliding beneath your inner knees, elevating your hips. The steady rhythm shifts, giving way to rapid, urgent thrusts.

"Woo…wooyoung!!" "Show me what you've got, darling."

Your chest quakes violently from his relentless pushing, the carpet beneath you is creased and rumpled, while the heat of friction radiates across your back. The sound of your chaotic moans echoes against the walls, while a powerful sensation churns in your stomach, causing your body to tense up.

"Let go for me, let go for me…Oh gosh…Fuck…!"

Wooyoung's entire body tightens, a wave of heat surging through him, building to an intense peak. He can't resist the overwhelming urge to let go. The frantic rhythm comes to a sudden halt as his knot drives deep, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.The warm, viscous substance oozes from the tip of his cock, blending with the guru's sound, reminiscent of a bubbling spring, coating your wall and saturating you completely. You can sense the warmth radiating within your belly as he fills you, creating a tight, rounded sensation that makes your abdomen feel like a taut balloon.

He pulls out a bit, his seed pouring out like a waterfall, soaking the ground and carpet. A warmth wraps around his length, stirring his desire one more time. His eyes gazes on your chest then your round belly, an urgent to fuck you in this look pushing him to the edge.

"Oh darling, you know I am not done with you yet."

He hovers above you, a wicked grin playing at the corners of his mouth. The moonlight streaming through the window casts a silvery glow on his features, and his emerald eyes sparkled with a seductive allure that was both thrilling and impossible to resist.

"Let's breed, darling."

Before his words are fully left his lips, his cock ruins you again.

tag list: @angelsaway, @yeosangcutie0615, @monsta-x-jagi

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sleepydeprived · 1 year ago

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A Chance for Redemption

—A mysterious high school student appears out of the blue, bearing the face of the late Martha Wayne and puzzling even Gotham’s greatest detectives.

[chapter 1]

| Platonic!Yandere!Batfam x Reader

| Inspired by the work of @e-nonsense “GHOST OF A LONG GONE WOMAN”

The Gotham City skyline stretched across the horizon, its towering structures standing as silent guardians in the night. Inside the dimly lit study of Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne sat alone amidst shadows that mirrored the complexities of his own mind.

A sudden beep from the Batcomputer broke the stillness. Bruce glanced at the screen, and his piercing gaze narrowed at the news report flashing across the monitor. The headline sent a ripple through him.

"Wayne Heiress Emerges: Striking Resemblance to Late Martha Wayne. Who is she?"

His heartbeat quickened as images of the young girl filled the screen. The uncanny resemblance to his late mother, Martha, struck him like a blow. The gentle curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes — it was as if a much younger version of Martha had been reborn in a face he had never known.

For a moment, the air in the study thickened with silence. Bruce's jaw tightened, and a flood of memories surged, carrying him back to the night of his parents' tragedy. He saw Martha's face, radiant and full of life, before the darkness took her away. Now, that same face stared back at him from the screen.

"What is this?" Bruce muttered to himself, his fingers tapping impatiently on the polished surface of the mahogany desk.

With a decisive gesture, he rose from his seat and moved toward the Batcave. Alfred, his ever-watchful confidant, observed the turmoil in Bruce's eyes.

"Master Wayne, might I inquire about the cause of your distress?" Alfred's calm voice cut through the tension.

Bruce handed Alfred a tablet displaying the news report. As Alfred scanned the images, the lines on his forehead deepened in concern.

"An unexpected development, sir. Shall I investigate further?" Alfred offered, his loyalty unwavering.

"No, Alfred. I'll handle this myself,"

In the heart of the Batcave, surrounded by the symbols of his dual life, Bruce Wayne accessed the Batcomputer with purpose, initiating a search that would unravel the truth behind the possible Wayne heiress.

As information unfolded on the screen, Bruce's stoic demeanor flickered with a kaleidoscope of emotions. The mystery of his potential blood-related daughter, bearing the face of his beloved mother, demanded answers that eluded even the World's Greatest Detective.

In the shadows of Wayne Manor, a silent storm brewed. All veiled behind the haunting gaze of a daughter who bore the visage of a long-lost woman.

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redvexillum · 6 months ago

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This request is special to me because my first NSFW Alastor x Reader story on my sideblog was also about Alastor getting head 🤣 (Tell Me I'm Punny) I thought it be fitting/funny if my very first request story for this new blog would also be about Alastor getting head, -sighs- the beauty of ✨️sentimentality✨️ By the way, I took your request quite literally, if ya know what I mean 😏 XOXO, RedVexi💋

SUMMARY: You simply wanted to wake him up...in more ways than one.

WARNING/TAGS: f!reader, oral s*x (m!receiving), handjob, reader is a brat, teasing, established relationship, edging, ruined org*sm, dom/sub undertone, Alastor is not pleased

Like a deer caught in the headlights, you stared at Alastor’s sleeping visage, mesmerized by the sight. It was silly, but you felt an urge to wave your hand before his closed eyes to ensure he was truly asleep.

He lay on his back, lips stretched wide into a close-lipped smile, hands neatly folded one atop the other on his bare chest. His breath was soft and even, mirroring the tranquility of his expression.

For as long as you’d known Alastor, you had never once caught him sleeping. You had long assumed he was an eternal insomniac, his soul never craving or requiring rest – a restless soul, so to speak.

When you had asked him if he ever slept, he would only grin – his trademarked shit-eating grin – and he would pinch your cheeks while wiggling them before promptly changing the topic.

It drove you mad, for you didn’t understand the purpose of his secrecy on this subject.

You knew he was messing with you because he delighted in your curiosity, relishing the chase as you grew increasingly frustrated. Yet now, as your gaze rested on his sleeping figure, you had to suppress a laugh. Trust Alastor to fall deeply asleep only after an intense night of fucking you until you went delirious with pleasure.

Slowly, you sat up and winced at the ache in your backside, a vivid reminder of how he had relentlessly stretched your ass with his shadowy tendril while rubbing your core until you were an absolute sobbing mess. The memory of his touch, the way he played your body like a well-used instrument, sent a shiver down your spine. He was the master at blending the symphony of pain and pleasure that always left you breathless.

Pouting, you glared at Alastor as his body naturally sidled up closer to you, a comfortable sigh escaping his lips. He had promised that yesterday you could control the pace and make all the decisions from start to finish. But, of course, he couldn’t last five freaking minutes before he immediately started calling all the shots.

Even though he gave you mind-blowing orgasm after orgasm, it was the principle of the matter for you. You loved following his instructions in the bedroom, but sometimes you wanted to switch things up a bit – go a little off-script.

Nibbling on the inside of your cheek, a mischievous spirit took over your body, a small act of tomfoolery that you were sure Alastor would approve of if he wasn’t your unsuspecting victim.

Pressing your hand lightly on top of his abdomen, you felt the warmth of his body seep into your palm. Immediately, his muscles tensed, but he remained perfectly still, refusing to open his eyes.

Interesting.

With a wicked grin, you smoothed the planes of his stomach, letting your fingers brush against the fine line of hair leading down to his hips. His breathing hitched ever so slightly, a telltale sign that he was not as asleep as he pretended to be. As your hand continued to move south, you were promptly stopped when the tip of Alastor’s hardened member greeted you. You giggle softly at the prominent bulge he now displayed beneath the sheets.

Slipping the sheet off him, his cock twitched, anticipating your next move. As you positioned yourself between his legs, Alastor spread them, giving you full access to him however you wished to touch him.

“Looks like only half of you is up right now, Al,” you whispered, and you knew he heard you because you could see the ends of his lips twitching upwards. Yet, Alastor, the most stubborn man you had ever met, remained unmoving.

Well, that only worked in your favour considering what you had in store for him.

Bowing your head toward Alastor’s cock, you pressed a gentle kiss on its head, earning a jolt from him. His cock beckoned to enter your mouth as it continuously throbbed against your lips. Humming softly, your tongue peeked out, licking a strip down the length of him. Down, down, down you went until you gave him an open-mouthed kiss on his balls.

A small groan escaped above you, quiet, could almost be mistaken for a shuddering breath. Your hands stroke the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, earning a small jerk of his hip upwards as his cock twitched, wanting to be sheathed into a wet, warm space.

Instead of listening to his demands, you carefully suckled on his left ball, swirling it in your mouth before moving to the other. You took your time, slowly and agonizingly lapping him up, moaning as if you were singing a song of praise from the taste of him.

The points of Alastor’s claw grazed your scalp, earning him another wanton sound from you. As you slowly parted from him, his hands flexed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and dragging your head back to the tip of his cock.

You rolled your eyes at Alastor as you let him grind his hips against your mouth, feeling every ridge and the pull of his foreskin as he rubbed the sensitive tip against your moistened lips. His breath quickened, trying to stifle another quiet moan.

What an impatient man, you thought, deciding that now was the time to exact a small, harmless, vengeance for last night.

Your lips parted, ready to take him in, feeling the heat and firmness of his desire against your tongue. The taste of him, musky and addicting, filled your senses as you enveloped him. Your mouth slid down his length while your fingers wrapped around his base. Your tongue flattened as you felt the force from Alastor’s hand pushing your head down, urging you to take him deeper and deeper.

Moving your hands, you flattened them around the front of his hips, your fingers acting as a frame around his cock. Lower and lower you went, until the tip bumped against the back of your throat.

A louder, deeper, and almost feral growl resounded from above, and Alastor pulled on your hair to get back up until you were at the tip once more. Then, he surged his hips forward, slowly fucking your mouth as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder. You felt his thighs tense, his control slipping as he surrendered to the pleasure you were giving him.

The sound of wet slurps and the symphony of your moans and his groans filled the air. Faster and faster, he thrust, the thick, heady taste of his pre-cum slid down your throat. Your fingers drifted down to the taut skin of his balls, feeling them tighten.

You knew he was close.

He was so, very, close.

“Ah, darling –” The moment he called out to you, you immediately pulled your head away from his grasp – away from his weeping, throbbing cock.

Straightening your back, your hair an absolute mess, you stared at Alastor with bemusement dancing along your wet lips. His eyes were blown wide open, and it was almost comical how he looked before you. He was panting, his hands frozen midair where he had last grabbed your hair, and you could tell he was trying to process why you had stopped him from finishing.

His black, slit-like pupils slowly drifted down from the ceiling and landed on your eyes. “Darling,” he purred, his gaze lowering to his wanting, desperate cock before meeting your eyes once more. He gave you a grin, a silent dark warning that if you didn’t finish what you had started, he would make sure that you would do well to remember that from now on tonight.

Undeterred, you wiped away the saliva with the back of your hand before giving him a cheeky grin. “Good morning, Al!” You said in an overly saccharine and exaggerated cheerful tone. His eyes looked less than impressed. Slowly, you prowled up his body, ensuring that your bare, wet, sodden centre smeared against his cock, causing him to shudder. He gripped your hips, forcing you to stay there, to sit right on his cock.

His hardness pressed insistently against your entrance, and the heat between your legs was almost unbearable. You fought the urge to rock your hips, to rub your slick folds against his shaft because you knew that you were just a breath away from losing control and letting Alastor take his fill of you.

Alastor’s eyes darkened with lust and frustration. “You’re playing a dangerous game, darling,” he chuckled tonelessly, “a game you will lose.” He bared his sharp teeth as his claws dug into your hips.

“Something the matter?” you asked, tilting your head with an innocent tone, hardly trying to feign a believable act of ignorance. “Is there something you would like, Al?” Your tone shifted lower, and his eyes flashed with equal parts amusement and irritation.

“I would presume it would be quite obvious what I would want, darling,” his voice strained, yet he tried to keep an upbeat melody in his tone.

Tamping down your laughter, you tapped your lips, mocking the pose of someone deep in thought, before snapping your fingers. Leaning forward, you gave him a chaste kiss on his left cheek. “Did you have a good sleep?” You cooed as you let out a small giggle.

“I guess you do sleep after all!” You said before fully dissolving into bright laughter. You refused to move your body; you refused to rub yourself against him like an animal in heat, no matter how much your body unconsciously squirmed in his grasp.

Alastor’s grip on your hips tightened, his patience wearing thin. “You’re a cheeky little minx, aren’t you?” he growled, eyes darkening with desire.

With a mischievous grin, you leaned closer, your breath hot against his ear. “Maybe I am,” you whispered. “But you had your way last night, so today is my turn.”

Alastor’s lips brushed against your ear as he leaned closer to you, “And pray tell, darling, what is your way?” The heat between you was electric, and you could feel him straining, desperate for friction. “Come now, darling,” he murmured, his voice drenched with need. “Don’t tease me like this.”

“Hmm, maybe,” you paused, and the points of his claws dug in deeper, telling you to get on with it, “if you asked nicely, I might consider it.”

You felt his muscles stiffen before a low rumble resounded in his chest as he held back a dark chuckle. The bruising grip around your hips disappeared. With one hand resting on your back and the other caressing your face, he gave you a small, chaste kiss on your lips.

“Good morning, darling,” his voice took on its characteristic jovial tone, as if he wasn’t hard and wanting, as if you hadn’t just denied him of his sweet release. “I did have a good sleep, thanks for asking!” He gave you another chaste kiss on your lips. “I’m ready to start our day!” He rubbed the tip of his nose against yours, his eyes squinting to make way for his wide grin. “We best get a move on, for I have quite a full day planned for you.”

Suddenly, his eyes glowed a deep crimson red as he jutted his hips upward, letting you feel the heat and the hardened, silken skin of his cock. “Quite a full day, indeed,” his voice deepened, the radio filter crackling and popping in his tone.

You bit down on your lower lip, feeling the phantom pain across your ass cheeks and the coil of heat burning hotter in your core. You had a feeling that tonight, he was going to remind you exactly who was in charge.

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ienjoywritingfilth · 6 months ago

Text

a sinner i am part ii

You should regret what you did. . . so why don't you?

trope: Boyfriend's Dad PP character: Joel Miller x f reader / Shawn Miller x f reader chapter summary: It's the day after your encounter with Joel you should both regret what you did, right?

series masterlist

you wanted more of this story so i'm gonna give it to you!!!!!!!!!! i have a whole story plotted so i hope you stick around and reblog and review and all that good shit. - IEWF

warning: 10/10 on the sexual tension scale, fantasy oral, lotsa guilt, public masturbation, male masturbation, cheating on your bf (but it’s cool, cuz its with Joel and everything is fictional in this universe), alternative universe b/c daddy miller stays alive and hates golf and he has a son named Shawn, no Sarah. rating: E

words 6.3k

part ii: fun in the sun

I am good, but not an angel. I do sin, but I am not the devil. I am just a small girl in a big world trying to find someone to love. - Marilyn Monroe

You lay in bed the next morning, eyes on the ceiling and a deep ache in your stomach. You glance to your left, looking at the sleeping form of Shawn, his thick hair falling onto his cheek as he inhales and exhales slowly. The light hits his golden skin, making him glow. His sharp nose leads into his pouty mouth, always so soft against yours.

He looks so much like Joel.

Is this what Joel looked like at this age?

You feel bile rise up in your throat as the thought skitters across your mind like a beetle. You throw yourself out of bed, rushing into the bathroom. You tug the door open on your side, making it to the sink in just enough time to vomit.

As you continue regurgitating last nights kaleidoscope of alcohol you hear the door creak and the visage of Shawn appears in the mirror, coming up behind you with a concerned look on his face.

“You okay, babe?” he asks, coming to pull your hair back from your face into a loose ponytail as you spit.

“Too much to drink at dinner I think,” you offer between gags.

“Let’s hop in the shower,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your shoulder when you’re finished brushing your teeth minutes later.

The two of you undress and you welcome the water that coats you. You imagine it washing the sins of last night from your body. Shawn washes your hair tenderly, making sure to scrub at your scalp how you like. You soap up everywhere, as well as his body. He’s hard when you get to his cock, his mouth in a sultry smile.

“We just got clean, but I think I wanna get dirty,” he grins.

“I just puked,” you say, trying not to look disgusted.

“Don’t need your mouth,” Shawn says with a playful grin as he kneels in front of you. He kisses your lower abdomen softly, his eyes trained on your face. You gaze at him there, supplicant and sweet and guilt washes over you.

“No, its okay,” you say shooting him a wobbly smile. “I’m still not feeling great.”

“Is this because of last night?” Shawn asks, concern on his features when he pulls himself to stand. “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t in the mood.”

“No, it’s not that at all, I promise.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I was just being a bitch last night, because I drank too much. Forget anything I said, I’m so glad I’m here with you.”

The water sluices over the two of you as you hug him to you, your eyes shut tightly. He hugs you back, murmuring that you’re not a bitch, that he loves you, and that you’re both going to have such a fun time. The entire time all you can focus on is how his body feels slighter, softer than his fathers.

------------------------

The two of you exit a short while later hand-in-hand. You’re wearing your denim shorts and a cute t-shirt over your new bikini. Shawn is dressed in the cut offs and blue Hawaiian shirt you bought him the week before as a pre-gift.

You hold your breath when you step around the corner into the kitchen and see Joel standing there in shorts and a similar shirt to Shawn’s but in burgundy. He’s working on making an espresso with the machine; his head rising when he sees you two enter.

“Mornin’ lovebirds,” Joel offers in a sleepy, morning voice.

That voice has your thighs clenching together as you remember his moan in your ear from last night. What the fuck is wrong with you? How could you think those things about a man twenty years older than you? Your boyfriends father?

You can’t even look at him. You just look at the refrigerator over his shoulder.

“Mornin’, let’s get some breakfast,” Shawn suggests. “I’m starvin’.”

“You two go on,” Joel says plastering a smile on his face. “I’m a little slower this mornin’. Musta drank too much last night.”

“You and this one,” Shawn says slinging an arm around your neck and tugging playfully. “Don’t know how to handle your liquor.”

You and Joel laugh uncomfortably. A buzzing sounds and Joel pulls his cell from his pocket.

“S’Tess,” Joel says reading the number. “Gimme a sec.”

Joel moves past the two of you to head outside. You feel his shoulder brush yours and you stiffen but he doesn’t seem to notice. You watch him raise it to his ear as he steps into the sunlight, a handsome smile crossing his face. You look over at Shawn.

“Tess?”

“My dad’s girlfriend,” Shawn says after he swallows a sip of his dad’s coffee.

“Oh right,” you nod. “You mentioned that.”

That’s right. If this secret gets out it’s not just your relationship that will be blown up, but Joel’s as well. You feel a little more relaxed at that, knowing that it’s not just your life on the line so to speak.

You sneak another glance at Joel as Shawn finishes off his dad’s drink. Joel’s hair is beach and curled in parts, woven with silver streaks. His neck is long, his hands large and his biceps curl lusciously as he holds the phone to his ear.

His voice is muffled through the closed door, but you can still hear snatches of it, low and deep and rumbling. You exhale shakily, trying to muffle it behind getting a glass of water. But your eyes remain on Joel as Shawn, oblivious to everything, pulls out his phone to check out something on his fantasy football WhatsApp group.

As if he can feel you looking at him through the glass window of the door, Joel’s eyes cast in your direction. You quickly spin, feeling your heart pound. You hear the squeak of the door opening and you see Shawn smile at his dad.

“How’s Tess?”

“Good,” Joel says, quickly darting a look at you before looking back at his son. “She was just lettin’ me know that her flight gets in around eight tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Shawn says. “Are we still plannin’ on bookin’ some excursions today? Wanna get to the desk before everything gets filled up.”

The three of you walk along the stone pathway that leads to the main resort. Women in large sunhats and men in ball caps with lobster red sunburns wish you a good morning. Staff in blue polo shirts embroidered with the resorts logo tell you to have a wonderful day.

The sun beats down from above, coating your shoulders in delicious, warm rays. You tilt your head back a bit, letting it touch your face. You want to enjoy your time here, despite everything that happened last night.

“Just gotta stop at the washroom,” Shawn says with a guilty look as you all walk into the air-conditioned resort lobby. “Dad’s espresso isn’t exactly sitting well.”

“You can’t handle my caffeine level, son,” Joel says with a grin. “Still just an amateur.”

Shawn rolls his eyes and moves through the crowd of chattering people to hit the washroom. You watch him leave, suddenly very aware that it’s just you and Joel standing there by the planters alone.

“S’a real gorgeous day,” Joel offers after a beat.

“Mhmmm. I can’t wait to go swimming.”

The two of you fall into an uneasy silence and you hold in the urge to cry. Joel has always been a safe, comfortable person to be around. This new withdrawn man that stands so stiffly beside you is like a stranger. You twist your fingers together anxiously, wishing Shawn would hurry the fuck up.

Joel clears his throat.

“I gotta say one thing and then we’re never talkin’ about it again.”

You feel your eyes widen at his words. You crane your neck over your shoulder to make sure you have privacy before turning back to face Joel. The man who is normally so cool and casual looks like a wind up toy on cocaine. He’s jittery and nervous looking.

“I just need to make somethin’ real clear, somethin’ that’s been botherin’ me since last night,” Joel says, licking his lips nervously. “You gotta know I never saw you like that or had feelings like that. All those times you were in my house over the years, I never thought about you like that. Ever. Not just because you’re my son’s girlfriend, but because you were so young. And that’s not my type, I mean, I don’t like younger women.”

It comes out of him in an awkward mess of tripping over his words and wincing. You can’t say that you’ve ever seen Joel with women even close to your age. The youngest maybe in her late thirties.

You never even considered that Joel could have been attracted to you until last night. He wasn’t a lecherous older man leering at you during family dinners or hugging you too long. He’d always kept a respectable distance, always made sure he looked at you with respect. When you dressed up to go out with Shawn for special dates the most he said was that you looked elegant.

Joel still looks agitated. When he takes your hand in his it’s firm, like a handshake.

“And I’m sorry I took advantage of you. I never shoulda let it get that far, even if I was a little tipsy.”

Surprised, you blink up at him. Joel thinks he took advantage of you? It’s almost laughable. You were the one who initiated everything.

“You didn’t take advantage of me, Joel,” you assure him, feeling sympathy vibrating against your bones. “I wanted to do it. It felt good to do it.”

Joel’s eyes sweep your face, concern and something else in them. You wonder if you should have not said the part about it feeling good.

“I hope we can go back to how things were before,” he says. “I like how you and Shawn are together, you’re a good couple. I don’t want a stupid mistake to fuck it all up.”

You feel a relieved smile slide over your lips. Yes, that’s exactly what you want.

“Me too.”

Joel smiles relieved at you, his eyes taking on that familiar chocolate brown warmth. Joel’s hand drops yours.

“He’s comin’ back,” Joel says quickly. “We’re never talkin’ about this again. Ever.”

“Okay,” you reply quietly, feeling chastised by his tone of voice.

Shawn comes up to you both and slips his arm around your waist, pulling you close. You smile up at him.

“Let’s go book some fun shit!”

After a breakfast in the resort dining room and a stop at the excursion desk your week of Hawaiian paradise is loosely mapped out. Guided hikes, snorkelling, Dole plantation, museums, a luau on your last night. Most days have at least one activity and you’re looking forward to most.

But you left off the turtle swimming. You felt embarrassed about it after Shawn’s reaction yesterday.

Besides, you could use the money you saved for it on other things like souvenirs for your brother and parents. They’re all together this Christmas back in your hometown, sad to miss you but excited for you to have an adventure.

‘You work so hard, you deserve a little luxury,’ your mom had said when you told her.

“Tess loves hiking,” Joel says with a roll of his eyes as the three of you head to the pool. “I’m sure she’ll have us all up at sunrise for that.”

“Not me,” you say with a laugh. “I hate hiking.”

“C’mon,” Shawn insists, “you gotta go on at least one. Promise me.”

“Ugh, fine,” you say dramatically. “But only if you promise me a great view.”

