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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year

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Broken Glass Chapter 3 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x OC Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis Presley - Elvis (2022)

Read More Here - Broken Glass Masterlist! 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Prompt: You are Dolores Cannava, a young Italian-American nurse desperate to make her own way in the world and break free of her dysfunctional mafia-connected family and traumatic past. Elvis Presley is just returning home from his two-year stint in the Army, looking more handsome than ever, but feeling the pressure to successfully find his way back to the stratospheric career he was forced to leave behind. In a twisted turn of fate, Elvis finds himself in the hospital where your paths cross. Forced to harbor his potentially career-ending secret and needing to escape a terrifying future in New York, you are pulled into his unusual world and must endure a begrudging fake relationship with Elvis in order to protect his reputation (and his life).

TW: Sexual assault (not described in too much detail). Dissociation. Mentions of physical abuse. Coercion. The Colonel. Some historical inaccuracies.

Tags: Fake relationship. Slow burn. Angst. (Sort of) enemies to lovers. Hurt/Comfort.

Rating: R (but this story will eventually be Mature/NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 5.9k

A/N: Happy Broken Glass Wednesday, y'all! 💔🥂❤️‍🩹 I'm going to try to put out a chapter a week on Wednesdays (we shall see if I can keep up lol). Thank you for your lovely responses to Chapter 2 and I'm so glad people are finding the premise and E's health to be as fascinating as I do!

Please read the trigger warnings for this chapter. While not super graphic or in detail, this chapter delves into some dark things related to both sexual and physical assaults that are the catalysts for Dolores' decisions going forward and could definitely be triggering to some readers. It's not the whole chapter by any means--the actual moment is very short, but it is referenced in her desperation to forget what has happened to her and to escape her situation.

As always, I love and live for your reactions, comments, asks, and reblogs, so thank you in advance for both reading and giving another one of my stories a chance!

I imagined it with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat.

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

I’ve used the tag list from Pink Scarf, and added those who requested it, so please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

Story is cross-posted to my Wattpad and AO3, if you prefer those reading experiences!

Usually, the subway threatens to rock you to sleep after your night shifts. It is rather quiet in comparison to the trains headed into Manhattan, filled to the brim with workers of all kinds who are headed in from the boroughs. A bonus of working nights has been the less crowded and frenzied rides as you are heading out of the city while everyone else is going in. But this morning, every time you close your eyes, those brilliant yet stormy sapphires stare back at you with amusement. You can’t even focus on the book you’ve brought without your mind wandering back to the strange encounter with Elvis, wondering why he’d chosen you of all people to bother.

Heat flares through you again at how maddening he was in such a short amount of time, but you are self-aware to recognize that while the heat is mostly frustration at his actions and the repercussions they caused you, it also speaks the tiniest bit of how his pointed, beautiful gaze made you feel a little off kilter. You are annoyed that you can’t seem to forget how lovely he looked asleep in the bed.

Not asleep. Unconscious.

And that reminder strikes dread in your heart. The words in his chart (which I shouldn’t have looked at in the first place) make you feel uneasy because this secret is likely to cause untold repercussions if discovered. Considering the fervor surrounding his draft into the Army, you can only imagine the emotions of the female populace if they learn the truth about their beloved idol’s health.

You shift in your seat uncomfortably, the weight of your knowledge an unwelcome pressure on your psyche. It’s your own fault of course. But the empathy that serves you well in the hospital also has you feeling sad for the poor man, despite your annoyance. You may not be a fan, but you can’t deny the man’s talent and impact on the world. Thousands, millions even, will be devastated when…

No. It’s none of your business. You shouldn’t even know who the VIP is, much less be worrying about the man’s future. You have much more pressing things to worry about.

Those worries take hold with each step towards the house where you live. It’s certainly not a home, not anymore, and hasn’t been for a very, very long time. Your mother’s untimely death assured that.

Part of the excitement of getting into nursing school, even one as close as Bellevue, was that you were required to live in the dormitory. Four whole years in a tiny closet of a room, clad with only a single bed and a tiny desk and a small sink. For many of the girls it was torture but for you it was sweet relief. Peace. Safety.

But the day after graduation, you’d been forced right back into the viper’s nest, unable to find a place to share with anyone else, certainly not before you’d secured the job you now are desperate to hang onto, the one thing that will hopefully secure that freedom for you.

A heaviness settles over you the moment you hit the doorway and you say a silent prayer that you are late enough to have missed breakfast. Another bonus to nights is the fact that you have a viable excuse to not interact with your volatile father, Pop, because he, along with your younger brothers, are often gone by the time you trudge through the door.

But said door is unlocked, a sure sign that you’re too early and the dread you’d felt on the train about a man you barely know is nothing compared to the fear that settles in your stomach at the sounds of breakfast in the dining room.

You tiptoe down the hall in an attempt to remain unseen, your breath held as though it will somehow make you invisible. It’s only two big steps past the open door of the dining room but those steps might as well be a ravine. You make a break for it all the same.

“Dolores!” Pop’s voice sends you ramrod straight, but the tone of it is not the usual gruffness and distain. No, this is the voice for company, the one that covers all the dirty little secrets that permeate the walls of this house.

“Look who stopped by! Aren’t you glad to see our old friend?” Pop says in that saccharine voice.

You pull your gaze up and right into the black eyes of another man you don’t want to see but have to act as though you do.

“Hello, Gianni,” you force out of your mouth as neutrally as possible, but you grip your purse tight enough that your knuckles turn white.

“My beautiful Dolores! It’s been too long, bella,” Gianni coos at you, rounding the table to press an unwanted kiss to your cheek. He lingers too long, his hands like heavy weights on your biceps. Every ounce of you wants to push the snake away but you cannot, not here in front of Pop and your brothers. Gianni is too important in the community and disrespecting him would have consequences.

“You are a hard woman to get ahold of, Lori,” he purrs in your ear, using the nickname that is reserved for close relations and friends. This angers you but you are tired and weary and correcting him would only spell trouble.

“I was just telling Gianni how that hospital is working you to the bone, keeping you up nights, and that’s why you haven’t returned his calls,” Pop says pointedly, the clear message underneath being “Why the hell haven’t you called him back?”

Your heart sinks into your stomach. You hadn’t called him back because you are avoiding him like the plague. Because you know he’s going to ask you out on a date and the result will be him asking you a question you do not want to answer.

Gianni has had his sights set on you since you’d hit puberty. Thankfully your youth saved you, as the seven years between you two was a great enough span that even your father did not approve of it in those early years. Then, nursing school kept you out of the fray, beyond a few well-chaperoned dates. But now that you’ve come of age and are back home, you’ve felt the crawl of him under your skin, getting closer and closer.

The fact that he wants you at all is crazy. Gianni’s father Salvatore is one of the “pillars of the community,” the Consigliere—the right-hand man of the boss of this crime family. He’s one of the most important figures in this dysfunctional community you live in. Being a woman, you aren’t supposed to know any details, of course, but it is impossible not to know at least some of what goes on in the famiglia. Especially when your father has been coming home covered in blood and bruises and smelling of gunpowder since you were a small child.

You aren’t supposed to know your father is a soldier, a violent underling sent to do all the dirty work for the boss. It’s hard to deny, though, since his temper and aggressiveness are never just left at “work.” Unfortunately for you, Pop’s somewhat lower position in the hierarchy has not disqualified you from being courted by Gianni; in fact, with approval from his father and the boss, Gianni has every right to pursue you.

However, to the dismay of all parties, you do not want to be pursued. Not by Gianni. He is handsome with his dark hair and olive skin, yes, but ruthless, set to devour anything in his path. He wants to possess you. Own you.

His near-black eyes shine with it even now, this need of his to collect what he believes is his due. You are well aware that he has intentions to marry you—the beauty and intelligence you inherited from your mother has seen to that. And since it’ll raise Pop’s stature in the famiglia, he has been pushing you towards Gianni one way or another since Gianni took an interest. Only your mother had been hesitant, but when she died, all hope was lost.

An arranged marriage in a modern world.

So, no, you haven’t returned Gianni’s calls because once you do, he’ll take you out and then he will propose, and you’ll be expected to accept. That has been made crystal clear by your father. Once that happens your life is over. Nursing will be over. Any independence you’ve gained will be gone, and you’ll be shackled for eternity to another cruel man and forced to bear his children and look pretty and happy while you do it.

Which means the fact that Gianni is here, now, is very bad news indeed.

“Sorry, I’ve been busy with so many shifts. The new nurses get nights,” you say, as though you didn’t love the night shift.

“Of course, of course,” he tuts, “which is why I am here to take you to breakfast.”

It is not a question.

Your heart drops so quickly it makes your stomach queasy, like you are on a roller coaster you cannot get off. The trapped feeling has panic swelling in your throat. Pop looks at you expectantly, with both warning and excitement flashing on his face.

You cannot refuse the invitation.

“I-I’m a mess, Gianni, and I haven’t slept,” you sputter out in a last-ditch effort to escape this.

The way his hand trails down your arm to grasp your hand makes your skin itch and you resist the urge to yank away from his grip. “You have to eat, bella. Go fix yourself up real quick, I’ll wait. And I’ll have you home at a decent hour,” he finishes with a wink.

You don’t trust yourself to speak because the bile rising behind your panic threatens to give your feelings away. Instead, you just nod and smile before heading up the narrow stairs to your room.

A quick change into a nicer dress, along with a wash-up and unpinning your hair is all it takes to make yourself presentable, but you find yourself stalling for as long as possible. You wish you could be tittering with the excitement that every woman deserves when they get engaged, but Gianni is a man you do not and will not ever love. You can barely stand to be in his presence, much less marry the man.

The walk down the stairs is more like marching to your funeral rather than a date. You manage to plaster a half-pleasant look on your face, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Gianni is the picture of patience standing next to your father in the foyer in his expensive suit, reeking of Acqua di Parma cologne. It makes you nauseous.

“Oooh, Lori’s going on a date!” your youngest brother Paul teases as you walk by him. This sad spectacle has gathered a crowd of your 18-year-old twin brothers, Tony and John, and 16-year-old Paul.

“Stai zitto, and get outta here! Go get ready for school!” Pop hisses at the boys and they scatter, but not before Tony gives you a knowing look that only you catch. The glance is as full of trepidation as you are.

Pop practically pushes you into Gianni’s waiting arms with that deferential, schmoozing smile and betrayal boils in your blood. A father is supposed to protect his daughter, not serve her to the wolves on a silver platter.

But your betrayal is quickly replaced by repulsion when the heat of Gianni’s hand resting on your lower back bleeds through your dress. He leads you outside and into the back of the waiting car, then slides in next to you, too close. Ignoring the driver, he makes small talk on the way to the restaurant, one that should be closed at this hour, but for the son of the Consigliere, it is open and staffed, though you are the only customers.

You resist the urge to balk when he orders for you and are monumentally uncomfortable being alone with him like this. His predatory eyes are focused solely on your every movement, so you attempt to be the picture of congeniality, as your culture has trained you to be since birth: pleasant, polite, demure. Underneath the façade, your heart pounds against your ribcage because you are unable to stop the collision you know is coming.

Barely able to eat the food in front of you, you resort to tiny bites and pushing the rest around the plate as inconspicuously as possible.

“You don’t need to be nervous, bella,” he states, seeming almost amused by your anxiousness. He flicks his wrist and the waiter appears out of nowhere to clear the plates. “And I know you are tired from slaving away all night at that hospital, but soon you won’t need to worry about any of that.”

The surety of that statement makes your stomach roll. Gianni pulls a small velvet box from the inside pocket of his coat and places it in front of you on the table. Your heart is a jackhammer against your sternum. You think you might pass out.

“My bella,” he purrs, getting up, then sliding into the booth next to you, trapping you in, “I think you know I’ve had my eye on you for quite a while now. Of course, I had to let you finish your schooling, let you grow up into the lovely woman you are now…”

Let me? you bristle internally, as if it were ever up to him, as if you ever needed his permission in the first place.

“But now it is time to let me take care of you and give you the life you deserve,” he finishes, opening the box in front of you to reveal a ridiculously large and gaudy diamond ring.

You are frozen, wanting so badly to tell him where to shove his ring and flee as fast and as far as possible. But instead, you can’t seem to move to stop Gianni from grabbing your shaking hand and placing it upon your trembling ring finger.

“Be my wife,” he says.

A command, not a question. One to which you don’t respond. Gianni takes your silence as acceptance, however, taking the single tear that spills down your cheek as one of happiness and not distress. He brushes it off your face with the backs of his fingers and you want to flinch, scream, anything that will tear you away from this union, but all you do is give him a tight smile and try not to sob outright.

Fight, goddamnit! your mind screams. But you can’t. You are imprisoned in your fear and despair, trapped by propriety, shackled by the responsibility to your family, to your brothers. Because a refusal would blow back on them as much as it would on you.

So, you don’t pull away when Gianni’s hand grips your chin or when he presses a kiss onto your lips. You’ve only been kissed once, by the boy who took you to the prom. You’ve been far too busy to date these past few years, much less kiss anyone, but at least that experience was enjoyable and coupled with butterflies. This kiss is devoid of anything other than a feeling of disgust. It seems to mark you as his possession, his cold lips making your stomach turn once again.

The rest is a blur as he brings you home, inviting himself inside. For once, you wish your father was home because the hungry look in Gianni’s eyes promises nothing good for you as he walks in behind you, into the too-silent house.

You fumble for the right words, the words that will make him leave so you can mourn the loss of your freedom in peace, but once he realizes the house is empty, he turns to you and pushes you into the wall. He is much taller than you, his muscular limbs so much stronger than your flailing ones as he pens you in.

The next kiss is hard and rough, all teeth and tongue. You press your arms against his chest in an attempt to push him away, but it does nothing but urge him on. Dizzy from the effort and drowning in the heaviness of his cologne, you barely make a dent in defending yourself against the assault of his lips on yours.

“Gianni, stop,” you finally breathe out, but he seems to take this as encouragement, nuzzling into your neck, his lips pulling and nipping at your skin. You can’t find the strength to push him off, to scream, to do anything other than whimper while his hands grope and wander places on your body that no man’s have gone before.

You pray for it to end. And when he grabs your hand and forces it down, down, down to feel the hardened length in his slacks, you go far, far away. You disappear into the same fog that takes you every time Pop goes ballistic, only realizing the truth of what happened when you come back into yourself later, feeling the pain of the bruises on your ribs, or seeing them on Mama, back when she was still alive to take them for you.

So, it shouldn’t be a surprise when you wake up much later in your bed, on top of the covers, your clothes in disarray. It’s not until you register the heaviness on your ring finger that you remember your engagement and the feel of Gianni’s meaty hands on you.

Barely making it across the hall to the bathroom, you vomit up what little you managed to eat for breakfast at the restaurant. Once the heaving stops, the shaking begins.

But you do not cry.

Rinsing out your mouth and splashing water on your face, you don’t, no, can’t, think about what may have happened once you faded away. You push away the thoughts of why your body feels sore and bruised in places it shouldn’t and why you can still smell the stink of his expensive cologne lingering on your dress and your skin.

No, no, no.

Disorientation makes you blink slowly as you come back into yourself and into the present, and you make your way back into your room. Your eye catches the clock and suddenly you feel wide awake.

Dammit!

You slept too long and are close to missing your train into the city for work, which today starts earlier than normal due to the fact you stupidly agreed to cover the end of your friend Sally’s shift so she could go on a date.

There is no time, then, to linger in despair. You race to rip off your dress and throw on a clean uniform, one thankfully already pressed and ready to go, pushing away the dark thoughts threatening to consume you. A pass of a comb through your messy locks and a few pins help you look somewhat put together and you slip on your white shoes, grabbing your bag.

The sparkling on your finger makes you pause long enough to tear the ring from your hand and throw it onto your vanity. If anyone asks, you don’t want to wear a ring like that into the city.

Flying down the stairs, you avoid the questions budding in Pop’s mouth with a “I’m late!” as you rush out the door. By the time you reach the station, you are breathless, but are just in time to make your train.

Exhaustion weighs on you as the adrenaline in your blood wanes. You slept today, but do not feel rested, and you pretend you don’t know why that is. It’s the last thing you want to think about.

Engaged. I’m engaged. To a monster. And he hurt me.

Your breath hitches in time with the rocking of the train, panic creeping its way back in.

No. Not now.

The urge to climb out of your skin, or at least scrub it raw under the locker room showers at work, must wait. You are grateful that you have to hit the ground running as soon as you step through the front doors of the bustling hospital. One emergency leads into the next and you barely have time to think past the next crisis, much less worry about what happened earlier today or the terror your future holds once you leave this hospital tomorrow morning.

“Nurse Cannava!” Nurse Hunt calls for you, her voice dropping once you approach, “Dr. Paulson is in with our VIP patient, and he is needed urgently. Go get him for me, and don’t get distracted by our patient this time, will you?”

“Yes, Nurse Hunt,” you say quickly, the dig not even bothering you. You’d take a lifetime of them in lieu of what waits for you outside this hospital. Fingers tittering nervously, you find yourself hoping that Elvis does not blame you for what happened last night. Though the way this day is going, you wouldn’t be surprised to find him combative towards you. And perhaps you deserve it after the way you treated him (even if he was being an ass).

The scene you are met with when you arrive at Elvis’ room is not what you are expecting, however.

“L-L-Little bird,” Elvis stutters, but it is not with the air of confidence he exuded last night. It is not aloofness or displeasure.

Your annoyance at the nickname, along with the smallest bit of relief that he is up and talking, quickly turns to apprehension. Much to your confusion, Elvis seems almost reverent as he stares at you, like you’d descended from the heavens or something.

Must be the head injury, you think, trying to make sense of him.

The other three men crammed into the tiny room all turn to stare at you at once, eyes wandering over you far longer than necessary, as though you are both interrupting something important yet are expected at the same time.

Why in God’s name are they all looking at me like that?

Elvis’ churning oceanic eyes lock onto yours and are loaded with such emotion that you can’t begin to sort through it, and you have to tear your gaze away. You manage to sputter out Nurse Hunt’s request to the doctor and instead of replying, the lot of them turn to Elvis, as though he has any say in it.

The silence sits heavy, and Elvis’ pale cheeks turn a little pink, almost bashfully, as you look at him again. He stares at you in an unreadable way, as though taking in every bit of you, as though seeing you for the first time. Confusion rushes over you in a self-conscious wave.

Have I done something wrong? Is this about snapping at him last night?

You shift uncomfortably, trying to piece together what is going on. But with everything that has happened in the last 24 hours, your brain can’t seem to put anything together other than that this group of men have lost their minds.

“I’ll be right there, Nurse,” Dr. Paulson finally states, looking back at you almost regretfully but you don’t take the time to try and figure out why. You are just grateful to be dismissed and leave the strange scene. In fact, with one crisis after another on the ward this shift, you put it out of your mind completely.

Until Dr. Paulson pulls you aside in the early morning hours, that is.

The doctor looks uncomfortable, his face in a grimace, when he leads you into a quiet corner.

Oh, Madone, I’m going to be fired. As if this day can get any worse. Your heart pounds and you fight back the tears that prickle behind your eyes.

“Nurse Cannava, I know this is going to be unorthodox…” he begins, and suddenly your mind jumps to another, equally disturbing place. The man is wearing a wedding ring, for God’s sake. And is old enough to be your father. You’d never taken the doctor to be that kind of man, but he interrupts your thoughts by continuing, “…but are you interested in private nursing?”

Now that is not what you were expecting. Relief floods through you, followed quickly by bewilderment.

“Excuse me, Doctor, private nursing? What do you mean?”

“Well, um, you see, Mr. Presley is going to need some discreet and rather specific care going forward,” he whispers, “and it seems as though you, um, fit the bill, so to speak, to take care of him exclusively.”

You fight to hold back the laugh that wants to escape your mouth at the pure absurdity of the situation. Elvis wants you of all people, the nurse who nearly took his head off last night, who sent him into respiratory distress, to take care of him exclusively? A day ago, you would have told him to shove his offer where the sun don’t shine.

But things have changed dramatically for you in the last day.

“I know it sounds strange, and certainly you’ve done great work here, but might you be willing to discuss this with his manager?

You cross your arms and worry your lip in between your teeth. The words fall out of your mouth before you can think too much on it.

“Yes, I’ll speak to him.”

Dr. Paulson sighs and nods, walking you down the corridor to a small waiting room. Your heart pounds in your ears as you are led inside.

“Colonel Parker, this is Nurse Cannava,” Dr. Paulson says, in a bristled tone that insinuates he doesn’t particularly care for the portly, balding man standing near the window you assume is Elvis’ manager. Colonel Parker turns to you, and you immediately get the sense the man is not to be trusted. Being around criminals who pretend they aren’t ones your whole life has given you a sixth sense for this sort of thing.

“Ah, Nurse Cannava, how lovely to meet you. We have much to discuss. I’m Colonel Tom Parker, Elvis’ manager.” Colonel Parker motions for you to sit in the chair across from him. He attempts to wave off Dr. Paulson, but the doctor does not go, choosing to stand in the doorway instead, seemingly wary to leave you alone with this stranger, and for that you are silently appreciative.

“And of course, this conversation must remain completely private, no matter what you decide. I’m sure a smart girl like you can understand the sensitivity of the situation,” he continues, leaning back in his chair, his casual position in direct contrast of his words.

“Of course,” you nod.

“Good. Now I’ll get right to it. After speaking with your supervisor, I know you are already aware that Elvis is quite…unwell.”

An understatement, to say the least.

“Yet I’m sure you also know how important Elvis is to so many people like yourself. Are you a fan, Miss Cannava?” he asks suddenly.

“Um, not especially, Mr. Parker,” but you rush to add, “It’s not as though I dislike his music, I’m just not one of those girls who, uh, fawns over him, sir.” You try and remain as neutral as possible because you get the feeling this question is some sort of test.

“Hmm,” is all he gives you in response. He looks you up and down with a careful beady eye and you resist squirming in your seat. Instead, you straighten your spine and lift your chin, your only tell being the way you tightly grasp your hands in your lap. His look is not a leer so much as an assessment as he takes in every inch of you.

After a moment he nods—you seem to have passed muster.

“This is an incredibly unique situation, my girl, which I’m sure you can appreciate. Elvis needs discreet, around-the-clock care, according to Dr. Paulson here,” he says with distain, “but we can’t have the world knowing that Elvis is ill. It would do irreparable harm to both his career and his fans.”

He is talking as if Elvis will have a career with his diagnosis, you think in surprise.

Colonel Parker must read this on your face. “You must understand, he loves his work, my dear, and nothing will keep him from it. Or his fans. Which is where you come in.”

“I assume I would just be there to take care of Elvis when he needs it, and to make sure he takes his medications and such?” you say.

“Well, it’ll be much more involved than that, my dear.”

You look at Dr. Paulson, who’s mouth is set in a line, as though he’s attempting not to add something to that statement.

“What do you mean, involved?” you ask.

“Firstly, you will need to live and travel with him,” he starts.

You nod. You figured as much, which is honestly why you are even considering this in the first place.

“But you see, no one can know you are his nurse. Elvis must appear, for all intents and purposes, the picture of health.”

Narrowing your eyes, you ask, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’m understanding, sir. How am I supposed to live and travel with the man to administer medical care without anyone knowing?”

Colonel Parker looks at Dr. Paulson, and then at you, a strange smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’ll be his girlfriend, of course.”

You choke at that. You can’t have heard him correctly. “Excuse me? I’ll be his what?”

“You will play the roleof his doting girlfriend, while secretly being his nurse. It was love at first sight, you see. Our handsome soldier comes to from a simple bump on the head and falls instantly in love with a beautiful young nurse, sweeping her right off her feet and into his life. Quite the storybook fairytale, wouldn’t you say?” he smiles that shifty smile.

Your heart flutters as fast as a hummingbird’s. “You…you can’t be serious. I—he—” you stutter.

“Oh, I couldn’t be more serious,” he says, the smile falling from his face. “I’ve been told this situation is life and death, my dear, and Elvis needs someone like you to help keep him alive.”

Silence falls and you can’t help but gape. But your mind whirls with the possible implications and how they might get you out of your current situation. If you weren’t desperate, you’d laugh in this man’s face, but your situation, and Elvis’ for that matter, are both quite dire.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Of course, you would be extremely well compensated for your trouble. That’s in addition to room and board, since you will be staying with Elvis. But you will have to leave your current life behind to sell your relationship both to the public at large and to both his and your friends and families for this to work,” he adds.

It’s completely, utterly insane. You don’t even like Elvis, so you’re not sure how you’re supposed to pretend to be in love with him, while at the same time having to secretly tend to his medical needs. You can’t in your right mind see how this will work. You are no actress.

But that fraught voice in your head is thinking about your survival, about that engagement ring sitting on your vanity and the expectations that go with it. About what has already been taken from you because of it. You push those thoughts as far back as they will go, but the fear remains because you know that if you stay, any scrap of independence you have will be gone, and you will live the rest of your life with a horrible snake of a man.

You’ve been wrestling with a way to escape since Gianni put that ring on your finger, claiming you as his, against your will. But as a single woman with hardly any money and nowhere to go, your options to run are limited. And if you run, with the resources of the famiglia, you know you would be found quickly and your punishment would be painful, if not deadly.

But with Elvis, you’d be cared for—you’d have money, you’d be travelling, and you assume that with his fame, Elvis has a wealth of protection at his disposal. As long as you are close to him, and with the relationship being so public, you realize Elvis might be the only one who can protect you from Gianni and your father.

They wouldn’t dare do something to me if I’m Elvis Presley’s girlfriend. They won’t be able to touch me.

You choose not to think too much on how you still would be giving up some of your freedom. How you will still be tied to and at the mercy of a man. You don’t think about how long you might need to keep up this act and what might happen if you decide to leave. No, all you know is that as much as Elvis might annoy you, he seems like a decent man. He does not seem the type to hurt you, and you’ll be his employee, not his true girlfriend, anyway. You will still be nursing and earning money while doing so.

I can figure out the rest later.

“Perhaps it is asking too much. I know not every woman would be up for the task—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt Colonel Parker.

His eyes widen with surprise, which you get the impression is hard to do with this man. “You will?”

“As long as Elvis approves and that we have a contract with established rules and such. I think I’m safe in assuming I won’t be required to, well, beyond playing it up in front of others I won’t be required to…to do anything untoward,” you say, not being able to keep yourself from blushing at the implication.

“Of course not, of course not, my dear!” Colonel Parker hurries to say once he picks up on your meaning. “It’ll all be on the up and up and respectable. We would never ask you to compromise yourself like that.”

You nod, trying to still your shaking hands. You don’t trust Colonel Parker as a person, but if there is a legal contract, he can’t force you to do anything you don’t agree to.

“Then I will do it. When do I start?” You hope it’s as soon as possible. Frankly, you’d leave this hospital with the lot of them right now if it meant you didn’t have to go back to that house again.

The smile that spreads across his face unnerves you but does not scare you. Not like the other men in your life.

“Excellent, my dear. I will get that contract set up for you immediately, while Dr. Paulson apprises you of your medical duties. You’ll begin as soon as you sign on the dotted line,” he says. “Then we will get you in with Elvis. You both will have a lot to talk about, I am sure.”

You gulp and your heart flips in your chest. Part of you fears all the things you don’t know about what you are walking into: about Elvis, his lifestyle, and what you will have to do to convince the world you are Elvis Presley’s girlfriend. But it will all be worth it if you can get away from marrying Gianni or staying with your father.

Mother Mary, they will be furious.

But by then you’ll be long gone, safely tucked away by Elvis’ side.

And, strangely, that gives you more comfort than you could have ever hoped for.

