#blood is just wet and sticky and cakes on when it dries

[futureman]

You take my self control

summary: your first act of brutality leaves you reeling, but you’d do it all over again if it meant saving joel’s life. in the aftermath, you realize you’ve started to crave that violence and it terrifies you. joel steps in to satisfy your craving.

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, extremely graphic depictions of violence, dark themes, blood and injuries, dead clicker, angst, comfort, ptsd, reader struggles, undefined age gap, established relationship, language, smut, piv, rough sex, oral (female receiving), fingering, minor dom!joel, guided handjob, pet names

word count: 3.4k

a/n: whew, this one is a doozy. the original plan was to write something fluffy, but then i wrote this instead 🥲 based on moments from kill bill vol. 1 and sin city, and the title is from the song self control by laura branigan! please lmk if i missed anything in the warnings and i’ll add it asap. it’s a lot darker than my last fic, but i’ve always wanted to write this story, so i hope you enjoy! as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated 💕

You can’t see. You can’t hear anything at all. Numbness permeates your limbs, and your thoughts are a mishmash of gnashing teeth and nails, sharp and jagged like claws, and so, so much red.

There’s something warm and sticky on your face and hands. It’s up your nose, trickling into your open mouth, and it tastes like salt and iron. Blood…it must be blood. You hope it’s your own but, in the dark recesses of your mind, you know it’s someone else’s. It tastes all wrong, like the fact that you’re tasting it all means you’re alive and you really shouldn’t be.

He’s yelling, or at least you think it’s him. Sound returns to your ears all at once and it’s fucking loud.

Joel, stop, it hurts. 

Everything hurts so much now, and you feel it everywhere—scratches down your arms and legs, your heart slamming an angry beat against your temples.

Fuck, you’re probably bit. Joel sounds frantic and terrified, but you don’t know why. There are massive gaps in your memory and you can’t remember how you got here, knees heavy on the ground, your thighs bracketing the sides of a dead clicker. 

A woman—you think it used to be a woman. It’s hard to tell after the carnage. The fragments of bone and wet chunks of flesh and fungus where her head should be tell a different story now. You desperately wish your sight hadn’t returned at all, but it’s too late and you can’t unsee it. You can’t unsee her.

The muscles in your arms and hands burn something vicious, and when they give out, something hard clangs to the ground. A metal pipe. 

Joel calls out to you again, and he sounds closer this time.

“...go…have to go now…can’t…here…” 

Strong hands tug on your arm and pull you to your feet, and suddenly you’re running. Joel is all but dragging you out of what looks like the living room of a modern, suburban home, and you do your best not to trip on tipped-over furniture. 

You look back over your shoulder and the body is still lying there, lifeless. You’re not sure why you thought it would be chasing you, hungry mouth snapping at your throat; it’s dead. Because you killed it.

You’re exhausted and your legs are sore, but when you start to slow down, Joel’s hand tightens around yours and tugs harder.

“We have to go, baby, we can’t stay here.” Ah, that’s what he was saying before. “I know it hurts, but you gotta keep goin’. Just a little longer, you gotta keep it up for a little bit longer.” He should be out of breath by now, but he’s running on fear and adrenaline, and you let it fuel you, too.

When you make it outside, the sky is a clear, cloudless blue above you and the sun is brighter than you’ve ever seen it. It makes your skin itch, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of the dirt and dried blood matting your hair and caked under your fingernails.

Instinctively, your hand rises to shield your eyes. It’s effective enough that you’re able to take in your surroundings as they fly by and, while they’re familiar, you still can’t remember what you were doing here in the first place.

“Joel, I’m…I-I’m—I can’t. I can’t run anymore, p-please—,” you whimper, chest heaving with exertion. House, driveway, lawn—they repeat over and over and over again. They’re starting to blur together, and your tunneling vision worsens until darkness consumes you. “...Joel…”

And then everything goes black.

You’re…surrounded. By something that feels soft and warm and solid against your aching skin, and it moves steadily against you, rising and falling. Your head tilts to the side and it’s Joel breathing into you, his head at home in the crook of your neck, arms wrapped loosely around you. 

You nuzzle your nose into his graying hair, pressing a kiss there, and a sharp intake of breath follows as he blinks awake blearily.

“Hey, baby,” you murmur. He hums something deep and unintelligible in response, tilting his head back to mouth wetly at the base of your throat. 

You let out a sigh of relief. If Joel’s in bed with you like this, it means you’re not infected. Hurt and in pain, yes, but you’re both alive and that’s all that matters. You saved his life out there and you’d do it all over again, even at the cost of your own.

Your memories are returning quickly now, like waves violently crashing to shore after a storm, and the images are gruesome. What you did to protect Joel was barbaric, but you acted on impulse, out of rage and desperation.

The clicker came out of nowhere. You were searching an abandoned house for supplies when it lunged out of a closet, tackling Joel to the ground. The metal pipe in his hand clattered to the ground at your feet and you picked it up as quickly as it fell.

Then, something inside you snapped and you reacted. It was dead after the second or third blow to the head, but you kept going anyway, angry at it for almost stealing Joel away and destabilized by the fear of losing him. 

Blood sprayed from every artery you severed and after each new crack in its skull, and it showered down like rain, thick and warm against your skin. It made you feel powerful, like you were in control for the first time in your life. You enjoyed it.

Only when you realized the pipe was connecting with wet, dented pieces of floorboard instead of flesh did you finally stop.

You remember everything now.

“I’m not sorry,” you tell him, staring vacantly at the popcorn ceiling of your bedroom. He sighs, and you think he’s about to start lecturing you. You don’t want to hear it. You barely want to talk about it at all. “You could’ve died, Joel. If you think for one second I’d ever let that happen, you’re out of your mind.”

He squeezes you a little tighter, mindful of your injuries, but doesn’t respond. Silence blankets you for a moment, and then it breaks once he realizes you’re trembling and your eyes and cheeks are wet with tears.

You’re not sure when you started crying, but you can’t seem to stop, and the frustration in his eyes lessens with each soft hiccup that escapes your lips.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, thumbing away the tears as they fall. He leaves his hand there, gently cupping your cheek, and you lean into his touch. You can feel the fight leaving his body; it’s just not worth it anymore, not after everything you’ve been through. Sighing, he drops his head to rest on your collarbone. “There’s nothin’ to be sorry for. I shoulda been payin’ more attention, been more cautious. Then, you wouldn’t have had to…you wouldn’t be—” He’s fumbling his words. Joel’s never been good at conversations like these, but he’s trying. “...I’m tryna say it’s not your fault. You did what you had to.”

It’s not his fault, either. In the aftermath of everything, no one’s to blame, but it doesn’t help how much it still hurts. How broken you feel.

“Joel, I—,” the tears flow freely and you struggle to suppress a sob. “I’m a monster. You saw what I did…I just—I couldn’t stop. I know she wasn’t a person anymore, I know that, but…b-but I think I liked it. What does that say about me; what does that make me?” You’re spiraling now. He shifts up the bed to hold you properly and rocks you against his chest for a while, like he’s soothing a child. 

“It makes you human,” he murmurs into your hair, running his hands up and down your sides. Your eyes flutter closed as you focus on the feeling of his warm, calloused fingers on your skin.

“I’m scared, Joel,” you whisper. “Whatever that was, it feels like it’s a part of me now—like…I’ll be fighting it forever.” His eyes darken, even as he kisses the side of your head gently once, then twice. “I close my eyes and she’s there. I can hear her, feel her. I…I feel like I’m losing my mind.” 

That fucking neighborhood. Why the fuck were you even in that neighborhood? There wasn’t even anything useful in any of those houses. You try to tell yourself that all of it could’ve been avoided, if you had just decided to head straight back to Jackson, but it’s a fantasy. In this world, it was inevitable. 

Joel still hasn’t answered you. Instead, he presses his lips to your throat again, this time with teeth, and sucks hard where your neck meets your shoulder. You should be wondering why he’s not responding when you’re so clearly distraught, but the only thing you can think about is the delicious pain blooming under your skin. When he finally speaks, it’s a low hum against the fresh bruise.

“I never wanted this for ya,” he nips at you sharply, his beard dragging roughly against your sensitive skin, and you gasp, burying your fingers in his hair and tugging. He groans, hips stuttering into your thigh, and the need to feel him bare and heavy on top of you is overwhelming. “I tried to protect ya—wanted to save you from this. All of it. But I failed ya.” There’s anger in his voice now, and it feels violent. He’s aggressive in the way he touches you, and though you know he’d never purposely hurt you, you think you want him to. “This world takes and takes and takes, and we’re forced to adapt,” he all but growls. “You’re no more a monster than anyone else.”

Rationally, you know it’s true. The bloodlust you feel—you’ve seen it before, in the eyes of raiders you’ve come across on the outside and in the hungry gaze of infected, all of them desperate to tear into you, to take what they want. Looking into Joel’s eyes now, you see it there, too.

The room feels hotter, somehow, like his body heat suddenly spiked, and it draws you in like a moth to a flame. You press your hand into the soft skin of his stomach and it burns like molten lava, begging you to play with fire. 

He snatches your hand from where it’s splayed beneath his shirt and drags it under the waistband of his sweatpants to cup his hardening cock, and you suck in a harsh breath through your teeth. Fuuuuuck. You’re not in charge here, you realize, not now.

“Tonight, I want you to give in to me, alright? You let me take control. ‘m gonna fix it,” he grits out. “Gonna fix everythin’, just need you to trust me,” and you do. You’ll let yourself go, because even though that dark, horrible part of you doesn’t want to submit to him, your body clearly does. It’s a power struggle you hope you lose.

His hand doesn’t leave yours once it’s wrapped around him and, instead, leads your fingers to grip him tightly as he sets a strong, steady pace. You give him a rough squeeze, and he throbs, leaking a bead of precum onto your fingers that you thumb over his head, digging your nail into the slit.

Joel chokes out a moan, hand releasing yours to bury itself in your hair, and begins to fuck your fist in earnest, each thrust punctuated with a sharp exhale. It’s like gripping steel, hard and smooth and searing.

Or a metal pipe. Fucking hell, he feels so much like that fucking metal pipe and you clench down around nothing, your cunt soaked and devastatingly empty. More precum leaks from the tip, and he’s so wet now, your palm sliding easily up his cock and back down to squeeze the base. 