“It’s Hawaii,” Shawn shoots back. “You can’t throw a rock around here without hitting a great view.”

Joel stops at the little hut next to the pool, telling the two of you to grab towels from the staff. When you and Shawn return Joel is smiling behind his sunglasses, telling you both to follow him. You’re excited, skipping behind Shawn with a huge smile on your face. Things can get back to normal now! You’ve talked with Joel, you’ve smoothed over the issue and you can pretend like it never happened.

You follow the man in the blue polo to a nearby private area, one with teak wooden areas sat side by side along a shallow pool of water. Gauzy curtains hang blocking out the wind and several lounge chairs with plush white cushions. On the low table is a bowl of fresh fruit and several bottles of water in glass tumblers. A hammock is tied to one side, colourful pillows inside.

“Here you are, sir,” the man in blue polo says to Joel, motioning to the large wooden cabana on the end, the one with the best view of the ocean in front. “We will be back to take your lunch order soon.”

Joel thanks the man, slipping a fifty into his hand before he looks over at you and Shawn.

“Thought our first day should be one to remember.”

You squeal before throwing your tote bag onto the hammock. You toss your towel in along with it before your hands go to the hem of your swimsuit cover up, a cute little crochet piece that you happily throw onto the towel.

You glance behind you to thank Joel when your mouth runs dry. He’s got his book and phone on the lounger, but he’s shrugging off his Hawaiian shirt, hanging it on one of the hooks. He wears only his navy swim trunks and without a shirt on he’s fucking delectable. Gold all over, broad shoulders and a back that ripples with power as he pulls the lounger out of the sun. His body is firm, but his belly has just enough softness to suggest comfort. There’s no way he’s gonna be fifty in a few years, how can that be?

He slides onto the lounger as Shawn takes off his own t-shirt, slipping it onto the same hook. You have to admire Shawn’s body, trimmer, leaner, and sexy as fuck. Shawn works hard on his muscles, but he’s not broad in the shoulder or chest like Joel. He’s the kind you find in the gym, with strong arms and calves to die for. You look at your boyfriend’s biceps that bulge when he grabs a water and take a sip and you muse like father, like son. They’re both so fucking sexy for vastly different reasons.

Stop. Stop thinking that Joel is sexy.

The ocean is calling your name and you must answer. You dig in your back for your sunscreen as Joel and Shawn settle themselves into the two loungers side by side, talking lowly about something back home with the business.

You squirt suntan lotion into your hands, rubbing together and then sliding your slick hands down your arms and shoulders. You hate burning, and you want to avoid skin cancer, so you’re diligent in putting lotion on. You get every inch of your front and your legs, turning to ask Shawn to do your front.

You catch sight of Joel from the corner of your eyes, finding that his head is tilted slightly in your direction, despite scrolling on his phone. It’s impossible to see where Joel is looking due to his mirrored sunglasses, but there’s this strange part of you that’s certain he’s watching you lotion up. You can’t be positive of course; perhaps it’s just your own paranoia. . . or desire.

Why does the thought of him watching you turn you on so much?

You don’t know what on earth is guiding your actions next. You squeeze the lotion into your hands, rubbing them together before coming to your throat, sliding your coated hands down. You move sensually over the exposed mounds of your breasts, exhaling softly as they dip below the hemline and under the straps. Your nipples are hard, both at the sensation of your fingers grazing them over top the fabric, and the thought that Joel might be watching. You finish with your heart pounding in your ears as you imagine Joel watching you caress your chest.

Stop it. This is not you. This is your boyfriend’s dad. You’re fucking disgusting.

You walk over in front of Shawn, blocking the sun from his face.

“Will you get my back?” you ask Shawn, your eyes back on the ocean in front of you. “I’m dying to swim.”

Shawn takes the lotion from you, parting his legs so you can sit between them on his lounger. You move your hair over your shoulder, letting him squeeze the lotion onto your back. You shudder a bit, its cold on your sun-warmed skin.

It makes you wriggle in your seat, making Shawn pinch you lightly on the side, murmuring “stop squirmin’.”

Joel’s head tilts in your direction and you feel your stomach clench pleasurably. Is he watching you? You arch your back slightly, sighing as Shawn gets your shoulders.

You have to give your head a shake at your sick thoughts. Why would Joel be watching you? He already apologized for everything; he wants things to go back to normal. And you want them back to normal! You don’t want to live with this guilt.

Shawn kisses your shoulder and announces he’s done, snapping the lotion bottle closed as you jump up. When he doesn’t make any move to join you, you stop, looking down at his supine pose and frowning.

“Aren’t you gonna come?”

“You know I don’t like swimming,” Shawn says with a smile.

“Back home in the pools,” you pout, pulling your sunglasses on and straightening. “But this is Hawaii.”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna sit here and read my book while I enjoy watchin’ you swim.”

You roll your eyes and press a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re no fun.”

“Dad, you like swimmin’,” Shawn says, patting your bottom playfully. “Will you go with her?”

You clock Joel tensing up as he unbuttons his Hawaiian shirt. He darts his gaze from his son over to you and you try to keep your voice from wobbling.

“No, its fine,” you say quickly. “I’m probably gonna be quick anyway.”

You turn and quickly make your way down the sand, grateful at how isolated this section of the beach is, thankful that you don’t have to stay there with Joel looking at you.

Joel watches you saunter down the sand, trying not to focus on how your ass jiggles deliciously in your swimsuit. He’s thankful he doesn’t have to swim with you right now because he’s not sure he could keep from getting hard.

He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him. You’re off limits, you’re his son’s girlfriend and you’re so much younger than him. He doesn’t know why something in his brain suddenly transformed you from his son’s girlfriend into a sexy woman with curves in all the right places. He’s never looked at you like that, never seen you as anything but an extension of his son. But now? Now it’s like you’re a stranger to him, a stranger he desperately craves to touch again.

Watching you lotion yourself up was like his own personal hell, trying to convince himself not to watch you while trying his best not to brick up. He exhales softly, watching as you dance along the edge of the water, dipping a toe in to test the temperature.

"Dad how did you know you wanted to marry mom?"

Joel looks to his son in surprise, seeing the reflected insecurity in the question. The topic of Shawn’s mother is one that is often avoided, or brushed under the rug. Joel doesn’t like to ruminate on the past, he doesn’t like living in that time when money was tight and his son was going to the first grade without a mother. He doesn’t like remembering the long nights trying to build up his business while he made cupcakes for school bake sales.

But perhaps he should thank her. Without her absence maybe he wouldn’t have striven so hard for success. Without her absence perhaps he would have grown complacent being a foreman instead of running his now incredibly successful company.

"Couldn't imagine a life without her," Joel finally answers honestly. "Didn't want to do anything without her by my side."

He takes a large gulp of the drink, thankful for its cool and refreshing taste as the sun warms the sand. He doesn't like to think of his ex wife very often. Maria was a kind woman in many ways, a fun wife but a terrible mother.

Shawn looks nervously at you in the water, his lips thinning. You’re prancing in it now, it’s up to your waist and you’re splashing it in front of you, maybe trying to scare off an insect. Joel watches as you spin, holding your breath and finally diving in.

You emerge seconds later, your hair slicked back and your body glistening with water. It sluices down your body in rivulets as you stride back to shore, your body shining, your swimsuit clinging to you and from here Joel can see your nipples hardened.

Fuck.

"And how did you know things were over for you and mom?"

Joel forces his attention from you over to where his son is looking anxiously at his hands.

"I didn't really. I was still in love with her until she took off. But she just wasn't cut out for bein' a mom. She never really took to it."

Shawn hates hearing that, hates knowing that his mom never really took to him. He nods, looking a little broken. Joel feels the familiar guilt of not being enough washing over him, like the waves on the ocean.

"It was never about you, son," Joel assures him. "Your mom just had a lot of demons."

He sees the way Shawn is looking at you, a curious mixture of love and something else. You’re coming closer, a smile on your face as you wave at Shawn. He returns it with a smile and wave of his own.

"Why?" Joel asks. "You thinkin' of ending things-"

"It's nothing," Shawn says shaking his head. "Never mind."

You enter into the cabana, washing your sandy feet in the shallow pool of water outside the cabana.

“It’s so nice and refreshing,” you tell them both, drying yourself with the towel before hauling yourself into the hammock. “You’re missing out, Shawn.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

You’re a little wobbly at it but finally you right yourself and sink into the comfortable canvas. It’s not long before you look drowsy, a yawn escaping you. The three of you fall into a comfortable silence, reading books, swaying in hammocks, listening to the waves of the ocean.

“I’m gonna get a beer,” Shawn announces when the sun is directly overhead. He glances over at you while standing up and pulling his t-shirt on. “You want anything babe?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Dad?”

“Bud if they have it,” Joel replies, leaning back and putting his book over his face to block some of the sun.

“Be right back.”

Joel listens to his son leaving the cabana, his sandals slapping as he makes his way back to the resort. Joel could have called over one of the staff, but he has a feeling Shawn needs moment to think. He’s always been like that since he was a kid, a chronic over-thinker.

There are some in the nearby cabanas, Joel can’t see them but he can hear them. Some chuckle throatily, others snore. He glances over at you, seeing the way the sun glistens off your skin. You must be parched.

“You want some water?”

Joel realizes that you yourself have joined the land of the sleeping when you don’t answer him. And despite everything he said to you this morning about making things go back to normal, he can’t stop himself from taking in your body.

Your breasts are practically spilling out of your suit, at least a size too small for you. As you breathe they rise and fall invitingly. He would only need to push it down an inch to have your sweet pink buds there, waiting for his tongue and teeth.

That’s your son’s girlfriend.

Joel exhales before tilting back in his lounge chair.

Shawn's a good kid, a damn fine son. They've been through a lot together, a seamless bond, a friendship as well as being father and son. Joel knows so many other parents who can't wait for their kids to leave the house, who roll their eyes when their kids hang around.

Not Joel, he loved when his son came home from college all wet behind the ears and excited about his classes. Joel loved having a mini-me that was just as passionate about the same things.

He loves him so much that sometimes it cleaves his heart, making it ache and always has. He remembers the pain of taking Shawn for his inoculations, of kissing his first scraped knee, of holding him when a girl turned him down to the high school dance.

Shawn had always been more sensitive than Joel, more even-tempered. Joel admired that in his son, hell sometimes he was even a little jealous. But to know that his own flesh and blood wouldn't stand up for his partner puts a bad taste in his mouth.

Joel remembers when Shawn was born several weeks premature, he remembers his wife asleep in the hospital bed as beeps and hushed voices sounded. He remembers going to see his tiny son hooked up to wires, fighting to live. Joel remembers so vividly begging on his hands and knees to the entity above to spare his child, that he would give him the best life possible.

And now that same father who would have sacrificed anything for his son sits with his thick cock aching as he watches that son's pretty girlfriend gently sway in the breeze.

It's bad enough he's looking, bad enough that you're with Shawn. But Joel is with Tess, the sexiest subcontractor he's ever met. A woman who takes his cock with gusto just as easily as she berates insolent employees. She's tough, she's beautiful, and she’s his.

And yet he frittered that all away on a stolen kiss with you.

Why?

You make a soft sighing sound in your sleep and Joel feels his cock twitch. You twist in the hammock, nestling more on your side. Your breasts press heavily together and Joel swallows a moan when he sees the sweet blush of your nipples poking out at the top.

Joel feels like the most lecherous person on the planet as he sits next to you in the cabana, watching you nap in the hammock from behind his glasses.

He should throw a towel over you. You talked about this. If was a mistake. A onetime drunken mistake. But it's like it unlocked something in Joel, something feral and dark. Something that demands to be fed and it only costumes lust.

He watches as you continue to sleep on, your curves touched by the sun sending skittering sunbeams along your gorgeous body.

The desire in him is overwhelming.

Joel glances behind him, noting that it's still fairly secluded. No one around to see him

I could be fast.

His hand slides down his stomach, over his swim trunks, coming to graze the aching cock as he watches those sweet little buds poking through your bathing suit. You're fast asleep and you have him rock hard.

Joel keeps his eyes on you as he squeezes the head of his cock through his trunks, groaning a bit to himself as he recalls the kiss last night. Fuck you'd felt good in his arms, all supple and sweet. You'd wanted him bad, your pussy practically a magnet for his cock.

Would you have let him touch all of you? If that splash hadn't startled you both would you have let him finger you, your head thrown back and your body jolting against his palm? Or maybe you'd even have let him fuck you against the nearby palm tree? Your arms around his neck as he fucked into your sweet velvet clench, holding you possessively and telling you exactly how to come for him.

He's stroking himself through his trunks in earnest now, his breathing coming out in short little gasps between his plush parted lips. He imagines you on the shore, crawling to him in your swimsuit, your breasts swinging heavily as you grin up at him.

That's right, pretty girl. I'd make you cum right on this cock. Make you beg me on your hands and knees to fuck you harder.

Joel's hand moves faster, jerking himself through the fabric as you sleep unaware that you're the star in his debauched daydream. The sound of the waves and rustling of his trunks are all that can be heard.

Fill you full of my cum, makin’ you into my own little fuck toy. Yeah you'd like that, goin’ all whiny because I won't let you cum when you want. Have you slobber around my cock like a filthy little slut.

Joel's getting carried away now. His hand slides under his swim trunks, swallowing a groan when his wide grip finds his hardened length, weeping at the tip. Before he can stop and think rationally he's begun jacking himself off underneath his shorts.

He's all red faced, breathing through clenched teeth. He wants you to wake up and see what he's doing but at the same time he doesn't. Fuck he's losing his mind. He feels out of control, like he can't help himself. He's not this guy. He's not this guy but you're so fucking sexy and you kissed him and he could make you feel so good, he knows he could.

Bounce that sweet body in my lap, c'mon babygirl, make daddy cum. Make him-

Nearby whistling causes Joel's blood to run cold. It’s followed by the telltale sound of sandals slapping the sand. It's Shawn on his way back from the bar.

The fuck is wrong with me? Joel thinks to himself, tugging his hand out of his swim shorts. I'm fuckin' sick.

He wills his cock to soften, terrified that Shawn will see. In a panic he grabs the nearby towel, throwing it over his crotch and placing his book over top. Shawn rounds on the cabana, passing his father the cool bottle.

"They didn't have bud. Hope Corona will do."

"Yeah, that's great, thanks."

Shawn collapses into the chair beside his father. If he thinks the towel over Joel's lower half is odd, he doesn't remark on it.

"She's passed right out," Shawn says casting a loving gaze your way as you away in the breeze. "She could sleep anywhere."

"Yeah?"

Shawn nods. "She fell asleep on the subway when we went to New York."

Joel grins at that, imagining you there, eyes shut as tourists walk by you on the bustling train.

He's known you for years and he has seen you fall asleep in some comical places. His favourite was last summer when the three of you went to a symphony because Joel was gifted tickets from a client at work.

You'd been excited, wearing a beautiful dress and knotting your hair. Joel had thought you looked so elegant, feeling strangely proud of the woman his son was with. You were intelligent and funny and warm and beautiful. You reflected well on Shawn and subsequently Joel.

You were sat between the Miller men, your eyes luminous as the concert began. But before intermission had arrived Joel felt your cheek against his shoulder. He glanced down to see your eyes shut and your body slack with sleep.

That was back when things were simple. When he just thought you were a sweet little thing that made his son happy.

Desperate to change his clouded imagination, Joel turns to his son.

“You still enjoyin’ school?” Joel asks, tipping the beer into his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Shawn nods, taking a long pull from his own bottle. “I just kinda wish I coulda done the Computer Science program instead.”

“I figured with you takin’ over the company one day, you’d wanna focus more on the business end of things,” Joel muses, his eyes still taking in your sleeping form from behind his mirrored glasses. “I guess I didn’t see how a degree in computers was gonna help.”

Shawn looks uncomfortable, “It’s a Masters of Science in Computer Science, dad.”

“Okay, still.”

“I don’t see why I need to take it over anyway,” Shawn mumbles. “You got Uncle Tommy and his son.”

“Your uncle Tommy didn’t build the company from the ground up,” Joel says darkly.

Shawn hates talking about the future of the Miller Company. Hates the thought that he’ll have to carry on the legacy that his father built from the ground up. Hates that his own interests and passions have to be pushed to the side. Hates that yet another part of his life needs to be shut down.

“Dad, it’s my vacation,” Shawn says sighing. “Can we not talk about this stuff now?”

Joel frowns before nodding, looking back to the ocean. He’s irritable and tired and he’s so pent up he could scream. He takes one last look at you before announcing to Shawn that he’s going to swim. Shawn nods, looking at his phone.

Joel moves quickly into the water, thankful that not a lot of people are around. The sun is beating down and he swims quickly, his long arms slicing through the waves until he’s a good distance away. From where you and Shawn rest in the cabana you only see Joel’s head.

He looks out into the endless blue, his mind a jumble. His cock is hard again, just remembering how you looked coming out of the water. He glances around casually, still ensuring the scattering of couples are nowhere near him and then he pulls out his cock underwater, stroking it quickly.

His eyes shut as he bobs in the water, trying to keep his motions subtle. But despite the lag of the water he has it at a good pace, the pleasure easily building in his body.

He imagines you both in the cabana alone, the two of you naked. His hand sliding up your ankles, your calves before tracing along your soaked slit. In this fantasy your eyes flutter open and you smile sweetly as his hands slide up and begin to grope your breasts.

‘Feels good’, you tell him. ‘Feels so good. Don’t stop.’

He sees your cunt getting wetter, your head falling back. You’re arching for him, desperate before you’re suddenly falling to your knees in front of him, noticing his hard cock. You lick the tip, moaning as you gaze up at him with a fucked-out expression.

‘Please daddy? I want your cock.’

Joel taps the head of his cock onto your waiting tongue, satisfied that you sit there waiting.

‘Yeah, babygirl. Make daddy cum.’

Your fantasy self urges his cock into your mouth, eyes on him as he fucks into your mouth. His balls tighten and he floods your mouth while you moan around his girth.

“Fuck, fuck,” Joel hisses as he erupts under the water, sending ropes of watery cum shooting into the waves, quickly evaporating as he swims in the other direction. Disgust fills him immediately as he realizes what he’s done and who he thought about.

He races to the cabana, pulling his shirt from the hook and grabbing his book from his lounger. You’re awake, talking to Shawn. You both look over at Joel in confusion at his rapid movements.

“You okay, old man?”

“Headache,” Joel replies to his son. “See ya back at the room.”

Tomorrow Tess will be here, he tells himself as he walks back to the unit. Tomorrow things will be better.

It’s just that he has no distraction, no outlet for these weird feelings. He hasn’t been laid in over a week, that’s all. And you’re just there in front of him. It could be anyone.

He’s hard again by the time he gets back to his bedroom.

He rushes into the bathroom, turning on the shower. He’s about to get in when he spots the door to your bedroom cracked open. He can’t stop himself from moving in, eyes darting around the space. Your suitcases sit side by side by the closet. Your dress for dinner tonight is hung on the back of the chair before the mirror. Shawn’s baseball cap, forgotten this morning, rests on the ledge of the window.

Joel continues this strange voyeuristic adventure, seeing that you don’t make your bed in the morning like he does. Your vitamins sit in a plastic pack beside your phone charger on the bedside table. Your makeup is on the table by the mirror, along with your perfume. Joel pops open the cap, inhaling the sweet aroma of violet and black coconut. Its how you smelled last night, your sticky body pressed to his, your lips so soft and desperate for him.

His cock twitches at the memory.

Don’t fuckin’ do it, man. This is crossin’ so many lines.

He can’t stop himself. He sprays it onto his wrist before placing the bottle back on the vanity. His cock is throbbing now and he throws himself into the shower, tugging his cock furiously as he holds his wrist to his nose.

It’s like you’re there in the shower with him, begging him to fuck you. He inhales the sweet floral scent as his hand jerks quickly, causing the pleasure in his spine to run the length of his body. His cum hits the tiles seconds later, your name echoed in the space.

He feels absolutely disgusting when the last vestige of his arousal slips from him, along with his cum down the drain.

When he hears Shawn and you come through the doors a short while later he tells his son through the door that he’s not feeling great, that he thinks its sunstroke and gonna stay in his room for the night.

Tomorrow when Tess is here things will be better. Things will go back to normal.

They have to.

#pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #joel x reader #au joel miller #joel miller #joel miller x original character #joel the last of us #joel miller x reader #tlou joel #i want him so bad #i need him #joel miller is a daddy #joel miller x you #summer

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bearwithegg · 6 months ago

Text

Fight Like a Girl || B. Blackwood ||

I can change it to Davos once we get further confirmation. Ig?? Lmaooo lord help me. I cbf putting this on my main writing account because of how inconsistent I am with writing kjhdfhg

Mulan Inspired scenario. Original House, i just made that shit up bro lesgoooo. I hope my mass effect enjoyers like this <3

Kieran Burton!Benjicot x f!reader.

Warnings: None? Swearing?

Word Count: 2.8k

PART 2

For @spider-stark ( they write the best damn benjicot oneshots go READ RN)

***

“Keep your voice down, Garrus.” You hiss, eyes darting around the makeshift battlements, rows upon rows of tents more dense than the woods surrounding the legion of men, banners separating them only in name. War was here. Yet men were merry, roaring with laughter, cheering and jeering each other on when sparring amongst themselves. You were well in over your head for this.

“Apologies my lad— lord,” Garrus, a tall, gangly gentleman who not only represented your noble house but also remained your closest confidant and sworn protector. From the moment you were plucked out of your mothers womb, he had encompassed your upbringing with a chassis of care and love like a father would a son or a mother would her babes. Though he might’ve been neither, he was the only person you could call home.

Stylguard. Might’ve been home once, when you and your brother ran a muck in the courtyards instead of tending to important studies with the Maester. When the summers meant that hours were wasted making chains of flowers and clovers. Only ghosts remain, painful visages of a different lifetime, warning those who dare contest the cruel threads of fate the war beget.

The false King must die.

You swore this oath, quietly in whispers of red hot anger, no witnesses to hear it except for the phantoms plaguing your mind and the gods of old. A lady alone could not put an end to a war — men however, could.

“There,” Garrus raises an arm, forefinger steady on a muddied pit in the distance. The epicenter of clashing swords and men shouting. “I might suggest watching them first, Little Clover.”

Little Clover. You were neither little nor the girl who picked clovers in the farmlands anymore. A mere remnant of the past, a pet name that forces unwanted memories of before the Dragons had begun their pointless infighting. Hurtful as it may be, it was the best way to keep unnoticed amongst the thousands of men without arousing suspicion of your true identity.

Some of the men barely meet such a description, boys no older than ten and one pick up swords and join in a brutal pastime against men thrice their size. These were no noblemen, not boys who wielded swords long before their voice stopped squeaking, no. These were commonfolk, some under sworn protection from minor houses, but most of these boys and men were farmers. Steele farmers. Blackwood farmers. Tully farmers. Fray farmers. All united for one cause — and not a single one of them were proficient enough with a sword.

“None of these men are fit for war,” you whisper, turning to Garrus, a sullen swept look on his face mirroring your own. It was hypocritical to comment, considering you could count on one hand how many times you had picked up a sword. Though it was not a slight on their ability to go to war, it was the tragic reality that loomed over the realm.

“They fight for what they believe in…” Garrus answers softly, a hand firmly wrapped around the pommel of his sword, as it had always been since the murmurings of war rippled through the Seven Kingdoms. His eyes look ahead at boys throwing their swords away and opting for fists, pools of blue express his kind and somber nature, reflecting his true age, yet the crows feet around them betray such a thing.

War is cruel to those who bear witness.

The dogpile is quickly dispersed, a lithe and commanding presence tears the boys off one another and reprimands them. “Benjicot Blackwood.” Garrus murmurs, eyes casting a weary look down at you, “you’d do well to learn from him. He’s spilt more blood in this war than the dragons.” A jest, you think, but hearing of the Blackwoods fearsome reputation it could quite possibly yield truth.