Taglist:

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@domaniquessidehoe @im-lame-irl @allybrooke05 @hangmanswhore

@jazmin2211 @kvcssghbjbcd @coldonexx @dudinhahoff @whatstruthgottodowithit @tiredbuthappy @amiets2 @saintmagx

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@liaaacantwrite @kittenlittle24 @kaitaesupremacy @butler-trouble @eliseinmemphis @russian-soft-bitch @tattywood

@sassanoe @re3kin @thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle @carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23 @ab4eva

@fic-over-cannon @lacyluver @littlebitofgreen @paigevis @godlypresley @bugg06 @xhannahbananax03 @artlover8992

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generic-whumperz · 2 months

Text

The Aid: Chapter 7- Sicko Fantasies and Haunting Memories (NSFW)

(Buckle the fuck up, you are now aboard the Hot Mess Express🚂)

CWs & TWs (not in order): graphic & violent non-con flashback (end of chapter and between the red *****—not to be confused with the black *****—you can read around it without missing any vital details!) including use of a knife and gun and gross details of bodily fluids (it’s a bad time, skip over it if your sensitive to nastiness, don’t say I didn’t warn you—like for real it’s gross), explicit language, insults & name calling*, Whumpee called “boy” even though he’s 24, talk of bodily functions (pee habits and general grooming after months of being deprived of toiletries and self care), suicidal ideation and past suicide attempts/details of past self harm practices (asphyxiation), recollection of being forcibly restrained to bed to prevent further self harm, illicit drug use (❄️&🧊) mixed with alcohol (Whumper), Whumpee wishing gruesome death upon Whumper (but like, good for him, Whumper deserves it), aftermath of starvation and prolonged isolation, undressing and inspecting wounds, prescription drug dependency (Whumpee), depressing self reflections, literal Caretaker turned Whumpee, asshole/bully/sadistic/taunting/creepy/intimate/alcoholic/mentally and physically abusive Whumper (Wyatt Sullivan is his own TW, he’s literally the worst), long-term captivity, slavefic/ institutionalized slavery AU, within the post-apocalyptic(ish) setting AU—mentions of: ongoing war & mass death, evacuations, terrorism and treason, cannibalism, infectious diseases (specifically cannibals with infectious diseases), war factions, extremist Regime, forced labor camps, food scarcity, class division, looting, and hostile takeovers

*We are starting strong with insults here, if this is a sensitive topic or squick for you, you’ll have a horrible time & this ain’t for you dawg, respectfully.

You’ve been adequately warned, proceed with caution :)

Word count: 5,669

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

Hey you, yeah YOU!

If you’re still here after that novel of CWs, hi hello :) Holy shit this chapter took on a mind of its own and is a little all over the place! Besides the lengthy list of warnings, there’s also some more world building in here—like a lot more. You probably didn’t have questions, but don’t worry, I gave you the answers you didn’t know you needed anyway! I hope it fits and makes sense, idk what I’m doing, I think my brain is actively rotting out of my skull at this point. If you like insane bullshit, this is for you, and if you don’t, sorry buddy! I'm still sitting on a fatass chapter that comes after this one, but I need to give myself a break after this steamy mess right here. Expect the usual processing time of a month and a half.

Xoxo, Gen

Fuck ass. Shithead. Cock warmer—of all the overused insults his Master chucked at him, The Aid kept a particular fondness for pampered pet.

An offense it was intended to be, yes, but instead of bitter resentment, the gibe strangely restored a sense of lost dignity and sounded comparatively childish against the others. Although, truth be told, most of the snarky nicknames fell flat and lost their zest at this point, and he would’ve appreciated some effort from Sullivan to come up with more creative insults to hurl at him.

His Master made a special sport of provoking him; ergo, he figured the man would at least flaunt some star players now and again.

Nothing got older quicker than a joke worn thin.

But wait, what did the brute call him earlier—lopsie lip? He usually threw up his mental defenses and rolled his eyes when someone made cheap one-liners about his mouth (what could be said that he hadn’t heard a hundred times over?) Still, somehow, Wyatt Sullivan had a real knack for mocking his appearances (his height was another frequently abused topic) and a crafty way of singling out his assumed insecurity. The mockeries weren’t knee-slappers by any stretch of the imagination and came across as equally lame and insensitive Boomer jokes; even so, he’d gladly take these low-hanging digs with open arms over the other vile, squirm-worthy remarks Sullivan berated him with any day—or worse.

Better a poor shit taking the brunt of crude taunts than a poor shit taking the brunt of a boot to the ribs.

Pampered pet—it’s fitting, goes well with his staple stand-in name, Mutt, and even has a certain ring to it, and certainly nicer than cum bucket —yuck (he hated that one).

Pampered was right; he couldn’t stand being dirty and unkempt; indeed, his Madame never condoned sloppy looks and anything less than perfect. She’d be rolling in her grave right now if she saw the sunken state of affairs and how piss poor of a job her son was doing as appointed keeper of her precious house boy.

But oh, how far the mighty have fallen.

Long were the days of his dedication to hours a week of meticulous primping and preening and how he missed those sacred moments.

Since he awoke above ground, he didn’t have the energy or sheer willpower to accomplish anything more than a couple of weak passes with a toothbrush and a few splashes of lukewarm water on his face and called it a day. But now—poor hygiene be damned—a garden of Earthly man-made delights beckoned him.

He studied his previously revoked collection of personal care products next to the first aid caddy on the bathroom counter before him. Here sat everything his Master denied him for months; he bereaved their absences like a lost loved one—no, scratch that, he never missed a person more than a good hand cream and microdermabrasion exfoliant.

In another life, he was always a star patient when it came to oral hygiene—he sported the Colgate smile—so being deprived of his one true love, his toothbrush, during his solitary confinement was arguably worse than having to shit in a litter box next to his bed.

He didn’t know what disturbed him more, the fact that he looked like a freshly dead Jack Skellington or that he now had plaque buildup, a few missing teeth (curtsey of Sullivan’s fists), and probably a couple of cavities.

A new toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and floss picks were no dentist or oral surgeon, but they were a good start toward redemption.

This is as good as he’d get; best make do with what he got and ignore the rest. Maybe he can’t fill a cavity but can scrub off filth. He commonly recited, ‘It’s better to focus on easily fixable things. There’s an irreplaceable level of satisfaction in having attainable goals.’

He scanned the other objects in front of him, taking special note of the lip scrub and lip balm he hoped would mend his cracked and chapped lips, the tub of extra-extra hydrating hyaluronic acid body lotion tasked with soothing his bone-dry, itchy skin, comb and tweezers to tame invasive hairs, cotton swabs to clean out all the gunk in his ears (he was sure he had more than enough ear wax to fill a tea light candle); blemish control face wash, acne cream, toner, and light-weight moisturizer to get his breakout under control; and nail clippers and file to declaw himself.

He glanced at his fingers and toes.

They weren’t as bad as expected—well, despite his calluses, hang nails, and overgrown cuticles that is. At least he didn't have Althetes' foot or start sprouting weird basement mold between the toes.

Sweet Christ Almighty, the filthy and ungodly things he’d do for a good mani-pedi and facial right now.

If Sullivan weren’t such a fucking sadist with a raging hard-on for making him bleed and scream, he’d consider proposing an exchange of sex acts for a full-package spa day. The sex—he told himself—he could grit his teeth through and forcibly tolerate with minimal tears; it was the rest that canceled out any ounce of enjoyment or relaxation he’d potentially get.

No facial was that good.

His former (glorious) self was never a nail-biter or finger-picker, but his time in isolation lent a hand towards picking up some bad habits to occupy his mind in hopes of preventing him from going mad with boredom (spoiler: it didn’t work).

He picked and picked, and sometimes even nibbled, around his hang nails until he drew blood. He didn’t delight in chewing bits of dead skin peeled off in strings around his fingers, but the motion of eating something—even if deduced to bits of himself—helped drown out the hunger pains and sounds of his empty belly gurgling. He secretly wished Sullivan would catch him in the act of self-cannibalizing himself, realize just how far pushed to insanity he was, and take enough pity on him to release him of his sentence.

It was all nothing more than a stupid fool’s hope; the evil sonovabitch never even felt a glint of remorse.

His eyes scanned the razor and shaving cream, almost suspicious of their presence. Shaving himself was daunting and ostensibly impossible with one shaky hand.

But hey, at least Wyatt trusted with a sharp object; this was a step up.

How long had it been since he properly cleaned himself up and given himself a good shave? Months?

The razor looked new. Sullivan must have given him a fresh one. And if his Master went through the backbreaking effort of changing a razor head, that meant he wanted—no, was practically ordering—him to revive what parts he could that resembled his ci-devant good looks…good looks—was he ever even good looking before all this? He couldn’t tell; he was horrible with those types of things. He knew he wasn’t ugly but also wasn’t a looker, probably landed smack-dab in the middle. Perhaps his attraction level wasn’t for him to decide. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder or some shit. Or was that just some junk passed around by those unfortunate souls not blessed with Holly Wood looks?

But now he knew he looked like hell, and the amount of work he needed to do on himself was overwhelming.

It was too much.

How well he’d be able to groom himself with one hand would no doubt leave much to be desired and undoubtedly felt like a set-up for sure failure, but the thought of Sullivan having to pick up where he left off and lather him up in lotion and clip his toenails made his blood run cold and more nervous than a puffer fish in a room full of balloons.

He couldn’t let those big, rough, creepy-ass hands that caused nothing but pain touch him any more than they already had. It felt like he and Sullivan would be breaking an unspoken rule if they made any skin-to-skin contact outside of anything besides the ogre inflicting harm on him. His Master’s hands were torture devices of their own; feeling them on him in any other capacity felt wrong, like a breach of contract.

As much as he refused to believe it, he knew deep down he was touch-starved, and part of him was screaming for any ounce of physical affection. He already leaned a little too far into Dr. Paul’s touch and was damn near smitten from the warm spark of soothing comfort that came from a gentle cup of his cheek; if he did the same with Sullivan, he’d never forgive himself, and his Master definitely wouldn’t let it happen without comment.

He already heard him now—“Yeah, ya like that, don’t ya, boy? Look at ya melting into me like the little needy slut ya are. I got somethin’ else real special for ya that’ll get ya howlin’ an’ really tickle up ya’r insides.”

Even an innocent touch would lead to something more; of course, it would; this was Wyatt fucking Sullivan he was thinking about.

He shivered.

Suddenly, he was all too aware of his very full bladder.

He sighed, then hobbled over to the toilet.

These days he had to piss sitting down; circumstance didn’t grant much flexibility there. The stand-up method was unsuitable for those with one functioning leg and one usable arm; if he dared test his limits, it would likely result in him missing the bowl entirely or ungracefully falling over midstream. He told himself that he didn’t mind popping a squat; it erased the worry of not shaking his pee-pole enough and leaking drops on the rim, or worse—in his underwear. (‘Pay no mind to the very real fear of your peen accidentally sliding against the cold inside of the toilet bowl; no, we don’t have room for such worries.’) Wringing his dick out like a washcloth was far more undignifying than just shoving it between his legs and taking his time anyway—that’s what he told himself, what he made himself believe.

But he deserved that, didn’t he—small comforting lies in whatever form he found them?

Thankfully, the post-catheter sting Dr. Paul warned him of went away after the first day, but his urine persisted in being a dark brownish orange (‘light umber, I think that’s called’) that reeked a pungent odor, evoking him to scrunch his nose in sour disgust every time. He drank more than enough liquids now, so it couldn’t be from dehydration—could it? That left him to conclude it must be yet another unpleasant side-effect from his cocktail of pharmaceuticals.

Pharmaceuticals—thank the marvels of modern science for those. However, what he really craved was a fat joint of Blueberry Kush.

How long ago did he pop that palmful of pills? He contemplated with a sense of impatience, ‘couldn’t be more than 30 minutes ago…’

The Klonopin typically took about an hour and a half to two to kick in. And once it did, he was down for the count, blissfully obliterated until evening, when he would pop an Ambien to sail him through the night.

Rinse and repeat day after day, after day until—well, he didn’t know yet.

And he preferred to remain deliriously unaware.

It was better this way.

Hell, it was the only thing that made his life at all bearable—to be drugged out of his mind, not to be awake, not to think, not to feel his body, to play dead until one fateful day, his Master would finally strike a killing blow.

The matter of if Sullivan could wasn’t in question—they both knew the older man could kill him as effortlessly as a house fly stuck buzzing against a windowsill—it was more of a matter of when.

The Aid tried to carry out the deed of snuffing himself out a few times—okay, more than a few times. He lost count of his botched suicide attempts, but that’s all they were, half-assed “attempts”—a courteous word his actions didn’t quite live up to. What he carried out fell more in line with ideation.

In the basement torture den, he’d wrap the chain around his neck with minimal pressure, just enough to feel a light constriction—nothing more, nothing less—and let the fantasy of floating away into nihility mollify him as he mewled and cried himself to sleep like a squalling infant. Sullivan caught him in this self-soothing ritualistic act once before and had the audacity to act scandalized by what he witnessed as if he didn’t knowingly single-handedly push The Aid to the brink of suicide. After the initial surprise of what he walked in on wore off, Sullivan proceeded to laugh at the miserable little thing at his feet and hurl some colorful beratement at him (finally a personalized insult with a bit more spice, although the timing couldn’t be worse) as the boy bawled his eyes out and crumpled into a shaky ball.

The Aid received an extra beating for his lack of self-respect and composure; Sullivan took offense to The Aid’s actions and informed him that he wasn’t allowed to off himself.

After his Master scolded him, he made him swear he wouldn’t “pull any more weakling shit ever again” and ordered him to abstain from any method of self-harm—Wyatt liked being the only one permitted to hurt him.

The ogre’s cruelties were boundless, but at least the monster finally pitied him enough to find it in his cold, dead heart to allow him the privilege of washing himself up and gave him a change of clothes and a hot meal afterward—sometimes being a mess and pushed to your edge bought rewards.

After all was said and done, he was restrained, his limbs tied to the four corners of the blood-stained mattress so he couldn’t move—for a week—until Sullivan deemed him no longer a threat to himself (the irony of it all did not escape him).

That was the last time he meddled with ending it all. He couldn’t do it, not really—not entirely, no matter how much he wished he could. The only thing that scared him more than Wyatt Sullivan was the great unknown of the other side and being devoured by eternal darkness.

A healthy fear of death was the only thing keeping him alive at this point.

*****

He absently gazed out the window, taking in his perfect view from the side of the house that butted against rolling tan desert foothills.

They were the last house down a long winding street lined with multi-million dollar estate homes, each with a moneyshot view overlooking the Palm Springs valley. He knew better than to indulge in the crackpot fantasy of climbing over that brick retaining wall separating him and the rest of the world to scamper his way through the open desert that went on and on for miles.

He already tried that once.

He didn’t get far—‘Stupid stunt to pull when you have trackers embedded in your neck and spinal column.’

But what was out there?

His mind went wild.

Were there clans of Renegados, the lost people, those who didn’t belong to either cause or fell under contested jurisdictions, hiding deep in the rocky valleys or camping in the Little San Bernardino Mountains? There couldn’t be much of a food source besides snakes and scorpions with the occasional desert hare—not to mention the scarcity of a water source. He surmised Renegados were unlikely in this geography, but what about gangs of marauders? No, that was equally unlikely, as scavenger types preferred abandoned dense urban areas or heavily traveled routes, and they wouldn’t pay much mind to small desert towns or off-grid compounds. There wasn’t much left to plunder in visible sight, especially after the first couple of waves of looting from the mass exodus of some odd four million Los Angelenos alone fleeing the initial outbreaks.

The only people batshit crazy enough to tough it out in such a ragged landscape and unforgiving climate were bands of rebel freedom fighters, the Frondeurs, who opposed what was left of the U.S. Government and fought the rivaling extremist Regime which now controlled nearly half of the 50 states, all the meanwhile also culling the growing numbers of afflicted. It would either be the Frondeurs themselves or hordes of aforementioned afflicted—ravenous cannibals, anthrophages*, devouring their way through the rural areas in search of larger populations to gorge on. “People-eater Pox,” or PEP, was the name quickly given to the incurable disease because “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion” was too clinical and hard to pronounce.

Of course, edge lord teens, horror fanatics, and the everyday 4chan user clung to the pipe dream of a zombie invasion, but these fuckers were far from dead, which somehow made it all that much worse. Sure, they looked dead, but that’s where the physical similarities started and ended.

The afflicted broke out in rotten-smelling, oozing open sore rashes that turned into hardened tree bark-like patches, their skin dulled to a cadaverous blue-gray while the whites of their eyes turned red, and many lost their hair. The cherry on top was their maddening appetite for human flesh and heightened sense of smell and hearing. They were fast, hard to kill, and more animal than human—so he heard.

The Aid never saw an afflicted, not in real life, and he hoped he never would. If you saw one up close, you were two steps closer to being eaten alive or, worse—turning into one of them.

Or maybe instead of bands of rebel forces or diseased cannibals hiding in the desert, there were platoons of those rumored so-called “Envoys” deployed by the Regime—the Republic of Arcadia—to hunt down runaways, defectors, and Frondeurs since they needed every last body they could get. Envoys—he didn’t even know if they were real; he’d never seen one of those either. They were about as real as Santa Claus to him, but luckily, these didn’t look like something out of a Rob Zombie movie and want to eat his face off.

Would Envoys even be out this far west?

Not likely, not unless they now joined the hordes of afflicted. The Republic of Arcadia wouldn’t—couldn’t—needlessly sacrifice any Envoys coming this deep into U.S. territory, not after 11 years in a now stalemated war, not unless they were planning a final invasion.

If that were the case, they were fucked.

If the Envoys were close, that likely indicated the remainder of the U.S. was losing even more territory. Or maybe the government agreed to give up a parcel of idyllic Southern California and a couple of Pacific coast port cities in exchange for a plot of fertile land, unsoiled crop seeds, and healthy bodies to work the fields in a pedantic trade agreement. Lord knows there wasn’t much opportunity for farmland out here in the desert, and good, fertile land these days was worth more than gold, especially after the blights wiped out most of the agriculture industry, which subsequently led to PEP. He didn’t know much about the state of things anymore, and he knew fuck all when it came to the intricacies of a diseased-ravaged and war-torn world hanging on by an unraveling thread. The tidings of war constantly changed, and how anyone could keep up with the insanity of it all was beyond him.

Were they still safe here?

If they had to relocate, what would his Master do with him?

What if they ran out of food?

Would Wyatt eat him if it came down to it?

There was no way he’d let that happen (as if he had a say or any control if it came down to it); not like there was much left of him to eat. You’d get better “meat” off a wild prickly pear cactus than his bony ass. Cannibalism wasn’t just for the afflicted anymore; it wasn’t as uncommon as it used to be. Hard times called for drastic measures in certain parts of the world; not everyone still had access to unsullied food.

But a Sullivan couldn’t stoop so low, not even the worst one out of the bunch, not when the Sullivans were one of the only families left who still owned healthy livestock farms on the West Coast and supplied most of the edible meat and quickly rose to prominence and fortune because of it. Still, being left with the tender mercies of Wyatt didn’t feel promising in any capacity.

He knew he was “lucky” to be owned by the Sullivans and he should be thankful to live in a pocket of the country that remained relatively untouched from the chaos, that he was tucked away from the “real harm” and lived amongst members of high society who remained undeterred by the current state of things. He was a victim of conformity, forcibly resigned to a life he couldn’t get free from. Yet it became increasingly difficult to pretend life was a-okay when the reality of everything sunk in. Eleanor Sullivan was dead. He had five wonderful years with her, but now he suffered under the brutal hand of Wyatt. His life would have been much different if he wasn’t born with abilities. Rather than blossoming into the resident house pet and making his debut by playing mind games with the family matriarch, he’d likely be a plebeian surviving off rations and forced to work in labor camps in a resource sector. He didn’t know which life was worse—people’s minds weren’t made to deal with problems and what-if scenarios this large.

All he could do was accept it and keep trudging along.

This was the world he lived in now—a fucked up, disease-ridden world with only one-third of the population left. A world with a falling, corrupt government that re-institutionalized slavery in an attempt to fill in the labor gaps and keep the corporate overlords happy while the afflicted, marauders, Renegados, Frondeurs, and Envoys wreaked havoc below.

Despite it all and how real and terrible it was, he could only bring himself to worry about the immediate danger in front of him—Wyatt Sullivan.

Out of all his imagined scenarios of who or what was lurking deep in the desert, he hoped Envoys were staking out in these hills and eagerly waiting for the green light to launch an attack. He hoped they would rain down hell and raze this fucking house—tanks, missiles, gunfire and all. He hoped the afflicted would hear the emergency evacuation sirens go off, and every goddamn one of them in a 20+ mile radius would come running like someone rang the dinner bell. He hoped he got to witness them taking one look at Wyatt Sullivan, see the towering beast of a man he was, and look at him like an all-you-can-eat buffet and devour every last bloody fucking inch of him.

Escape.

He could do it then.

For real this time.

That would be the perfect chance to do it, during an emergency evacuation, get lost in the frenzy of it all as his devil incarnate Master got ripped to shreds by anthrophages—

He was getting ahead of himself.

A pipe dream, that’s all it was—a sicko fantasy of diseased cannibals and those terrorist-soldier Envoys and escaping Wyatt Sullivan once and for all. Who knew if he would even be able to ride the tide of freedom instead of being pulled under and drowned by it?

He didn’t finish his breakfast; he blamed the runaway people-eating scenarios on that.

He blinked a few times to shake himself out of his trance, then turned his attention back to himself.

*****

He cautiously unwrapped his shoulder and inspected the stab wound for the first time—appropriately disposing of the soiled bandages in a waste bin, of course (he wasn’t a slob-kabob).

The wound looked better than he expected, not that he doubted Dr. Paul’s work; it’d just been so long since he saw a non-infected wound and received proper medical care.

Five stitches held his skin together. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the skin fusing with a nice crusty scab filled between the gaps of flesh. To his surprise, the swelling mostly subsided and was hardly more than a bump.

He continued undressing his wounds, inspecting each one, surprised by the level of visible healing each time—he usually healed slowly and lacked the gift of quick recovery. Even his splinted wrist with screws tacking the bones together looked better than he imagined it would. The stitch line was smaller than expected, hardly longer than the one on his shoulder.

His eyes blurred over the revealed three-inch scar on his palm and the back of his right hand as he let his gaze maunder to the shower across from him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at this old scar. Unlike the other marks, the memory of this one haunted him with agonizing detail. He went to great lengths to conceal this one, mostly from himself, typically covering it up with a strip of old ace bandage to seal away the constant remainder of Wyatt Sullivan’s unending barbarity.

It was a strange and horrible memory, one he constantly pushed back into a lockbox buried deep in the recesses of his mind, a memory that came in heightened, broken fragments like cutout frames of sun burnt film. It didn't feel real; it seemed like a planted evocation from someone else, more similar to a blurb he would see in a premonition than an echo of his past. Instead of his mind, his body predominantly cataloged this event and all similar events thereafter; he disassociated through most of them in an act of atavistic self-preservation.

Most of his life became staticky blurs alongside indistinct garbles and muddied out-of-body experiences since.

*****

It was the first time.

The monster was hopped up on grade-A Bolivian coke cut with street crystal, riding extraordinarily high, and very drunk, on a weekend bender.

After chasing him around the property with a knife and gun in hand for what felt like hours, the monster cornered him in the home office located in the back of the house.

With that knife, the monster stabbed his hand into the wooden desk, pinning him bent over.

He scremed, hot tears flowed from his eyes, the pain shot through him like a lighting bolt.

The pain stunned him, he stood watching, unable to process what the monster did.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him.

Blood, so much of it.

It spurted out in matching pulses to his quickening heartbeat, the red liquid pooled on the desk and painted his arm in crimson.

The monster grabbed at his waist.

He yelled, thrashed, and fought with everything he had, buying as much time as possible and refusing the inevitable, but he didn’t have much steam after hours of running from and fighting off the lumbering beast.

The monster took his other hand and wrenched it behind his back so he couldn't move.

It felt like the monster was seconds away from snapping his arm. He shrieked.

The monster’s fingers hooked around his waistband and pulled down. Still, he fought—he threatened, he begged, he screamed—he screamed so fucking loud.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him.

The monster groped his bare ass, pinned his legs open, spread him apart, and forced something inside him.

He couldn't see, but by the feel, he knew it must be one of the monster’s fingers.

It didn’t hurt, but it felt wrong, out of place, intrusive.

He screamed more and pleaded for the beast to stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

The monster spoke, but he couldn’t hear the words.

The monster wasn't stopping.

The monster added another finger and wriggled it around, stretching him out.

He wailed and told the beast he’d do anything to make it stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He pounded his head on the desk; that hurt, too, but he didn’t care.

He wanted it to stop; it had to stop.

He couldn’t take it.

He’d never done this before.

He never wanted to do this, not with the monster, not with anyone.

He kept headbutting the table until his vision was covered in red like his hand.

The monster grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, yelling more words he couldn’t hear.

The monster’s fingers crammed deeper inside him, his body froze.

He begged with everything he had for the beast to stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

Everything got fuzzy.

His mind went blank.

Something else was pushing inside him now.

Something bigger.

This wasn’t the monster’s fingers.

He wanted to scream, but his body seized, and he held his breath.

This time, it hurt; this time, it hurt really bad, more than any other kind of hurt he ever felt before.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

His mind went blank again.

He came back around.

The monster violently pushed into him, slamming his hips into the corner of the desk.

The monster sunk deep into him, deeper than he thought any monster part could possibly go.

He made noises he had never heard himself make before, noises he didn't recognize as his own.

The squealing and yawping coming from him sounded like a faraway dying animal.

He thought he knew what this was, but at the same time, he didn’t.

He couldn’t accept it.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

The monster moved around inside him, still pushing into him, still hurting him.

He weakly squirmed, still trying to plead with the monster.

The monster pushed down on his back to hold him still and plowed into him, making gross monster noises.

He knew what this was called.

But this wasn’t supposed to happen to him.

No, not him.

It couldn't be. But it was.

The beast liked hurting him, and the beast was good at it.

He screamed and cried, begging so loud his vocal cords gave out until his voice pruned to a dusty croak.

No. No. No. This wasn't supposed to happen to him.

Why was this happening to him?

What did he do to deserve this?

He breathed so fast, but it wasn't enough; he couldn't get enough air.

He thought he was dying.

Everything went dark.

He didn’t exist anymore, and the monster was gone.

But he came back.

He still felt the splitting intrusion inside him—the monster still jackhammering away without the faintest concern for the internal damage dealt.

He felt his insides ripping, it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was on fire.

He tried to scream, but his throat stung. So he wailed out broken sobs even though that still hurt, too.

The monster laughed, then spoke more words he couldn’t hear, and he knew it was good that he couldn’t make them out. He wasn’t a monster, so he didn’t speak monster. That made sense.

He wept.

The monster stuck something in his mouth. An object. The gun.

No. Please not him. Not him. Not him.

The beast spoke more monster words and sounded mad and happy at the same time. He couldn’t feel the monster's feelings because he turned off his monster-reading senses.

Why was the monster doing this to him?

He drooled around the gun and tried to bite down on it to quiet his screams, but it hurt his teeth.

He was terrified.

All he could hear was his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

He felt sick.

He thought he was going to die.

He felt wetness.

He realized he pissed himself.

The monster didn't notice.

The air smelt like a gross gas station bathroom mixed with copper.

He felt more wetness, a different wetness spilling from where the monster was.

Blood and monster cum leaked out of him.

He felt the mix of wetness slicking between his thighs and drip down his legs, only stopping when his socks soaked up all the fluids. After some unknown amount of time, it settled in his shoes. It felt like he had stepped in a puddle, a smelly, rotten puddle.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He felt nauseous and dizzy.

The monster grunted and huffed on top of him; he could smell the alcohol, the beer, and chewing tobacco on the monster’s breath.

He smelt his blood and some other gut-churning smell he assumed was sweaty, unprepared, raw sex.

He hated sex. He never wanted to do it. But the monster didn't care what he wanted.

He cried until his eyes swelled, and he couldn’t see anymore.

His whole body ached.

He was tired, so tired. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted this to be nothing but a bad dream.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

But it did happen. It happened. To him.

*****

He surmised whatever deal Sullivan made with the Doctor’s experimental drugs was paying off, at least for now.