It makes you see red—viscous, red blood coating your fingers, and you release him, pulling your hand away to suck it off each one. It’s not real. Of course, it’s not real. The creamy liquid on your fingers tastes like Joel, bitter and heady, but still, you can’t get the thought of his blood in your mouth out of your head now.

God, that’s so fucked up. You must look half crazed right now, pupils blown wide as you look up at him through your lashes,  each glistening finger pulling from your mouth with a pop.  But he looks angry at what he sees in your eyes, and suddenly both of his hands are on your hips and he’s slamming you onto your back, pressing you into the mattress with his entire weight. You’re not following his rules.

“Baby…baby,” he moans, finally brushing his lips against yours, soft and wet, and licking a line across the roof of your mouth as he grinds into your aching pussy. “Stop fightin’ me. Just…focus on me, right here. Lemme make you feel good.” You whine pathetically into his mouth as he runs his hands up your sides, fingers catching on your shirt and dragging up until his thumbs brush the underside of your tits. 

Lifting your shirt up just enough to expose your pebbling nipples, he leans back on his heels and looks down at you hungrily, like he wants to devour you whole. And fuck, you need him to. But you also want to take and take and take, itching for the fight. 

His head lolls to the side as he takes you in. “Fuck, baby…,” he mumbles, as he drops a hand to palm himself. “You’re so goddamn beautiful like this. So good for me, my—” He pauses to squeeze his cock, and groans out, “...my brave, strong girl.” 

There’s a massive wet patch on the front of his sweatpants from where you soaked him through your underwear, and his eyes roll back when he feels it, warm and sticky against his fingertips. Your mouth waters and you’re starting to feel a little desperate now that he’s stopped touching you. You don’t even notice the whine that escapes your lips as he continues to jerk himself off through the fabric.

“What, brave girl?” he coos, biting back a growl at the warring emotions on your pretty features. He reaches forward to thumb a nipple, his touch rough and calloused. “I promised I’d make ya feel good, didn’t I?” He tweaks it and you keen, hips canting upward in search of friction. “Feels that good, huh?” he rasps, smug at how your body responds to him.

A strong hand forces your hips back onto the bed, trapping you against the mattress, and you feel a sudden, intense urge to slap him. Heat blooms in your lower belly and you feel yourself gush at the thought. “Joel…fuck, just fucking touch me. Please.” 

The sides of his mouth quirk down and he nods, like he’s thinking it over. Asshole. You know you’re still breaking his rules but, by now, you’re too horny to care. You don’t think sex with Joel has ever been like this, nor do you think you’ve ever been this turned on in your life. Christ, if he doesn’t fuck you soon—

You lurch forward to tug at his pants in a moment of weakness, but he’s quicker than you and snatches your wrists, pinning them above your head. The scratches on your arms are still raw and angry, and the skin pulls painfully as he tightens his hold. It’s another reminder of earlier today, and you muster up all of the strength in your body to rip your arms out of his grip, but he shoves you down by your shoulders. 

“If you keep that up, I’m not gonna give you this,” he warns you, flipping the waistband of his pants down just enough to free his cock, thick and leaking all over itself. Your thighs squeeze together at the sight of it, and you abruptly feel remorseful, ready to beg for it if you have to.

Fuck, he’s powerful. And fuck, his tactic is working. The power struggle you hoped you’d lose—you’re pretty sure you just lost. You can tell the moment Joel recognizes acceptance on your face and, immediately, you’re being yanked onto your hands and knees, ass in the air and face smushed on one side against the mattress. He’s rewarding you.

It’s like his hands are laser-focused and, yet, still everywhere all at once. 

“Brave girl,” he murmurs, mouthing a wet trail down your spine. “That’s my girl—g-good, good girl.” He’s already starting to stutter, his voice breathless and shaky. Joel gets mouthy when he’s pussy-drunk, like he just can’t help but verbalize every filthy, incoherent thought when he’s inside you.

You clench in anticipation as he grinds his painfully hard cock into your ass, precum soaking into your underwear and mixing with your own slick. He slides the offending fabric halfway down your thighs and then stops, and you can feel his breath, hot and humid, against your cunt as he spreads your legs for better access. 

He wastes no time licking a wide stripe up your sopping core before swirling his tongue against your clit and sucking hard. It punches a moan out of your chest and your mind goes blank as you grind back into his mouth. The sound of skin slapping roughly against skin reaches your ears and you realize he’s jerking himself off as he devours you, groaning raggedly as he fucks into you with his tongue. 

What the fuck, you’re so fucking close already. Frantic, you reach out to Joel behind you, managing to tug a fistful of his hair. “J-Joel…ngh, fuck, ‘m gonna cum,” you whine pathetically, drooling onto the sheets. “I can’t…I— please, ‘m so empty. Don’t make me c-cum empty, Joel.” 

It happens so fast. Your entire body is thrown forward with the weight of him, as he sheathes himself in your heat to the hilt in one violently powerful thrust, and oh, oh fuck, you’ll never get used to how big Joel is. The stretch is almost painful and you bear down on him, not expecting the sudden intrusion.

“Baby…girl. Squeezin’ me so tight, so f-fucking tight,” he moans helplessly, already starting to babble as he fucks into you. “Fuck, your pussy gets s-so tight when you’re…,” he reaches around to rub circles into your clit and you start to pulse around him, “about—ngh, to cum.” 

With his other hand, he grips the back of your neck, squeezing just enough to remind you who’s in control; of your pleasure, of your safety. The new angle drives his cock directly into that soft, spongy spot inside you that has your jaw dropping, staccatoed moans punched out of your lungs with each thrust. 

“‘m gonna cum. Fuuck, fuck, ‘m cumming…Joel, ‘m—,” your pussy convulses hard, and you soak his cock as you cum with a hoarse shout. Joel growls over your shoulder, slamming into you over and over, your pussy squelching loud and wet.

Your arms and legs give out, and Joel grips your hips with both hands, hovering above your ass as he fucks into you, thrusts harder and more frantic. He’s so close, the telltale signs obvious to you, now. 

He barely has time to choke out a panicked, “where?” and hear you moan, “on my face,” before he’s thrusting once, twice, and pulling out, rolling you over and bracketing your head with his thighs. You rub your hands up and down them as he jerks himself off above you. For a moment, he gazes down at you in wonder, like maybe you’re a beautiful figment of his imagination, and then he’s cumming hard.

Joel sounds wrecked, his groan long and drawn out, as his cock spurts thick ropes across your lips and tongue, dribbling down your chin and onto your chest. Shifting down your body, he kisses you deeply, licking into your mouth and tasting himself on your tongue. He pulls away, cradling your face in his hands.

“I told you I’d fix it.”

And he did. He put your broken pieces back together and overwrote your bad memories. 

Now, all you see, all you can hear is Joel. Your thoughts are a mishmash of searing hot skin, his lips, soft and wet against yours, and mind-numbing pleasure.

Your skin is still warm and sticky with his release, and it tastes so undeniably like him. Woody and salty, and right.

It’s quiet, now—peaceful—and everything doesn’t hurt so much anymore. 

Strong arms pull you close and you sigh, tired and relieved, into his embrace. Joel holds you tighter as you drift off to sleep, murmuring something you don’t quite catch against your cheek, and you feel safe. 

From the monsters beyond the walls and the one in the mirror.

thanks for reading! 💕

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #joel miller

[agentminnesota187]

Snow Angel: A Oneshot

This is a bit of a heavy one-shot, so you've been warned. The MC is Dove, my Triple Frontier OC, but the Delta guys aren't mentioned since this is before she meets them, so it can be read as a standalone. This Oneshot is based on the song 'Snow Angel' by Renee Rapp, so be forewarned, it does talk about Sexual Assault.

This is an 18+ story.

Here is my full Masterlist if you wanna check anything out.

Trigger warning: SA mentioned (no SA scene, but it is mentioned), blood mentioned, roofie-ing mentioned, my characters need therapy. MINORS FUCK OFF

It’s jarring, the cold of the porcelain. Her body feels like static as she opens her eyes to the harsh lighting of the bathroom stall. Her senses are still dulled, still fuzzy when she tries to move her arm. Her head rolls to the side limply as she tries to check her surroundings: a bathroom stall that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since 1987, and her phone and purse are tucked in between her right wrist and her stomach. Nothing else catches her eye. 

Liv groans as she moves to grab her phone, although her eyesight is still blurry and her mind foggy, the fact that her clock reads 3 am and the last text message she received was from 7 hours ago tells her that something had happened to her and no one cared. Typical, she thought. 

As she gets up to move, a searing pain shot up through her pelvis. A sort of burning she hadn’t experienced before, almost like she tore a muscle, but in her stomach. It's almost like a UTI but infinitely worse. She’d figure that out later. She looked down and noticed a splotch of red on the crotch of her unbuttoned jeans. The dots immediately connected for her. 

I’ll deal with it later, she drunkenly decided. She crawled up against the stall door, putting as much weight on it as she could. She couldn’t feel her legs. And not in a fun way. The burning sensation increased as she moved. It brought tears to her eyes as she hissed through the pain. She unlocked the stall door and stumbled her way to the sink as if she were a young fawn on new legs. 

She reached down to her jeans, buttoned them up and pressed her hand against the bloodstain. Feeling the sticky mix of blood and random fluids was sobering. She slapped at the sink, turning it on to wash her hands and wash the blood off of her jeans. 

It wasn’t coming off. 

She took a deep breath in, a small whimper escaping her lips as she rubbed the spot with cold water and hand soap, it still wasn’t going away. In fact, it was spreading. She choked back tears as her resolve started to break. 

She was probably drugged, assaulted, left in a bathroom stall, and no one had checked on her for 7 hours. 

This was like a slap in the face. Sobering, painful and terrifying. She’d seen combat, been abandoned at a grocery store by her mother for an hour, she’d put pressure on gunshot wounds before and been shot herself. Yet this was probably the most scared and alone she’s ever felt. 

She swept her eyes to the mirror before her, hoping it would show her something different. It showed something worse. She had a black eye, her nose was twisted so far to the left that she was surprised she could still breathe out of it, and her lip was split with dried blood caked all over. How could she not feel that? 

She reached up to touch it, only to flinch as searing pain erupted from her nose. Okay, I’ll deal with that later. She wet a paper towel, dabbing it on her lip with some hand soap to clean it out. It was her only option. Finally, she looked down at her neck; her necklace was still there, but the purple and blue handprint told her that she should consider herself lucky it wasn’t broken and stolen. 