Benjicot is shouting orders, or perhaps insults, you couldn’t tell —he had mud pressed hard into his tunic no doubt from rigorous sparring in the sludge pit, a stark contrast to the green fields of untouched grasslands the contingent temporarily inhabited. His feet sunk into the ground with each step, the man made bog had been many of the boys’ downfall during sparring and a cause of frustration by the looks they all shared across their faces.

“You there, boy.” He points at you — sword tip singling you out and all.

Eyes wide and body rigid, you felt as though you’d forgotten how to speak or move. Had it not been for Garrus gripping the scruff of your ill-fitted tunic and shoving you forward, you might’ve found yourself at the ire of the boy before you.

Not boy. Man.

Barely so, not even the young were spared from the cruel and aging touch of war.

He regards you carefully, a stormy gaze looking at you from head to toe. Eyes stopping at the sigil adorned on your chest. Even bespeckled with sweat and mud you couldn’t help but think how handsome he looked, though it was far from an appropriate thought. It helped ease the nervousness that rippled through your being as you stood in the centre of a circlet of men.

”Lord Steele found himself sober enough to finally choose a side did he?” Benjicot’s words were severe, a low growl not too dissimilar to that of the black cats and Direwolves of the nearby forests. There was a primal, animalistic quality in his movements, sizing you up like a predator would when deciding if something was prey or not.

You resist the urge to look at Garrus, he could not help you, not now. Instead, with a chin held up you shake your head, nudging it back toward your confidant, “we came alone, Lord Blackwood.”

His eyes flicker behind you and tilts his head to the side, “hm. Idiotic yet admirable of you two. Going against the word of the House that protects you.” There was a glint of something in his eyes, wild, untamed and real compared to many of the other pairs of eyes you had come across in the camp. He swipes the sweat from his upper lip and nods over to the handmade rack of swords, “show us what House Steele defects are made of then.”

This was about to be nothing short of a complete humiliation, you were certain. Yet, with a steady breath and the ignition of hatred bubbling in the back of your mind to remind you of why this path was the one you chose — you pick a short sword, albeit the smallest of the array of the newly smithed weapons.

Despite its small size it was still made from heavy ores, your wrist willing itself to relent to the weight, wanting to bend and twist. Men and boys begin to laugh, your eyes look around and it was a horrifying reflection of your own uselessness, like a childish nightmare coming to fruition. It pissed you off.

The moment you came into this life born without a prick between your legs you had always been seen as inferior, a prize to be sold to the highest bidder. The lament of a woman born in Westeros. Now, you stand on the edge of a cliff looking over an abyss brought on by the war. By two dragons ill-fitted for the power they wield because at the end of all this, the only people who suffer are the people.

You resent being born into a hateful world and you resent that loss is what has driven you to action. Just like you resent being laughed at by a crowd of men who knew next to nothing about the sacrifices you’ve made.

Benjicot Blackwood, does not laugh. He does not jeer nor does he show faint amusement at your inability to hold a mere short sword. He has since stepped aside, beckoning a boy forward who is similar in your stature but definitely not in age — he could barely be ten and four.

He was snickering, and that added more oil on top of the fire that burned your hatred and loathing — you feel yourself recede into that raw emotion. While you may be absolutely abhorrent with any real fighting skills, you had an unbridled rage to let out in recompense for all the wrong done unto you in this world.

And so you charge at him, using momentum to help raise the sword over your head because by gods alone, your strength was practically non-existent. A ferocious yowl barrels from your throat when swords clashed, the sudden stop was disorienting and caused you to stumble back slightly. He swings his sword and you double back again, the mud encasing around your boots willing you to trip, to fall.

You try to swing back but don’t have enough momentum and you feel your wrist bend under the weight of the sword and have to over-correct, stepping to the side so as to not drop the sword. Laughter rumbles through the men once again, some beginning to cheer on the boy in front of you.

Heaving forward again, you go to swing but in a split second you let go of the sword, letting it careen through the air and hitting the boy on the chest. Was it smart to willfully disarm oneself? Perhaps not, but he certainly wasn’t expecting it so you pounce. An all too familiar scene that would have otherwise delighted you if it weren’t on the grounds of war; a hand curls into his muddied blonde locks while the other goes to claw at his face.

Many fights had broken out like this between you and other girls growing up, it seemed only natural to revert back to the ways you knew how to fight. Even if it wasn’t exactly appropriate.

The two of you tumble into the mud together but the element of surprise has long surpassed and he uses simple strength, punching you hard in the gut and knocking you off him. Unsure what to expect next, you lay in the mud, chest heaving hard and conceded defeat — truthfully you had conceded defeat the second you were called out to show off your ‘skill’.

Overcast and dreary weather as it may be, the sun's light still glared through such heavy obscurity, your eyes squinted while trying to figure out if it was easier to sink into the bog beneath you or get up and swallow down what little pride remained. Eclipsing the sun in more ways than one, Benjicot stands over you, expression hardened yet there was an amused glint deep within his dark eyes.

“You fight like a girl,” he outstretched his hand, part of you contemplating hitting it away but he was the only one - aside from Garrus - to not laugh at your ineptitude. A soft groan passes your lips and you begrudgingly take the gesture of kindness, it was more than anyone had given you anyway.

“I am no knight,” you grumble back, once upright, rolling your shoulders back and rubbing the wrist that began to ache from holding a sword. The crowd of men had begun dispersing, you wonder if in your post fight daze if Benjicot had shooed them away.

”Aye, any idiot with two eyes can see that,” he jests, picking up the sword from the mud, “any daft cunt can pick up a sword and swing it around — but you’ve something else… I see it in your eyes, boy.”

At first you think he’s undermining you, but after a moment, it was clear he was paying you a compliment.

He returns the sword amongst the rest, a hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed dagger. Something about his stature, the way he commanded the space he inhabited was so interesting. He was unlike any other Lord you met before, perhaps it could be that he was a warrior first, then Lord second. A sentiment only emboldened since the war began.

“It may be pertinent that we train at night Little Clover, you have much to learn,” Garrus whispers, coming up behind you and putting a hand on your shoulder proudly. He may have watched you get bested without question, and sure, behind the confines of the tent you two shared later he would no doubt say how proud he was, there was not a single thing you could do that he wouldn’t support.

He should have trained you up sooner — be it if the departure from Stylguard wasn’t swift and last moment.

Benjicot approaches the two of you, watching as you whisper conspiratorially. He was as intimidating when he was quiet as he was when wielding a sword. A perceptive gaze looking between Garrus, clad in armour of your house and you, unevenly cut hair and dressed in little more than a squires tunic. He gives a weary look around, many of the men had long left the sludge pit.

”I must thank you, for joining the efforts even if they go against Lord Steele’s,” He says formally.

“No matter, my Lord.” Garrus smiles, a thin and forced one out of mere politeness, “Lord Steele grows weary the longer the war persists, a conflict averse man such as himself cannot continue to lock himself away in the wine cellars while war is brought to his doorstep.”

There was a pause, a silent mediator among the three of you, as much as it would pain you to admit; Garrus holds truth in his words. You love your father you really did but he stopped being a present figure the moment the raven arrived with word of your brother's death.

“Aye, The Greens have done irreparable damage to his family yet he cowers in his fortress.” Benjicot says quietly, mulling over his thoughts. His tongue pokes the inside of the cheek, protruding it out before moistening his lips with a twitch of a smile, barely perceptible, “is that why his daughter fled? To find retribution for the unlawful death of her brother?”

You tense up, swallowing hard and don’t dare look to Garrus lest suspicion is raised. The lump in your throat is hard and stubborn, even as you clear it, part of it remains to jeopardize the weight of your words. “That is.. what many believe to have happened… A few of us stable boys overheard she had plans to flee to Essos.”

Benjicot hums, nodding in response and looks around at the tents, the men, all the heart and blood of war. You follow his gaze carefully, how deeply entrenched in the throes of war the realm had become. In the middle of a field at the edge of the Riverlands of all places.

“This doesn’t look like Essos to me, my Lady.”

Before you had a chance to stumble back, Garrus had put an arm in front of you, an instinct to protect, to guard. Though falters when he hears the young Blackwood laugh.

”Do not think yourself in danger. It is admirable, truly. To go against your fathers wishes, but you cannot simply cut your hair and wear the clothes of a boy and call yourself a warrior.” He chuckled, a deep and soothing sound that made your cheeks burn, though that was partly due to being caught. He was impressed in truth, unable to find what the wild spark in your eyes was initially, though it made sense the moment he saw your delicate unmarred hands. Nails well kept and not a single grain of dirt underneath them.

“I wish to learn, I want to fight.” You step forward, voice pleading because if you didn’t have this then what remained? A hallowed home with vestiges of pain luring anyone stupid enough to hear their call? An empty father, nothing but a shell of what once was a person who mirrored life and happiness? It was fight or die and even death wasn’t as cruel of a fate as returning to nothing, to be nothing.

“And you fight like a girl,” he smiles, not to insult or belittle you, nothing more nefarious than a simple observation. He inches forward, shifting his weight. It shouldn’t have made you as nervous as it did, but he was close enough to crowd your senses with his natural musk. “Many men believe women to be bad luck in times of war, these men are no different.”

Those men were stupid, you think.

“And what say you, Lord Blackwood?” You swallow.

“I say that not many of them have had the pleasure of meeting my Aunt.” He whispered, eyes swirling similarly to the darkened storm stricken skies above. “Women aren’t welcome by some around here, do well to keep discreet. And if you cannot manage that, then be ruthless.”

On his retreat, you feel yourself turn to look at Garrus, who looked caught between a look of utter bemusement yet partially pleased all things considered. He looks down at you and clears his throat, “let us retire for the afternoon, my lad— Little Clover. Trust that the Lordling does not speak to many about your arrival.”

Your eyes remain in the direction Benjicot disappeared in, sighing heavily. Perhaps in a different lifetime he would have been a delightful consort, though for now it is barely a thought, passing through your idle mind as you slowly turn to rest for the day.

#house of the dragon #hotd #benjicot blackwood #benjicot x reader #bloody ben blackwood #hotd one shot #house of the dragon one shot #ben blackwood #bloody ben x reader #benjicot blackwood x reader #fanfic

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aestas---estas · 24 days ago

Text

Working hands

It's early Saturday morning and you get woken up by a strong fist incessantly knocking on your front door. It's pointed and regular, military in its consistency. While Price knows where you live — it's on your paperwork after all — and you have no doubt in your mind that both Johnny and Kyle could've easily found out, you know in your bones that it's Simon.

“Coming!” You call out, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you quickly find a pair of sweatpants to throw on; it would probably be in bad form to open the door in only a washed-out shirt and underwear. You stop in front of the bathroom mirror to quickly fix your bed hair as much as possible, splashing some cold water on your face in an attempt to look more awake than you feel. Simon’s still knocking intermittently and you can practically hear the irritation he’s starting to feel through the door — the man does not like to be ignored or left to wait.

“Good morning,” you say as you finally fling your door open, annoyance at having been so rudely interrupted clear in your voice despite the amicable words. He’s standing with his fist raised, ready to knock once more, a tool kit gripped in his other hand and you eye it curiously. “What-?”

You don’t really know how to end the sentence — what is he doing here? What’s with the tool kit? What makes him think he can wake you at 7:30 in the morning on your day off? — but you’re cut off before you manage to get another word past your lips, as he’s already made his way into your flat and toward the bathroom.

In confusion you close the front door and follow behind, your bare feet padding against the cool wooden floor, making you wish — not for the first time — that your landlord allowed heated floors. Simon’s courteous enough to have already toed off his boots by your shoe rack, so at least you don’t have to clean up dirt and grime, but the barging his way inside your space only worked to further annoy and confuse you.

“Simon, it’s not even 8,” you say as you lean against the doorframe of your bathroom, watching as he gets down on his knees in front of the broken washing machine you still hadn’t had a chance to look at. The annoyance seeps out of you as you remember the conversation you had that Monday; about how you wanted to return his jacket washed, but hadn’t been able to do your laundry. It’s a thoughtful gesture, one you can’t help but smile in appreciation at.

“I’m an early riser,” is all Simon says in return, not even glancing your way. He’s already busy with turning the machine on and off, looking at all the hoses and pipes, to try and discern what the issue might be.

For a moment, you just stay there, watching him quietly. He’s not wearing the skull mask or printed balaclava that had become synonymous with his alias, but rather a more simple black surgical mask. You don’t really know what you expected Simon to look like; you knew he was blonde, something Johnny had once shared with you to tease his Lieutenant, yet the sight of the surprisingly well groomed tresses on his head make something inside of you stir. His hair is just long enough for you to be able to card your fingers through it, and his left eyebrow is cleaved in half from a faded scar. You can’t see his jaw or chin properly, and the only time you remember him ever lifting his mask in your presence was to drink his beer in the pub all those weeks ago before he walked you home. You’d been drunk back then, hadn’t had the sense of mind to memorise his visage, and you mentally kick yourself about it now.

“It’s the water,” you supply, wanting to be helpful and hopefully distract yourself from thoughts of how it would feel to pet his hair and trace his scars, and Simon turns his head to glance at you. “It doesn’t drain properly, overflows about half the time too.”

Simon nods before turning back to the washing machine, pulling it away from the wall with little effort. “Sounds like the hose, or maybe the drainpipe. Could also be the lint trap. If there is one.” He’s mumbling more to himself than to you at this point, craning his neck to look at the backside of the machine all while nodding or shaking his head, making mental notes of possible solutions.

“Might be a while, love. Why don’t you go make us some tea?” It’s the out you didn’t know you wanted, but the second the suggestion leaves Simon’s lips you pounce on it, leaving the bathroom for the kitchen with no words or fuss.

You make two cups of some berry blend one of your friends got you as a birthday present — the mugs are white, bland, a little too boring for your liking, but they get the job done. And besides, you have more important things to spend your money on than crockery.

When you return to the bathroom, two steaming mugs in hand, you can’t help but stare at Simon for a moment before making yourself known. While the hoodie he’s wearing doesn’t provide you with much, his jeans are tight fitting around those muscular thighs of his, especially with the way he keeps crouching and kneeling. God, he’s got an ass too. The thought makes heat race to your face and you pull your eyes away from the enticing view of his rear.

“One cup for you,” you say, placing the tea down on top of the washing machine for whenever he feels like taking a sip. He sends you an appreciative look before focusing back on the task at hand; you’re both relieved and disappointed that he didn’t remove the face mask to have a taste of the drink right then and there. But then again, if he did, you’re more than sure that his uncovered visage would haunt your dreams in the best way possible.

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it then,” you say when he makes no move to speak again.

It’s odd having Simon in your space like this. Sure, he spent the night on the couch that night after the pub. But you had been drunk then, had thought of nothing but the soft embrace of your bed that awaited you. Now you’re both sober, both clear minded and both all too aware of whatever it is that’s been growing between the two of you.

Usually on your days off you would sleep in, would take a long shower so hot the fog on the mirror wouldn’t disappear for over an hour afterwards, would even make a proper breakfast if you had the energy for it. But Simon was currently occupying your bathroom, so a shower was out of the question, and while a short nap as he worked didn’t sound so bad it felt almost rude to go back to sleep as long as he was still there. He was doing something sweet for you; fixing something you hadn’t had the time or money to fix yet yourself.

So instead of your usual routine, you plant yourself under a blanket on the sofa with a new book you’d been meaning to read but haven’t had the chance to just yet and turn on some music. You can hear Simon in the bathroom, the clattering of tools and humming of the washing machine as he starts and stops new cycles every so often. The whole thing feels almost domestic, and it tugs on your heart in a way you don’t want to look too deep into.

---

“Can I ask you something?” you question and Simon grunts in that affirmative way he always does when you knock on his office door in the mornings. He had felt you coming back into the bathroom five minutes ago, leaning against the door frame, watching him with inquisitive eyes; but he had kept his attention on the washing machine. “Why do you wear that mask?”

If you hadn’t been studying him so intensely, you might’ve not noticed the way his shoulders and back tensed for half a second; it’s gone before you even have a chance to ponder about his reaction.

“Anonymity,” he answers at length, but you can tell there is more to it. Most of the other operators don't wear facial coverings — and if they do, it’s only while in active combat.

You understood wanting to keep his identity anonymous in the field, not letting the enemies know his name or face, it was dangerous work what he did after all, yet you couldn’t help but press. “Everyone on base already knows your name. And besides, there’s no one around but me right now.” Who are you hiding from? is what goes unasked, but the question still makes the air around you both feel heavy.

“They know what I want them to know,” he supplies, as if that would be a satisfactory answer. And it is, you suppose, at least somewhat. It doesn’t answer why exactly he keeps himself closed off, why no one — not even the men he fights beside — knows what he looks like. But it does tell you that he’s deeply paranoid and near obsessive with personal security. It tells you that he’s willing to show more of himself to the few he deems worthy; god, you want to be worthy.

“When’s the last time you took it off?” It’s a gamble of a question, but you know if Simon wants to leave the conversation he’ll let you know it in no uncertain terms.

“Last night.” You roll your eyes at that, because of course he doesn’t sleep with a stupid balaclava or face mask — maybe in the field, but you don’t know what goes on during their missions if it’s not in the reports.

“I meant with someone else in the room, Simon,” you tell him and cross your arms over your chest.

It’s quiet for a few moments, seconds stretching into minutes as Simon gives no indication of giving you a reply. Just as you let out a sigh, ready to give up on the conversation and walk back to your living room, he speaks. “It’s been… a while. Years.”

You don’t feel sorry for him, you have a feeling Simon wouldn't take kindly to pity, but empathy courses through your veins at the pain evident in his voice. He puts down the tool in his hand, turning his head just enough to make you appear in his vision, but makes no move to stand up. You realise he’s studying you, your reactions, your body language, every micro expression you don’t have the education to hide like he does.

“That sounds lonely,” you eventually say, taking the few steps from the doorway to where he’s kneeling beside the washing machine, lowering yourself until you’re eye-to-eye. “If you ever…” you hesitate for a second, but the fact that Simon has yet to end the conversation makes you power through. “I’ll be here, if you ever want to show someone.”

It’s not a demand or a manipulative tactic to get him to feel secure before ripping the rug out from under him; you genuinely want to be there for him, face or no face, want him to not go through his life with that crushing loneliness that’s been making it hard to breathe freely for years. Your eyes shine with open honesty and it’s almost too much for Simon to bear. He nearly tells you everything then; about his past, his family, Roba, everything. But you seem so innocent, untouched by the cruel reality of the world. And although he’s destroyed more uncorrupted and pure lives than yours, he wants you to keep living in the bubble of life is worth living for as long as possible.

“It’s not pretty,” is what he says instead. It — his life, him. A sad smile passes your lips as you nod your understanding.

“I’ll be here,” you repeat, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before standing and leaving him alone in the bathroom to work.

Simon stays there for another half hour before packing everything up and making his way towards the door. Truth be told he had figured out the issue after only ten minutes, had fixed the problem — a clog in the drain pipe — as slow as possible just to be in your presence for a few minutes longer. He knew he had disrupted your morning, had woken you up too early on your day off just to selfishly indulge his own need for your warmth, and now you were offering him unadulterated support without demanding anything in return. He didn’t deserve your kindness, had used your predicament to satisfy his own wants. It made him feel low, dirty, unworthy.

“It works now,” Simon tells you as he walks past your spot on the couch, heading towards the front door without a second glance back.

Quickly you scramble from the couch and follow behind him, the blanket once more wrapped around your form. “Thank you,” you say, your eyes tracking his movements as he pulls on his jacket. “I’ll get your jacket back as soon as it’s washed.”

Simon shakes his head. “Told you, love, keep it.” There it is again; love. Before that weekend he had never called you that, and in the moment you had assumed the nickname had slipped from his lips the same way you had called him baby — simply to sell the illusion of a relationship so the creepy guy at the club would leave you alone. But now you couldn’t be so sure.

“At least let me buy you lunch or something as a thank you,” you insist, catching him by the wrist as he reaches for the door handle, grasping at straws for anything that would allow him to stay in your life. You had always done a good job at keeping your private and professional lives separate; but that was before Simon.

Simon’s eyes flicker down to where your fingers envelop his wrist, but he does not shift out of your grasp nor tell you to let go; so you don’t. “It doesn’t have to mean anything other than thanks,” you say, hoping the reassurance will help him decide.

Something indescribable passes through his eyes before he gives a firm nod. “I’m not much of a restaurant guy, but… a lunch sounds nice.”

“Great!” You beam, something akin to butterflies fluttering around inside your chest. “We can order in if that makes you more comfortable.”

Simon nods and it feels like he wants to say something, but no words leave his lips before he’s out the door.

---

As the hours of the day tick by, you find yourself glancing over to the hook where Simon’s jacket hangs. He said you could keep it, that it looks better on you. It feels wrong both to keep it — like you're owed something when you're not — and to give it back — like you don't appreciate his gesture of friendship.

It's a tightrope, one you can't navigate properly, one that wobbles and every step threatens to topple you over. It's anxiety inducing yet the most excited you've been in a while.

Deciding to bite the bullet, you send him a text.

Hope I didn’t scare you away with the invite to lunch.

You chew nervously on your bottom lip, already dreading his reply, but before your inevitable anxiety can spin out of control, your phone buzzes in your hand and the screen lights up with a new message.

You have plans tomorrow?

You don’t, actually, and tell him as much. It’s a few, short back and forths after that — Simon is concise even in text — but you have an official game plan that involves takeaway from the Indian place down the street and Simon showing up at your place around noon.

---

Simon had left the ordering up to you, having no idea what was good at the chosen restaurant — but he trusted you to guide him. He shows up just as you hang up on the Indian place, a can of WD-40 in hand, and you raise an eyebrow in question.

“Heard the god awful squeaking of the hinges on your bathroom door yesterday,” he explains with a shrug before making his way over to it without invitation.

You follow behind with a soft smile on your face, watching with more fascination than really necessary as he sprays the hinges and moves the door back and forth a few times until satisfied.

“Thank you. You didn't have to,” you say, giving his bicep a quick squeeze in gratitude. You'd lived with those squeaking hinges for months now, it had annoyed you in the beginning but it quickly fell into the background and it just became a noise you now ignored.

“The food should be here in fifteen minutes,” you add.

“Alright.” Simon gives you a short nod, not quite meeting your eyes. If you hadn't known him, you would've thought he was uncomfortable or seeking an escape — but you did know him, knew that he would just up and leave if that was his prerogative. But he was here. He brought lubricant for your door without prompting. He entrusted you to pick the restaurant and the food.

“Do you wanna sit?” you ask, gesturing to the couch; a fluffy blanket was draped over one of the armrests, embarrassing really how many times you folded the damn thing while cleaning up to make everything look presentable.

You were nervous, buzzing with both excitement and anxiety. You had hung out with Simon one-on-one before, a few times where he had walked you home from the pub, that time you called him after being ditched by your friends at the club, every single morning when you brought him a cup of tea in the office, and just yesterday when he had showed up unannounced to play handyman. But it had never been anything preplanned, you had never had time to rethink your decor and spend hours meticulously vacuuming and dusting and rearranging everything. And the realisation from the day before, about how kind and strong and capable and downright attractive he was, did not help.

You knew you wanted this to be a date, but there had been no clear confirmation from either side whether it was or wasn’t. Maybe he just saw this as lunch between co-workers, or as some sort of indebted meal because he fixed a problem that was entirely yours to sort.

It comes as no surprise when Simon spreads his legs wide on the couch when taking a seat, one arm on the armrest, the other slung lazily across the back. You knew if you sat down next to him, his knee would press against yours and his hand would be dangerously close to falling around your shoulders.

