#while still being someone who genuinely hungers to hurt someone when he wants to soothe himself | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

deejadabbles · 3 years ago

Text

Vampire Atem/Yami Alphabet Headcanons

Found this list of vamp-themes headcanons by @an-annyeoing-writer and I knew I had to do them for our favorite king-turned-spirit!

For those of you who read my Spells of Defiance series, these headcanons can be taken as 100% canon to that AU <3

A - Accident - would they turn someone to save their life?

Oof, already starting with a hard one. So, Atem is one of those vampires who hates his existence, he believes it’s a curse. However, he does still love and care for people deeply, and he knows that for many, life is sacred even if it’s a cursed life. I think in a moment of weakness, especially in his earlier years as a vampire, he might turn someone just because he’s desperate not to lose them, only to regret his decision later, especially if that someone is like him and hates what they’ve become. We all make mistakes, right?

B - Bite - how do they bite? Sensually, aggressively? Do they make it hurt or try to be gentle?

Atem is extremely gentle when he feeds off of people, always careful not to bite too deep or tear the skin more than needed, he even holds you and tries to soothe you with gentle strokes of his hands. Now, whether he tries to make it “sensual” or at all sexual...that’s a complicated topic. While Atem is almost always disgusted with himself when/while he feeds, he does recognize that there is a level of intimacy and even romance that can be connected with drinking blood, so sometimes he can be persuaded to make it a more sensual thing if you’re his lover.

C - Control - do they take advantage of their powers?

That depends on who’s in the equation. I can see Atem using his new powers in order to bring justice to those he sees as wrong doers (like his season 0/early manga-self) as a way to make his vampire abilities useful, so from that angle he would “take advantage” of his powers. He might even get some small gratification in using his strength and speed to hunt down evil people, them cowering in fear is retribution for their wrong-doings, but even that’s not too over the top. Other than that, no, he doesn’t really use his powers for advantages over others.

D - Dangerous - how scary they can get? How bad things can they do? What’s their ethics?

So, while Atem does have a very strong moral code, Atem also has a temper, and said temper might be harder to control when he’s a vampire. Even when he’s not growling in anger, he can have this cold glare that could make bikers squeamish. There are moments, especially when he was a younger vampire, where he loses his temper and can get pretty scary. If you’re his loved one don’t worry too much, he would never lose control enough to hurt you, even though his yelling (and maybe throwing a thing or two) is pretty scary on it’s own. If you’re someone he sees a vermin though watch out, when he gets scary you’re probably going to end up dead or wishing you were dead.

E - Exchange - do they opt for blood bags or animal blood, if possible?

He opts for animal blood as often as he can. Sometimes he’ll hunt said animals himself but even that is a little too violent for his liking (Atem is a softie okay?!) so if he can go to a local butcher and get animal blood from them he’ll do it that way. He’s not fond of blood bags because A) they’re harder to acquire and B) having human blood in a cold plastic bag just makes him long for warm human blood and skin under his teeth more. Sure animal blood isn’t as sustaining for him, but Atem spent decades (maybe even centuries) figuring out how much animal blood he needs to consume in order to keep his blood lust under control so he’ll choose that over harming an innocent human.

Also, side note, if you live with him I hope you don’t have a sensitive sense of smell, because he heats up the blood on the stove to make it taste better and it can make the house stinky lol

F - First bite - on what occasion would they bite you for the first time?

Oooh that’s a good one. Like I said Atem has a very complicated relationship with feeding from his loved ones, especially his s/o, and he’s never going to ask you for your blood. So I’d say that not only would you have to offer your blood to him, but he would have to be out of other feeding options at the time. He knows that once he reaches a certain point of hunger he loses control and might kill you in a hunger-induced blood rage, so if drinking from you now, before he gets to that point, prevents that danger, he’d be willing to. Like I said above, Atem would be very gentle with you on that occasion, holding you close and stroking the skin around the bite mark to soothe any pain, and when he’s done he’d kiss the wound and the sore skin around it as amends.

The only other “first bite” scenario I can think of is if you spend months convincing him that you don’t mind (or even like) the occasional bite and finally convince him to drink your blood during an intimate moment, and again he’s very gentle and mindful of not hurting you.

G - Growl - are they more on the “civilized” side or do they enjoy hunting their prey down?

A bit of both, I guess? Since he tries not to drink from humans he’s more civilized in that way, but like I said before he does “hunt” evil people like an avenging dark angel, which he may get some small form of enjoyment from, so...

H - Hate - how do they feel about their kind? About themselves?

It’s honestly pretty depressing how much self-loathing Atem harbors. He genuinely thinks he’s an abomination. It doesn’t help that in all his centuries of living, he’s met very few vampires who’re “good” like him. He’s also someone who’s on a high horse and if he met a vamp who didn’t kill human’s but also wasn’t self loathing like him, he’d look down on said vampire. I’m warning you now if you fall in love with him, his self-hatred is very upsetting and can be hard to deal with.

I - Intimacy - how fast would they let you close to them? Would they want to share with you what they are?

Surprisingly, I say it’s not that hard. See, even though Atem thinks he’s a monster and tries his best to stay away from people, he also craves companionship and love. Sure, he’s spent several chunks of his immortal life isolating himself in remote woods and tall mountains for decades at a time, but he always returns to humanity at some point. So if you show that you want to be close to him he’ll try to warn you or even scare you away a bit, but it won’t take too long to let you in. And yes, he’d share what he is with you if you started to get close to him, not only as a means to scare you away “before he can hurt you” but also so you know what you’re getting into by being near him.

J - Joke - would they do pranks on other people with the use of their powers?

Sometimes, yes. If he’s close to you, he’ll start to get comfortable and like teasing you, so he’ll do minor things like sneak up behind you soundlessly and jump scare you, or zoom past you to get to something before you and play keep-away. Also, he doesn’t do this one intentionally, but sometimes he’ll be sitting in a dark room, and when you walk in you just suddenly hear this voice calling out to you in the darkness, scaring the crap outta you lol

K - Key - what’s the way of making them open up to you?

Honestly just...continue to shove your friendship in his face. Like I said under “intimacy” he still craves relationships and companionship despite how much he fears hurting people. He may try to push you away at first but if you just continue to hang around him he’ll eventually stop trying to scare you away and start opening up to you little by little.

L - Life - do they wish they were human?

Absolutely. I can see Atem, ever the fixer of problems, spending the first few hundred years searching for a cure for his “condition” not just for himself but for others who view vampires the same way. He often thinks about what his life would have been if he hadn’t been turned, and daydreams about the possibility of becoming human again.

M - Murder - would they kill someone while feeding? Have they ever done so?

Atem has killed while feeding, yes, but not voluntarily. I’m going with the general lore that vampires, when starved too long, can't control their bloodlust and Atem has killed while in that state. When he wakes with a limp, lifeless body in his arms, he’s a devastated wreck. Hurting innocent people is literally his living nightmare and the idea that his bloodlust can turn him into an animal sickens him. He would spend decades learning how much blood he needs to consume and how often, in order to keep that bloodlust from taking control.

N - Nature - do they justify their doings? Do they consider them natural?

Atem, the self-loathing martyr of a fanged prince, considering his bloodlust natural? LMAOOOO No. No he doesn’t, nor does he ever justify his actions. In fact, he uses the terrible things he’s done to justify why he shouldn’t be loved or even alive.

O - Odd - do they have any specific hobbies or habits?

Our gentle dark prince still loves games and puzzles, I think he’d like modern brain teasers that keep his mind sharp and un-ironically loves the puzzle games printed on the back of sunday newspapers, even though they aren’t hard (for him anyway). If you got close to him and showed him games he never got to play bc they’re multiplayers he’d honestly love you. He’d win most of the time, let's be honest, especially things like Clue, but his expression is just so cute and excited when you play his favorites that you’d lose 1000 times over just to see it.

P - Pain - are they sadistic? Do they enjoy what they do?

Nope. I think you all have the idea by now but Atem is one of the most self-loathing and gentle vampires you’d meet....or at least he’s gentle with you. Other vampires who hurt people for fun? Okay, I can see him being ever so slightly sadistic when dealing with creatures like that, he has no mercy for vampires who’ve embraced their monstrous curse, best you run the other way when he punishes them, else you may actually get a little frightened of him...

R - Roles - do they enjoy pretending to be normal people? How do they feel about leaving their life behind to start a new one?

I wouldn’t say that Atem pretends to be normal, in fact, the only part of his vampirism that he embraces is being an “other”, or rather, the aesthetic of being odd, something that most humans feel uneasy when confronted with. He’d see this as a good tool to keep people he may hurt away from him. He’s no stranger to stalking graveyards/cemeteries, creeping in the shadows in a way that has others scurrying past if they happen to spot him, basically anything that makes him seem creepy and makes others keep their distance. Ultimately it hurts him since he’s unexplainably lonely, but it hurts more to know he may hurt the humans he comes across. On the same note, leaving behind one life for another to avoid suspicion is a double-edged sword for him, while it reminds him how terribly lonely existence is, it’s good to keep those who might’ve grown close to him safe.

S - Scars - do they leave marks or try to make the wounds small and invisible?

If Atem feeds from someone voluntarily (as in, not in an animalistic state), he’ll do everything he can to not leave lasting marks. Leaving marks means more pain and we all know how much he hates causing pain to others.

T - Turned - how were they turned?

In my fic, Marik turned Atem as a form of revenge, but otherwise, I could honestly see Atem being turned by any YGO villain. I say villain because him being cursed with this life by a villain (like Bakura for example, or maybe another minion of Zorc) kind of goes along with the original story’s need to punish Atem and cast him into darkness for things that ultimately weren’t his fault.

U - Universe - what’s their biggest wish that they can’t achieve as immortals?

Mostly just...being close to people without constantly worrying that he’ll hurt or kill them. I can also see Atem yeaning for the simple pleasure of growing old and dying with one's family. If he fell in love he would crave the ability to just settle down and grow old together. Hell, he’s even one of those morbid romantics who thinks couples dying within days of each other is sweet and wishes he could do that when he loses his lover to old age.

V - Vampire - would they turn you?

Man again with the hard ones! Oof, okay, so...If you asked Atem to turn you, he’d say no, reciting his monologue about how vampires are cursed vermin who shouldn’t even exist, even if you retained your humanity after the turn, he knows the deep reaches of this curse and what it will make you do, and he hates the idea of you going through what he has.

...However, much like in the very first headcanon on this list...Atem makes mistakes and has his weak moments. If your life ended unexpectedly, of you were taken from him suddenly, like attacked or in some fatal accident, he may turn you in a moment of weakness; a desperate need to cling to you taking over his better judgment. He’d hate himself after and the only way he’d ever feel okay with it, is if time proved that you retained your humanity. He would teach you how to control your blood lust so you don’t have to go through half the things he has, and only then would he be okay with what he did to you in his moment of weakness.

W - War - would they engage in fighting their own kind for the humanity’s sake?

Yes! No one even has to ask him, Atem basically thinks the only good thing he can do with his powers is to rid the world of other vampires. He’s basically an avenging angel who’ll hunt down any vampire who threatens a human.

Y - Yandere - would they become dangerous to you (their lover)?

For the most part, I’d say no. Atem is self-aware and emotionally intelligent enough to tell if he ever starts crossing lines into “unhealthy” territory, and if that ever happened, he’d literally run away. He would leave you in order to protect you, no matter how much it hurt. There may be one (literally ONE) incident where he does something to you that crosses the line, but he’d be instantly horrified and remove himself from your life, moving to the other side of the world with no means to follow him, if it meant protecting you from himself. Now the chances of this happening in the first place? Hard to say. I really don’t think Atem is unhinged or even violent enough for it to be likely, but, an argument could be made that after everything he’s gone through, Atem may start seeing you and his love for you in an obsessives, unhealthy way. Again though, even if this did happen he would realize it and run away before it can go too far.

Z - Zombie - are they on their way to losing sanity?

I don’t think so. Atem is as strong (mentally/emotionally) as they come. Maybe eventually, after millennia and millennia of constantly losing loved ones and dealing the the monster he’s become he would start losing his sanity, but that would take a long, long time.

#atem #yami yugi #atem x reader #yami x reader #pharaoh atem #yami yugi x reader #yugioh x reader #vampire au #vampire Atem #vampire yami #ygo #headcanons #atem headcanons #yami headcanons

233 notes · View notes

green-and-grey-kenaz · 3 years ago

Text

I Sleep with the Dirt by Fire Glow

Language: English

Chapter 1: Please pull me from the dark

Characters in Chapter: Regulus Black, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin (Briefly), Albus Dumbledore (Briefly)

Chapter Summary:

Regulus is returned to life after his body has been kept in stasis as an inferius. It takes some getting used to, being alive again. Sirius meanwhile is dealing with having to look after a somewhat wild brother and not being able to adopt Harry, like he promised.

Word Count: c. 5 900

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34049455/chapters/84695911

It was strange. Bright. Pain. Noise. Smells. Thoughts. Feels. Sights.

Food.

He lunged, grabbing the prey which shrieked, only getting shriller as teeth tore into it. He pulled his head back and tasted sweet iron. Something grabbed him, forced his jaw open. He snarled. He was hungry and this was his food. He had rightfully caught it.

There was more noise and he turned, glowering. He hated the noises that they made at him. He had a sense that once it might have meant something but now they were empty sounds. It was infuriating.

The one he did not want to eat was there. That one was skinny. Bones. Bones weren’t food. He could crunch them to get food, but the skinny one was still not food. He did not know when the concept of food had come. But the desire to kill the warm moving ones had become a painful urge to fix an emptiness within. Hunger. Skinny was not that though. There was more to the bony one. That was why it was not food.

The other one was tempting but it could stop him. He had tried.

It always knew. It was always prepared.

They made noises to each other as food was placed into his hand. It wasn’t fresh but he tore at it, snarling at anyone who got too close. Too soon, food was gone and he licked his fingers. They were tasty.

Bony was there, hand on his arm. He snarled and Bony flinched but made noises at him. Soft sounds that soothed and promised safety. Bony took something damp and pressed it against his face, rubbed it over his fingers. He liked the damp and wet. It was like a home in that dark, wet cave. The bony one continued to make the noises and gently shifted his limbs. It was a more comfortable position. The old one came and muttered words. He tried to shift and get at it but Bony was being gentle with him and captured his attention once more.

He did not know what he was doing here. He had known, back at the cave. Or perhaps it had not been a knowing – it was more like a state of being. There had been no knowing, just guarding. Devour any that touched the water. Wait. Constant waiting. Protect.

A part of him had something different. A part had been sleeping, almost too deep for dreams but that part had been more alive. There had been the vaguest sense of a series of sounds that had defined it. Memories that had created it.

He could not remember the memories now. They were like the fish that sometimes made their way to his deep waters and were devoured by their many hungry mouths. Flashing, briefly there and so powerfully sating. Then gone. The Bony one perhaps came from there. It came from somewhere deep within. That was why he didn’t eat it.

Bony looked at him, it gave an expression. The lips curled slightly at the ends and it helped him to lie down and pulled the soft warmth over him. It took his head and held it until boredom closed his eyes.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

“No, Regulus.” Sirius said firmly as his brother held the raw, half eaten chicken breast in his hand, teeth bared and showing the remnants of his midnight snack.

This was not what Sirius needed. He didn’t need Regulus back. He ran his hand through his hair, guilt sparking in his stomach at that thought. No, he did need Regulus back. Just not with the caveat that he would have to fight off the magic that had kept his body frozen as a minion for Voldemort. Because that was a lot to deal with when you were fresh out of Azkaban. As was knowing that if it hadn’t been for Regulus’ soul somehow taking root deep inside him, if Dumbledore hadn't realised that… well his brother's body would still be in that cave. Dead and violated, twisted by Dark Magic. The thought was sickening.

Yet it was because of Regulus that he had been told he couldn’t take Harry into his home. Harry Potter, James’ son. Sirius' very own Godson, who he had sworn an oath to protect. A boy who was criminally neglected by his supposed guardians. Sirius had waited all this time to get Harry back in his life. He had told the boy he could move in with him. It wasn't fair that he had to look after a kid who should be grown and able to take care of himself.

Sirius resented Regulus for that. He resented that a lot when Regulus had never shown him any love or care back when they had lived together. It had always been ‘why can’t you just behave?’, ‘why must you hurt mother so?’, ‘can’t you just get it into your thick skull that we are better than everyone else and that it is our duty to rule?’. Well, Regulus didn’t look much better than anyone else with his half-eaten chicken breast clutched in one hand.

“Put it down. You’re going to be sick enough as it is.” Probably. Apparently inferii had pretty tough guts because Regulus had taken to eating a whole host of raw things (the healer had not been impressed to find that out). Unfortunately for his brother, the closer he got back to being counted amongst the living, the more raw meat did not agree with him.

Regulus shifted the chicken breast closer to his mouth, staring a challenge down at Sirius.

“No.” Sirius growled and Regulus froze. In that second, Sirius took the time to consider the situation. The pantry had been charmed closed. If Regulus had opened it, that had to mean he was getting his magic back which would not be ideal because Sirius didn’t need a magic wielding, zombie brother. He groaned, running a hand down his face and Regulus quickly took a bite of the chicken.

“Regulus!” Sirius roared and his brother jumped, dropping the chicken breast and quick as a flash, made for the door. Sirius swore and lunged after him, wrapping the smaller body and pinning his arms while his hands went to wrap around Regulus’ wrists. He might be skinny after his time in Azkaban but Regulus was still only seventeen (he’d be eighteen if counting the days – he died days before his birthday a voice whispered in his head) and apparently hadn’t been taking care of himself in the lead up to his death. He’d been all skin and bones when they dragged him out and the inferius voracious appetite was not doing much to put weight back on his frame.

The tiny body squirmed in his grasp, twisting his head and sinking his teeth into Sirius’ dressing gown.

“Stop that, Regulus.” Sirius was softer this time, trying to be more reassuring now the chicken was gone. While most people seemed fair game for eating, Sirius had yet to be bitten. Oh, Regulus threatened to and Sirius did not trust himself to sleep without a heavily warded door, but he’d had no more than panicked bites that stopped short of bruising his skin. He pulled Regulus over to a sink and with some effort managed to get warm water running. Forcing Regulus’ hands under, he glanced around for the soap as his brother started to relax.

“See, nothing wrong, Reggie.” He said soothingly, rubbing the lavender scented soap against his brother’s pale skin. He got a cloth to clean Regulus’ face likewise. His brother squirmed but did not resist.

“Just cleaning you up. You know, if you get hungry, you can come to me. Just knock on the door. I’ll make you something.” He told Regulus this every time but he had little way to tell if it went in. His brother made a noise though and leaned into him.

“Right, all cleaned up now. Not much point eating until you’ve got this out your system.” He said, turning Regulus and giving him a once over. He didn’t let Regulus wear anything with long sleeves, unless attended which just made his arms look like skinny sticks but it made moments like this easier. It didn’t look like Regulus had gotten anything on him.

“Kreacher!” Sirius called.

The House Elf appeared. Sirius knew he lived in a cupboard in the kitchen and he found it ever so infuriating that he didn’t help keep Regulus from eating raw meats. Unfortunately, Kreacher was rather dedicated to ‘the young master’, even if that meant letting him eat things he shouldn’t.

“Clean up the mess and then bring the sick basin into the Parlour. I’m staying up with Regulus until we know if this is going to pass through or not. And next time stop letting him eat raw meat.”

Regulus growled at Sirius for his tone, dark eyes narrowing and Sirius groaned.

“Please.” He added, trying to make his tone sweet because he could do with Regulus not waking up mother’s portrait, which was what he would do if in a strop. She only got agitated seeing Regulus in such a state and it didn’t help that Sirius was there either.

“Kreacher lives to serve the Noble House of Black.” The House Elf grovelled, bowing low and Sirius bit back his retort and instead said through gritted teeth.

“Thank you. Kreacher.”

Regulus seemed to accept that as genuine because he smiled and let himself be guided out with minimum fuss. In fact, he looked rather over the moon to be taken into the Parlour where he took his customary seat as Sirius set the fire up and carefully made sure to place the fire protector so Regulus wouldn’t accidentally get too close.

Warmth was something that Regulus seemed drawn to. He loved the fire, he loved the sun, he loved being wrapped in warm hugs when before he’d always been hesitant about touch. It felt like someone else walking about in his brother’s skin. It was not a comfortable thought but Dumbledore insisted that Regulus would come back to his senses. They had to treat this like a flu that his body was fighting off.

His brother was curled up, small limbs all folded in close, and Sirius pulled a blanket over him. Regulus jumped and snarled before realising it was him and calming back down.

“Fire.” He said, giving a nod towards the flames.

“Yes, Reg, fire.” Sirius confirmed, sighing and settling down next to his brother, carding his hand through his hair. Regulus made a small humming noise which Sirius knew to mean he was pleased with himself. Speaking was… a challenge and at times, it could be especially frustrating. Some days, Regulus could manage to string together a sentence and others would be solely animalistic snarls.

Kreacher came in and placed the sick basin down. Regulus smiled at him and Sirius let his brother do whatever it was he did with Kreacher. There was no denying that there was something protective within Regulus when it came to Kreacher and Sirius wondered whether something had happened to Kreacher before Regulus had died. The old House Elf would let Regulus check him over with agitated hands before pulling him in tight for quite a while.

No one knew quiet what had happened and Kreacher was not elaborating. The only information that legimency had been able to glean from Regulus’ soul attached onto Sirius was where he had died. Snape, and Sirius still shivered to think on that, had impressed on them that whatever had happened, it was more important to Regulus than merely the place he had died. It was the one thing that bound him to this earthly plane and even in death, he kept shielded with occlumency.

Dumbledore had uncovered some things. They’d seen that unearthly green glow across the water of the cave and after he’d brought Regulus’ bound and writhing corpse… After Snape had helped coax Regulus’ soul back into it… Dumbledore had returned.

Sirius still remembered that note that Dumbledore had placed into his hand. Regulus’ curved and delicate hand writing. That would have been his last words on this earth. It had been chilling.

Voldemort had created a Horcrux and Regulus had intended to die destroying it. It was clear that he had found it but no one knew where the original was. Snape had confessed that although he and Regulus had shared a friendship, he had had no word about this from Regulus. Kreacher feigned ignorance and Sirius knew that was the case because he had caught Kreacher hurting himself after saying he knew nothing.

He had ordered Kreacher to tell him because he knew that Kreacher knew but that was the closest Regulus had come to hurting him. His brother had flown in, snarling rage, with clawing hands and hadn’t calmed for a week.

Sirius sighed and stared at Regulus, who was lying, eyes half closed as Kreacher now comforted him, singing him songs in Kreacher’s own language. Regulus didn’t sleep. Not since they’d brought him back. At most he dozed. Sometimes by the fire, more often when someone cradled him in warm sunlight. Sirius figured that Regulus felt he had been sleeping enough with fifteen years of being dead. That he might fear that his sleep would bring that again. Certainly rest seemed to bring out the inferius in him. Always a step back from whatever improvement he had built up.

Harry would be easier.

Harry deserved the love that Regulus was given. Dumbledore visited once a week to chat with Regulus – a kid who could barely speak at the moment. Even Snape visited, although he kept these visits to once a month due to the fact that strife seemed to upset Regulus, otherwise he would no doubt be a more frequent visitor. Remus, Merlin knew how, tolerated Regulus. The first few times, Regulus had gone for Remus’ throat and had to be stunned. Remus brought bribes of chocolate frogs and still, Regulus would sit between them once he had finished chasing his meal.

One day he had told Sirius ‘ ‘trayed you. Left you.’. Sirius had tried to explain that he had betrayed Remus, that it was him that hadn’t trusted. But Regulus had touched his chest and said one word. Hurt.

Regulus could tell that no matter what had happened, Sirius had felt betrayed by Remus. That one of his childhood friends had not fought for his freedom… it stung and it didn’t matter how irrational that was because to Regulus, it was real and if he didn’t sit there, protecting Sirius, Remus might hurt him.

Merlin, this was messed up.

“Bad.” Regulus said, stiffening, and Sirius grabbed the basin, handing it over to Regulus who retched into the bowl as Sirius rubbed his back in what he hoped were soothing circles. Kreacher vanished the sick between breaks in his brother’s throwing up.

“There you go. Better out. It’s OK.” He said, using his other hand to pull Regulus’ hair out of his face.

Harry wouldn’t eat raw meat and then need a guardian to look out for him. Sirius winced as Regulus threw up again, sounding rather painful as he shuddered, fingers clawing at the ceramic. At the very least Regulus might exhaust himself and doze. That would be nice. Some peace and not having to rely on paintings waking him up whenever Regulus decided to go on his walks.