She would not cry, not right now. She did need to get the hell out of this bar, though. She knew better than to call any of those friends she’d gone out with, and she was smart enough to scroll past her parent’s contacts in her phone. The smartest thing would have probably been to call the cops, but she just wanted to be in her own bed and sleep off whatever drugs she was on, she’d go to the hospital once she had a nap. 

She settled on calling a taxi, the driver had been less than impressed with her slurred speech and shaky voice. She took a deep breath in before opening the bathroom door, only to be met with absolutely no one in sight. There were no staff or customers, and the entrance door had clearly been locked. 

She took a deep breath, sighed, unlocked the door, and walked out. She hoped the closing manager wouldn’t be fired for that. The taxi pulled up, and she crawled her way onto the grimy satin seat, fumbling with the seatbelt as she rattled off her address as clearly as she could with her tongue feeling like it was three sizes too big for her mouth. 

She stumbled to her front door, shaking as she missed the keyhole several times before she became face-to-face with her clearly annoyed roommate. Her face completely changed once she got a good look at Liv, though. 

Liv stammered as Beca stared at her like she had three heads. “I’ll- um- I’ll go to the hospital, I just wanna sleep.” 

Beca nodded, shock and concern creeping into her expression as she looped her arm around Liv’s back to help her into their apartment. “I should take you to the hospital right now, Liv. Your nose looks horrible, what did you hit it with? A sledgehammer?” 

Liv shook her head, “No idea, no help, just sleep.” she slurred as she struggled to turn her door handle, why were her hands so sweaty, she just washed them?

Beca gripped Liv by the cheeks, forcing Liv to face her as she brought the back of her hand to Liv’s forehead. “You’re burning up, you might be having a reaction to something. I should really get you to a hospital.” 

Liv sighed, “Sleep.” she slurred. 

Beca shook her head, throwing Liv’s arm around her shoulder, she guided her to the door, picking up her keys as she walked by. “Hospital, now. Your slurring is getting worse, you could have a concussion and letting you sleep might be the worst idea.”

Liv relented, allowing Beca to shove her into the passenger seat of her in desperate need of repairs 2002 Ford Focus. “Careful, might get blood on yer seat.” 

“It’s okay, Liv. We’ll worry about it after you get better, m’kay?”

“Okay, sorry,” Liv whispered, wet tears starting to streak down her cheeks. “Mmm, need a kit.”

“What kind of kit?” Beca asked.

“I dunno, something happened, need a kit thing.” Liv slurred, exhaustion slowing her thoughts.

“Hey! Stay awake, Liv. What kit? What happened?” Beca shouted, fear creeping into her tone.

“There’s blood on my pants,” Liv looked down, staring at the spot on her jeans. “It burns too, all down there. Mmm sorry.” 

Beca sighed, feeling a ghost’s hand gripping her throat as she connected the dots. “It’s gonna be okay, Liv. I’ve been there before. I promise everything will be okay.”

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What an interesting oneshot to start off with since I haven't posted writing in about a year... If you've ever gone through something like this, please know that you're not alone and that it's okay to reach out and get the help you need. You are so strong. I've linked some resources below for anyone who is struggling with this, again, you are so loved and so strong and I promise that everything is gonna be okay. You are not alone.

Word count:1158

A bunch of resources for Canada

National Sexual Violence Resource Centre

International SA Resources Page

#triple frontier au #triple frontier fanfiction #trigger warning #tw #sa #tw: rape #oc #original character #original delta force character #female original character #original female characters #renee rapp #snow angel

[extremeyee]

The little secrets kitchen wipes hide

If the kitchen is compared to a "bacteria gathering place", then the kitchen rag is a "Petri dish" for bacteria. After a brand new rag has been used in the kitchen for a week, the number of bacteria is unimaginable. Ordinary rags have become a burden. to the greasy and invisible burden of bacteria and germs.

In this case, something called a kitchen wipe was born, which is larger and thicker than ordinary paper towels, and is also better at absorbing water and oil. It has become a good helper for home cleaning. Also, good kitchen wipes are pasteurized and can come in direct contact with food. Many families choose kitchen wipes instead of ordinary rags. It can clean the kitchen more easily and effectively, and at the same time saves the trouble of cleaning dirty rags. It is especially suitable for busy office workers. It is easy to have a clean kitchen, saving time and money. Effortless.

1. Fruit and vegetable preservation. Usually there is less time. When you prepare more fruits and vegetables at one time on weekends, it is especially easy to fall off. In addition to wrapping a layer of plastic wrap, you can also wrap it with a kitchen towel before putting it in the refrigerator, which can prevent the food from entering due to moisture. rotten.

2. Absorb excess water and oil. When making chicken, duck and fish, especially braised fish, the excess blood will cause the oil to splash in the pot. At this time, you can press the surface of the fish with a kitchen towel to absorb the excess blood, and then put it into the pot. Not sticky because of blood. There is also a lot of foamy oil floating on the water surface when the meat is blanched. You can also use a kitchen towel to gently slide it over to absorb these unwanted impurities.

3. Prevent rust. After cleaning, the used kitchen utensils should be dried and stored in the cabinet, otherwise the kitchen utensils will rust, and the kitchen cabinets will become damp and breed bacteria. But it takes time to dry naturally. When you have a kitchen towel, you can directly extract the kitchen towel to dry it. The wet and dry kitchen towel is not easy to break and not easy to leave debris. You can also place a kitchen towel on the bottom of the pan to minimize moisture retention.

4. Fried food absorbs oil. When making homemade chicken fries, the surface grease gets all over the place, just put a paper towel under it to soak up the excess oil and make it crispier and less greasy.

5. Make steamed food instead of steamed cloth. When steaming steamed buns, sweet potatoes, and glutinous rice cakes, lining the bottom can not only prevent the food from sticking to the steaming plate, but also avoid the taste being affected by being too thin.

6. Clean the groove of the range hood. It is very difficult to clean the oil in the oil collection box of the range hood. Once cleaned with a rag, the rag can basically not be used, and the oil pollution is really too heavy. The kitchen wipes can be folded into small pieces and tucked into the grooves, so you don’t have to clean them as often as you change them regularly.

Shanghai Extremeway New Material Technology Co., Ltd. is a professional wet wipes manufacturer. Our products enjoy great reputation in European and American markets, today, ExtremeYee New Material Technology will become one of the largest non-woven manufacturers in China, we hope that in the near future, we will become the most famous manufacturer in the world, we look forward to with your cooperation.

[seijorhi]

Finders Keepers

the long awaited (sorry!) zombie au. hope y’all enjoy

Seijoh 4 x female reader & Miya twins x female reader 

TW Blood, gore, angst, um... toxic relationships?

“Let me see.”

It’s little more than a murmur, but in the quiet stillness of the night your voice carries. It hardly matters; Oikawa has you close, tucked under his arm with his injured leg stretched out between the two of you. He could stop you if he really wanted, but he only watches, those tired, wary eyes fixed on your face as you reach for his pants. 

“It’s fine,” he grunts out, yet he can barely get the words out before he’s hissing through his teeth – a knee jerk reaction to the scrape of rough fabric against his wound. His fingers are digging painfully into your arm, and it doesn’t make a difference how gentle you try to be, how many stammered apologies fall from your lips, your fingers are stiff and clumsy and his pants are caked with dried blood and grime, hindering the process.

Pursing your lips, you glance up. “This would go easier if you took these off, you know.”

He cracks a smile at that, strained and tense, but your chest still flutters at the sight of it. “If you wanna get my pants off so badly, cutie, all you had to do was ask.”

“Tooru,” you begin, but he sighs heavily and that brief flicker of mirth glimmering in his eyes fades. Reaching over he picks up his hunting knife, pressing the handle into your palm and letting his fingers slowly curl around yours. The weight of it feels unwieldy and foreign in your hand, and you can’t quite say for sure if the way your breath picks up and hitches is due to your nerves or the way Oikawa’s watching you, his warm hand still wrapped around yours.

“Cut it, then.”

The knife helps, shearing through his pants like butter, but the wound itself is messy – torn threads plastered to congealed blood and dirt – and blunt fingernails sink into your skin and Oikawa grits out a curse when you try to gently ease them free. 

It’s worse than you’d thought. A lot worse. Raked over his right knee, five gouges, jagged and gruesome, raw flesh and muscle exposed beneath. Your stomach roils at the sight of it, bile creeping up your throat, and for a moment you’re astounded by how calm he is, sitting there beside you. 

If it were you, you’re fairly sure you’d be rolling on the ground howling by now, but the only hint of pain Oikawa’s face betrays is the tightness of his jaw, teeth clenched even as he looses a shuddering breath.

“I-I’ll go see if I can find something to…” to what? Clean the wound? Stitch it? You’re not an idiot, unless this little cottage has an incredibly well stocked first aid kit, you know you’re in trouble. And even if it does, beyond the very basics of clean, disinfect and bandage, you don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to fix this.

Iwaizumi was always the one to stitch up their wounds, muttering obscenities under his breath and glaring at them the whole time. It was their own idiot faults for putting themselves in a position where they could get hurt in the first place, he’d say, they could deal with a little pain while he fixed them up. But as you stare at the grisly mess of Oikawa’s knee, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that this might be beyond even Iwa’s level of expertise. 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Iwa isn’t here. 

Makki and Mattsun aren’t either.

And strangely enough, it’s not the fear of the creatures lurking in the woods that’s gnawing at your gut. It’s Oikawa’s injury, the blood and mangled mess that you can’t even begin to fix, the thought of the trap that’s awaiting the others back at the sanctuary. It’s that feeling of helplessness that’s tightening around your neck like a noose.

“Hey,” Oikawa calls, snagging at your wrist when you try to pull away. “They’ll find us, have a little faith.”

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you nod. “I know.”

You don’t have the guts to tell him that that’s only half the problem.

Making do with vodka and some old bandages you’d scrounged up from a first aid kit under the sink, you do what you can for Tooru’s knee. Working by the light of a few flickering candles, your hands shaking like a leaf, it's a job easier said than done, and you can’t help but wince at every pained hiss and grunt that escapes him. 