It was an easy choice, really, to plop yourself down beside him.

The conversation flowed easily, one topic blended into the next, Simon relaxed fully in his seat and you found yourself smiling enough to make your cheeks ache. It wasn’t until after you had thanked the delivery driver for the food and was starting to unload the various dishes you had ordered onto the coffee table, that his previous visible trepidation came back.

“I may have gone a little overboard,” you explain nervously, eyes downcast as you organise and open the boxes of food. They smelled delicious, and steam was rising from all of them; it nearly made your mouth water. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything.”

It’s good to have left-overs, your brain chimed in in defence of your own actions.

“‘S not that,” Simon replies, reaching for one of the dishes. You study his movements from the corner of your eye and as he stops his hand mid-air to his face you realise what the problem is — the mask.

“I can… turn around or something,” you supply, hoping to be helpful, to ease his nerves. But Simon just shakes his head and pulls the band away from behind his ear, letting the mask dangle for just a moment before unhooking the other side too.

You try not to stare — it’s obviously a big step, something significant that he chose to do with you — but it’s hard to tear your eyes away when the image in your head of what he looked like was actively being shattered and reformed.

There’s a raised, jagged line across his right cheek, a bump that makes his nose just a little crooked from where it hadn’t set properly after being broken, another smaller scar down the left side of his jaw. But the one mark that rocks you the most is the Glasgow smile. It’s only one side, but it’s clear as day that it wasn’t just someone getting a little too close with a knife in the field; it’s meticulous, sharp, someone with a steady hand had held his face still enough to carve it slowly. Not a battlescar, but rather one from torture.

You shake your head slightly, forcing yourself out of the spiral you’re otherwise likely to go down, and grab one of the boxes at random. “Let’s eat.” You hope your voice doesn’t shake, but when Simon raises an eyebrow you know you’ve failed.

“It’s okay to say it. It’s ugly. Told you it was.” He doesn’t sound mad about it, more exhaustedly used to it. Like it was an inevitability you would find him unattractive once he showed you everything.

As if instinctual, your hand shoots out to cup his knee. You can’t give him reassuring words, because the scars are awful, and you know Simon would see right through you if you try to lie and say you barely noticed. But they don’t take away from his attractiveness; rather, they make you sad at everything he’s gone through and angry at every person that’s inflicted pain upon him and forced him into the hard shell he now hides behind.

For a split second, Simon freezes, the unexpected touch sending adrenaline coursing through his veins as his body gets ready for a fight that never comes. He’s unaccustomed to friendly and harmless touching, at least the kind that lingers. The occasional congratulatory pat on his shoulder from his captain and teammates, but never one from someone like you.

“Let’s eat,” you repeat, giving his knee a quick squeeze before resituating yourself on the couch and digging into your food.

---

It becomes a form of routine after that; Simon showing up at your place the weekends he has off. More often than not he’s got a toolbox in hand, fixing small things around your flat that he grumbles that your lazy landlord should’ve already fixed ages ago. You always say it’s not his job, that you’re used to the leaky tap and squeaking hinges and uneven shelves, and then thank him with the offer of lunch, trying a new restaurant every week; he seems particularly fond of the various noodle dishes they provide so you order those more than anything else.

Eventually he starts placing the black KN95 on your entryway table when the front door closes behind him. You never mention it, and neither does Simon. And even when there’s nothing left to fix (apart from completely ripping the floorboards up and installing heating, but you vehemently refuse to let him do that in fear of being kicked out), he still shows up for lunch and just a conversation. Most of the time he lets you ramble on about whatever you please, chiming in with hums of acknowledgements and one-worded replies — if he was being honest with himself he could listen to you talk for hours and be satiated.

You kiss his cheek goodbye every time before he shrouds his features again with the mask; your lips are soft and reverent, right over the scar that gives him a perpetually lopsided smile. It takes Simon four goodbyes to let his hands rest, warm and heavy with intent, on your waist, and it makes butterflies flutter to life in your stomach.

It’s a simple gesture, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it’s also a big step. While you haven’t shied away from physical intimacy — a hand squeeze here, a bumping of shoulders there, all the cheek kisses — it was the first time Simon allowed himself to reciprocate.

It takes him two more goodbyes to finally angle his face enough to let your kiss catch the corner of his lips.

“Sorry,” you mumble and try to take a step back, but Simon’s grip tightens and keeps you firmly in place.

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

Oh.

Carefully you raise your arms to wrap around his neck, going slow enough that even just a twitch from Simon would stop you in your tracks. But he stays still as a statue, eyes flickering between yours before settling at your lips.

“Is this okay?” you ask, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching his scalp.

“More than,” Simon replies, his breath washing over your face as he dips down, letting his lips hover over yours, his every exhale intermingling with yours.

You press yourself closer and in turn his hands slide from your sides and around your back, holding you in place firmly against him, his touch leaving a scorching trail on your skin despite the fabric that separates you.

You don’t know who moves first, who closes the small distance between you, but suddenly his lips are on yours and the butterflies in your stomach metamorphosize into fireworks and you can feel your heart race against your ribcage. His lips are warm, softer than you'd imagined, and you can still taste the cigarette he smoked before entering the building. Your fingers tug gently at his curls, angling his face to your liking so you can easier slot your lips over his.

A broken moan leaves your throat as Simon’s tongue finds yours and it’s all he can do to not push you up against the wall and fuck you right then and there. God knows he’s fantasised about it enough, fisted his cock to mental images of how you’d sound as he punched the air out of you with every thrust, how you’d look with his cum dripping down your thighs, how your eyes would roll to the back of your skull as he wrings out another orgasm from your already spent body. But he knows that’s not the way to go about this, not if he wants to keep you.

He licks into your mouth, exploring and teasing all at once, indulging in the sounds you let slip from your lips. His hands twitch, eager to wander over your body, but settles on curling his fingers in your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you trying to kill me?” Simon rasps when you eventually break to catch your breaths and your teeth nip at his lower lip.

“No,” you hum and trail a hand down his face and neck, smoothing your thumb over every risen scar in a show of unadulterated affection that makes him preen under your touch. “Quite like you alive. Like you a lot actually.”

Simon surges forward again, captures your lips in another bruising kiss because, fuck, if that doesn’t make his heart soar.

He doesn’t know what the future holds, how this will affect both his and your work, neither of you do. But he knows he’d rather be right here, with you in his arms, kissing you senseless, than anywhere else in the world.

--- Masterlist

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yellowjestertfs · 3 months ago

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Just another ordinary day

Been busy working on a longer project (as in 40k+ words :0) but in the meantime decided to publish another older story of mine with revisions and images. AI was being especially tricky on me this time so the images are not quite what I pictured but good enough. If anyone has any tips for making better images or is interested in proofreading my longer story let me know!

I woke with a start, my mind still groggy from sleep my vision hazy. It was one of those sudden wake-ups that throws off your whole day, the kind usually prompted by some bad dream or loud noise. Only there had been no such occurrence; my sleep had been peaceful and from what I could remember dreamless, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling something had woken me.

No matter the cause I was up, and judging by the daylight creeping through my shades there was no point falling back to sleep. With a groan, I lifted myself out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. The alarm on my bedside table informed me I had thirty extra minutes this morning to get ready for work. Never one to waste time I decided to have a quick wank with my extra time to try to release some of the stress my sudden wakeup had caused.

Something felt off as I pulled down my pants to reveal my dick, rock hard as it was most mornings. The type of feeling you get when you say a word over and over and it loses all meaning. Everything else seemed normal, my body was still just as average as when I went to bed, nice strong legs from a childhood of playing soccer and a slight beer belly from my time playing beer pong in college. My face looked the same as well, a generally generic face, adorned by light stubble which had grown in while I slept, and bags under my eyes from my draining corporate job. It was my dick that felt off, foreign, only that was ridiculous. It looked the same as it had since I finished puberty. Just over a foot long and proportionally thick, it was just as average as the rest of my body. Something about thinking of my third leg as average felt wrong but I chalked it up to the dregs of sleep. That was simply how men were, nothing strange about it.

Shanking myself out of my contemplative state I hopped into the shower and went about the act of washing away the sheen of sweat I had gained while I slept. I also took this time to rub one out, using the standard two-hand technique practiced by most men. My dick quickly rose to its full size, and within minutes, my tennis ball-sized balls were churning out cum. I thought back to an article I had read in high school that claimed the average male ejaculated a third a gallon of cum per climax, and judging by my admissions that seemed plausible. I supposed the amount coupled with the force accounted for the high rate of condom breakage, not that any but the bravest of women ever allowed for penetrative sex.

After maneuvering the shower head to force all the cum down the drain I turned off the water and wrapped a towel around my waist, paying special care to ensure that my dick didn’t cause the cloth to come undone. Suddenly I felt a wave pass over me. I felt immediately nauseous and light-headed and a strange sensation of deja vu. I realized this was the feeling that had woken me up this morning, then just as suddenly as it had come over me the queasiness vanished as did my memory of the event. I was left only with a vague sense of unease. Powering through the strange sensation I wiped down the mirror and was confronted once again with a visage that felt somehow off. It wasn’t my average face nor the obscene bulge hidden behind my towel, both of those were normal. My body too looked just as average as ever, thick cut pecs, prominent square abs, and bulging 22’’ biceps were nothing to write home about, although I supposed my time playing soccer had given my legs an extra boost elevating them from the standard 30-inch thickness to a respectable 35. Luckily for me, men are incapable of storing fat otherwise I might have a belly from all those beers I drank in college I thought to myself absentmindedly patting my six-pack. Still, in a world where most men have 250 pounds of walking muscle, I have always felt sort of insecure about my scrawny 230-pound body.

Quickly forgetting about the strange sensation I finished my morning routine, electing to keep my stubble in the hopes of cultivating a more rugged look on my average face. I exited the bathroom and opened my closet, greeted by the sight of several rows of various dress shirts, embarrassingly all labeled as men's adult small. Putting on underwear was easy enough as with all menswear my boxers had a special compartment for my hose-like junk. A dress shirt too buttoned easily over my cabbage-sized pecs as of course all men's shirts were created for just the task. I was just in the process of squeezing my legs into billowing trousers when I felt another wave pass over me. My already precarious balance caused me to fall, and I caught myself on the edge of my dresser, only it wasn’t a dresser. Why would I have a dresser, I wasn’t a woman what would I do with clothing? Righting myself against what I realized was a workout bench I glanced down just to reassure myself of my nakedness. I wondered absently where the thought of me owning clothing had come from, what a preposterous idea, that would be like a woman walking around naked. I would be fired on the spot if I showed up in such an offensive garment. Casting the ridiculous idea out of my mind I grabbed my bag and headed off to work.

Saying hello to my hunky neighbor as I passed I finally emerged onto the street. Despite my strange morning, the world outside my apartment appeared the same as it always was, men on their way to work naked, of course, pecs and dick bouncing as they walked, bare feet smacking against the smooth temperature-controlled cement. I joined the throngs of men crowding the sidewalks and waited at a crosswalk as men showing flesh drove by, their cars of course made specifically large enough to hold their bulk. I became just another face in the crowd, just another man on his way to work, bodybuilder frame revealed to the wind. The eye easily passed over my foot-long dick, the instrument not nearly long enough to garner any attention. Be they young or old, rich or poor every man was at least 200 pounds of muscle with a shlong to match and of course, all of them were naked, it was simply how the world was, how it had always been. Depending on the subway station I swiped my metro card and made my way to the appropriate train. As the train pulled I was buffeted by yet another wave and was instantly wracked with an intense pulse of nausea which disappeared just as suddenly as it had arrived.

Releasing I had fallen down, but not knowing why, I stood back up to my full 7’10” hight and saw all around me men doing the same. For a moment the doors to the subway car in front of me looked strange, almost too tall but that didn’t make any sense. They stood just as tall as ever, the standard 9 foot hight, enough to allow most men to enter without hitting their heads. I knew of course that there were rare men who would still have to duck to enter the train car but for the vast majority of men who averaged around 8’0’’, ten feet was more than sufficient. I entered the car and sat down, my bare butt brushing up against the perky ass of a blond man with a round face on one side and a woman in expertly pressed dress slacks and a matching navy blazer on the other. As the train took off another wave stuck. This one merely caused me to clutch my head as a splitting headache appeared and then vanished in a second. The woman next to me was hit harder by the instantly forgotten wave of reality-altering force. Thrown off balance she bounced into my left pec, her head cushioned by the squishy yet firm muscle. Recovering immediately and feeling somewhat confused as to how she ended up pressed against me she apologized and distracted herself by pulling out her phone and flipping to the camera app to ensure her makeup was not smudged. Though the camera was pointed at herself I could see my reflection, my head towering over hers even in my sitting position.

I certainly wasn’t ugly by any standard but I also wasn’t some model. My chiseled wide jaw was just about as handsome as every other man on the train, although the perfect coating of square stubble that had grown in during the night did lend me a rugged edge. The rest of my features were pretty mundane, clear and pore-less skin, thick square eyebrows and a dimpled wide chin were the default for men, as evidenced by the golden-haired Adonis that sat next to me. Even so, I always liked my piercing bright eyes and high cheekbones even though they were hardly rare in the world.

The blond man sitting next to me with the perfect lantern jaw got up at the next stop. Mine was the one after that.

I exited the car and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time to ensure I wasn’t late. My work building looked the same as it always did, with large doors to accommodate male employees and in the lobby a giant bronze statue of a man holding the earth, his body naked and extremely well muscled and hung of course for the sake of realism. Despite my relative scrawniness I still used a male-designated elevator, the female ones not made to handle my weight or height. The several other men in the elevator and I had only made it a few floors before we were subject to one final and seemingly extra powerful shockwave. The weight of the changes enacted easily caused all the men even with their rock-hard muscles to crumple and we collapsed onto each other. My hand somehow ended up gasping the long penis of a 40-year-old accountant with a perfectly maintained salt and pepper beard. For a moment I motioned to let go of his member before reality snapped back in and I remembered my manners. It would be incredibly rude for me to begin a morning grope and not bring him to completion. In fact, I had already made a major faux pas by not kissing my coworker hello. This error in tact was quickly rectified as the rest of the elevator ride turned into a make-out session. By my floor the sexy accountant I was giving a handjob to reached completion and I took his load as my breakfast. As I left he spanked my ass and stuck his business card between my butt checks. Guess he liked my elevator pitch.

I went straight to my boss's office as was customary and gave the 350-pound silver fox a quick blow job before he transferred his abnormally large penis into my ass and fucked me while we discussed business. Turns out the reality-warping machine he had invested in had been broken into this morning although as far as anyone could tell no damage had been done nor had the machine been used.

“Makes sense I told him" In-between moans as he obliterated my prostate. “I imagine we would know if someone were to fuck with reality.”

My boss clenched his superhumanly wide lantern jaw and straightened up to his full over eight-foot height, both football-sized biceps flexed behind his head. “You're right on that account kid, today is yet another ordinary day.

#musclegrowth #straight to gay #male tf #male transformation #ai image #reality change

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months ago

Text

THE SOUND OF SILENT GRAVES (X)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER XI

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 15.5k

WARNINGS: Angst, threats, exploitation, stalking behavior, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations, body issues, scar descriptions, mentions of past intimacy, broody/stubborn Nikto, brief smut, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your mind doesn’t remember the first time you looked in the mirror and saw the beginnings of the flaws. Perhaps your nose was a bit too strange—lips a bit too…there the second you turned thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Fifteen. You know it started slow, like all poison does; the point to where you actually begin to pay attention to the chains around your neck.

Your eyes hadn’t left where Nikto’s sweatpants sat so well over your hips for at least five minutes. Usually, you’d pick at those flaws here, on the cold bathroom tile with the black and white wash of nothingness. But this is distraction enough to block it out, at least for now.

You smell like him.

You’d noticed after you had woken up for the second time and had found Nikto gone—his thigh no longer the firm pillow to your skull. It startled you, admittingly, and you thought it was unlike him, but then your ears had picked up on the barked Russian sentences outside the bedroom door, drifting in from under the wood as your haze cleared. Best guess? He was on the phone with someone while you kept getting the rest he said you needed; you could only speculate how he got out from under you without making your eyes snap open. But, yes, it was undeniable that every ounce of your skin was bathed in his scent; marked, branded as if a sheep.

Rotting wood coated in gunpowder, and gnawing metal that peels back flesh.

It’s stuck in your nostrils as you itch at the side of your nose, blinking away from your reflected visage as if it’s on fire.

Focus, you plead, and you don’t even know to whom.

So much had happened, that the thought of your brain calming down was impossible. Nikto knew. He knew about the purpose of the parties, he knew about your doubts and fears, he knew your body.

As you exit the bathroom, your mind slips into a dark thought—maybe learning to care about someone turns you into a bit of a stalker of your own. No one else could say they knew you as well as Nikto now does: your fears and your hopes. Not even Alyona, you flatten your lips at the realization, and you consider her your best friend.

“Jesus,” you groan quietly after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes with a heavy sigh.

It can’t be past noon now, and you can’t run from this forever.

The phone on your nightstand is taken up, and, sitting back on the bed, your eyes dart and skate past the tossed party dress on the floor, wishing someone would go out and burn it already. As the visible tear in the lace catches your attention, along with the slashed corset, there’s an unmistakable twitch at your lips, that only makes your chest tighten immediately after.

Clearing your throat, you turn back on the device and try to give it your undivided, though anxious, attention. The sound of sharp Russian beyond the door gives a sliver of comfort.

But still…why hadn’t he woken you up? There’s a sliver of confusion that takes place in your mind, but you push it back softly.

The first wave of notifications is expected, and exactly the same as it had been before breakfast.

Kliment Fedorov, Alyona, your Mom, even the investigators—texts and calls, ranging from clipped sentences to long paragraphs. Thumb hovering over the screen, you raise your opposite hand and rub at the base of your skull, a low sound in the back of your throat. There was so much, you didn’t even know where to begin. You should be worrying about the stalker, not your job.

But…when had you not been worried about your job?

Just another thing to make me lose my mind faster, you think. God, this is getting to a point where I’m starting to not care if they get rid of me—at least then I’d be able to make my own decisions. You start with Aly, and you quickly slap the call icon just to ease your shaky fingers of the stuttered typing they would have had to do otherwise. Phone to ear, the ringing only persists for two seconds before there’s the hurried panic of static and a frantic voice.

“Seraph!”

“Aly—” You try to quickly calm her down, mouth open with the half-formation of speech.

“Bastard! Why did you not call me?!” The woman snaps, and your ears twitch, your body flinching at the guilt that grows. “I have been up all night and worried most of the morning—damn you. Everyone at AMA is silent and Fedorov won’t let me into his office.”

That’s right, you had told her you’d call her after the party—when you’d talked to her after seeing Nikto’s back tattoo.

After you’d touched his ravaged flesh.

Your face heats slowly, head tilting to the floor as you clear your throat. It was all wrapped in tissue paper, those memories. The storage room, the way those pale eyes had dug into your form in that damned dress, wanting to try and compliment you in his own strange way but being unable when you degraded yourself so consistently—unsure of himself. It was addictive seeing such a frenzied and numb man walking on cracking ice.

But that doesn’t make you any more sure of yourself.

“I meant to,” you hurry into your explanation, waving a hand even if she can’t see it. “You know I wouldn’t leave you wondering unless I had a good reason.”

Alyona huffs over the line, silence falling as her anger tapers into a line. “...I need to put a bell on you, Солнышко.”

You close your eyes and sigh, fingers moving to push into your nose bridge.

“Yeah,” your mouth utters. “Honestly, it’s not a bad idea, Aly.”

It isn’t long before there’s the low plea—that heavy insinuation. You know she’s still now, waiting for you to begin. “Tell me, then.”

Face tightening, you pause and listen for Nikto. You still hear the muted conversation, and occasionally, the stomp of heavy boots along the floors. He’s pacing.

What’s going on out there? Who was he talking to? You wonder silently, perplexed. Nikto had made many phone calls before, and while he preferred to be in a nearby area and speak in his mother tongue, they hadn’t been as long as this—nor as snappy. Shaking your head, you suppose it’s a problem for later, and in the back of your mind, every word that he’d ever spoken to you rattles like rocks.

You were nervous around Nikto now, and that doesn’t make any sense to you.

Doesn’t the nervous part come before getting touched in the back of some dark storage room?

You grunt under your breath, clenching your jaw; becoming more and more like Nikto as the days pass, it seemed.

“I didn’t sleep with Tarkovsky,” your words are breathy and low. Trying to hide. “...Nikto stopped it.” The heavy pause is enough to make your palms sweat. “Aly?”

“Perhaps I judged the beast of man too early.” You blink, tilting your head as your eyebrows draw in. “Christ, Seraph. I’m relieved, of course I am, but what will Fedorov do once he finds out?”

“He already knows,” you relay. “Nikto wasn’t…subtle about his refusal to let me go.”

“Blood?” Aly asks.

“And bone,” you sigh.

“Shit,” the woman over the line grumbles. “Do you…” she trails off slowly. “Do you think AMA will keep you on?”

“This hasn’t happened before,” you shrug to yourself, hearing Nikto speaking louder. Your eyes dart to the door, and as you blink, your fingers run your thigh in a self-soothing motion. “I don’t know. Right now I’m debating if it’s even worth it.” A painful chuckle. “Any advice?”

“Keep the bastard around long enough to break someone else's bones.” Aly’s laugh is sharp and smooth. “Show them what happens when they do anything he doesn’t like.”

“The night wasn’t all bad,” you try to defend his personality a smidge. “He’s not some monster, Aly.”

“I wasn’t implying that,” there’s the sound of moving fabric from over the call, and Alyona is most likely in a fitting room herself, taking up your call as she rushed out of a photographer’s shoot at light speed. “...You like him, then? Truly? Or are you just enamored by his capacity for violence?”

Your body slows at the obvious jest, taking it seriously. Face stilling, you blink at the wall across from you. Everything else blurs for a moment, memories slashing to every opened car door and meal made with expert hands. Organized magazines on your tables and cleaned dishes. There was something funny about the way you enjoyed the stretch of his sin coating you like blood over the visible flesh of a masked face.

Nikto wasn’t a good person. You knew that.

“Yes,” you whisper regardless, feet shifting below you. “How can I spend so much time with someone and not like them?” Your words try to reason.

“Very easily,” the Russian woman scoffs, not wasting time. “You know what I mean, Little Seraph. Don’t try to push me off like I am stupid.” A low hum. “When you talk about him, your breath goes light.”

“It does not,” your voice tightens.

“Denial,” Aly sighs. “The first sign.”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” you groan, standing up and beginning to walk the room casually. You enjoyed the banter—the teasing: you two were good at that.

As soft chuckles waft around, your lips twitch into a smile. “He’s not horrible. That’s all I’ll say.”

“No beast?”

“No, no beast. A stubborn brute of a dogish ex-soldier?” You roll your eyes, and the commotion outside of the door takes on a different tone. You pay it no mind. “One hundred percent.”

“You like strays, yes, Seraph?” Alyona’s line crackles.

“I was burdened with a good heart,” you joke with a chuckle, nodding. As the second of silence draws, you reluctantly push out, “I need to check in with everything else.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” is the easy reply. The next sentence is troubled. “...If you’re kept, will you have to go to the rest of the parties?”

You don’t get to reply, because there isn’t a moment to think above the sinking in your gut and the sudden shove of the door. Head snapping up, the phone is tilted from your face as your eyes bug wildly.

Iakov makes it three steps into the room, searching for you, before a growled shout and a ruthless hand connected with his suit’s collar. Watching wide-eyed, you see the way the pale-haired man is dragged out with a loud call of alarm.