As relieved as he was with the healing of his noticeable injuries, his main concern sided with the non-visible wounds, what lay beneath his skin—the injuries Sullivan deliberately exploited because he knew better than to dig his trigger-happy fingers into freshly fused flesh and meat and consequently be stuck with the Doctor’s wrathful hospital bill.

His sprained ankle and cracked rib still pulsed with a dull ache.

He hoped by the next check-up, whatever damage his Master dealt would remit, and the memory of this incident would evanesce like the rest of his forgotten scars.

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

Footnotes:

*Anthrophage: a person with PEP (People-eater Pox), medical diagnosis “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion.” This is just a fancy name for a diseased cannibal who has PEP that exists within this AU. Anthrophage is not a “real word,” but it’s a play off of the word—anthropophagite.

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears

If ya wanna be added to or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me :)

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dragonshifter-minecraft · 1 year

Text

I posted 135 times in 2022

That's 101 more posts than 2021!

42 posts created (31%)

93 posts reblogged (69%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@giant-tiny-squid

@oh-i-need-a-name

@leetlezeetle

@arc852

@bittydragon

I tagged 135 of my posts in 2022

#reblog - 91 posts

#mcyt g/t - 75 posts

#tw language - 54 posts

#l speaks - 33 posts

#tw vore - 26 posts

#my writing - 25 posts

#mcyt - 22 posts

#dream team - 21 posts

#tw vore mention - 21 posts

#dragonshifter story - 21 posts

Longest Tag: 76 characters

#so i copied the text from this into notes and deciphered it letter-by-letter

My Top Posts in 2022:

(tw: vore below the cut!)

Submitted by Anonymous:

“Hi!! I really enjoy the story you've made and totally forgot to send this when I made it (I think it was sometime before the second part was done) but this is just a little sketch I made based off the designs you made :0) Hope you like it and I'm excited to keep reading the story!”

Dude I am in LOVE with this. The accuracy of the designs paired with the beautifully detailed linework, it’s just gorgeous! also George’s grumpy little face is sending me

I can’t thank you enough for creating this, Anon!

14 notes - Posted September 26, 2022

Chapter 35 - Dragon Hunters

[Previous] ~ [Next]

[Word Count: 2638]

[Content Warnings: Injury and Blood, Non-Graphic Treatment of Wound]

The dragons had both swiftly rushed in to snuff out the fiery monsters, all while more continued to ignite from the spawner. At every opportunity, the Enderfolk was loosing arrows that almost always met their marks, while the human would hold them frozen in place so someone else could deal with them. Before long, Sapnap had managed to fill the satchel with a couple dozen rods.

“Dream, I don’t think I can fit any more blaze rods in here,” he mentioned to the green beast, who had just been poised to strike as soon as the next wave of living infernos appeared.

“We probably have enough, then,” Dream mentioned, relaxing a bit as he knelt down further for the dark-haired man to climb up, “let’s get outta here.”

The blue dragon did the same, though his wither-scaled paw moved gingerly. It still hurt somewhat, but it also felt partially numb, and that almost worried him more.

“George, you good to fly home?” the other beast inquired suddenly, concern in his voice.

“Yeah, I think so,” George hummed, standing as he felt Bad get situated on his back, “I have no idea where we came from, though.”

“I know the way,” Dream declared, unfurling his wings, “just follow me.”

Respective wingbeats sent the two dragons soaring upwards and away from the fortress, warm thermals rising beneath them and bearing them back the way they’d come.

The red, cavern-like landscape sped past on all sides. The flight was shaping up to be just as uneventful as it had been the first time through, though the group did notice a pale, ghostlike creature floating lazily in the distance, barely visible through the thick fog. It didn’t pay the pair of dragons any mind, which was probably for the best.

Soon enough, the giant black-bricked bastion came in view once again, and the two beasts took a sharp turn to follow the bend in the cavernous terrain.

They had just barely gotten past the crumbling structure when a thunderous roar rang out all around them.

George let out a startled shriek, jostling Bad as he faltered in mid-air, frantically trying to look around to see what could have made such a sound. Was it some giant creature that they had somehow missed entirely? Was it what Dream had really been afraid of in the Nether?

The green dragon had panicked momentarily as well, slowing his flight to drop behind the other beast as he glanced quickly around for the source of the terrible roar. To his ears, it was vaguely familiar, but it had sounded nothing like George. Were there more dragons nearby?

And then, the faint snapping of a crossbow string heralded a sudden pain exploding in one of Dream’s hind legs, something hard and sharp piercing through his scales and embedding itself in his flesh.

There was a second, terrible squall – and this time, it had come from him.

“Dream!” Sapnap shouted from his back, panic and worry in his voice.

“What was that?!” he distantly registered the Enderfolk questioning.

“What happened?” George demanded.

They needed to get out of here!

“Go, just go!” the green dragon bellowed knowingly, flapping his wings to propel himself faster, thermals be damned. “Back to the portal, hurry!”

He peered behind them as they sped away, briefly catching a glimpse of two humanoid figures – one appearing mostly beige and the other one light blue. They definitely weren’t Piglins…

Up ahead, the portal was a gleaming beacon of purple that shone through the red, ember-filled haze. They were nearly home! They just had to survive a little longer, and then they’d be safe!

George glided down ahead of Dream, landing somewhat shakily, but not losing his footing this time.

The green beast came down to land beside him, but as he prepared to meet the ground, white-hot agony surged through his stricken hind leg. His wings wavered as he tried to steady himself, flapping clumsily as he descended the last several feet. As his strength gave out entirely, he ultimately crashed down hard against the uneven crimson stone underfoot.

Thankfully, the human perched on his back hadn’t fallen off despite the rough landing, instead hurriedly scrambling to climb down and figure out what was going on.

Dream didn’t get up, his aching leg stretched out to the side to avoid aggravating it further. Streaks of red glistened in the lava-light as they dripped down the once-pristine green scales.

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15 notes - Posted October 1, 2022

Chapter 23 - Dragon Fire

[Previous] ~ [Next]

[Word Count: 2355]

[Content Warnings: Fear | Brief Smoke Inhalation]

After the Dragonshifter’s disappearance, Nick couldn’t bring himself to pick up magic again. It just wouldn’t feel right, knowing the two of them had gotten so far, only for everything to come collapsing down. He hadn’t even told his family what had happened, fearing what terrible things they might say about Clay out of ignorance.

He had only been a part of Nick’s life for a little while. And while he still cherished the memories, time marched on. No more spellcasting. No more best friend to share it with.

He spent a while trying to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. He’d considered the town guard, but he didn’t really want to be associated with the same people that took his best friend from him. A few other small jobs came and went, but nothing really spoke to him. Finally, he took up simple sewing and stitching. His mother was already one of the best tailors in Hearthview, and with his sisters picking up the trade in order to branch out into embroidery and dressmaking, he was in a good position to learn.

As his sisters found success, the whole family would end up moving to a few other towns, each with bigger and better opportunities than the last. One way or another, they ended up in Bronzechill. It was a fairly large settlement, and business was even more booming than it had been at the prior town. It was less than a day’s walk to a large city, Knightport, which boasted a rich and thriving market district. His family was ultimately aspiring to run a market stall there, or even better, a whole brick and mortar shop!

Nick helped wherever he could. He would help with a lot of the busywork, such as pinning patterns, cutting fabrics, and stitching seams together. That wasn’t to say the rest of his family didn’t work hard, though – in fact, they were probably far more involved in the process than he was. They’d poured their hearts and souls into their work, but he could never seem to do the same.

One night, after he had retired to his room and attempted to get some embroidering practice in before bed, he faintly registered a knock at the door of his family’s home. He didn’t pay it much mind. Sometimes people would stop by late at night to see if they could get a seam mended or a hole in their clothing patched.

From the other side of the house, he could hear his mother talking to someone. Everything sounded friendly enough, so he turned his attention back to the scrap of shoddily cross-stitched fabric, leaning back in his bed as he attempted to block out all of the outside world.

He would’ve succeeded as well, had the door to his room not suddenly been pushed open. Nick quickly sat up, raising his head to regard the person standing at his bedroom door.

His eyes widened nervously.

During his family’s several moves over the last few years, he’d heard many accounts of dragon slayers across the continent. They came and went wherever they pleased, slaying dragons for profit and for glory. These people were heralded as heroes, their names being passed around with the same reverence typically reserved for deities. Many villages had tales to tell of the slayers that hunted down the dragons that had attacked them for years, complete with the typical embellishment that came alongside each retelling, of course. Usually it was easy to disprove the wild claims, or at least figure out which parts of the story had been exaggerated in the telling.

And then there was the figure known only as ‘Dream’. Whispers of this mysterious slayer had spread far beyond many of the towns he had apparently rid of dragons, and the stories that came with them were very different from the standard tall tale. The slayer was said to wear shades of green, always had the hood of his cloak pulled over his head, and was never seen without his bizarre white mask emblazoned with a smiley-face.

But the strangest part of the stories was how in-line they remained with each telling. It didn’t matter who the account came from, they all seemed to match up in one way or another – where most slayers carried swords and bows, Dream carried a wooden staff, and he felled the dragons by magical means. Additional details came and went, about how he could bring down the beasts with ease, how he could track them for miles if they somehow got away, how he never let a single one live…

And now, that same terrifying slayer was standing in the doorway to Nick’s room, staring him down with that ever-smiling mask.

“Hello,” spoke the mysterious stranger, “may I come in?”

“Uh, sure,” Nick choked out, setting his work down as he hurriedly stood up, still unable to take his eyes off of the masked figure. He was in awe at the fact that the slayer he’d heard about in so many stories was standing before him.

But there was also a small sliver of worry twisting in his chest – after all, he’d once been friends with a Dragonshifter, and he didn’t imagine that fact would go over well with this individual.

“Nice place you’ve got,” the slayer commented, the end of his staff lightly thunking against the floor as he stepped forward into the bedroom. “Your mother said you and your sisters are doing clothing, mainly dresses. Your family seems very nice.”

Nick couldn’t come up with a reply, having no idea where Dream was going with this. The way he spoke seemed off, like there was some hidden intent behind his words. The way he carried himself was just as strange, appearing far too still and deliberate for it to be natural.

“…did you ever tell them?” Dream went on after a significant pause, his head tilting slightly, his body language unreadable and unnerving.

“W-What?” the teen asked, baffled.

“About your Dragonshifter friend,” the slayer answered with a slight edge in his tone. There it was. The one thing he’d been most scared to hear brought up.

“Uh,” Nick tried to stifle his shock and confusion, aiming instead for cluelessness, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t you?” the stranger’s tone lowered, and he leaned forward threateningly against his staff.

“Um,” panic bubbled to the surface as he struggled to find his words.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, Sapnap,” Dream huffed.

“I-I really don’t—” Nick had begun, only for his mind to blank as he processed what the slayer had just said. “Wait. How do you…?”

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22 notes - Posted February 12, 2022

Chapter 24 - The Dare

[Previous] ~ [Next]

[Word Count: 2527]

[Content Warnings: SOFT/SAFE VORE, Mouthplay]

[Once more, the following chapter contains VORE – feel free to skim, skip, or block the tags ‘tw vore’ and/or ‘extreme cuddling’ if this makes you uncomfortable!]

Something was wrong. The blue dragon hadn’t paid much mind to his wings at first, whirling and flapping after his target with reckless abandon, flames breaking forth from his jaws whenever opportunity favored. The art of flight was coming much more easily to him these days, which made sky-battles like this far less one-sided, and a lot more fun. But as Dream once again whipped around to slap at one of George’s wingtips with his own, the appendage suddenly felt as though it had been struck by lightning, white-hot agony surging through his whole body for a moment.

“Dream—!” he shrieked, faltering in mid-air, before managing to even out into a glide, but that didn’t stop his wings from hurting.

“What?!” the green beast called back, circling back around to steady his flight alongside George.

“My wings,” he whined, “they hurt…”

“You should take a break, then,” Dream replied matter-of-factly, “give your wings some time to rest. Why don’t you head back to where we left Sapnap?”

The blue dragon nodded, eyes skimming over the range before managing to spot the ledge where they’d left the human. He started to bank towards it, only to realize that the other beast was veering off.

“Where are you off to?” he questioned.

“I’ll be right back, gotta check something,” was the only explanation he got, before Dream gave another powerful flap of his wings to speed away, soaring toward the direction of Aureus.

As he slowly came in to land, he saw Sapnap perk up, quickly standing to move out of George’s way. At least the human had that much common sense. Pain flashed through his body once again as he gave a couple quick wingbeats to slow his return to the ground. Soreness pulsed through them as he finally landed, tucking them back up against his sides.

“George!” Sapnap exclaimed loudly. “Where’s Dream think he’s going?”

“He said he had to check something,” the dragon replied, rolling his shoulders in what was almost a shrug. At that, he settled down into a sitting position, deciding not to transform back right away. In the distance, he could barely make out the winged form of Dream, now a dark speck that could easily be mistaken for a bird.

In the midst of his staring, he was startled to feel something land on one of his paws.

“Wha—Sapnap!” he yowled, glaring down at the human that had jumped onto his right paw, lying splayed across the back of it and giggling like a madman.

George sat up slightly, raising his left hand and moving it closer. He’d been about to pry Sapnap off of his other paw, but he couldn’t help but pause with uncertainty at the sight of his dark gray claws. His hands were so much larger in this form. If he wasn’t careful enough, if his grip was too loose or too tight, if he just happened to twitch wrong—

He’d apparently hesitated for too long, since he soon found the human pouncing on his raised paw, grabbing ahold of the topmost finger and leaving his legs dangling.

“Cut it out,” Geroge hissed, lowering the paw closer to the ground so Sapnap could properly stand, “you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Make me!” the human retorted challengingly, whirling about to wrap his arms around the beast’s thumb, pushing against the ground with his feet as he tugged at the scaled digit.

George blinked, stunned. Was Sapnap actually trying to wrestle with his hand? He’d seen the human play-fighting like this with Dream in his dragon form before, but George had never even considered doing the same. It was far too risky, and he hadn’t had nearly as much practice at being so careful as the other beast had.

“C’mon, fight me!” Sapnap bellowed insistently, twisting his whole body as he grappled George’s thumb. It was then that the dragon realized the position that the dark-haired man had put himself in, and he felt the faintest spark of boldness surge up within him.

He promptly tipped his paw over on top of Sapnap, effortlessly pinning him.

“Ay!” the human yelped indignantly, though he was still laughing under his breath as he squirmed under the scaled palm.

George snorted in amusement as Sapnap shoved fruitlessly against the paw holding him down, grunting with the effort. He wasn’t getting very far though – the hand was just too heavy to move, even if it wasn’t exerting enough force to do more than hold him down. At last, he slumped defeatedly against the ground.

“Geoooorge,” he wailed, “lemme uuuuuup!”

“Hah, no,” the blue beast chuckled, before glancing back towards the last place he’d seen Dream, scanning the distant sky in search of where he’d gone.

The next thing he knew, he felt a firm pinch against the side of his pointer finger, and he reeled his paw back with a loud shriek.

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26 notes - Posted February 19, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Chapter 21 - Trapped Together

[Previous] ~ [Next]

[Word Count: 2620]

[Content Warnings: SOFT/SAFE VORE, Mild Fear]

[Once more, the following chapter contains VORE – feel free to skim, skip, or block the tags ‘tw vore’ and/or ‘extreme cuddling’ if this makes you uncomfortable!]

With a flickering lantern in one hand, Dream had led the other two down the dark staircase and into the connected cave. Everyone was utterly exhausted after the prolonged game that Dream had sprung on them, especially George, who had not had the hour or so to rest that the slayer had, and was already feeling phantom pains in his currently nonexistent wings and tail. At least they’d all taken the time to eat dinner before Dream got his ‘reward’.

At the base of the stone staircase, the man in green rushed several paces ahead of the other two, setting the lantern down in the center of the cave before shifting back into his dragon form. He carefully turned around on the spot, settling down and letting his legs stretch out to the side.

“Hang on,” Sapnap murmured, reaching up to untie his headband and toss it aside, also tugging off the tunic he wore with orange and yellow scales sewn into it. He was left wearing his dark trousers and long-sleeved undershirt.

“You should take off those glasses, George,” the green beast added, “and probably your amulet, too.”

The other Dragonshifter tensed a bit, but regardless obeyed, pulling his tinted glasses off of his face and removing his fire amulet, setting them alongside where Sapnap had left his own possessions.

“Alright, who first?” Dream asked, glancing between them both. George visibly shrank back, whether he meant to or not. That settled that. “Sapnap?”

The human rolled his eyes, stepping towards the dragon. It wasn’t until Dream was about to open his mouth that Sapnap suddenly jumped and landed on top of the green beast’s snout, pinning his jaws shut.

“H-Hey!” the dragon huffed, having to lift his head a bit to be able to talk – and the dark-haired man was still holding on.

“Ooohohoh, you thought!” Sapnap goaded, grinning like an idiot and kicking his dangling legs without a care in the world.

Dream let out a playful growl, angling his snout downwards and shaking his head slightly to break the human’s grip.

As soon as he’d let go to plop back onto the cave floor, the beast was swiping a paw down towards him, which Sapnap dodged without much effort. The second swing came much faster, lightly bowling the human over.

Sapnap yelped, rolling to the side to avoid the clawed hand that came down where he’d just been, and he hurriedly staggered to his feet to face the dragon.

The beast’s jaws closed over him before he’d had time to react.

As quickly as it had happened, it was still an incredibly careful and calculated move on Dream’s part, if the tongue resting between the bottom teeth and Sapnap’s legs was any indicator. In any case, he found himself pressed gently to the roof of the mouth as the world around him tilted, gravity shifting to slide him entirely into the dragon’s maw.

He struggled halfheartedly against the tongue as it proceeded to slather him in drool, answered only by a deep thrumming note that rattled his bones. The human chuckled a bit under his breath, allowing himself to relax into the soft, cradling warmth. All the while, he was carefully lapped and prodded at with nothing but necessity and care.

As the rippling movements began to slow, he knew exactly what was coming, and he promptly stretched out and went limp. There was no need for any further communication – the two of them had done this often enough that it was basically second nature.

The tongue squeezed against him as everything turned sideways, and he was swiftly swallowed up with ease and sealed away from the rest of the world.

George was at first relieved that Sapnap had gone first, wanting to savor his last few breaths of fresh, cool air before he was inevitably shoved into a cramped, sweltering, and terribly muggy space, probably for the rest of the night. Though he couldn’t fully suppress his horror at seeing the faint bulge traveling down the dragon’s throat.

Even with the knowledge that it was safe, it was still rather disturbing to watch.

“C’mon, George,” Dream called softly, his verdant eyes gleaming in the light from the lantern, “your turn.”

The other Dragonshifter stiffened as he approached the green beast, his golden-brown eyes were lowered towards the floor as he attempted to hide how scared he was. The dragon bent his head down, letting out a gentle rumble in an effort to reassure his friend.

“How do you wanna do this?” he asked. George looked up, surprised. Dream went on after a pause, “I could let you climb in on your own, or I could put you in, myself.”

“I think… I think I’ll crawl in,” the other Dragonshifter managed to choke out. The beast offered him a concerned look, but nevertheless rested his chin against the stone floor, stretching his jaws wide.

He’d had to shove down the wave of instinctual terror the moment he spotted the massive, glistening fangs, resisting every part of his being that was telling him to run as far and as fast as he could. For several seconds, he couldn’t even move, paralyzed with indecision and dread – it was a wonder he didn’t pass out.

But at last, as the dragon patiently continued to hold still, George made up his mind and approached warily.

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30 notes - Posted January 29, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #tw vore #huh. inch resting.#y'all really do go nuts for the vore haha #also my reblogs are at 69%#nice

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bits-and-babs · 2 years

Text

Sting || Marc Spector x Reader

-> Rating: 18+

-> Word Count: 3.5K

-> Marc relies on your amateur skills to patch him up following a brutal fight. *Please note this fic was written before episode 5 was aired*

Gif credit doesn’t belong to me

CW/TW: PLEASE NOTE THESE TRIGGER WARNINGS ⚠️ “finally some good fucking food spicy smut” a little bit graphic! detailed injury, mild jealousy, sadomasochism, handjob, p-in-v sex, creampie, reader thinks the moon-knight suit is sexy as fuck. If you don’t like any of these topics, please do not read.

When he stumbles back into your shared apartment, he’s bleeding from a deep gash along his hairline, blood weeping down his forehead and into his eyes.

It’s certainly not uncommon for Marc to come back from his work with Khonsu looking a little worse for wear. You’d never studied as a nurse, didn’t even learn first aid in school bar CPR, but since you had moved in with Marc you’d perfected the art of the lock-stitch suture.

Having pulled your medkit from the kitchen cabinet, you make your way over to the bed where Marc lays sprawled across the bed, eyes closed and emitting a pained groan. Upon first glance, this was the worst you had seen him. A busted lip, cracked head, and a deep gash wound in his stomach. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it sure would leave a mark.

It, therefore, came as no surprise that Marc hadn’t even managed to will away the ceremonial suit due to his focus on getting back to the flat to be seen by you. The gold crescent moon on his chest shone under the harsh lighting, the metal cold to the touch, and the white bandages of the suit itself are soaked crimson with his blood.

“I’m going to start on your forehead.” You murmur quietly, a gentle warning while you work at threading the nylon through the eye of the needle so it is prepped. You’ve straddled his thighs, the position easier than twisting your torso to lean across his body. “Do you have a concussion?”

“No,” was all he answered, voice a little rough from the pain. Even if he did, you knew Marc wouldn’t tell you. As hard-headed and relatively stoic as he was, he never wanted to worry you, never wanted you to fear him leaving that door and never returning.

“Then I’ll start with disinfecting.” You begin by taking up a gauze cloth and soaking the material with antiseptic wound wash. Marc had been swift to inform you the first time he came home injured that hydrogen peroxide was a horrendous wound disinfectant, much to your surprise. It wasn’t like the antiseptic hurt any less, but at least it wouldn’t cause further damage.

Marc watches as you douse the gauze pad with the disinfectant, his chest rising and falling with slightly stronger intakes of oxygen in an attempt to ready himself for the burn that accompanied the press of the material to the cut.

“This is going to sting,” you remind him, just as you did every single time you tended to him. In return, every time he would inhale sharply, almost a ‘you don’t say?’ before you pressed the steeped muslin to the gash on his forehead. He hissed upon contact, hands curling into fists in order to ride out the waves of pain as you swipe along the length of the cut to clear out any debris.

It’s silent between you at first. It usually is, the two of you are usually so focused on your breathing that you both often forget to talk. Marc always had a habit of matching your breathing pattern, following the rhythm of your lungs as you patched up his wounds. It never tended to last long though, the questions bubbling as you took up the needle once more.

“… How did this one happen then?” You murmur, pushing the point of the suture needle through the flesh of his skin with a practiced speed. Marc outwardly cringes, gritting his teeth as he exhaled through the first stitch with a heavy breath.

“Butt of a gun. Just didn’t see it coming,” he answers simply, his response short and simple as always. You had initially assumed the curt nature of his comments was because he was in pain, but you found out relatively early on into your amateur nursing duties that he simply hated giving you more work to do, and was frustrated at himself for returning with worse wounds than last time. You’d learned to recognize it as a form of affection- Marc wasn’t particularly tactile.

Marc’s bloodied skin is hot beneath your fingers, the air from his exhales ticking the skin at the back of your forearms as you lean over his face to piece his skin back together. Being Marc Spector’s personal A&E nurse is an intimate job, often leaning very close to his face as you focus on the splits in his brow or checking in during monthly intervals to ensure his dislocated jaw was healing. You sometimes found those deep, earthy eyes trailing the details of your face and forgetting just how to begin a stitch.

It doesn’t take you long to line the wound and stitch it together, but every second feels as though the world turns a little slower. The burning sensation of Marc assessing your face causes your heart to leap into your throat, focus broken within moments of beginning the procedure. The groans that sound on his exhale as you work your way up the wound blend between pained and aroused, his palms slowly having moved to grip at your thighs.

Truth be told, this wasn’t entirely uncommon for Marc. He’d never bothered to explain it, he was far too prideful for that, but whenever you had helped tidy him up following a particularly nasty fight, Marc’s breathing would quicken and his hands would grope at the flesh of your ass as you worked away at his injuries. It hadn’t taken you long to figure out that he, in fact, enjoyed the pain, but found yourself unable to voice your acknowledgment in case Marc would withdraw. However, the resolve that had stood strong for the months you had been aiding Marc was quickly crumbling with the form-fitting suit he wore, how strong it made him look.

Arousal floods your veins as you glance down at Marc’s face. He’s watching you intently through half-lidded eyes, his pupils blown wide as his fingers slowly dig into the muscle of your thigh. Steven looked at you like you were heavenly, a beautiful thing to behold. Marc watched you as though he craved you, as though he was hooked on you like a fentanyl addict, where going with or without a hit was likely fatal. It’s intense, overwhelmingly so.

Finishing up the gash to his forehead, you sterilize the wound a final time despite Marc’s hiss of protest. Perhaps it was a little sick to admit, but you’d grown to enjoy this time you spent together, the intimate sensation of Marc holding you as you piece him back together again, the way he moans and shifts his hips beneath you in an attempt to relieve the need that settles in his hips every time you push the needle through his skin.

Careful to throw away the used material, you begin to set up a fresh needle with new sutures as Marc continues his set gaze on your face. His fingers dig deeper into the meat of your thighs, silently persistent. You know what he wants, that hit he’s wordlessly begging for, but you refuse to give in to him.

“‘S Steven’s fault,” his gruff voice sounds through the quiet of the room, strained as you soak through another cloth to clean the deep lesion on his abdomen. You’re careful to lift the grimy bandage-like material of the ceremonial suit from underneath his golden belt and over the large tear. “He keeps taking the body back without permiss-ion,” he gasps out when you press the gauze to the ripped flesh, the sting that followed causing him to grit his teeth.

The amused hum that resonates in your chest causes him to glare at you. “I won’t have you targeting Steven like this, Marc. He’s confused, a little overwhelmed. It’s unfair to blame him when it’s you that’s pulling him into dangerous situations.” Your tone is teasing, knowing it riles him up when you side with the quiet, awkward yet oddly endearing Steven.

“If he’d stayed out of it like I asked him to, he wouldn’t be in this situation. He could stay at his fucking gift-shop selling scarab erasers to kids or whatever it was he got up to-“ you cut him off by sinking the needle into the flesh of his abdomen, causing him to wince in pain. “Why are you standing up for him, huh? Prefer spending time with him?” His voice is strained as you thread the nylon to bridge the gap and pull the cut closed.

“You know that’s not true,” you tell him pointedly, meeting his eyes with a warning look that informs him you wouldn’t stand for his childish jealousy.

A silence settles between the both of you again as you continue to work, maybe a little less carefully thanks to his bratty comments. Marc flinches under the sharp prick of the needle as it works through the gash slowly. His breathing is heavy again, chest heaving lightly to ease the pain that your ministrations cause. Despite his obvious discomfort, he fails to hide the hard press of his erection against your forearm through the bandages of his suit.

You hesitate for a moment, glancing up to his face. He’s staring at you with an arched brow, his eyes silently quizzing you, asking what you were going to do about it. Marc wasn’t exactly shy, and given you’d challenged him on his petty remarks about Steven he certainly didn’t seem as though he was willing to back down any further tonight.

“Do you like that?” You breathe quietly, knowing you’re playing with raging flames as you finish up the stitch with a perfectly executed knot finish. “The pain?”

Marc doesn’t answer, his eyes flicking down to the scissors you use to cut the remaining nylon thread. He seems almost disappointed that you’d finished up so soon, clearly having gotten far too much practice with how often he’d come to you asking for medical aid. It’s only when you reach to grab more disinfectant that his cock twitches in his pants again, anticipating the burn against the wound.

“You do,” you murmur, answering for him and confirming what you already knew to be true as you arch your brow playfully. Without Marc bothering to neither confirm nor deny your accusation, your arousal at this revelation begins to motivate you to do something uncharacteristically reckless, completely outside of the norm of your relationship dynamic.