Sirius yawned and Regulus paused from his heaving, looking up with dark, pain filled eyes.

They were his brother’s eyes. His little brother, who had died alone in a cave to try and bring down Voldemort. Regulus. The soft little idiot who thought he’d take on the world alone because he had no one else to turn to. Sirius hadn’t been there for him.

Regulus doubled over again and moaned in pain and Sirius returned to rubbing his head. Yes, he resented his brother for a lot of things. It had been a long time since Regulus had brought him joy but every time he looked into those eyes, he saw a kid he’d failed. Someone he should have been there for. Perhaps, the guilt would give way to love at some point.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Regulus snarled at the man who came in through the door. Sirius grabbed him and pulled him away, placing an arm out to stop him getting at the man.

“No, it’s alright Sirius. You said he had a turn last night. It’s fine.” The man… the wolf… said, reaching into his pockets with slow movements. He pulled something out, fiddling with it and suddenly Regulus found his focus forced to something moving fast. He dashed after it and it jumped away. Another pounce and he had it wrapped in his hands, feeling his prey wiggling, trying to get out. A quick crush and he broke it. Opening his hands, Regulus started to pick at its brown, sweet flesh, crushing it between his teeth. It was good. Tasty. Bits fell to the floor and he cleaned up those traces as well.

Good. He’d killed it.

Feeling more content with this, Regulus wandered through the house, trying to recall what had happened before. He had chased his prey but something important had happened before that. What was it?

Voices.

Ah, the wolf.

Regulus dashed to the warm room where the fire was merrily burning and Sirius sat with the wolf, his brother lounging across the sofa and the wolf, the betrayer of his brother, sat on a chair.

“Sirius said you’ve started to collect the cards.” The wolf said, looking up as he entered and stalked to sit in front of his brother. Sirius may have forgotten but Regulus remembered the pain his brother had felt when the wolf hadn’t saved him from whatever had happened. It would only be a matter of time before it happened again.

Regulus looked at the offered card but did not take it. Sirius shifted forward, plucked the card from the wolf’s hand and placed it in Regulus’ own, wrapping his fingers around it.

“You’ve been wanting this one, remember?” He said and Regulus stared at the picture.

“S… Slyth… Slytherin. Salazar.” He managed to get the words out, forcing his mouth and tongue to roll around the foreign sounds. There was a vague sense that this had once been easy, like breathing. He had a concept of breathing now. He remembered realising that he breathed.

“Yep! Rarer than the other Founders because no one wants him.” Sirius said, in a jolly tone. Regulus stared at it. He knew this one mattered to him. He knew that some days he could remember why he mattered. Grey eyes shifted to look up at the wolf.

“Trick.” He said.

“I watched him take the card out, it’s not a trick Reg.” Sirius said, rubbing his head. Regulus growled and glared at the two. He had no idea how the wolf could just waltz in and make Sirius forget the pain that he had caused.

“Regulus.” That was the stern voice. He barred his teeth at the tone then flinched as Sirius went to grab him.

“Sirius, it’s okay.” The wolf said hastily, producing another box.

“No, if he can’t play nice he shouldn’t get nice things.” Sirius said. The wolf hesitated with his bribes. Regulus hated that they talked about him as if he wasn’t here. He could understand them, their noises made his mind know. It was just hard to remember how to make the noises back.

“Sirius, you said other than the relapse, he’s doing better.” The wolf said before looking at him.

“Would you like another chocolate frog, Regulus?” He asked and his tone was nice. It was always nice and Regulus did not trust that. He did, however, like the frogs. He eyed the box up and licked his lips, thinking on how good its flesh would be.

“Please.”

The wolf hands over the frog, his prize, and Regulus clutched the box tight in his hands. It is his now and it feels good to own things. The desire to consume now falls away and he leaned against the sofa, staring. Sirius went back to talking but the words wash over him. There’s something unsettled in him, a poking feeling that makes his limbs feel restless. Something he should be doing.

Regulus gets up and follows the feeling.

It takes him to his room. There is a draw there with lines. He traces them. Line with three with three lines. Two hills. A curve and circle. Emergency. It is scrawled in a very slow and deliberate attempt to be neat.

He pulls the draw open and inside are boxes, unopened. A collection of frogs. Because sometimes he could plan for the future. That maybe one day he’d want a frog when he wasn’t being given one. That they were useful. Regulus placed the box inside with the rest, then on second thought he shifts it down to the bottom. Older ones on top. Cycle through.

He closes the draw and looks at the top of his desk.

On there sits a hairbrush, with a symbol engraved into its handle. Regulus traced the symbol.

It was a gift, from mother. His initials made into one image. He’d been ten when gifted it. The handle had been big in his hands and he knew its worth. Grabbing it, Regulus brought the brush through his hair, wincing as it tugged at knots. Sometimes Sirius held him down and ran a comb through his black hair. Sirius would try to be gentle. Regulus did not.

His scalp stung but his hair was fixed.

Investigating his desk, Regulus next found a vial. It smelt of woods on hot summer days. The smell pulled memories of walks with friends like Barty or Severus. It was comforting. A pot held a cream, near dried out but which moistened as his fingers touched it. Regulus sniffed his fingers. It was a gentle hint of night blooming jasmine. He’d chosen it because of that. One summer, they had stayed in Southern France and each evening meal had been punctuated by that smell. It reminded him of family and love. He rubbed the cream against his face, a familiar gesture. His fingers found their own and rubbed it into his skin which softened.

The smells of the wood went on the neck and wrists. He remembered that now.

A tub full of powdered silver used the brush to add flakes to his skin so he looked otherworldly and more than the peasants around him.

There was a ribbon. He used it to tie his hair back into a ponytail, leaving just enough loose to frame his face. That took too many goes until it was satisfactory but what stared out at him was a face that he might remember.

Regulus glanced down at his clothes. Attire.

Sirius dressed him in robes that cut off above his elbows, short at the legs and with a split. He knew his movement could be erratic. It was the outfit of a child.

His wardrobe was empty of suitable garb.

Regulus went into the room next to his. Sirius’. The one his brother did not sleep in but was so painfully his. Sometimes Regulus understood why it hurt. Mostly, though, he couldn’t remember. There, in the draws were proper robes. Long, rich and flowing. They smelt of mothballs and dust but it was still a better alternative. He pulled the robes on and they came up short. It made no sense because Sirius was taller than him. Older than him.

But it was more presentable.

Regulus made his way downstairs and back to the parlour. He breezed in and took a seat near the fire. It hurt to sit up straight. His body did not seem to like it but Regulus knew it was proper and expected of him. He didn’t know who expected it.

“Hey Reggie.” Sirius smiled.

“Siri.” He said with a nod. Even that took too much effort. How had this once been so easy?

“You look good.” Wolf smiled.

“Are… are those my old robes?”

Regulus glanced away.

“I hadn’t realised that old hag had kept them.”

“M.” Regulus glared at Sirius. “Mother.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow.

“Love.” Regulus said firmly.

“She never felt an ounce of love for us, Reg.” Sirius said, laughing callously. Regulus felt his muscles twitch.

“Sirius.” Wolf cautioned, leaning forwards and placing a hand on the arm of Sirius’ chair.

“What? It’s the truth.”

“You said they kept the room the same as you’ve left it.” Wolf said softly.

“Probably never noticed I left.” Sirius scoffed.

“Or they were waiting for you to come home.” Wolf pointed out gently.

“Fat chance.”

“Did.” Regulus said.

Sirius turned his attention back to him.

“Did they come by the Potters to collect me? Turn up at the Express to pick me up? Ever write me a letter? No, Reg, they didn’t. No one did.”

Regulus pulled his legs in closer, feeling eyes water but he couldn’t be weak. Not in front of the wolf.

“Time. Needed time. Then back.” He whispered. That’s what he’d been told. His brother would come back, he just needed space to realise that he still loved them, that nothing was as important as family. Days became weeks, weeks became months. He just needed more time. He’d come back, see his room kept just as it had been when he had left and would realise that they loved him.

“Sirius-” The wolf said, reaching for Regulus’ brother but he pushed the man’s hands away.

“No! They didn’t care!” Sirius said, his voice shaking and Regulus realised he had zoned out for some of the conversation between the two. He also remembered that the wolf was called Remus.

“I’m not saying that the way they treated you was okay, Sirius. It was wrong and it was good that you got out of it when you did because it was destroying you. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t care. That’s what makes it harder.”

“No one could love their child and put them through that. They didn’t love me. They couldn’t have.”

“I did.” Regulus said softly. Sirius glanced up and ran a hand down his face.

“You didn’t put me through anything, Reg. You were the only thing that made home bearable.” It was a comforting lie and Regulus shook his head.

“I was with mother and father.” He said, his words slow as each rolled around his mouth. “I did not help you.”

“That’s because you were soft enough to believe our parents. You were soft.” Sirius said. Regulus shook his head and stared at his arm.

“I joined.” He pointed out.

“Because they forced you.” Sirius insisted.

“I thought ‘twas right.” Regulus said quietly.

“They brainwashed you.”

Regulus shrugged. Sirius wasn’t convinced but at least he wasn’t fighting.

“I didn’t help you.” He repeated.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Sirius stared at the cold, blank eyes staring up at him.

“James… Lily.” He whispered, hands trembling as they reached forwards, hesitant to cradle the corpses of his friends. As he reached out, he realised his hands were uncomfortably warm. Glancing down, he saw them dripping red. His friends’ skin tore open, pouring blood. He had done this. He was drowning in their blood and the world around him got dark. His heart quickened as a cold touch grabbed his heart and tightened. Slimy hands wrapped around his throat, his legs, his arms. A rattling death gasp and he was falling deeper and deeper.

Sirius screamed, starting awake, thrashing underneath duvet covers as his door banged as if it were about to be smashed in.

He swore and grabbed his wand, unlocking the door and Regulus flew in, snarling at the darkness in the corners of his room and hovering protectively over him.

Sirius’ heart was pounding and his body trembling and he did not have time for Regulus not being OK. He did not want a snarling brother trying to bite his nightmares.

“Reggie, it’s okay. Just a nightmare. Nothing’s attacking me.” Sirius gasped out, trying to place a hand on his brother’s arm to try and comfort him. He did not need a jumpy inferius. Regulus jumped, then glanced around.

“Dream?” He asked. His voice sounded young, uncertain of how to pronounce different words.

“Bad dream.” Sirius confirmed, rubbing Regulus’ arm. His brother calmed down a lot faster than he did and then dashed off to do Merlin knew what. Probably whatever inferii did when everyone else was supposed to be sleeping.

Sirius fell back against the bed. He could feel tears pricking at his eyes but Blacks did not cry. Not the women, not the children, not the men. But if a Black cried and no one was there to see, did they really cry?

Sirius covered his eyes and drew in a shaky breath. He was fine. The dementors weren’t here. It was Peter who had killed James and Lily. Dumbledore had gotten him a pardon for that. The world now knew he was innocent. He would never get sent back th-

Something dropped on his stomach and Sirius let out a blood curdling scream, flinging his arm away from his face to stare up into the shocked face of Regulus.

“Wha?” He asked, glancing down, terrified to find out what Regulus might consider an appropriate midnight gift.

It was a chocolate frog.

Still in its wrapping.

Regulus nudged it towards Sirius with a hesitant smile.

“Thanks.” Sirius said softly. Regulus openly grinned back and dashed over to a chair, watching him. Sirius sighed and took the offered gift, opening it up and carefully grabbing the frog before it could jump. He saw Regulus start, ready to hunt, but control the urge. Remus always said chocolate was the best cure for dementors. It was sweet and creamy and thawed out some part of his chest.

“You saved this?” Sirius asked in sudden realisation. Regulus frowned then gave a nod.

“I can’t kill the nightmares.” He said in his slow and carefully thought out way. “Chocolate might. I think I read it once.”

“Yeah. It does.” Sirius gave a small smile. This was progress. Maybe soon they could have Harry here safely.

“What dream?” Regulus asked, words slipping in perhaps an excitement at being able to keep a conversation going.

Sirius shook his head. He was not going back there. Not at all.

“I can’t… Were you asleep?” He decided, trying to turn the conversation to something he might manage. Regulus frowned and Sirius noticed the dark shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t realised before. They must have slowly built up as Regulus’ body became more and more alive. The frown had made his eyes look sunken in and not too unlike the face Sirius still saw in the mirror.

“Can’t.” Regulus agreed and he went to sit on Sirius’ bed, head hanging down.

“Hey, it’s OK. No one expects you to get back to normal immediately.” Sirius said softly, shifting to pull his brother into a hug. Regulus fell against him. Warm. Alive. Sirius could feel his heartbeat against his side. It was strong.

“Do you need food?” Sirius asked. Regulus shook his head. Well, at least that was something.

“Want you safe.”

Sirius sighed.

“Well, since neither of us are sleeping, why don’t we go into the parlour?” He suggested, throwing off the bed covers and grabbing his dressing gown and wand. On second thought, he also picked up his bottle of firewhisky that rested on his bed side table. It was depressingly low and Sirius hadn’t yet plucked up the courage to do his own shopping. There was only so often he could ask Moony to pick up booze, even when spaced out between what remained of father’s cabinet.

Maybe mother’s cabinet. She’d outlived him and Reg by years.

He hated thinking that he might be using anything she owned.

Regulus followed him on deadly silent feet. It was unnerving. Sirius always felt that Regulus was just about to pounce. They managed to get through to the parlour with no murders and Regulus took his customary place by the fire, waiting expectantly. Sirius muttered the incantation and the fire flickered to life. He took a swig of whisky and offered it to Regulus, who did likewise, coughing.

“Missed whisky.” Regulus commented as he handed the bottle back to Sirius. Sirius gave a bark of laughter.

“When did you have time to miss whisky?”

Regulus frowned and cocked his head.

“Don’t know. Last week?”

“Well, that’s a good sign that you’re becoming yourself again, Reggie. What’s a Black without a love of alcohol?”

His brother hummed and Sirius handed the bottle back to his brother who took another gulp.

“Can… Can I ask?” His voice shook and Sirius took the bottle back. He was going to need it.

“About what?”

“Mother?”

“Died five years after I was sent to prison. Guards let me know. They thought there was something hilarious about me being left this house.”

Regulus sniffed.

“Bellatrix?”

“Captured and put into Azkaban not long after they got me.”

“Narcissa?”

“Uh… you remember she married Malfoy, right? Were you around for her pregnancy? Ok, well, she’s got a baby boy. Same year as Harry.”

Regulus nodded, thoughtful.

“Evan?”

“Rosier? Dead.”

“Barty?”

“Did you know about him? That he was a Death Eater?”

Regulus went silent. Sirius sighed.

“Look, I know he was a good friend of yours at school.”

“New brother.” Regulus said softly. “I… I wanted a brother that mother would approve of. You had James.”

“Did you know?” Sirius asked again, his blood running cold. He hadn’t thought about it but the two had been close. Barty had been a years younger than Reg and practically worshipped the ground beneath his feet. Slytherin cronyism, not that the Crouch family needed it, but they were Slytherins all the way. Bartemius Senior just sucked it up to the crowds and the ministry.

“I brought… Yes. I brought him into the fold.” Regulus’ voice was wobbling now.

“Merlin. Oh Reg!”

“Please tell me he’s okay.”

Regulus had been seventeen when he died and he sounded it. He’d been just a kid. Just like Barty when they dragged him into a cell. Sirius remembered the boy screaming for his mother until he went silent. He remembered thinking if Regulus had been caught before his mysterious death, that’s what he’d have been like. And when Barty had died, Sirius had wondered if Regulus would have lasted that long.

“I’m so sorry.” Sirius said, moving to wrap Regulus in a hug as his brother collapsed in on himself. A sudden ringing filled the air and Sirius just had time to cast a quick shielding charm as glass smashed around them. Regulus was crying openly and Sirius shifted his brother to rest against his shoulder.

“’S my fault.” Regulus whispered as Sirius wrapped his arm around his brother and used the other to wave his wand and restore the room.

“No, you aren’t responsible for others, Reg.” He whispered softly as he held his brother as he fell apart and they tried to put each other back together.

#fanfic #Harry Potter #regulus black #Sirius Black #Inferius Regulus

5 notes · View notes

mxndanemagic · 3 years ago

Text

“Were you aware the average amount of blood in an adults body can be about over one gallon? It doesn’t sound like a lot now does it, High Priest Lawrence?” A soothing voice is accompanied by gentle movements as she cradles the hand of a bounded man.

His eyes dart in every direction they’re capable of - trying to piece together a sense of his whereabouts. Where were his guards? How did he miss sight of an intruder? The soft hums from a face that seemed familiar has him further on edge. Shouldn’t that woman be dead? An old reminder of the son that brought shame to their family name. No. This wasn’t her...she wasn’t-

“Evelynn.” He speaks up. “You must be something to that half-witch.” Despite being tied down on a concrete table, rendered harmless, and shaking with fear moments ago- the High priest still managed to speak with disdain. The woman’s humming continues, now entertaining herself with examining the joints in his fingers. How far could they bend? He can guess the question is dancing about in her thoughts. Yet when her eyes snap open, looking his way - the captive warlock finds he can’t say another word. A sinking feeling blankets over him at the sight of red. A shade of red he’s seen before. A sign of giving up too much to the taboo within their craft.

“You’re right. I’m not your ambitious grand-daughter. She’s still decomposing who knows where. Mother never told us where they buried the ol’ girl.”

“I’m not someone you’d particularly have any memory of. That’s fine since it made catching you off guard much easier than I assumed. You knew of my research yet were careless to leave all your dirty work to people who’d sooner than later want you dead.”

A look of surprise flicks over her face, dropping hold of his hand. “How rude of me. You really have no clue as to who I am, do you? Just a clue to someone we used to know.”

Lawrence's own expression narrows into frustration, spitting out impatience with his demands. “Speak clearly, witch. Tell me who you are and stop playing around-” A strangled pained cry cuts off his anger, the sound of cracking bones is heard throughout the room. He can feel the sharp, stabbing pain from the fracture as the witch lets out a sigh.

“It’s not nice to raise your voice at others. You’re not exactly in a position to be ordering someone around.” She lectures. “Maybe I should have been a little more direct.” A kind smile that doesn’t go along with her actions or words is displayed. “I’m Evee’s grand-daughter. Ella Nowell. We’ve met before but I know I appeared differently than as to how I now look.” she explains. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

Her words sounded genuine and sincere but a familiar look doesn’t miss his gaze. A hunger he can recognize easily. The need for power and a desire to play judge and executioner.

“You want to make me laugh, little witch? A fracture won’t keep you safe. Those loyal to me will find you but I’ll free myself long before then. Your punishment will be agonizing and slow, hellion.” He threatens with a confident grin. A smug expression that falters within a second as he his head is harshly shoved back, struggling to breathe as fingers clutch around his neck and clawed fingers dig in to draw blood.

Those red eyes bore into his own startled face - no time to react when Ella is swift to thrust her hand out to strangle him. The smile she wore is long gone, replaced by a calm fury watching him like he spoke out of line.

“...And I’m gonna kill you.”

He really must have been a stupid person. Ella had been careful with everything. Take out his security, assure no one saw her or knew she’d be going after the hated man. His corruption and cruelty would be no more. Lawrence was a careless old fool. Not even noticing that his bountiful reserves of magic were being drained when she held his hand in a comforting manner. He may view her grandmother as a failure but Ella would succeed in what Evelynn couldn’t do. Releasing her grip, Ella lets the High Priest gasp for air and try to steady his breathing. It’d be disappointing to dispose of him so quickly.

“Didn’t mean to get ahead of myself. Can’t have you dying yet - not from crushing your windpipe anyway.” she chuckles. “You’re without any magic to take me on. Quite telling of your perceptiveness - well lack of it that is.” Circling the table, the witch stops behind his head. “Where should we start? What could you endure?”

Is she asking him or wondering aloud? The warlock can’t distinguish and simply watches as snow white hair drapes over when she looks down at him. “You’ve never hurt anyone before have you?” he taunts. “I have nothing to fear then. You’re an amateur at best.”

“Hm, you’re not wrong but I’ve tried getting some practice in and if I’m being honest - I don’t like that underestimating look you’ve been giving me. Why don’t we pluck those eyes right out~?” Ella suggests. One hand holds his head still while the others hovers over his face - fingertips nearing an eye. Without hesitation the clawed tips plunge into the socket, gaining a thrash from the other as they cry out in pain. The witch doesn’t cease and continues to tugging and digging at the eyeball. “Stay still will you? The eye isn’t an easy thing to yank out.” she frowns only to give a forceful tug of her hand back and smile at the sound of something snapping.

There went one eye falling to the ground. Satisfaction displays across her face, admiring the results. “You can keep the other. Can’t have you not witness everything you’re about to go through, hm?”

“I took pointers and asked around about the best tools for this kind of thing. What was it you were saying earlier? Something about having me punished slowly?”

“What of it you damned halfling?” Lawrence lets out a venomous sneer back at her.

“That’s High Priestess to you and as for slow and agonizing-” A sweep of her hand in front of his neck is given. “I believe quick and efficient is how things should be done. Like you said I’m not much of a tormenter when it comes to lowly bugs.”

The sensation of a slit forming across skin dawns on the man, the cut on his neck is deep - blood beginning to seep out. Head careening back and soon falling back with tumble as it’s decapitated with a clean slice.

Ella observes the head for a moment, glancing between the body and it’s detached part. “What an unpleasant man.” strolling over to the head, Ella picking it up with ease only to toss it into the air. With a short incantation the body part is engulfed in a burst of flames and leaving only ashes behind.

“You had quite the run High Priest Lawrence...but things must change for the better. May your soul continue to be tormented as your life continues as a bitter wraith in the forest. Witches will no longer have to fear your tyranny.”

#drabble #tw: torture #tw: body mutilation #tw: murder #muse;ella #v; villain au #not a long one and lacking in the gruesome department #but first attempt writing something a bit darker #poor lawrence's debut is one where he's taken out >>#but he wasn't a good guy at all

2 notes · View notes

shannygoatgruff · 4 years ago

Text

My Brother’s Keeper - Chapter XIII

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Modern Ivar X Modern Hvitserk

Rating: MA+18

Overall Warning: Dark story told from an emotionally distributed person’s POV with graphic and sadistic material including rape, terror, torture, kidnapping, drug use, slash, implied incest, necrophilia, and insecurity. Heavy trigger warnings.

Chapter Warning: Description of previous assault.

Summary: Mama always said to be their brothers’ keeper. Now there is absolutely nothing these two won’t do for each other. Boys will be boys…

Chapter XIII

I've been so busy the last couple of days that I haven't been home much. Judging from the dishes in the sink, I'd say that Ivar hasn't been here either. He's notoriously neat. Like, nothing is ever out of place, neat. I'm not really a slob, but I'm nowhere as neat as he is. He never really complains about the small messes I leave around the house, well, except for my piss in the bathroom, he doesn't. His neat thing is just one of his little idiosyncrasies that I live with. God knows he puts up with enough of mine.

I don't know why these few dishes in the sink are bothering me so damn much. Had I been the one home for a few days, there probably wouldn’t be a clean dish left in the house. But, Ivar’s only left a bowl, a fork, and a glass and for some reason, it's driving me crazy. Even if he just left it – it’s just not like him. He always cleans up the messes.

Maybe I'm foreshadowing, but it just feels like things are changing.

I had this other shrink tell me that I live in a transferred state. That I'm always transferring the way I feel onto other people. Yeah…she didn't know what the fuck she was talking about, either. If what she said was true, then right now, I should be projecting thoughts around this house that would have me as happy as a pig in shit.

I want to find Ivar and tell him my good news. I want him to know how happy I am. But, if he knew that I just spent the last three days at Thora's dorm looking at bridal magazines, hearing her childish fantasies about this big, fairy tale wedding, complete with a castle and a mote, he'd laugh his ass off. And not in a good way.

In all honesty, I can't help but laugh myself when I think about the way her face lit up when she told me she thought I would look good in a tunic and tights and that she wanted the groomsmen to raise swords for us to walk under. I wanted to ask her, what groomsmen? I didn’t want to burst her bubble, so I kept my mouth shut, but there won’t be any motes or castles and their damn sure won’t be any groomsmen.

Besides Ivar, I don't have anybody to invite. Well, maybe Ubbe, but fuck, does he have to know I’m getting married? If he found out, he’d probably tell my other brothers Bjorn and Sigurd and I haven’t seen or heard from them in years.

Bjorn and I don’t talk anymore and I haven’t seen Siggy since he and Ivar got in that big fight when they were teenagers and I took Ivar’s side. Our family has never been that close.