Mouth agape, all you utter is a quick, “I’ll call you later,” before rapidly hanging up and moving as fast as you can to the door.

Shoulder hitting the frame, you stutter as you right yourself swiftly. “Nikto?”

“Go back to bed,” the black void grunts, gloved hand releasing Iakov with a violent shove. The two men are in the living room, your guard glaring with venom at your media coordinator as he stumbles back, nearly falling to the floor.

“She can’t!” Iakov meets that fire with fire, strengthening himself. His face is a tone darker—eyes sharply snapping. “Fedorov has been waiting all day to have a meeting, and I won’t have my job on the line because of some entitled bra—!”

Nikto’s hand re-wraps itself around the man’s collar, jerking the fabric, and in turn, the smaller body forward until the rough fabric of the lower half of his mask is nearly brushing Iakov’s nose.

“I will cut out your tongue,” Nikto eases out far smoother than you’d heard thus far in your many days together.

Your heart skips a beat.

“...Okay,” you say under your breath, face on fire as your coordinator freezes like a bird under a cat, a flash of rage simmering in his expression. The tension was palpable.

Truth be told, you’d never seen Iakov so unmanaged before—hair this way and that, suit ruffled not only from Nikto but from the apparent running of hands. He was always so put together. You swallow down your shaky worry.

You’d never known him to be anything but respectful. It was like a knife to the chest to see such a rabid switch of emotions—of personality. Christ, it was damn near wrong.

“Nikto,” you say quickly, and the brute only tilts his head your way, not looking at you as his fingers tighten. Your tongue darts to wet your lips. “Please.”

Iakov is pushed back once more, and your guard grunts, light gaze unwavering as he backs up only a half-step nearer to you, widening his shoulders as the trunks of his arms cross his chest. Suddenly, thoughts of sex, power, and a stalker boil down to the sight in front of you instead, and the great confusion gets larger still.

Nikto is back in full gear, and here you are in sweatpants and an oversized shirt. When had your Russian bear managed to change? Had he left the bedroom far sooner than you’d thought? And…why? Keeping the Russian in the side of your narrowed eye, you take a breath and quickly address the greater problem.

I thought Nikto was only on a phone call.

“How did you get in here?” Your voice is low, riddled with exasperation and a tinge of stiffness. Would Nikto even have let someone in without talking to you first? It seemed unlikely.

Iakov sneers, clenching his jaw—the void beside you is silent.

“Key.” Long fingers disappear into his suit, peeling out the gray face of a hotel room key and holding it between two fingers. Eyes pierce you, narrowed with a wave of horrible anger and swirling contempt that makes your breath hitch as if under the scrutiny of a wolf.

Your lungs hold themselves in your ribs like prisoners at the confession; eyes widening.

Key?

Nikto levels out slowly, shifting with canid-like movements. “Walked in when we were speaking to the investigators over call.” He breathes out a rumble. “Nearly shot his head off.”

“You would have had a harder time than that, Хуй,” Iakov barks, dress shoes clicking as he slaps a foot forward.

Heart hammering, your anxiety dances—questions muddling. Paranoia. Why would Iakov be allowed to have a key to your room? Had he always had one when you were sent out to parties?

What if he’d walked in before….?

Shaking your head at the implication, you step in before Nikto has a chance to jump the man, snapping out in a fashion that was unlike you, but came from both a place of desperation and nervousness. Your face pulls into a sharp display of panicked anger.

“Both of you shut up and listen!” Nikto freezes, eyes flashing instantly to shock. After a moment, any discernible emotion vanishes from his pale eyes, and he blinks down to you; shoulders lowering as if a display of submission.

While you can’t see it, Nikto’s heart sputters. He hadn’t expected that from you.

Even back in Yekaterinburg, you were more prone to letting the course go calm—letting others lay themselves over you to avoid confrontation. You were still like that, of course; that was plainly seen in your unwillingness to explain before the party what was going on, but an outburst like that Nikto had never seen before.

He watches you closely but remains mute even if his throat cages in a grunt of surprise.

Iakov freezes as well, neck snapping over like a fish on a hook. He was rageful and arrogant, you could now see it plainly. Even if he was always composed, you weren’t blind to the looks he would give you when he passed you in AMA—the discreet touches to the back of your shoulders or arms when you’d be given schedules face-to-face.

You were stuck in a circle of distrust and lustful eyes, and the only reprieve was a man with more blood on his hands than a butcher holding a pig’s heart.

Trying to calm yourself, you shake your head softly.

“Iakov,” you utter at the glaring face, hate and disgust stuck behind pupils. “Explain it to me.”

“You fucked it all up,” he growls, and Nikto’s gaze snaps to return to a pale face. Yet he still doesn’t interfere, hanging around like a puppy lacking his needle teeth. Muzzled. It doesn’t stop his eyes from sparking, however. “There is no deal with Tarkovsky! You know what that means, Seraph?” His hair is flattened down by a fast hand, tongue licking at his lips. “No money. Fedorov is wringing my neck! Why have you not answered the phone?!”

“I was resting,” you mutter stiffly, face a tension-ridden mess. Glancing at Nikto and his tight pupils, the Russian doesn’t look over, only his hips moving in a small shuffle. You clear your throat with a small ache starting to form at the base of your skull. “Just got up.”

“It is past noon,” the shorter man barks. “This is absurd!”

“Lower your tone,” Nikto utters.

“I will speak what I will,” Iakov’s expression is like a knife as you stuff your shaky hands into your pockets. “Seraph needs to listen to what I tell her to do before—”

“Before what,” your guard interrupts, tilting his head. Around him is a false calm that somehow seems more violent than if he was yowling like a mutt. Your lips thin into a line. “Hm? Speak. You were doing it not a second ago.”

Your coordinator stills and he wisely keeps his tongue from flapping.

“We will say it only once more,” you watch Nikto from the corner of your eye, breath trapped in your throat as his hips tighten and arms slip to hang by them; gloved hand flexing where the lack of a digit is glaring at you. “Watch your tongue.”

“I’ll call him,” you comply to Iakov’s complaints after a moment of heavy silence, face on fire and your chest being hit by every palpitation of your heart. Your mind is airy, and that scent of rotten wood is back as your legs push in on themselves. “I’ll explain what I can and—”

“Too late,” is the hissed answer. “He already gave me my workload. You’re going out tonight if you still want your job.” Your spine goes rail-straight. “This is the last chance, Seraph,” the pale-haired man spits. “This is it—you’ll put on what I have for you to wear, you’ll give yourself to the man who wants to invest into AMA, and you’ll keep doing what I tell you to. Your dog,” Iakov stares at Nikto for a long while, opening and closing his hands like he wants to say more, but only growls, “will do as he is ordered.”

Nikto is about to punch him, you can tell by the roll and shake of his wrist. In an instant, you have your hand grabbing at his bicep, barely applying pressure beyond the initial grasp and yank. It does the trick though.

Nikto’s body halts.

“Give me the key and get out,” you say in a monotone to the raging coordinator.

Iakov looks like he’s going to fight on that, and your unease at his presence gets larger. The knowledge that he had access to your hotel room the entire time makes your muscles writhe with something dangerous—alarm bells. But the stalker isn’t here with you, is he? He’s back in Yekaterinburg unless there’s something you don’t know about.

Before you can pull on your guard’s arm again, Nikto pounces and slaps the key to the floor, which skids along the white tile as you gasp softly. Great hand connecting with a shouting Iakov’s collar, Nikto doesn’t let go as he begins dragging the man away like a toddler with ease, dress shoes scuffing the floor.

Face loose, your eyes follow as the Russian grasps the door handle, yanks the barrier open, and tosses the coordinator out with a snarl.

“You need to obey what I tell you—!” The scream is cut off as the door is slammed shut in Iakov’s face ruthlessly. A lock clicks in place, and that’s the end of it.

Nikto stays to stare through the peephole, eyes beady and chest heaving with heavy breaths. Under the mask, his skin is taut with feral tension.

In his youth, the Russian had been unswayable in his anger—a fact that resulted in many a school fight and bloodied faces, usually not only his own. It’s what brought him to the military, to be completely honest with himself. A lust for something he could control like a pocket knife in his hand, but bigger than two teenagers wailing on each other in some field while a gaggle cheered them on. Split knuckles and cut lips. One thing never got any easier, though.

That damn spark of animalistic loyalty.

He’d formed some bond with you, that was certain. Mutual gain? Who knows. Bodily need? Maybe. Actual care? …Curse him, but perhaps. Yet, hold his toes over a fire if he didn’t feel a horrific rage at some man he could break over his thigh speaking to you like that.

He feels your gaze on the back of his head even now, as he watches that media coordinator scurry off like a rat, and he flashes to the ongoing gag the two of you had formed.

Looks like a Shrew. Little rodent.

Nikto sighs under his breath, fingers coming up to rub at his covered chin, scraping gloves against the thick canvas. He backs up with a scoff and stalks away.

“The man is weak,” Nikto says to you, keeping a tight side-eye. “Get a better one before we dispose of him.”

You strangle down a quick laugh, mouth slowly opening as you think over your words. The comment, said in that rough and sandpaper-like accent, flows through you like water. You should be put off by it, you think to yourself in the back of your brain, especially after the explosion in the bakery and the death of your three previous guards; of Yefim.

Yet…

Your throat tightens. “You think he was being serious?” You ask. “About the party tonight? My job?”

“You are not going.” It’s immediate.

“Nikto,” you frown, stepping forward as he brushes past you to grab his phone that was sitting on the coffee table. “There are parts that I won’t be a part of again, but I know that you know, that I need to keep my position at AMA. With any hope, showing up will be enough—I can speak, persuade, the person who—”

“Why?” he spits, shoving the device away as his pale eyes glare, head tilting.

If you knew any better, you’d compare this to a boy pouting. Just perhaps a bit more serious.

“Oh,” you vaguely motion with a hand, sarcastically uttering as your heart slows now that it’s only the two of you. “I don’t know—food, rent, the ability to live comfortably. You know, the usual.”

Nikto huffs, taking out his baretta and placing it on the table before the cleaning rag is slipped from his belt. He sits down near the neatly folded blanket and perfect pillows, silent. You’d have to keep this conversation going later, there was a low curiosity in your stomach. His phone—the speaking you’d heard from the bedroom.

“Who were you talking to before I came out?” Walking forward, you listen to the click of dark metal as Nikto takes apart his gun piece by piece, setting them all down in a well-thought-out order. He glances up, and you see his lashes dip in a blink. As usual, his expression is unreadable while behind that mask. You almost missed the balaclava—at least you could see the outline of his lips that way.

“Anything important?”

“Investigators,” Nikto grumbles. “They have taken Sergi into custody, but can get nothing out of him,” he pauses, troubled though you can’t see it as your eyes widen, body going to sit beside his own before intently listening.

“That’s perfect!” You speak, a smile overtaking your lips. “Maybe that’s why I haven’t gotten any more texts from the stalker. Do you think that they’ll keep him there?”

“No,” you still, smile freezing. “They cannot.” Pale eyes stare into your own smoothly before they break away. Nikto clears his throat, fingers twitching as more bits and bobs are polished. “DNA does not match those found on the letters from your lockbox. It is illegal to falsely detain someone for over forty-eight hours. He will be released unless further evidence is discovered.”

It’s a slow moment before you swallow down the sharp disappointment in your gut, attention darting from the silent Russian to the table.

“Oh.”

Nikto’s muscles tense the longer this silence permeates, eyes unconsciously darting back from his gun to you. After a long while, he sighs aggressively, dropping the rag and the slide he had been polishing without thought as it thumps to the table.

“Птичка,” he turns, and you blink back to him just to notice the instant tension as your eyes lock.

Such grays and blacks make up his being, that you wonder if color even mattered when it came to him—you already know those shades of in-between things, and Nikto could certainly be described as in-between. The activities of the storage room flash behind your vision, and your lips part softly.

But something isn’t right.

You’d thought that maybe Nikto would always be something of a blank slate to you—obviously, you could tell when he was frustrated and such, but anything beyond that was still up to your imagination. But it’s especially telling when you can understand the way he hesitates to touch you when his hand rises.

The limb moves to your bicep before the Russian drops it back down, turning back to his rag, and gets back to work with the lines beside his eyes visible as if grimacing. Beyond the anxiety, and the paranoia, you find the hurt burns sharper than those two ever could.

Not to mention the uncertainty.

You stare openly for upwards of three minutes, hesitant with the white noise in your brain overtaking your thoughts.

Nikto’s head is thumping—attacking every ounce of common sense to be found. The picture on his phone; the implications. The stalker wasn’t Sergi, because Sergi was at this very moment still detained and had been since last night…how could he tell you that? A man who was already horrible with words, so used to barking out his true feelings to soldiers and civilians alike. He can’t be that with you. Not anymore. He doesn’t want to be. But he’s stubborn—he’s prideful. Arrogant. It’s easier for him to figure it out himself than burden you, and in many ways, you were the same beast.

Mutt, mutt, mutt. Golden chains around supple flesh.

Nikto opens and closes his mouth many times, not knowing how your heart is cracking piece by piece; so averse to speaking about yourself. He’d left while you were still asleep to make the phone call himself to your investigators, not able to stare at your face any longer or feel your flesh. It had made his attention slip, and his focus fail.

The lack of control where he already had so little. He couldn’t take it, and in that, he felt dirty. Tainted.

The knowledge that someone had a picture of you in perhaps the most vulnerable moment he’d ever seen you in was worse, still. Like the blood on his hands was smearing itself over you, dipping along your waist and hips; sinking its dripping knuckles into the tight clutch of your welcoming walls. Fingerprint marks over your navel, clawing.

Nikto flinches subtly in his seat, a low sound echoing in the back of his throat. He wishes he’d never known the color of blood if only to not be able to imagine it along your pretty skin.

The Russian had only been thinking about it when you were sleeping, a slow infection seeping in as it always did—the stalker had been just behind him and he hadn’t heard a thing. The thought was enough to nearly make him vomit.

It was an utter disgrace to his skills.

He can’t be distracted anymore; not now. Not when he feels the fingers digging into his scars, the cuts, the drags of knives, and the burn of fire. He needs that control back. Some semblance of stability.

You try not to show how much you’re taken aback—how much Nikto’s sudden distance is a physical pain to you. The dead air settles, and you feel your pulse through your skin like a wound.

“...Anything else, Nikto?” Your voice is deathly still. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you had pushed something too far.

“...Нет.” The Russian’s fingers are hovering over the pieces of his gun, dismantled and laid bare to the overhead light of the blinding hotel. This place is cold; sterile. You’d said it before and you’d say it again—this was not a place you’d want to live. Now…even less so. Nikto clears his throat as you stand jerkily, sending a glance that lands on your throat and not your eyes. “There is nothing.”

You nod quickly.

“Good. I’m, uh,” your tongue wets your lips, and pale eyes try not to follow the motion even as he finds it like a siren call. Control. “I’m glad. I’ll figure out the details about the party tonight and get back to you.”

Nikto’s shoulders froze, but by the time his damaged brain had caught up with his mouth, you were already back in the bedroom and shutting the door with a soft hand.

A blue gaze sticks to the barrier, but not a single sound creates so much of an echo as the seconds draw into minutes.

“Enough,” Nikto orders himself, turning back to the table. Lips shifting into a deep frown, there’s little in the way of understanding his own actions, but wasn’t that the norm? Distance lets him think—thinking means solutions. Solutions for you; solutions for him.

But the feeling of your warm flesh is addictive, and there are moments in between the flashes of bloodshed that circulate when your brushing fingertips scrape down his back—a bear to a deer, but now he’s not too sure which is which. There’s a need to consume and eat down sustenance until his face is bloody and raw again, that half of a Glasgow smile ripped open and hanging, brutality ingrained into his psyche by way of pain and pleasure.

You touching him was both.

Being near you was both.

Knowing about that picture he’d been sent was worse than the former.

Nikto had thought to tell you, he’d been getting better with that, but then he’d truly thought it over and in his own way wanted you to be safe from just one more violation. It was how he was—a silent, brutish, mutt-like hired gun. He was smart, though.

And, damn him, he liked it when you smiled.

“Focus on the task,” he grunts, his knuckles under his gloves surely white from how hard he handles the metal of his beretta, stress cleaning even if he doesn’t know it—doesn’t acknowledge it.

His tight-pupiled eyes keep dragging themselves back to the door.

—

The hotel stayed in a suffocating silence even as the stylists came and went. They didn’t say a word as the hours lengthened—nervous, if you had to guess. The story of ‘the guard who snapped a man’s wrist in one motion’ had made its rounds quickly; gossip always on loose tongues.

You’d had a call with Fedorov. You think you had only gotten through it because you’d dug your nails so hard into your hand, that the initial scrape of cartilage had distracted you from the threat of being fired. The beady-eyed CEO had been less than pleased, and that was all you wanted to comment on; to even think about.

“I’ve heard troubling things, Seraph. Very troubling. What is this about your guard? I had thought we had come to an understanding about it. Tight leash, yes?”

Your fingers skate the smooth front of the newest dress you’ve been given, and you play with the dangle of cold metal around your fingers. Rings. You don’t know if they’re gold or silver, nor the gems set into them, but you know they’re elegant—just as the fabric you wear is.

There’s no great slit here, not in this form-fitting sleeve of white. Two pieces of fabric move up to cover your breasts and meet at a collar around your neck of the same silk, the train extending from the back of that collar that trails the ground. Lace, of course. Your shoulders are bare, just as a good ninety percent of your back is; only stopping at the small of your back where the fabric is once more tight to you. Pearls and feathers create a beaded version of a corset, tantalizingly caressing your bare flesh.

Your first thought is that you’ll freeze in this, but the second is how you’re going to walk in the heels—a silk strap looping your ankle before a big bow meets your eyes.

And the third is even worse.

“I think I’m losing my job tonight,” you whisper, blank-faced and knowledgeable of Nikto once more waiting where he had been before. A vicious repeat, a hopeless deja vu.

A pawn in someone else's game.

Your fingers tap your abdomen in broken intervals. There had to be a way out of this, you try to tell yourself.

Think.

But your mind always drifts back to the damn ex-soldier that’s in the living room. His attitude today—his distance from you was like taking a bullet to the gut. You should be celebrating the detainment of Sergi, of possible breakthroughs even if the DNA didn’t match.

The baker’s boy knew something, that was a fact.

But nothing. No joy—no jokes or sarcasm.

As you look at yourself now, you can only now recognize the expression of utter defeat you wear so plainly like a burial shroud. This was a cruel game. But there was something truly frightening about how close you and Nikto had become in such a relatively short period. Akin to soulmates finding one another, except for the simple fact you didn’t believe that was what the two of you were anymore.

It had been a brief hope, truly. But one that you’d wanted more than anything, and you don’t know why. You don’t know why you let him touch you; let him be so near—it runs around your brain to speak itself in tongues just like the rest. Problem after problem.

One at a time, you turn and exit the room, not looking at yourself longer than you have to.

Nikto stands stiff by the door, already in his suit and balaclava—M13 and Beretta back where they belong respectively. The knife, you have no clue, though you know it’s somewhere.

There are no compliments from the two of you. No speaking. So quickly something flipped on its head. Pale eyes dart, but when they meet yours, drip and drag away to the coat rack as you grab for your jacket. As your attention tries not to linger, you see him momentarily peel back his eyelids at the sight of your elegant dress but say nothing beyond a garbled sigh.

The air was so thick, that it was nearly enough to display how idiotic and childish the two of you were for acting like this.

You open your mouth and push out, “Ready to go?”

In the hours you’d taken to get ready, the Russian had come up with a plan.

He nods to you now and opens the door, allowing you out as he stays behind, making sure the lock clicks as you glance over your shoulder. Beginning to walk with him just a foot away, Nikto runs over his idea once more.

With any hope, the stalker now had a personal vendetta against him for getting physically involved with you—he’d been looking up studies in his spare time while you were getting dressed; tapping his fingers along his phone stiffly.

Only one sentence stood out to him, and it still stands out now as you go to wait in the elevator ahead of his looming form, eyes to the ground and hand massaging the back of your head.

‘Stalkers like to get their target isolated; they’re selfish. They want the person all to themselves and dislike anyone who can possibly get in the way of that. Whether it’s a romantic partner, family, or friends, if they pose a roadblock for the stalker it can result in added stress or an urgency to act.’

Nikto moves to stand beside you, shoving a firm finger to the ground floor button and glaring at the wall, lips stiff from under fabric.

If the man would come after him, then it would get you out of the spotlight at least for a short amount of time—perhaps it would even be enough to catch him.

Maybe tonight, Nikto wonders silently, eyes narrowing as his feet settle. He will be there. We need to be ready.

Your lungs breathe down a slow breath, taking in oxygen until your chest rises with the swell like a bag in the wind. This feeling is something you don’t know if you’ve experienced before beyond the sensation of having to relearn your limbs after your accident; an expectation and a draw, something just there but out of sight.

Inebriating instability.

Instead of your hands being shaky, now your mind was.

Nikto is so close—so there beside you. You wanted to reach out to him, to hang off of his arm. To be something. It was pathetic of you, especially after he’d already assured you that you both would deal with the uncomfortableness of your prior affair.

Was this his way of dealing with it? Avoidance? He didn’t seem the type, and you’d already known that he wasn’t.

So it’s bigger, your face pulls in. But what? Why this…hesitation?

Your eyes spark.

Hesitation, no. In the elevator, your arms tense as the small sound of the metal box meeting the ground floor echoes; Nikto also darts his head up, deep in his thoughts. You both share an unexpected side-eye, before the doors open and you hurry out on unstable feet as your face burns. This is fear.

“What are you afraid of?” You whisper to yourself, hearing those boots behind you.

At the Russian’s unease, you find your own doubling just as simply.

Who could make a bear afraid of the forest?

—

As you enter the party, you go about business and try not to stay on the fact that you have just gone through one of the most uncomfortable car rides you’ve ever experienced.

Passing off your jacket and hearing the doors close behind you, your curated smile dims to an imitation of happiness, shoulders drooping.

Nikto had only touched your arm to guide you along the sidewalk to this more humble residence—not at all like the previous party you’d been to. Every step and click off your heels had welcomed the same nervousness, however.

You still didn’t know what you were going to do, but right now, it was more important to just calm yourself to a state of taking it moment by moment. If it all came down to it, would you need Nikto to guard you again? Order him to break more bones? Welcome the spray of black fluid and gray meat?

“Nikto,” you address the Russian as he blinks over, fixing his hold on his M13. He doesn’t like this either—he doesn’t understand why you don’t listen to him and go to events like this. Nonetheless, he’ll follow and steer you clear of any situations you shouldn’t be in. It was his job to watch you, not force your hand.

Pale eyes level with you before they go to survey the foyer. “What is it?”

“When all of this is over,” you utter, walking forward. “What will you do?”

The Russian pauses, heart stuttering. What would he do? That wasn’t the question he thought you were going to ask, but it’s a welcome distraction from the mess of his head.

“Go back to KorTac,” he breathes, elbow brushing yours with his voice like rocks. “The contract will be over. I will not be needed anymore, да?”

You tilt your head, licking at the corner of your lips to push back the bead of fear that had settled into your stomach. “That makes sense,” your mind pulls a flat-falling tease. “But who will tell me what color of the paintings on the wall?”

Nikto’s hidden face is a stiff reflection of your own, scars tight. It’s a strange thing, he understands, the pressure on his chest that grows stronger. He’s so used to keeping secrets…why was this so hard for him?

“The blonde woman will be at your side, no doubt,” he grumbles, looking away from the image of your beauty and the silk of your dress. “She will tell you. I am not the only one able to understand the need for it.” Those feathers and pearls make a strung corset of utter angelic purity.

Blood on my hands.