The press of the soaked muslin to his wound causes his back to arch from the bed with a gravelly groan, eyes dark as they settle on the fabric. The sting causes his exposed skin to break out in goosebumps, his hips lifting his body into the pressure rather than away from it.

The confirmation of his sexual proclivities causes you to throw caution aside and remove the bloodied cloth quickly. You toss it across the room somewhere in your peripheral, eyes focused on the soft muscular plane of his abs. They’re tanned, exposed often to the Egyptian sunlight thanks to the tasks he was required to complete for Khonsu, delivering justice to those the God deemed worthy. Perhaps he would deem you worthy of punishment for what you were about to do.

Pushing the flesh of your fingertips into the cut causes fresh blood to well into the divots of your fingerprints, the gasp that the pain pulls from Marc utterly wretched as he grasps at the bedsheets below him that are smeared with dirt and dried blood.

“Hah-“ Marc inhaled sharply as you removed your fingers from the weeping flesh. You wipe the blood away carelessly on the material as you push the top of his suit further up his body to expose his chest. He has some bruising along his ribs, purple and angry red from where he had clearly been punched.

“Is this what you’re always thinking about? When I help you?” You murmur softly, gently brushing your nails across the skin stretched against his sternum until they reach the hollow of his throat. He groans shakily, nodding his head as he watches you take control, a little taken aback by this uncharacteristic leadership.

The only sound he produces from his open mouth is a sharp hiss as you dig your nails into his flesh, dragging them down the smooth skin to leave raised, angry marks in the wake of your touch. The red lines welt quickly, blood beading in areas close to the bone.

You can’t help but smirk, Marc’s eyes rolling back slightly when you palm at his cock through the white material of his suit pants. “Help me with these, Marc,” you murmur softly. He doesn’t hesitate, but instead of struggling with the suit, the mummy-esque fabric melts away into his own clothes beneath you. His hands are swift to undo the zipper of his cargo pants, lifting his hips despite the sharp pain in his abdomen in order to push the trousers and his boxers over his hips in one.

His cock is weeping precum when you reach to take him into your palm. Wrapping your fingers around the shaft of his dick, you trace the velvety head to smear the thick fluid across his sensitive skin. Marc’s hips hitch as you focus on the sensitive area, his own hands balled into fists as you begin to rub up and down his length.

There were no more shitty remarks about Steven, no more questions of your allegiance, only the sound of Marc’s uneven breaths as he struggled to swallow down his moans of need. They’re hoarse, made through gritted teeth as you slowly ease your fist up and down his length.

You hum softly as you continue the slow, dragging pull of his cock as you dip the fingers of your free hand back into the freshly stitched gash. Not enough to ruin your work- just enough to cause him pain. He chokes out, body jerking as pain sparks from his abdomen and causes his cock to throb in your hand.

It’s slick, his precum causing your palm to glide across his length with just the perfect amount of friction. Tightening your grip around his shaft, you trail your thumb across the ridge of his cock. His skin is sweaty, enough to make you consider the fact that if you didn’t have his cock in your hand you’d think he was starting with a fever. His gaze is heavy as he stares at you, almost through you as he tries so hard to suppress his moans. It’s not often you get to see him like this, Marc having always held the reins in the relationship and refusing to let them go.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Marc,” you murmur softly, twisting your wrist slightly when your grip reaches the head of his cock. The scraping, fraught sound of a long, broken moans cause your cunt to flutter around nothing, jaw slack as he thrusts his hips up into your palm the best he can with you straddling his thighs.

You speed up the movement of your hand now, realizing that he’s already close to cumming. He’s grasping at the bedsheets, groaning as you push further into the gash you had worked so hard to suture and unravelling Marc in the process. Under your touch, his abdomen spasms, an indication that he’s close to cumming all over your fist-

He flips you. You don’t even have the time to process that you’re lying face-up on the mattress until Marc is tearing your sweatpants down your legs with a snarl. There’s an edge to him, sharp and dangerous as he yanks the thick material from your ankles with an overzealous tug.

“Marc, your stitches-“

“Pretty Thing-” he growls, the syllables sounding as though they’ve been wrung from his lungs. Hooking his fingers under the waistband of your panties, he’s yanking the cotton fabric down your thighs with such force you’re certain that he’ll rip them. He doesn’t even bother to remove the soaked fabric entirely, letting it stay tangled between your knees as your cunt wets the inside of your thighs. “Rude little thing.”

The shock of his weeping cock pushing its way through your folds has your back arching off the bed with a broken sob. There’s no easing it in, he pushes all the way down to the base in one swift motion, breaking your unsuspecting pussy open on his width. You know that you’ve pushed far beyond your boundaries, but you find yourself struggling to see this as a punishment when you both feel so fucking good.

“Sir-!” You’re quick to correct yourself with a squeak as the head of his dick pushes up against something brutal inside you. He’s growling again, hot and sharp in your ear as you squeeze so tightly around him. Marc’s furious, in that delicious way that you know will leave him having to look after you by the end of the night, collecting a bottle of water from the fridge because you’re unable to stand up from the bed.

Thrusting deep and savagely inside of you, the push of his hips into yours has you jolting up the mattress from the sheer force in which he rocks into you. You sob out as he punches the sound from your lungs, toes curling into the bedsheets so hard that you swear the muscles in your feet cramp- fuck, you’re drowning between your legs, the sopping sound of him pounding into you bouncing off the walls enough to make your face burn red hot.

“Ha-Ah-Ah!” You can’t help the noises of desperation that sound with each cruel thrust. The springs of the mattress strain under the force Marc exerts on that blinding spot inside you, and your breath catches in your lungs at the way your orgasm already builds tremendously quickly.

*He wants you to cum with him*

“Oh fuck- Oh fuck, Sir- Marc!” You gasp out needily, hands scrambling to grab ahold of his shoulders and dig your nails in simply to brace against the brutal pace with which he hits that mind-numbing area that causes your cunt to flutter around him.

And then he’s switching his tactic, filling you up entirely until you’ve taken him down to the hilt, stretching the limit of how much you can take as he pistons short, sharp thrusts into your most sensitive spot. Your thighs are spasming around his hips, fist pounding against his sternum as he rips stinging hot pleasure up your spine with the stretch of your pussy around his cock.

“Ah- I can’t- I ca-Hah!” You’re hiccuping, nails digging so hard into the flesh of his shoulder blades that you’re certain blood is beading underneath them. His back is working tirelessly beneath your palms, and you swear you can feel the early glow of your orgasm.

“Come on,” Marc grits through his teeth, continuing the brutal assault on your cunt despite your wordless cries of meaningless protest at just how fucking good he’s making you feel. You can’t take it, can’t handle how hot it sparks inside your abdomen as your orgasm arcs up hot and fast-

His fingertips brush your clit and the bedroom comes crashing down around you. You can feel the tenseness in your brow as your eyebrows pull up, your expression no doubt dumbstruck as your orgasm rips through you mercilessly. Marc has torn your climax from you so suddenly that it contracts painfully, the sharp, dull ache that accompanies the overwhelming pleasure enough to cause you to scream out his name. You’re spasming around him, drenching his cock with your cum as he empties his load into you with the most devastating groan. You have no doubt there would be a noise complaint tomorrow.

In the quiet that follows, you can hear the slick sounds of Marc still slowly fucking into you despite his own orgasm, punishing himself, punishing you until his hips give way. Your body is spasming and twitching under every brush of contact his body makes with your own, overwhelmed by the pleasure he had torn from you.

It’s filthy, the way in which his pupils dilate when he watches his softening cock slip from you, his pearly cum seeping from your cunt. He doesn’t allow any to spill, pushing his fingers into you to shove it all back. Marc refuses to allow you to waste any, even when you’re sore and bruised from his previous efforts.

“The stitches,” you wheeze through your panting breath, palms pushing at his abs to double-check that they held through his brutal pace. His abdomen flexes beneath your touch, but you can feel the nylon fastening the wound just perfectly and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“You can’t keep getting hurt like this,” you halfheartedly lecture him through your exhaustion as he massages your tense thighs in a bid to get your sore muscles to relax. “… But I have a feeling you’re getting into fights on purpose now.”

Marc doesn’t respond at all, eyes set on your legs as he pushes the tense muscles with the pads of his thumbs. His silence is guilty as sin, and you can’t help but laugh at the wordless admission. It will be many months more until you learn that Marc actually doesn’t need you to stitch him up like this, that Khonsu’s suit and the abilities he’s been granted heal him easily- even fatal wounds. Until that time he continues to drag himself, battered and bruised to your doorstep to continue being treated with the sting of the antiseptic and the sharp nick of the needle.

END

🏷 Taglist: @polaroidpetal @foxilayde @mylifeisactuallyamess @bookfrog242 @wh0reforbucknasty @crystalchrysalis19 @zakizigekwe @ahookedheroespureheart @buckys-other-punk @anxious-sappho @youngr0se95 @alexloveskili @captainrexstan @astroboots @knights-power @southcrnbelle @niallsbunny

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whumperooni · 3 years

Text

two in the morning and i’m all yours

Pairing: Dabi x Reader

Tags/Warnings: tw toxic relationship, public fingering, drinking and drug mention, degradation, possessive behavior, daddy kink, fingers in moufs, reader is kind of a bimbo, mentions of punishment/trained behavior, drool, slight puking mention (just briefly, nothing graphic and not described in any detail- it’s all in the past)

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: I, uh, have never ridden a train before. But I’ve ridden the subway! So I’m just going to slightly modify the request to subway rather than train;;;; And I skimped out on fucking, but hopefully this is tasty enough to make up for it ♡

✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤

Two in the morning and all is quiet.

It’s quiet as Dabi yanks you into the station and it’s quiet as he makes you hop the gate. His snicker when your clumsy, drunken feet stumble over one another is quiet and your whine against his chest is quiet, too.

The terminal is a ghost town as he hauls you through it- empty, dingy, washed over in a sickly green light that makes you feel so disconnected from the world above. It’s like a horror movie, almost, but you couldn’t ever be really scared of a vaguely spooky subway station- you face actual horrors in your life every day; you’ve got crooks for friends, bloodthirsty debtors haunting your every step, ravenous heroes looking to snatch you up just to get to the League, and a monster for a boyfriend.

All that is much, much scarier than any silly subway station.

And Dabi is the scariest of it all- thrilling, frightening, vicious, nasty.

A hum slips from you- dazed and faint- and you twine your fingers through Dabi’s, smile sleepily when his hand holds yours tight.

You like the way he holds your hand as if he’s terrified you’ll try to run away from him. You like how he crushes your palm and squishes your fingers together until they’re aching for a good few hours after. It feels like you’re precious somehow- though you know it’s a twisted way to be treated.

He just wants to keep you his is all. He just wants to make sure you won’t- can’t- ever leave him.

Not that you want to. Not that the thought of doing so could ever enter your giddy, empty head.

Dabi pulls you into a car and you giggle when he yanks you to sit down on his lap, curl your fingers into shirt and peer around curiously. It’s empty in here- just like the station- and your fuzzy mind can’t help but wonder if you really did happen to stumble upon a ghost town.

Ghost town? Ghost station? Ghost subway? Ghost...

Oh, whatever.

Another giggle as Dabi grips your waist and you smile up at him- eyes so heavy and cheeks flushed, your lashes fluttering as he digs his thumbs into deep circles along your hips.

“Are we goin’ back to the hideout?”

Slurred, a little whiny- Dabi huffs at the question and his grip on you tightens as he pulls you closer. You can’t help a small shiver when his hands wander lower and you pout when he huffs again, when he moves a hand away to take his cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

“Where the fuck else would we be goin’?”

You don’t know- a hotel? Another party? Some isolated little house to break into and sleep the night away?

A shrug from you and Dabi clicks his tongue, snaps his fingers and lights his cigarette with a pretty blue flame. He takes a draw and breathes smoke out into your face and he laughs when you whine, when you squirm on his lap.

"Dabi, you're so mean."

"Oh, I'm mean now? You didn't think I was so mean earlier when I was bashin' in that fucker's face for ya."

Your cheeks flare at the memory and Dabi sneers whenever you bite your lip- gloating, smug, undeniably arrogant over the way your muddy eyes get just that much more hazy at the recollection.

It was some perv- some handsy guy with too much coke up his nose, too much whiskey in his system. He had cornered you when Dabi had went to the bathroom, had grabbed onto you and laughed at your stuttered panic, had tried to run his hands up your skirt. He’d been dumb enough not to keep an eye out for Dabi and god when Dabi had come to find you, he had melted that jerk’s face with a flaming punch.

You can still smell the stink of burning skin. You can still feel the ache in your wrist when Dabi had squeezed onto it tight with a snarl.

A shiver runs through you and you squirm on Dabi’s lap, swallow and dig your teeth deeper into your lip when he runs those piercing eyes of his over you.

“You know, princess,” he drawls, “you never thanked me for that.”

You didn’t? You could have sworn you had...

“I- I’m sorry, Dabi,” you mumble- meek, genuinely apologetic and genuinely upset that you weren’t a good little girl that had thanked him like you should have. “Thank you, Dabi. Thank you for savin’ me.”

A snort, something smug in his eyes, and Dabi takes a draw of his cigarette, blows the smoke out through his nose. You’d almost giggle at it if it weren’t for the way his fingers dig deep enough into your skin that you’re left whimpering instead.

“You’re losin’ those good manners of yours, sweetheart,” he huffs. “Am I gonna have to teach you a lesson?”

A- a lesson? Oh, no no no- not a lesson.

Dabi’s lessons are so cruel. Making you kneel on concrete with a bar of soap jammed in your mouth until you’re sobbing and gagging, puking up bile. Spanking you with a flaming hand until you can’t sit down for a good month. Fucking you in the bar right in front of the League, making you cry out your sins while they watch him scorch his palm prints into your waist.

They’re so cruel.

But you never forget your lessons. You’re always so good after them- so well behaved for him.

Another whimper and you shake your head quickly, get your drunken mind spinning from the desperation. You press up against him and you curl your fingers tight into his shirt, try and fail to keep your lips from wobbling and your eyes from glistening.

“N- no, daddy, please,” you whine, plead. “I- I’m a good girl. I’m sorry- I promise!”

Dabi scoffs, cigarette bobbing in his mouth, and he runs his hand down to your thigh, pushes it up until he can poke his spindly fingers against your panties.

“Yeah? Then why the fuck are you so wet?”

Wet? You’re...are you really wet?

Your eyes widen and you’re left gasping whenever he nudges your panties to the side, when a skinny digit runs along your slit.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he sneers. “What kinda good girl is this fuckin’ drenched on the subway?”

“D- Daddy-”

Fingers plunge into your mouth and your words get cut off in a gurgle, a garbled whine slips from you as they push down on your tongue, as his rings scrape against the roof of your mouth, as you taste yourself.

Oh- oh you really are wet.

A whimper trembles out around his digits and Dabi’s sneer grows as he plunges his fingers deeper into your mouth.

“Such a little slut,” he mocks. “A bad little girl with a sopping little cunt.”

No! No! You’re not bad! You’re not!

Tears well up in your eyes and drench your lashes faster than they usually do- how can they not when you’re drunk and ashamed? How can they not when Dabi’s fingers jam down so deep in your throat that his knuckles are past your teeth?

You gag- still trying to plead even as you do- and Dabi takes a draw from his cigarette, stabs it out on the empty seat next to him without even looking.

“Oh, baby, you’re just so fuckin’ hopeless, aren’t ya?” he taunts- so sickly fake with his sympathy, with the hollow sweetness in his voice. “You can’t help it, huh? Can’t help being wet for daddy.”

No, you can’t help it. You really, really can’t. Not with the way he’s practically trained you to need him. Not with the way he has you so tightly wrapped around his finger.

You whimper, again, as you try to shake your head and you make yourself gag even harder as you do, make yourself drip tears all down your cheeks and onto your lap.

“Da- Da- Daddy...”

It’s so garbled and pathetic, so hopelessly pitiful. Dabi’s eyes go half-shut as you try to gurgle out your drunken apologies and he clicks his tongue as drool drips down his wrist.

“Messy little skank,” he huffs- this time truly fond in his own rough way. That makes it better, a little, and you sniffle whenever he pulls his fingers from your mouth, cough and spill spit all over you as you try to catch your breath.

Dabi dips his drool drenched fingers under your skirt and you gasp, mewl as they plunge into your cunt, moan so loud it echoes through the empty car whenever he curls his digits deep inside of you.

“Daddy, please!”

A snort, a scoff- Dabi’s lips twist into a smirk right as his wrist does and you collapse against his chest, tremble with a little sob.

“Oh, angel,” he hums, “are you begging me to fuck ya right here? On the subway? Where anyone could get on and see you creaming on my cock?”

Yes? No? You don’t know.

It’s so hard to think with the liquor in your veins. It’s so hard to think with the way his fingers brush against your sweet spot with each curl, each pump he gives them.

It’s so hard to think when Dabi’s disciplined you to go absolutely dumb at just the simplest of touches.

You whimper and a hot huff of air brushes against your cheek, his free hand reaches until he can grab you by the hair, yank your head back until you’re forced to look at him through your bleary eyes.

“I asked you a question, princess,” he drawls- words sharp with a threat, eyes narrowing as you whimper once more.

“I- I- Daddy, I’m sorry...”

Slurred, stupid- at least it has his face flickering into something amused. His fingers still curl tighter in your hair, though, and you sniffle as your cunt clenches around him, as your hips try to stutter against his hand.

“Daddy, please! I want- I want it...”

Dabi snorts and you whine as his fingers slip from you, as he brings them up to his lips and gives them a lick. They’re so shiny even in the dingy light of the subway and seeing those glossy digits has your pussy throbbing, your cheeks flaring, a whimpering mewl crawling out from your throat.

“‘Course you want it,” he drawls, swiping his fingers down your shirt. “But you ain’t going to get it.”

What? But that’s not fair!

Your mouth flies open and tears drip down your cheeks as you try to protest, but Dabi grabs onto your jaw before you can speak so much as a word and he squeezes your face tight, sneers at the squeak that leaves you.

“Maybe at the hideout,” he taunts. “Maybe if you’re a good little girl and show me how thankful you are that I didn’t let that asshole fuck your dumb ass.”

He would have- he wouldn’t have...would he?

A sob from you and Dabi huffs, something softens in his expressions as you warble out a “no, please, ‘m yours” to him in a drunken, pleading whimper. A click of his tongue and his grip on your face loosens before he gives your cheek a wet little smack, before he rolls his eyes at you.

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbles. “As if I’d let anyone fuck my girl.”

His girl...his girl. That’s right- you’re his girl.

You sniffle, still tangled up in your upset, and Dabi clicks his tongue again before shaking his head.

“So pathetic,” he snorts. “Fuckin’ dumb, pretty thing.”

This time when you whimper it’s misty eyed and pleased, full of undying need and accompanied by trembling lips, a rock of your hips. Dabi scoffs, softly, and his hands grip your waist, force you to stillness.

“Be good for daddy,” he tells you- orders you. “Or you won’t get fuckin’ nothin’ but a whuppin’ when we get home.”

You don’t- you don’t want a whuppin’. You can be good.

Sniffling once more, you nod and rest yourself against his chest, nuzzle into his neck with a shuddering little mewl.

“I’ll be good, daddy,” you promise- soft, sincere, words just whiny enough to make him huff. “I promise.”

“That’s my girl.”

A snap of fingers, a deep inhale, the scent of a freshly lit cigarette. You melt into Dabi as he smokes and you close your eyes, let yourself be rocked into something content and almost peaceful by the gentle swaying of the subway car- a smile on your lips and tears drying on your cheeks, your cunt throbbing with more and more need with each passing stop.

#dabi x reader #rooni's shit #guh guh why are titles so damn hard

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nabulsi · 2 years

Text

TW - discussion of child abuse / paranoia / depression / suicidal ideation / eating disorder mention

okay so the consistent weirdness + anon hate + people putting words in my mouth + screenshotting my shit for their discord servers or whatever is in vogue in fandom nowadays has caused a bit of a me a bit of a mental health crisis?

tldr: im taking a break from tumblr so I don't actually k/m/s. uninstalling the app. if ur one of the people who hate checks my blog and screenshots my content to talk shit about me, then you can tell your friends that the evil is defeated and all that.

continued below the cut bc I'm going into some graphic detail 💖

I've been relatively open here about my mental health problems here, but to put it in more explicit terms. I have intense bouts of paranoia / anxiety around people talking about me and plotting against me. And this in turn causes me to lash out against others but especially myself.

I've been getting intense urges to self harm and also k/m/s. I've relapsed in my eating disorder several times this year, and even with therapy I am not getting better, I've only been spiraling. I've not felt this bad in a long ass time

over several instances in multiple fandoms I've been told / sent screenshots of people talking abt me in servers and accusing me of things I didn't do or say and physically felt my reputation changing in real time, lost followers, gotten sent anon hate, watched mutuals block me without warning

I've had people I thought were good friends of mine vague about me and also send me anon hate too (several times ✌️ love this site) and treat me like I'm not even a person with feelings to them.

(don't say "omg just turn off anon" like you're actually the least helpful person on the planet if you tell me this)

I've been trying not to feel nauseous every time I look at my phone but it's not working.

I live in an abusive environment. I'm a lesbian living in a homophobic and physically and mentally abusive household in a country where gay people don't have rights. I was also abused as a child and still live with my abusers. And this community was an escape to me because I enjoy writing and interacting with people in fandom and I felt accepted and welcome... yknow until now

And now bc of this feeling of being watched, nothing really brings me joy anymore, not writing or reading or music or anything. I've decided to withdraw for now and I dont really know when I'll come back. Maybe when I feel like people don't treat me like a circus attraction or a spectacle on here anymore.

Every time I do anything even offline the anxiety of feeling like people are talking about me and plotting against me gets overwhelming and I can't even do stuff offline without being panicking.

I already expect I’ll be called emotionally manipulative and a drama queen who’s victimizing herself and trauma dumping for attention for this post (so if you’re drafting an anon hate message right now, you’re not original). And If you’ve read through this then you already know that I am fully aware I cannot control how people feel about me and how they twist my words and spread misinformation about me so I have no expectations here. Thanks for reading anyway

if you want to talk to me I'll be on discord. u can dm me for my discord ID💖

#paptalk #this post is queued 💖

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kpoptrashlord-007 · 3 years

Text

Hide && Seek;; YHW

Word Count;; 3.5k

Genre;; HORROR

Pairing;; Hwanwoong x Reader

Summary;;

Inside this grand, lavish hotel and its sparkling veneer of respectability, you find yourself playing the role of the feline in a little game of cat and mouse. Your opponent? Hwanwoong, the man with the angelic smile and carefree eyes. The further you chase him, however, the harder it is to settle your nerves. The line between predator and prey is blurring and you can't help but wonder who exactly is pursuing who.

Warnings;;

TW// Blood, Character Death (random side character), Supernatural and Dark Themes!! Graphic depictions of violence! I’m serious here! It’s a bit intense. NOT for the light of heart (or stomach). Oh, and explicit language.

Please be mindful of these warnings as this features EXPLICIT violence.

Notes;;

Day Nine of the Halloween 2k20 Prompts! ~Monster~

My Masterlist

You've had too much to drink.

With a cloudy mind, you stumble after your companion. Your feet drag as you lag behind him. You pass many doors but he doesn't stop. Further down the hall and deeper into the building you travel, long past the area of the hotel reserved for guests.

His silky hair bounces every time he turns to you. After what feels like an eternity staring at the back of his head, you appreciate the fleeting glimpses of gleaming eyes and that cheeky smile he flashes your way. He's keeping an eye on you, making sure you don't wander off in your drunken haze. That much is obvious but you don't mind, not really. In return you are dutiful in your pursuit of him.

You can't recall where he is taking you. With half a mind to ask, your mouth falls open only to snap shut - he's looking back at you now with such an intensity that all you can do is stare in return. There's something swirling deep within his eyes but you can't pinpoint it; you can't put your finger on what emotion is prevalent in his gaze as it bears into your soul.

Seconds crawl by.

One foot in front of the other, you're on autopilot as you follow him without a thought of your own, your mind zeroing in on the burning intensity of his stare. He pulls you deeper into his hypnotic, hungry eyes with every step all the while leading you deeper into the bowels of the hotel. For some reason you trust him and you don't question the dubious situation despite this being the first night you've met.

There's a familiarity about him that lures you.

You come across a red sign and some yellow tape. He steps over it so you do too, tripping over your own feet to catch back up to him as his pace quickens. He disappears around a corner and you chase him. You're always hot on his trail and yet you remain so far behind.

Your hand slides down the wall as you round the corner. Chips of paint slough off and embed within the soft flesh of your palm. With a hiss of pain, you look down. Tiny beads of blood well around the points of impact, each marked by stiff, sharp shards of paint.

If you pull them out now, sure, it'll sting, but leaving them in will only cause misery later alongside a possible infection.

With your mind set, you get to work. It's a struggle to remove the tiny pieces but you try nonetheless. They're small and fragile, breaking before you have a chance to remove the whole fragment but you don't give up. Piece after piece, you pick and scrape into the tender, sensitive skin.

Blood flows more freely now. It's hard to see the paint when there's so much blood leaking out of the growing gashes but you're stubborn. You don't leave jobs half-done and you can feel more of the tiny shards just beneath the skin, taunting you. They slip deeper the further your nails chase them.

As if they're makeshift pliers, your middle finger and thumb stretch open the skin while your pointer finger digs deep, blood and flesh pulsing from the assault.

"Having fun?"

You stop dead in your tracks.

Rubbing your eyes in an attempt to clear away the alcohol-induced haze, you frown. Hwanwoong is nowhere to be seen. You squint as you scour, searching up and down from the cracked floor to the peeling ceiling, but find no clues as to his whereabouts.

Brushing it off, you look back down to your palm and the involuntary shiver that rocks your whole body leaves you trembling.

It's sobering.

The complete lack of blood, paint splinters, and cuts is sobering.

"Funny, isn't it?"

"What the fuck?"

It's a whisper meant to be consumed by the thundering silence and yet you know he heard it. He's lingering. Nowhere to be seen but everywhere at once, Hwanwoong is both near and far. You can't wrap your head around it.

Then there's the shift in the hall that is plain inexplicable. Up is down and down is... gone. You haven't any proof, just a gut feeling, but it's enough and you worry that if you do check, there will be nothing at all. Will you fall, then, like a cartoon character who has just realised they're running on air? Will you plummet right through the floor, tumbling out of reality in your pursuit of Hwanwoong?

Where did he go?

Dropping your hand out of view, you consider it lost to you now. Anything below the waist feels numb, as if it has merged with the darkness you suspect 'down' has become. Eye level seems safe enough so you gaze from side to side.

It isn't how you remember it to be.

The wall is pristine. There are no cracks. The paint isn't sloughing off. Nary a blemish marks the white, clean walls on either side of you. It's dangerous to let your eyes wander and yet you have no real control over yourself. They drift up and down, still cautious of the ceiling and floor but eager to solve this mystery all the same.

Turning your head, you gaze back at the corner where you had injured yourself. At least you thought you had. There is no bend or corner there, just a straight pathway leading you to…

You gulp, taking a step backward.

At the end of the hallway there's a room you wish to avoid.

At the end of the hallway there's a door that beckons to you.

It whispers the promise of death.

Snapping around once more, you run. You run and you run and you run until your lungs cannot bear it any longer and your heart threatens to burst out of your chest. No matter how far you go, there's no exit.

Gulping down air while resting against the wall, your nails dig into the plaster in an attempt to keep your body from collapsing down into the void. It comes up to your knees and the longer you stay still, the harder it is to move. Your head wobbles and shakes with every breath before your eyes flutter close.

Just a quick breather you tell yourself, knowing full well that if you don't snap out of this reverie, you'll fall headfirst into the madness consuming you.

"Should we play?"

The gasp bubbling free from deep within dissipates beneath the constriction of your throat. Nails impale themselves into the tender flesh of your neck. The higher you're lifted, the stronger his grasp becomes. Blood pools in your feet. Your body shakes. Your mind screams. Your eyes open.

But there's nothing.