It’s a hack job, a bandaid over a gaping wound, but he thanks you for it anyway, pressing an affectionate kiss to your temple as he drags you closer once more. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he murmurs, and the words hang heavy over the both of you; a promise and a sobering reminder in one.

Tucked up in his embrace, you shut your eyes and will yourself to fall asleep. 

Yet the moment you do, you’re right back there again: the hallway doors bursting open and the undead pouring through. Rotting and snarling, the sound of panicked shrieks tearing through the sanctuary in their wake.

Tooru’s hand in yours, yanking you along as he ran. Your heartbeat, pounding in your ears as you gasped for breath, your chest burning. And the fear, the horror that threatened to choke you as the others fell behind, their frantic pleas turning into agonised screams.

Everybody else first. The words spoken before any one of them left the safety of the sanctuary; you’d always assumed it was a grim kind of joke between the boys, a good luck charm. How many times had you heard Mattsun laugh it, clapping Iwa on the shoulder, or Makki for that matter, or Oikawa?

‘Come home safe’, you’d thought it meant, not ‘rip the guns out of other survivors’ hands and throw them back into the path of the oncoming undead’.

And then you’d stumbled, tripping over your own two feet. You remember Oikawa cursing, the pain that radiated up your knees and the palms of your hands as you hit the floor hard, and the absolute, bone chilling terror that surged through you when you looked up and saw one of the undead creatures lunge for you; jaw hanging loose, more ripped flesh and gristle than an actual mouth–

Oikawa was too far away, too slow, and even if he wasn’t, you’d just witnessed the lengths he’d go to for self preservation. You’d screamed for him anyway, squeezing your eyes shut and praying you’d go quickly when those fingers and yellowing teeth dug into your flesh and ripped you apart.

And in the space of a single petrified heartbeat, three shots had rung through the air, a warm wetness splattering against your cheek. Tooru was there, kicking the rotting corpse away from you and hauling you back to your feet, back safely against his side.

But the next one was quicker, leaping over the husk of its fallen friend, snarling and bloody and savage, and then it was Tooru who was screaming, undead fingers sinking into the flesh of his leg, ripping as it tried to claw him back.

Heart pounding viciously, your eyes shoot open in the darkness.

Even with the reassurance of Oikawa’s frame pressed up behind you, his breath warm against your skin, sleep doesn’t come easy, and the dawn brings little reprieve.

Stupidly, you’d hoped – prayed – that somehow through the night he might’ve gotten better. It was early in the morning when you’d felt him start to shiver against you. You’d tried to roll away, to give him space so you wouldn’t accidentally knock his leg, but Tooru was having none of it, burrowing in closer, his grip tightening.

And when you’d felt him start to sweat, his arms becoming sticky and clammy, his shirt dampening at your back, that slow, cloying sense of dread took root inside of your stomach.

Under the first rays of morning light, the true extent of Oikawa’s condition is unignorable. Without the luxury of being able to properly close the wound, blood’s seeped through the bandages overnight, leaving them a mottled, macabre red. His face is pale, a thin sheen of sweat dotting at his brow and with every shallow, rattling breath he takes, his body trembles.

It’s more than just simple blood loss.

You think for a moment that he’s unconscious, long lashes fanned out over flushed cheekbones, but the moment you reach for the bandages, his eyes snap open. “Don’t,” he rasps.

You frown, “Tooru–”

“No,” he says. “It’s fine. Leave it alone.”

Between him and Iwaizumi, and to a certain extent, Makki and Mattsun, you’ve never had much of a say in how things are run. You’ve never questioned that they’re the ones in charge, Oikawa most of all. They’re the ones who’ve kept you safe, kept you alive all this time, and all they’ve ever asked of you is that you do what they say.

And you have. Always. Because without them, you’d be dead. You don’t have to pick up a gun and fight, because they do it for you. You don’t have to go on supply runs because they take care of it, they take care of you. And it’s never mattered whether it’s just been the five of you out there alone, or if you were banding together with other survivors; that’s never changed – no matter how many dirty looks it earned you from the others.

You are their responsibility, but in return, you do what they tell you without question.

But this–

This isn’t like that. This isn’t you begging Iwaizumi to take you with him on perimeter patrol because you’ve been cooped up for what feels like weeks, or pouting because they’re deliberately keeping things from you again. 

And maybe they have kept you in the dark, but you’re not blind and you’re not stupid. The reality of this situation hasn’t escaped you. 

The sanctuary’s overrun, and if – when – Iwa, Makki and Mattsun make it back, they’ll be walking into an ambush. Even if by some miracle they do manage to all make it out unscathed and somehow figure out a way to pick up your trail, there’s no telling how long it’ll take for them to find their way back to you.

(You can’t bear to think about the possibility of them not coming home; you won’t.)

Right now, it’s just you and Oikawa, stuck in some abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a rifle and a baseball bat between you. You have no food, no supplies and he’s getting weaker by the minute.

You’re terrified.

And you don’t have the luxury of sitting back and letting somebody else take care of you anymore. You don’t stand a chance of survival without Oikawa, and right now he doesn’t stand a chance without you.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shake your head. “Okay, I won’t touch it, but I’m not just going to sit here and watch you get worse.” Smoothing your palms over your lap, you take a deep breath in through your nose. “There’s a prison–”

“No.”

“Tooru–”

“I said no,” he snaps.

Biting back a sigh, you try again, “Tooru, there might be supplies there,” you plead. “Painkillers, antibiotics, something that might help–”

“I don’t need antibiotics and you’re not leaving. We need to stay here where it’s safe until the others find us,” he grits out, eyes narrowing dangerously. 

Normally, this would be the point that you’d back off, running off to lick your wounds before he decided to get mean, but even as some part of you cowers at the mere thought of upsetting him, this time you don’t back down.

He watches warily as you lean over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, gently smoothing damp brown locks back from his sweat slicked forehead. “I don’t know when Iwa’s coming back,” you murmur. “But until he does, the prison’s our best chance, if I can just–”

“No!” he snarls, cutting you off once again.

His eyes are manic now, blown wide and glazed over, he’s shivering, his breath a faint rattle – but his grip is iron, long fingers clutching at you desperately when you jerk back with a gasp.

“You don’t leave me.”

You don’t want to. 

It’d be easy not to, to sit and stay with him and pretend that your world isn’t falling apart and he isn’t dying. You’ve never been a fighter, always too soft, too weak, too naive to survive out there on your own. The thought of setting one foot outside of that door without him by your side fills you with absolute terror, but what other options do you have?

He might not like it, but you’re out of time – this decision isn’t his to make anymore.

“Tooru, I-I have to, you know–”

“No!” he snaps, dragging you closer. “You’re not leaving me, I won’t fucking let you!”

Your hand trembles when you reach up to take his, easing it from your shirt and bringing it to your lips. Tears spill from your lashes, falling in heavy droplets against the back of his hand as Oikawa makes a pained sound.

“Please don’t go.”

You both know he can’t stop you.

“Keep the gun,” you tell him, mustering up a tight, watery smile. “Anything but Iwa and our boys comes through that door, shoot it.”

—

It seems a cruel, twisted joke that you find a perfectly good truck sitting a little ways up the driveway, just begging to be used – with no way of getting it started.

Mattsun always made hot wiring look so easy, tossing you a wink when the engine rumbled to life, as if it was a neat little party trick he’d pulled out just to impress you. He did it so quickly, so smoothly, ripping the wires out and sparking them like it was second nature, but he’d never bothered to actually explain what he was doing to you.

And why would he? Between the four of them, there’d always be somebody else to take care of it for you. It’s the same reason they never taught you how to shoot, never taught you how to fight beyond the very basics of self defence.

Now, trudging along the side of the barren road with nothing but your baseball bat and a canteen of water slung over your hip, you find yourself wishing you’d paid a little more attention. Ten miles hadn’t seemed that far on paper – it was less than the trek back into town and you’d figured a safer bet, but walking around in broad daylight without any kind of real protection feels like you’re begging to be preyed upon. Yet by some stroke of luck (and despite that persistent nagging sense that you’re being watched) you manage to make it to the perimeter gates without coming across another soul, dead or alive.

The towering brick walls topped with spirals of barbed wire that line the prison complex are as imposing as they are unbreachable, and for a moment, standing there staring up at them, you feel a crushing sense of disappointment. You’ve walked over two hours, left Tooru in pain and alone for nothing. There’s no way in hell you’re gonna be able to scale those walls, and without any kind of bolt cutters or firepower, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to get past the front gates. 

Iwa would’ve known that. Iwa would’ve been better prepared. 

But as you draw closer to the guardhouse, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that it’s not a problem. The heavy wrought iron gate’s already unlocked and open, creaking in the breeze. And really, that should have been the first warning sign, but you’re too busy thanking your lucky stars as you slide on through to pay attention to things like that.

The courtyard is just as deserted. The crunch of gravel underfoot echoes too loud, setting your nerves on edge as you make your way towards the imposing structure. It’s quiet, eerily so – even the birds seem to have disappeared. Is this how all raids feel, you wonder as you climb the steps towards the door. This sense of foreboding dread that settles in your stomach, the goosebumps that prickle down your arms? 

Your grip tightens around the handle of your bat and you press gingerly against the door – just like the guardhouse gate, it gives under your touch, swinging open wide. It’s dark inside; you hadn’t thought to bring a torch and with the absence of any windows lining the corridor it’s near pitch black. Your heart hammers inside your chest, every cell in your body screaming at you to turn around and run back to Tooru, but you’ve come this far already. 

The undead flock to fresh, living meat. It’s been months since the outbreak began; anyone unfortunate enough to have found themselves trapped inside when it happened is probably long dead, and any of the undead likely long gone.

It’s just a little darkness. 

Steeling your nerves you creep through the black, clutching tightly at your bat, toeing your way down the corridor waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dim. Every breath you draw in feels too loud, every step too obnoxious. Deserted or not, the sooner you can find the med-bay, get what you need for Oikawa and get out, the better.

The layout’s simple enough – five looming multi-storied wings breaking off like fingers from the central watch-tower, but you don’t have a clue which one holds what you’re seeking. Your only option is to search them one by one and hope for the best. 

You’d expected steel bars and heavy locks, but the prison reminds you strangely of a school instead; long hallways lined with doors, each with a tiny window to peek through. They’re all open now of course, whatever locking mechanism keeping them shut having failed when the generators ran out. The first few are empty, barren and stripped of everything but soiled mattresses – it should be a relief. 