I wonder if Uncle Rollo would come? If Ivar doesn’t already think I’m crazy for getting married, he will if he ever found out I was thinking about Rollo. He’s liable to have me committed. I think it would be nice to have some representation from my dad’s side of the family there, but Ivar would fucking flip. If I even thought about inviting Rollo, I better decide now who would I rather have there, my brother or my uncle.

Oh well, I guess if Ivar doesn't completely stop talking to me over this little stunt, he’s going to be looking pretty fucking stupid holding a sword by himself.

Instead of thinking about how pathetic my side of the church is going to be, I might as well see what that bitch from the news is up to. The only time I get to watch it now is when Ivar isn’t around. He would have a fucking fit if he knew that’s what I was putting on. He’s been extremely overprotective lately.

I would have thought after our night with Bishop and Aud that he would relax a little. He saw how much I needed that and how much they helped me in the confidence department, but he’s still been treating me like a porcelain doll.

He still won’t let me watch the news. He freaked the fuck out when I told him I was taking Thora out to dinner and went ballistic when I told him I was staying the night at her place. Now that he hasn’t seen me in a few days, I don’t have a clue what kind of mood he’s going to be in. He keeps saying something about being worried that I’m not ready to be social yet – that he’s afraid I’m going to have another blackout. I haven’t blacked out in over a week, but he still doesn’t want me out of his sight. I swear it’s more to it than that, only he won’t be straight with me and tell me what it is.

Foreshadowing my ass. Things are definitely changing.

Wait...where's that Judith Wessex news bitch? I’ve developed a relationship with that fucking reporter that likes to dump on us. I know it seems crazy, but I feel like if I can just keep my eye on her, hear firsthand what lies she's spreading, that I have some control over the situation. Knowing what she knows about us has been almost settling for me, because I know I’m still one step ahead of her nosy ass. But, she's not on today. Where the fuck is she? Is she combing the streets making up more lies? Is she retracing our steps and writing a story to put our entire lives on display for the public?

Little does she know, I've stopped…so fuck you, bitch! Ha! I can't wait to see her pinched fucking face when she has nothing else to lie about. Fucking whore. I hate that bitch more when she's not on TV then when she is. And the fact that I don't know where she is making me uncomfortable.

Turning my head toward the sound of the kitchen, I see Ivar emerging from the basement stairs. "Hey there. Long time, no see." He smiles brightly as he walks toward me and kisses me on the head. "How are you feeling?"

I never take my eyes off of him as he rounds the couch to sit beside me. "Good. Tired, but good." He looks genuinely happy to see me. I feel myself smile as I reach across the couch to wipe away a smudge of dirt from his cheek. "What have you been into?"

He moves his head away from my hand before capturing it in his own. "You know... this and that. Gotta new project I'm working on." When Ivar's being vague, I tend not to question why. He never gets himself into more than he can handle. We share our lives, but how we share is completely different. I am an open book to him, mainly because I can't seem to control my emotions. He shares with me by being supportive. It's not that I don't care what he's got going on; it's just, Ivar doesn't need help. He tells me what I need to know and works the rest out on his own. "How's the pixie?"

There it is, the Thora sarcasm. I knew it was going to happen, I just didn’t think it would happen two minutes into our conversation. I wanted to sit here and shoot the shit with him for a little while, talk about regular shit before the conversation drifted over to her. But, he already brought her up. It’s like he knows that she’s on my mind or that I have something that I need to talk to him about.

He's my everything - I don't keep secrets from him and sure as fuck can't lie to him. But on the same token, I don't ever want to hurt him. What if he takes this news as a betrayal? "Good." That's not what I wanted to say, but it's all that will come out my mouth at the moment.

"Just good? What? No animated hearts floating above your head when you talk about her? Where are the sparkles and glittery fairy dust? She's losing her touch, Hvitserk." He gives me this smile and rolls his eyes in annoyance. God, I hate this. He must sense my mood changing because he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my open palm. "Aww, I’m sorry, baby. I’m just joking."

I haven't been this afraid to tell him something since the time I told him about my hobby. That was the single biggest leap of faith I have ever taken with anyone in my life. Telling him about Thora is nowhere near the same magnitude, but fuck if I’m not just as afraid.

For some reason, it had always been easiest to talk to Ivar and he is my youngest brother. But that night, when I came back to our parents’ house, I just couldn’t go back to my place and be alone. I went to his room to sleep on his floor. Maybe it was because he was the only one of my brothers that was home at the time or maybe because we always seemed to have this connection. Whatever it was, it just felt safe to be there with him. He didn't judge me or ask me a lot of questions. He didn’t tell me to go to my old room or get the fuck out of his. He just moved over in his bed and patted the space next to him – he lifted his covers for me to crawl in next to him, so I did. I don’t think either of us knew why. I just know that I needed someone and he knew that I was in a funk that I couldn’t get out of and he never made fun of me for it.

Those first few nights, he would lay next to me and stroke my hair silently, so lovingly and just let me cry without prying. I don't know what made me tell him. I guess I just couldn't keep it in any longer. Maybe it was knowing that his blue eyes were desperately searching for what was making me so unhappy, or maybe it was the soothing sound of his breathing? Whatever it was, I was scared but I trusted him.

I swear I felt then just like I feel right now.

It just didn't seem that hard then. I just knew that I had to tell somebody before my secret-self ate me alive. Sweaty palms and a heartbeat that I couldn't control couldn’t stop me from divulging. Someone had to see the real me before I completely disappeared. So I told him. I told him about the hunger and how crazy it made me feel. I told him how I like to hurt them, restrain them, feel them fight against me. I tried to explain the tears and how they excited me. The punching and scratching, biting, and resisting… the guilt, the pain, the endless crying, and apologizing over them as they lay bloody and unconscious. I never meant to hurt any of them I just needed them to make me feel normal again. And it had worked for a while.

Until her…

She was supposed to be like the rest of them, but no matter what I did, it wasn't enough. She loved it more than I did. I wasn't strong enough to break her and when I stopped, she begged for more. She needed it more than me. She was sick, all the things she asked me to do. And what was sicker was I couldn't do them. But she finally stopped asking when I broke the bottle and used it to please her.

I don't know why I did it. Nothing I was doing on my own would hurt her enough. I didn't think it would kill her. But there was so much blood. I mutilated her to settle something in me.

He listened silently as I recounted how I lost control and killed her so that I didn't have to hear her call me a failure. He understood that that's what led me back home that night and why I ended up on his floor. He knew that the one thing I had to make me feel powerful she had taken away from me so I ended her life and that I would rather kill myself than to live knowing that I was that weak. I still can't believe I told him that. I have never told anyone that much about myself.

I just knew that Ivar would tell me to get the hell out of the room, or that we weren’t brothers anymore. But he didn't. Instead, he held me tight and soothed my tears. He told me he understood. Then he told me about the things that haunt him.

I felt like we connected when he explained the way the screams help him sleep at night. I understood what he meant by the smell of fear being sweeter than any perfume. It felt like he was reading my diary. I got how his hunger was so unbearable that he felt like he was losing his mind. I knew the feeling of ants crawling in my blood; it was just like that for him.

I had finally found someone that understood me. I had no idea that my baby brother felt so many of the same feelings that I did. The one person in the world that wouldn’t think I was a freak had been in my life all of this time. My insecurities, my awkwardness, my past time…nothing seemed to deter him from being there for me. If anything, I think it brought us closer.

Ivar took me under his wing and taught me how to take pride and pleasure in what it is that we do. He showed me how to make what is mine into an art form. He helped me learn to accept true love and know that I am worthy of it…even if I don't have my shit together. He proved to me time and time again that nothing I do is enough to make him leave me.

So why the fuck am I petrified to tell him about Thora?

Taking a deep breath and fix my eyes on the couch cushion between us. "I'm getting married." Slowly my eyes raise to meet his face and I blink back the sheer terror that runs through me. If I could just read his expression I would feel more at ease. But for now, his expression is blank. "I–I proposed to her. S-She said yes." I try to sound relieved but I know it comes across as uncertain. I'm not unsure about Thora, I'm unsure about his silence.

Nothing. He says absolutely nothing. He's completely still and only his sporadic blinking lets me know that he's still paying attention. He never lets my hand go nor does he increase his grip to show his anger. Sometimes I hate how aloof he can be.

"Ivar. This is what I want. I want a normal life. This thing that we do isn’t normal. I use to think it was, but it's not.” I take a deep breath, “The papers are full of a hundred stories of other people that do what we do, but most of them can control it better than we can. They don’t go around partying as hard or as often. We’re losing control, man." I stand from the couch and start to pace in front of the television. His eyes follow me back and forth, but the look on his face never changes. "We can't do this forever. I just want a chance, like Mother and Father had. Okay?" I don't know why I'm crying. He hasn't said anything, but his silence is even worse than him yelling. I just want him to talk to me. "Say something, please."

He closes his eyes and folds his hands neatly in his lap. It takes a second for him to formulate the words. When he's ready and his eyes open, he turns his body to face me and he cocks his head and fixes me with an eerily calm glare. "What would you like me to say?"

"Something. Anything. Let me know you're okay with it. Tell me you still love me and that you'll never leave me." Ivar's approval means to me than even I understand. But I know he won't approve of this. "Tell me that you're still proud of me."

He shakes his head sadly and his eyes soften. I don't want him to react to my reaction but I know that's what he's doing. Just once, I want Ivar to tell me how he feels without treating me like I may break. "Hvitserk…"

I am going to get married. I have to learn how to stand on my own feet if I'm going to be able to carry Thora for the rest of our lives. I can take it. I can take whatever he says. But he has to know how I feel. "She makes me happy. I love her."

A cool smile spreads across his face before a throaty laugh escapes him. I don't like it when people laugh at me, especially Ivar. "Please, don't laugh at me, Ivar."

"I'm not laughing at you, Serk. I'm laughing at the absurdity of the situation." He stands slowly and runs his fingers through his hair. Even now he's so fluid. Nothing in his body language shows how he feels. But the smooth tone of his voice alerts me that he's less than happy. "I'm not going to give you permission if that's what you're looking for. You think this is what you want, but it's not." He stands in front of me and places a kiss on my forehead. "I've taught you everything you need to know. I have shown you the beauty of who and what you are. But the one thing I can't do is make you accept it. So if that pixie, cunt, bitch is what will keep you entertained for a while, then by all means. And when the feeling overwhelms you and you know what it is that you need, I'll be right here waiting for you."

I would rather him yell at me then to use that disappointed tone of voice. I wish I could take back the last three days and have just kept that damn ring in my pocket. But, I want this. I deserve it. I've been fighting this thing in me since I was fourteen years old. Isn't it time for it to stop controlling me? Isn't it time for me to be happy. "It's not like that, Ivar."

"Then why are you crying, Sweetie?" He leans down to whisper in my ear and I feel my heart breaking at his words. "If you were sure, you would have told me and not felt the need to defend it."

I sniffle back the emotion that's taking over me at the moment. I feel dizzy and nauseous, but I'm not letting that give me an excuse not to deal with the events of my life. I will not blackout. I will deal with discomfort and not second guess my actions.

I am sure. I'm sure that I don't want to lose him but that I want a normal life. "I'm done." My lips move to say the words but no sound comes from my mouth. I want him to understand that I mean it when I say it, but I just haven't found the strength yet.

"Okay." He says it with a smile and I know he doesn't believe me.

"I mean it." I find my voice and raise my eyes to finally meet his. I'm not backing down. Not this time. "I'm not doing it anymore."

With a shrug, Ivar turns away from me and heads towards the stairs. "You say that now. You might even think that you believe it. But you can't escape it."

I watch him walk up the stairs and I find myself at the foot of them, scared to death. "Just don't stop loving me. Please?"

He turns to me and I swear I see tears in his eyes. "I'll never stop loving you, Brother. I just don't support you in this one. You can have all the dreams you want, baby. But you can never stop being who you are."

Ivar's usually right about everything. I just pray to God that he's not about this.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Tags: Let me know if you want to be added/removed from tags:

@youbloodymadgenius @idea-garden @kol--mikaelson @mooniemouse @didiintheblog @waiting4inspiration @tempt-ress @where-beauty-goes-to-die @crazyaboutmotleycrue @oddsnendsfanfics @geekandbooknerd @ivarthebloodyking @honestsycrets

20 notes · View notes

bjy-on-ao3 · 4 years ago

Text

Cat-Scratch Fever

(You can find a link to the AO3 version of this, as well as the rest of my fics on the ‘Masterlist’ section of the blog.)

As someone who has very short nails and can’t stand them getting long, I do wonder how people get things done with long nails, tbh. That aside, this was spawned from staring too long at Satan’s ‘Why Do People Love Cats’ and seeing that his nails are a decent length. (Technically I think even Beel’s are also longer, but idk if it’s just the same for all the brothers and I’m very blind.) I am also a big fan of ‘claws’ on demons/etc.

(Also for those who don’t know ‘Cat-Scratch Fever’ is both supposedly a real thing, as well as a Ted Nugent song, but this is named mostly for the cat-pun.)

Cat-Scratch Fever (F!Reader/Satan)

Tags/Warnings Mildly Dubious Consent, Scratching, Sadism, Masochism, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough S*x, Creampie

Summary Reader makes a passing comment about Satan’s nails. Satan feels offended and decides to punish them in a way he deems suits the offense.

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

You had innocently commented about Satan's nails earlier that day, genuinely curious how he managed to get anything done with them so long. “Why bother to keep them so long? Don’t they get in the way?” You had quipped about his green-painted claws.

Unfortunately for you - or perhaps, fortunately, based on who you asked - the Avatar of Wrath had taken your offhanded comment as a slight, though also as an opportunity. When it came down to it, many things made Satan cross, even little things, but he was adept at keeping his wrath hidden. Along with his temper, Satan possessed a vindictive streak that likely wouldn’t have been a surprise to learn about. Ordinarily, he might pay back someone for inciting his ire in a manner purely for his amusement, but he had a sense this time it might be in your favor as well. At least depending on your capacity for pain.

That afternoon, he asked you to his room and you came willingly, having no reason to be suspicious of the invitation. You enjoyed your time with Satan, even when you considered his tendency toward anger. Despite his wrathful nature, you found him far quieter and pleasant to be around than most inhabitants of the Devildom. That was to say nothing of your delight at having access to the vast collection of books he kept for himself in his bedroom. But Satan wasn't of a mind to let you indulge in his tomes - not today at least. No, he was here to teach you the more fun uses of his long nails.

He cut to the chase quickly after closing his door behind you with a ‘click’. Within seconds, he drew you securely into his arms, one hand clutching at your face harshly, fingers digging into your jaw. Instantly you felt your face flush hotly, quickly flustered by the closeness. "Satan, what's gotten into-"

"Shhh," he hushed you. "You wanted to know why I keep my nails long." He reminded you matter-of-factly, green eyes boring into yours. He pressed his nails lightly into your skin as he spoke, a sensation that tickled and stung. "I'm going to show you. And I’m going to teach you why you shouldn’t question someone else’s appearance.”

An undercurrent of anger trickled into his voice and you realized, somehow, your comment from before must have irked him. While you weren’t sure what he was going to show you exactly, you gleaned from his words and tone you were going to be punished for the slight against him. You hadn’t thought what you said would offend Satan, but there was no taking it back now.

You started to babble an apology - or perhaps an excuse - but his grip strengthened and you stopped, wincing as the manicured tips of his nails pricked your skin. Rendered silent from his command and grasp, you waited with bated breath for whatever he was plotting. You knew that if you wanted, you could stop him with a single word, but part of you wanted to find out what Satan was going to show you. A part bold enough - or stupid enough - to risk the temper of a demon second only to Lucifer in sadism.

A small smirk quirked Satan’s lips at your resignment to his whims. It seemed you were willing to make amends by receiving his punishment and he was quite pleased. He inclined his head toward your lips slowly, studying your face. You watched him as intently as he watched you, your eyes at first locked with his but flickering to his lips the closer he came. Unconsciously, your lips parted as Satan’s brushed them, the moment tense, like a rubber band, stretched near its breaking point.

When Satan’s lips met yours, there was no gentleness, only an overwhelming blaze of dominance and fervor. His nails scraped cruelly against your skin in complement to his rough kiss. At the sting a yelp rang out from you, muffled by his lips. Satan took advantage of your mouth opening wider, slipping his tongue past your lips and forcing your tongue to twine with his. Despite the sharp prick of his nails, a low groan followed your yelp and your eyes slipped shut.

Satan’s other hand swept up, outlining your jaw in a ticklish, almost tender fashion before moving back down your neck and carving an angry trail into your skin. You whimpered at the newest burn, though a rush of heat of a different sort rose to dull the pain. Your neck and face felt far too hot and despite being freed from Satan’s embrace you remained pressed against him.

The callous fingers clawing at your neck moved away in favor of the hem of your shirt and slipped beneath it.They smoothed up your back, all gentle fingertip. The first wave of pain had begun to ebb and you had started to grow used to Satan’s harsh hold on your jaw when his other hand reached the nape of your neck. Jolts of hot pain rolled over your skin again as Satan dragged his nails down your back, marking up even more of your skin.

You arched away from the sting, though you had nowhere to go, already pressed flushed against Satan. You succeeded only in pushing yourself more firmly against him. He groaned, devouring the string of whines that fled your lips at the burning touch of his nails. A single smooth roll of his hips let you feel just how excited your body and pain had made him. The suggestive motion was enough to send a shiver down your spine that was much more pleasurable than the ache of his scratches.

The hand on your back pressed flat against the mistreated skin, using the leverage to steer you somewhere. That somewhere turned out to be his bed, your feet stumbling over a few books stacked beside it. Your eyes popped open when he sat down, pulling you with him and dragging you into his lap until you were straddling him. The kiss was broken, but your faces remained dangerously close. Close enough for you to be both appreciative and fearful of the predatory, mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Satan’s sadism was no secret - none of the brothers did much to hide or deny their frightening sides. Yet the swirl of perverse pleasure in Satan’s eyes was something new. You knew he got a kick out of tormenting Lucifer or pulling pranks, but the looks he had then were nothing quite so fierce and intense as what you were looking into.

His bruising grip on your jaw dropped, both hands reaching to the bottom of your shirt and pulling it up. Heart racing and skin burning, you lifted your arms to let him tug it over your head and toss it away. His eyes greedily trailed over your skin, eyeing the expanse unmarred by his touch. He would need to fix that. Pushing one hand into the small of your back and forcing you to bow toward him, he bent his lips to the marks he had already left, nipping and kissing. His other hand tended to your unbroken skin, quickly resolving the lack of angry marks along your torso and stomach.

You hissed out a string of curses, fisting your fingers in his sweater, desperate to ground yourself against the pain that somehow was beginning to make your skin burn and buzz in some strange bliss. The warmth of his mouth on your abused skin made the pain white-hot at first but became more soothing the longer he lapped at it. Still, it wasn’t enough to block out the new pain blossoming across your abdomen. “Aa, Satan, fuck, please...” you whimpered, voice cracking in your plea

You weren’t sure what you were pleading for. You didn’t know whether you wanted him to stop or hurt you more until you were half-delirious. You were utterly torn and confused. Heat washed over your lower body in a primal surge amidst the throbbing pain, gathering especially strongly at the apex of your thighs. Satan was no fool and could tell the difference between the angry color his nails left behind and the pleasant flush of arousal on your skin. The knowledge only more firmly fixed the impish smile on his lips.

“Begging won’t do any good,” he denied, skating his lips over one of your breasts in another deceptively light touch. “There isn’t any talking your way out. Besides, you look so irresistible like this.”

His lips wrapped around one nipple, sucking roughly and scraping his teeth over it. You cried out, the sound strangled and pathetic. He treated the other nipple in the same way and you sucked in a desperate breath. The beat of your heart pounded ruthlessly, every stinging scratch throbbing in time with it. Your cunt pulsed with it, too, a much more pleasurable sensation than your burning skin.

You tried biting down on your lip to stifle your whimpers and gasps as if you might quiet the pain with them. Satan noticed quickly, looking up at your face from beneath hooded eyes alight with his wrath and hunger. “Open up, I want to hear you,” he demanded, prising your lip from your teeth with his thumb until your mouth hung open again.

His hand left your back, looping around to your waistband and unbuttoning your pants, pulling them down. Keeping you from catching your lip between your teeth again, he dipped a hand into your panties and felt your body tense. He didn’t claw at your soft, slippery folds as your pain addled mind expected, instead using his nails to drag teasingly over the sensitive skin. A shudder ran down your back and the noise that drifted from your lips was an erotic blend, combining the pleasure of his touch and the ache of your sore skin. One finger teased your slit - dripping despite the lingering ripples of pains wracking your body.

“Enjoying your punishment, hmm? You’re so wet,” Satan teased.

Your whimpers of pain morphed gradually into more pleasured ones, interrupted by longer, lower moans as he eased two fingers into you. His thumb reached up to your clit, rubbing firm circles over it in time with the stroke of his curled fingers. Satisfied you wouldn’t try to quiet yourself again, his thumb left your lips and returned to savaging your body. Added to the rising swell of pleasure the fingers in your cunt were pulling from you, the pain of his nails biting into your skin was something else entirely. It still stung, making you whine and gasp, but the uncomfortable edge was dulled, the remainder accentuating the pleasure building inside you.

Satan’s attention was rapt on your face again, studying each tiny expression, your features twisting between bliss and torment. The sight made his dick twitch, already hard and longing to be released from the confines of his pants. He pushed away the impatient voice in the back of his mind that urged him to be done with the foreplay. To say the idea of stuffing you with his cock and raking his nails across your skin while buried inside you was enticing would have been an understatement. But he was thoroughly enjoying the moment at hand as well.

You writhed against the contrasting feelings, your body beginning to quake as he fucked you on his fingers and dug his nails into your back. Your cunt bore down more and more around his fingers, each time sending a jolt through you that left you short of breath. “Fuck, it hurts,” you panted out, body drawn taut, the warring sensations threatening to tear you apart.

“Hm, have you had enough then? Learned your lesson?” Satan mused coyly, though he had no real intention of letting you go just yet. Your lesson was learned when he decided it was and no sooner

“N-no, don’t stop, please, all of it. Keep going,” you begged between labored breaths and whimpers,

Satan’s brows quirked curiously, pleasantly surprised by how well you were taking to his punishment. His cock ached, straining against his pants at your breathy pleas. The nagging, greedy voice from before continued to repeat its demands fitfully, louder by the second and making his blood roil. But Satan’s patience and will was greater than that.

He pumped his fingers steadily into your dripping cunt, more wetness gathering around them, rubbing a little harder on your clit. His nails shifted from digging into your skin to teasingly skimming the lurid marks. Among your myriad whimpers and moans, your voice pitched higher, each sound shorter and breathier. The pulse of your cunt grew in frequency, squeezing him tightly until you felt fit to burst.

You were passingly amazed Satan was able to bring you to the peak of bliss despite inflicting so much pain, but there was little room for coherent thought for long. All you could truly focus on was the twin pulse of pain and pleasure, liquid heat building in your core higher, higher, and higher.

When Satan pulled his fingers away from your swollen folds at the precipice of your orgasm, it was a pain much deeper and stinging than the sharp, hard touch of his nails. It was a loss, an ache bone-deep that made you whine, high-pitched and pitiful. “Satan, please, please,” you chanted almost incoherently, slumping against his shoulder and burying your face in his neck.

You ground your hips against his, desperate to gain back the bliss that had been overwhelming the pain and turning it into a pleasant buzz. Satan smirked, the hand on your back falling still and holding you to him tightly while he raised the other coated in your slick to his lips. He cleaned his fingers diligently, a lewd sucking sound and a ‘pop’ drawing your attention. Already trembling in his lap, a more violent shudder worked its way through you at his bawdy display. “What did I say about begging?” He rumbled, meeting your gaze wolfishly.

Your mouth opened and closed several times as you fought your muddled brain for words. “But I-” you paused - if he didn’t want you to beg, what did he want? “I’m sorry… for questioning your nails,” you mumbled. You weren‘t sure if an apology was what Satan desired, but it was worth a try.

Satan’s simper grew, pleased with your words. “Mmm, I don’t think saying you’re sorry is enough. You’ll need to prove to me you’re sorry,” he said, adjusting you in his lap.

Your breath caught in your throat and your drumming heart skipped a beat as he moved his hands to his belt, unbuckling it and undoing his pants, You swallowed hard at the sight of his cock as he pulled it from his boxers, stiff and eagerly oozing pre-cum from the swollen head. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled your panties away, proceeding to scissor his fingers between your lips and spread you open for him. “Show me how sorry you are and scream for me, hmm?” He purred, teasing your entrance with the head of his dick.