He’d already tainted you enough, hadn’t he? When did sex suddenly become important to him? Weighted with…with care. There were so many times he could carelessly get his fill and leave with nothing mattering to him—just another way to get off and forget the formalities of waking up next to someone and making breakfast.

But wasn’t that exactly what Nikto had willingly done with you? Willingly sat near you for breakfast, willingly allowed you to coax him into bed to be a pillow, willingly touched you? Like a loyal beast, he had. He had.

You were a horrible creature. A beautiful, lovely, creature. Disgusting. Awe-inducing. As holy and as blasphemous as all of the monsters that sit on his shoulders; the ones he cannot name.

Nikto’s fingers pull into soft fists, and his gloves stretch. He grunts as your face falls a bit at his reply, your head nodding as he clenches his jaw until his molars scream.

You were messing with his head again. It wasn’t like he wanted you to not understand his motives—he needed to focus.

“I didn’t think Iakov was like that,” you change the subject as you both awkwardly move into the party, voices moving along the airwaves as you enter the large living room. “I’ve never seen him so angry.”

“Men like that care about money and power,” Nikto answers, keeping your body nearest to the wall as he sticks to your right. “He will never forgive you for letting him lose it.” Pale eyes jump from one set of curious gazes to another. “It is not in his nature. Waste of skill.”

“Isn’t money what everyone wants?” You mutter, staying close to him and nodding politely at those who look your way with digging gazes. “That's why I’m here.”

“You are not the same,” is the swift answer, shifting vision stilling on a man with blond hair that moves through the crowd, camera sitting around his neck as dark eyes meet Nikto’s own. The guard blinks, and the individual is lost to the crowd.

Looking at you, the Russian’s eyes narrow. “You are not selfish, did we not explain ourselves enough earlier?”

“You said I was good,” you explain slowly. Not good enough to keep?

“I did,” Nikto grunts. “I say what I mean. We do not lie.”

“Too prideful for that,” your mouth pulls into a smile. “Aren’t you, Big Guy?”

His eyes swirl, low amusements littering the pale orbs like a sly cat. “Да, вот именно.”

You huff, not understanding the words, but knowing they’re agreeing with you. It’s as if a glass wall is dissecting the space between your bodies. You can see Nikto—hear him and feel his presence, but you can’t touch him; can’t get the smudges off without a rag. A blurry mess of black and white, not a slash of color to be understood.

This separation was thin but still there.

“What aren’t you telling me?” You have to finally push as you stop near the back of the room, as far away from anyone as possible, but it isn’t at all private. Eyes turn and fingers shift over wine glasses. It was quieter here, too. Not so blatant in its display of choking wealth, but still rich if decor was anything to go off of.

Nikto’s amusement vanishes instantly, and he’s back to a careful blankness.

Stopping as well, he only waits a second before uttering, “I do not tell you many things, Seraph.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” you bounce off of him, hands moving up to motion softly as your face twists. Shame hits you in the chest, and you take a shaking breath. “...I knew it would end up being like this if you found out about all of it. All your job stated was a simple protection contract, not some—”

You stop yourself.

Pale eyes don’t blink once as they keep themselves tight to you. Nikto lets his mind calm before he speaks. “Why are we here?”

Your brows shift, and you open and close your mouth. “I don’t know. I’m hoping my boss might give me some credit for just showing up and not—”

“Then we are going now,” he growls, attention flying from one prying person to the next. There are too many eyes here—too many ears. Nikto knows who might be lurking.

“Why,” you lightly push back, chuckling sarcastically. “I’m not in any danger, Nikto. At every turn, there aren’t any stop signs at the side of the road—at least here I have a grab at good wine and company that doesn’t hide the truth from me.”

Pale eyes flare. People start to turn your way. There’s a pause as if there’s something the Russian wants to state, but it fails on lips that you barely see rise from under his balaclava.

“I told you I do not lie, woman,” Nikto grunts, stature ridgid from where it spreads like a steady corruption; a shadow lengthening.

You had always avoided confrontation—always. You hated it, and, currently, you hated this as well. But the stress was getting to you, the threat of losing everything on top of your own life. Nikto had become a lifeline, and now he was trying to pull back.

Why?

Your face turns, and you stalk away. “Then do me a favor and stop telling me half-truths.”

—

If steam were able to come out of your ears, you would have filled the room with that heavy layer of your anger. Nikto was still stapled to you—unable to leave after what he now understood might come to fruition at these events if he did.

So, you both stood.

Silent.

Stoic.

Unsatisfied.

A dog without a bone left longingly glancing as if its eyes could speak all the words that needed to be explained on a human tongue.

Your hands push at the base of your skull, massaging the forming headache that had grown from when Iakov had let himself into your hotel. You can’t wait until these parties are over—until you can get another call from the investigators saying that your stalker has been apprehended with Sergi’s statements. There needed to be a happy ending to this; needed.

This can’t be all your life is meant to be.

You didn’t come here thinking that you would be sleeping with someone. Currently, as you’re sipping down the second glass of wine brought to you, you can see the head of the man you’re supposed to be attending to.

Borya Belov, or something close to that. Your coordinator had sent a text, but you’d barely looked at it and the picture attached. Large and middle-aged, he was up and coming in the city, generating impressive amounts of money and influence through his iron and steel plants. He knew your CEO, too—old family friends.

Your eyes tear themselves away before he can look in your direction, frowning heavily. A rock and a hard place.

You were foolish if you thought that by you being here it would allow you to keep your job without handing yourself over. It seems you’ve been foolish a lot lately. Your gaze sneaks to look at Nikto and only finds a rigid pole in his place. No under-the-breath jokes or knowing glances. No indecipherable emotions. It was just blank.

Shaking your head lightly, you bring the wine glass to your lips and take a large sip, letting the swell of it fill your mouth before it slips into your throat; tasting the bitter edge. With all of the blatant mess of emotions, it wasn’t any wonder why anyone hadn’t come over to talk to you.

“All of these things are the same,” you speak to yourself quietly, trying not to sweat as Nikto’s body shifts closer when Iakov walks past the two of you stiffly. The pale-haired man sends you a dark look and you bite your tongue, eyelids narrowing with unease.

Get dressed, speak gossip, get used, repeat.

Already the trap had settled, routine following like a pet.

Your fingers run over the glass in your hand, nails dragging as Nikto’s eyes stare from the side, thighs tightening before he rips his attention back to the party. He grunts and tilts his head, shoulders rolling.

Focus.

It’s in the atmosphere of a taut rope that you hear the thin conversation from not that far away.

“Look at him.”

Your ears quirk, but you don’t think of it much as you drink down the last dredges of your wine, licking at the corner of your mouth—careful of the lipstick. It was a group of women all turned into one another, muttering quickly and giggling even more so.

“Which one?”

“The big bastard, obviously. How much do you think he eats, hm? I’m betting an entire kitchens worth a day.”

Pausing, your spine slowly begins to straighten up, face stuck staring into the wall far across the room.

“I bet he’s hideous under all of that. Look at the mask—see?”

The round of muffled laughter behind silken gloves makes your heart jerk inside of your ribs as one of the photographers passes by Nikto and you, fiddling with his camera in his hands.

Beside you, the Russian either hears what’s going on and ignores it, or can’t and is simply not moving because he found someone in the crowd to pay attention to.

Looking over now, you’d place your bet on the first.

Nikto’s eyes are void, tiny pupils stuck in on themselves as he stares at nothing—his M13 is strangled under the grip of black gloves, and that little sliver of skin you see from his wrist has visible tension in it. He cracks his neck silently, sets his feet, and pretends.

Watching as he’s so apt to do to you, your anger-ridden face steadily freezes the longer your ears strain themselves to hear above the clink of glasses and useless chatter. Work and pleasure are zapped from your mind.

“You think so?”

“I am willing to bet on it—a thing like that is hiding its face because it has to. No soulmate, either. Go up and speak to him; I want to see.”

“But…what if he does have a soulmate? That woman beside him, isn’t that the one from Yekaterinburg? They could be—”

Nikto’s fingers twitch, eyes flashing.

“If I had a soulmate that had to hide his face from me, I would think he was a beast. No one would want to be within five feet of that.”

Few things made you angry.

Liars, cruelty, and the rest of the normal points that were on the list everyone keeps. But there was something particularly special about how you hated someone talking about Nikto like that. Forget him hiding something from you, forget his distance and his inability to speak about his emotions—you still cared about him deeply. The words he’d said to you, how he carries himself; his blunt honesty.

Your heels are hitting the ground before you can remember you’re here to not make a scene.

“Excuse me,” you say, slipping into an easy smile as you nearly trip over your own feet as you settle near the group. All of their eyes widen, some turning around to lock gazes with the sudden arrival. “Could you repeat yourself for me?” You chuckle without humor. “I swear I had thought I heard you talking about my guard over here.”

Your chin moves to allow your eyes to settle over your shoulder, looking back at Nikto who had walked two steps after you initially before seeing where it was you were stomping to. His wide eyelids are snapped back like book covers, darting from you to the women as if utterly confused.

“That one,” you point casually before turning back. “The, uh,” your body leans a bit closer, hand coming up to your grinning mouth, “beast.”

The gray shade on some of their faces darkened, a few stuttering through a Russian and English jumble of words.

You blink at them as a familiar shadow begins to sit over you, heavy boots connecting to the floor. Your face burns, but there’s truth in your words—in your conviction.

“Seraph,” Nikto says quietly in warning.

“One moment,” is the response he gets. Pale eyes are stuck to the back of your head. He doesn’t know what to do, but in his throat, there’s an airy feeling stuck there that he can’t describe. It swells in his chest first, spreading through his veins.

Nikto was always used to being the one to stand in front of you.

His heart is pounding, and he doesn’t know how to tell you to stop—that it doesn’t matter. The bigger question he should be asking is if he wants you to. The man wasn’t unused to comments. He can take it. But that fire behind your eyes rendered him speechless.

“His name is Nikto,” you say firmly. “Not that I expect you to remember it,” you tilt your head, looking them up and down. “In fact, I think it would be better if you didn’t.”

Huffing, you’re acutely aware of everyone watching, and your previous anxiety over your work is null. Disgust breeds like death flies.

None of this was worth it.

“Nikto,” you utter purposefully, setting your glass down on a side table and stepping behind. One of the Russian’s hands hovers over your back, the weapon resting on his chest clicking as it shifts. “We’re leaving. I don’t know why we came in the first place. There are more important things to worry about.”

“...Understood,” he levels, voice deep. Nikto blinks a few times, face under his mask layered with heat. There was no focusing when it came to you—his iron will was being smoothed down like a rock in water.

You push past Borya Belov without a glance, looking to the side to see a shock-stricken Iakov burning you with his orbs. There was nothing for you here.

Heels clicking over the floor, your dress ripples out behind you, unable to think beyond the deep insult you had taken on Nikto’s behalf. What gave those women the right to say anything? Especially about his appearance.

When physical looks meant so much to you, you dreaded that being placed on someone else as well. Even if it was apparently obvious that Nikto suffered just as you did.

“You did not have to do that, Птичка.” A hand grasps your upper arm and guides you away from the table you were about to run into as you both enter the hallway stiffly. “It does not affect us. Useless opinions—they do not reflect my character.” Jumping only slightly from being ripped from your thoughts, your head darts over.

You frown into a hidden face, Nikto stuck on the site of your pulled expression.

Cute, he silently thinks in that jumbled mess of a brain before his memories flash to the sight of that picture on his phone. The hand leaves you in an instant, moving back to his M13.

“I know I didn’t,” you breathe sharply, shaking your head. Closing your eyes, your shoes halt as you stop.

Nikto follows suit, pausing before turning back with a furrow of his brows.

It’s a special thing, the way your desperation bleeds into your sentence. “Will you tell me what’s going on with you, or not?”

He stares, body pausing under your attention.

“Nikto,” you breathe, far enough away from the main living room to indulge in a bit of horrific truth. “I like being with you,” your words slip. “I mean with you, with you. Y’know? I like you near me—watching over me. I don’t want this to become something that jeopardizes what we’ve built up. I’m not asking for a relationship, or even for you to tell me that you care about me, I just…” you fail to finish, eyes breaking off to glare at the floor; fighting against the sting. “You’re making my head spin,” your words dip lower, and Nikto flinches. “Just…tell me what’s wrong. You’re not acting right, and you’re worrying me.”

You don’t think you’ve been looked at this intently before now. Not by boyfriends, not by flings, or crushes. It’s a bare thing, Nikto’s eyes. A landscape of pale gray tundras and white snow—you don’t know what he’s thinking as he stands there like some Greek statue; Aries personified and dropped right in front of you.

You want that blood of his, that malice and incurable damage. Not to fix it—not to change what’s already scored into flesh—but just to see those eyes soften as they had a handful of times before.

A war god and a white bird.

Nikto’s throat bobs in a slow swallow as you finish, pulse hammering as his gloves suddenly constrict his hands far too much. He doesn’t want to tell you. He doesn’t want to explain why his distance is more for his benefit than yours.

You push once more.

“What are you so afraid of?”

“You.” He grunts stoic-like, and all of it falls into a swift silence thereafter. Your breath is taken on one great rapturous theft. Nikto stares as your jaw slackens, mind going blank.

He darts his eyes away and tilts his head.

“...Come. We do not want to be here any longer.” The Russian’s body is next to yours and in a fast movement, you find yourself being gently prodded along to the front door, jacket grabbed from the side of it and settled over your shoulders.

Grasping at the corners, this moment is verging on irreparable—you’ve never found yourself so thrown off course besides when the inevitable advances from the stalker had come to you.

Your hands shake in unsteady intervals as you blankly stare ahead.

Me?

The car is cold when you get into it, pulling your jacket closer as you slip across the seat—Nikto grabbing the long trail of your dress and making sure it stays inside. The man sits next to you, grabbing and slamming the door with a fist thumping the window twice.

Under you both, the engine starts up and the tires push against the concrete.

Your eyes ogle Nikto, and not once do they leave them even as the Russian pointedly ignores you by keeping his head locked forward. His body moves to the turning of the car, and your phone in your jacket pocket is going wild with call after call as his feet shift to steady himself unconsciously. It’s all a blur of needless sound and emotion.

“Me?” Your voice finally finds itself; breathless.

Nikto doesn’t react, spine so straight, the seats of the vehicle don’t touch anything. His fingers over his gun twitch before he grasps the cold metal harder to stop them.

The Russian tries to halt the way his eyes want to gravitate to meet yours, trying to think over every face from the party and who had made any attempts to get near to you; just in case something pops up tonight. Yet, the hitting pain in his ribs is akin to something ripping them open with a fork, mutilating an entrance to his heart just to take and grasp it in soft hands.

He was never taught gentle love. Nikto was taught to grab and rip at it, to claw into it with fangs until there was blood on his face, seeping down his throat to settle in his stomach—hoping it might find a way to spread to his soul.

Iakov had a key, the man catalogs, trying to fight his quivering fingers as you just can’t seem to look away from him with those eyes of yours. Does he have motive? Perhaps. We need to add him to the list regardless. I did not see any repeating faces from last night here unless they were in another room or waiting outside.

Pale attention briefly pauses to the driver of the car, strong jaw clenching.

Drivers? Stylists? Who else could be here and not be noticed even by me?

Eyes flash to the previous party again, back to the crunch of bone under his grip. Hands trailing flesh, ripped lace, and silk that pools at his dress shoes. The feral rubbing of a gun between two panting bodies. It should have been enough stress relief for the both of you—Nikto wasn’t lying when he equated the affair to something he could look past. He wasn’t new to flings; he considered himself a master of them in his youth. It wouldn’t have made him think any differently about the job, except for that one pin-pointed problem:

He was right behind us.

Nikto’s mouth goes dry, anger brewing. He blinks to stare out the window, and your gaze is still present as if a knife to his throat.

It doesn’t leave once.

—

The hotel room is seeped in an eerie level of silence.

You’d long since called Iakov—said a firm and swift answer of, “I’m done with the parties,” and hung up before the yelling could start again.

You’re not even sure if you still have your job at AMA, but that’s for a later date, it seems. Not having an income was worse than the emotional turmoil that had settled right on your chest.

Leaning in the window seat of the bedroom, you keep your legs tucked in close to you with the curtain stuck at your back, head resting against the glass. White lights twinkle, but the places that aren’t illuminated are too dark to focus on—an amalgamation of shadows like a veil. The night was always difficult for you and your sight, but right now you think it’s best to just sit here and stare, even if it’s at nothing.

Your eyes drag slowly along the thin view of the street below, feeling the cold seep in through the glass, softly easing the headache that pulses at your temple.

“He’s…afraid of me?” The door to the room is slightly ajar, a sliver of light from the living room making its way in. Your face twists. “What does that mean?”

You pose no threat to him without something like a gun, so it couldn’t be that. And what had changed since this morning? He’d let you lay next to him—see a part of his face. You’d traced his tattoo with willing fingers; Nikto hadn’t pushed you away then.

What had happened?

There’s a small squeak of the metal hinges of the bedroom door, and your head rises quickly.

Nikto stands there, in only a white button-down shirt and his dress pants; normal mask re-stiuated. Blinking gently, a thick pause emanates before you glance down at his hands and see a soft display of an olive branch.

The gruff hired gun holds a tiny, white, tea-cup.

“Magnolia,” he huffs, not moving an inch as he motions with his hand, the ceramic material clinking.

You stare, oversized shirt all to cover you besides your undergarments. You’d long since lost the sense of embarrassment of bare skin—particularly yours.

Pale eyes slip to caress the image of your flesh bathed in the sliver of warm light, your curious eyes stuck on him as his feet re-situated themselves.

“You remembered?” You ask, trying to sound casual beyond the surprise.

Nikto blinks, voice muffled. “I do not forget when it comes to you,” he hums, accent thick. “Drink.”

Softly standing, your bare feet hit the coldness of the floor, yet you feel it little. Walking over to stand in front of him, your hand reaches only to bounce off the small tea plate instead, fingers flinching back lightly from the miscalculation. Your face heats, and you’re about to utter a quick apology before Nikto’s hand captures yours.

Gasping under your breath, the warmth that seeps through his glove goes bone-deep as he manually wraps your digits around the handle. Nikto grunts in satisfaction and lets you take it to you, keeping the plate which he lowers his hand with.

After a moment, you clear your throat and say while staring down at the liquid, “Where did you get this?”

“Bag.” Your brows tighten.

He sighs gently. “We packed it. You forgot, yes?”

“Oh,” you nod. “Yeah, I didn’t even realize I had left it behind. Thank you, Nikto.”

The Russian nods once, and then pivots to walk back to the living room, leaving you standing there as the sound of rummaging items in the kitchen echoes. Holding the mug, the tea rippling under your unsteady grasp, your head shakes itself in slow exasperation. The man wouldn’t talk about this unless you pushed him…but would that break the unsteady relationship you’d been trying to build?

“All of this is so confusing,” your lips mutter before your body follows after Nikto, slipping out into the light of the room as you blink rapidly in response.

Locking sights on Nikto as he cleans up the counter, your form is wracked with an impending sense of nervousness. Damn him and his mask—you didn’t have something you could hide your emotions behind.

It was times like these when you wished your mother was warm enough to ask advice from, that your father wasn’t back in the USA with limited involvement due to the peaceful contact order. You were alone here, except for Aly. But this was something that only a parent could help you with, and you were fresh out of those. You doubted that your mom knew everything going on—you weren’t about to tell her you’d allowed a ruthless killer to get you off in a storage room after you’d seen him snap a man's wrist back.

Nor that you enjoyed it.

It falls on me, your breath is thin as you breathe it down, steadily moving to set the teacup to one of the many tables holding useless decorations. You scowl at the boring interior design unconsciously before your focus locks in.

What you had to do was bring up your points clearly and smoothly—

“Why are you standing there doing nothing,” your eyes widen as Nikto fluidly turns to look over his shoulder directly at you. His gaze narrows behind Kevlar and canvas. “If you want to say something, speak.”

“I want you to tell me what’s gotten you acting like a constipated bear,” you blurt out.

It’s almost funny the way his eyes flinch.

Nitko grinds out, “We do not understand.”

“You do,” you huff, crossing your arms as your voice bounces off the walls. “I don’t have infinite patience, believe it or not.” Inside of your sockets, you feel your gaze soften; voice lowering to the level you’d raised it. “I think I’ve been honest with you, Nikto. I’m not trying to push you into a corner. You know that. I need an explanation,” you take a breath, “and you’re going to give it to me.”

Pale eyes move to the side, and you visibly see the large Russian’s body fighting itself both internally and externally. You had noticed a few things from the time you’d come under his protection, some obvious—Nikto valued cooking and a clean place to rest; he liked reading, and a silence built on mutual respect. Nikto’s fingers twitched when he was either nervous or trying to focus. He tilted his head when he needed to think.

You liked to think that you knew him quite well, despite it all. You especially knew his fraying patience.

Nikto’s shoulders roll, bones cracking from under the button-up. His masked face is the only thing he feels gives him protection. A cover.

“It is not something,” the man begins slowly, trying to convince you, “that you need to concern yourself with.”

Your lips thin out, feet taking you forward as you shiver from the cold of the hotel.

“Nikto,” you utter again, softly knocking your side into the counter before you can stand in front of him yourself. He looks down at you, chest moving up and down in slow breaths.

You know the horrors that live under that fabric. The great scars—the burns that had slipped into your dreams as you’d laid on his thigh like a child afraid of the dark. You can remember the dips of them under your fingertips; the trauma that bleeds still.

You’d called him beautiful, and of course you had, but the very base of it still left you cold with a betraying sense of sickness. Same with the lower half of his face, which you’d only chosen to see a glance of. It was a deep rolling of your stomach. You cared more for the marks he had put on, willingly, himself; the tattoos. Dark ink.

But that didn’t stop you from reaching out to him—responding to that addictive pull that had always seemed to be there from the moment you’d first met him in the Consulate Building.

Your fingers hover over Nikto’s pec, right above his heart as you swallow saliva and stare with parted lips. Piercing eyes give way to nothing, but there’s a knowledge in the heart that beats above your waiting touch.

You tilt your head and wait silently.

Nikto’s pulse moves his flesh, and he can feel every drop of blood under his skin.

“It does not need to be explained to you,” he tries again, his firm words now only comparable to the sensation of rocks thrown along the sand. Salt-stained throat raw as your fingers brush his shirt. “Seraph,” Nikto attempts a tone of authority.

“Call me by the other one,” you mutter, and it’s pathetic the way he responds to your request in that hotel kitchen. Like a soldier following an order. A whining little dog beholden to a white-lace collar.

“Птичка.”

Your smile makes him want to rip himself away from you and take a cold shower, maybe stare at his scars; even break his mind again before it slips away to thoughts of your curling lips and your shining eyes.

“That’s it,” you whisper, and your hand flattens over his heart as his gaze breaks away to the simple contact, blinking in confusion as his flesh pulls tight. “That’s the one.”

But he was more surprised when he didn’t flinch rather than when he shivered.

It’s only after a small moment of nothing that he lets himself bathe in the warmth of your skin and the scent of your perfume as it slips under his mask. A mask that has seen far too much death for you to bear. Then he’d want you to bear.

Your words make his bones ache.

“Tell me,” you urge, as perfect as a bird’s dew-coated feathers.

Nikto’s vision is stuck only to you, and his greatest fear is that this is all it will ever be bound to—not by honor, the man had no such thing, but by utter devotion. There was no lying about it now as his lips parted, those cut and torn-up things like a ragged jigsaw puzzle of pain. He cares not about soulmates or brain trauma. Blood or bile.

He cares about the sound a silent grave will make when his bones are the ones that chain themselves to rest beside yours.

Mutt.

Now that, maybe, would seem an honor-coated title to carve into his corpse, but only if it was in reference to his affection for you.