There’s nothing waiting for you in the darkness but empty halls and emptier rooms. If the others were here, they’d be teasing you for sure. Or Makki and Mattsun would, at least. You always were such a scared little baby – their scared little baby – you’d jump at your own shadow if you didn’t have them around. 

And it’s easier to keep going imagining them there by your side, the jokes they’d crack, the warmth of Iwa’s hand in yours, or Makki’s arm slung over your shoulder. You’d feel safe with them. You wouldn’t need to feel afraid.

But no amount of pretend comfort is enough to allay the heavy sense of dread that’s sitting in your stomach, growing harder and harder to ignore with every passing minute. And the problem, you realise, with the prison being so deadly quiet is that every noise, no matter how quiet, echoes.

Climbing the stairs in the dark, you don’t notice the slickness on the walls either side of you, the red handprints smeared messily over white paint. You don’t see the broken, bloody fingernails littering the steps beneath you. 

You hear it though, when you reach the landing. It’s soft. A quiet, wet squelching, ripping–

There’s no screams accompanying it like there were back when the sanctuary was overrun, but it’s not a sound you’re gonna be able to forget any time soon. In the dark you freeze, not daring to so much as breathe as you peer down the endless corridor, trying to pinpoint which of the cells it’s coming from. 

In the end, you decide that it doesn’t matter. 

They’re quicker when they’ve fed, stronger too, and there’s not a chance in hell that you’re going to be able to fumble past in the dark without drawing that thing’s attention. The wooden bat in your hands feels heavy, your palms already slick with sweat. You weren’t quick enough back at the sanctuary; without Tooru, that thing would’ve eaten you. And suddenly it seems laughable that you came out here, that you genuinely thought you could handle this – fight one of them off if it came down to it.

Tooru needs those meds, you know that, and you might be useless and weak and absolutely paralysed with fear, but you’re not stupid. You can’t help him at all if you’re torn apart by one of those creatures.

Your pulse racing, a potent mix of adrenaline and sheer, unrelenting terror coursing through your veins, you draw in a quiet breath, slowly lifting your foot to back away. It hasn’t heard you yet, and so long as it’s distracted–

“Oi, hurry up! I know what I saw, she came in this way.”

“Jesus, just shut up for a sec, wouldja! Ya don’t need to keep yellin’ at me, I’m comin’!”

Through the grate at your feet, you see two beams of light break through the darkness, the sound of loud, heavy footsteps echoing down the wing. Icy claws tighten like a vice around your heart and you still once more, squeezing your eyes shut as you listen, praying…

The squelching’s stopped.

Grip tight around the handle of your bat, your entire body quaking with fear, you watch with wide, stricken eyes as one of the doors halfway down the block slowly creaks outwards. 

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing, and you try and convince yourself it’s just the wind, that you’re imagining things and your mind is playing mean tricks on you–

A feral snarl rips through the air, and before you can so much as scream it’s crashing through the open doorway, head swivelling as it searches for the source of the disturbance. In the dark you can’t make out much, only that it’s huge, half its flesh torn and decaying, smeared with blood and filth – but you see it when those white, cloudy eyes fix on you, its rotting mouth bared and salivating.

And this time you do scream. You scream for Oikawa, for Iwa, for Makki and Mattsun and the faceless strangers on the floor below as you cast your bat aside and run. You don’t dare look over your shoulder as you take the stairs two, three at a time, slipping and slamming into the stairwell wall, a sharp burst of pain radiating down your shoulder – you can hear it giving chase, the rabid growls and snarls too close for comfort.

Tears flood your eyes, your chest heaving with every desperate breath as your feet hit solid ground once more and you take off.

“Please!” you sob as you run, blinded by the brightness of the torch beam as it’s shone in your direction. “PLEASE HELP ME!”

You can’t outrun it forever. Even now, you hear it gaining on you, its hot, foul breath puffing against your back – it’s just like back at the sanctuary. It’s gonna catch you, rip into you and feast while you choke to death on your own blood and screams, and this time you won’t have Oikawa here to save you. You’re going to die in agony, torn apart and devoured, and it’s all your own stupid fault.

Your throat tightens, more tears springing free. You can’t see anything beyond those two blinding lights, moving now, dancing across the field of your vision. “PLEASE!” you shriek, desperate and hoarse as the undead creature behind you readies itself to pounce.

Please don’t leave me here to die.

And for one heart wrenching second, you think back to your boys, and the words they’d said before kissing you goodbye. Everybody else first. Maybe this is some kind of divine retribution, you think. Maybe when the world went to hell people became cold and selfish and you deserve this for sitting back and letting others die in your place.

“Get down!” the voice yells, and you don’t even stop to think before you drop, sliding across the floor. There’s another blinding flash, a shot fired into the dark and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and hug your knees to your chest as the creature snarls in anger and jerks backwards, a gruesome spurt of blood spraying over you.

“Ya fucking missed! How could ya fucking miss?!”

The gun cocks and reloads, another deafening shot ringing out above you and you flinch, your nails biting into the soft skin of your palm–

But this time the bullet hits its mark. The creature crashes to the floor with a loud thump and doesn’t move again. 

You don’t waste a second scrambling to your feet, launching yourself into the arms of your saviour. You don’t care that you’re crying, that you’re covered in blood and filth and god knows what else, you cling to him like he’s a lifeline, sobbing into his shoulder. And instead of pushing you away like he probably should, he lets out a short huff that sounds almost like a laugh, his arm curling around your waist.

“I’m the one who shot the damn thing,” the other mutters sourly.

The man holding you snorts, “Nah, yer the idiot who missed.” Belatedly, you realise that he’s still gripping his gun, the brightness you’d assumed to have come from a torch actually from a light mounted to the barrel. He slings the rifle carelessly over his shoulder, drawing back slightly to appraise you. “Now, wanna tell me what a sweet thing like you’s doin’ all alone in a place like this?”

With your eyes now adjusting to the light, you can see that the two of them can’t be much older than you. They’re both tall, broad shouldered and handsome, the same jawline, the same slope to their nose, nearly identical hooded eyes – brothers you decide, maybe even twins. And they’re both smirking at you, not with the relief of just barely escaping a brush with a particularly gruesome death, but with an odd sort of lackadaisical amusement, as if this – skulking through dark, abandoned places, killing the undead – is nothing out of the ordinary for them. 

And from the ease with which they carry their weapons, maybe it isn’t.

Oikawa warned you about men like them. Men in general, really. Even the ones who smiled at you back at the sanctuary, the ones who offered to help you move heavy supplies when they saw you struggling – at least, until Iwa or one of the others stepped in with a poisonous glare. Anyone who wasn’t them was dangerous, a threat, just waiting in the wings to take advantage of a pretty, dumb little thing like you.

And maybe he’s right, but when the one holding you instead drags you closer, wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins to lead you back towards the guard tower as his brother falls into step on your other side, you don’t shrug him off. 

Oikawa isn’t here, and they have just saved your life. That has to count for something, right?

“I-I thought it’d be safe,” you confess breathlessly, trying not to focus on the thumb sweeping over the curve of your shoulder. “Well, empty at least. I didn’t have a choice.” And they listen, sharing glances in the dark as you tell them about what’d happened at the sanctuary, about Oikawa and the desperation that’d led you to leave him and walk miles alone to try and find some kind of medicine–

Until a snicker interrupts you. “Sorry,” the blonde mutters, though he doesn’t look all that sincere when your eyes flash to his. “It’s just…”

“Anythin’ worth taking woulda been snatched up months ago,” the darker haired one interjects.

“There ain’t nothin’ here but the occasional idiot tryna set up camp an’… Well, ya saw how well that turned out.”

It hits you like a gut punch, forcing the air from your lungs in a harsh, gasping breath. There was never anything here, everything… all of it was a waste. You came all this way, left him feverish and screaming himself hoarse for you, risked your life, almost died and–

It was all for nothing.

Fresh tears sting at your eyes, they’re still talking but it’s just white noise washing over you. You don’t even realise they’re leading you back outside until you’re walking through the doors, the sudden burst of sunlight making you flinch. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

You’re an idiot.

A naive, dumb little girl who was stupid enough to think this half cocked plan was gonna work. That you would make it back to Tooru in one piece, medicine in hand to save the day and prove you weren’t the helpless damsel they’d pegged you for. 

You’ve wasted so much time, for nothing. 

There’s no drugs, no food, nothing that’s gonna help either one of you make it through the next few days and suddenly you’re drowning under a wave of hopelessness and bitter disappointment. You fall to your knees in the dirt, taking both your saviours by surprise, and let out a painful, heart wrenching sob. And once you start, you can’t seem to stop. It’s overwhelming, every emotion you’ve bottled up and shoved aside over the last two days suddenly forced into the light. You cry for yourself, for Tooru – for Iwa and Makki and Mattsun. You cry until it feels like you can’t breathe anymore, and then there’s rough calloused fingers brushing your tears away.

You look up through wet lashes to find the dark-haired man crouching before you, his expression sober. “Ya don’t need to cry, sweetheart, we’re not monsters y’know.”

His brother chuckles behind you, “We’re not about to leave some pretty little thing all alone out here to starve to death.” His hand’s resting atop your head now, smoothing down the hair at your crown. It’s soft and soothing, and you’re so attuned to seeking comfort that you can’t help but lean into it, eyes momentarily fluttering shut. “We’ve got some friends nearby, a nice little hideaway stocked full of all kinds of shit. Everything ya could possibly need.”

“Y-you mean it?” you ask, wide eyes flickering to the dark haired one, who smiles at last. “You’ll share them with me?”

“‘Course we do. Meds, food, weapons. Whatever ya want, it’s yours.”

You take the hand he offers to help you stand, your limbs trembling once more – but this time it’s not from fear or exhaustion, but the overwhelming rush of sheer relief. You could kiss him, kiss them both, but you don’t.

Instead you settle for throwing your arms around them once more, breathless thanks falling from your lips faster than they can catch as you hug them tight. They don’t seem to mind though, sharing almost identical smirks as the three of you head out to an old, beat up camaro parked out by the entrance to the prison. While the blonde slides in the driver’s seat and his brother takes the passenger’s side, you climb up into the back seat. 

“Is it far?” you ask as he kicks the car into gear and peels out onto the deserted road. Hopefully it’s not, the sooner you can get back to help Tooru the better. 