Checking your neck for blood, you find it isn't even sore to the touch. Before you is that endless hallway but not a living presence is nearby. Hwanwoong is nowhere to be seen, though this fact doesn't surprise you any longer.

When your senses return to you, you're gazing at the floor. The same floor you feared mere moments ago. The carpet is ugly but otherwise harmless. There's no hell awaiting you and there's no darkness devouring you inch by inch. Releasing a shaky exhale, you risk turning back to face it.

Your nightmare.

The door.

Carved out within the wall at the end of the hall, it waits for you. Despite how far you've tried to run away from it, it remains just where it has always been. From beneath the threshold you see the edge of the refracted light, its pattern dancing and shimmering. It's a taunt handmade for you.

You take a step forward. Unlike your futile attempt to escape in the other direction, the gap shortens. You take another step. There's several indents in the wall lining the way. They're the perfect size for a door and yet when you run your hand along the edges, there's no air nor light seeping through. A solid wall greets your shoulder when you try to force a new entryway.

While inching closer to the final door and its kaleidoscope of sparkling light, you pound against the hall and all its false doors. Nothing budges and nothing gives. It isn't until you turn to cross the hall, intent on scouring the other side for a hole or error in the design, that you notice the infinite shards of reflective light and how they flood the hallway. Splashes of bright light dance across your skin. Eerie silence follows.

The door is ajar.

Reaching out, the tip of your fingers graze against the metallic overcoat. It's old and rough to the touch. You want to pull back, to turn around and escape this personalised hell, but the room is summoning you. It's a call to judgement and you daren't ignore it. You must atone.

The door creaks once your palm meets it. Though it looks heavy, it flies wide open with a single push. A tidal wave of light bursts through. Your heartbeat escalates.

It's impossible.

What you see is impossible and yet your past is here in vivid detail. From the view of the snow-capped mountains in the distance and the much closer fog over the outdoor jacuzzi to the soft jams of his radio and the desperate splashing of water to the stinging chlorine that, even now, burns your nose. It's all the same - right down to that fucking shimmering pool and the woman in it.

"Should we play some more?" Hwanwoong purrs.

His body presses against your own and you can feel the way it shakes with every syllable, as if he is brimming with excitement. For once, you know he's truly here with you. Whether 'here' is within the halls of the hotel or back inside that rich psycho's mansion isn't clear to you, however.

Perhaps you hadn't been the one to walk away after all.

"Have you been bad? Should I punish you?"

There's no room between your bodies but that doesn't stop you from trying to push past him, to squirm around him, to force him out of the room with the sparkling, refractive light and the secret it holds.

"Nah-uh, not so fast cutie." He smiles at you and your feeble attempt to move him. "Let's play a game."

"No!"

"Huh?"

"I don't want to! I need to get out of here, you don't underst-"

"But you don't even know what the game is yet," he pouts, gripping a fistful of your hair and stopping you dead in your tracks. With how tight his hold is, there's no doubt that the shearing burn exploding outward from the roots is your hair ripping from your skull. You can't silence the scream that escapes your quivering lips.

There's a voice in the back of mind that tells you to endure, to experience firsthand what you put her through.

Whether from blood or sweat, you feel a sticky dampness forming along your hairline. He loosens his grip once the tears flow down your face like a broken faucet. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he shakes his head and murmurs something. You can't make out the words over the pounding of blood within your ears. It takes a few minutes before you're able to think straight and he waits for you the whole time, content to just watch.

"What-" you hiss through the dulling pain, "-game?"

"You're so resilient. I like that about you, sweet cheeks. Let's play… hide and seek. Do you know how to play?" He waits for a response and the jerk of your head suffices. Satisfied that you're paying attention, he grins. There's something ethereal about him and the way his skin glows and his eyes shine. It's no wonder you had followed him so willingly. He just seems so safe. Angelic, even. "Then go hide, silly."

With a push, you find yourself stumbling into the room with its giant pool and hypnotising effects. Unable to remain upright, you slip. The poolside puddles turn red when your cheek kisses the ground and blood spills forth from the piece of your tongue you damn near bite off.

There's a sharp stinging pain in your thigh. Deep within your pant pocket is a solid, round secret. It digs into your leg, bruising the skin down to the bone, and you wince as you stand. From pure reflex you grasp it and hold it in place, scared to lose it.

"I didn't think it would be us," the woman cries, sliding down the white walls and crumpling to the floor.

"Better us than the others," you mumble out of instinct, following along with the memory.

"I don't want to hurt you!" She's full on bawling now, tears and snot flowing down her face. You stand and wipe away the blood seeping from your split lip and torn tongue before spitting the excess into the pool. The water looks beautiful. It's gleaming and bright, unlike the last twenty-one hours.

"Better you than the others."

Dragging your injured foot, you approach her. She ignores your towering presence and focuses on staring into one of the little black cameras that have been watching the event unfold. You're running out of gas but she isn't faring much better.

You can finish this.

"Just let us go! Please, I don't want to die," she sobs, pleading with the red, blinking light on the camera. "We don't even care about the money."

Whether it's because of the trust born from a promise made hours prior, back when the odds were tilted in a much more dire direction, or because she thinks she can bargain for her life, she continues to ignore you.

What a mistake.

There's killing intent in your aura. It consumes you. Even you can tell and you're quite new to this murder business. And if you can tell, she can tell. After all, before the event your lives were quite similar. Parallel, even. If you could adjust this fast, so could she.

And yet she's crying on the floor and ignoring you, you with eyes devoid of empathy.

You with a pool ball in your grasp.

You with blood on your hands.

You within striking distance.

"We just want to live!"

"Better me than you."

Her desperate mewling ceases. Instead, her attention snaps to you. She can no longer ignore the threat you possess, not when you've released your weapon of choice from the soft material of your pants. Fear spreads across her dainty features like wildfire. Trying to escape the animosity spiraling over your form with your every step, she forces herself into a corner.

"But we agreed not t-"

Physics works in your favour. Velocity, force, and all that, but the semantics don't matter - all that matters is that the impact leaves a splatter and her body is limp. You discard the pool ball and it rolls away, leaving a trail of fresh blood in its wake. Red seeps deep into the grout between polished tiles.

Relief strikes seconds after the realisation of your success dawns upon you.

It is soon, however, drowned by the overwhelming sense of guilt.

You may have won but at what cost?

Her blood on your face stains you much deeper than the man's had. His attack had come as a surprise. It had been a fight for survival after a helping hand turned feral. You had no choice, not if you wanted to live, and by God you wanted to live. Not just to exist, but to explore and to enjoy and to possess.

Avarice paints your skin in the darkest shade of red.

Shooting two birds with one stone, you drag her to the poolside. Blood gushes from her forehead. It fills the room with an unmistakable and distasteful scent. Resisting the urge to recoil, you drop to your knees. Water soaks through your pants until dark wet spots cover your whole lower half. It's an uncomfortable sensation but you push it aside, instead focusing on the slight bobbing of her chest.

She's the last of them.

She's the final obstacle in your pursuit of wealth.

And she's still fucking breathing.

It takes a few seconds for her consciousness to return after you submerge her head beneath the surface. Her resistance starts immediately thereafter. She contorts and she struggles, pulling away from the iron-tight grip scarring her skull only to sink further into the depths of the pool. Your nails deep into flesh as you seek a more steady hold but you soon lose your footing to the slippery, polished tiles and topple onto her back.

There's a loud crack and you know between your weight and the position she's found herself in with half of her body in the water and the other half flailing behind her that it is too much pressure for her fragile bones. Her ribs crack one by one, fracturing like the snap of a twig. She screams but the water consumes the sounds, rising bubbles the only evidence.

From a deep shade of red to a soft pink, the water dilutes outward from the nonstop stream of blood gushing from her growing wounds.

"I'm sorry, but I've come too far to care about you."

The words are a reassurance to yourself. They serve as a reminder: this isn't who you are. You're a victim of circumstance. Someone had to do it so why not you? You've come too far to chicken out now. You've come too far to pity the ones that had to fall in order for you to rise.

Your soul is malleable beneath the corruption of sin.

Once her struggling ceases, you hold her down for a bit longer. When enough time passes that even an Olympic swimmer's lung capacity would fail them, you hold her down for a bit longer. Even though the blood no longer rushes forth and she's cold to the touch, you hold her down for a bit longer.

It isn't until the room floods with light that you release her. Strands of her hair twist around your fingers as her body sinks into the depths. The further she descends, the deeper the darkness that consumes her becomes. You cannot see the bottom and soon she is lost to you, claimed by the cold void.

A hand rests on your shoulder and you jump.

This is when they escort you off the grounds, give you the money, and remind you of the contract.

This is when the nightmare is supposed to end.

For the first time, your memory alters. No blanket is wrapped around you nor is anyone calling your name, ushering you out of the battlegrounds. Instead the hand on your shoulder lifts to cradle your chin, tilting your head back to face your companion. A playful smile greets your widening gaze.

"I found you," Hwanwoong coos, petting your cheek. "I knew from the moment I first laid eyes on you that guilt was eating you alive but this is always better than I could ever imagine."

"Please let me go," you stammer, fear settling in the gut of your stomach.

"Let you go? Do you not want me to clear you of this burden?"

"No, please, I only did what I had to!"

"Do you not want me to free you of this sin?"

"I did nothing wrong! Surviving isn't a crime!"

"Unfortunately for you, your opinion doesn't mean anything to me. 'I've come too far to care about you'," he mimics with a smirk. "I found you, just as I always do. And now…

"The dawn of judgement is upon you."

His palm meets your chest in a harsh push and you tumble. Even though your foot catches on the edge of the pool, it's much too slippery, too wet from your prior confrontation and you find yourself falling backward.

'-just as I always do.'

With widening eyes, you watch the ceiling blur above you. It's not what you expect of a pool room. In fact, you know it's not. Rather it's the white speckled panels of the hotel you had been stumbling around at three in the morning in a drunken haze as the years of guilt culminate in another reckless search for trouble, another desperate attempt to feel something.

Is it still that same morning?

Has time passed in a blink or has it frozen altogether?

'I found you-'

Just as he always does, he found you hiding within that same memory, stuck inside that single slice of hell. Just as he always does, he uses your weakness against you. He plays with you for a time until he gets bored of it all and sets you loose within the hotel.

And then he plays with you anew.

In this moment of falling, he allows you to remember. It's the final squeeze of pleasure he can extract from this iteration and he squeezes it dry. He watches fear born of knowledge contort your features and he indulges in it for as long as he can.

Hwanwoong's soft, angelic face etches into your mind, replacing the gift of truth with a lie of familiarity and trust, and soon a fog covers your mind. Despite your unending descent, you close your eyes and embrace the calm washing over you in waves. Of your own volition, you forget.

After all, the knowledge of one's eternal damnation is enough to destroy even the strongest mind.

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just-call-me-the-intrusive-thot · 3 years

Text

A Disasterous Loaf-Life

“Bread”

@weweregoddesses

Pairings: Romantic Dukexiety

TWs: Swearing, Remus being Remus, Sexual Innuendos, Phallic Shaped Bread Creatures, some angst but not too much, Pretty Brief Heated Makeout, mentions of a parasite that affects humans, Implied Sexual Activities Post Fic End (no actual sex tho),

Summary: Two Pining Dumbasses Make Bread.

(This is so long I just got super carried away)

“Remus, is there a reason you’ve kneaded your dough into the shape of an ass?”

Virgil watched with a fond sigh as the man next to him proudly stood over the booty bread he’d lovingly crafted over the last ten minutes.

“Not really,”, Remus cackled, raising his hands, “Except for this!”, and with that, he brought down his hands in a flurry of obscene slaps to the fake rear. Virgil maintained his composure for all of a minute before he had to physically restrain his snickering.

God dammit, this fucking guy! Thirteen years and Remus was still the one person who could make him laugh like the world wasn’t watching.

“Well, when you’re finishing pulverising your Glutenous Maximus, are you gonna finally tell me what you’re actually shaping your loaf into this time?”, Virgil snarked affectionately.

Remus rolled his eyes; his emo dork was spending far too much time with Patton lately.

“Same as the last time we did this, duuuh.”, he retorted, as if that were common knowledge.

Virgil’s eyes widened, “.... You’re not serious.”

“As serious as Naegleria Fowleri.”

“.. as what?!”

“Y’know, that fucked up brain eating amoeba that they found in that one Disney water park-”

“NEVERMIND!”, Virgil hastily shook the thought away as he tended to his own dough, “Don’t tell me, I’ll have nightmares for weeks...”

The hoodie clad mad looked Remus up and down as he folded his own purple dyed dough, “.... Are you really going to attempt the Cocktopus again? Seriously?”

Remus shrugged, already forming the eight ‘tentacles’ in stunningly graphic detail, “Why not? You’re making purple bread again, why don’t I do the same?”

Well, he had him there. Really, Virgil had gone to make his bread purple without even thinking about it. Perhaps just being next to Remus after all this time had subconsciously brought him back to that same summer day they’d spent in the kitchen side by side making bread together. Virgil could hear his mother’s old junkbox of a radio blaring Redbone’s Come and Get Your Love while he and Remus slung flour at each other and danced about in their socks trying not to slip.

Being back in the same house - now passed down to him - making bread once again with Remus brought back so many memories and emotions. Most of them good, though as he looked over to the man he still loved absolutely going to town on his bread sculpting, Virgil couldn’t help but remember how much guilt he still harboured; he’d never expected Remus to kiss him out of the blue back then, but Virgil also hadn’t expected to silently run off to his room to calm down, only to find Remus had left.

Not just his home, but his life. Virgil hadn’t wanted to face Remus, unsure of how to handle his feelings, but seeing the moving sign on the Duke family’s front lawn that next week as he watched the moving van leave just that little bit too quickly for Virgil to say goodbye had plagued his mind more often than he cared to admit.

A gross, gooey wetness on his cheek hauled him back to the present, only to realise Remus had finished a surprisingly glorious cocktopus and had slathered some of the egg wash on his cheek.

“Earth to Tickle-Me-Emo, you good??”

Virgil would’ve socked him in the arm if Remus’ concerned smile didn’t send his heart racing too hard to consider it. He wiped the mixture off his cheek, only mumbling back at Remus as he formed his purple mix into little loafs, “I’m fine, just stop covering my face in slimy shit.”

“..... Okay, now I know something’s up. You never leave me room for innuendos like that.”

Not even waiting to clean the residual flour off of his hand, Remus softly reached out and Virgil anxiously awaited the touch on his cheek.

But it never came.

He watched as Remus seemed to course correct and he used his thumb to draw a line down his forehead, whispering, “Simbaaaaa-”

“Okay, fuck ooooff!”, Virgil had snorted, fondly swatting at Remus.

“Come on, Virge! You looked like you were gonna blow a blood vessel, how could I not diffuse the tension a little?”, Remus snickered, though the silence that followed wasn’t so comfortable somehow. Virgil struggled to place it until he noticed Remus’ expression falter. He didn’t get the chance to ask what was wrong before Remus spoke up,

“This was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

A cold jolt shuddered along Virgil’s spine, rattling each vertebrae as it went.

“What’re you-”

“Why’d you invite me over, Virge?”

Truthfully, Virgil knew exactly why he had invited Remus from the outset; he wanted to see him again, drown in his presence, hopefully find out that he was single and still just as in love with Virgil after all these years as he was with Remus. But once Remus was there, single and right in front of him, he’d panicked - what else was new? - and resorted to turning their meeting into a catching up between old friends.

But people who are just friends don’t dream about being held by their friend at night, don’t fantasize about a future together, don’t lay awake at night regretting not having just taken the chance to be more when they had it.

They also don’t stare at their friend’s gorgeous toned body every chance they get, but that felt a little too pathetic to admit on top of everything else.

Virgil wasn’t aware of how quiet he’d been until Remus spoke again, “Here I am, thinking maybe you might want me back in your life for good, maybe even like me back if I was lucky....”, Remus paused forlornly, an expression that didn’t suit him in the slightest, “But even now you’re still anxious around me. Which, I mean, I get it. Why would you like me back after I just kissed you out of the blue like that-”

“But why would you want me-?!”

His voice wasn’t meant to come out so high pitched and whiny, but Virgil was more focused on trying to process what Remus had just said. Remus liked him still. After all this time. And yet, Virgil’s brain was still trying to ruin it.

“Remus, you… look at you!”, he gestured to all of him, “You’re still a fucking weirdo but you’re stupidly hot!”

Virgil kicked himself mentally, his hands raking through his hair and nails scraping his scalp, “Ugh, no! I mean! Fuck, Remus, I’ve been in love with you all this time! I haven’t even LOOKED at another guy in these last thirteen years, because whenever I even think about finding someone to settle down with, the only goddamn thing I can think about is how much I only want you-!”

The clattering of a knocked over kitchen table was the only warning Virgil got. Then all he could focus on was Remus’ arms wrapping around him, his breath cool against his neck.

“Then why’d you never tell me, you asshole?!”, Remus murmured against him.

Virgil wondered if he imagined the soft noise of relief Remus let out as Virgil hugged him.

“Because I’m the worst-”

“No.”, Remus cut him off, pulling back a little to give him an unimpressed look.

“No-?”

“No. Try again.”

Ah. It’d been years since Remus took this approach with him.

“,... Because I’m stupid-”

“Try agaaain.”, Remus droned, prodding one of the little purple loafs Virgil had lovingly been shaping from a circular loaf into a spider before all of this began.

“Dude, don’t poke my spiders-”

“Or what?”

Virgil narrowed his eyes, unable to stop the quirk of a grin, “Don’t you dare-”

Remus narrowed his gaze, grinning as he plunged a finger into another spider loaf. Virgil tried to stop him all the while Remus cackled and kept dotting them with holes. Finally, Virgil conceded,

“Fine! I was scared, okay-?!”

The silence hung heavier than both men anticipated. Virgil would’ve found Remus stopping dead with his finger shoved into the spider loaf’s ass hilarious if he wasn’t too busy shaking with nerves.

“I was scared.”, he repeated, quietly dropping onto one of the chairs around the table, “I liked you so much back then too, but emotions are the fucking worst when you’re a kid and I was still trying to work shit out.”

The scooting of a chair let Virgil know Remus had sat down too.

“My anxiety just got worse the longer I couldn’t see you, but every time I thought about facing you, I just kept thinking “well, he deserves better anyway-!””

Sick of hearing Virgil self deprecating further, Remus all but hauled Virgil into his lap, their faces inches from touching, eye contact unbreaking.

“Virge,”, Remus purred barely above a whisper, “I mean this in the nicest way possible..”

The way their lips brushed over each other send shockwaves along Virgil’s spine, “But shut the fuck up.”

The scrawnier man didn’t need to be told twice. The second Remus’ lips pressed against his own, Virgil had no intention of breaking the contact until he needed air. Not that he’d mind suffocation if it was Remus’ lips doing the smothering. His left hand threaded itself in Remus’ hair while the right held onto his firm bicep. Fucking hell, Remus had never been this solid when they were kids. Since when did real, unphotoshopped people have muscles like these-!?

All of a sudden, Virgil couldn’t care less as Remus’ hands caressed his hips, earning a gasp Remus was more than willing to use to deepen their kiss. He got no complaints from Virgil who reciprocated the intensity of their kiss with no hesitation. It’d already cost him thirteen years with the man he loved, Virgil wasn’t about to hold himself back anymore.

…. Okay maybe he should have held back a little.

A surge of panic jolted him free of the makeout headspace when he felt himself tipping back. Right, they were on one of the kitchen chairs. A chair meant to only support one person. Thankfully, Remus noticed and leant back. Instead of Virgil toppling to the floor, he wound up on top of Remus on the floor, hissing as his knees made contact with the tiles.

“Fucking hell-! Oh shit, Remus, you okay-?!”

Remus groaned and scrunched his eyes at the pain. Virgil immediately feared that Remus had done himself a serious injury, however the man he was using as a seat cracked an eye open and sighed theatrically,

“Well, at least I’m gonna die with a raging boner.”

Virgil sighed. He was fine.

“Come on, let’s get these dumb loaves in the oven and then you can be horny all you want-“

Remus didn’t waste a second. He barely gave Virgil a second to get off of him before he was up on his feet. A gasp made Virgil take a break from dusting flour off of himself.

“MY COCKTOPUS!!! IT’S DEAD!!!!”

Well, that’s not a phrase you hear everyday. Sure enough, when Virgil followed Remus’ gaze, the poor phallic sea demon he’d constructed had deflated somewhat; it’s many ‘’tentacles’’ had fallen over and flattened while the head of the beast was beginning to sag. Virgil was about to tell Remus to leave it be when he noted how genuinely upset Remus was.

Sighing, Virgil rolled his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows once more, “Alright, you can fix it, and THEN we’re making up for lost time..”

------

... I have no excuses for this one, the idea came and I ran with it.

Special thanks to the ever wonderful and talented @accidental-sanders for helping flesh out this whole thing with me <3 Taglist: @somehow-i-got-an-account @cateye-glasses @fandomsofrandom @patton-cake @does-this-look-logicality-to-you @justalittlecorrupted @irritating-lady-knight @katlikethesword

#dukexiety #remus sanders #virgil sanders #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides fanfic #virgil #remus #this is so fucking dumb #and i LOVE it #please do read the tags #and shoutout to my always wonderful partner for helping me nail down the plot #and for screeching COCKTOPUS in all caps #I know you love these boyfs so #I hope this lives up to what you hoped it'd be like #my fics

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poeticandors · 4 years

Text

You Are The Reason

Cassian Andor x Reader

Word count: 13.6K (my longest one shot EVER sorry guys I hate myself)

Summary: You have known Cassian for what seems like your entire life, and you have loved him almost just as long (without him knowing of course). What happens when a member of the Rebellion approaches you and tells you that he has just gone missing? How far would you go to protect and save the one person you care about more than yourself? And what does this mean for you and Cassian after?

Warnings: NSFW 18+, graphic depictions of torture (beatings and knife TW), smut BUT THEN FLUFF AT THE END

A/N: Inspired by a few requests that we from so long ago, thank you for the two anons and @fanfiction461 for bearing with me I am so sorry it took this long I have been wanting to write this for so long but I just couldn’t until now.

I also just want to thank @spectre-leader @firefeatherx @jesus-buck @woakiees @damndamer0n @damerondjarin and @tintinwrites for listening to my rambling, helping me with this fic, and encouraging me to publish this and for entertaining me with their reactions. I really appreciate you all. And I want to thank all my readers who have been patient with me throughout this ordeal, now it’s time to get back to my other fics lol.

GIF by @jynandor

The smell of various foods being cooked and the chatter of merchants trying hard to sell their merchandise to the dwellers walking around surrounded you. Were you hungry? Sure, and the delicious smells weren’t helping. But you had no time to stop.

Looking over your shoulder, you pulled your bag up higher as you continued to be unnoticeable during your walk through the crowd. It was second nature to you, trying to appear as a member of the crowd when in reality, you were capable of taking out any one of them who came up to you.

But that’s not what you wanted. You just wanted to make it back to your room at the inn you kept for yourself— frequent payments going to the innkeeper to ensure that no one ever takes your room. Bouncing between worlds was what you normally did; getting any information you could that you knew would be useful against the Empire. But this was the one place you might even consider home.

Finally making it to the inn, you immediately knew something was off once you reached your room. The small trace of mud right in front of your door caught your eye, and you could smell the faint scent of a cigarra leading into your room. The innkeeper knew enough not to ever bother you, and you knew for a fact they didn’t take up a smoking habit.

Has someone come after you?

The hair stood on the back of your neck— you were on high alert now. Keeping your hand on your blaster at your hip, you slowly open the door, and step inside. Scanning the room, you caught sight of a shadow lurking in the corner, and whip out your blaster. The figure moves, and you aim directly at them as they speak.

“Take it easy—”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The figure— a man— slowly emerges into the light, hands raised out in surrender as you keep your blaster raised on them. The light from outside flashes a streak across his face, but you still don’t recognize him. You keep your back foot planted, in case you need to make a run for it as he steps closer.

“So, Nova wasn’t code for any hidden information. It was the name of a person.”

The name set something off in you. There was only one person who called you that— and the last time you saw him was days ago.

Nova.

You didn’t even know where the name came from. Instead of your real name, he’d begun to refer to you as Nova.

Why do you call me that?

I don’t know, he shrugged. It suits you.

So the fact that this guy happened to know this specific name meant something was wrong. And if something was wrong, you had to get out of there immediately.

Just as you go to turn, the man reaches for his blaster.

“Don’t try to run.”

Your grip tightens around your own, but you notice that he doesn’t even pull his blaster from the holster. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because we would just find you all over again, and I really don’t want to spend the next few moments chasing after you.”

You stare at him, not moving as he lowers his hand from his side. The fact that he not once even removed his weapon befuddled you. If he was after you, wouldn’t he have threatened you or tried to attack you by now?

“...Who are you?”

“That’s not important.” He answers and you scoff. “Now, are you going to lower that?”

“Not until you tell me why you’re here.”

The man sighs and steps closer into the light, in which you finally take notice of his jacket. Standard military, on his shoulder sits a patch the same color as his jacket as if to hide some type of insignia. You recognize that type of tactic instantly and it finally hits you.

“Are you from the Rebellion?” You ask, watching as the corner of his mouth twitches up.

“You’re a good observer. I can see now why Andor—”

“Cassian Andor?” You speak quickly, the slight panic evident in your tone. Cassian would have scolded you for that, for sure.

Don’t give any indication— even the slightest hint of panic or lack of comfort, he told you many times.They will use that against you.

But he wasn’t here to reprimand you.

When the man nods after you speak you step deeper into the room, but slowly begin sidestepping as you keep your blaster up. There was no room for more mistakes here, you had near to perfect aim, so if this guy tried anything funny he wouldn’t even make it close to you. And you didn’t even have to worry about anyone else because from what you’ve observed, he was the only one here. There were no sideways glances or movements to indicate he was communicating with anyone other than you. You made sure to pay close attention to each and every movement after spotting him.

At least that Cassian would have praised you on.

“What… what’s happened to him?”

“Captain Andor was recently sent undercover to extract some needed information from a weapons dealer. While he was successful in gathering that information, his comm was disconnected before he was able to make it to his ship. We have reason to believe that he’s been captured.”

Captured? The word played on a constant loop in your mind. You could hardly believe what you were told. Cassian… was captured?

The last time you saw Cassian, it was just days ago. He came to visit you, like he often would. You two were close, always have been since you were young. While you weren’t a member of the Rebellion like he was, you still managed to get information that was circling around— information you knew you or the Rebellion could use against the Empire. You were his best informant, and possibly his best friend. You were the only one to know everything about him, and the only one he let his walls down with. He wasn’t like that with anyone else— he did not trust easily. But with you, for some reason it was different.

And it’s also why you couldn’t be honest about your true feelings. He was the only person to know every single detail about you. The only one you trusted, and he was the closest thing to a normal life you had. You had fallen hard into a ditch you couldn’t climb out of, one filled with nothing but longing.

A longing for someone whose entire life revolves around his job— the Rebellion. He did not have time for relationships, everything was strictly for the Rebellion, always. You could not risk losing him, the only person that made this type of life worth living, over your silly feelings.

But he never brought up this mission with you. Was he afraid to ask you? It didn’t make sense, you would always accept when he asked you to be his backup. Would it have even made a difference if you went with him?

“...How do you know about me?” You question, loosening your finger on the trigger, but still aim directly for his heart.

“We didn’t. But he left some messages for his droid. One was to ‘Find Nova’.” He steps towards you cautiously. “We thought it was code for something else, maybe some information he managed to get. We didn’t know it meant… you.”

At least you know he never put you in a position where you would be known. But the fact that he told the Rebellion to look for you must have meant he was in deep bantha fodder. Finally, you lower your blaster— not daring to loosen your grip.

“What do you need?”

“Well, obviously Captain Andor seems to think you’d be of use in retrieving him. We’ve already tracked his last location, we just need someone capable of handling it.”

“And you want to send me?”

“Well, he did give us your name. And from where I’m standing, it seems he’s kept you hidden for quite some time now. Why give us your location? Why send us to you if he didn’t think you were capable enough to retrieve him?”