“Picture,” Nikto grinds out, fighting to step closer to the addictive sensation of your touch. The warmth. The pound of blood. You listen silently, and not once do those eyes separate.

“Sent to my phone.” He pauses, and suddenly his voice is very low—you can feel it in your chest as it rumbles the walls, the floors; the bedroom door. It’s difficult to say how you feel when he explains it to you, there’s something relieving in knowing, though. Yet, it still makes your throat close in on itself. “Of us.”

“From the stalker?” You ask, already knowing the answer but hoping it might have just been a fluke.

Pale eyes don’t blink.

“Д��. From him.”

You take a large breath, nodding as your fingers quiver over Nikto’s dress shirt, creasing the fabric slightly. He takes a quick glance down at them again, and his own twitch at his sides.

“...Don’t tell me the details?”

“Never,” the Russian sighs, clenching his jaw. “Я бы этого не сделал. We did not want to explain, regardless.”

You shrug as well as you’re able, hand beginning to slowly slide off of him. “Still,” your lips pull into a steady smirk, though it lacks enough amusement to make it convincing. “I’m glad you told me—I was getting worried that it might have been by fault you were acting strange.”

“My emotions are,” Nikto struggles for the correct word in English, grunting as his mouth closes under his mask. He glares at the wall behind you as if a toddler without a snack.

You tilt your skull, tiny chuckles wafting out of your mouth.

“Stuck, Big Guy?”

“Enough,” he grumbles, feet re-situating themselves from under him.

Your hand is only a millimeter away from his flesh before his grip finds your wrist and brings it back, digits caressing to press into your pulse. You blink quickly, air getting stalled in your nose.

Nikto’s eyes slowly dip to stare at your hand, and you notice the shades even more clearly now that you’re so close to him—though they’d always just be pale gray to you, there were moments when you wondered the true color. A silly dream, seeing as you wouldn’t know how that color would look anyway, but, still.

The Russian’s large fingers turn your wrist.

“Your heart is racing,” he mutters. If having your bodyguard check your pulse was something that you found attractive, now was only the realization of it.

Your face suddenly feels like you’re walking on the sun, and a small noise in the back of your throat makes Nikto’s attention leave the fast thump of your blood.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Your breathless question eases out past your lips like a soft flutter of wings.

“Hm,” Nikto hums, and you can also see his throat bobbing. His hold squeezes, his face looming just the tiniest bit closer to yours.

The Russian takes a chest-rising inhale and speaks.

“I am not good,” he mutters, eyes moving the dips and drags of your face—it feels like his gaze is touching you when he stares like that; studying your visage as if he’d be tested on it. “We are not…” He blinks, and his pupils are small voids of inky corruption. “Perfect.”

You wonder how often he’d found you in his mind, and feel both foolish and hopelessly lost in his shadow.

“I never said you were,” you murmur back, seeing the wickedness in his heart. Painted on his skin. “I think it’s lovely.”

Here is where this should end—you’d both had your fun previously. You’d been sipping your sugar water like a little hummingbird; reveling in the intimacy of that storage room. You should be thinking about the stalker, about your job, about what will happen tomorrow when you open your eyelids to light through the curtains.

Not about how Nikto’s fingers would feel digging into your hips. Not the panting of fast breaths. Not how the color of his eyes would be, perhaps, the most beautiful shade you could ever hope to imagine in your damaged brain.

“Nikto,” you breathe, body light. He’s as still as a statue above you, not saying a thing. “What color are your eyes?”

“Blue.”

And then you’re being picked up as if a doll by the back of your thighs and hefted up with a throaty huff akin to a boar. Your forehead connects with his, and your arms wrap his neck to hang off with crossed wrists.

“Blue?” Your legs tighten around his waist, squeezing as the man’s nose pushes into yours. Breath bounces off the mask, your eyes flutter at the firm press of fabric prodding at your underwear. You fight a small whine, bodies tight to one another. “Your hair?”

“Brown,” is the puff from under the mask, and tiny pupils dilate the longer you hold eye contact.

Your hips roll, and Nikto’s strained grunt reverberates against your chest. “Tell me it in Russian.”

“Карие.” He growls, fingertips digging into your flesh like the teeth of a bear trap. Nikto thumps past the place where you’d set your tea, completely forgotten by everyone just like the previous tension was.

When the two of you were together, things managed to get out of hand quickly—at least, emotionally-wise. You both were utterly hopeless, just as the room was now far from the cold monochrome wash of white. It was bathed in spraying sparks lit behind your eyes when one of Nikto’s hands staples itself to the base of your back, just above the curve of your tailbone, and angles your core further into the growing prod of his erection.

You gasp as your pelvis jerks, face twisting up with your pulse impossibly increasing.

“You are curious,” Nikto pants, pushing past the bedroom door with a shoulder as the handle smashes into the wall. Not that you care. “You push me, Woman. Leave my head loose and my body aching.” You feel the way your core burns, aches, nearly, as your underwear gets wet with the anticipation of flesh.

Your lips sear Nikto’s soul when they push to the canvas of his mask—just as they had in the storage room though now it’s harder to feel.

“Don’t act like you don’t like it, Big Guy,” you whisper, tongue darting out to lick at your lips, eyes half-lidded.

That pull between the two of you only seems to increase as you’re dropped back to the bed, head pointedly planned to slap a pillow as you involuntarily gasp. Your shirt is ruffled up to your breasts, and the sheets are around you like a cocoon of expensive finery—eyes darting to Nikto, you find his gaze easily standing beside the bed.

He stares at you like you’re the greatest meal ever placed in front of him. Forget the items he cooks, forget the things he’d eaten, even forget the way it satisfies him; nothing could compare to even the thought of what he now has.

You’re staring at a man with blood on his hands and wishing he would spread you open already.

Nikto’s chest bounces with a pleased noise, gaze shifting to study your bare legs and arms—the stain that coats your underwear, spreading by the second as your thighs tighten in on themselves to trap the chill. Your face is on fire, and your lungs heave.

His ravaged hand grasps at your knee, coaxing them back open as he says a simple order with a raw voice, “Keep them open.”

You’re not embarrassed with how you listen, letting the limbs be forced back to display your instinctual need to the large Russian. Your thin whine is choked back as his fingers run up and down your clothed core, teasing.

Nikto chuckles, and you shiver.

“We do like it,” he breathes out in response to your previous comment. Pale eyes dart to find and lock with yours—not leaving as his index and middle finger find your clit, pressing firmly and lightly rocking up and down. Your hips jerk as you bite on a shocked moan, relishing in the sudden ricochets of electricity that run your bones.

Head tilting back, you bite your lip and pant out, “Nikto, yes.”

His fingers leave just as quickly as the words do you, and your desperate eyes move with near pain until your hand darts to grapple onto Nikto’s wrist like a cat. He lets you try and guide him back firmly, to no avail, before you grit your teeth and glare at him, opening your mouth.

Yet, the Russian’s hidden face finds your ear with no trouble and leaves your upcoming words frozen.

“But we like it better when you are too choked on pleasure to think at all.”

Nikto moves back, taking his other hand and making yours release him before he steps away. He blinks, watching your aroused state as you stutter over your sentence; smirking to himself and tilting his head as if you’re an exhibit in a museum. The man grunts, now free grip able to slide to his belt slowly and fiddle with the buckle.

“Y-you’re horrible,” you grumble, eyes unable to stay on the image for long before you have to slash it away so you can breathe. The clinking of metal

“We did warn you,” Nikto pauses, his voice so laced with smugness that it seemed an insult. “Птичка.”

Your lower body shifts, trying to satiate the urge for stimulation.

Breathing heavily, you raise your forearm and put it over your eyes, expression tight as you try and focus. Your ears twitch to Nikto’s steady undressing, hearing the pull of dress pants and the unclipping of a thigh holster. Each sound sends a pulse directly to your weeping slit, and it becomes so strong that Nikto can only watch as your other hand slips under the elastic of your panties.

He stops himself instantly, his eyes pulling back as he pauses. Slipped out of everything besides his shirt, boxers, and obviously his mask, Nikto’s shoulders tense wildly at the sight in front of him.

Your body is tight as you begin to breathe heavier, lips slightly open as your fingers idly roll your bundle of nerves a bit harder. Hips jerking every so often, your fingers stretch the fabric of your garment as your toes curl.

“Fuck,” you breathe, jaw clenching and eyes closed from under your forearm.

Nikto is firmly planted, the firmness in his boxers now seemingly to a point of no return—his fingers twitched to dig into your skin, his eyes stuck to how you were playing with yourself. Clothed in only a large shirt that was bunching up further to allow a glimpse of your breasts and hearing those tiny little noises escape your mouth…

“Harder,” Nikto grunts, his own hand slipping into his boxers as he hisses in pleasure at the state of himself. Firm in his grip as he wraps his fingers around the hot pulse of his cock, groaning when his thumb slips along his tip to collect the beads of pre-cum.

Your breath hitches and through your soft pants, you sigh as your arm slides, “I think I know how to—”

Your fingers twitch harshly as your eyes flutter open to lock onto the scene in front of you, causing you to moan before it strangles off with a quick noise in your throat. Eyes wide, you watch Nikto begin jerking himself off one slow stroke at a time, his thighs tense as his other hand moves to unbutton his shirt one at a time.

There was something so inherently intimate about seeing the other in the throws of self-pleasure, half-clothed and desperate for something that can’t be named. The chain of events was building, and some concerns needed to be addressed, but it isn’t fair to have to put your life on hold for them—necessary, yes, eventually. But Nikto’s eyes were so hellishly pale, and your hands were shaking, and the scent of sex was permeating inside of your nose. It’s different than the storage room, it’s hinged on the knowledge that this bear of a man is afraid of you, which in and of itself is unfathomable, and that he was in such a sour mood simply because he had been trying, once more, to spare you from the unseen threat.

He had done it with the birds in the box, he’d done it when you’d gotten the first pictures sent to you, and he did it every time he let you hang off of his arm.

You push your digits across your clit harder and whine out as Nikto’s open dress shirt slips to his waist, the cuffs rolled up as bare skin meets the darkness of the room. That sliver of light from the door was all that was needed, the barrier having slowly crawled its way back from where the Russian had shoved it, to witness the bulge and dip of scar tissue—the shades of hyperpigmentation.

And you wanted to drag your nails along all of them.

“Смотреть на себя,” Nikto’s chest heaves, the bulk of his frame just the same as when you’d touched along his back. His hand inside of his boxers stutters, and his eyes flinch closed for a moment, masked face tilted. “Хорошим слушателем. Good for us, hm?”

“Touch me,” you ask, unconsciously mirroring Nikto’s pace as the sensitivity of your core heightens, leaking out to stain your underwear to the point it’s no use to keep them after this. Your spine is tight—begging to be arched just as your cunt begs to be filled. It tightens over nothing, and you whimper with a push of thin breath. “Please, Nikto, you filled me so well last time.”

His eyes glint, that Russian pride bleeding to fill the cup in his abdomen. Nikto smirks, but you can’t see it above the large hand that goes to grip your face, angling it to him as his other hand continues with the wet slapping of his cock. You want to see it—you want to watch it. Damn him he’s making this into a game of cat and mouse.

“What is that? You like when we fill your tight cunt, Птичка?”

Your face burns, and your eyes study his own as your pace below increases—rotting wood taking root beside sweat and pheromones.

Nikto’s grip squeezes and you hear the rutting of flooded skin more clearly as he looms over your body, both fucking yourselves for no other reason than liking the sight and the sounds of the other.

“Answer.”

“Yes,” you stutter, unable to stop the thin noises from your mouth that follow—the cord in your abdomen pulling until taunt. “God, yes.”

“Not God,” the Russian chuckles before he groans, forehead connecting with yours as it rocks to the rabid abuse of his own hand, trying to imagine the sensation of your walls against them instead of his calloused fist. Your flesh would be softer than his ever could be, and the knowledge of that is enough to reduce him to a mindless beast. His breath hitches tightly, his hand moving rapidly, unconcerned about how fast his release is finding him just by hearing your little pleas. “No, Seraph, there is no God in this room.”

When he drinks down the sounds you give him he feels your body tense one final time, your lips flattening as your eyes flutter—only seconds away from your orgasm, perhaps.

Nikto’s hands leave your face, and so does his forehead. You barely notice, truth be told until it’s not a second later that fingers are gripping the hand down your panties and dragging it out just as your hips begin rising off the bed.

“No!” Your desperate keen echoes off the walls, eyes snapping open to rip your head down to the scene. Nikto was lacking his shirt, boxers are gone, and as he staples your arm beside your head, his body drags itself atop yours until his weight is as firm as stone. “Nikto, why did you—?”

“Hush,” he utters, knocking your leg up over his hip in a swift thrust that leaves the leaking tip of his dick prodding against your sopping cunt. Your eyelids flutter at the sensation, painting only to have your breasts shove into a sweaty chest.

“So close,” you beg, the feeling of your release draining away, leaving you irritated and unsatisfied.

Your hips roll in a play to find friction, and the feeling of Nikto’s happy trail seems promising as you grind up into it, but there’s only so much you can do when the man’s other hand snags your waist and pushes you down.

You glare heatedly up into blown and smug eyes.

You know better than to ask him to remove the mask, and now that you look at it, maybe that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. There was something alluring in those eyes, set into the dark void around them, deadly and numb, yet showing more emotions than anyone else would be able to tell besides you.

“Let us help,” Nikto pushes himself up, grinding into your core as your glare breaks away into blown need. “I have something better than fingers. Show you how good it can be, yes? Show how you are supposed to be treated, Little Bird.”

Your hands slide up to his shoulder blades and he groans under his breath, taking in the sensation of nails along flesh, catching on the scars until they settle. Had he not imagined this before? Had he not fantasized? Desired? Sinful, yes, but he’d do it again if he could still feel the wet fluids of your arousal coating his abdomen. If this was the outcome of Nikto becoming locked in his own stoic emotions, there was a part of him that was greedy because of it.

There was no possible way that this was going to continue…right?

His ears twitch to your voice as your legs shift to wrap the top of his hips, dragging his pelvis ever closer until he’s fighting the wave of agony by not having your cunt pulse around him.

On your part, there wasn’t an ounce of hesitation.

“Then show me.”

It’s easy to slip the tip of himself inside of you—there’s enough fluid to render even the thought of dry friction impossible. Nikto's body shudders at the sensation, though it’s only a small portion of what you both need.

Your head rocks back, fingertips digging into the Russian’s shoulders as you both curse at the stretch of your folds. You hadn’t been able to gawk at the build of the man tonight—both too desperate for release—but thinking about how he gives small thrusts to help himself along, his eyes not moving from you unless to blink, you’d safely say he was well-endowed.

“Fuck,” your lips quiver, sweat at your brow. Through the whimper, you moan, a large thumb finding your clit and rolling as the sound of squelching echoes between the groans and whines. You’re both nothing but damn animals. “Could have,” you gasp, and Nikto stops before you shake your head and pull him closer. “Could have given a girl a warning, Big Guy.”

His strained chuckle only makes your core welcome him more, and the feeling of textured veins and warm flesh steadily driving itself home was addicting. Sex had never felt as fun as this. As safe.

Nikto made it safe.

“Apologies,” he grunts out, great form above you before you feel the nested base of his pelvis connect with yours.

You both shake and your face is open with a pleasure-driven emotion as the Russian slides his head to your shoulder, his breath echoing from under his mask into your ear. He licks his lips, grip on your waist and arm pulsing with steady intervals of—tense, release, tense, release…

“Are you—”

“Fucking hell, please start moving,” you gasp out, grinding into him as the string on Nikto’s caution flees like a loose animal.

His hand travels back from your waist to your hip, the other to the back of your neck, and as he staples his forehead to yours, he grinds out a quiet, “да,” and moves himself out of you nearly all the way as your eyes roll to the feeling.

When the bed starts knocking the wall, there’s little to the imagination as to what’s taking place, and the steadily rising sounds mean nothing as sheets rustle and skin slaps faster, both sensitive from such near releases earlier. There are mutters in Russian, fast, harsh things that hold no venom—slow mutters that make your legs go numb long after both of you had finished.

Nikto was right: for such a brute, he did know how to treat a woman. Well, maybe he just knew how to treat you right.

Multiple times.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

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miss-vanta-likes-to-write · 23 days ago

Text

The Book of Yemoja

18+ mdni, please check master list for the content warnings

Master list

Chapter 1: Noctilucous - shining at night.

I hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime

Tell them, tell 'em, tell them the truth

I hope you find some paradise (tell them, tell 'em the truth)

Tell 'em, tell 'em, tell 'em, tell them your-

“Captain Price, I'm afraid that if you try to separate them too soon, Kyle may go into shock.” The psychiatrist tries to gently explain. “Not to mention the young woman that is with him.”

John stares at his pack's omega and he feels like a failure. They thought he was killed in action. Gone from them for good. He's ashamed that he was ready to write it all off despite Soap saying he could feel it in his soul that Kyle wasn't lost. He doesn't even try to pretend to be concerned about anyone else other than his Kyle. Yeah, it's nice that this woman managed to save him. What's not nice is the unhealthy codependency. They orbit each other, always within arms reach, growling whenever someone gets too close. When one sleeps, the other keeps watch. They never eat at the same time or even eat the same food. John can't imagine what kind of hellish abuse happened to where neither of them will eat together.

Right now, both of them are lying on the bed. There are soft whispered words between the two of them. They lay in each other's arms, tracing soothing patterns on each other. Kyle has his back facing the observation window. He's hiding her. While Kyle was worse for wear when they found him, the girl was feral and extremely violent. It's clear that she's not all there, but there are moments where John swears she's clairvoyant and is always three steps ahead of the staff that has been tasked with watching them.

She counts a lot. She counts the amount of grapes in the bowl from their lunch. She counts the number of tiles on the ceiling and walls. She counts how many staff members pass the doorway window. John is sure she is keeping count of time, but he isn't sure how because there's no clock in the room, but she always makes sure she is up at each shift change.

“I guess she's stuck with us for now.” John sighs, turning away from the two way mirror.

I've been goin' through somethin'

One thousand, eight hundred and 55 days

I've been goin' through somethin'

Be afraid

Heat. Blistering itchy heat. Kyle wants to crawl out of his skin. It's so bad. The cold stone floor does little to give him relief. He imagines in his mind that Johnny will tease him. Nip at the bond mark on his neck, finger him open, and then slowly push himself into him. A sweet joining of flesh to prepare him for John and Simon. It would then be a week of non-stop fucking, and at the end he would he would be pleasantly sore.

“Suppressants aren't-” a voice says through the thick fog of his concussion and heat addled brain.

There's growling coming from above his body. A weight presses down on him, and it feels like when Simon lays on him. A weighted blanket that's growling and hissing. There's a clang and the sound of glass shattering. Pained grunts and muffled shouts.

“Fuck! Sedate-” another voice is yelling and it makes his head hurt. Then it's all quiet or he thinks it's quiet.

“You're okay.” A soft voice that sounds like it has swallowed rocks says to him. A warm hand touches him, and he hisses. “We'll get through this.”

He opens his eyes, and the splitting headache he has only gets worse. Her eyes are wild like a caged animal, hair a matted mess. Despite this, she gives the visage of a bright light shining dimly in the dark of night (he is delirious with pain and heat). He's about to close his eyes again, but she taps him on the cheek.

“Hey, stay up. You have to stay up.” She moves him and holds him close to her breast. “Are you in heat? How long does it last?”

“Six or seven days.” He manages to croak out. Promptly after everything becomes a blur and haze.

His body doesn't feel like it's his own, but his inner omega feels good. The heat in his body is still blistering, but right now, the edge is being taken off. He grips at the flesh of her hips as he rocks into her body. He almost never is on top. His own dick never really enters any of his alphas. It's always him on the bottom, so this feels different. She's got the smooth column of her neck bared, submitting to him fully. His body bends over her, and his hips work into her, trying to desperately find relief. His dick is covered in an obscene amount of her slick, and it's mixing with his own.

He whines, a guttural sound coming from his chest. He pants when he kisses her, bites at her lips, and shoves his tongue into her mouth. She sucks on his tongue and moans into the kiss. Her nails are bitten to the quick drag along his skin, and there won't be any scratches or welts on him. He still likes the feeling all the same. Somewhere in his mind he knows this isn't what his body of craving, he craves a knot, he desires to be ruined in the only way Simon can, to be choked and have his Captain’s beard leave a tingling feeling across his skin, to feel the jackhammer of Johnny's hips against his own.

This. Two omegas fucking. It feels like too needy pups that just discovered what sex was and didn't want to commit to the act with an alpha.

But fuck if it doesn't feel good. It feels wet. It feels hot. It feels like the frayed edges of his mind are being cooled. It feels good to dominate her body and flesh.

When his heat breaks on the last day, he finally is lucid. The two of them are in a tangle of limbs. Sweaty bodies pressed close together at the far side of their cell. They don't bother with clothes. The thin, scratchy blanket that covers them is enough for now. She keeps her back towards the cell door, and he faintly realizes she is trying to hide him.

“What's your name?” His eyes feel heavy with sleep. Voice raw from voicing his pleasure. “My name is Kyle.”

She is quiet as she stares back at him. He is a little unnerved by how she doesn't answer right away. Instead, a small smile graces her cracked lips, and he thinks about the dangers of dehydration. She has not, to his memory, drank enough water, and she certainly only allows him a few sips here and there. Her fingers trace over his cheekbones and lips. Hands cupping his face with reverence, almost like she can't believe that someone else is in here with her.

It's a long moment of silence, and he is drifting off to sleep now. “How many days has it been?” He asks. He is trying to get her to talk. One of the first things to go as a POW is sanity. Maybe hers is already gone?

“It's been two weeks.” She tells him. “They put it in the air…I'm sorry.”

“Hm?” He cracked open his eyes, “I just got here.”

“No. The suppressants and sedatives were put in the air when I wouldn't let them inject you.”

He lost time. A big mistake, a rookie one at that. He can already hear Captain scolding him. He takes a deep breath. The come down from his heat is pulling him under into sleep. He needs it so that he can figure out with a clear head on how to escape and get back to his pack.

Before his fitful sleep finds him, he hears her speak again.

“Call me Yemoja.”

Everybody grieves different.

I grieve different.

Huh.

a.n: hello everyone. I plan on making you all hurt in this one. Love you. 😘

Song: United in grief. Kendrick Lamar

Tag list: @uraeus56 @littlelovebug98 @mochroialainn @gazsluckyhat @chickennuggetuwu @beloveds-embrace @leahnicole1219 @curiouslittleprincess

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scentedpepper · 6 months ago

Text

Embered Metamorphisis

JASPER HALE X WEREWOLF!GN READER

● gif by @goodomcns

Summary: The aftermath of transfroming into a giant, raging wolf isn't kind to you --yet, your sworn enemy is.

Content Warnings: Uhhhh, descriptions of bones cracking, hair sprouting and such werewolf things.

Other Pairings: Sam Uley x GN Reader, Wolf Pack mentioned, Carlisle and Edward mentioned.

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Slowly slipping back into my twilight phase...

We didn't get enough struggles of being a quileute shapeshifter content so heres your stuggles of being a quileute shapeshifter content

Yeah I'm changing up my format but does that mean that I'm going back and re editing all 8 parts of leon kennedy series —lol

I have a marvel fic written and I literally have no excuse as to why its taking me so long to edit but yk

Heres twilight instead?

_________________________________________

You pulled your eyelids closer to your waterline, the splash of water against your searing hot face felt dull compared to the tear shaped lava dripping down the curve of your back, meeting at the waistband of your boxers and leaving a sour, pungent smell within the fabric.

Your body shook with such agony, that had you been the fragile, human-esqu being that you posed as, your bones would have liquified; bones that turned a delicate peach flower shade of cream.