Without further preamble, Satan thrust up into your heat, half burying himself in one stroke. His hands snaked to the curve of your hips, the familiar burn of his nails digging into your skin returning as he forced you to take more of his cock. You let out a guttural groan when he bottomed out, your hips flush, and a similar sound escaped Satan. He nipped at your earlobe roughly, grinding himself against you in a sloppy circle, letting you feel all of him, hot and hard and unrelenting.

He abandoned the smaller, gentler motion, drawing back and lifting you out of his lap, only to slam back home and pull you down hard. Each cruel thrust ached but you couldn’t deny how good it felt as well. Your cunt only reinforced the feeling, hugging him greedily, as if unwilling to let him go. You tried to match his pace, rocking your hips into his and failing to match his vigor, but doing enough to angle his cock just so that when he pushed back inside it made your legs weak.

The same sensation Satan had wrung from you before with his fingers was blooming again, even more intense from the orgasm abandoned beforehand and the full feeling of his cock driving into you. You felt as if you might combust at any moment and burn down in a roaring blaze of bliss. You couldn’t help but do as Satan had asked, mouth dropping open wide as you rode him, a lewd chorus erupting from your lips.

With each thrust, your shouts of pleasure grew, higher and more urgent. When, at last, you reached the edge of ecstasy and tumbled past it, your screams reached a height that made your throat feel raw. Satan’s name rolled off your tongue many times without hesitation and the rhythm of your hips stuttered, any coherence and focus dwindling. Satan’s pace didn’t slow, however, though you thought you heard a sound like a growl come from him.

He bucked his hips harder, the delicious ache making you whimper even as you came back down from your orgasm. But Satan wasn’t nearly done with you and each harsh push back inside sent aftershocks through you, each their own kind of pain in your post-orgasmic sensitivity. “Satan, aa, I can’t take anymore,” you moaned, leaning and tucking your face into his neck again and clamping down on his shoulders with both hands.

Had Satan been feeling merciful, he might have let you off then, but he was determined to see your ‘punishment’ through, as well as chase his own climax. He mouthed at your neck for a moment, littering it with sharp bites before ghosting his lips along your ear. “I thought you were sorry? You’ll have to take a little more if you want me to forgive you,” he said, his voice a lusty hush.

You whined in answer but didn’t speak out against your treatment further. Satan moved one hand from your hips, trailing it between your legs as you continued to ride him despite your protests. When the pads of his fingers slipped across your clit, the fire in your belly was reignited, cresting quickly toward another crescendo. Your lewd sounds had become weak, airy, and cracked, inciting Satan to pick up his pace, feeling his release approaching.

“Cum for me again and I’ll forgive you,” he promised, the rock of his hips beginning to stutter, though their press remained hard and merciless.

You whimpered his name, breath hitching as your painful pleasure reached a fever pitch and exploded. Your cunt fluttered around him frantically, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes as the second orgasm overtook you. Finally urged to his limit as well, Satan followed after several hard thrusts. The nails of the hand on your hip dug in the most cruelly yet and one of your moans twisted into a strangled yelp. He spilled into you in long, hot pumps, groaning your name. Then all was still and silent.

Your brain felt completely fried, body tingling and aching from the mixture of torment and euphoria. You weren’t sure where each began and the other ended, each beat of your heart making your body throb. Your breathing was labored, short, and beside your ear, so was Satan’s. “Good girl,” he breathed tiredly, a husky tone lingering in his voice.

Withdrawing from you, Satan didn’t let go, lying back and pulling you with him so you were splayed across his chest. You were too exhausted to complain or try to move. “Think before you speak next time, hmm?” Satan began.

You nodded weakly against his skin but didn’t say a word, trying to catch your breath and waiting for your pulse to stop racing. “Or I might have to punish you again.”

The ultimatum made you shudder against him. A part of you wasn’t sure if more punishment was a bad thing or not.

#obey me satan #om satan #shall we date satan #shall we date obey me #swd om #obey me #writing #fanfic #ao3 #archive of our own #tw: dubious consent

2 notes · View notes

404writingnotfound · 5 years ago

Text

Somebody. {Tetsuro Kuroo x reader}

A/N: Is it kinda OOC? Maybe. Do I genuinely think Kuroo would be a mess of a human being when completely, stupidly in love? Of course I do. Therefore, you can have some stupidly in love Kuroo

Fandom: Haikyuu!! Pairing: Tetsuro Kuroo x reader

“(Y/n), pay attention to me.”

“Tetsuro, I’m really not in the mood.”

He knew that. God, of course he knew that—he couldn’t run down the street fast enough to get to their house the second he heard them crying over the phone. But here he was now, laying across their bed as they gave a sniffle here and there after getting through the worst of their sobbing and he could only listen carefully as they poured their heart out. He poked, prodded, constantly tried anything he could think of to make them smile as he was able to do naturally—but no amount of borderline annoying gestures could soothe them at the moment.

Picking up the information was easy despite their cries; Their shitty boyfriend—now ex, which Kuroo would never admit he was thankful to hear—had broken their heart for the last time, openly leaving them with his new plaything in tow. He’d always been the shittiest person, Kuroo constantly told (Y/n) they deserved better, but lack of confidence and massive manipulation can make the brightest of stars blind, it would seem.

So he sat there, hearing them recount the heartbreaking moment while wiping away as many of their tears as he could with the pad of his thumb. Kuroo didn’t talk—it would’ve all been curse words and only semi-empty threats, (Y/n) knew that—but he hoped the gentle way he held them was enough without the need for words. It was, seeing as they had calmed down an hour or so ago, but the air in the room was still heavy and he just wanted to see them smile.

“We can go egg his car?”

The question was simple and light hearted, causing (Y/n) to let out a half-hearted giggle in return.

“It’s just... so stupid,” they started again, “What... what did I do wrong?”

“Stop that,” Kuroo reprimanded, “You know you didn’t do anything.”

“But he said--”

“Fuck whatever he said!” He sat himself up across from them now to hold their hands and grab their attention. “He’s a loser! He... he was bad for you anyway, (Y/n)! He’s just a shitty guy!”

They looked at their now intertwined fingers, rubbing their thumbs over the sides of his finger pensively. The way their voice broke—Kuroo thought he could feel his heart shatter in just the same way.

“Why wasn’t I good enough, Tetsu?”

“You were good enough—no—you were too good for him,” his voice calmed; he leaned in towards them to catch their eyes once again, “You’ve always been just... so amazing. There was never a time within our entire lives that I doubted your worth—you shouldn’t doubt it either.”

“Obviously I wasn’t enough for him--”

“You don’t have to be enough for him, (Y/n)!” his voice grew louder, “Being yourself makes you good enough for the people who care about you, and that’s what matters! Not some shitty guy who wanted to change everything about you!”

Kuroo grew exasperated—could they really blame him? Watching the one person he held above himself crumble under self-doubt when all he’s ever seen is the beauty of their actions? Of their feelings? Of every piece of who they are? Not once in his life has he seen the dark side of this moon—there was none to him; Both sides were illuminated by either the sun or the stars around them, just as they have given such comforting rays in return. It hurt—did it hurt him or them more? His mind started to race now, desperate to grab at something, anything, to convey just how loved they should feel—that love shouldn’t be such a painful deal, and shouldn’t demand such change from an already perfect being.

“You don’t need someone like him,” he sounded agitated. His hands started to fidget within their own before pulling them away to rub at his face. “So what if you aren’t enough for him,” he started again, “You don’t need a jackass like him anyway! You... you need...”

He could feel the tips of his ears start to burn, as did the back of his neck—he tried desperately to rub it away, to try and stop himself from what was coming next; He knew what direction he was heading in and couldn’t bear to put that on them at a time like this.

“You know, you need...”

Stop it, Kuroo. They don’t need this, not now—they're vulnerable, pulling this shit on them now makes you no better than the other guy. He knew this, but why couldn’t he stop himself? He’s held back all these years, what has his emotions flowing over the edge this time?

The look in their eyes—that's it. The pain that’s flooding them is all he can see, it’s all he wants to get rid of right now. That pain, that pain is what’s tugging at his heartstrings, causing the back of his mind to cry out for them.

“Someone who... you know... someone...”

Dammit, he can’t stop stuttering, now. He ran his hand up their arm a few times, stopping short of their shoulder before scooting closer to them. Their hair was so soft between his fingers as he moved it from their face—their face so soft and fragile against the callused pads of his fingers as he moved to cup their cheek and wipe away stray tears. Oh god, he was going to do it, wasn’t he?

“Someone who lov--”

The emotion in their eyes shifted, but to what? Kuroo was too lost in thought to realize they simply mirrored his own.

“Someone who loves... Somebody who...”

His hand moved to cup the back of their jaw now, grip firm as he closed the gap between the two of them, lips landing against their own—God, will they hate him after this?

The kisses were rough—desperate—both desperate to convey words of love and desperate for confirmation; Lips parted and met again, time and time again, each kiss lasting a few seconds long but feeling as though an eternity had passed by since the last one. It felt right—finally—to have met in the space between as neither had dared to enter first. The way they kissed back, so soft and gentle, make Kuroo feel like a greedy bastard as his lips bordered the line of hunger—hunger for more, more more—he couldn’t get enough of the way his hopes, dreams, and love of his life existed in the small space created when he parted from them. It was wrong—he knew it—to take advantage of this moment, but his very soul wouldn’t dare part from its other half. He should stop—he had to stop; he knew this.

He pulled away, just enough to look into their equally lidded eyes—the faint lamp in their room just bright enough to see the way their eyes mirrored his love-blown pupils.

“Somebody who loves you,” his whisper fanned over their lips, “You know... like me.”

Their silence killed him—what would they say? Surely they hated him now, right? Their voice was so melodic and sweet, he almost couldn’t catch their words.

“Tetsuro...”

God, he’d kill to hear them call his name like that time and time again.

“I... what am I supposed to say?”

He chuckled, shaking his head before pressing his forehead against their own, moving to cup the either side of their face as well.

“Nothing. Comment on it another time. It’s just something that should’ve been said years ago—before you even met that bastard.”

“Then... I’ll tell you I love you tomorrow, instead.”

The corners of Kuroo’s lips tugged into a full, genuine smile—not the lopsided smirk he normally dawned, but one that felt so bright, so easy, so loving that the red on his ears had finally caught up to his cheeks.

“You know what, I think that’s pretty fair.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

His eyes closed and he took a deep breath, relishing in the soft silence as he tried to calm his now erratic heartbeat. It was... a different silence now, different than it had ever been between them before, but one he certainly didn’t mind; They broke it, however, with a gentle whisper.

“Can we still egg his car?”

Kuroo couldn’t hold in his laugh, letting go of them to lean back and let out one of the hardest laughs he’d had in a while, (Y/n)’s loving smile going unnoticed through the tears in his eyes. Once he managed to speak, his sly smirk made it to his face once again before running a hand through their hair one more time.

“Uh, yeah. Fuck that guy.”

#kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu writing

136 notes · View notes

once-upon-a-ouat · 5 years ago

Text

“The Sound of the Sea Can Keep You from Drowning”

Summary: Emma's had one of the worst days in her career as a detective and the biggest problem is that she can't even get back home to her son. She is stuck in the same room with Killian who has been nothing but understanding and caring–not just that night but all the time–and it annoys her so much that she can't figure out why he's doing all of that for her since she's sure he's not driven by desire for personal gain. Bedsharing.

This was always meant to be a birthday present for @theonceoverthinker but I am so late because I had some disagreements with the muse about this fic. It's just my second time writing Captain Swan so I hope you'll like it.

Read on FFN or AO3

A simple motion was usually enough for Emma to get free of her jacket but the red leather was clinging adamantly to her that night and refused to yield to her manipulations, making her huff in tact with yet another useless tug. It felt like she was stuffed in a body tight cage and that had only so much to do with the jacket and much more with the fact that she was actually stuck in a situation that did not at all suit her tastes.

She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, trying to calm down enough to hunt down the patience she needed to get rid of her jacket. It would surrender and let go of her if she could try to peel it off slowly and gently but then she’d be left with nothing to help her with all the pent-up frustration bubbling inside her and she needed to get rid of that just as badly. Perhaps even more if she wanted to be able to fall asleep and not have anything else go wrong that day. Though, it would take effort for the few minutes left of the day to make it even worse than it already was.

“Feeling tense, are we, love?” Killian asked behind her back, the question playful but still gentle with the care laced in it that she hadn’t asked him for. She could take care of herself and her son and didn’t need anyone else to do it. “Should I get out while you change?” Killian asked in that same tone that made it impossible to ignore the fact that his attempt at being a gentleman was genuine.

It only annoyed her more, for it would be easier to be angry with him if he were pretending. And she needed to be angry with something so that the feeling wouldn’t stay inside her and keep clogging up her system. She’d gathered enough negativity for a whole year that day and she didn’t need to keep it. She’d sworn not to take work home with her so that it wouldn’t bother Henry but, of course, she hadn’t even been able to make it home, the damn case more complicated than they’d thought and leaving them in the middle of nowhere when they should have been home hours ago instead of engaging in a wild goose chase of evidence that seemed to mock them with its elusiveness. She’d gladly lock away Regina Mills once she managed to catch her simply for keeping her away from her son if nothing else.

Emma turned around to speak or snap–whatever came out, really–at Killian but was given a sharp pause when she saw him laying blankets on the ground that she hadn’t even heard him fetch from the closet. Not that she could pay much attention to anything besides the mess in her own head.

“What are you doing?” she asked, the clear protest in her tone startling even to her with how acute it was but she couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing.

“There’s only one bed,” Killian said, and of course there was. Of course there was only one room in the one motel they’d managed to find when he’d convinced her it was far too late in the night to drive all the way back to New York and of course there was only one double bed. But the way he said the words as if they explained everything, as if his actions were proportional to the circumstances, didn’t sit right with her. He really intended to sleep on the floor and she only felt more pressure enter her system at the conflicting feelings he’d planted in her.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she decided to acknowledge the annoyance and let it out to free herself from it and because that was safer than falling into the appreciation she couldn't help but feel at his consideration. Especially when she knew there was nothing fake in it, no hidden motive for personal gain. Just the genuine attempt to help her feel at least somewhat comfortable with the whole situation. “We’re both adults,” she said, keeping her tone as calm as she could manage as she tried not to work against herself on that one and give proof of the opposite.

It wasn’t worry that Killian would get the wrong idea about it that had her doing her best to keep her heart rate from elevating. She wouldn't have needed him to be willing to sleep on the floor to know she could trust him enough to sleep in the same bed with him. It was exactly the knowledge that she couldn't remember when was the last time she’d trusted someone to let them get so close that had enough adrenaline rushing through her to have her running out and keep working until she could catch their criminal and go home to Henry and Mary Margaret and David.

“Are you inviting me in your bed, Swan?” Killian asked, a smug smile on his face that made her want to hit it off as it did nothing to overshadow the care in his eyes that had been there ever since they’d been partnered together.

He’d had her back, risking his life for her, and she’d been grateful that he’d protected Henry from losing the only parent he had left even when she’d wanted to scream at him for exposing her to potentially having to carry his death on her conscience. She’d even done it a couple of times but she’d stopped wasting her time and efforts after he’d given her a look as calm as she would’ve never managed after he’d almost gotten his heart pierced by a harpoon and had told her he was a survivor but he wouldn’t regret giving his life for her and for her son to not be left an orphan. All her strength had poured out in the tears she’d hoped he understood were all his fault and she’d decided to spare herself the exhaustion of trying to talk some sense into him when he’d obviously gone insane. Who talked like that?

Emma rolled her eyes. “Just get in before I change my mind,” she said, returning her attention to getting rid of her jacket only to notice her hands were now trembling.

She almost groaned in despair and considered the option of just going to bed with it. It could be what she needed, the one normal thing in the situation to keep her grounded, but she shrugged the thought off as quickly as she wished she could do with the jacket. It would just feel stuffy and get her to sweat underneath the covers, crushing what little hope she had of falling asleep with all that restless energy still inside her.

Scraping what little patience had remained on the walls of her mind, she managed to unpack herself at last with careful and meticulous movements that left her so tired she straight up collapsed in bed feeling the pressure building in her eyes and pushing her to cry with the awareness she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep that every passing second kept stuffing in her mind.

“Good night, Swan,” Killian said when she managed to gather enough energy to pull the covers over herself without falling apart in the process. His voice was so soft compared to the sharpness filling her that she wished to push him out of bed to stop the temptation of finding a way to get some of that for herself. She wouldn't find any of it inside her, even the thoughts of Henry only making the restlessness inside her more acute rather than helping, and she wouldn’t let herself ask him to help her soothe what was supposed to stay quiet in her head.

She didn’t answer, hoping he’d decide she’d fallen asleep as that wouldn’t be far-fetched after the killer day they’d had even when she knew he wouldn’t fall for it. He was extremely observant and would be able to tell her mind was still racing by the reflection of that exertion in her breathing. He had the same superpower of detecting lies as her when it came to her, as if he was stealing it from her to use against her, and she could only hope he’d mind his business and fall far away from her in sleep. She’d made sure to turn her back on him to make it easier for him to ignore her and not feel the need to pull the gentleman act.

She got her wish in the fashion of vicious mockery from the universe, of course, as Killian didn’t try to talk to her and she was left to drown in her thoughts instead. She couldn’t stop them as they kept flowing, a string of pain stitched together when her memories bled into each other.

The foster homes, the hunger, that cutting starvation for affection that refused to die no matter how many walls you built around it to trap it and make it give up at last, Neal smiling, him stealing a cheap keyring with a swan that she still wore as a necklace because it meant so much, the pain in her hands after she’d made herself bleed by hitting a wall when all she’d wanted had been to hit his father for getting him killed with his illegal business, the pain in her heart when she’d found out she was pregnant with his child that she could never raise on her own because what did she know about being a mother? What did she know of love now that she’d just lost what little of it she’d ever had? And then more of that.

She could still remember the pain tearing through her whole being when she’d thought of giving Henry up for adoption. It had turned even more vicious when she’d changed her mind–or rather, had it changed by Mary Margaret who’d been there for her ever since she’d gotten herself to the hospital to have her hands bandaged after she’d done her best to fuck them up like the hurt and anger had been doing to her heart–as the doubts had started eating at her and her own memories had tried to leap at her baby to suffocate it in the pain of missing a parent. She’d had the hardest time believing she could be enough to fill for Henry that emptiness she’d carried inside her her whole life because she’d never had parents, no one had ever wanted her. But she’d wanted him. She wanted him so much, wanted to take care of him and give him all the love he somehow managed to create in her heart, wanted to give him the love she would’ve given his father and that Neal would’ve given him. It was the best way to honor his memory.

Henry had been the one good thing in her life, the one that had taught her to take care of someone else other than herself and to open up her heart. She’d had to bring down the walls around her heart for him, to let him in, to love him, and she’d done it. And for once it hadn’t brought pain because Henry was just magic like that. He was her miracle and she wouldn’t ask for more. She didn’t need more, didn’t need anyone else.

She turned around, angry at the tears trying to enter her eyes and determined to leave them behind.

“Can’t sleep, love?” Killian’s voice startled her before his face being so close to hers that she could see his eyes even in the darkness of the room could.

“Why are you awake?” she hissed, keeping her voice down when there was no need as anything she could’ve disturbed was already up and running, and kicking, too, to remind it was there, in front of her, and she had nowhere to go even if she jumped out of bed and back into the pickup David had lent them as they were trying to stay unnoticeable and a police cruiser definitely stood out.

“I could ask you the same question,” Killian said, his voice not carrying any traces of offense and it made her want to scream at him once again for how calm he always remained even when she was pushing against him. And she couldn’t even accuse him of pretending because he was still there after she’d done much more to drive him away than any of the foster families that had taken her in had needed to kick her out again. He was still there, sticking around, even when she’d made it clear that she wasn’t looking for a relationship, much less for a fling, and with a colleague no less, and she couldn’t understand his motive. What was keeping him at her side when no one else had ever wanted to stay and the one person who had had been taken away?

“I’m thinking about Henry,” she said, not trying to lie to him because it would have no effect anyway. He would just keep up the caring attitude until she relented and told him what was truly bothering her and she just had no more energy left for anything.

“He’s fine,” Killian said, his reassurance effective when she knew that if it’d been someone else, she would’ve been offended for having her concerns brushed away. But Killian wasn’t like that. He’d always listened when she was worrying about her son and had given some surprisingly good advice despite having no experience in parenting except for a pickpocketing, homeless teenager daughter that he’d practically adopted and was helping make her life at least somewhat normal. It was heartwarming. His concern for both kids was. So she didn’t find a reason to doubt his words. “I’m sure Mary Margaret and David are taking good care of him.” Even less to argue with there.

She’d become fast friends with Mary Margaret and her and her husband had helped her immensely throughout the years. She wasn’t certain she would’ve ever been able to do it without them, without the endless help they provided with Henry and not only. They both had been there for her, listening to her concerns like she wasn’t used to anyone doing, offering comfort and a shoulder to cry on, and a hand when she was in need, and that meant so much because she’d always been. They were the friends she hadn’t dared hope for.

Killian startled her out of her thoughts again when he threw the blankets aside and got up. She wanted to ask what he was doing but the question refused to get out so she had to resign to the anticipation settling inside her and trying to shake her even more than she already was while he rummaged through the bag with documentation on the case he’d brought along.

It seemed to take forever even when she knew it wasn’t. She was used to her mind pulling time apart and creating eternities for her to suffer through while her life remained suspended in its cocoon of pain and she’d learned to recognize when it did so, could almost calculate the ratio between reality and the other reality in her head. She’d learned at least that in twenty-eight years of it happening almost constantly with the happy moments being the only ones that were quick to slip through her fingers leaving her nails sinking in her own skin when she tried to hold the memories in the palms of her hands because her heart was fragile and she was afraid to let them touch it, not to mention that she didn’t know if it would be a good enough home for them.

“I always carry this with me,” Killian sat back down on the bed and opened his palm to reveal a seashell. “When I can’t sleep, the sound of the waves helps me calm down,” he said, his voice never wavering like hers did when she had to share something personal, and neither did his devotion to her as became clear when realization hit her.

He hadn’t gotten up to get his shell so his sleeplessness had nothing to do with inability to dive into rest and everything to do with him staying awake for her, to make sure she was okay. It was too much to put that knowledge in her head and it started trying to leak out of her eyes once again, and she didn’t know how much longer she could hold it back.

“My mother’s love is tangled into the sea for me, the shanties she’d sing to me having the rhythm of the ocean and the way she’d rock my hammock–yeah, I did sleep in a hammock, what else to want from a little pirate at heart–made it feel like a ship carried gently by the waves,” Killian said, his gaze on her as if he wasn’t afraid of letting her see into his soul and the life that was kept there, as if that was exactly his goal, and she couldn’t understand that kind of bravery when she knew he’d been abandoned too, by his father, and had lost his brother. His openness made no sense. “It helps soothe me,” he said and she could see how that would be the case even if she’d never had a parent’s affection. It sounded beyond lovely and she wanted to believe that she’d managed to give that to Henry at least.

“Do you have a lot of nightmares?” she found herself asking, trying to comprehend the kind of person that he was and how he could share so freely with her, how he could trust her when she knew his life hadn’t been easy either. Losing his hand couldn’t have been anything short of a tragedy, and the woman he’d loved, too.

He’d shared that with her when he’d found her staring at her swan keyring and had gotten her to share her own pain which she tried to hate him for to this day but it always just turned into gratitude instead, for he’d taken a load off her shoulders. Especially when he’d supported her decision not to let Neal’s father anywhere near Henry no matter how he tried to frighten her into allowing him in his grandson’s life since she was afraid her son would suffer his father’s fate. She’d hoped Neal would understand, wherever he was, and for some reason Killian’s reassurance that he would had helped put her concerns to rest like she could never hope to do for him.

“Only one,” Killian answered, his voice empty this time like she’d never heard it before.

Oh.

Emma moved to take the shell from him, feeling sheepish as she did so but it only lasted until it was in her hand. The effect was instantaneous with everything the shell meant to her when she knew he’d trusted her to share the story of his lucky charm with her and had given up his own means to repel the nastiness of the past to help her. She wasn’t used to someone else sacrificing their own comfort for her except for Mary Margaret and David, who she’d come to think of as the exception, and it definitely struck a nerve. That was not such a rare occurrence but this time it was different. Her awareness of her vulnerability in the situation that had prompted him to do so wasn’t so acute and threatening when she knew she wasn’t alone in it. He was there with her.