That was the real question, wasn’t it? Cassian trusted you with his life, did he really trust you enough to know you would be the only one to get him out of whatever trouble he was in?

Sure, you were tactful, good with a blaster, and were capable of defending yourself— all the skills taught to you by Cassian himself. He had trained you how to be observant of your surroundings, to look for ticks people can give off depending on the situation. Even taught you how to prepare quickly in case you needed to run. Sometimes he would not tell you he was stopping by, and would surprise you with a scenario where you would have to defend yourself from him.

What you thought meaningless tests, he reminded you of the type of world you lived in. And being tied to him would have repercussions. If anyone knew about you, that would put you in some deep trouble.

You stare up at the man as he steps closer to you. “What does Captain Andor think you have that could save him?”

Then it hit you: all the information you seemed to pick up about the Empire and the Rebellion. Cassian had to have known that whoever captured him would love whatever information you had. So that had to be the only reason he wanted the Rebellion to find you.

The only way to get Cassian back was to trade yourself for him. You did not care much what would happen to you. And you would be damned if you let anything happen to him.

++++++

It took some time, but you were finally able to make it to the planet where Cassian’s signal had gone dead. From the information you were given, there was a gang residing there that was known for causing trouble around the town. As you roamed around the town, you managed to catch word that it was that specific gang who captured a man.

They were not sympathizers for either the Rebellion or the Empire, so it would make sense that they found out who Cassian was and decided to take him for the hell of it.

You hope he was still alive. If he was, then the fact that you had information on both the sides could be useful enough for a trade.

As you take a sip of your jet juice, your eyes roam along the cantina you made it to. At the bar, you spotted a few members of said gang taking shots and laughing at their own jokes. You figured the easiest way to get taken to their hideout was just to let them capture you, so you had a moment to think of just how to do so.

Grabbing your drink, you loosen up one of the buttons on your front shirt before making your way over. One of the men pushes away from the bar, and you take your chance to roughly bump into his shoulder.

The man turns, and you pretend to sway as if plastered. He raises his brow down at you and you scoff.

“Watch where you’re going, bantha fodder,” you slur, and the man is quick to grab hold of your arm. You grit your teeth, looking up at him.

“Hey—“

“Sure you don’t want to apologize for that, sweetness?”

“Apologize? For what? You were the one in my way.”

His grip tightens around your arm as you challenge him. “Feisty one, eh? You could be a lot of fun.”

You yank your arm away, glaring up at him. “Don’t you know it’s rude to grab a lady?”

In an instant, you throw the remainder of your jet juice in his face, and toss the cup to the ground. A few of his men stand up, but he raises his hand— stopping them.

“No need to fuss,” he grins smugly, wiping his cheeks. “Seems like she was just headed out, anyways. Isn’t that right, sweetness?”

“Yeah, I was,” you sneer, before finally turning in your heel and leaving the cantina.

If these guys were as bad as you had heard, then they would be after you in mere minutes. As you turn down an alleyway, you stay aware of your surroundings— Cassian would’ve praised you on that. From the corner of your eye, you spot movement, but feign obliviousness as you continue walking in the dark.

It was quick— just like you knew it would be. A hand covers your mouth and pushes you against the brick wall, your cries muffled as your cheek scrapes along the stone. A body presses up against you, and you feel the hot breath of your assailant fan against your ear as they lean close.

“Can’t use that mouth of yours now, huh sweetness?” The man from earlier asks. You struggle against him, feeling movement behind you.

You were prepared, you thought of the various scenarios that would happen when they made their way to capture you. But it still caught you by surprise when you felt the prick in your neck and the warm fluid rushing now through your veins.

Instinctively, you try fighting the sleep, but you could already feel your body falling slack into the man’s arms. Before darkness takes over, you’re sure that you saw a flash of Cassian’s face, and can only relax.

++++++

A faint voice is heard— and though it sounds as if it’s far away, you know better. You feel a few small pats against your cheek, and you can’t help the way your head tilts to the side although you try so hard to remember just how your muscles work.

The musty smell of wherever you were had your stomach churning, you would not be surprised if at any moment you threw up all the contents in your stomach. It was cold and damp— you were sure they stripped you of your jacket as you suddenly shivered— goosebumps covering your arms.

Your shoulders were now being shaken violently, and it did not help with the queasiness you were feeling.

“...-ake up, sweetness,” the voice finally breaks through the hazy fog in your mind. “Come on, that’s it.”

Wherever the group must’ve taken you had to have been isolated from the rest of the town. Although it might have just been the effects of the drug, you still couldn’t hear much of the commotion that you had when you walked through the town, so either you were underground or on the outskirts of town.

You can only manage a small groan, the very thought of even trying to articulate words or even trying to deal with the dryness of your mouth is a difficult task for you. It feels like small weights are tied to your eyelids; you try so hard to open them when you feel hands grab your arms to pull you up. A deep chuckle is heard— amused at your inebriated state.

“Bix, go fetch this sweet girl some water.”

There is a grunt in response, you suspect from Bix, and suddenly you feel a hand clamp onto your chin. This is when you use everything you can to open your eyes, and although all you can make out is a blurry figure it is enough.

“There she is,” he grins, his fingernails scratching against your skin. You try pulling away, but he keeps a firm grip. “You know, I have a lot of fun planned for you.”

“Here’s the water, Terek.”

The man— Terek— takes the canteen from Bix, and spins the cap off with his free hand. He pushes it to your lips, and you practically guzzle it down like you had been stranded in the deserts of Tatooine for days. But as soon as he had given it to you, he pulled the canteen away, and all you could do was watch helplessly as he poured the rest on the ground.

“Now,” he tsks. “I think we’re ready to have a little fun, don’t you?”

No, no, no, you think as he stands up. You need to tell them why you’re there. Why you wanted to get caught, who you needed to see...

Cassian.

He was here in the same place as you. You were so close to him. If only you could fucking find the words to speak or move your body the way it needs to.

As Terek walks up to you, you slowly begin to mumble. He smirks, kneeling in front of you.

“You trying to say something, sweetness?”

“...W-Wai… wait,” you finally manage to breathe out, and it feels so good to have at least a small ounce of control despite the drug flowing through your system.

“Wait?” He chuckles. “What do you expect me to wait for—“

“I… You have s-something— someone I need,” you slur, pushing yourself up.

“Oh? Is that so?”

You nod, slowly gaining more control over your movements. “A… rebel.”

Terek’s brow raises, and he sits for a moment as if processing everything, before he gives you a sly smile that sends a shiver along your spine. You try not to show your discomfort, Cassian’s familiar words ringing through your ears.

Don’t give any indication— even the slightest hint of panic or lack of comfort. They will use that against you.

When Terek speaks, the tone of his voice is teasing— almost sing-songy.

“Ah, I see now. It was all a ruse, wasn’t it?” He traces a finger along your cheek, but this time you’re able to pull away. “Bumping into me at the cantina, letting us follow you along down the alleyway. All part of your little plan.”

Terek stands up, snickering as he looks down at you.

“You know, I actually feel flattered. I mean you took the time to find out about us, planned out a way to piss me off, and therefore decided to put yourself in this situation just to get to that man.”

He walks over to a small table, grabbing an item but you can’t quite make it out as he shoves it into his pocket. As he turns back to you, he grins.

“But there is one thing that is just picking at my brain. What could you possibly have that I could use instead of my rebel friend, hmm?”

He lifts your chin up with his dirty finger, and you try hard to focus on him.

“In...information,” you pull your head back from him, swaying a bit. “I can give you… any information.”

“What makes you think I am incapable of getting information, sweet girl?”

“Because… I can give you information about the Alliance and the Empire. You won’t… won’t have to get it from anyone else. You have me,” you mutter. “Just… let him go.”

Terek watches you, before he turns and barks orders at his men in another dialect. A few of them leave, while two others make their way to you. To no avail, you try crawling away only for them to yank you up by your arms.

Your legs felt as if they were made up of Andorian jello, how they shook when they pulled you to stand upright. If you were to stand up with no assistance, you would have only fell back to the ground. You struggle to find your footing as they walk you up to Terek, who smirks down at you.

“Time for some fun.”

++++++

You were dragged along to another room, one in a similar grotesque state as the previous one. The men pulling you along paid no mind to your frail state, and you were sure if they continued moving you the way they did that you were going to vomit.

There was no way of knowing what was going to happen. Terek hasn’t so much as looked back at you the entire walk through their hideout. All you knew was that Terek seemed giddy— there was a slight spring in his step in a cruel way.

“Wakey, wakey!” Terek chimes, and you are brought to a halt behind him. He wasn’t talking to you, though. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I came bearing a gift. One I think you’ll enjoy very much.”

As soon as Terek steps to the side, you’re shoved down to the floor. You stay lying flat on the floor for a moment, your mind spinning. Placing your palms out on the floor, you struggle to lift yourself up.

“Nova…” The faint whisper of the name has your heart catching in your throat. You’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Suddenly, you hear the sound of someone struggling followed with a loud thwap. Looking up, you see one of Terek’s men bring their blaster back as they step out of your line of view. Now you are staring as Cassian tries to recover from the blow, shaking his head until he locks eyes with you. Two men continue to hold him as they restrain his wrists together behind his back before pushing him to his knees.

While you are relieved to see Cassian, the queasiness in your stomach is now from the realization of the situation setting in. You take a moment to just look at him. There are a few bruises on his face, paired with small scratches and dried blood. He looked exhausted.

“Aw, look at that,” Terek chuckles. “A wonderful reunion! You know, I thought today wasn’t going to be eventful at all but...”

He walks past you and over to Cassian, grabbing his chin roughly. “Did you know that that woman over there wanted to be captured? She was offering to trade herself just to get to you, I mean… she must really care about you, huh?”

Terek practically throws Cassian’s face to the side before spinning on his heel, smiling down at you. “Isn’t that right, sweetness?”

You keep your eyes on Cassian, his jaw tense as he glares up at Terek. Cassian’s eyes then move to you, his gaze slightly softening. All you wanted to do in that moment was rush over to him— to embrace him, to help him, to protect him— but you couldn’t even move properly.

Terek takes a moment, exchanging glances between you both before his expression brightens in an evil way.

“Oh, oh… I see what’s going on here!” He laughs, pointing between the two of you. “How did I not see it!”

Terek claps his hands together, before striding over to you, bending down in front of you. He blocks your view of Cassian and grabs your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks tight as he forces you to look up at him.

“You love him, don’t you?”

Your eyes widen but you don’t respond, trying to keep your emotions in check. He looks over his shoulder back to Cassian, but you can’t see his reaction. When he looks back down at you, he tenderly brushes his thumb against your cheek.

Suddenly, he reels the same hand back and you don’t even process what happens because in the blink of an eye you topple back down to the floor, a searing hot pain across your cheek. Your mind is in a flurry— the mix of being slapped hard and the effects from the drug has you struggling hard to focus.

You hear Cassian grunting and another hard hit from a blaster as you shake your head. Terek is now hovering behind you and pulls you up by the collar of your shirt, his nose brushing into your hair as he leans down.

“Answer me when I ask you a question, sweet girl,” Terek sneers into your ear, his entire demeanor changing. Letting out a soft whimper, you close your eyes as he releases your shirt and you fall back to the ground.

“Oh, you do,” his tone changes back, and he chuckles. “That’s why you went through all that trouble.”

Terek kneels back down next to you as he pushes your hair out of your face, feigning pity as he caresses the same spot he slapped you.

“Does he know?” He whispers. ”Please tell me he doesn’t because that just makes things a little more interesting.”

You dare not answer again, waiting for another slap as he pulls his hand back but you don’t feel any contact.

Instead, he lifts you up by your arm, practically dragging you across the floor as you can’t manage to find the strength to lift your legs up. Then, he drops you to the floor only for a moment so he can get behind you and lift you up so you are now sitting up, resting against his chest. Terek holds your head up by wrapping his arm across your neck.

Cassian is directly in front of you, inhaling sharply through his nose. You are forced to look at him, feeling helpless and despicable as Terek holds you up.

“Now, we’re going to play a game. For your sakes, I hope you both participate,” he chuckles into your ear.

Cassian stares down Terek, and if looks could kill you knew he would be dead in an instant if it were up to Cassian.

“Okay, sweetness, I want you to tell me the truth. Do you love him?”

Your breath hitches, and all you can do is look at Cassian with a mix of panic and remorse. This is not how you wanted to admit your feelings. Hell, you didn’t even plan on facing them at all.

Although you know it’s all a game for Terek— a harsh, cruel game— it’s torture for you, and he knows it. How could you answer him? How could you possibly look Cassian in the eye and admit your true feelings?

So you stare. You stare and try to read the look in Cassian’s eyes, but you can’t. All those times Cassian had you work on analyzing people’s emotions, but you could not read his own at this moment.

“Don’t make me ask you again,” Terek growls deeply against your ear. “Do you love him?”

And you still can’t bring yourself to answer, instead you look to the ground, trying hard to bite back tears.

“Alright, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You look up as soon as the first punch is thrown, eyes wide with terror as Cassian’s head falls to the side. As soon as he lifts his head back up, another punch is thrown. Then another. And then another. The pain of just watching was unbearable— it was as if you were getting hit alongside him.

“Stop!” You finally shout, struggling in Terek’s hold. “Don’t hit him!”

Terek’s men pay no mind to you, and this time you watch as Cassian takes a blow to the stomach, hunching over until he is pulled back.

“You know what you have to say, sweet girl.”

Cassian’s eyes meet yours, and you begin sobbing, silently begging them to spare him— to spare him from the physical pain he was subjected to as well as to spare him from having to hear you admit your feelings.

“I’m sorry,” you start to let your head drop down. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“No, no, no,” Terek quickly grabs your chin, forcing you to lift your head to watch as Cassian gets punched in the ribs. You are screaming now, but Terek’s voice still manages to break through. “You know what you have to say. Don’t start apologizing now—”

“—I’m so sorry, Cassian—”

“—This could have been dealt with easily,” he continues to say over your screams. “All you had to do was—”

“Okay!” You shout and Terek holds one hand up.

Cassian groans out in pain, as Terek’s men step away. Each breath he takes seems just a struggle for him, and all you can do is sob at the state he is in.

“Aw, don’t cry. Don’t cry, Shh...” Terek presses his cheek to yours. “Now, I will give you one more chance to answer: do you love him?”

Looking up with tear-filled eyes, you watch as Cassian slowly lifts his head up. The sight of fresh blood upon his face churns your stomach— you don’t want him to have to suffer anymore. Fixing him with an apologetic look, you swallow thickly.

“It’s true…” You whisper, only for your voice to rise just a bit. “It’s true, I do love you, Cassian. I always have… I’m sorry…”

Cassian’s expression is light and you thought for a split moment that there was a bit of hope in his eyes. But then he closes his eyes, and that one movement seems to shatter everything inside of you.

How did you expect for him to look? Relieved? No, of course he wouldn’t. Because although Cassian did care for you, it did not mean that he would reciprocate your feelings and suddenly love you as well.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Terek hums, looking down at you. Your head drops, and you watch as the tears from a small, barely there puddle on the floor. “Or was it?”

Terek gasps playfully. “Oh, no… you’ve been keeping this to yourself, haven’t you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut— you hope that if you do all of this goes away: Terek, the torture… the look on Cassian’s face.

“Oh… I wonder just how long you’ve kept this for yourself, sweet thing,” Terek clicks his tongue. “Must’ve been pretty lonely, craving a man who didn’t even know the true extent of your feelings.”

He lifts your chin up, gripping it tightly as you keep your eyes closed. “Let’s see how he feels about all this.”

He begins brushing the tears off of your cheek. You flinch from his touch and he chuckles. “My, my… isn’t she beautiful? Even after crying?”

He turns to Cassian, who glowers at Terek as he continues to drag his thumb down your cheek. He does not even look at you.

“Do you want to fuck her, Cassian?”

The way Terek says his name fills you with such disgust. You were such an idiot. You did not mean to say his name, it just came out. If you weren’t in the situation you were in now, Cassian sure would have given you a piece of his mind right now.

Cassian’s entire body becomes tense, and while you have seen him angry before, the look he gives Terek causes you to shiver.

“I mean, with a face like hers,” Terek squeezes your cheeks. “How could you not want to stare down at her while you fuck her hard and rough? Oh, I bet she makes the sweetest sounds.”

But Cassian continues to stare straight ahead, not flicking his eyes over to you once. Your heart aches— the fact that Cassian can’t even bring himself to look at you hurts you in the worst possible way.

When Terek releases your cheeks, you are relieved. Until he grips your hair tightly and yanks it back. A slight whimper escapes you and Terek chuckles deeply, trailing a finger along your exposed throat. “See? Oh, Maker. You could definitely have the time of your life getting the best sounds out of this one.”

You are sure he’s ripped some strands of hair based on the stinging pain of your scalp. All you can do is stare at the ceiling, feeling Terek’s disgusting warm breath against your neck as he continues to taunt Cassian.

“If you want, I can give you both a few minutes of alone time. We won’t even peek… much.”

A string of chuckles are heard, but then it is soon followed by the sound of someone grunting and scuffles. You manage to look down, only to catch a glimpse of Cassian now being shoved onto the ground while another man covers his face, blood gushing through his fingers.

“Oh, seems that we might have struck a nerve. Which makes me wonder…”

Terek suddenly pushes you to the floor, and you feel as if you can finally breathe freely. It felt as if he had been holding you up for hours, you did not even realize that the drug was slowly fading away from your body. You were able to push yourself up just barely— enough to watch as Terek makes his way over to Cassian who is now being pulled back up by two men.

Cassian still does not turn to face you, instead watches as Terek leans down close to him. Although you can’t see his face, the picture of him grinning smugly at Cassian is clear in your mind simply from the tone in his voice.

“You don’t just want to fuck her, right? You love her too, don’t you?”

The tension in the room was palpable— a least to you. Everyone else just seemed eager to hear just what Cassian had to say.

Not you.

You were not ready to hear what he had to say in response to that question— especially after you had just admitted your feelings to him. But then it dawns on you.

He doesn’t feel the same way.

Which, of course he doesn’t. How could he? More importantly, why would he?

There was not anything special about you. All you knew how to do was sneak around and trade around information. Cassian could easily find someone to replace you.

All the times you thought that there could be a chance with him— all the memories that flood your mind of the possible maybe you thought at the moment that he cared for you as you had for him— wither away.

Another minute goes by and Cassian still does not answer. Terek lets out a sigh, and you quickly look to the floor as he begins to make his way back to you.

“I told you both, but it seems that you are just as equally stubborn.” You feel a pair of hands lift you up by your arms, and suddenly you are back to facing Terek, who stops in front of you. He shakes his head, putting on a mock pout. “I’m so sorry about this, sweet girl.”

The slap is hard and fast across your cheek, just like the first time moments ago. You hear Cassian yelling something that you do not catch, but Terek does not let up. Another hard slap hits your opposite cheek, and you can’t help it as your vision swirls while your head falls to the side.

Even as you are indisposed, Terek hits you again. This time, his fist is closed and connects hard with your jaw. Instead of keeping you up, Terek’s men let you fall to the ground and you feel Terek’s hard boot connect with your abdomen, knocking the air clear out of you. Cassian must have said something, because Terek halts the next blow to turn to him.

“Is there something you’d like to say?” He asks, palms splayed open. “This can all stop.”

Despite the dizziness and aching pain in your torso, you manage to barely lift your head off the ground. Your vision sets, and you are able to see Cassian as his face twists in anger.

But when his gaze flicks down to you, his features soften— his eyes apologetic and begging for forgiveness. His eyes do not leave yours this time, staring deep into them.

“Nova…” You do not expect him to speak, and you definitely do not expect him to continue to do so in Festian.

Cassian had taught you a few basic phrases here and there when you asked. But, there were times where he would randomly speak to you in Festian without translating. There was particularly one phrase that he would always tell you, and no matter how many times you bugged him about it, he would just simply smile and say the same thing after.

I’ll tell you another time.

So it caught your attention when you heard him speak that same phrase to you with a different look in his eyes.

“Oh, now you’re not playing fair,” Terek waves a finger at Cassian, before glancing over to you. “Well, if that’s how you want to play it…”

Terek stalks towards you, like a hungry nexu on it’s way to pounce on its prey. Your eyes move down to his hand as he reaches down to his side, and when you see light reflecting from the blade, your throat tightens. Trying to crawl away from him with no avail, Terek easily lifts you up by your hair, and drags you along the floor back towards Cassian.

At this point, your heartbeat rings in your ears— you can barely hear Cassian yelling as you are brought in front of him with the blade now lined up with your throat. Terek presses up the blade against your skin, and you try everything in your power not to move.

Balling your fists up— trying to still the trembling throughout your body— you don’t even realize that you’re crying until Terek reaches up and wipes a tear away.

“Now, since you don’t like to play by the rules, I’m proposing a new game,” Terek articulates each word as sharp as the knife in his hand. He grips tightly onto your hair, and you don’t hold back the cry as he does so.

Cassian’s eyes widen at the sight of the knife, and he tries desperately to pull out of the henchmen’s grasp. Terek laughs— a dark and evil sound— at his despair.

“Here's what you’re going to do, Cassian,” Terek sneers. “You’re going to tell our girl here that everything is going to be okay. That she will be okay.”

The tears are falling harder now as you feel the edge of the knife push harder against your skin. Your hands are on Terek’s arm, trying to pull it down, to pull the knife away, but it’s no use. He keeps it in place.

“I want you to lie to her. Go on, make her believe that she’s going to be okay.”

Cassian stares, his eyes flicking back and forth from the knife against your throat to your tear-filled eyes. You had never seen that level of fear from Cassian before, and it only urged on your own. Closing your eyes, you try to steady your breathing until you hear Cassian’s voice.

“...Nova,” he says, the name so soft— softer than you’d ever heard him say before. “Nova, look at me.”

You hesitate to do so, but slowly open up your eyes to see him. His expression has changed, it is much more calmer than before, as is the tone of his voice.

“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, I promise you.”

He says it so tenderly that you... almost believe him. The gentle regard in his eyes, the quiet, calm tone of his voice. But you know better. He was trained to do anything in his power to get people to believe him— to believe every little word that comes out of his mouth.

There is a quiet moment between you both as you stare into each other’s eyes, as if it were just the two of you and there was no Terek or his men in the same room. It takes you back to all those quiet moments you had spent with him when he would visit with you— talking about plans of when the war was over or how you would both change certain aspects of your lives. That sense of comfort and hope fills you, and you find yourself giving him a sad smile as if you do believe him.

“Alright, take him away.”

In an instant, that hope is torn as Cassian is being pulled up to his feet, and you immediately fear the worst.

“No!” You scream, trying to pull out of Terek’s grasp, but he only pushes the knife harder against your neck. You ignore the sting of the blade as it barely pierces through the top layer of your skin as they drag Cassian away.

At this point, you are not scared of the knife anymore. You are scared— no, you are terrified of what they are going to do to Cassian.

“Ah, ah, ahh….” Terek hums, leaning close to you. “You’re going to stay with me and play a little longer, sweet girl.”

Cassian calls out your name and tries hard to yank himself away, his eyes still glued on yours. The room fills with your sobs and Cassian’s voice as he continues shouting the entire time, until his shouts fade away the further they take him.

When you can no longer hear his voice, a part of you feels empty. It’s almost as if your heart was ripped out of your chest and dragged away with Cassian as they took him out of the room. Was this going to be the last time you saw Cassian? Was the last thing you said to him going to be you admitting your love for him?

Did he even believe you when you did? Or did he just think that it was all to get them to stop hurting him?

The next thing you knew, you were being pushed onto the floor and flipped over onto your back. As you kick and squirm and scream, Terek straddles you, making it hard for you to try and get away. He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head as you sob, before holding them down with one hand and bringing the knife back up.

Terek starts to drag it just barely along your cheek, and you automatically freeze out of reflex. He grins— an evil image that will be etched in your mind until he is finished with you.

“Who knew rebels could fall in love, hm?”

Closing your eyes, you feel the knife continue to move along every inch of your face in a tantalizing way. The end of the knife pricks into your cheek, and you feel a drop of blood slide down your cheek along with your tears. You did not even realize you were holding in a breath until you felt him lean down.

“Now that we’re alone, what do you say we have some real fun, hm?”

This was not how you wanted it to end. You did not want to die at the hands of some gang leader, but all the training you went through, all the escape tactics Cassian taught you, was simply nonexistent in your mind at this point.

All you can do is lie there, feeling helpless and alone. You close your eyes, trying to think of something, or rather someone else as you wait for your untimely demise.

Imagine your confusion when you hear the shot of a blaster but don’t feel any sense of pain. When you open your eyes, you watch as Terek topples over on top of you. Staying completely still, you wait for him to make another movement only to realize he was not even breathing.

Before you could take a moment to process everything, his body is being moved off of you, and your eyes are met with Cassian’s.

“Cassian,” you breathe out his name softly— he was okay. He was alive and breathing. He was right there in front of you, close enough for you to touch. They managed to get to him before the worst could happen. And you were so relieved.

Just as you go to reach up for him, a pair of hands slide underneath your arms to lift you up. Looking up, you see the Rebel, Melshi as you remembered from his visit, helping you stand. Instinctively, you clutch onto him, not wanting to be pulled away from the first sense of safety you found since getting in this mess.

“You’re okay,” he says as he lets you hold onto him.

“Took you guys long enough,” you mutter, reaching into a secret pocket in your pants and placing the tracker in his hand.

“Sorry, had trouble with his other men stationed outside.”

You nod simply, before you glance over at Cassian, who watches you closely as you continue to hold onto Melshi. Your heart races as he takes one step forward, his mouth opening as if he wants to tell you something.

He doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he presses his lips together in a thin line and nods up at Melshi, before turning back and talking to another Rebel.

You didn’t understand. There wasn’t anything he had to say to you? He didn’t want to talk about what happened? Did you really ruin things from your confession?

The lump in your throat grows, but you hold back your tears. You could not display your true emotions— you did not want Cassian to see the hurt.

“Come on,” Melshi‘s voice pulls you from your thoughts, leading you out of that terrible room. You still clutch onto him, trying not to take notice of all the bodies as he takes you to the transport.

++++++

You followed Cassian’s own advice— put up your own walls to hide your feelings. The entire flight back, you sat quiet as Melshi placed bacta patches on your visible injuries before leaving you be. Cassian had made his way to the front of the ship, glancing at you every now and then as he took care of his own injuries.

It did not surprise you that he still had not made any effort to talk with you, though with every gaze thrown your way it sure seemed like he wanted to. You were confused, so to say, but you remained impassive.

Maybe Cassian not talking to you was the best thing to happen. Maybe Cassian was not meant to be in your life forever. Hell, with the lives you both live how could you think romance was on the table?

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe you could easily get over this and focus on yourself and what you could do next.

“Hey,” Melshi walks back, handing you a canteen. “We’ll take a look of your injuries when we get to base.”

“I’m fine—“

“You’ve probably got a cracked rib guessing from the way you wince each time you take a breath.”

You do not respond, instead look up at Cassian as he makes his way to the cockpit. He still had not made any attempt to talk to you.

Melshi sighs. “At least let the doctors take a proper look, and then you can be on your way.”

That catches your attention and you look back to him. “Wait, do you think they’ll let me take a ship?”

He scoffs humorously, shaking his head. “I highly doubt that, but I can get you a ride if you need one.”

“Can you?”

He nods, “Buddy of mine has to make a stop at the Ring of Kafrene, but I’m sure they would—“

“No, no… that’s perfect for me.”

Before Melshi can speak, Cassian walks up. Instinctively, you straighten up, as if waiting for him to speak to you directly.

“... We’ll be landing soon.”

“Yes, Captain,” Melshi stands, moving to grab his equipment while you are left alone with Cassian.

The anticipation of waiting for him to say something— anything— hung thickly in the air. So much runs through your mind as he stares down at you, and you wonder what kind of thoughts are running through his own. He looks around, before he steps closer, and you see the soft glow in his features, especially his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You blink once, then twice, and then a third time. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

You were not quite sure why you answered with that. You did not mean to seem harsh but it was quite obvious you weren’t okay. You knew that.