“Nah, not too far. We’ll be home before ya know it.”

Of course, they’re driving you to their friends, but they haven’t promised anything about driving you back to the cottage and Oikawa–

Which is perfectly fine! You’re not going to push your luck, they’re already doing plenty for you. More than they really have to. You don’t even need that much – just some medicine for Tooru and enough food for the two of you to get through the next few days, and you’ll be fine. Whatever you can carry, which, admittedly isn’t much. There’s still a few hours of daylight left, if you’re lucky you’ll be able to make it back to him before nightfall.

Things are gonna be fine. You’ll bring the medicine and once he’s better, the two you can head out to find the others. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll be better when you’re all back together, the way things were meant to be. 

You need them, if anything this little venture’s proven that much at least. 

They’d promised that it wasn’t far, and maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the last few days creeping in, or the gentle hum of the engine as the car drives along the long, narrow stretch of road, but your eyelids start to droop, your breath evening out as sleep beckons.

And you’re just dancing on the edge of consciousness when a hushed voice breaks through the comfortable silence, dark eyes flickering up to watch your slumbering form in the rearview mirror. “Ya think Kita’ll be pissed?”

There’s a snort, “Nah. He’s always had a soft spot for strays, ‘specially the pretty ones.” He’s quiet for a moment, almost contemplative before he opens his mouth to add, “‘Sides, we’re gonna take real good care of her, ain’t we, Samu?”

The only reply he gives is a soft grunt of acknowledgement. 

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere atsumu x reader #yandere osamu x reader #yandere iwaizumi x reader #yandere matsukawa x reader #yandere hanamaki x reader #tw blood #tw gore #angst #toxic relationships #i honestly do not know how to tag this #at this point it's practically sfw #if you ignore all the blood and injuries and zombie stuff

[dreamties]

Take A Step Out Of Your Head - Polyam!Ghostface Hurt/Comfort

A/n- I listened to a lot of dandelion hands while I wrote this, so if it emotionally wrecks you than um...you know why?

Also, big thank you to @venisonghost for beta reading this and @rakunko who was vv supportive and encouraging while I worked on it !! <3

Word Count: 2,256

You’re in the kitchen, occasionally stirring the big pot of macaroni on the stove. Stu comes up behind you, wrapping his long arms and lean frame around you. He nips at your neck, leaving tiny kisses as you giggle and try to escape him. "Not now, babe."

You can hear Stu whining in return. "C'mon, dinner can wait a bit. Haven't seen you all day," he murmurs against your neck.

You hum in return, trying again to push him off. "Dinner will be done in a minute, you think you can wait that long?"

You look at him, and he's giving you the biggest puppy-eyed look you've ever seen. "Fine. We can cuddle up on the couch later, drag Billy into it too- maybe watch some Elm Street?"

Stu excitedly nods, going back to peppering you with kisses and sucking at your neck.

"Fuck off, Stu," you giggle as he finally let's go.

"Aw, you're no fun, Y/n,” he says, dramatically sticking his tongue at you. He slips away to open the fridge, grabbing a beer, and silently offering one for you. You shake your head, giving the macaroni two gentle stirs.

He takes a few sips then sets it down next to the stove. You look up towards him curiously and he gives you a mischievous smirk. He takes you by surprise, gently dragging a finger along your jawline, directing your face up towards his. It had been much longer than you’d care to admit that you’d had a good, proper kiss like this. Between work and classes and the boys’ murder gig. You melt into him, cherishing how nice it feels this close to each other. His lips are soft and warm against your own, and you can taste his beer as he deepens the kiss. 

Your sweet moment with Stu stops mid-way, interrupted by the front door slamming open then shut. Billy tosses his mask to the kitchen counter, landing with an angry slap- blood splattering against the tiled surface. You spot him trying to slip his Ghostface garments over his head, struggling as he makes his way to the bedroom.

"Should someone check on him?" Stu mumbles, feeling nervous.

You sigh, "I've got it, babe. Just keep an eye on the macaroni, it should only be a few minutes longer- and don't burn it like last time, okay?"

He chuckles, "I won't, I won't."

You roll your eyes, feeling unsure and worried about the decision to leave Stu in charge of dinner- but eventually settling on the feeling that it was for the best. Billy needed you.

Usually Billy did the caring- not to say that the rest of the relationship didn’t- but Stu and yourself were far more expressive of your own feelings than he would ever be- he would ever let himself be. He wasn’t much of a talker like Stu- but had an equally calming aura when he needed to be there for his loves. Aside from the physical comfort he’d provide, his attempts for comfort were subtle (unless it involved maiming a new victim…). 

When it came to the few times Billy found himself struck with harsh emotions that he never quite learned how to deal with- it was tricky for Y/n and Stu to help him. It was different every time. Finding the right balance between treating him as normal and stepping into new territory- and depending on what set him off, it could always be easier said than done. 

The bedroom door is left ajar, and you carefully move it further open- wincing as it makes a painful creak. Billy doesn’t seem to mind much- or hear it- as you find him sitting stock still on the bed, hunched into himself. His ghostface robes clutched in his grasp, dried blood packed into his nails and caking his hand- in parts they still shine as if freshly drained from his victim, 

You let out a sigh, eyeing him carefully. His knife is placed hazardously on a towel next to him- if he moved the wrong way it could knick his skin. You move across the room, and tentatively entering Billy’s space you grab the knife- the handle is sticky and wet. You set it on the ground, not caring about whether it stained the carpet or not. You could deal with it later- all that mattered was making sure he was okay, that he was safe. 

"Here," you motion towards the pile of clothes in Billy's hands. His eyes appear glossy as he clings onto them harder. You sit down next to him, putting a cautious hand on his back and the other smoothes down his hair. "Is this alright?"

He shrugs.

You sigh, "Can I take these? I'll put them in the laundry room, I'll wash them after dinner."

His grip on them loosens, and you get up, plucking them from his grasp. You press a gentle kiss to his forehead, scurrying off to do as you had promised. You clean your hands off, before grabbing Billy some fresh clothes from the dryer that had yet to be put away yet.

When you come back, he's dutifully wiping the blood off his knife. You smile at him, leaning against the doorframe, "I'm gonna go check on Stu and dinner, you need anything?"

Billy stares up at you, smiling- it's something devilish but sincere. "Come here."

You raise an eyebrow at him, but do as told. Billy sets his knife down on the floor, slowly slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you down into his lap. He gives a contented sigh, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck.  

“You two just can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

You can hear him murmuring something, but it’s muffled by him being pressed so close to you. 

Usually when Billy was sad or overwhelmed and didn’t know what to do, he’d push those close to him away. There was a comfort in being alone- feeling like you deserved it, that this was how things were meant to be. It was rare that Billy accepted your care without a fight- so graciously, so calm. You begin to gently rub your fingertips in soothing patterns against his hands.

Every once in a while subtly asking him if it was alright, and receiving nothing more than a few mumbled words and grunts.

Stu shows up a while later, poking his head in the doorway. “It’s done.”

You glance at him, “You drain the water out before you put the packet in?”

He looks away.

Your face falls in mock anger, voice stern as you call to him-“Stu?”

He lets out a big laugh, grinning at you, “Yes, I did.”

You roll your eyes, presenting him with an exasperated look but gentle smile. “Why don’t you bring it in here, not sure if he’ll let go of me yet.”

“Totally!”

He comes back a moment later, setting the bowls of warm macaroni on the nightstand. You give a smile of appreciation towards him, and he takes that as his invitation to join the two of you. He lays down long ways on the bed, close enough to pull his arms around the cuddled mess of his lovers. He rests his head nudged against Billy’s backside. A bit of an awkward position? Maybe, but then again- that was Stu for you.

After a moment of allowing the quiet to overtake the room, you can’t help but laugh at the way the three of you had situated yourselves. You twist in Billy’s grasp, and he hesitantly moves his head upright. “Hey, Billy,” you whisper, “Mind letting go of me for a minute?”

The only response you get is him nudging you back to your position, and hiding his face in your neck again. He holds on tighter. 

“C’mon, we’re gonna cuddle up with Stu. You’re gonna be more comfortable, babe.”

His grip tightens uncomfortably. 

“Billy.” Your voice seems to startle him, and he lets go. His arms fall limply against his side.  You sigh, gently removing yourself from him- his head seems to almost hang in shame as you part. 

Stu moves himself up, so he’s sitting behind Billy.  

Your voice comes out soft, as you try to assure him that “It’s okay.” You offer your hand out to guide Billy to a more comfortable spot on the bed. The three of you find yourselves laying down with Billy situated safely in the middle. Stu’s behind him, arms wrapped around his torso, hands tucked gently around his waist. You’re in front of him, giving him a gentle smile and very softly petting you hand against his head. He yearns to lean into your touch, but he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve this.

Billy feels small and angry, trying to shy away from Stu’s hold by slowly curling into himself. He’s got his back hunched and his legs awkwardly pulled up towards himself. He’s tired and he hates the two of you seeing him like this- but he knows it will be worse if you and Stu leave. He lets out an awful whine, clutching your shirt in his grasp. He ducks his head, so he’s staring down at your shirt twisting in his bloodied hands. He shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be doing this. 

You spare a glance towards him, his sudden noise worrying you. You catch the sight of his eyes glossing over again, and him trying to blink away any possible tears. You want so badly to pull him into a hug and tell him it’s okay to cry, to let it out. But you can imagine his reaction to it vividly, him pulling away, an angry look on his face. And letting out some terrible, defensive noise. Him pushing you away for the rest of the night- and perhaps it would spill into the following days. It was safe to say that Billy wasn’t good with most comfort, and definitely not his emotions. You’re still surprised he’s let the two of you coddle him like this for so long.

So you don’t hug him. And you don’t tell him it’s okay. You lean in closer, pressing your forehead close to his. You start your fingers through his hair, you try to be gentle with it, but your fingers keep getting caught in little snarls and dried blood. You move your head to press a small kiss to his forehead, then move back and continue trying to sooth him. 

“I love you, Billy,” you whisper. 

Stu makes a muffled agreement and then, in an attempted whisper, he says almost too loud, “Me too!” He chuckles out an apology, and nuzzles his head into the back of Billy’s neck. Billy doesn’t say anything, but he likes the warmth radiating off of his boyfriend. It feels...safe.