“Thanks,” Emma said as she looked into his eyes before focusing on the shell as she brought it to her ear. The sound of the sea entered her mind to wash away what had been suffocating her before and she soon drifted off to sleep, carried by the waves.

#once upon a time #ouat #emma swan #killian jones #captain swan #swan believer #henry mills #swanfire #neal cassidy #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my wriitng #operation end

5 notes · View notes

himsfuntime · 5 years ago

Text

Obsession

You can find this fanfiction on my Ao3

Expect a LOT more content for him, I really love him SOB

Roleswap Yeehaw Ramsey belongs to @spliinkles

also sorry if it is not the best, this is my first fanfic

I do not support or condone any yandere or obsessive behavior.

Warnings

character death

cursing

There were only two types of love, obsessive and pure.

And yours, was the latter. It was soothing to have such a loving and caring person that loved you. On your good days and on your bad days.

There was nothing more, nothing less. So when you saw your lover covered in solid gold and an envelope with a heart taping it shut, you thought you were seeing things. You rushed to their side as your mind tried to scramble for answers: Why would someone do this? Who would do something like this?

During your sobs you were caressing your lover’s cheek, and that's when you felt it, that engraving on their face. You wiped your eyes and looked closer, examining the carving, it was sloppy but the hand-writing looked all too familiar.

Ramsey Murdoch

“ Ramsey did this..? ”

You softly said aloud, it wasn’t meant to be a question, it was confirmation that what you were looking at was his doing. Of course you already knew who did it, his signature carved on your darling’s metal cheek. You should’ve known better.

You should’ve never tried to show kindness to such an evil man.

You remember when you met him. The infamous Ramsey Murdoch.

He came to your job, as if it were his own house. Like he owned it. You just thought he was a cosplayer that had a little more pride than he should have. You took the time to look at him. A poncho covered most of his upper body features. Under his poncho however was an open button shirt, but when you squinted, you noticed it didn't have buttons in the first place.

His pants held up with a gold buckle belt. The pants trailed from his hips to his ankles along with triangular tassels following the trails. His heeled boots clicked and jingled against the store floor.

He started to hum a soft tune as he examined the decor, drawing out the time before he got to your post.

Though his slow, long strides were more than intimidating. He must've known you were eyeballing him as he turned slightly and met your gaze, smirking as he strolled to the counter. He leaned forward and eyed you up and down, inhaling your scent. You raised a brow at the odd behavior but you asked him the essential question nonetheless.

“May I help you?”

You ask, giving him a smile. You promised your darling that you’d try to be nice for the week. This man was lucky not to get a snarl after the whole ‘walking slowly and then sniffing you’ ordeal.

He blinked a bit at your question. He wasn't expecting you to not be cowering in fear, you guessed. He was at a loss of words, he really wasn't expecting your kindness. You snorted a bit, your smile becoming more genuine than forced. Maybe this non-forced kindness might be a good thing.

Even after his little taken aback expression, he carried conversation with you well enough to get your name. He came back, every time earlier than the last. To the point almost everyday he was in your store, talking to you. He eventually told you who he was, you were open minded about it. Just like your significant other always said:

‘Everyone has a good side even if it is mixed with the bad.’

So you stuck with that, and eventually, you started seeing his small acts of kindness. Under that smirk was a man looking for someone to share his life with. You were ecstatic to tell your lover of how you’ve made a friend with a bad-person-who-might-still-have-a-chance-to-be-good but you couldn’t. Because when you came back they were fucking dead.

Oh how naive you were, thinking those visits and those conversations were just harmless interactions. You were feeding an insatiable hunger for love by a lonely rat faced man .

You ran a finger across the gold, slowly as if your touch would retract the harm that has already been done. They were so good to you, always the best for you despite you trying to push them away. They were always waiting with open arms, and you ran into them, you embraced them. Easily you fell for them, their kindness and eagerness to help clashed with yours. You took them for granted, they were taken from you, all because of-

“ The one and only! ”

A deep, sultry voice chirped from the darkness as it emerged to the light illuminating the room. His heels softly jingling and clicking onto the floor. His figure came into view, his poncho opening as his hands raised as he slowly bent down, crossing his foot over the other.

He was … bowing?

What in epithet’s name gave him any sense to do something like that? And peek his head up with a smile like he didn’t just murder the love of your life?! You clenched your fist, your aggression showing as your nails dug into your palm.

“ I’m guessin’ ya saw my present?---- ” His eyes motion to the body of your most likely deceased lover. You glare at him, parting your lips to speak only to say nothing as you were cut off as if he never paused in the first place.

“ ---Did ya read the letter, doll? ” His voice sounded like he was holding in excitement, as if this was normal to him. As if seeing the dead body of your lover was equivalent to being given a puppy for Valentine's Day. You never broke eye contact to grab the letter, so your hand scrambled to find it. When it did come in contact with paper, you snatched it up and opened it and pulled a folded note from the pocket. Your eyes skimmed the paper before sternly returning to him. He didn’t seem too pleased with this as his smirk faltered. He huffed, arms up in defeat, rolling them as he turned around.

“ Will ya read it now? ” He snorted, you finally tore your eyes off him to really read the letter.

God, did you regret that decision.

Before you could even read the first word, Ramsey was already sitting behind you, legs crossed with you in his lap. His whip on his thigh as a subtle reminder that you shouldn’t dare try anything. You immediately thrashed and kicked, trying to shove this monster off you. You didn't notice you were crying again until you opened your eyes, met with a bare chest. Soothing backrubs as a soft hum rumbled the chest you were leaning on. You almost succumbed to the comfort. Up until you noticed it was that that fucking monster cuddling you like he never did what he did. Like he didn't take the love of your life away from you and everyone else in their life.

You shoved away from him wanting nothing more than for him to leave you be. Let you at least recover from this ache in your heart. Since this caught him off guard, you sprinted out the door. Running and running while turning back to see if he was following you.

You darted towards a populated area so it was harder to find you. Bumping into others and yelling out your apologies to them as you dashed passed them. You saw your store and bolted for it, gripping the handle and yanking it in hope it would open to no avail. You pat yourself for your keys and fumble to get them out your pocket. Shaking from the fear and adrenaline of getting caught from him.

You quickly shut the door and lock it behind you, a soft jangle hitting the floor once you were darting for the counter and ducking behind there. You silently scrambled for a weapon, finding a wrench. You let in air that you didn't know you never inhaled. Your chest rising falling as you panicked, what if he found you? Fuck that, what was he going to do to you if he did?

Deciding it would be best to stop your overthinking before it gets you caught and you’ll have to live that nightmare, you try to distract yourself. Yet before that even is a possibility, you heard soft humming coming from outside your store. You cautiously peek over the counter, before you, outside your store doors people were encased in gold. All frozen in place, all staring at.. You?

Before you even had time to process what had been done somet--rather-- someone, fell from above. They were kneeling, their hum filled the place as they rose to their feet. That’s when the hopelessness set in, when your eyes met a signature gold eye. A frown etched on his features as he stalked towards your shop.

“ STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME YOU FUCKING MURDERER! ” You yell, vice grip on the wrench in your hand. Your eyes locked with the male who didn't say a word as each jingled step caused the ground beneath his sole to turn to gold. You were shaking, the only relief from the tension you got was when he grunted as he tried to open the unlocked door. He tried again, his gloved fist banged onto the glass as gold spread quickly. He removed his hand from the now golden surface, as he took in a few breaths. You must have been too scared before but under his hat his usually combed down hair was disheveled. As his breathing turned more rigid, he took his face into his palms and let out a yell.

“ FUCK! ”

He screamed, kicking and stomping down on golden pedestrians. You felt slight empathy for the man as he had his rage but it was short lived before he turned back towards you. This time you saw it in his eyes, the pain, the hurt, the madness and the.. love in his deadly gaze. He spit onto the ground, turning whatever the spit hit into gold. He squinted, walking back towards the store. Instinctively you raised your arm ready to either throw or clobber him with it. You thought he’d get more mad, but he wasn't even fazed. You hesitantly followed his gaze, seeing it lead to a door in the backroom.

“ Don’t you fucking dare.” You warned when he stared back with his intimidating eye contact, but before you could move, he was already gone and out of your view. You run to the backroom, pressing your body to the door to try and add weight to the door. You patted yourself for your keys, only to feel your heart drop when you remember in your hurried scramble you dropped the keys near the door of the shop.

While you were distracted, the door swung open and you were just lucky enough to get out the way just in time. You scramble to your feet but before you could even move, something wrapped around your waist tightly and painfully as you tried to fight against it. You were yanked into the embrace of a desperate, love rat named Ramsey Murdoch.

“Oh, sweetpea, you scared me so much.. I thought I'd never get you back in my arms!” He exclaimed, nuzzling into your shaken form.

“ If you even conjure another disgusting thought of leaving me, ” He started, his voice becoming flat as a soft growled accompanied the words.

“ I’ll take your pretty lil’ legs for so long you’ll forget how to walk. ” His grip was suffocating, and his tone was serious. You wanted to fight and shove him off but this dread you felt overwhelmed any fighting sense you had. He nuzzled into your hair, silently smelling your locks as your shoulders dropped. You’d succumb for now. Make him feel like his sick fantasy was real. You felt a finger guide your head up, your eyes locking with his gaze again. His smug grin and half lidded eyes may not have looked like much to others, but to you? That eye, it had a different sort of love for you. One you were not prepared for.

Obsession

#first fanfiction #swap ramsey #yandere swap Ramsey be hitting different #dont mind me just obsessing over a fictional character #yandere swap ramsey #yandere rat man #role swap ramsey

5 notes · View notes

hiraeth-doux · 5 years ago

Text

haunted

written for WonderTrev Love Week 2019

day 5 - hurt/comfort

summary: Steve takes care of Diana after her final battle with Cheetah. Set in the WW84 universe.

read on AO3

----

Diana stares into a pair of amber eyes and tries to find familiarity in them.

For a flicker of a moment, there is a flash of recognition, and hope flares in her chest.

Barbara Ann.

But then the face in front of her contorts into a grimace, the lips stretch, baring two rows of sharp teeth and a low growl forms in the back of Cheetah’s throat. Her muscles tense, her body is poised for an attack.

“What arrrrre you looking at, Princessssss?” she hisses venomously. “Came to sssssee what you’ve done?��

Diana’s heart thuds once, twice, three times against her rib cage. Her hand curls around the hilt of her sword but, for once, the feeling is more disconcerting than comforting.

There is no forgiveness and no redemption in the eyes of someone who she used to think of as a friend.

When the sharp claws slice through Diana’s skin, it doesn’t hurt as much as the sorrow that blossoms in her chest, so overwhelming it threatens to swallow her whole.

---

Diana takes a breath. And then another one. And then another, until it stops requiring conscious effort on her part, natural instinct taking over.

The water is hot against her body, burning her skin and making the nicks and cuts sting as the steam fills the space around her. She presses her palm flat against the cool tiles and bows her head, watching the water swirl at her feet, circling around the drain before it pours down the pipe, going to a place Diana can’t envision. Something to focus on, she thinks absently, for not having this would force her to think about what had gone down between her and Cheetah several hours ago. And she is not ready to deal with that yet.

“…what you’ve done?”

Barbara Ann’s words surge through her mind.

Diana squeezes her eyes shut but it only makes everything worse, the image of her friend-turned-foe too bright and too vividly-clear in her head.

She does not want to remember Barbara Ann like this; with vicious hunger in her eyes and blood on the corners of her mouth, her remorse dormant or lost forever, overcome by the beast within.

Diana’s chest constricts, the world swaying around her.

“Too late, Prrrrincessss.”

She snaps her eyes open and inhales as the makings of a sob rise in her throat, struggling to find her equilibrium again, her fingers flexing on the tiled wall. How long will it be till she can close her eyes without staring at the face of someone who no longer sees her for who she is?

She stays in the shower until she can’t bear the heat anymore, scrubbing her body over and over again. Until her skin starts to feel raw and tender, and the bitter truth of her failure to save someone dear to her has taken root in her chest, refusing to leave.

She used to think that her defeats had started and stopped with Steve.

Foolish—

With a shaking hand, Diana turns off the water. She steps out of the shower, the soft towel rough against her body, rubbing over the three gashes running across her left shoulder blade. She ignores the discomfort of it. Her palm sweeps over the condensation coating the mirror before her, revealing a face she can barely recognize.

Barbara Ann had been wrong – the decision she had made was hers, and hers alone. But she had been right, too. Diana was her friend, she should have known to stop what had happened. It is not her doing, but the guilt and remorse are there nonetheless, eating her up on the inside. When she promised to protect those who needed her, she never imagined how hard it would be to keep it.

She chooses not to think of the cruel irony of being able to defy gods yet having to watch the people dearest to her slip right through her fingers, powerless to stop it more often than not.

In the mirror, she sees another blurred shadow appear behind her.

Steve.

For a few moments, he hovers in the doorway, and she wonders what it is that he is seeing, desperate to have a glimpse of herself through his eyes.

He moves to her then.

“Let me have a look,” he says quietly, brushing Diana’s damp hair to the side to reveal the cuts that pulse with dull pain every time she moves, with every breath she takes.

She doesn’t stop him.

His touch is gentle, his fingers cool, the familiarity of it makes the tightness in her chest unravel. She’s been hurt before. Had the breath knocked out of her and her skin slashed, her muscles burning against the blows she has deflected, her bones straining against those that she hadn’t. Such is the fate of a warrior, and it no longer comes with a shock. Not the physical part of it, at least.

“It will be gone before morning,” Diana says, turning her head slightly to the side.

Steve runs his knuckles up and down her arm. “I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to the back of her head. She chooses not to hear the slight tremor in his voice. “Looks bad anyway. Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar,” he hums.

The corners of Diana’s mouth lift a little, a hint of a smile working its way to her face.

She doesn’t correct him.

Doesn’t resist when he steers her towards the bedroom, either. Doesn’t stop him when he produces their medical kit seemingly out of nowhere while nudging her towards the bed. She’s got to take care of him more times than she can count, treating his cuts and bruises, and she recognizes his need to return the favour. To be there for her when he can’t help her stop what has already happened, not anymore. She understands it all too well.

The sting of antiseptic burns her skin, making Diana go still, her breath catching in her throat. Somehow, the aftermath is always worse than the battle.

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs, his hand pulling away and the next moment she can feel him blow softly on one of the cuts, the burning sensation of the sharp-smelling liquid ebbing.

Another moment, and his lips graze her bare shoulder – a feather-light touch to comfort her as much as to reassure himself that she is alright. Diana feels the warmth of his breath on her skin, his hesitation nearly palpable, and her heart squeezes fiercely, her hand curling into a fist against the need to turn around and soothe him back.

He goes on with his task. His touch is careful, and it’s the gentleness of it that makes her eyes sting more than the burn of the alcohol against the injured flesh.

Her heart gives a hollow thud against her breastbone.

“I really am fine,” she whispers.

“That may be so,” Steve concedes easily, “but you are not getting into bed until we bandage this all up. Not if you are going to bleed all over the place.”

Diana glances at him over her shoulder. “Your concern is touching,” she notes dryly.

He looks up and the smile that he offers her is tired but genuine. One of those that she loves best.

“Hey, those are expensive sheets,” he points out, and Diana can’t help but laugh a little.

She can’t argue with that. Can’t argue with the need to make this about something nonsensical, either. It is not about the attack or the blood or the throbbing ache that seems to have found a home in the periphery of her attention, and she just wants it to go away.

He is worried about her even though she is near damn indestructible. So what does that say about how she feels when she watches him run into a fight?

Diana pushes the thought away and lets him have this moment. She doesn’t need him to do this, and Steve is well aware of that. But earlier tonight, when he had first seen the bruises on her skin and the cuts painted across her back, when he had taken her shield from her hand and helped Diana peel her armour off, the power balance between them had shifted. She had seen it in his eyes – the same panic that rears its ugly head inside of her each time he gets hurt.

She can take care of herself, they both know that, but right now, she needs him to go through all those motions as much as he does. She doesn’t think either of them will heal properly if she stops him.

She feels his fingers at the base of her neck, moving her hair out of the way. Feels the alcohol-drenched piece of cotton leave trails on her skin. Had it not been so painful, she’d find the process relaxing, Diana thinks absently. Her pulse stutters for a moment, and then settles into a familiar pattern.

Steve is her home, and the steady assuredness of it is enough to soothe her mind.

“I’ve seen the news,” he speaks after a while, and Diana can’t help but tense up. “Want to…” he clears his throat as if the words he is trying to say don’t want to come out. “What happened?”

“I lost,” Diana says simply.

She doesn’t know how to explain to him that even though she has brought Barbara Ann back, the real Barbara Ann, leaving Cheetah behind, something between them has snapped, destroyed forever. She doesn’t know how to put it into words, not yet.

She knows he won’t press for more than she is willing to share. This is what she loves about Steve, among other things – he doesn’t insist on trying to see the things the way she does. He accepts that sometimes it is not possible, and for that, Diana is grateful.

There is a rustling of plastic packaging behind her, and she turns her head enough to see him pull a gauze pad out of a packet.

Steve looks up, catching her looking. He pauses, and she tries to ignore the turmoil in his eyes that he hasn’t had time to hide.

“Good thing I have a lot of experience with this stuff,” he tells her a little too cheerfully, waving the gauze before her and making a face. “In the army… if you can’t patch up one another, you’re all as good as dead. At least you smell better than some of the guys I’ve had to deal with.”

He wrinkles his nose for good measure.

Diana knows it shouldn’t be funny, but she can’t bite back her smile nonetheless.

“I’m in good hands then,” she says, shaking her head a little.

The gauze affixed in place, Diana rolls her shoulder gingerly. The tugging pain is there but it is less present now, and she wonders how soon it will be before her skin is smooth again, any trace of the fight erased. A few hours, perhaps.

She unwraps the towel and leaves it on the edge of the bed as she reaches for one of Steve’s shirts – it’s loose and less likely to cause any discomfort than her own sleepwear. Not that she needs that excuse – she loves the touch of soft, worn cotton and the way his shirts all smell very faintly of him. If he minds her wearing them, he has never said anything, and tonight, it’s all she needs.

Steve helps her put it on – Diana can’t lift her left arm without a jolt of pain shooting across her back, and without dislodging her bandage, too. He pulls it over her head and then brushes her hair from her face with a small laugh. She turns her head, leaning into his touch and kisses the heel of his hand, watching the amusement fade, replaced by something raw. When he crowds her space, his eyes searching hers, she is grateful for his proximity.

“I hate seeing you hurt,” he whispers, resting his forehead against hers.

“Now you know how I feel a lot of the time,” she breathes.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, quietly, and she knows that he means it.

Diana’s palm curls over his jaw.

“I love you,” she murmurs so softly, the sound of it all but a whoosh of breath.

He presses a kiss to her forehead and then steps back and tugs at her hand. She follows without hesitation. He pulls at the covers and she climbs into bed, settling into him, half sprawled over his chest so as not to disturb her wounds. He doesn’t seem to mind, and neither does Diana as she curls one arm around him.

He runs his hand up and down her back. “Sorry,” he murmurs when she stiffens as he grazes a little too close to the bandage.

“I’m alright,” she says quietly, feeling him relax beneath her.

For a few minutes, she is worried that sleep is going to be a problem – she is exhausted but her mind is wired and overwhelmed, leaving her filled with jittery energy. But the seconds tick by and Diana feels herself relax, lulled by the warmth of Steve’s body and his steady heartbeat thumping against her own chest. He is threading his fingers idly through her hair, and the small sleepy noises he makes pull her deeper still. Until there is no Cheetah and no Barbara Ann, and all is right in the world, for once.

Steve presses a kiss to the crown of her head, and it’s the last thing Diana is aware of before she falls asleep.

---

She wakes up a few hours later with a scream lodged in her throat and her muscles tense, ready to deflect an attack. The night is moonless and the room is nearly pitch-black, and for a long horrifying moment, she is disoriented and confused, and nothing makes sense.

“Diana?”

She gulps a hungry breath, and then another one, her heart beating so fast she feels dizzy. The distorted images of a dream that is already starting to fade away flash through her mind. Sharp teeth and hot breath and the smell of blood and that sensation of moving like she was underwater that only dreams can summon filling her with desperation beyond anything she’s ever known. She can feel those claws on her skin, except this time they don’t stop at one slash. This time they slice through her over and over again—

“Hey.”

A hand touches her face, and Diana forces herself to focus.

Steve.

Even in the dark, his eyes are worried and she feels instantly ashamed, wishing to comfort him, but not knowing how to do it.

“I’m… I need—” she starts, pulling away from him.

The shirt she is wearing is damp with sweat when she slips out of bed, looking away from him, unable to hold his gaze. The cool air of the room makes her shiver as she pads out of the bedroom, the floor cold against the soles of her feet. She pushes her hand through her hair and forces herself to slow down her breathing.

The bandage rustles beneath her shirt when she moves, tugging at her skin, but the dull throbbing she has felt earlier is not there, and Diana knows that if she removes it, there won’t be anything underneath it. Not anymore. The last traces of the past two days erased without a single mark. She should be relieved by that, but try as she might, she can’t seem to find it in her.

In the kitchen, she paces between the table and the sink, desperate to shake off the grip of the nightmare that seems to have planted itself in her brain. She pauses before the cupboard and reaches for one of the glasses, but stops when she notices that her hands are shaking.

“Diana.”

She looks up, and Steve is standing in the doorway leading to the living room, blinking sleepily at her. His hair is mussed and he is stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, and the sight of it – so familiar and dear to her heart – all but undoes her. Her throat grows hot, and she has to swallow past the lump in her throat, not trusting herself to speak, unshed tears burning her eyes.

He crosses the kitchen without a word and gathers her to him. She expects the touch to feel invasive, the way it had a few minutes ago when she’d woken up, but her body welcomes it with a will of its own, her arms coming to rest around him, seeking the solid steadiness of his embrace.

“I get them too,” he whispers when she tucks her face into the hollow of his neck, breathing him in. “Nightmares. After the war, you can’t not remember…”

“She is my friend, Steve,” Diana murmurs, her voice tight and on the verge of breaking. “She was…” she corrects herself and trails off. “I failed her.”

He strokes her back, and she squeezes her eyes shut, unable to stand the tenderness of it when the rest of her feels like an exposed nerve.

“You didn’t.” Steve’s lips graze over her temple before he rests his cheek against the side of her head. “You can protect them but you can’t save them from the choices they make.”

Those are words that Diana has said to him once, a long time ago when he had asked her if she felt as strongly about saving mankind as she had when they first met. She hates how true they ring now, and even more – how little she can do to change it. It felt like little consolation when she had first lost him. It shouldn’t surprise her, perhaps, that it hasn’t changed since then, but she yearns for reassurance anyway.

The thought makes her hold on him tighten lest he slip right out of her grasp.

They stay like this for a long time – until Diana’s heartbeat is no longer wild and out of control. Until she can breathe without feeling the tight coil in her chest and her mind grows foggy. There hasn’t been a moment since they’ve met when Diana hasn’t been grateful for whatever it was that had brought them together. But she wonders now, with her cheek pressed to his shoulder and a fistful of his shirt bunched in her hand, if she has ever loved him more than she does at this moment.

He has called her his saviour more times than she can remember, she thinks absently as he leads her back to bed. But does he know that he has saved her too? That he keeps saving her every day that she has him?

---

In the bright light of the harsh morning sun, Diana’s skin looks smooth when she peels the bandage off. She stares at the spot in the mirror for a long time, not sure how she feels about it.

When she was young, she used to be envious of the scars and marks crisscrossing the bodies of her sisters – badges of honour, each telling a story that shouldn’t be forgotten. She couldn’t wait to grow up and have her own, not knowing yet that her divinity would rob her of just that.

She wishes she could keep the marks left on her by Cheetah as a reminder of the loss of a friend who she knows will never be found again.

“You will want to forget,” Steve tells her softly, running his fingers over the spot he’d had to tend to only hours ago, but his touch doesn’t linger. “One day, you will want to be able to put it behind.”

Diana known he speaks of his own scars, and she doesn’t object, each of them trapped with their own demons.

But when her memory brings up amber eyes and a vicious scowl, she is not sure if it is something she ever wants to not remember.