Cassian knew that.

His demeanor changes instantly, and he is back to being the Rebel spy. He shakes his head, his hands moving to his hips.

“You shouldn’t have been there. They shouldn’t have found you— I… I shouldn’t have given your name to them.”

“Yeah, but you did,” you mutter softly. “And I was there. I was there to help you, to rescue you.”

“By trading yourself for me? Why would you think that would work?”

“I told them I could give them information, he seemed interested—“

“Nova, he didn’t care about the information. Why didn’t you see that earlier?” He snaps. “You should have known that was all a game to him.”

“Well, I’m sorry I was more worried about finding you and trying to get you out.”

“I had it handled.”

“That’s not what it looked like to me,” you answer, staring up at him— challenging him.

The ship shakes as it lands, but Cassian keeps his gaze on you until another Rebel comes up to him. Part of you is thankful, because you knew at any moment you would probably burst into tears.

As soon as the ramp lowers down, you hastily make your way out of the transport in search of the medbay. The humid air hits your skin, and you can feel the sweat forming on your brow as you make your way through the crowded hangar. With every step a painful jolt shoots up from your side, and you try pressing your palm flat for some added pressure.

You thought back to that conversation: did Cassian just think you were simply an idiot? Why didn’t you see that earlier? You picture the annoyed look in his eyes, you should have known it was all a game to him.

And maybe he was right, you should have known from that moment you encountered Terek that he was never going to let you and Cassian go without repercussions.

But what infuriated you was the fact that all Cassian seemed to think of you was that you were clueless. That you went in simply without thinking and were just being an idiot.

Just as you make your way past a group of pilots, you feel a hand grasp yours, and quickly turn around. Cassian has his back to you as he pulls you along, leading you out of the hangar to a more secluded area.

As soon as you both are alone, Cassian stops and turns to you with an unreadable look on his face. He still has your hand in his, and doesn’t seem too eager to release it.

“I have to go to the medbay,” you sigh, moving to pull your hand away. Cassian ignores your statement and continues to keep a tight grip on your hand.

“Nova, what’s going on?”

“We already talked about this—“

“No, there’s more and you’re just not telling me.”

Turning away from him, you try to keep your thoughts exactly that— all you wanted to do was get checked out in the medbay and catch a ride away from this humid, seemingly crowded base.

But Cassian was not stupid, he could easily read you like a book— you wouldn’t even be surprised if he could even read your thoughts at some times.

Your jaw tightens, and all you can do is shake your head at him. “I’m sick of this.”

“Sick of what—“

“Sick of you thinking I am just clueless in these situations. That I don’t know what I’m doing— I knew what I was doing the moment I let them take me.”

He says your name but you don’t relent. You’re angry— angry that he is trying to get out of talking about what happened other than you being there.

“And I’m sick of you trying to cause a fight over something else rather than talking about the real issue here.”

“And what’s the real issue here?”

“What did you say to me? Back there when Terek…”

You cut yourself off, unable to finish the sentence before exhaling shakily. “I know that the situation wasn’t… ideal, but what I said was the truth. And it kills me that you had to find out that way, but it’s true. I do love you, Cassian. I always have. But the look on your face after I said it I just…”

You finally look up at him with pleading eyes. “What did you say when Terek… You’ve said that to me before, and every single time I asked what it meant you never told me. But then out of the blue you say the exact same phrase when Terek was playing his game with us. So just… please. Please, Cassian, be honest with me.”

Cassian remains silent, and all you can do is stare at him, silently begging him to speak even if it’s to reject you or even if it’s any indication that he does harbor the same feelings you do. You just want him to tell you what he never did all those other moments he spent with you.

He opens his mouth and you all but ready yourself until he looks behind you, his gaze darkening with emotion. When you turn, you spot Melshi jogging up to you, nodding at Cassian before moving his attention to you.

“Sorry for interrupting, I was just checking to see if you went to the medbay yet.”

“No… not yet.”

“Okay, well make sure you do and come find me after, okay? I’ll help you out.”

“I will,” you smile softly. “Thank you, Melshi.”

“Of course,” he turns to Cassian. “General Draven is looking for you, Captain.”

“I’ll be there shortly,” Cassian answers, stiffly. You take note of his tone, glancing over at him. Melshi doesn’t seem to catch it, instead salutes him before giving you a nod and walking off.

“So, you’re friendly with Melshi now?”

A flicker of irritation flashes through you— he was not being serious, was he? Was he just trying to say anything to get out of this conversation? You can only scoff at his words.

“So now you’re just trying to start another fight? Is that it?”

Cassian’s previously hardened gaze eases, and he moves to reply but you are too fired up to let him speak.

“I just don’t understand you, Cassian. You say or do one thing and then the next you’re back to being this…” you wave your hands out at him. “And I’m just— I’m sick of it!”

“Nova—“

“Don’t. Please, just… I’m tired, Cassian. I’m tired and I’m confused and I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

You feel tears begin to brim— the ache in your chest becomes overwhelming the longer you stand there staring into Cassian’s eyes. You were tired, physically and emotionally. There was not much more you could deal with, especially not this.

“What was it you said to me? Please… I don’t know how much longer I can dance around this with you. I’ve known you for so long and yet you still build up these walls when you’re with me that I can’t seem to get past.”

You didn’t even know you had begun to cry until Cassian brought his hand up to your face, gently brushing the tears away with your cheek. He has comforted you before— held you when you had nightmares. So instead of pulling away, you can only lean into his touch automatically despite the emotions boiling within you.

“I just want the truth, okay? Why can’t you just give me that? How much longer do I have to beg for you to—“

In a moment faster than light speed, Cassian had used his hands to grab your cheeks and pull you towards him, capturing your lips with his in a fervent, passionate kiss. You’re too shocked to move away, so many thoughts running through your mind that it all becomes a blur in an instant.

It was everything— the moment his lips touched yours, you melted. You became putty in his hands as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss.

But yet…

After years of imagining what his lips would feel like pressed against yours, you wanted to lose yourself within the kiss, you truly did. But as you pull back and stare up into Cassian’s dark luminous eyes, you’re left more confused than ever.

Was there a sense of affection in his eyes? Or were you just hoping that it was there, just as you had hoped he loved you the way that you love him?

Or worse, was he just playing you? Was he just using every skill he was taught on you and this was the spy you had heard many stories about?

Your name rolls off his tongue in a whisper that pulls you from your rambling mind, and before he can speak, a deep voice calls for him. The both of you turn your heads, but Cassian is the one who takes a full step away from you.

Just like that, his walls were back up.

“Captain Andor,” the man you assumed to be General Draven walks up, glancing between the both of you. You avert your gaze, looking down at the floor to give them a sense of privacy.

“General.” Cassian salutes— ever the perfect soldier.

“We’re going to need your report on the incident right now, we’ll be meeting in the mission briefing room.”

“Yes, General.”

He soon walks off the way he came, and you are left once again in the midst of an awkward silence with Cassian, as if what happened moments ago didn’t happen. He stares down at you, regret littered upon his face— like he is torn.

Please don’t go.

“I, Uh…” he breathes out, not quite sure what to say. But that alone was enough for you to dismiss it. “Nova—“

“It’s fine,” you shake your head, avoiding his gaze. “You should… you should go. It’s important stuff…”

He says your name softly and steps towards you again, but you squeeze your eyes shut and close in on yourself.

“I have to go to the medbay, anyways.”

Cassian sighs, and takes a moment before he whispers an ‘okay’. You feel him brush his fingers against the back of your hand before opening your eyes.

Don’t cry, for the love of stars, don’t you dare cry.

“When I’m finished, I’ll come find you. We can… we’ll talk, okay?”

You can only manage a small nod and force a smile— hoping it’s convincing enough that you are okay. While he stares at you, obviously not convinced, the good soldier in him follows his orders and turns to leave.

All you want to do is scream. And shout. You want to hit the wall or kick the metal crates next to you. You want to cry.

But you don’t.

Instead, all you do is stand in place, watching Cassian round the corner to leave you behind. The kiss plays over and over in your mind, like a broken hologram you needed to fix just to skip over the next part as a way to get over the sorrowful ache in your chest.

You shouldn’t have expected anything less. Part of you debates running after him, but you can’t think clearly enough to decide what action you would take. Would you have kissed him again? Or would you just go straight to demanding an explanation from him and possibly end up starting another argument?

Despite everything running through your mind— despite what your heart was telling you to do— the only thing you could physically do in that moment was let your legs with each shaky step lead you to find Melshi.

As you look through the hangar, you’re too preoccupied to notice the tall droid standing in your path. You manage to glance up just before running into it, and you look up to see the familiar reprogrammed Imperial droid.

“Hello, Nova.”

No matter how many times you insisted he call you by your real name, K2S-O still used the same name Cassian would. Cassian would bring him along for visits every now and then, and you got on well. You always teased that Kay liked you more than Cassian did.

“Oh, hi Kay.”

“Are you looking for Cassian? He’s meeting—“

“No, no.” You shake your head. “I’m… I was just with him, so… I was looking for the medbay.”

“Well, it’s in the opposite direction. And you seem to be in a hurry to leave. Would you like for me to get the Captain?”

“No, Kay,” you sigh. “Just… don’t tell him you saw me, okay? Please?”

“You seem to be in distress.”

A dry chuckle escapes you, and you close your eyes. “Just… please, if he asks about me just say you didn’t see me.”

“I see. I will tell him exactly that.”

You hear heavy footsteps walk away from you and when you look back up, you see that Kay is gone. Part of you feels guilty for having Kay lie to Cassian for you— you know how loyal the droid is to him. But you just needed to leave, to clear your head.

As soon as you spot Melshi, you take the one chance that you can get to do exactly that.

++++++

It would have been a lie to say that you were handling things well since you’ve been back home. Since you didn’t get the proper medical help back on Yavin IV, you had to stop by the nearest medic to get checked out. After a few bacta patches were wrapped around you and a lovely health stim was injected into you, you thought you would be good to go.

If only the trip to the medic was able to help the rest of you heal.

Sleep was rough. There were some nights you had made it through, but others you were lucky to even get through one or two hours. If you weren’t tossing and turning all night from the pain in your ribs, there were images of Terek flashing behind your eyes— you could practically feel the knife against your throat each time.

And then of course there was Cassian and the kiss. You wondered if you made the right decision, leaving without telling him. He deserved that at least… right? Did he even bother looking for you? Even if he did… it was already too late.

You tried not to think about the kiss often, but it was hard to do so since it was something you had truly longed for. The warmth of his lips against yours and the way that his hands felt as they held your cheeks… it was everything you had imagined.

A few shouts between a shopkeeper and a customer bring you back to the present, and you quickly hand over a few credits before gathering your small bag of fruit and making your way home. Now wasn’t the time to think about that.

Pushing past various individuals alike, you keep your head down as you continue back down the path to the inn. You really needed to find a way off this small moon— maybe finding a small job to help get you some extra credits or making yourself worthy of becoming a crew member on a ship would be the best ways to go about it. Either way, a fresh start might do you some good.

As you turn around a corner to an alleyway, an eerie feeling slithers its way up your back. Was someone following you? Did someone from Terek’s group survive and track you down? With your heart pounding, you try casting a look over your shoulder, but all you saw was a stray tooka cat running through the metal trash bins. Shaking your head, you quickly turn on your heel and practically run back to the inn.

It’s nothing, it’s nothing. No one is following you, all of Terek’s men are dead.

It runs through your mind like a mantra spoken by the Guardians of the Whills— you knew it was impossible for any of Terek’s men to survive the raid from the Rebellion and if they had, it was impossible for them to know where you were.

Practically out of breath, you finally make it to the inn, and rush straight for your room. You make sure to lock the door and turn the lights on, feeling a little more relieved when you do so until you hear someone take a step behind you.

“You left.”

The bag you were carrying slips from your hand at the sound of his voice, and you listen as the shurra fruit you purchased tumbles along the floor. You don’t even bother with the fruit as Cassian walks out from the corner of the room, his eyes never straying away from you.

He’s healed well, you note as he stops in front of you. His bruises shrunk down with a bit of yellowing around the edges, and the cuts that once littered his cheek and lips were nonexistent.

You were too focused on looking over him that you didn’t take into account what he was doing here. It had been a few weeks since the incident, and you figured that he was going to stay focused on Alliance stuff. Were you happy that he was here?

Deep down, yes.

Although, the expression on your face probably told him otherwise.

“Cassian…” Is all that you can manage to say as he reaches down to pick up the fruit, handing them to you. You try ignoring the way his fingers linger against yours as he places them in your hands, taking his time to pull away.

“You left,” he says again— dark eyes boring into yours. “I went back and looked everywhere for you. Twice.”

“I…”

You hated that you couldn’t find the words to explain. Absolutely hated it. The longer you stared at him, the longer you began to regret the decision you had made. Maybe you shouldn’t have left, but you did.

“When I finally told Kay, he said you asked him not to tell me that you left.”

That damn droid, you think, although you don’t really blame him. He was loyal to Cassian.

Cassian waits for you to answer, but you still can’t. Instead, you move to the small table you frequently ate your meals at to set the fruit down. Footsteps come up behind you, but you don’t turn to face him.

“Why did you leave?” He asks in a whisper you barely catch. “I told you that I would come back so we could talk about what happened. I meant that.”

Talk about what happened. Closing your eyes, you can easily picture Cassian grabbing your face and pressing his lips to yours. It makes your heart race in the most wonderful way possible, even though at the time you were just so confused and still in shock from the events before. You still were. You didn’t know why he had kissed you or what his reasoning was— you kept telling yourself that it wasn’t what you hoped it to be, and that you were just over analyzing.

Another soft step is taken towards you, and you can feel Cassian closer than ever.

“...Nova—“

“Why did you do that?” It comes out too quick before you could stop yourself. “Why did you kiss me?”

It takes everything in your power not to face Cassian— you didn’t want him to see you in this vulnerable state you were in. Instead, you wait.

You wait, and you wait until he finally speaks.

“...Because I didn’t know how else to tell you how I feel about you,” he mutters. “When it comes to… words, I… it’s hard for me to express myself by using my words. You know that.”

He’s right. For as long as you’ve known Cassian, he was more of a physical person— he relied on action rather than words. So when you finally turn to face him, it’s there that you realize just how vulnerable he is in this moment. His gaze is fixed on yours, but you know his mind is racing trying to choose what he should say next.

“So when I kissed you… I was hoping that— well, I just hoped it would show you how I truly feel. But me leaving right after… I shouldn’t have done that. I regretted it the moment I took that first step because I should have stayed and told you that…”

When he tries to continue, you watch his mouth open and close until he groans, running his hand down his face in frustration. He lets out a breath, before looking back at you, and taking a step towards you until his chest is just centimeters away from yours.

He leans close to you, and gods, when he whispers that familiar phrase you can only stay frozen in place. You stare up at him— waiting for him to speak again.

“...You’ve always asked me what it meant, and I told you I would tell you someday.” He swallows. “It’s because I was terrified then, but now…”

Cassian’s fingers brush against your hand, the simple touch sending your heart in a flurry of beats.

“You mean everything to me. You appeared in my life so suddenly like… like a sudden bright light— one that I have dreaded losing sight of.” He grabs your hand. “When they were taking me away, I thought that was going to be the last time I saw you. It was like the light was dimming with every step they took but then…”

He looks down, bringing your hand up to his lips as he holds it tightly.

“I wanted to tell you right then and there how I truly feel about you. But I just…”

You place your hand on his cheek, lifting his gaze. His eyes meet yours without flinching, a sparkle of intensity between you both.

“Tell me,” you breathe out in a mere whisper.

You wonder if Cassian can hear the heart races due to how silent it is now and how close he is. If you were just a few centimeters closer…

“I love you. I’ve always loved you, stars, Nova. You’re my everything. You’ve always been.” He admits. “That’s what I’ve been telling you from the first moment you asked what I meant. Every time you asked me what I was saying… that was it. I was telling you that I love you.”

And that was all you needed to hear.

Those words— finally hearing what he has struggled to say and what you weren’t sure to be true before— work their way through your mind over and over on a loop. In an instant, you’re the one who closes the small space between you as you press your lips against his in a desperate, long awaited kiss. Cassian wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you even closer as he returns the kiss.

Everything in that moment is all you’ve ever dreamt of— as if fate was in play here. Many nights spent fantasizing about this among other things were just that, fantasies, but Cassian was here and just as real as ever.

When Cassian’s fingers dig into your waist, you let out a hiss, and he quickly pulls back. He watches as you press a hand to your side, scared as if he was the one who hurt you.

“Sorry—“

“I’m okay, still a little tender,” you reassure, stepping closer to him. “I’m fine, Cassian.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am,” you nod, before grabbing his jacket and pulling him back to kiss you.

He still seemed hesitant to grab you, but when you place his hands on your waist he seems to relent. What he doesn’t do is hold back when kissing you, and you were grateful for that. You wanted him— all of him in that moment.

Sliding his jacket off, you let him lead you back towards the bed. His fingers tease your skin at the hem of your shirt, before he breaks the kiss to pull it over your head completely. His eyes slowly trail down along your body, and he freezes as he sees the small cuts and bruises.

His expression changes, and you press the palm of your hand against his cheek.

“Are you sure this is okay?” He asks, genuine concern laced in his eyes. “I know you… went through something horrible—“

“We both did, Cassian,” you brush your thumb along his skin. “I don’t want to stop. I want you… I want to feel you.”

Cassian’s eyes study you, searching for any hint of hesitation or even fear probably. In return, you give him a small smile, and you watch as the gaze in his eyes softens. He kisses you, a deep and passionate notion, and you each fumble with the rest of your clothes.

He lies you down, hovering over you as he moves between your legs. He trails feather-light kisses along every inch of your skin, as if trying not to miss any spots. He leads a path from your collarbone, between the valley of your breasts until he moves over. He kisses your right mound, carefully kissing and flicking his tongue over your nipple while he caresses the other one with his hand. Soon, he switches over, doing the exact same thing.

You’re sure that he can feel the way your heart beats, how it races with each kiss, nibble, and lick he gives you. A quiet hum escapes you, and you glance down as you feel Cassian continue his course. He takes careful measure to kiss every bruise and cut that litters your skin along your torso, a silent apology almost.

Arousal pools between your legs with every single touch Cassian makes— you’re sure to be dripping by the end. Cassian moves down lower, his lips brushing against your thighs as he inches closer to your aching sex.

“You smell so sweet,” his voice comes out in a deep whisper. “Always wondered what you tasted like. Had so many dreams about making you come with my mouth.”

His fingers brush against your wet pussy lips, gathering the slick as he moves up and gently circles your sensitive clit. By this time, you’re already lost. Your mind is left in a daze; the touches, kisses, and the words coming from Cassian hits you hard each time. He had dreams about you—like you did him— but hearing him saying this out loud only turned you on even more.

He looks up, staring deep into your eyes.’”Can I...“

When you feel Cassian begin to push your thighs further apart, you sit up, and pull him back up. Confusion covers his face and you kiss him deeply. While the thought of Cassian delving between your thighs and making you come just from his mouth sounds exquisite, you simply want to feel him inside you already. When you tell him just that, he nods, and presses his lips to yours as you lie back down.

His hard cock brushes against the inside of your thigh, and fuck you are just aching for him. He nestles between your thighs, breaking the kiss to stare down at you.

“Are you—“

“Don’t you dare stop, Cassian Andor.”

Something flashes in his eyes, whether it be amusement or adoration, it’s gone before he leans down to take your lips with his. Cassian grabs one of your hands and presses it next to your head, entwining his fingers with yours, and when he pushes inside of you, you see stars.

No, you see the entire galaxy.

You and Cassian seem to inhale sharply at the same time, and he squeezes your hand tightly. He feels perfect, as if you were both made for each other. And when he starts moving, it’s even better than you’ve imagined.

Sure, you were no stranger to sharing a bed with someone, but it was nothing like this. It wasn’t the face of whatever current partner you were taking that flashed through your mind, but it was always Cassian’s. For so long, you had wondered what it would feel like to have Cassian inside you— to feel his hands caress every inch of your body as you both bring each other to the brink of ecstasy.

You no longer had to wonder, because every thrust from Cassian was everything. This wasn’t just sex with Cassian, this was making love, and by the gods you never wanted to forget this moment. It’s slow, but hard— like he is trying to make sure to hit every spot inside of you. His fingers dig into your hip, but the pleasure you’re receiving erases any sense of pain you felt from your bruises.

When you throw your head back against the pillow, Cassian is quick to kiss your pulse— a moan escapes you as he begins flicking his tongue and sucking your skin. You try rolling your hips with his, meeting each thrust as they increase with pace. He never once releases his grip on your hand, instead presses it deeper into the mattress while the other hand lifts your leg around his waist.

The new angle exposes more of you, and as his cock hits that spot inside of you, you’re left begging as you writhe underneath him.

“Kriff, Cassian—“ you’re cut off with a gasp. “Don’t… don’t stop.”

When he speaks, it’s in whispers of his language that you barely catch. Only… when you come out of your daze to listen to what he says, your chest bursts with a warmth you haven’t felt in so long as you recognize

I love you.

You’re my everything.

I love you.

And stars, the way he says your name each time is like music to your ears— a symphony of moans which would soon reach that wonderful climax.

Your free hand cups the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair gently as you pull him down to kiss you, muttering your love for him as well. Cassian returns the fervent kiss, as he snaps his hips hard into yours over and over again. You’re so close, you can feel your orgasm practically begging to be released with every moan of his name that catches in the back of your throat.

When it finally hits you, you’re left in such a euphoric daze that the only thing you remember is the way Cassian clutches on to your hand and how he rides you through it. White lights soon flash behind your eyelids, and you can only hold tight onto Cassian. You barely catch the way he kisses your neck or how he urges you to come earnestly through short breaths. With the way your cunt squeezes around him, Cassian soon follows with his seed pouring into you.

Small whines as Cassian loses himself are heard, and as you fall slack into the mattress, you feel Cassian bury his face in your neck. He slowly rocks into you, sending jolts of small pleasure through your body, until he finally comes to a stop. Neither of you move right away, instead bask in the way your breaths sync together.

When you do move, Cassian is the first to do so, but only to kiss you lightly along your neck. You hum, tilting your head back until Cassian is now looking down at you. So many words, so many things to say to you are probably running through his mind right now.

He brushes his thumb along your cheek, staying silent as he takes all of you in. He leans down, kissing you over and over again as if this was the last time he was going to be able to do so.

He only stops when you pull away, and even still he has to touch some part of you to know that this is real. When you push back his hair, he relaxes.

“...Cassian?”

“Hm? Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

“No,” you shake your head, smiling. “I just…”

“What is it, love?”

Love. That’s what all this— what everything has been between you both. Unspoken, but there. Now that it’s said aloud, you never want to stop hearing it, or saying it for the matter.

“I love you.”

When Cassian smiles— a wonderful sight— you truly feel whole from the way he gently touches you and the soft response of his voice.

“I love you, too. My Nova.”

#cassian andor x reader #cassian andor #cassian x reader #cassian andor imagine #diego luna #rogue one

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jacket-enjoyer-69 · 3 years

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Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Hotline Miami (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Jacket/Reader Characters: Jacket (Hotline Miami), Beard (Hotline Miami), Reader Additional Tags: Violence, Gore, Blood, bludgeoning, Vomiting, TW: Vomit, Vomit, TW: Blood, Gross, body - Freeform, corpse, Mental Illness, extreme violence, Detailed Violence, Gross details, Hiding a Body, Murder Summary:

You've been alone in the town you grew up in for a while when finally an old friend moves back only for things in this quiet area to get loud.

#i know it's late #don't mind me #fanfic #hotline miami #jacket/reader #it'll happen eventually #hlm #jacket

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

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hello yes i am a basic bitch when it comes to obey me and i would sell part of my soul for anything mammon. i just... love him. thank u

What an unfortunate choice of phrasing! Otome refuses to tell me all those sweet, sweet world-building details about pacts and magic and such, so I will continue making up the rules as I see fit until the Shall We Date Gods descend to personally correct me. Assume this Darling is just a normal human, too, rather than the MC. We all need a little witchcraft, sometimes.

Title: An Agreement.

TW: Blood, Blasphemy and Non-Graphic Violence.

“I want a safety net.”

It was one of those phrases that sounded better in your head than it did out loud. You’d been repeating it to yourself all day, all week, the wording changing from time to time, but never straying from the soul of the statement. You’d liked the ring of it, how simple it seemed and how general it was, and yet, you couldn’t help but cringe as Mammon raised an eyebrow, your focus reflexively dropping from his face to one of the many, many candles littered around your apartment’s bedroom. The ritual hadn’t forbid normal lights or included anything about the pentagram your demonic guest was currently standing on, but they’d felt right, a few hours ago. Now, it just felt like you were a teenager telling ghost-stories at a sleepover, a flashlight still clutched in one hand.

It was a sleepover Mammon had chosen to attend, though.

His presence alone was enough to spur you on.

“You’ll have to be more specific, sweetheart.” His voice was steady, unfaltering. You had a feeling he wanted to draw this out much longer than you cared to. “I don’t deal in ‘safety nets’.”

“You know what I mean,” You mumbled, attempting to keep your tone as authoritative as his. It felt over-dramatic, too ominous to be taken seriously, and you tried to make up for your weakness by pushing yourself to your feet as you continued. “I don’t want to worry about money. I’ve spent too much time thinking about that kind of thing already, and I can’t afford basic maintenance to be an obstacle.” You paused, for a moment, crossing your arms. The last thing you wanted to come off as was unsure. “I need insurance.”

“Ah, the human can’t take care of itself?” He didn’t try to hide his mocking lilt, an unsubtle drawl that undeniably meant your greatest wish was little more than child’s play to the demon. You could only be thankful that ‘painfully doable’ was better than ‘impossible’. “I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve been watching your kind for thousands of years, and every one of ‘em is more breakable than the last. ‘s not my problem, though. What do I get out of it?”

You swallowed, dryly. “My soul.”

Mammon didn’t argue. He stared, scanning over your still form and taking in what there was to take in, his dissatisfaction obvious in everything from his shifting, disgruntled posture to the scowl pressed into his lips, downturned and disapproving. But, your offer was accepted with a curt nod, and stiffly, you stuck out a hand, the action much less composed than you’d hoped for it to be. Mammon took a second to evaluate the offer, a low chuckling rolling from his lips as he finished. You didn’t have to guess which conclusion he reached, not when he was so quick to declare it. “That ain’t gonna cut it.”

Before you could ask what he meant, a taloned fist was clamped around your wrist, jerking you forward and letting you stumble into his outstretched arms as he pulled you into his chest, pinning you against him, his mouth crashing into yours. The gesture wasn’t prim or professional, it was rough, violent, fangs tearing into your lower lip and creating a jagged, bloody line, its metallic taste following a second later. He dropped your wrist in favor of entangling his fingers in your hair, only pulling back to add his own donation, a hole soon punctured in the side of his tongue and his warm, black blood left to mix with yours, the congealed combination soon dripping from the unattended corner of your mouth. Mammon grunted, the wordless noise further stifled by your proximity, or lack thereof, rather, and without warning, a warmth filled your chest, then drained all-too-abruptly. An awareness, then the realization that something that belonged to you no longer did. An absence of something that couldn’t be absent.

You were aware that there’d be side-effects, and yet, you weren’t prepared when your knees began to buckle, when an exhaustion too cold and too thorough took the place of what you’d lost, leaving you too tired to tolerate Mammon and the bitterness now coating your tongue. He seemed more than content to go on, but with a shove to his chest and a heel driven into his foot, his face was buried in the crook of your neck, biting at the skin of your collarbone, attacking it. “Stop,” You demanded, although it came out more like a particularly passionate suggestion. “You’ve gotten your part, now I want mine. I don’t care how you do it, as long as I--”

“As long as you’re safe, and happy, and you get to sit on your lazy ass all day without starving to death.” You felt your shoulders square, your body go tense, but Mammon was grinning before you could deny it, your candles suddenly not nearly enough to keep the room from darkening. “I’ve been around your kind enough to know that, I’ve been watching you long enough to know that. I’m not the brightest, but I can catch your drift.” His back straightened, Mammon rising to his full height for the first time since you summoned him. He let go of your hair, but you didn’t dare struggle. Not when he suddenly seemed so much bigger than you. “Aw, the poor thing’s scared, isn't it? Tell me, which one’s worse? Worrying about a little trouble further down the line, or the big, bad demon you called to ease your mind?”