It’s a while before Billy does anything again. His voice is much smaller than usual when he speaks- and it sounds like he’s holding something back. Trying not to let out teary, loud sobs. 

“I don’t want you to go,” he mutters, pulling your shirt tighter in his fists.

“We’re not going anywhere, love.”

Billy holds his eyes tight, finally letting go of your clothes and hiding his face in his hands. So...so ashamed of you seeing him like this. Hearing him try to hold back his crying- it was pathetic. Billy was not supposed to be like this. Not around you, not ever. 

He lets out a pained whine, and a few tears slip out. “I almost lost you and Stu.”

You try not to frown at him, sighing, “Why are you saying that?” And then you’re reminded of his bad mood as soon as he had returned home. “Did something happen when you were out?”

“I handled it,” he grumbles out.

“Handled what?”

“Just- it!” He nearly growls, barking it out harsher than intended to. “Fuck, fuck…” he grumbles to himself. He presses his hands closer and closer, till he has his palms pushed to his eyes and it hurts. He tries so hard not to think about a life on his own. One where their little secret came to light, and he and Stu- and worst of all, you, who hadn’t done anything- would have to suffer the consequences of their wrongdoings. 

“Billy,” your voice cuts through his thoughts. You have one of your hands placed on his own, gently beckoning for him to remove them from his face. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he brings his hands down. He blinks a few times, and then rests his eyes shut again. He lets out a shaky breath. “Whatever happened- you're safe now.”

“Yeah, you’ve got us,” Stu says, giving Billy a gentle squeeze. 

“Yeah,” you smile. “And we’re not going to let anything happen to you, or any of us. We’ve got each other now. Forever and always. Okay, Billy?”

Billy’s not sure what to say. A simple yes would suffice, but he can feel the tears finally begin to trickle down his face- and he doesn’t trust himself to speak. He buries his head in your chest, and pulls you close to him, wrapping his arms around you. Finally allowing himself to relax, and let Stu snuggle closer into him.

The three of you fall asleep that night, safely tucked away in each other's arms. Bowls of macaroni long forgotten, and more serious conversations left to be had. But for now- you had each other, and Billy was okay with that. 

#poly ghostface x reader #poly!ghostface x reader #poly ghostface #poly!ghostface #billy x reader x stu #billy loomis x reader x stu macher #billy loomis x stu macher #billy x stu #stuilly #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x reader #stu macher x you #billy loomis x you #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slashers x s/o #slashers x s/i #slashers x you #polyam ghostface x reader #polyam!ghostface x reader #polyam!ghostface #polyam ghostface #slasher oneshot #reblogs are encouraged !!

[pro-fangirls-unsocial-life]

Could you do some soft kisses with Cody after a hard mission

Hey anon! Sorry this took so long to fill but I’m finally writing again!! School has been keeping me busy but I hope that you enjoy this nonetheless!! Also thank you to @captainrexisboo for being my beta reader for this!!!

Washing Away Memories

Cody x Reader

Warnings: Blood. Mentions of death. Nudity but nothing explicit. Injury. ANGST.

Also you can be added to my taglist here!

He had walked into your quarters without so much of a word coming from him, covered in dirt from the planet below and his posture slouched like he was carrying the weight of the universe on his shoulders. As he slowly removed his armor, you could see the small winces and pauses of pain when he moved too fast or was in an odd position for too long. His blacks were torn in some places and you could see cuts and wounds on his skin beneath them.

 “Cody? Are you alright?” You stood up from your desk, slowly walking over to him as his head hung low.

 He wouldn’t meet your eye, only looking down at the floor as you approached and not moving an inch since you had spoken, like he was afraid to look up at you and show you the war still raging behind his eyes.

“Cody?” You said, reaching out slowly for one of his wrists. He flinched away from you slightly, his eyes screwing shut as he angled his head as far from you as he could. You could see his lip start to quiver and his body start to tremble. Barely noticeable if you weren’t so close and if he had his armor on, but enough to make your worry spike even more than it already had.

 You reach out for his wrist again, grabbing it lightly as your other hand comes up to cup his face, angling it back toward you. His eyes were still shut as the tears that he had been fighting so hard to keep from falling start leaving trails in the dirt that was plastered to his face.

 You move your hand from his wrist to grasp his hand, pulling it away at the feeling of something sticky on his glove. Looking down at your own hand, you see it covered in crimson liquid, partially dried and starting to thicken. You head whips back up to look at Cody’s face, switching your gaze back and forth between him and your hand. He has his eyes closed; his face still pointed down. “Cody?” Your voice had picked up a bit of panic at seeing the substance on your hand. “Is this blood?”

 The silence from before returns and you see him take a shuddering breath before finally speaking in a low, broken whimper. “It’s not mine….”

 There are still tears coming from his closed eyes, falling faster now after his confession. His small whimpers now being the only thing to occupy the deafeningly quiet space.

 “Oh, Cody…” Using your thumb, you wipe some of the tears from his cheek, creating a small smudge in the filth that covers him and wrapping your other arm around his back, holding him close as he starts to sob into your shoulder.

 “He was just… just a kid- couldn’t have been more than sixteen biologically…” You feel his hands finally come to hold you, fisting the fabric of your shirt as he brings you closer. “Hadn’t…. Hadn’t even earned his paint yet…”

 You stand there, just holding him for what feels like hours. Softly petting the back of his head and rubbing soothing circles on his back as you whisper small reassurances into his ear. “I’ve got you, Cody… I’ve got you…” Not wanting the silence to allow the newly formed nightmares to return to the forefront of Cody’s mind.

 After a substantial amount of time, his cries start to quiet, his breathing becoming more even as you continue trying to sooth him.

 “What can I do for you?” You whisper, still rubbing his back.

 He pulls back, his eyes red and puffy and looking as defeated as you had ever seen him. He looks into your eyes for the first time that night, his jaw still trembling and his breathing still more erratic than it should be. “Just… Stay with me… Please… I don’t want to be alone tonight…”

 You bring your hand up to his face, cradling it as he leans into your touch. “Of course, my love. Anything for you.” Taking a step back, you kneel down, taking off the rest of the armor from his legs before standing back up. “Do you want to take a shower, or do you just want to go to bed?”

 Pausing for a moment, he looks down at his hands, seeing the dust and blood that still covered them. Every moment that led to him being covered with so much debris from the battle replaying through his mind all at once in a hurricane of terrors. “I- I want this off of me…”

 “Alright,” you say, voice soft and low. “Do you want me to help?”

 He nods, taking your hand when you reach out to him and letting you lead him toward the fresher in your quarters.

 When you get inside the room, you have him stand, turning on the shower to let the water start to heat up. Once you have done that, you help him remove his blacks, being careful not to disturb the injuries that were littered across his skin.

 You press a kiss to his shoulder before another on his lips. “Do you want to get in and I’ll join you in just a second?”

 He gives you a small nod before stepping into the shower, facing the stream, and letting out a sigh as the water begins to cascade down his skin, already taking some of the dirt and blood caked onto his skin with it. Some of the tension releases from his shoulders, almost like the water is washing away some of the weight that had made its home there while he was away.

 Quickly taking off your clothes, you step into the shower behind Cody, pressing kisses along his shoulders and rubbing your hands up and down his arms. “Think you can turn around for me, baby? Let me wash your hair?”

 You switch places with him, standing to the side of the water so that he is getting the full spray on his back.

 Bringing your hands up, you angle his head back into the water, making sure that his hair is completely wet. Then, you grab the bottle of shampoo from off the wall, squirting as much as you would need for him into your hands and threading them into his hair, tenderly beginning to massage his scalp.

 A low groan comes from his chest as you work the soap into his hair, his shoulders relaxing, and his eyes fluttering shut at your fingers on his scalp. He leans into your touch, enjoying the first chance he has had to relax in weeks. The first chance he had to think about something other than the war he was forced to be a part of since his creation.

 Once you finished, you helped him lean his head back into the stream, using your hand to shield his eyes from the soap as it rinsed off of his head.

 You quickly repeat the process with conditioner, making sure that the water stays hot, and that Cody is still alright with your hands on him.

 “You still ok?” you asked, moving your hands to massage the muscles in his neck as the last bits of soap washed off of his body. “Is it alright if I wash the rest of your body now?”

 He gives you a small hum in confirmation, the tension he still holds quickly disappearing as you work your fingers over his muscles.

 Slowly, you take your hands away, grabbing a soft cloth and running it under the water before gathering soap on it. You begin to delicately drag it across his skin, putting enough pressure to gather up all of the grime that had accrued on him during the weeks long campaign and wash it away, hoping that with each pass of the cloth, some of the horror behind it would be washed away as well. As you worked over his skin, you made sure to be extra careful around his wounds, trying your best to not give Cody more pain than he already had.

 When you got to his hands, you made sure to be additionally tender, massaging them in your own as you cleaned the blood off of them that had soaked through the material of his blacks. As if cleaning them off would clean the guilt from Cody’s mind, making him forget the images of the little brother dying in his arms. Once they were clean, you pressed a kiss to his palms before continuing on to the rest of his body, hoping to attach his hands to at least one positive thing before the day is finished.

 You turned to him once you had finished, kissing his cheek and bringing your forehead against his. “I’m gonna step out so that I can get you clean clothes and a fresh towel. Alright? Do you think you can finish rinsing off while I go do that?”

 “Mhm…”

 With his confirmation you step away, grabbing a towel and quickly drying yourself off. You walk back out into the room, throwing on your own clothes before making your way over to the chest at the end of your bed where you kept an extra pair of Cody’s blacks and the set of pajamas that you had bought for him the last time you were both planet side.

 On your way back to the fresher, you dimmed the lights, knowing that Cody would most likely just want to sleep once he was dressed.

 You grabbed a fresh towel from the shelf, stepping back inside the steamy room, the water still running as Cody finished.

 When the water finally shut off, you stood ready with the towel, wrapping it softly around Cody once he stepped out and helping him dry off. He flinched, letting out a pained grunt as it ran over one of the cuts on his back, prompting you to grab all the bacta and gauze that you had in your room and to start carefully tending to his wounds.

 He was silent through all of it, the only sound being the buzzing of the fluorescent light from the ceiling and the occasional wince as you patched him up.