If you looked up into the mirror in front of you, you were sure, at this rate, you'd see steam floating off the very skin that had stretched and molded itself and grew hair the length of a beanstalk all over your body. But this wasn't the pain that tore apart every neuron in your brain, and rendered you to nothing but a shivering, aching mess.

It was something else, and even with your mind so sluggish, so disoriented and tired that you could easily sleep for several days and your stomach, pouring out gurgling noises of bregrudement that you could barely hear over the own ringing in your ears, ached with its hunger.

You seemed to be grunting to yourself, atop the linoleum flooring of your bathroom that you felt as if your feet were burning holes into. You made your own noises out in passing, brief, in and out moments where your ears tuned back to your surroundings. Huffs. Whistling. There was faint cursing.

Stupid. Fuckin stupid. The voice ran through your foggy mind, an echo of rage.

Your entire body shook with such a powerful force, so dolorous in nature, that your eyes held heavy purple bags beneath them. You squinted them ever further closed, yet the light seeped out from the crevices like tears.

You didn't dare look to the light, it'd be like blinding yourself to the sun because everything now was 10 times brighter, clearer, intense. You heard each beat of your pulse right behind your ears, it wasn't as much 'thump, thump, thump' as a constant noise that felt more like you were vibrating.

It was all the more aggravating, all of it.

Your muscles were spasming beneath you and the longer you stood the more you couldn't feel your toes. The longer you locked yourself in your bathroom, huddled into the furthest corner, the closer you felt death crawling along your own skin.

What are you? That question held such power to pull the rug beneath your feet. Objectively, you knew. Sam had crossed borders to ensure you didn't break the treaty anymore than he already was. And your mind held such a haze that not even now you could clearly decipher what exactly had happened.

The haze acted as a wall between your mind and Sam's, even as he commanded you, tumbled with you through the woods, wrestled you to the forest floor, leaves and broken branches caught in your fur as he snapped and snarled above you; he couldn't see clearly what happened. Let alone explain to you the precise point that your wolfy instincts -because apparently that was a thing you held within your very being- reigned.

All you could recall was a few faces.

Jasper's visage, etched with both horror and regret, staring back at you with rubies -as if you were the monster and not him.

At some point, you could faintly remember him speaking to you from below as his hands fiercely held your snout, telling you to transform back into your usual self. But his face...it spoke volumes at how ready he was to run if not needed, to flee. Like in that moment, the only difference between life and death were the few inches separating you both.

Then there was Carlisle. You don't remember what happened in between but you remembered seeing the struggle in his and Edward's faces as they attempted to hold you down without hurting you and having themselves killed in the process.

With Sam, the memories were clearer, sharper. They kept surfacing like bubbles on a swirly tub.

He too spoke but the difference between him and Jasper was that his were demands, not pleas.

Each plea was so faint against his normal voice -shockingly enough- and you could always recollect his words like a chanting, mantra of those just told a horrific, traumatizing tale.

"Concentrate. " Was what he said.

Your name. Sometimes the shortened version with his southern drawl etched in at the edges.

But your bones didn't ease themselves in molding, twisting, grinding back into their shape until Sam got there. More importantly, that uncomfortable heated feeling of hair pushing itself out from your flesh faded to a shiver.

And your faint memories did not aid the man, who you'd previously held an unimaginable grudge against, in easing you into the subject. So, he stuck to what he knew, what he was sure made the most sense to any half-man, half-wolf in your situation.

Quileute blood. This. That.

Each time you gritted your teeth, clacked them, your canines jarring against each other as he droned on about the treaty, about the vampires, about your time around all of them at once probably being the source of your trigger.

The magic in your blood lit ablaze like gasoline poured onto a pile of wood inside of you. And you didn't understand. Wouldn't for a while until you were coherent, not like this. But the idea of you simply being the one to blame had your mouth pursing shut, biting hard enough to draw that salty copper smell across your tongue.

Subjectively, as you stood in your bathroom, eyelids stapled shut, brain still muddled, body hotter than hot itself. Shaking. Teeth, sharper than usual, still dug painfully into the open wound in your mouth, pulling your lips back harshly.

You didn't know what to call yourself.

Werewolf.

Shapeshifter.

Monster.

They all seemed to mean the same thing.

Vampire.

Cold ones.

Blood sucker.

Those all meant the same too.

Enemy.

Your heart stung at that; painful. Sharp. There was something wet coming down your cheeks but you didn't acknowledge it. Barely registered the sound of your bones cracking from inside, the stretch and pull as tendons and ligaments reformed to shape your humanoid form.

Your teeth didn't let go of your lip as your body continued to reform itself in the correct places, your feet dirtied from the bottoms after you stalked through the woods behind your house, naked and scathed from your only 3rd transformation in counting.

You were not yet adjusted, that much was obvious as the rest of the wolves watched you stumble into your home before you were out of sight. Not because they could smell your shame or the pain you were in, not because your face was still smeared with mud and slobber. But because something struck their ears just then, the sound loud enough to echo from miles behind you and they recognized it for what it was.

A whimper. Pain, so visceral and agonizingly immense you almost keeled forward and gasped for air as soon as the shuddery whine passed.

You'd found your bedroom floor before you clung to the bathroom sink as you were now, the bite doing little but help rid the bitterness and tang on your tongue. The pit of your stomach tightened for a moment as your ears began picking up on your mother's soft shuffling noises and you could tell her exact location, how she fidgeted around on the couch.

But you were again drawn back into yourself and the memories seemed to flash once more as your body convulsed and twisted, feverously hot and unbearably sticky. But each pain felt like pure acid seared against a wound.

There were some parts that you noticed as things changed within your entire human psyche. For instance, the room, your room, smelled differently; it tasted differently. Your eyes, what were usually able to scatter quick glances about yourself yet it came off as completely relaxed and indifferent, your pupils darted as if you had a million things to look at.

This time, your lungs felt small, compressed and with that came each bit of scent the bathroom provided. All of it.

The hint of floral perfume that resided with your sister, most likely used the bathroom beforehand.

The watered-down aloe essence of a bottle of SPF that you guessed to be your brothers because it was strong, closer than the rest.

Then the sweetness of your mother's strawberry cream soap she splashed onto her hair in the morning and onto her skin not long before her eyes were drooping.

The musk of cologne, the sweatiness from the summer night. Some aftershave and others, toothpaste. The mint lingering from it assaulted your olfactories like the taste of charcoal briquettes did your dry throat.

It was everything all at once yet, each scent, noise, sight, touch was distinct. Picked out and pinpointed. You could hear your own heartbeat. You could hear how loudly the door caved a centimeter in its frame when the air from the fan swirled into the vent.

And when the sink began to crumble under your grip it was loud, deafening. A tidal wave and snap made entirely of your own anger. You couldn't bear to look in the mirror. You couldn't bear to lift your head and see a monster looking back at you.

You'd been in this state for hours, every minute, every single second, you could feel the warmth of the blood pumping through your veins, moving each muscle slowly, one by one. You knew the bone structure had settled as you curled in on yourself, facing the wall by the sink.

For the first half hour -though to you it felt like two- your mother had banged against the door, concerned by the slight creak and the heat you emitted through it. She cursed, cried. Stomped. After a while it became nothing but background noise to your ears, the vibrations going ignored against the center of your back, directly underneath her hand.

You heard her steps across the floor and the buzz of the phone line and then Sam but the searing hot pain encapsulating your muscles blocked you from hearing what he was saying; the only two words you picked up was 'let' and 'normal'. In short, he was barking reassuring sentences that were more mumbled than articulated in your ears.

More importantly, you could faintly sense just how long Sam had been on the line with your mother. Time kept going and the more it did, the clearer everything was from the white paint chipping off the door frames, to the noises in your own body.

But the heat never ceased, you couldn't find any salve that stenched and wouldn't flare your instincts even further, and any attempt to scratch yourself in frustration and ease the sting left a burning in your arm and no relief.

You were hot.

Hot.

Wet.

Hot and wet and burning.

You were burning, literally burning. Every nerve, every bit of skin was put on a sensitive scale against the brightest scalding iron fire and it fucking hurt. It fucking hurt so much, the longer it went on, and the longer it did go on, the quicker the seconds ticked by and you dripped and dripped in sweat and you couldn't seek any salvation of cold even as you continue to drown your face, your hair, your seething skin in cold water.

Your body reacted in the worst possible ways, taking every inch of your willpower to not lash out at your family members as they fussed over you in complete and utter worry, turning up the AC to arctic like degrees as they all bundled underneath quilts and heavy sweaters as the rain pattered harshly against the metal roofing.

It took an angry snarl, snapping from your teeth clacking together aggressively in the general direction of your family as their constant pacing, their buzzing over your conditions that they had finally settled. Tried to act like you weren't being tortured by your own cells, membranes, nerves and veins.

Your muscles cramped on multiple occasions in their adjustment and every time, Sam would be through the screen door, speaking loudly over the crashing of thunder and lightning, spouting off nonsense to assure you that, 'it gets better with time, it'll pass, focus on what it feels like to transform back faster'.

And you would cry out to him in rage, telling him to leave, go back home, to shut up, that this was his fault, his doing, and, for a moment, you seemed to scare yourself with just how animalistic your words were, sounding more like a literal wolf than actual human speech.

He was wrong.

Wrong.

All wrong.

This shouldn't be happening.

With nothing to help ease the pain, you'd found yourself, wrenching the knob of the faucet off of the handle and it had shattered with a small zap that you felt against your searing hands.

Again, your body convulsed, your muscles twitched and you heard a shriek in your ears at the piercing stab, the fire that licked your insides in a vicious inferno.

You sat against the flooring of the tub, breathing quick and wheezy, knees bent upward as your arms wrapped around yourself.

Hot. Hot. Hot.

It was always hot.

It was so hot.

So fucking hot that you didn't hear the slight creak of the door opening. Or the light footsteps that moved behind you.

Burning, burning, burning.

The freezing water felt like pebbles poking at your flesh until you could feel the fat beneath your skin being boiled.

You swallowed thickly, hard around the growl gathering in your throat.

Though you were drowning in what would normally feel comfortable and ease the fever swelling your skin, leaving it hot to the touch, instead it felt the same; you held no relief.

But this had worked before, or the pain eased enough that you were able to think without feeling your mind split.

On those occasions, you'd have a single moment of coherent thought before your body began trembling from an aching heat that came over you like a summer fog.

Last night had been the worst of it. Unbearable. Intense. It made your stomach do flips, threatening to spill out what little contents there were. Not even two hours ago you retched up a gallon of stomach acid, black tar-like muck. You shook through another shiver.

Ceramic shards clung to your nails like glue.

You had no care for them as you pressed your face into your knees, hoping, yearning that the water from the shower would return you back to how things were. How they should be. Normal.

A body that wasn't sore, seething. Uncomfortable.

Normal skin. That didn't catch every hue of light in the bathroom or smelled like nothing but the strong detergent used to wash away the bloody pieces of bark from the night before.

You remained with your eyes screwed shut, but you felt how quickly they blinked with need for more water. A need for something below freezing.

You waited.

Hoped.

Prayed.

You wished so hard on your breath that what was supposed to be a chilled drip instead fell like globs of goo, coating your head and shoulder blades.

You waited.

Waited.

Each second ticked and like yesterday, everything was loud again.

You heard the shower curtain crinkle slightly under the water falling freely atop you, it also made an abstract splattering sound as it hit the floor tiles but no longer fell in waves of droplets like it did before, no longer providing the soft chill to your inflamed skin.

Waited.

For your body to cooperate.

To fix itself.

You shouldn't have had to focus.

Focus.

That's the one thing that rattled your brain, pulled back and forth between each, as Sam continued with that word; he spat it out to you like it meant everything, like it should have you focusing. Yet.

Nothing.

Your muscles had ceased in the cramping but you assumed that was the first step in returning to normal.

It was still hot.

Furiously hot.

A raging wildfire.

Tears swam down your cheeks, across your lips, dipping in your mouth and clacking against your teeth and you remained as a lump of nothing in the dark room.

Waiting.

It wasn't the water that did it for you.

It was the loud, bitterly cold, small and circular patch of coolness that soon turned to multiples that struck you. You didn't feel it at first, couldn't decipher what it was you felt, but all the same, you tensed up.

Focused.

In annoyance, your muscles rippled and it put a gasp in your chest as the ice chips -or so they felt like- clanked in onto your back.

Ice.

Someone was putting ice on you.

Someone was touching you.

Someone who wasn't Sam.

It wasn't your mom.

And they were speaking.

But you couldn't hear.

Couldn't make your ears focus just on the voice.

Couldn't force your neck to twist and look as the muscles spasmed beneath the movement.

You couldn't find who spoke to you as they ran their fingers softly along your back.

From your neck and spine to the small of your being.

You couldn't make out a simple sentence either.

You couldn't make out what had happened moments before, only that the water was ceasing and your body was scorching again at the lack, only to abruptly lower to a simmer when you felt something enveloping you entirely. Something cold.

Something that must have smelled familiar yet, sickeningly sweet.

Softer than the air moving around, swishing and swaying as the curtain slid back further.

Something soft.

Something familiar but not quite within your reach yet.

You could almost remember it but in doing so your head began to pound.

Everything was loud; if it weren't you were almost certain that it would be deafening.

But then, with the last drag of each blink, you could feel the anger in you being gradually drowned out by something else, something unfamiliar. An intruder. It made your body jerk, jerk away from the cold source of salvation, jerk from the very thing that was keeping you grounded and your memory on track to forming; it made you feel weak in doing so and at the same time, scared, horrified, but calm. It put you at ease.

Almost.

And again you could smell a sweetness that flooded your nostrils and set the hairs inside teetering away from the rot, the decay. Your body jerked again. Instinctively. Out of your control.

But the cold, the cold that you slowly came to recognition with, held you firm. Limbs they were. Your vision was clouded in and out but they were limbs. Chiseled, scarred arms that felt like an ice statue come to life. Pressed so tightly against you that you began to slack. You began to hear.

"There we go... That's it..." A voice cooed softly, a dulcet soothing tone that rocked through the room and filled your ears; smooth, deep and enticing.

You swallowed harshly, a snarl stuck in the pit of your gut that stung and left you winded the moment your eyes were directed upwards. Your sight blurred instantly but the more you blinked they began to regain life. The wolf of you was being pushed further beneath the surface and the whine of protest inside went ignored for a few seconds.

"Breath and just relax. "

It was him.

Jasper.

It was Jasper.

And this time you could get a better look of him.

There were two, thick lines between his eyebrows that pushed and bulged the skin as he stared down at you in concentration, as if he were attempting to figure out the world's greatest puzzle.

His pupils were a hazy gold.

Almost a yellow.

A pale yellow, mixed with orange.

Red orange.

Almost sunset like.

"It's just me. " Jasper spoke quietly. So quiet, so gentle. Unlike his kind. Something stirred and growled inside you but in doing so Jasper's shoulders tensed and his eyes were narrowed just the slightest. "Just me. " His voice came and wafted.

You hadn't the strength to pick your limp body off of him, only to relish in the cool feeling of his skin against you and when he saw the dark pools of your black eyes clear from the threatening growl the lines above his eyebrows disappeared.

Some sort of moment had passed, a moment where he seemed to have returned to a child-like manner and focused in on you to the best of his capabilities.

"You're burning up. " A cold finger against the heat at your forehead and you jerked back but not roughly enough to leave his arms. Though the wince on your face did.

For the first time since your eyes adjusted, you met his gaze.

Slightly crumbled, Jasper's face relaxed as he offered a slow nod. "Healin' nicely. "

That's right, healing. You hadn't noticed that they were sore until he mentioned it. Scars along your face were slowly going away. "It shouldn't leave a mark. "

But what concerned you was how rough your skin felt. There was a sharp stinging as you slowly relaxed against him, and it stung like needles, and prickled like spines and thorns, the feeling was still dulled despite his cold flesh and the layer of cloth between his and your nearly-bursting skin.The white button up shirt was completely drenched, droplets slid off of the stark creams like shimmering diamonds.

"It's hot. " Was all you could get out, voice hoarse, grating against your tender flesh, torn and pulled in dozens of different directions. You wondered if talking was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Your instincts bubbled to the surface but never quite breached to the point where you snapped and growled.

"I know. " You heard the drop in his throat, the way his breath rolled with his mouth and he bent forward, hand to your forehead, through your hair, pushing the wet strands away from your face.

He watched you intently, gaze scanning for signs that gave hint to your pain.

You closed your eyes tight but his hand slipped lower, down your cheek, and coming to just about your chin. His hand cradled you, making a cold burning under your bones, under your flushed flesh and a wave of want spilled over you that you couldn't wipe away.

"I didn't know it was like this. " It was a whisper.

Your jaw hurt but you tilted to look at him more clearly. It was his touch. His hand.

"This wasn't what I felt from you when you first changed. "

"This is the aftermath. " Another voice. Booming. Louder than his. Slightly indifferent. And both your neck and head pounded painfully as you snapped to see the owner. It was Sam. Standing in the doorway.

Your mind cleared. "You shouldn't be here. " You choked on the second word. Heard a rumble in your head but it subsided when Jasper's large, cold hand pressed firmer to your cheek, bringing you back against him.

He was so soft to you. Too soft.

Sam addressed you. Tone even. "It's forgiven. " His eyes cross Jasper's.

"Just make sure the boys don't find out. " He paused. Thinking. Then. "Be careful. " He repeated. Sam turned to take his leave. His tall frame filled the doorway almost entirely with his size but you thought nothing of him leaving, as there was yet another tremor in your stomach.

Pain, a horrible stabbing type of pain, began shooting from underneath your skin like needles and for a second you forgot of Jasper's existence, forgot of your situation, and curled into yourself in hopes the pain would go away.

It was then you felt his hands encase you, one of your shoulder blades, the other pressing to the small of your back. His fingers dug into the bare flesh and you held onto that as you shook. He felt how the veins rippled the flesh around them and an ache came to him as he reached and tugged you up, the material of his clothes catching against the shower curtain when you finally, after several minutes, allowed Jasper to pick you up, your body pressed entirely to his, and he whispered to you with his usual calmness, brushing away your hair that dripped, and gently told you to breathe.

"In and out. "

If it weren't for the fog swarming your better judgment, you might have found your resolve, snapped and jumped at the sweet gesture. But nothing was going to fight through the high fever, and aching, pungent sting from the very needle pricking every inch of your skin at once.

Jasper tried again.

"Just breathe. "

You sucked air, a short gasp and it was like broken glass sliding down your throat. Painful and nauseating but the moment Jasper's skin dug deeper into your body, holding you tighter than before, easing his embrace by stroking a cold hand along the length of your arm and slipping further downward.

"In and out... Slowly. "

The burn on your skin stopped abruptly and you heard him say "there" but it felt weird.

At ease, the moment you began breathing slowly, his cold digits like magic against your arm, traveling gradually, in circles, all the way up to the bend of your neck and just the very corner of your jaw, and then falling to your thigh and repeating the same motion. It was soothing. Like your muscles didn't know what to do with themselves.

"Are you better? " The voice bounced against his chest and you weren't quite sure how, but you managed to nod, the action causing the world to spin. Jasper nodded back at you, gaze in that constant look of concern, as if he'd never been worried a day in his life. "Do you want to stay here or do you want me to take you somewhere else?"

A low and rather aggressive growl surfaced in the back of your throat and you felt your limbs all come to a standstill and tremble. Jasper's body tensed as he looked to you. All the muscles that were massaging the sting in your body hardened, no longer soft as you wanted.

"Alright, " his eyes didn't waver from you and the golden depths had you staring, he swallowed and sighed out a heavy breath, "it's just me again. Remember that. Okay? Only me. " His voice rumbled his chest and made you feel comfortable again, easy, the boiling in your bones all began to settle.

Still, that anger you felt inside continued with that growl that made him ever so tense, ever so weary. You could feel his body lean back, situating into the curve of the tub. "I'm alone. " Jasper whispered now, lowering his head to yours, cheek to your forehead and your eyelids slid half-way down, pupils dilating just the slightest, "Breathe. " He said. "Deeply. " The tip of his cold nose brushed along the space of your skull and for a moment it appeared as if he contemplated his actions but continued on.

There you could smell the strength of his scent with an underlying sweetness to his dead flesh, the scent of a vampire; still, you didn't jump or shove him off. And he exhaled the biggest breath you had ever seen a vampire take.

He did this several times, took several deep, calming breaths. As if it were to sedate your beast within, that monstrous, ravenous hunger that lay buried beneath the confines of your now flesh and bones, but far beyond control of your own.

Eventually you caught the air without it stabbing into your lungs like those needles and his arm moved to become wrapped, almost entirely, completely around your chest, and pulling you firmer to him, moving from the crook of the bath to the center of the room, sliding in a motion so inhuman and smooth, past the wash rack and the closet, to the wall, leaning your sore back against the plaster. You leaned. Not just leaned, but collapsed against him as your body relaxed.

So strange, so inhumane and entirely disgusting at the fact that a vampire, an immortal, the vilest, putrid stench to nature, could make you feel so comforted, so tranquil, and ease all the pains you had felt.

As if the moon had begun shifting its cycle of phases while in his arms, you found yourself staring into his eyes, watching the shadows of darkness become your savior.

The pressure in your head was gone, the aching and pinching in your bones were coming to a comfortable stand still, leaving you numb in parts, and full of an incredible urge to drift off into the darkness, where you felt more... At ease.

Jasper's gaze swept over your flushed features and he slowly reached to push the loose strands of hair from your face, fingers caressing your cheek bone and over the prickled skin on your neck and slowly, down to your left shoulder.

Your collar bone.

"Is it any better?" A whisper to your ears. Rough, jagged along his cold tongue and you fought the urge to show your teeth back.

"Yeah. " It was the first word that came to you, coherent, but the word itself sent a sharp pain up the muscle and you winced visibly. Jasper's eyes searched your face once more but never directly met yours.

When your heart began spazzing for his affection, you bit your tongue.

"Don't try to talk anymore. Rest. " His voice was soft and the muscles below your flesh rippled as he acted as a crutch on the way to your bedroom. It was at the end of the hall and to the right.

At the door his nose wrinkled, as did the skin along his upper lip, but he said nothing of the burning smell of wet dog.

His steps were swift as he carefully positioned himself through the threshold.

You stumbled to your mattress and fell weakly at the foot of it, Jasper's grip loosening and fingers unfurling from your flesh.

You settled into the cooled sheets and watched him intently as he carefully closed the door behind him. You only lifted your torso and crawled on your knees up to the pillows and got lost in there. They hid your flushed, irritated body against the rough surface.

Jasper stood for what felt like a long time near the door, standing by your closet and watched. You were too exhausted to think, it was nearing the start of daylight outside, and your eyes shut involuntarily, each blink longer than the last.

You were so tired but the anger persisted even when sleep took you. You dreamt not.

Unintentionally, you fell asleep.

For Jasper, however, he stood for several minutes just staring at your still body.

All was quiet and peaceful, the world outside was just wakening with the sounds of the birds, and the leaves were still, unmoving, but the air was dry. Just a couple of hours ago and this same place was like a cave. Smelling of beasts, of fur and musk, the woods themselves had a strong scent in this area, yet it changed suddenly.

To normalcy. And he wasn't quite sure how he felt, what the rest of the family, of his brothers and sisters, his mother and father would say when he returned smelling of dog.

The type of dog that sought to cease their existence.

Their natural doom.

The very dog that'd nearly tore their heads from their bodies days prior.

However, being this close to you and noticing the increase in hormones among all other smells, though, for the most part, the odor was horrendous, more specifically, that you were feeling better, not dying or in any more pain, was enough for Jasper to ignore anything else.

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