#wondertrevnet #wondertrevweek2019 #diana prince #steve trevor #wonder woman #ww84 #wonder woman fic #mine

35 notes · View notes

bettersafethandicks · 5 years ago

Text

[takes a huge hit of a blunt] hey dude what if you were like the calypsos pet and some vague bandit group kidnapped you and held you for ransom lol

@sugar-high-viking this is 4 u binch

troy n tyreen x gender neutral reader

as you all know nothing sexie happens that ‘x’ just emotional

warnings for getting beat up by extremely rude and rowdy boys and also for calypsos showing genuine care and affection also for lack of any editing

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You kicked and writhed as the marauder dragged you by the ropes digging into your wrists, rubbing them raw. Your pleas and curses were muffled by a rough cloth gagging you, and you were already bleeding from the scrapes and cuts you’d gathered while trying to escape.

“Keep ‘em yellin, its picking up great.” The guy following you with a camera laughed, keeping you in focus.

The bandit dragging you jerked the rope to one side, causing you to slam your cheek against the filthy floor with a yelp. It wasn’t long before you were hoisted up, the bindings at your wrists looped over a ceiling beam; high enough to keep you barely stable, on your tiptoes in a position that was going to ache sooner rather than later. You stopped your cries and panted harshly, worn out already.

“Right, you freaks listenin?” The camera operator spoke to his future audience, panning the device around you. You tried to follow him, turning your head as he circled you. “Your poor little pet is only gonna get more banged up the longer you keep us waitin’.”

At that, the masked man who dragged you in slammed a punch into your side, earning an audible crack and a piercing shriek.

You couldn’t make out more of his words, twisting in your strung-up position, yelling in agony, each breath bringing bolts of pain streaking through your body.

“Shut them up for a second, will ya?”

A hand wrapped around your throat, cutting the air from your lungs and silencing the already muffled wails.

“Guns and cash- not delivered by you two. In fact, send someone disposable; it’ll be a little trade-off. No funny shit, or you’re gonna be getting this thing back in installments.” The knife biting into your jaw was barely noticeable beyond the panic of oxygen deprivation. “Ohh, maybe we could make their face look like brother Calypso’s?! Wouldn’t that be fun? Why don’t you put your suggestions in the comment section, huh?”

The camera lowered, and the lead guy gave a nod; the pressure came away from your throat, and you gasped desperately. Your side was screaming in pain, bone shifting like a handsaw under your skin, but your lungs took over reflexively and tears sprang to your eyes as you wheezed.

Your chin was grabbed to look forward, face slick with blood from where the knife sliced you. “Nice job pet.” He said it like an insult. “I can see why they like putting you on their fucking videos so often.”

“Should we send an ear or a finger?”

“Mmmh…Nah, not yet.“ He was typing on the ECHO device, probably sending the video to the twins. “Let em respond; see if they know we’re serious… Then we can figure out what to start slicing off.”

“God I wish I could see their faces when they get that message.” The bandit beside you was moving you, pushing you to turn, off-balance and huffing. “Can I even out their ribs?”

“Eh, sure.” He was already turning to leave the room, giving your guard a lazy wave of his hand.

The door slammed shut just as the metal-studded knuckles cracked into you for a second time.

The blood drying on your skin itched. Not that you could reach well to scratch it with your wrists still bound; you had tried to get the bindings slippery with blood to wriggle out, but the rope was too tight and you were too weak to put up much of an effort. You were curled up in a tiny cell now; (more like a cage, if you were honest) shattered ribs aching no matter which way you lay.

The taste and smell of copper was overwhelming. Thankfully you still had all your teeth, but your lip was split and the insides of your cheeks were torn and bleeding. You’d swallowed enough of your own blood to be sick, as if the regular pain wasn’t bad enough. You weren’t sure what was making you more dizzy; the blood loss or the hunger or the dehydration. It had been close to two days now since you had been dragged from the wreckage of an ambushed caravan, out of the Calypso’s watch for once while you and a few other cultists ran to the nearby town. You sniffled, blood still trickling from your nose. You just had to go into town that day, huh?

Every hour or so (you think; the best way to tell time right now was by seeing how long it took for blood to dry) someone would come by to make sure you were still conscious, kick you around, snap a few pictures, and then leave. You wondered if the twins were even going to save you. You had devoted yourself to them and they seemed to care for you but… you’d seen them throw other followers away when it was convenient. Or when they were bored. True, never ones they had doted on this much but…you hadn’t seen every pet they ever had. You trembled slightly and curled in on yourself more, trying not to tear up at the thought of being abandoned by your gods to be tortured and die here.

“Oh shit- TROY IN HERE!”

You felt like you were hallucinating. You cracked an eye, the one not stuck shut with blood, to see Tyreen, your queen, your god, rushing to you and falling to her knees to put her hands on you, caress your face, make sure you were breathing. Troy barreled into the room moments later, covered in blood that wasn’t his, coming to kneel beside his sister.

Tyreen held your head up off the ground “Faithful, can you hear me?” She was worried. She was worried about you.

You hummed out a soft acknowledgement.

Troy ran his fingertips over the cuts and bruises that bloomed across your shoulders and sides, pulling away before he reached the rainbow of red and black and blue that sat over your broken ribs. You had never seen him so…upset. A mixture of hurt and angry, like he wanted to go back and kill the bandits all over again.

“Oh, sweetheart…” His voice was soft. “Tyreen can’t you-“

“They’re too old.” You could swear her voice cracked. “The injuries are too old I can’t- It won’t work.” You tried not to groan in pain when she moved you to pull you into her lap. “Call the medics- Fuck, Troy they’re freezing.”

You had enough of a grip on reality to know you were in shock by now, shivering weakly. Tyreen cradled you, pulling her shoulders in to surround you protectively. Troy was barking orders through his ECHO device, though you couldn’t pick out words anymore. You just wanted to fall asleep, finally safe in her arms. They were here, after all; this was all you had hoped for. Tyreen stroked over your cheek, you couldn’t even feel the gash there anymore…this was alright. You were alright.

It was bright. Your eyes were closed but it was too light, overpowered bulbs searing through your lids and waking you up. Stupid as it was, you opened your eyes directly into the artificial sun sitting over you, squeezing them shut just as quickly and turning your head to the side with a barely audible groan.

“Tyreen! Hey! They’re awake!” Footsteps rushed closer as you opened your eyes to see Troy Calypso, twin god and all-powerful siren keeping a nervous watch over your bed.

“You’re awake…” He murmured it mostly to himself, running a hand over your jaw. You could feel him thumb over the dull bumps of stitches in your skin, comfortably numbed by the best painkillers on Pandora.

Those narcotics definitely came in handy as Troy wrapped his arms around you, pulling you halfway off the bed and sending IVs and monitors clattering around. He buried his face into your shoulder, inhaling your scent like he was making sure it was real.

“Troy…” you were almost scared at how faint your own voice was.

“Troy!” Tyreen yelled. “You’re gonna break them again!”

“Oh shit- “ He jumped, nearly dropping you before setting you gently back on the bed and attempting to realign the blankets and IV.

Once you were deemed stable, the twins insisted you stay in their room, and it wasn’t like you were about to argue. They didn’t want to let you out of their sight for any longer than absolutely necessary; you got the feeling anyone who tried to approach you would be evaporated on the spot by one of them.

It was surreal, having the Calypsos care for you. Feeling Tyreens careful hands undoing the wrap around your chest, soothing you as you take a few painful deep breaths to keep pneumonia at bay. Troy pulling the bandages off and making sure your stitches were holding, cleaning the blood away from the wounds with a cool washcloth. Both of them helping you out of your clothes and into a warm bath, hushing the sharp hiss you make when the water hits your injuries. Troy usually had to pull you out, the hot water making you too weak to climb, and Tyreen would be right there with a fluffy towel, not caring if it became stained with your blood.

Once it’s safe enough, the two of them sleep on either side of you, tucked in a luxurious nest of pillows and blankets, each of them keeping at least one hand on you through the night. Even after you’ve healed up enough to change your own bandages, they insisted on being there, making sure everything was clean and uninfected. Tyreen even pulled your stitches out herself; it barely even hurt. Even later, it became a habit for them to idly trace over the lingering scars as you sat by their thrones, neither of them having to look to know exactly the path the marks cut across your skin.

Away from cameras, they’d kiss over raised lines, assuring you that you belonged to them, and no one on the planet would ever take you from them.

#troy calypso #tyreen calypso #borderlands #local roadkill dump #why cant i put those little line breaks on tumblr desktop #god fuck this website #stapleface

42 notes · View notes

kelyon · 5 years ago

Text

Golden Cuffs 29: The Thorns

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

The queens take their pleasure on Belle in a most singular fashion

Read on AO3. Please read on AO3, because that’s the version that has italics and I use italics a lot in this chapter. But reblog on Tumblr!

Trigger Warning: Rape and torture, including nonconsensual kissing while someone is asleep. This chapter has thorns, so people who get squeamish around needles and piercings need to proceed with caution. We've also got forced cunnilingus. There is physical torment, bleeding, and verbal abuse throughout.

Even before Belle opened her eyes, her other senses were flooded. Rough iron shackles bit into her wrists. Chains held her down and against the wall. Hunger gnawed at her empty stomach. The iron collar gripped tight around her throat. She felt the coldness of the stone floor she had been sleeping on, felt the aches and discomfort that came from lying there for hours. Between her legs, she felt the heated throb of pain from where her hair had been ripped out the day before.

But on top of all these sensations, all this misery, Belle felt something soft. Warmth brushed against the gooseflesh on her arms. Something featherlight and lovely floated through the tangles in her hair. Still half-asleep, Belle heard a sound, sweet and musical. Someone was humming a tune.

The softness, the ease, traveled over Belle’s body. She felt herself relax and curl out, like a cat napping in the sun.

“That’s a good princess,” a pleasant voice praised her.

Belle felt the warmth against her face, felt the looseness and the comfort overtake her. How good it felt to not hurt anymore, to feel something tender for the first time in so long. Her jaw relaxed and her lips parted and then something hot and foreign was over her mouth and worming its way in between her teeth.

“No!” Belle gave out a muffled cry. She tried to resist, but it was no use. The hands that had been around her, had soothed her and pleased her, now gripped her and forced her to hold still.

Opening her eyes, Belle saw Regina on the other side of the room, sitting at a table laid with food, drinking from a glass of wine. Robed in a gauzy purple dressing gown, the queen did not bother to hide her disgust as she looked at Belle on the floor.

So Maleficent was kissing her now, forcing her to lie still and not resist. Maleficent had been touching her while she slept. Belle closed her eyes and tried to come up with some reality where this was a dream, a nightmare. Surely she would wake up in her cell in Rumpelstiltskin’s castle. Surely this wasn’t real!

But when Maleficent broke the kiss with a loud pop, Belle saw strings of saliva dripping down the woman’s smiling face, and she knew that it was real. This was her life for the next two days, as a plaything for the queens.

“Now why did you have to wake up, princess?” Maleficent kept her hands on Belle as she spoke. Like Regina, she was wearing a dressing gown so sheer that Belle could see the pale outline of her body through the black material. Maleficent shook her head and tutted. “But I suppose princesses always wake up when you kiss them.”

“I keep telling you, she’s not a princess,” Regina declared from her seat. “The stupid toy isn’t royalty or nobility. She’s only the daughter of a landed knight. That’s barely even gentry.”

“Oh, no, my darling,” Maleficent looked at Regina sweetly while still stroking Belle. “Of course she’s a princess! All little girls are princesses, didn’t your mother teach you that?”

Grimacing, Regina stood up. “My mother taught me power only comes from blood. Blood you’re born with or blood you’ve spilled.” She looked down at Belle and sneered. “You don’t have either. You’re nothing!”

Belle looked up at her, too exhausted and unsettled to keep her questions to herself. “Then why are you bothering with me? If I’m so insignificant, why am I even worth torturing?”

“Because you’re Rumple’s sweet nothing,” Maleficent chirped, pulling her into an embrace. “Our Dark One usually plays his cards close to the chest, so when he starts waving around a little ace of hearts like you, well! How could we resist the opportunity to see what makes you so special?”

As subtly as she could, Belle inched herself away from Maleficent’s touch. “What are you finding out?”

“Nothing,” Regina said. “There’s nothing in you that can’t be found in a thousand other pretty girls. Maybe you’re just special because you can tolerate pain, or you can tolerate monsters. Maybe you’re special because you can get off on that sort of thing. Do you like fucking lizards instead of men? Is that why you made a deal to get out of your marriage?”

“No,” Belle said softly.

“Then what is it?” With her bare hand, Regina hit Belle across the ear so hard it made her head spin. “You’re just a stupid girl! You’re a broodmare, just like I was supposed to be! You’re supposed to be bought and sold to a man, for power or money or just because you have no other options!” She hit Belle again, on the other side of her head, and the force was enough to knock her out of Maleficent’s arms.

Maleficent got up off the floor and stood by Regina as the queen grabbed Belle by the hair and pulled her to her feet.

“I had to claw and fight and kill my way out of that life!” Chest heaving, she twisted her fist in Belle’s hair. Belle winced and felt hot tears of pain. “How did you get out of it? How were you saved from a husband? Why should you be so lucky?”

She threw Belle to the ground and turned to Maleficent’s waiting embrace. Belle landed on her side and stayed on the stone floor, breathing deeply through the pain of impact. Blinking back her tears, Belle made herself look at the queens. In Maleficent’s arms, Regina looked strangely small. For the first time, Belle saw their embrace as being not of passion, but of need. That rage she had just encountered had been more genuine than Regina’s other tantrums. It had come from a real pain in her heart. And after her rage, Regina had turned to the other woman for comfort, for reassurance. For love. And Maleficent was giving it.

As she had last night, Belle admired the peculiar affection these women had for each other. They were so in tune with each others needs and desires. Maleficent was so willing to make Regina happy, and Regina was so needful of Maleficent’s steadfast presence. They delighted in each other, and delighted in doing things together, even terrible things.

They would delight in doing terrible things to Belle.

“In case you couldn’t tell,” Maleficent said while Regina composed herself, “we’re going to hurt you tonight.

From the floor, Belle nodded. “I could tell.”

“But first,” Regina’s voice was clear and imperious, “you’re going to beg.” “Beg for mercy?” “Beg for dinner. Aren’t you hungry, child?” Regina was smiling now, her momentary emotions now either passed or hidden. She was a queen again, her regality a flawless mask.

Belle’s lips were dry. She was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast on the day of the party. That might as well have been a thousand years ago. “I am hungry,” she tried to make her voice sweet and pleading. “Will you please feed me, Your Majesty?”

Smirking, Regina waved her hand. The chains that bound Belle to the wall unwrapped from their hooks and moved in the air to wrap around the rafters of the bedchamber. It was a slow and awkward magic, nothing like how the cuffs forced her to hurry when Rumple gave her an order. The chains dragged in the air, and Belle had enough time to follow them at her own pace. She stood up and walked over to where Regina wanted her to be. There was enough slack in the chain that she was able to stand comfortably.

“If you’re going to beg, you have to do it on your knees, idiot. Grovel properly before a queen.”

Her eyes lowered, Belle sank to her knees. There was not enough slack for her to keep her hands down beside her, so Belle knelt with her arms raised over her head. It was similar to the posture they had put her in the day before in front of the mirror.

The mirror was still in the corner, reflecting her subjugation back to her. Belle tried not to look at it. What a mirror saw was not the truth. Rumple had said that, a long time ago.

Regina sat down at the little table in front of a meal fit for royalty. Maleficent sat with her, but did not touch the human food.

“Now,” the queen said. “I’m going to have a late luncheon, and you’re going to beg me for whatever I think you deserve. You may eat as much as you can get.” She took a long knife and expertly cut into a large roasted swan.

“Please,” Belle began at once. Rumple had never made her beg for food, but she knew a game when she played one. “I know I’m not worthy, but I’m so hungry, Your Majesty. It would be so good of you too--”

“Good?” Regina said with her mouth full. “Do you think I’m good?”

“I think you are glorious, Your Majesty. And magnanimous. Everything a queen should be! You have the power to be merciful, and kind, to take pity on this low creature who grovels at your feet.”

“I think she has you confused with someone else,” Maleficent chuckled.

Regina grinned at her lover and then looked over at Belle. She had eaten the meat off the swan’s wing and held the bones in her hands. “Do you know what I do to low creatures like you?”

Belle bit her lip. “No, Your Majesty.”

Regina’s smile turned grim as she broke the bones, snapping them in half. Then she tossed the pieces at Belle.

Only one piece of bone landed in range of where Belle could reach. And she almost had to break her arms as she stretched her body down to pick it off the floor with her mouth. There was no meat on the bone, only a bit of gristle and the dark marrow within. Belle took what nourishment she could, and spat out the rest onto the floor behind her.

She looked up at Regina. In the mirror, Belle could see her eyes--wide and innocent and pleading. The sort of lie Regina would want to see. “Gods bless Your Majesty, for your graciousness and your generosity.”

Regina snorted. “That’s a little over the top.”

It went on like that, begging and flattery and degradation. Regina threw food and Belle picked crumbs off the ground or licked splatters off her body or--more than once--caught pieces in mid-air like a trained dog. The acting didn’t bother her. It was pretending, like in one of Rumple’s games. At the end of it all, her stomach no longer gnawed with hunger.

Regina left the uneaten food and dirty dishes on the table. A servant would have to come and collect them later. The queens stood in front of Belle, their gazes sweeping over her naked body in all its misery and vulnerability.

“I don’t like the chains,” Maleficent said casually, as though she were talking about the style of a dress. “There’s nothing magical about them. Anybody can chain up a slave.”

Regina’s eyes flicked over her lover and she licked her lips. “Are you going to suggest something only you can do?”

“It’s not just me,” Maleficent demurred. “It’s a simple spell, I can teach it to you, my love. But, yes.” She brushed her hand over Belle’s cheek and cupped her chin. “We need to do something special for our Rumple’s little flower.”

The chains loosened and fell to the ground, bringing Belle down with their weight. She collapsed onto the floor and lay limp. She waited for them to do whatever they were going to do, waited for another order, or for more pain. With a flick of the wrist, Regina swept the chains away, back to where they had been hanging on the wall.

Belle was still manacled and collared, but nothing bound her to anything. Tentatively, she rolled her shoulders and stretched out her arms and legs. It seemed as though she could still move everything. She took a deep breath and waited.

Maleficent stood above her with her eyes closed and her hands extended. A green glow emanated around her, casting a noxious light over the dark room.

Just as Belle was about to ask what the sorceress was doing, she felt a sharp pain in her ankle. Looking down, Belle saw that her skin had been pierced by a black thorn the size of her smallest finger. A vine had grown up out of the stone floor and wrapped itself around her foot.

Belle’s breath caught in her throat as more shoots sprang out of the floor and grew into vines before her eyes. What terrible magic was this? The black plants grew under her and around her, wrapping around her arms and legs as though she were a trellis. Thorns covered the leafless vines, needle-sharp and merciless. They pressed into her skin and some cut through and drew blood. Hot tears pooled in Belle’s eyes and she ground her teeth to keep from crying out.

Vines wrapped around her arms and wrists and made her move with them as they grew. Her arms were forced behind her back, wrapped around a column of thicker branches that were bunched together like thatch. The vines at her legs moved her ankles behind the column as well, forcing her to open her thighs and expose her secret places.

Would they hurt her there? Belle couldn’t keep the thought from her mind. Earlier, they had torn out her hair and vandalized her body. Would they mutilate her as well? Would the black thorns press against her tender pink flesh? Would Maleficent make the vines grow up inside her? The thought made Belle tremble with fear--and with every move she made, the thorns pushed more deeply into the flesh of her back, flesh she had thought was beyond feeling any more pain.

The vines stayed away from her cunt. A thick branch roped around her neck above the collar to keep her head up. Another grew diagonally up her torso like a sash, crossing between her breasts. She had never known such pain, so complete and all-consuming. The vines still moved around her, the thorns a constant menace. She felt like she was being burned alive.

Vaguely, Belle recognized that in the back of her mind she was waiting for something. After another moment, she realized what it was: Peace. That was what usually happened when she was in pain. Usually, she felt the most wonderful, absurd sense of contentment. When Rumple beat her body, her mind and heart melted into something lovely and safe. She had been expecting that.

But there was no safety here. Rumple wasn’t hurting her, Maleficent was. And Rumple wasn’t going to pleasure her when this was over, they were going to fuck her. The queens had no interest in her safety or well-being. There were no rules here. Belle had no deal that protected her with them. Regina would not comfort her and hold her when it all became too much. These women would not allow her to ask a question to repay for what they had done to her.

Belle let out a ragged cry. “Stop!” Tears flowed freely down her cheeks and dropped onto her chest. The saltwater stung against her fresh wounds. “Please, Maleficent! No more!”

Through a haze of green magic, Maleficent opened her eyes. She took a moment to regard Belle, to look at her handiwork and the torture she had created.

She smiled.

“Our little bud thinks she’s had enough,” Maleficent remarked to Regina. “Do you agree, my darling?”

Regina shrugged. “You can stop if you want to. The work is already astounding.”

Maleficent preened. With a wave of her hand, the green light faded away. The pain that pierced Belle’s body became a little less, just enough for her to bear it.

Belle sobbed and tried her best to breathe. She was so utterly alone. All the familiar customs that marked her games with Rumpelstiltskin were gone. The queens were playing with her, but she was not playing along. She had no say in this torture, no protection, no escape. All she could do was breathe and count as a victory every moment she was alive.

Regina circled the thatch of thorns where Belle was bound. Her eyes traveled from the roots in the floor, over Belle’s exposed body and up to where the vines wrapped around the rafters. She reached for Maleficent. “You are amazing, my love. Your power, your skill, your bloodlust. Incredible.”

“You inspire me, my evil queen.” The two women embraced and kissed, clinging to each other possessively. Behind them, Belle closed her eyes and kept breathing.

“Go first,” Regina said when they broke apart. “You did all the work, you deserve to reap the rewards.”

“What a generous lover I have.” Maleficent’s hand lingered on Regina’s cheek even as she went over to the vines. Her face was still dreamy as she looked at Belle. “Have you ever licked a cunt before, whore?”

Belle blinked. The words were nothing new, but the abrupt change of tone made her pause. Had she ever licked a cunt? Was that what they would demand of her? What if she couldn’t do it?

“No,” she whimpered. “Never.”

“That’s hardly surprising. Does Rumple do it to you?”

“Yes,” Belle said, her voice still small.

“Now that is a surprise,” Regina smirked as she refilled her wine glass. “Most men would cut their tongues out of their heads before using them for a woman’s pleasure.”

“Well, Rumple always was a queer duck. But who are we to talk?” Maleficent chuckled and slipped her dressing gown off her shoulders. The gauzy fabric piled on the floor and Maleficent stood before Belle, naked as sin.

Every part of her was long and bony. Yellow waves of hair swept down her otherwise shaved body. Her breasts were even smaller than Belle’s--tight and pointed, with nipples so dark as to be almost black against her pale skin. Maleficent’s hands were large, with long, graceful fingers. Belle watched as those hands drifted leisurely over Maleficent’s body, from her neck to her torso to her hips to her smooth and hairless mound.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Belle? Do you like my body?”

“You’re beautiful,” Belle answered.

It was not a lie. Maleficent was striking and magnificent, the sort of creature that inspired awe and worship. She looked like a goddess, or a fiery succubus who wouldn’t think twice before slaughtering the unworthy. How could Belle be expected to satisfy such a force of nature?

“What a sweet thing to say,” she caressed Belle’s cheek. Despite her fear, Belle leaned in to the touch, taking comfort in the kindness, no matter how temporary it might be.

Behind them, Regina noisily flopped onto the couch. “Are you going to start, my love?”

“Yes,” Maleficent cooed. Still with her hand on Belle’s cheek, she leaned in and opened her mouth to kiss her.

This time, Belle knew to keep her mouth slack and loose. She closed her eyes and felt the heat of Maleficent’s face against her skin. As when she had been sleeping, the other woman’s tongue snaked into her mouth, but Belle didn’t fight it. Forcing herself to stay meek and compliant, Belle allowed the kiss to happen. If she chose to let it happen, perhaps it wouldn’t feel so awful.

She didn’t realize she was being moved downward until her legs bent to touch the floor. The vines that ensnared her were lowering her to the ground. Maleficent bent to keep kissing her until Belle was at the level of Maleficent’s waist. Then, with a sudden jerk, Maleficent sucked Belle’s tongue from her lips and stood up, pressing her female parts against Belle’s open mouth.

It was only a reflex that made Belle try to dart away from this strange object, and even that unthinking effort was in vain. The vines kept Belle’s head exactly where Maleficent wanted it to be. Thorns pressed against the soft flesh of her neck, but they wouldn’t pierce her skin unless she moved away. She was unharmed, as long as she obeyed.