“That’s not your place to ask.” You winced as a pair of pointed canines tore through flesh and muscle, rooting themselves below your jugular before pulling themselves free, the latter bringing tears to your eyes. The pain was hot, spiking and searing throughout the process, but if Mammon cared, he didn’t feel the need to show it, only moving on to search for his next target as you went on. “We had an agreement. You don’t get to tell me what I want.”

“An agreement…” He muttered, his smirk pressing into your neck. “Don’t worry about that, baby. I’m gonna take real good care of you, once I’m done here.”

It didn’t take a genius to understand what he was saying, and you reacted appropriately, kicking and clawing and moving to yell, before anything you could’ve said was silenced by a breathy, unabashed laugh, as self-satisfied as it was insidious. “Where?” You spat, if only to hear something besides Mammon. “I want to know where I’m going, or I’m not taking a step.

Mammon only smiled, squeezing your hip playfully. You shuddered, but he couldn’t have cared if he tried.

“We’re going home.”

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hardtack-ao3 · 2 years

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The Breaking Point Finale (Chpt. 22)

My Undertale boneblossom/nyehctar fanfic, “The Breaking Point” has finally concluded! If you’re unfamiliar with it, please read the content warnings and tags before engaging because this fic is highly graphic and potentially upsetting, and then if that doesn’t bother you, I would highly recommend reading the prequel “All There In the Name” before reading this one, so you have context.

Still, it’s been a journey, and I wanted to thank all of my readers who’ve been supporting me this whole way. Now that it’s over, it’s the perfect time for new readers to get into it, since you can just read it all in one go!

Chapter 22 - New Game+

Rating and Archive Warnings:

Explicit, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Fandom:

Undertale (Video Game)

Category and Relationships:

M/M, Flowey/Papyrus (Undertale), Flowey & Papyrus (Undertale)

Characters:

Flowey (Undertale), Papyrus (Undertale), Human Souls (Undertale), Sans (Undertale), Original Human Character(s), Undyne (Undertale)

Additional Tags Under The Cut (tw injury, tw torture, tw drug use, tw rape, tw death), and the synopsis plus links to the work itself.

Bad times are ahead, Very offhanded descriptions of minor character death, Photoshop Flowey (Undertale), Thorny vines, human death, Gaster Blaster Papyrus (Undertale), Headcanons about soul magic, Most of this will take place on the Surface, Abduction, Kidnapping, Mild Gore, Broken Bones, Torture, Sensitive bones, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Fingerfucking, i guess?, Learning how to empathy, Verbal Abuse, High Stakes, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character Death(s), Flashbacks, Origin Story, ViP Sex (Vine in Pelvis), Near Death Experiences, Serious Injuries, Broken Bones PT 2, Thorns again, A little backstory, Action, Epic Battles, Lots of humans dying but not described in gory detail or anything, Bugs & Insects, Feelings Realization, Soul Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Requited Unrequited Love, Different perspectives, Implied Patricide, Eyestrain, (Lots of Gaster talking and me using the wingdings font for it), Video Game Mechanics, Stealth Mission, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Impalement, Chaos, Headcanons about human magic, Someone briefly gets eaten, Even more headcanons about human magic, Papyrus can't avoid fighting this time, Mind Meld, Ultimate Form, Sharing a Brain, Mind Battles, Recovery, Permanent Injury, Survivor Guilt

Synopsis:

Flowey has finally attained the godlike status he deserves, and with his newfound powers, he can show everyone the true meaning of this world. But, just suppose, how lonely it would be to be the last being in the world? Even evil loves company.

Deltarune got me back into the mood for Undertale! If you've read my previous fic "All There in the Name", you know what kind of shit I'm about. This fic is actually a sequel to that one, so go back and read it or some elements of this story may not make sense!

If none of this bothers you, start reading the story here!

If this upsets you, don’t read! I have a pinned post disclaimer on my blog, everything is tagged appropriately, and hate will not be answered. You can ask me to tag things I have forgotten/not mentioned that bother you.

#undertail #undertail fanfic #undertail papyrus #undertale flowey #tw rape #tw noncon #tw torture #tw gore #tw drugs #tw death #tw abuse #tw abusive relationships #ask to tag

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ecccentrick · 3 years

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Jaskier Should Really Listen to Geralt

Pt. 1 if anyone wants more?

Tw: referenced child death, something that can be construed as becoming noncon, but nothing graphic.

The sun was just sinking when they came across a hamlet. It was so small that it didn’t have a proper name, but big enough to have a notice board that announced grievances and inquiries from all the surrounding civilization.

Geralt went directly towards the said notice board, leading Roach by her reins as the street was too small to safely ride through without trampling one of the villagers. At this point, Jaskier hadn’t a care whether villagers got squashed, his feet ached so. He glared half-hardheartedly at the back of Geralt’s big head, counting the horrid tangles in his hair to pass the time.

"Geralt! This hamlet hasn’t even a true tavern! How am I supposed to make coin if there isn’t even a place to drink?”

Without turning around, Geralt said, “So you admit it?”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose, something he only truly did in Geralt’s presence, since he didn’t want to develop fine lines, nor draw attention to the very few that were already there.

“Admit what?”

“That drink has to loosen pockets for you to get any coin.”

“Ah-wha- G-GERALT!” Jaskier sputtered. So distracted was he, that his boots found a puddle, splashing mud all up his new trousers.

He already hated this cursed town.

Turned out that the hamlet housed more people than previously thought; or at least it had, before the attacks.

“We just don’t know what to do,” cried one villager, her blonde hair coming free from her bun. She looked to be in middle years, despite having been the parent of a small child. But, then again, tragedy aged folks, Jaskier had found.

“Tell me all you can,” Geralt said, for what had to be the third time. The woman was in hysterics, not that anyone could blame her. She had just lost a child.

“Well, we’s find them -- the bodies, sir witcher, that is -- in the roads or the fields. They’s seem unharmed, but for a bite or two, barely any blood around. Like whatever’s come taken their life for sport. We’s almost feel better if they’s been taken for food, so as not much of a waste,” said the alderman, an arm around the grieving woman. It did nothing to console her, her body wracked with sobs. “Wish wha’ever this beast is, it’d spare the youngin’s and take us old folk.”

Jaskier felt a little awkward that he was still there, but they had accosted Geralt before he even had the chance to completely read the notices on the board. So, taking his chance, he sidled up a little closer, trying to hear all the details.

“What did the bodies look like? Have you buried them all?”

The woman wept even harder, but managed to say, “No, our girl was just found this mornin’. You can go -- go have a look. If...If you think it wise, sir witcher.”

Geralt nodded before looking to Jaskier. Well, that was his queue to leave. He didn’t want to see a child’s dead body, anyhow. The poor thing.

Jaskier made himself at home at the only inn in the hamlet. Calling it an inn was generous, as it had two rooms and a cot that could be used in the kitchen. At least it had a few stools and a table in the main room, and served watered down ale.

It felt too somber for him to play anything, so he sat down at the only table and ate dinner, sipping at the surprisingly good ale. He’d have to make sure Geralt had some before they left, which could take some time, apparently. The beast was eluding the witcher, of course, but for the first time that Jaskier can remember, Geralt didn’t know what it was, exactly. He had his suspicions, Jaskier could tell, but he wouldn’t speak of them.

The witcher looked grumpier than usual when he left, with a warning for Jaskier to, under no circumstances, to leave the inn during the night. The beast only attacked at night, and Jaskier was to have zero dalliances that night. Jaskier snorted. If only the witcher knew that there hadn’t been many dalliances of late. And may he never know the reason why.

It was getting late when Jaskier decided he needed to get some sleep, the full moon illuminating the inn so brightly that there was hardly any need for torches and lanterns, when a man sat across from him, two mugs of ale in his hands.

“Care for a drink?” the fellow asked.

Jaskier examined the man. He was around the bard’s age (which shall never be fully confirmed) with bright red hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He had a smirk on his face that didn’t quite sit well with Jaskier, but he was attractive enough for him to take the free drink.

“You come with the witcher?” the man asked, taking a sip from his cup.

“I did. I am his bard, the great Jaskier, top graduate of Oxenfurt Academy. Perhaps you’ve heard a few of my songs? A ballad or two?”

The man nodded. “Heard your song about coins and witchers. Mighty catchy. Say, is your witcher truly as noble as you claim?”

Jaskier’s leg began to bounce in excitement. Finally! Someone who wanted to hear his opinions, and about his favorite topic at that!

They talked for a long while, Jaskier catching and hitting all of his queues. The man soon reached across and sat his hand on the bard’s knee, slowly sliding up to his thigh. A zing of another type of excitement went through him, and any rules set upon him flew out the window. Besides, he wouldn't be leaving the inn, so no rules would be broken.

“Want to go upstairs?”

The stranger nodded. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Now. Jaskier is aware that, when it comes to men, he has a type. He can (mostly) admit it. They have to be big, and burly, and able to throw him over their shoulder, or perhaps toss him here and there, just a bit.

The red head didn’t quite fit this standard. He was more on the lithe side, and his hair was cut close to his head. But he smelt clean, was a little taller than Jaskier, and still on the broader side. Beggars can’t be choosers, and all that.

Jaskier quickly rid himself of his doublet and chemise, neatly folding them on the provided chest. The other man followed his example, and was soon down to his smalls.

Sitting on the bed, Jaskier laid onto his back. “Hm, now how does the handsome man want me?”

The red head smirked, like he enjoyed looking down on the bard. A trickle of trepidation slithered up Jaskier’s spine.

“You sure I won’t be intruding on another man’s property?”

“I’m no one’s property,” Jaskier said, “Least of all Geralt’s. Are we going to get on with it, then, hm?”

The man complied, trailing his large hands down Jaskier’s chest, avoiding his nipples, before resting firmly on his stomach. He stood at the edge of the bed, over Jaskier, and went still. Inhumanly still. He stared straight into the bard’s eyes, eyes preternaturally hungry.

Jaskier fidgeted, making as though to get up. The red head’s hand now felt like steel as he pushed him down, pinning him in place.

Now, Jaskier was not one to kink shame, or shame others in general, but the look in the man’s eyes was not of lust, nor even depraved want. He was looking at Jaskier like he was a five course meal.

“Why is it that you smell so youthful?” the man finally said, breaking the silence.

Jaskier laughed awkwardly, trying not to be flattered in spite of the situation. “I’m forever young at heart, I suppose?”

The man hummed, leaning forward, nosing at Jaskier’s neck. He felt himself getting slightly aroused despite the fact that the way the man lingered was not erotic in the slightest, more akin to trying to find the best place to take the first blissful, sweet bite.

It was then that Jaskier realized that Geralt would not find the monster anywhere under the full moon. It was right there, in the room with him. And it’s next victim was going to be Jaskier.

#geraskier #gerlion #the witcher #the witcher netflix #twn #witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #geralt x jaskier #my first geraskier #can you tell im playing w3??

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zaedtalost-writes · 3 years

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What kind of requests can we submit? Art, fic etc? And are there any rules/guidelines like fandoms, rating etc?

This's a bit of a long one, I apologize, but here go:

On this blog, it'd be mostly fic stuff (I have all my art stuff more or less quarantined to @zaedtalostisnotanartist if you wanna request an art, just be warned I'm not great with animate objects). If you send an art request here, I'll just post it on my art blog and then link the post in my answer over here.

As for rules/guidelines, here's some of these that I think might cover it:

Please do not request anything pornographic in nature, I will decline as I am highly uncomfortable with it for multiple reasons, some of which being there are kids on this site

Please understand that I normally write things in third-person, even when prompts say "you", so if you're wanting a first-person perspective on something, you will have to specify if you don't want my default-third-person style

Please understand that I do not normally write the act of causing gore in graphic detail, not because I can't, but because a lot of people are squicked by it (and depending on what kind of gore I may be one of those people) and I also don't really wanna wind up on a watchlist (however describing gore is as graphic as a person may want, especially for goretober); on a similar note, heavy gore descriptions will be tagged as such, and these things will occur under a Read More cut on the post

If you have a fandom-related request please know that I may not be in the fandom and thus things may not be 100% accurate/in character, but I will try my absolute hardest to get things right to the way I feel it, and if I might've missed something key to someone's character (or to the universe in which they are set in), please know you're encouraged to let me know about these things so I can improve, because I'd like to broaden my horizons and all, and you know, constructive criticism can help that

Please know that, while I'm fine with doing Character X Reader, I've a rocky relationship with anything that isn't fictional character x reader, and I might decline the request if it's a real person shipped with the reader

I'm not great at poetry so if you're hoping for someone to write you poetry please don't be hoping for some great poetry.

I'll also be more than happy to run a proof read on anything you might want me to, stuff like that.

Aside all of that, I really just ask that you be patient because life tends to happen a lot around here, so I may have duties to tend. Please know I'ven't forgotten you or your request(s), however. I just have responsibilities that have probably come back and bit me in the ass. Again.

Ahhh, the sweet, sweet, sting of being slapped in the face with mounds of work to do... How I absolutely do not miss it.

OH---On the topic of ratings, I just wanna brush over this real quick because it feels important:

If you can't see the images, it's 4 neon labels. One's green and has a spacey kind of font that says "General Audiences"; the next one's yellow and has more of a superhero-like font that says "T for Teen"; the third is a red stencil font that looks as though it's been chipped away at that reads "Rated R/M for Mature"; and the fourth is a red stencil font that reads "CONTENT WARNING"

I use these in conjunction with the tags (as well as tw tags) and a label in the post's header to help readers find a rating that may suit them.

The G, T, and R/M ratings are for the overall fic (if it's a chapter fic, if not it's just for that post), usually, unless it's something that has a prologue attached to it (in which case the prologue will always be G and then the rest of the fic will have its separate rating). The CONTENT WARNING label on the post is applied to chapters individually.

In terms of ratings I'm willing to write, it really doesn't make much matter to me, G through R is fine, I just don't do X-Rated because... Well, genuinely, what the fuck.

I hope I've answered your questions. I feel like I rambled a lot. If you've further questions you are absolutely always welcome to ask them at any time <3

#How to submit requests #what kind of requests can we submit?#StillWaitingForMagic Asked #what are the ratings?#this got long I'm sorry #Ask The Writer & Get An Answer #might change my ask tag smfh

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technoskittles · 4 years

Text

Catradora fic rec list

I mentioned making one of these awhile ago and I’m finally sitting down and compiling some of my all-time favorite fics. I’ve read a lot (like, a LOT), but I feel like a few of those really deserve an extra shout out.

I’ll separate them between multi-chap and one shots, but other than that they won’t be in any particular order. I’ll also try my best to tag the authors here on tumblr if I can find them, but if not, just lemme know if you see your fic and I can edit this later.

I’ll also be including ratings/word count/trigger warnings/etc

(I’ll mostly be including common tw’s so please make sure you also read the tags for anything that may affect you personally! Also, if I miss any, please keep in mind that it’s been awhile since I’ve read some of these so I may not remember all of them!)

Key:

[E] - Explicit

[M] - Mature

[T] - Teen & Up Audiences

[G] - General Audiences

And for the multi-chap fics:

(O) - Ongoing

(F) - Finished

(?) - Not finished and they haven’t updated in awhile so the author probably died

So let’s get started! (Get ready for a long post obviously)

Multi-chap fics:

1. upper west side by ceruleanstorm (F) [T] ~190,000 words

TW: past child abuse, alcohol abuse

@princessofgayskull

I feel like this is definitely one of the top must-reads for all Catradora fanfics. I know I’ve seen this on a couple different lists but I’m including it on mine as well because it really is just that good.

The chapters are lengthy (but in a good way!) and the story really takes its time to flesh itself out. The character development of the characters as individuals is beautifully done and wonderfully realistic. The pacing of the development of Catra and Adora’s relationship is also sweetly slow, a steady slowburn that invokes that deep-rooted yearning feeling mirrored by the characters themselves.

It’s a really clever premise that takes place in the modern world but implements the canon universe in the form of the book that Adora’s writing that ties back to her and Catra’s shared childhood. The way that aspects of the show were revamped into this fic are so creative and I just....ugh. LOVE.

This fic also has a oneshot compilation that takes place after the events of the final chapter which is currently ongoing and I HIGHLY suggest checking that out as well once you’ve finished this.

The sister fic for those interested: she’s god (and I found her) (O) [T] ~40,000 words

2. The Devil Is In (The Details) by SeasInkarnadine (O) [M] ~58,000 words

TW: Graphic Depictions of Violence, child abuse, emotional abuse, use of recreational drugs, Major Character Death

@seasinkarnadine

This is a really great fic where Adora is an undercover cop who sidles her way into one of the largest gang syndicates to bust whoever killed Hordak, a big gang leader and drug trafficker, whose death was originally ruled as an accidental overdose. Her and Catra (one of the gang members) both know foul play was involved and work together to figure out the truth.

The dynamics between these two is so casual and hilarious but still has those gut-wrenching moments that really ground you and realize that their relationship is dysfunctional on a few levels. The exploration of Adora’s conflicting feelings towards Catra hurt in such a good way as she realizes that she does genuinely care for Catra, but also is aware that what she’s doing will eventually screw her over and land her in jail. It’s the best kind of underlying angst and I highly recommend it.

Another really great selling point that I particularly love is that Adora is deaf in this AU and the author really shows this in such a realistic and natural way that shows she really knows what she’s talking about. It makes the dynamic between the two even more interesting considering that Catra also knows sign language which give the two a lot of moments of mutual understanding that doesn’t extend to the other characters. It’s something that the two of them have that’s sort of just for them to be on that level of understanding and it’s so great.

Also, Morgan is just a great writer in general and I highly suggest checking out more of her stuff (her art too!). She’s one of the writers I’ve looked up to since my beginning days in the fandom and it’s still amazing seeing all the great stuff she puts out.

3. Skinny Love by Maychup (O) [M] ~100,000 words

TW: past child abuse

@maychup

Another staple of big fics in the catradora fandom but for good reason. This fic is a wonderful exploration of events taking place after S1 illustrating Catra & Adora’s relationship in a different path that the rest of the show takes. It focuses heavily on their past experiences with each other and how that affects their current situation being on opposite sides of the war.

This fic is older, published just after S1, so canon divergence is an important aspect of its build. But the way the story is written is so beautiful and grounded that it’s still interesting even now knowing what really happens in the show.

Their dynamic is kind of back-and-forth, with Catra figuring out what Adora means to her and vice versa and where the two of them want to go from that point. It has so many sweet moments and steamy ones as well (btw, there’s a lot of smut) and the exploration into each of the character’s pysches is so compelling and intriguing.

4. Faded With Feelings by yesimgay (F) [T] ~24,000 words

TW: recreational drug use

This was such a cute, short multi-chap fic. It’s a bit older but I think it’s still one of my top faves.

A modern au, Catra & Adora are roommates post-college and trying to make their way in the adulting world. Catra has ADHD and smokes weed to help with that. One day Adora accidentally eats a couple of her edibles and cute shenanigans ensue. And that’s just the first two chapters.

The rest of the fic goes on to the girls figuring out their feelings for each other, especially Adora who, in this case, isn’t really sure of her sexuality. All-in-all, a really cute fic that’s a nice break from all the angst that typically saturates the fandom.

5. Chasing the Spotlight by holymountain (?) [T] ~20,000 words

This is an AU where Adora is hired to be Catra’s, a pop singer, bodyguard. There’s so many cute moments in this, though admittedly it’s been about 6 months since it’s last updated so be sure to keep that in mind.

6. we’ve been making shades of purple out of red and blue by darklady21 (?) [t] ~24,000 words

An “and they were ROOMMATES” au. In this one though, Catra and Adora don’t actually know each other and really only get to know each other over time. It’s cute and has a lot of interesting interactions between the two, but it hasn’t updated in about 7 months.

7. Tuning Out by FaiaHae (?) [T] ~2500 words

I actually really loved the whole concept of this fic but it hasn’t updated in like, an entire year so...only read if you’re okay with the fact that it probably won’t ever be finished haha

8. burnt sugar by jeserai (O) [G] ~11,000 words

@jeserai

Oh god YES this fic. The classic “fake dating” au except Catra is a rich kid inheriting a business who essentially hires Adora, a broke college student, to go on a date with her to this big business function. There’s not a lot to say about it other than that without giving too much away, but the fic is about halfway done at this point so it’s a pretty short read as of now.

Just be warned, it’s currently on a MASSIVE cliffhanger so if you wanna wait until it updates I totally understand lol

9. still waters by summerson (O) [M] ~28,000 words

TW: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, self harm

A “The Last of Us” AU. Personally, I’m not super familiar with TLOU because I could never get into the game myself, but this fic is so well done and the writing style is so interesting and well-executed that I still love this fic to bits. But obviously, for those of you who are aware of TLOU, you already know that this fic is going to contain quite the fair share of angst so be ready.

10. Whispering Dreams by dragonesdepapel (F) [T] ~7500 words

It’s been awhile since I’ve read this one so I don’t remember everything, but I do remember really enjoying the writing style and the construction of this fic. It’s a short read, but it’s totally worth it

11. please could you be tender by erce3 (F) [G] ~40,000 words

@figbian

please please PLEASE go read this fic. I’m actually begging y’all to go read this one I loved it so much it’s still one of my top 10 faves out there.

This fic is set in a modern setting where Adora & Catra were childhood friends and are in college and god it’s just SO. GOOD. The writing style and composition of the flashbacks with the present events is so beautifully done and organized and I really cannot hype this fic up enough GO READ IT

12. buried a hatchet (it’s coming up lavendar) by erce3 (O) [G] ~12,000 words

on the note of that last rec, I highly rec their other work which is currently in progress. It takes place after S3 but it’s an exploration on if Catra and Adora got trapped in the portal instead of Angella and FUCK this person is genuinely amazing go read their stuff

13. Senior Year by SimplyAbsolute (O) [E] ~98,000 words

@simplyabsolute

This is a really cute fic about Adora and Catra in their final year of college and I guess for me personally it really just hits hard because I’m also in my final year of college lol. But really, it’s a great fic and I suggest checking it out. It’s actually only got one more chapter left too so it’s almost done!

14. Assassinating Adora by Wicked42 (F) [T] ~13,000 words

@wicked-42

TW: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Jeez this fic was a real rollercoaster of emotions. I loved every bit of it.

Basically, some people try to assassinate Adora and Catra stops one of them, but both girls are still inflicted by the poison and....it just gets crazier from there. Don’t wanna spoil it too much but this is a must-read for sure.

And this one may seem like cheating but I’m gonna plug one of my own multi-chap fics here

15. Pure Feeling (O) [T] ~30,000 words

TW: brief mention of sexual assault in Ch 5

This is a modern AU set after all the kids have been out of college for a few years.

Adora and Catra were childhood friends but ended up drifting apart and falling out during their college years. Fast forward about 6 years and they run into each other again, except now Adora has a daughter and is struggling to balance her life as a single mother. Overtime the two girls work on rebuilding their friendship and somewhere along the way might even realize that they’re feelings for each other never really went away. But of course, like all things in life, this isn’t an easy process and they run into more than a few complications - internal and external.

One Shots:

(there’s so many of these I’ve loved so I’m really going to try and narrow it down to about 10. If yours didn’t make it, no offense! I just have WAY too many to include and this post is already so long haha)

1. The Interlude That Never Ends by FMLClexa [M] ~2500 words

TW: Major Character Death, brief mention of sexual assault

Okay I’m gonna be honest: If you ignore all the other fics on this list, READ THIS ONE. This is absolutely my #1 favorite without a doubt. It’s a soulmate/reincarnation au and it’s so wonderfully executed that I honestly cannot even begin to tell y’all how much I love this one. It’s old and one of the first fics I ever read, but it’s so timeless and excellent and I promise you won’t regret reading it. I know I’ve read this about a million times over.

It’s been a whole year and this has held my #1 fave position the entire time. READ. IT.

2. after party by summerson [M] ~2000 words

TW: recreational drug use

God this fic was so great I read it last night and I’m still in awe in how well it was written and the emotions it managed to invoke in me. My favorite scene is the part where Catra tells Adora “I love you” because it’s so raw and desperate and I vibed with it so hard. It’s really difficult trying to tell someone how much you love them with just a few simple words because they really just don’t convey how much you love them and it’s so frustrating and GAH this fic was fucking great please read it.

3. jigsaw by jeserai [G] ~2500 words

@jeserai

This fic is so great and I felt so warm inside reading it. Definitely read if you want sweet, slow friends to lovers burn.

4. Vicious by SeasInkarnadine [M] ~3500 words

TW: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

I really highly recommend this one if you can get past the trigger warnings. It was so well written and very suspenseful with the juxtaposition of the timeline between current events and snippets of what had happened just hours before. But the ending is really sweet and the way that Catra cares for Adora after the whole thing squeezed my heart to pieces.

This is one I’ve read a few times over because of how much I love it. Def in my top 3.

5. Basement by spookyscaryskeletons [G] ~2800 words

This was such a great rendition of “Adora and Catra are forced to talk” and the emotions were raw and bleeding and I love the character portrayals.

6. Coming Apart by Whorls [E] ~13,000 words (or ~6,000 words each chap)

@crazy-pages

Okay this fic technically has two chapters but I’m including it here in the oneshots because the chapters are identical in the sense of story but the only difference is that in chapter one Catra is a cis woman and in chapter two she’s a trans woman pre-op. Other than that the chapters are identical so it’s mostly based off which experience you would rather have while reading.

This fic was. So. Fucking. Good. Sen did such a fantastic job with both aspects of this story and I love it to bits and pieces. The smut in the beginning is delicious as can be, but then towards the latter half it absolutely sucker punches you with feelings but in a good way. I really, really fucking love this fic and I think it needs more attention than it initially got so I’m imploring you all to please go read this fic. It’s fantastic.

7. Seconds That I Cannot Replace by Mogatrat [M] ~7800 words

TW: child abuse, underage(?)

This is a really heartbreaking fic set before canon. It’s about all the times that Catra and Adora started a romantic relationship only for Shadow Weaver to come in and ruin everything by constantly erasing and resetting Adora’s memory. I still think about this fic from time to time. Give it a go.

8. Come morning light by dragonesdepapel [T] ~1800 words

TW: Major Character Death

Another one that’s technically two chapters but it’s the same events, just covers the perspective of each girl. Adora’s dying and asks Catra to stay with her.

Basically this fic ripped my heart out and I still think about it sometimes.

9. someone you like by caela [T] ~5100 words

oh fuck me yes this fic. A modern au where Catra sorta stalks Adora on instagram and accidentally likes an old picture. Fluffiness galore.

10. When You Came Calling by ActuallyMe [E] ~5200 words

TW: Major Character Death

A 1940′s Mob AU where Catra is a private eye and Adora married high-ranking mob boss Hordak...who’s just been murdered.

Really great one shot. Personally I would’ve loved to see more come of this but it’s great on its own.

And once again, this is cheating but here’s a couple oneshots of my own that I wanna plug real quick

11. hang tight (all you) [T] ~9200 words

Modern AU fic set when Catra and Adora are in high school. Adora struggles to come to terms with her sexuality in an discouraging environment as well as the fact that she’s had a crush on her best friend since middle school. Personally I think this was one of my best works and a lot of other people seem to have liked it too so yeah!

12. as my World d[ivides] [E] ~2500 words

TW: Rape/Non-Con, Underage

One of my darker fics, but still one I’m pretty proud of. Without giving too much away, Adora suffers from a trauma and engages in unhealthy coping mechanisms and Catra enables her because no one’s taught them any different.

#she ra #spop #catra #adora #catradora #she ra and the princesses of power #fic recs #long post #thanks for hanging in with me guys #but yes I highly suggest all these fics

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