Belle had to focus on the folds of flesh that currently enveloped her face. She wanted to gag on it, to choke and pull back and take just one moment to acclimate herself. But Maleficent gave her no chance. Belle had to get to work.

Maleficent’s cunt was odd and overpowering, but Belle had no choice but to overcome her revulsion, and quickly. She had to pleasure this woman. Under Belle’s tongue, Maleficent was unpleasantly sour, with even more of a vinegary bite than Belle had tasted on herself. The scent of her was sharp and powerful. Belle could imagine it lingering on her body for days after this was done. Even when she was safe with Rumple again, she would smell Maleficent’s cunt in her nightmares.

It was nightmarish enough to be blinded, to have the whole of her consciousness submerged in a hot, close, moistness. Belle felt Maleficent’s folds against her skin, and she turned her head slowly to determine the dimensions of her new world. Yes, it was like the worst kind of dream--the sort where you cannot move but you must go forward, into the hellish blackness of the unknown. Carefully, Belle began to move her tongue, and then her lips, all over Maleficent’s cunt.

“I hope you’re a quick learner,” she said over Belle’s head. “I’ll make allowances for your innocence, but when you do this for my queen you’ll have to be perfect.”

Her mouth full, Belle nodded. She would have to do this to Regina as well. And Regina was a different type of monster altogether. Behind her closed eyes, Belle felt a surge of fresh tears. How was she going to do this? And how could she possibly do it well enough to please Regina?

Maleficent rocked her hips against her, rubbing herself against Belle’s nose and teeth. Belle moved her tongue in as pleasing a way she could manage, sticking it out and bobbing her head to keep up with Maleficent’s movements. Was that right? Did she like that?

Even though she could turn into a dragon, Maleficent’s anatomy was like Belle’s. With her lips and tongue, Belle mapped out folds of flesh and an interior passage and even a spot seemed to give Maleficent a sharp and singular pleasure.

“There! Yes!” she shrieked. The thorns clenched even tighter against Belle’s body. “Don’t move, you clever slut. Just stay there and keep licking.”

Belle broke away just long enough to take a breath, and then redoubled her efforts. She swirled her tongue everywhere it could reach and rubbed at Maleficent’s pleasure spot with her nose. Didn’t Rumple do it like that? Wasn’t that how he liked to make her come? But he was so much more practiced than Belle, and his nose was so much bigger. Could she do what he did? Would she be good enough to please Maleficent? Good enough to keep Regina from hurting her?

As her orgasm approached, Maleficent became more generous with her noises and her praise. Doing her best to follow frantic instructions, Belle moved her mouth faster and rougher against Maleficent. Belle felt her clenching around her chin. The witch thrust her whole body against Belle’s head, pushing her into the thorns. Belle screamed in pain and the noise was muffled by Maleficent’s cunt.

But the vibrations--or the sound, or the pain that had produced it--finally pushed Maleficent over the edge.

In the blackness behind her closed eyes, Belle saw a wave of green light. A pulse of warm wetness gushed onto her face. But once Maleficent had stepped away and Belle could breathe through her nose again, the fragrance that greeted her was not the pungent brine of a woman’s orgasm.

It was roses.

Belle looked around at the thorns that held her in place. When Maleficent came, they had all burst into bloom. The thorns were still there, Belle still felt the pain all over her body. But she was also surrounded by flower blossoms. Every rose was full and perfect. Every rose was as red as blood.

In front of her, Maleficent pulled back. Even standing, her body was loose and relaxed. Her eyes were closed and lavender smoke wafted up from her mouth. Blearily, she staggered over to Regina and collapsed with her on the couch. Maleficent curled up and Belle saw her shudder and tremble in pleasure.

Regina held her naked lover against her robed chest. She stroked her blonde hair, and looked at Belle with a cold hatred.

A new fear twisted in Belle’s stomach. So far, Regina had burned hot--her anger coming out in spurts that were satisfied as soon as Belle submitted to the pain she inflicted. But now there was murder in the queen’s eyes. Not a thoughtless rage, but a calculating assessment of how Belle had offended her and how she would pay for it.

Still bound to the column of thorns, Belle summoned up all her bravery and looked the queen in the eye. “Did I please her well enough, Your Majesty? I want only to serve.”

“Shut up, you little bitch.” Again, Regina did not shout, she did not even command. Her voice had no more emotion than the cold steel of a knife in the darkness.

“Be nice,” Maleficent murmured from her place at Regina’s chest. “She did very well.”

With a tight smile, Regina lifted up Maleficent’s chin. “Will you be alright if I leave you to take my turn on her?”

“Of course.” Maleficent leaned back against the purple couch, her bony limbs loose and relaxed. “It’s a fun ride.”

“We’ll see how much fun I can have with her.” Regina stood and slipped off her purple dressing gown.

Belle noticed her breasts first. Astonishingly, the queen’s ample bosom was not the work of clever corsetry and flattering gowns. Even naked, she had the breasts of a statue or a painting--so impossibly round and perfect that Belle had never imagined a real woman could look like that. And it probably wasn’t magic either. Regina flaunted her body with too much thoughtless confidence for her beauty to be anything other than the luck of nature.

She was not so pale as Maleficent. And everywhere Maleficent’s body was made of straight lines, Regina had luscious curves. The queen stood with her hands on her round hips, her thighs spread apart. Like Maleficent--and like Belle, now--the space between her legs was smooth and hairless. Belle looked, transfixed and terrified, at the part of Regina that it would be her task to satisfy.

Belle licked her lips as the queen approached, but before she could do anything else, Belle felt her hair being pulled back, her face being lifted up to Regina’s scrutiny. Mercifully, the thorns did not tighten around Belle’s throat. Did Regina choose not to use them? Or did she have no power over Maleficent’s magic?

She moved Belle with her hands, gripping her by the jaw as she caught every angle of her face. Belle could only take shallow, panicked breaths as the queen dug her nails into her flesh.

“You smell like her,” she whispered, her face contorted in anger. “Do you think you got anything by pleasuring her? Do you think it meant anything?”

“No,” Belle shook as she spoke. “Not unless you say it did, Your Majesty.”

“It didn’t,” Regina hissed. “You’re nothing! You don’t deserve to pleasure her--or me either! You’re not special! You’re not even good at being a whore! You’re just a collection of holes made for getting fucked! The Dark One only wants you to put his cock in you! Do you understand that?” Regina began to laugh. “Do you even know what it means to be a woman in this world?” Her grip tightened on Belle’s throat. “It means getting fucked. Over and over and over until maybe, someday, you get to fuck back.”

Regina curled her lip in a grimace, and for the first time, Belle noticed a flaw in her perfect mask of beauty. There was a scar on her lip. It was faint and old and covered by cosmetics, but Belle could make it out just the same. Who had done that to this powerful woman? How long had the queen been marked by pain? What other wounds did Regina have, either visible or hidden?

How long would it be until she gave Belle just as many wounds as she had suffered?

With a grimace, Regina leaned toward Belle with her mouth open. But instead of a kiss--even a dominating, angry kiss--Belle felt the queen’s tongue on her cheek. Her stomach dropped as she realized Regina was licking her. She was licking Maleficent’s sour smell off of Belle’s face.

“You don’t deserve her,” Regina whispered. “You don’t deserve anything that’s happened to you.”

“I know that!” Belle blurted, then realized what she’d said. How could she be so stupid! Hastily, she corrected herself. “Your Majesty. I know I don’t deserve the honor of--”

“Shut up!” Regina snarled. “Use your mouth for something fucking worthwhile!” With that, she stood up and thrust her body against Belle’s face.

Regina kept one hand in Belle’s hair the whole time. She forced Belle’s head back and slammed her hips against her face over and over. The impact hurt and Belle didn’t understand how it didn’t hurt Regina. Was she immune to physical pain? Or was she so caught up in hurting Belle she didn’t feel how she was harming herself?

Regina gave Belle no control over the movements of her head. She barely had time or thought to move her tongue or her lips. All she could do was brace herself as Regina ground her body against her face.

Belle closed her eyes and let it happen. This was a nightmare that had no resolution, no goal to even be hoped for. This nightmare would be nothing but terror until she woke up.

This was nothing that Belle was doing, or even that she was being forced to do--it was being done to her. Regina put for the effort. She thrust and grunted and ground herself into Belle over and over again. Too frightened to move, Belle froze her heart and let the queen work her will.

Regina tasted different than Maleficent. Her cunt had a strange darkness to it. Where Maleficent had been sour and underripe, Regina tasted almost sweet at first. But then there was a stomach-turning sensation of foulness--like an apple with a slimy, rotted core. Over and over, Belle was forced to delve into that core and taste that poison.

Suddenly, Regina backed away. Belle had only the time to take a single breath before she felt the slap. Regina’s hand was cold against her flushed cheek.

“Are you even trying?” Regina sneered. “Is this what Rumple wants from you? That you just lie back and think of ogres?” She slapped Belle again, and her cheek scraped against the thorns.

Belle tried to breathe. “I--” she panted, her breath coming in shallow and strange. “I--” She had no answer to give the queen. “I--” How did Regina know about the ogres?

“Oh, shut up, you stupid cow,” Regina said before she began her assault again. She straddled Belle’s head, her legs twisting over her shoulders. She gripped the thorny vines, knowing they wouldn’t dare hurt her. Then Regina pushed herself against Belle’s face back and forth, riding her like a horse.

Belle couldn’t breathe. Regina pressed Belle into her pleasure so tightly that there was no room for air. She couldn’t break away, not even for a moment. She tried to even turn her head, but Regina yanked her back into the position that she wanted. Belle tried to speak, to scream, but her words were lost in Regina’s flesh. Her arms were bound, she had no way to signal her distress.

And Regina didn’t care. The distress was the point. Belle could weep and struggle and scream, but the fact would remain: Belle wasn’t breathing because Regina didn’t want her to breathe. Her shoulders went limp as she realized how easy it would be for her to die this way, suffocating on a queen’s cunt.

Would Rumple let her die tonight? Did his deal with these evil women allow for them to kill her? The cuffs had saved her from drowning once. At his word, they had pulled her out of a briny darkness even more merciless than the one she was in now. And on the night of the party, the cuffs had made her defend herself against Regina, because of Rumple’s order. Would they save her now? Was there a power yet unknown to her that would keep her safe?

No. It was only luck that just as Belle slipped away into the blackness, Regina shifted her position. Now she was only on Belle’s mouth, and not her nose. Belle could breathe again, though the air was polluted by the stench of roses and evil pleasures.

She breathed, and felt tears stream down her cheeks. The tears mixed with Belle’s blood and saliva and Regina’s wetness on her face. What kind of potion could Rumple make from those ingredients?

Above her, Regina was still grinding away, seeking out a pleasure that Belle had no means to give. Through weary eyes, Belle watched the queen’s breasts bounce from the exertion. Her dark hair was loose and tousled. A sheen of sweat glistened on her lustrous skin. It really was a shame that such a gorgeous body belonged to such an ugly woman.

Finally, Regina grunted and jerked against Belle’s chin. She dismounted from Belle’s shoulders and pulled her out of the vines. Belle felt her skin rip as she was wrenched away from the thorns. Regina tossed her to the ground and Belle knelt with her head bowed.

“Are you satisfied, my darling?” Maleficent asked from the couch. She was stretched out with her legs spread and her fingers idly fondling her hairless mound. “It was a good show.”

Regina poured herself another glass of wine. “That pitiful excuse for a cuntlicker isn’t going to satisfy me without help.”

“Poor thing.” Maleficent sat up and waved Belle over to her. “Come here, pretty princess.”

On her hands and knees, Belle crawled over to Maleficent as quickly as her wounds would allow. She didn’t get on the couch, but knelt and looked up at the sorceress.

Maleficent stroked Belle’s hair and petted her like a dog. Belle felt something warm and wet against her back. A cloth. It touched her skin and Belle hissed in fresh pain.

“It’s all right,” Maleficent said in a high-pitched, playful voice. “I’m just cleaning the blood off to make you pretty again.”

Warm water, fragrant with healing herbs, dripped over Belle’s tattered back. She let out a wordless whine and Maleficent cooed and offered her more comfort.

“Such a pretty girl,” she said. “And a good girl, too. With enough experience, you could be a very fine cuntlicker.”

Without quite understanding why she was doing it, Belle rubbed her face against Maleficent’s bare legs. In response, Maleficent kept washing Belle. She praised her and made sweet sounds as she ran her fingers through Belle’s hair and gently pulled apart her tangles. Through all of this, Belle breathed, and let herself be comforted.

A part of Belle didn’t want to be comforted. She knew that this sweetness was tainted. Maleficent had hurt her just as much as Regina, why should Belle accept anything from her? But Belle knew that she needed to take whatever healing was offered to her. She had played this game with Rumpelstiltskin often enough. He liked to make her relax after one strike, so the next one would hurt more. The queens were the same, only their strikes were so much worse and the time between them all too brief.

“Let’s get her on the bed,” Regina said after a few minutes. “It’s time to stop pussyfooting and have some real fun.”

#Golden cuffs #rumbelle fic #dragon queen #sexy evil lesbians #poor Belle

8 notes · View notes

connorssock · 6 years ago

Text

To Hear You Smile

Making dumb decision was a right of passage growing up. And it was something that Gavin took to the extremes. He was young, angry and stupid, wanting any kind of relief from life in general. Temporary solace came in the form of Red Ice. It blurred the pain of a broken family, of not meeting expectations at school, of being repeatedly told he will amount to nothing. At least when he was high, none of those mattered.

Of course, it was only a short term relief, all too soon money problems caught up with him, he was kicked out of his family home and Gavin wondered the streets aimlessly. Cold nights under bridges or huddled in doorways weren’t his idea of a good time and even being high wasn’t enough to chase away the pangs of hunger. There wasn’t much left in the world for him, he’d wasted his potential and now nobody would even throw him a stick to help keep afloat. In a black spiral, the only thing that made sense was to go out with a bang, one final high so great, he’d slip from the world with a smile on his face at least.

Pooling all his money into buying as much Red Ice as he could, he found a quiet alley and got comfortable. He sighed as the drugs flooded his system and let himself drift.

His plan didn’t include waking up in hospital, with a multitude of wires and tubes surrounding him. But that was where he’d found himself, with a couple of very sympathetic nurses. Gavin couldn’t tell them why he’d done it, not without the worry of being locked up or, even worse, being sent back home. And he definitely didn’t want the pitying looks people would send his way. Despite it all, he still got them when nobody showed up at visiting hours, even after his family had been notified.

Medical professionals tutted over him, gave him a rundown of just how much he’d fucked himself over. There was something about blood pressure, intracranial pressure complications and lifelong management - there was something about avoiding all manner of caffeine in there. In all honesty, Gavin didn’t pay much attention to it, he didn’t feel like he’d have to worry about things like that for too long. As soon as he was out, he was only going to do it again because there was no way he could repay the hospital bills. He hadn’t asked to be saved anyway.

At least, that had been his plan. But one of the orderlies, an utterly no nonsense woman took one look at him and decided that he was worth her effort. She knew when he was due to be discharged, blood pressure pills prescribed at such a tender age and with no hope of ever coming off them. Whatever she saw in him, he was grateful to her years later.

She’d helped him get a job as a welder’s apprentice. It didn’t pay much but his boss let him sleep in the back office until he found his feet. All in all, it was a pretty sweet deal, the couch was a pullout bed, there was a small kitchen area for employees to use at lunchtime which he used in the evenings to boil noodles. And each day, his boss’ wife would send him a packed lunch to brighten his day.

Years sped by and by the time Gavin was 30 he was assistant manager. By 35 he was co-owner of the small firm and once his boss retired, it would become his. Things were so much better than he could imagine. While he wasn’t the most popular guy around, he was respected and acknowledged as pretty damn decent at his job.

Sometimes he wondered whether he was a little bit of an outcast because he didn’t huddle over a mug of coffee each morning - not even a decaf one. Since his time in the hospital, he’d read up on what he could about how badly he’d fucked up. And he swore to never put his body through something like that again. Getting clean once had been difficult enough.

It was a little bit of a surprise when Chris and Tina invited him on a night out. While it wasn’t usually his scene, the temptation to go and have fun with two people who actually seemed to like him was too strong. One or two drinks wouldn’t hurt him.

The bar they were at wasn’t too crowded, the company was good and Gavin was staring at the last dredges of his second beer. Owing to the fact he didn’t often actually drink, he was a bit more than merry as he watched Tina toddle off towards the bar. When she came back, she was proudly brandishing a tray with six glasses on them.

“Jäger Bombs,” she declared and Gavin watched her drop the shot glass into the tumbler and down it.

Chris looked at Gavin and shrugged. They each reached for the glasses and mimicked Tina. The drink burned on the way down along with the sickly sweet fizzy drink that Gavin had assumed as apple juice. It was nice, but he doubted he’d choose to pay for such a drink again.

They sat around and laughed about work but something felt off. Gavin couldn’t stop the trembling of his hands, he felt wired and his heart beat wildly in his chest. The pounding headache echoed each thump and he needed fresh air. Something was wrong. He stood up as his vision swam, wanted to get Chris to help him get out, maybe get help. Gavin remembered reaching for Chris’ shoulder but nothing after that.

The sound of machines beeping was eerily familiar. Gavin tried to open his eyes but darkness greeted him. The smell of antiseptic and cheap detergent flooded his nose and his heart sank. Whatever had happened, he was in hospital again.

There was a noise to his left and he turned to look despite it being so dark.

“Relax,” an unfamiliar voice soothed him, “you’re at the hospital. A doctor will be by soon to talk to you.”

Sure enough, there was the sound of footsteps, someone sighing as they sat down.

“Sorry to pull you out of bed in the middle of the night,” Gavin tried to smile, “but you can turn the light on, I promise I’m not a gremlin.”

“Mister Reed, the time is 3:14 in the afternoon, currently you are blind due to pressure on your optic nerves and it may take as long as several months before you will be able to see again.”

What followed was worse than his first time in hospital. Thankfully this time round though there were people to visit him. Tina and Chris were first through his door, falling over each other to apologise, saying they didn’t realise he avoided caffeine for such reasons. Privately, Gavin thought that while he didn’t make a song and dance about it, the fact he avoided not just tea and coffee, but also chocolate and anything else that might have caffeine in it. But it wasn’t important now, the damage had already been done, and really it had started with his first hit of Red Ice.

Because of worries over his health and a need to monitor his wellbeing, Gavin was given a room at the hospital to live in for as long as it took to get better. He was grateful that his insurance covered it, that was one less thing to worry about. But being blind and in hospital was boring. If he listened to the TV or the radio, he was easily startled when a nurse touched his arm to get his attention. Without something to listen to, he was bored out of his mind and wished someone would visit him for even give minutes.

Sleep became his friend, it helped pass time quicker and stopped his mind from whirling round and round over nothing. He’d settled down for his second nap of the day when the sound of clacking claws drew his attention. It approached his open door and Gavin scrunched up his face as he tried to figure out what he was hearing.

“Knock knock,” a gruff voice announced himself.

“Who is it?” Gavin pushed to sit up.

“I’m Hank, and with me I have Sumo. We come once a week to visit people stuck in this dreary old place to cheer them up with a cuddle.”

“No offence but I don’t cuddle strangers. Especially not when I can’t even see.”

The laugh he got in return was good-natured at least.

“Sumo is a Saint Bernard. A huge, fat and fluffy monstrosity who would sell me if it meant even a single second more of cuddling. Stick your left hand out, lower, that’s it. He’s going to touch your palm with his nose and then probably lick it for good measure.”

True to his words, something cold and wet nudged Gavin’s palm before a warm, wet tongue ran over it. Before Gavin could say anything, the bed dipped and a fuzzy body snuggled against his side with happy panting. If he wasn’t mistaken, a tail thumped furiously against his leg.

Despite his misgivings, having the giant dog to cuddle did lighten Gavin’s mood. And even exchanging a few pleasantries with Hank was fun. It came to an abrupt end when there was another knock on Gavin’s door.

“Mr. Reed?” a tentative voice asked.

“Call me Gavin, whoever you are,” Gavin replied.

Next to him, Sumo let out a happy little huff and jumped off the bed to greet the newcomer.

“Hello Sumo, hello Hank.”

“Connor.” If Gavin wasn’t mistaken, Hank sounded flustered and he grinned at the soap opera-esque ideas forming in his mind.

It turned out that Connor was there to help with things like reading out letters, helping manage finances and the like. He was softly spoken, gentle and it irked Gavin somehow.

Over the course of the weeks, both Hank’s and Connor’s presence became something to look forward to. Especially when they overlapped because Hank would always fumble his words in such an endearing way that Gavin had started to root for them.

“Why don’t you ask Connor out?” Gavin asked him casually while Sumo licked his fingers.

“Have you seen him?” Hank asked.

“No,” Gavin was quick to reply and laughed. “Nor you. But given how your dog is large, overweight and scraggly, I would guess you’re much the same. Terrifying to meet at first but an utter pushover and a softie at heart.”

“Thanks,” came the gruff grumble.

“In all seriousness though, just pull up some courage. I think he likes you too.”

They sat in silence for a bit until a knock sounded on Gavin’s door.

“Gavin,” Connor said, except it didn’t quite sound like him. Even Sumo seemed hesitant to greet him.

Quickly, Hank left with a muttered goodbye and it was just Connor and Gavin left in the room.

“You okay?” Gavin asked, genuinely curious.

“I am optimal.”

That afternoon, reading through the correspondence was sharper, there were fewer moments when Connor stopped and he didn’t chat to Gavin like he usually would. All in all, it was terribly out of character. Still, Gavin appreciated the change, he liked Connor but he was usually too soft and cheery for his taste.

It went on like that, most of the time Connor was his usual self but some days, he went in a totally different person. On those days, even Hank seemed a little taken aback, though at least he’d finally managed to ask Connor out for a drink.

“How was your date?” Gavin asked when Connor announced himself coldly at his door.

There was a beat of silence before Connor replied.

“It was adequate.”

That wasn’t the response Gavin had been hoping for. Usually, even on a quieter day, he could get Connor to sing Hank’s praise and enthuse about the man and his dog.

“Holy shit,” he whistled as he realised something, “you’re not Connor.”

Silence stretched in the room and nobody moved.

“I’m afraid you’re rather mistaken,” Connor tried to explain.

“Cut the crap. Who are you and what have you done with Connor?” Gavin snapped and there was a sigh as someone sat in the visitor’s chair.

“Promise you won’t tell anyone else?”

“Hand on heart,” Gavin nodded wish a Cheshire grin.

“You may call me Nines, I am Connor’s twin.”

“No shit. You went full on Parent Trap, didn’t you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean by that,” Nines replied. “Connor is very busy with his work, his night classes take their toll. But for the course, he needs to do some voluntary work too. On days he’s swamped, I take over and cover here at the hospital. Nobody knows and I’d appreciate it if it stayed that way.”

Gavin nodded and pretended to zip his lips shut before throwing away the key.

Now that the secret was out, it became easier to talk to them. Connor was still sweet and absolutely head over heels for Hank while Nines’ sharp wit and barbs had Gavin snickering delightedly. He wasn’t going to lie, even before he’d know about the double act Nines and Connor pulled, he’d enjoyed Nines’ company more than Connor’s. To the point he’d felt a little bad when Hank and Connor seemed to happily in love because part of him wanted the snarky side of Connor for himself.

“Does Hank know?” Gavin asked Connor one day.

“He has met Nines, yes,” the reply was brushed off as Connor returned to reading him something about pension plans from work.

The topic didn’t come up again but Gavin was content. His vision gradually lightened, soon shapes bobbed around that started to look humanoid. Part of him was elated that he was going to be getting out of hospital so soon, but he didn’t want to lose Nines. Or even Hank or Connor for that matter.

They cheered with him when he could finally look at their outlines rather than stare over their shoulder by accident. Hank clapped him on the shoulder while Connor waxed lyrical about how wonderful it was. Still, it was Nines’ “about fucking time” that had him the happiest.

It was only fitting that Gavin’s vision was coming back rapidly once it began to improve. In the week since he’d had Hank visit, colours had bled back into his life and people’s faces were becoming clearer each day.

A knock in his door sounded before it opened and a tall, imposing man strode through.

“Hello Gavin,” Nines’ voice was unmistakable.

“Holy shit you are gorgeous,” Gavin laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, you sound amazing but you look even better.”

Nines didn’t even blush at the compliment. Instead, he pulled the letters from Gavin’s bedside table and sat down with them.

“I guess you don’t need me to help with these anymore?”

Gavin ruefully shook his head. He didn’t expect Nines to look up at him with a smile and a terse “good”. A number was scribbled on an envelope and Nines spent the allocated hour insulting him while Gavin gave as good as he got.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to bump into Hank just as he was preparing to leave the hospital. The man had Sumo in his harness, an ID tag dangled from it. What was even more surprising was that Connor was with him, holding onto his arm with a small smile.

Gavin wasn’t going to lie, he did do a double take, thinking it was Nines on Hank’s arm. But a second look and he snorted. How nobody else noticed that the two of them were switching places as it suited them, he’d never know. To him, they looked and sounded so different. After a quick exchange of pleasantries, Gavin strolled out of the building and smiled at the sunlight for the first time in a long while.

A figure pushed away from the bench next to the door and greeted him with a sharp smile before swooping down for a kiss. Though Gavin still wasn’t allowed to drive, Nines was more than happy to help him with that in an official boyfriend capacity.

#reed900 #hankcon #hannor #dbh: gavin #dbh: rk900 #dbh: hank #dbh: connor #dbh: sumo #human au #cw: drug use #cw: suicide attempt #cw: temporary blindness #cw: hospitalisation

70 notes · View notes

laschatzi · 6 years ago

Text

It’s You

A slight canon divergence of 4x16, for @effulgentcolors who comes up with great ideas for showing all the love to Killian he deserves.

summary: a continuation/divergence of the conversation Emma and Killian have about the wooden man child.

word count: ~2,1k

rating: G and AF for aura fluffing

also on: ff.net and ao3

The room is quiet, unusually quiet for the Charmings' loft that's normally always buzzing with some sort of activity. But Killian and Emma, sitting on the small sofa in front of the window, are both lost in their own respective thoughts. Hers are with August who is still recovering from the ordeal he went through while he was in the hands of Gold and his three newest villainous allies, and she's too wrapped up in them to notice that Killian gets more and more broody by the minute, clouds brewing and a storm in in his eyes.

“How was he?” his voice finally interrupts her own musings, and she's completely unfocused for a moment and frowns, throwing him a questioning glance. “The wooden man child,” he explains and repeats, “How was he?”

Her gaze drifts away for a moment, and she shakes her head once before replying soberly, “Not great.”

It's the truth, August hasn't been great, he's failed her in many ways, many times. But in the end, he did redeem himself, so, like everyone else, he deserved his second chance. And, even if he hasn't done right by her when she needed it the most, he still has been some sort of consistency in her life – of course, she was never aware of it, hence the not great notion.

Killian isn't really sure what to make of her answer. Part of him is relieved that the man turned boy turned man again obviously hasn't been some knight in shining armor in his Swan's life, but it's equally obvious that, regardless, she at least feels some sort of special connection to him.

He hates himself for the sudden insecurity creeping up in him. “You care for him.” It's a statement, not a question.

“Yeah,” she confirms.

“Hm,” is his reply, just a little huff, paired with a strained smile that goes into the void, as he's still not looking at her.

And suddenly, Emma understands what this is all about. “Oh, Killian,” she sighs and shifts nearer to him, searching his gaze, but not finding it. “Now's not the time to be jealous.”

He looks at her, but only briefly, before he shakes his head with a negating smile, his whole posture weirdly stiff and somehow defensive, not his usual, what-is-personal-space self at all. “Why would I be jealous?” he asks with a fake nonchalance that secretly amuses her, because yes, of course it boosts her inner Lost Girl's self confidence to see this handsome, usually so cocky pirate get jealous over freaking Pinocchio. She touches his shoulder in a way she hopes is reassuring, but he doesn't even seem to notice. Tilting his head, he adds, like it's an afterthought, “Though I do know you're partial to men in leather jackets.”

She rubs her thumb over his leather-clad shoulder in a caress and replies lightly, “Yeah, well, they do have their appeal.”

His only answer is a short grumble, as he's too wrapped up in his tumbling thoughts for a quick-witted reply. As far as he knows, and he doesn't know really much about this particular part of her life, Emma must have some special connection to that – admittedly handsome – man since her childhood, and she is obviously worried about him. Killian also heard that he almost died when he tried to warn her and her parents about Bae's fake fiancée, so he was surely closer to being a hero than he himself had ever been, even if Emma keeps telling him that he has a mark in the hero column, that he isn't a villain anymore. He knows better. He's not a villain, but he's not a hero either. He's not even sure of what he is, or where he fits in. Or if he's even good enough for someone like her, someone so utterly good and selfless, the Savior.

He draws a deep breath, and Emma notices that he seems to be genuinely worried. At first, it surprises her a bit, because really, he should know better; but then she remembers them – his ever-present self-doubts, his underlying feeling of worthlessness, mostly bleeding through only in tiny gestures or remarks that nobody else notices, but often enough bluntly stated, like his fear of losing his happy ending, simply because he doesn't deserve having one. She realizes that she's not the only one having issues to deal with; he has them just the same, they're just of a different kind. While hers will always and forever be the little Lost Girl with her fear of abandonment, his is the life he's led, the things he's done; things she knows he isn't ready yet to forgive himself, things he's afraid he can never be free of.

“Killian,” she says softly, searching his gaze. “Really. When it comes to leather and scruff, no one could ever hold a candle to you.” Again, she speaks in a light tone, hoping he catches the seriousness behind it, the true meaning of her words

Apparently though, what he catches is the opportunity to put his cocky mask back in place – his very own version of her wall. “Oh, I know,” he replies nonchalantly and tilts his head, still avoiding her gaze. “That's always been my forte.”

“For sure,” she agrees, “but you do know that's not the real reason, right?”

She seems to have caught his attention now, because he looks at her curiously. “And what is?” he wants to know.

“Your good heart,” she answers immediately, ignoring the embarrassed, uncomfortable expression he always gets when someone pays him a compliment. Because he never thinks he's worth it. “Look, August...” she continues, “he was sent over from the Enchanted Forest through that wardrobe with me, to look after me and help me find my destination, accept my fate when the time was right.”

He nods. “To break the curse.”

“Yes, to break the curse,” she confirms. “But he... well, only shortly after we'd traveled to this world, he ran off with a few of the older boys of the orphanage we'd been put in. He...” she draws a deep breath, because even now, the thought hurts. “He abandoned me,” she finally says. Because yes, at the end of the day, that's what he did – not counting her parents, August was the first person of many to abandon her.

Killian scratches behind his ear. “But he must have been a child, too,” he replies thoughtfully, always willing to give others credit while always being way too hard on himself.

“He was seven,” Emma nods and shrugs. “I know, way too much responsibility for a little boy ripped from his father and his home and his world.” Killian tilts his head in agreement, still not looking at her, and she continues, “But later... When he was older, he said he always tried to... watch over me, and I guess he sort of did.” Finally, he's fixing his eyes on hers now. She sighs. “But it wasn't...” She lets her voice trail off, not really sure what to say, because it's hard to put in words.

She doesn't really blame August for what he did, for what he thought he had to do, in order not to derail her from the mission she was completely unaware of. But then again... She draws a deep breath. “When I was a kid about Henry's age,” she goes on, trying her best to keep her voice firm and steady, “I was living in the streets. I was hungry, and I was cold.” The memory hurts, and it soothes a bit what she sees in his eyes: not compassion, but understanding. She doesn't know much about his beginnings yet, but instinctively she understands that he must have learned the hard way, too, that watching out for yourself meant that no one could abandon you and hurt you.

“And I was alone, for all my life,” she finishes, expressing the most painful part of it all – not the hunger, not the cold or the poverty, the lack of a comfortable bed of her own. No, the profound loneliness, the knowledge that there was no one – not a single living soul – to whom she mattered. Or ever would.

She snorts. “Not the greatest way to watch over someone, huh?”

Once more, as so many times since he's met her, Killian feels the connection to Emma, marveling at what kindred of spirits they really are; it's not like he's a stranger to the feeling of being alone, to the stench of abandonment and betrayal. Involuntarily, he thinks back to his own childhood, stolen from him by his own father, just like Emma's was stolen, ultimately, by Regina. But at least he was blessed enough to always have Liam to watch over him, to procure that extra slice of bread, to work double so he didn't have to endure the labor that was to heavy for him... and to take the whip for him whenever it was possible. He swallows and shakes his head slightly to clear off those unpleasant thoughts from his mind, burying them deep at the bottom. “Well,” he says slowly (and a little lamely, to be honest, because he's not really that convinced), “I'm sure he did what he could.”

She shakes her head, obviously not believing it herself. “Yeah, well, but my point is... you are different.” He frowns in question, and Emma speaks in a serious voice now, holding his gaze with her own, to make sure he doesn't look away, to make sure he doesn't miss anything of what she has to say, because he obviously needs – and definitely deserves – to hear it.

“From the very beginning,” she goes on, “you were there for me and had my back.” In reaction to that, he sways his head doubtfully and looks away, uncomfortable at her compliment, as usual. “Okay, most times,” she corrects herself, and he tilts his head in hesitant agreement. “You always kept your promises,” she continues firmly, “You never abandoned me, even when I did my best to push you away.” At that point, he brings up his hand to scratch behind his ear and squirms a little.

Emma's hand slides from his leather-clad shoulder to his neck, her thumb resting against the bare skin right above the collar of his shirt. “But ultimately,” she says almost solemnly, “even that is not the reason why you don't need to be jealous of August, or anyone.”

Killian has no idea of what she's aiming at, so he just sits still, looks at her and waits, his recently restored heart beating rapidly in his chest. “It's not because of who he is,” she finally explains and adds, “It's because of who he isn't.” Her thumb starts to softly stroke his neck, her touch soothing – loving. She smiles.

“He's not the man I–” she begins, but then abruptly stops herself mid-sentence and blinks, maybe surprised by her own audacity, surely scared by it. She licks her lips and, after quickly scanning the room as if she could find a way out of her current dilemma, looks at him, still searching for words.

Killian holds his breath, not even daring to blink, sure he must be dreaming. He wants to give her an encouraging nod or some sign that whatever she is going to say, it's alright. But then he decides against it. If she needs encouragement, that means she isn't there yet, and he has to – and is determined to – respect that.

She draws a deep breath. “He's not the man I want to be with,” she finishes and looks at him carefully, almost apologetically, her lips briefly twitching into an insecure little smile while she hopes what she offers right now is enough for him.

He feels only the slightest pang of disappointment at her choice of words, only for a second, and then it's gone, replaced by warmth and joy. Because he does know what she was really saying, even if she chose different words than the ones he longed to hear. His heart soars, the love welling up inside him almost choking him, and at the same time he's afraid he's dreaming. Only a day ago, he has told her that he sees her as his happy ending, and she hasn't shied away from that, and now she's telling him, actually saying it out loud, that she wants to be with him, that he... Well, technically she hasn't said it, but it was heavily implied, wasn't it? He swallows nervously, thickly, while she's still scrutinizing him nervously, waiting for him to react somehow to her almost-confession.

Gods, he needs to hear it for real. Can he dare...? He tilts his head. “And that man...?”

And now, she finally smiles her dazzling smile, happy and carefree, even if it's just for one fleeting moment, before they'll have to deal with the current magical crisis again.

“Don't you know, Killian? It's you.”

#cs ff #cs fluff #cs #captain swan #captain swan ff #my ff #it's you

179 notes · View notes

leefelixs · 7 years ago

Text

boyfriend yang jeongin • stray kids

genre: fluff

pairing: yang jeongin & you

word count: 1625 words

summary: dating jeongin and all the quirks/aspects of your relationship

notes: the final part of the boyfriend series with our energetic and hardworking jeongin! i’m so sad to finish this series omg...if any of you have any requests for another series please feel free to send it! (i’m also sorry for the delay i needed an emotional break after the most recent episode)

jeongin would work hard to be a good boyfriend! it would be his first serious relationship and he’d want to make it work out for both sides

at first he’d be a little shy and cautious about getting to know each other past friends

and due to this he has a hard time holding eye contact with you and gets flustered whenever it happens

he’s so used to stealing glances at you from when he had a crush on you so...being able to look at you freely is so foreign

“jeongin you don’t have to be so nervous, it’s okay. you got this.”

“i can’t help it! this is so much. you’re really cute and it’s hard to deal with.”

but as time passes he grows to be comfortable

forces himself to learn to look you in the eye for long periods of time and not stress when it happens...it’s cute really

he’ll have you sit across from him and just stare at you intently with his hands cupping his cheeks and he’s squinting

until he feels awkward again and sends you a little shy smile and a little finger heart awe

because he’s new to the whole concept of dating he’d try to take it slow and gentle! he’s learned all the unspoken rules of dating and tries to learn from them

it’s a pure kind of love where you both give and take the same amount of happiness and effort

his smiles are so genuine around you and he feels free to express himself as pleases and doesn’t focus on exaggerating how he feels to liven up the area

whenever he laughs or smiles and his braces peek through you get so happy it’s so wholesome and cute!! so exciting

“you should smile like that always!” and jeongin just holds his cheeks because he’s so happy it hurts

he pushes you to try new things together! he doesn’t mind having a set routine in the relationship but he wants to explore as much as possible with you and learn about what works between the two of you

“let’s try something new this saturday! we need to do something more exciting.”

really into skinship like a loooot and probably becomes accustomed to always having skin contact with you somehow whether it be by holding your hand or poking your face

he did this even before you guys dated but once it’s official it just becomes more frequent

he loves hugs and holding onto you the most!

he loves starting it and usually he’s the one clinging onto you and being affectionate but...he really likes it when you are too

dating jeongin means never being alone. do you have some work to do? are you eating? are you sleeping? no problem

he will quietly slip next to you and put his arms around you or rest his head against your back and hum patiently while waiting for you to become unoccupied

you both get so loud together...one moment you’re both play fighting with each other and the next you’re both singing and dancing to trot really awfully and off key

has no problem getting pouty with you to get what he wants but...you can’t resist (but that’s okay because when you do it too neither can he)

ALWAYS wants to take cute couple pictures...whether it be someone taking one of you guys or selfies he has so so many

and most of them are goofy or have cute little filters from snow but they’re still saved on your phone

you are his lock screen no matter what and when people notice and take his phone he’s like ‘NO GIVE IT BACK!’ and waves his arms around frantically because he’s shy

your mom adores him and like can you blame her?

“how’s jeongin sweetie?”

“he’s fine mom.”

“are you bringing him over anytime soon?”

“uhm i can bring him over soon. why do you like him so much?”

“because he’s so sweet and respectful. he’s a wonderful boy.”

oh and he’s sooo proud of it too, when you tell him about it he puts his hand over his heart and nods to himself in acknowledgement

your first date together is at the mall because where else is perfect for teenagers?

he’s so excited and drags you along to lots of cute stores and makes sure to buy you a gift when you run out of money

constantly shoving things into your hands that he thinks would look nice on you and hyping you up about it

“try this on! it really suits you.”

takes you to the food court and you both eat a whole pizza by yourselves...young love = hunger

such a supportive sweetheart it doesn’t matter what problem you has he will sit down and help or listen

always suggesting things to help solve your problem no matter how long he’s been naming things because he refuses to give up until you feel better

there’s really no dramatic conflict to focus on...he’s still young and most of your conflicts are just exaggerated emotions or events affecting both of you

one little thing can become a full blown argument

it isn’t intense or anything but rather just two displeased people who are huffy and upset at their disagreements and become awkward because they don’t want to admit their right

he’ll be grumpy for a while and avoid you until he calms down but it usually stops in an hour

“psst...are you busy?”

“no, i’m not. is something wrong?”

“i just wanted to say i’m sorry for earlier. i miss you.”

when he’s by himself and he thinks about you he shoves his face into a pillow and screams

your first kiss isn’t necessarily on the lips...it’s on the cheek because jeongin is overthinking it and terrified of messing up

it’s after he walks you home from eating at the ice cream shop close to your house and leaves you at the front steps at your house

you can tell he’s nervous because he’s looking at his hands and when he hugs you before you go in he stops you

“wait! don’t go yet.”

and you just turn confused because maybe you forgot something?

jeongin gulps before leaning in carefully and pressing a cute little kiss to your cheeks and smiling

“okay, you can go now! goodnight. please take care.”

forces you to sit down and watch asmr videos with him and sends new videos to you at 4 am

“look at this aloe vera asmr i found, it is very soothing and i like how the sound of the plant being cut sounds...do you think an aloe vera plant costs a lot?

“jeongin?”

“huh?”

“it’s really late. please sleep.”

“well sheesh you’re no fun!”

always doing food challenges with you and loves watching your reactions to spicy or sour food

jeongin uses some of his allowance to buy you cute little plushies or candies

has no hesitation sharing anything of his with you, he firmly believes everything he owns is also partly yours

“i’m so tired today i just want to go home and sleep but i have so many chores to do.”

“i can help with that, don’t worry. your boyfriend is here to save the day.”

jeongin is still young and has insecurities that overpower his common sense...so he does get a little jealous at times

but his form of expressing it is different from being angry or petty, he just gets quiet and needs reassurance that you still like him

constantly grabbing your face and squishing your cheeks and just doing weird things to your face and laughing so much at it

“are you okay? you’ve been zoning out a lot today jeongin. if you’re tired we can take a nap.”

“no i’m fine, i was just thinking of something.”

“what was it about?”

“i was just thinking about how much i like you. i think i might love you, i’m sorry if it’s soon.”

you love his brothers so much! they’re so nice to you and his younger one is very curious about you and his older brother teases both of you a lot

woojin, minho, and chan alternate taking turns to give you guys rides to places to go on dates and it’s really sweet

also constantly convinces you to do the same skin treatments with him and you guys have those matching hairbands and its really cute but embarrassing

if you’re not around he has you on skype and at first you were both so worried about looking nice in front of each other but now you have no problem being lazy and ugly with the other

both of you fall asleep on skype and keep the call going because he likes to know you fell asleep and are resting and it makes him go to sleep feeling a lot calmer

probably texts you all day at school and gets in trouble for it but that doesn’t stop yang jeongin! nothing does (until they threaten to call chan lol)

whenever hes about to see you he records running up to you and your reaction and captions it with a bunch of heart emojis

always shares his lunch with you and eventually ends up bringing a second set of lunch for you to eat

one day you mention how much you liked borrowing his clothes and the next day he runs to your house with a box of old jackets and sweaters of his for you to wear

jeongin is just a sweetheart...his heart is so big and he has so much love and happiness to give you

it’s so much fun being with you and he feels like he has something to look forward to when he’s with you

#jeongin #yang jeongin #stray kids #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #scenarios #jeongin scenarios #kpop scenarios #boyfriend jeongin

393 notes · View notes

eversall · 7 years ago

Note

3 with jimon !!

jimon + 3. hesitant kiss

“Hey,” Jace whispers into the darkness, “you awake?”

Simon groans and muffles a scream into his pillow, and seriously considers moving to the London Institute. It’s a real offer. Aline likes him.

“I am running on two hours of sleep across the last two days,” Simon says into the pillow he’s still clutching over his face, “but yes, I am.” He pauses, and then he pulls the pillow away and rolls over to face Jace, who’s sleeping on the floor next to him. They’re in an abandoned safe-house somewhere in New Jersey, camped out for the night until they get reinforcements in the morning. “What’s up?”

Jace frowns at him. “I’m trying to be nicer,” he whispers, “but you’re making it very difficult, Lewis.”

“You don’t need to whisper.” Simon says shifting and tucking his arm under his head. “And I’m just cranky, okay. But you have my full attention. My ears are yours. I am your transfixed audience of one - “

“Shut up.” Jace groans, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them again, looking at Simon with something unfathomable in his eyes. It’s dark, but Simon can pinpoint the exact point where the brown of Jace’s eye slices into the blue; his gaze is suddenly light and dark at the same time, and the silence is larger, somehow. Simon swallows.

“Sometimes,” Jace says, his voice measured and even, “I think about the bite.”

Simon’s lips part on a quiet exhale, and Jace tracks the motion. He wants to pretend he doesn’t know why Jace is bringing it up now, but he does know, in the same way he and Jace have been slowly trapped in each other’s orbits in the last few months. It’s in the quiet brush of their shoulders against each other, the stillness of all the words left unsaid when they go on missions together, fighting side-by-side and looking at each other with a hunger Simon’s afraid to pursue.

And the mission they’re on now - they’re tracking a Shadowhunter from the Los Angeles Institute that was bitten by a vampire and went rogue, all the way to Jersey. Simon’s heard through the Clan that the bite was from a lover, not an enemy; the Shadowhunters don’t know it.

Simon suspects Jace knows it anyway. He’d read the case files that documented the Shadowhunter visiting bars, museums, concerts where the vampire happened to have been at the same time; he’d seen footage taken of the Shadowhunter training, his hands trembling and his eyes glued to his phone, his smile genuine and unafraid when someone had called him, and he’d laughed and brought his hand up to trace across the base of his neck -

It was easy for Simon and Izzy and even Clary to put two-and-two together; it would have taken nothing at all for Jace to understand too. In another world, that could have been Jace. In this world - it was Izzy. For a while, anyway.

“This is why,” Simon says finally, “I’m jealous of the wolves sometimes.” Jace keeps looking at him, and Simon continues. “They never have to wonder if what they’re feeling is real or not.”

Maia, and Luke, and even Magnus are wonderful, supportive friends - but there’s a reason that despite all the bad history between them Simon is still friends with Raphael and still vaguely a part of the Clan. He’s always hungry; somewhere deep inside there’s an ache for blood that he can’t explain away. It’s not like human hunger; it’s deeper, richer, more primal. It makes him stronger than he’d ever imagined he could be, and it makes the entire world sharper around him; but it also cracks him down the middle, seeps into his bones and hollows out his skin. It’s not quite a drug; it’s a part of him that he can’t trust, a reflex that’s more powerful than the sum of all his parts.

“I told you then,” Jace says finally, shifting closer, “that I would have let you.”

“I could have killed you.” Simon echoes softly. There are small slivers of moonlight coming through the windows, tracing across the skin of Jace’s neck, the strong slope of a rune line a stark contrast to the rest of him.

“I would have let you then because I was mad with grief.” Jace say quietly, and there’s an old hurt in his eyes, a wound that Simon doesn’t think is ever going to go away. “I would have let you for me. Now I think - “ He swallows, his veneer of confidence wavering just enough to make him look impossibly fragile for a second before he soldiers on, “I think I’d let you for you.”

Simon feels a pang in his dead chest. “It’s not that simple.” He doesn’t want to take the last step. He can’t.

“It is.” Jace says. He props himself up, looming over Simon in the dark, his hair falling softly over his face. Simon’s struck with an intense ache to brush it away, to trace his fingers across Jace’s temple and feel the rasp of Jace’s stubble across his jaw. “Do you trust me?”

Simon knows the answer immediately, knows how he feels, but it takes a courage he’s not sure he has to say it out loud. Being a vampire has changed him, has made him understand time and death and forever in a way that paints the world just a little darker than it was as a human; he’s afraid, so fucking afraid, of messing things up again. Jace isn’t the only one who feels sometimes like he’s nothing anymore, like he’s been taken and turned into a shadow of who he should be, an act he doesn’t know how to stop.

Maybe that’s why Jace is here, taking the first step. Maybe Jace - honest, genuine, incredible Jace, who is here, choosing him, fiercely confident in that infuriating way he has - is okay with Simon as he is, fear and all.

Simon gives in to temptation and reaches up to slowly tuck Jace’s hair behind his ear, and then he lets his fingers linger at Jace’s temple, his hand cradling Jace’s cheek. Jace leans into the touch.

“Yeah.” Simon breathes out, and Jace leans down, wrapping his hand around Simon’s wrist for balance as he presses his lips to Simon’s, the kiss feather-light and impossibly soft. Warmth curls through Simon’s stomach and he strains upwards, slowly pressing his lips back to Jace’s mouth, over and over again. Jace’s breath is ragged, his heart beating in a rapid staccato. It’s like thunder in Simon’s ears; Jace’s lips are lightning, electricity creeping through Simon’s skin and lighting a slow fire in him.

They kiss for what seems like an eternity, before Jace pulls away, breathing quietly, heavily, and looking at Simon like he’s a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. Simon feels like a blind man looking at the sun for the first time; he tugs Jace into his arms and they tangle themselves together, Jace stopping every so often to press kisses to Simon’s mouth, like he can’t help himself.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Lewis.” Jace says lowly, but he’s grinning, smirking, and for the first time in a while, the ache in Simon lessens. Simon rolls his eyes and splays his hand across Jace’s chest, listening to the soothing rhythm of life under his palm.

“But oh, what a way to go.” He says absently, and Jace’s heart beats in double-time in response, promising life and death and everything in between.

#jimon #jace lightwood #simon lewis #shadowhunters #i write sometimes #pugnae

103 notes · View notes