 With every wound you patched up, you pressed a kiss to it once you had finished, wanting to just give the love to Cody’s body that he had never had the privilege of possessing. You wanted to take every single bit of pain and lock it away, making sure that it could never dare to come close to the man you loved again. You wanted to make Cody forget everything he had seen and experienced and replace it with the happiness and love that he deserved. Because to you, he deserved the universe, and you were going to do everything you could to give him even a fraction of that if you could.

 After applying bacta to every wound you could find, you gave him a once over, checking to make sure that you had not missed anything before helping Cody put on the soft, 212th colored pajamas that you had gotten him.

 He visibly deflated before your eyes, all of his tension melting away as he let out a breath like he had been holding it for hours.

 You put your hands on either side of his face, kissing every part of it that you could reach and tracing his scar with your lips before finally landing on his mouth. His arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you close to him as he pulled his lips away and buried his face in your shoulder.

 “Thank you…” he whispered out, his voice being that of a man beaten down by the galaxy around him. “Thank you for everything, cyare…”

 You take a step back, just enough so that you can look at his face before placing another kiss on his forehead. “Always, my love.” Taking a hold of his hand, you begin to lead him back out into the main room. “Let’s get some sleep.”

 He nods, the tiredness clear in his face as he crawls into your bed.

 As you settle in next to him, you wrap your arms around his body, giving him a sense of safety and overwhelming love before pressing a kiss to the back of his neck as he cuddles into you.

 You feel him squeeze the hand that is wrapped around his waist, bringing it close to his chest and kissing your fingertips. “I love you, cyare. Thank you… for being here for me when I get back. You… You don’t know what it means to me.”

 Giving his hand a quick squeeze, you kiss the back of his neck once more, curling in tighter to him as his breathing begins to even out. “I love you, Cody. You deserve the universe and more, and I will always be here to try and give that to you when you come back to me.” You close your eyes, feeling his heartbeat under your hand and his warmth against your skin as you fell asleep behind him. “I promise my love. I will always be here for you.”

#commander cody x reader #commander cody x gender neutral reader #commander cody #washing away memories #my writing #blood tw #death tw #nudity #injury tw

[embrassemoi]

No Body, No Crime ✁ 1

AU - Y/N L/N is a second-year law student attending Stanford and studying under Professor Aaron Hotchner. Along with his associate attorneys, Ms. L/N is alongside some of the most ambitious and cutthroat law students in the nation. However, her life gets flipped upside down as she’s thrust into a life of murder, sex and lies.

Main Pairing: Spencer Reid x [F]Reader

Content — Mature themes, blood, major and minor character death, violence, angst, triggering themes, bad coping mechanisms, drugs, mental health shit, alcoholism, lots of smut, language, fluff, mystery, thriller, mentions of cheating, canonical typical themes , dark academia vibes, explicit content - read with caution

DISCLAIMER: This story will contain MATURE content. It will include themes such as smut, violence, etc (see content). If you are not 18+ and unable to handle such themes, respectfully, please exit this story. It is not my intention to make readers uncomfortable or trigger them in any way. If you continue to read the story despite the multiple warnings, I am not responsible for any triggers that may pop up.

Also, based off this blurb! 

I am also not a law student, so there is bound to be misinformation!

【 ao3 | Masterlist | Playlist 】

CHAPTER 1: Death and All His Friends

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Blood, she thinks, you never really know how much blood is in a person. Logically, she did know; she had to learn how many pints there were in the human body from med school and the mass amount of profile study cases. From looking at crime scenes, reading textbooks, medical journals and fake charts; blood has never bothered her, if anything, she got used to seeing and being around it.

There are roughly about ten gallons of blood in the average adult, but typically, losing more than forty percent will result in death. That was about two thousand millilitres.

But, you never realize just how much blood a person can hold, not until a human is slaughtered like an animal, eyes glossed over, body turned cold and stiff — splayed out in front of you. It seems like a lot more than what was described.

There’s a saying, bleed like a pig. Well, she understood what it meant now.

God, she sounded like Spencer.

“What are we going to do with the body?”

“Let’s leave it. We need to go back and clean!”

“No, let’s bury it.”

A chuckle of utter disbelief forces its way out of Derek’s mouth in a rush. It’s both strained and ragged and sounds as if he’s about to burst into tears, but the shock and anger seem to immerse deep in his bones and control his actions. His head shakes subconsciously, “You’re — you’re fucking joking, right? It’s the middle of winter! Tell me how the fuck we’re going to bury a body when the soil’s hard?!”  

There’s a collective panicked sigh that goes through the group as the implications finally start to settle in.

“Be any louder!” Emily half-shouts. She paces back and forth, the freshly fallen snow crunches under her shoes as they leave footprints in their wake. Her hands make extravagant hand movements, almost in an attempt to speak with her actions. But, the only thing that has Y/N somewhat grounded is the rusty blood on Emily’s hands. The stark contrast of her pale skin against the deep red does nothing but make bile rush to her throat.

“The body is what gets us caught!” JJ cuts in through her half-sobs.

“The one time it snows in California! Since when do we get snow?!”

Sticky, cold, dry, flakey blood. It brings too much attention to the blood painting her body in a cruel, evil painting. Y/N lifts a shaky hand as she turns to observe the way the pads of her fingers were stained red. Underneath her fingernails, she can see the blood caking, dried underneath and can feel the heavy liquid travelling up her sleeve.

Her fingers pressed together before a hand shoots up, trying to pick off the blood in a hasty attempt.

Everything was uncomfortable — too uncomfortable and it was sticky and disgusting and there was too much happening. Her brain was overstimulated and all she wanted to do was yell or cry or strip herself clean from these heavy clothes, hiding the blood drenching her underneath. A hand went to claw at the fabric — she needed to breathe — she needed air and it was too tight and —

The falling snow had finally come to a stop, the ground becomes muddy, wet snow being tracked all around but aside from that, it’s dry out. Panic is slow seep within her body, only just registering the dull, prickling ache that travels up the side of her right arm. Not to mention the pounding in her skull felt like someone had taken a power tool, drilling a burl hole into the side of her head in hopes of creating a make-shift lobotomy. On instinct, her hand reaches up to her temples, massaging small circles in hopes to find relief.

But then she catches sight of her hand again from her peripheral vision, or rather, it’s as if she can feel it laminating her skin. Blood.

Now there must be smeared streaks of dried blood coating her face. Fuck, now she really feels like throwing up.

A soft wail can be heard in the background somewhere, but it sounds distant and underwater. She thinks it’s JJ. Her high-pitched cries are loud and she thinks that’s Derek’s voice yelling at her and god… it only amplifies her headache.

She needed an aspirin, Advil — maybe Spencer had some.

Her mind wanders back to the group. Emily… Emily — she’s — Y/N doesn’t know where Emily went actually. She could have sworn she was by the trees…

She continued to pick at her skin absentmindedly, and now she couldn’t tell where her blood started and the one that was sprayed onto her ended.

And Spencer, he’s pacing and hadn’t muttered a word since they left Hotch’s house. His body language is closed off, his hand rubbing up and down his arms in either a self-soothing method or because it’s cold out. She assumes it’s the former.

The one time — the one fucking time the asshole is supposed to be smart, his IQ magically drops below zero.

Everyone is arguing and they all hear the faint cheers, laughter, early fireworks and music blaring in the background. The sound of the bonfire crackles in the distance and all she can do is drown it out. She was supposed to be having fun. She should’ve been visiting home, or maybe studying of fucking Spencer, not wearing shoes twice her size, gloves to cover up her fingerprints; not trying to come up with an alibi and there definitely shouldn’t be someone else’s blood clinging to her. She should’ve been anywhere but here. It’s too much.

Lightheaded, Y/N stumbles backwards, supporting herself against a nearby tree. The shadows and black coat camouflaged her, engulfing her into the night and she feels an odd sense of comfort by it. But, it does anything but calms her down as her chest begins to rise rapidly up and down.

Oh god, oh shit, shit, shit! They’re all fucked — she’s fucked. Her DNA is all over the crime scene. The crime scene is on her and probably under the body’s fingernails. There was no way she was getting out of this. It wasn’t even her fault and look where she is.

She should’ve listened to her Grandparents; don’t go to law school, it’ll turn her into something she’s not. Y/N smiles twistedly thinking about it, they were right.

You can’t get away with murder.

Shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

“We need to stop wasting time,” Emily announces, appearing remarkably calm.

“W-we should call the police,” Y/N mumbles in a shaky voice. Her voice hitches and she sucks in a cry.

All of their heads, besides Spencer’s, whip over to her; she’s on the verge of breaking — possibly even running off and going straight to the local police station. Her phone suddenly feels heavy in her pocket.

“What we’re not going to do is that! Do you want to spend the rest of your life in jail?!” Derek exclaims. His mouth goes to open again before he suddenly halts, looking over to Spencer and shouting. “Ayo, kid-fucking-genius, could you, I don’t know — think?!”

The yelling makes her shrink in on herself. Yes, call the police, turn yourself in. Obstruction of justice; tampering with evidence, manslaughter, attempting to hide a body, invasion of privacy, possible perjury — all this leads to incarceration and more time. Maybe she could even get a deal, say that she was in shock, dealing with PTSD. Immunity! Maybe she could strike herself and Spencer an immunity deal.

God — they killed her. They murdered someone.

Immense guilt bubbles its way through her before she turns to gag on air. Her hands clutches her stomach as she heaves, distantly hearing the arguing background.

“— about Hotch?”

“What about him? He’s going to put us in jail himself. If we’re lucky, he’ll kill us so we can skip a life sentence!”

JJ cries louder. God was she fucking annoying.

“He doesn’t give two shits about her —” “Could everyone just stop for a fucking moment,” a new, irritated voice cuts in. It sounds like it’s been pushed through gritted teeth, muddled by straining and holding back tears. It’s Spencer.

His eyes shut, the palm of his hands pressed harshly on them before rubbing them hard. But, they travel up to his forehead and through his hair, pulling down so hard that Y/N would be surprised if he didn’t already lose a chunk. But within a swift motion, he crouches to the ground in a fetal-like position; the balls of his feet roll back and forth, making his entire body bounce in small rhythms.

He’s having a panic attack, judging by the way his breathing cuts in and out in large volumes, hyperventilation bound to happen soon.

The entire group stays silent before Derek has enough. He walks up to Spencer, a hand clutching his jacket which forces him to stare straight into his eyes.

“Don’t treat him like that,” Emily tries to cut in.

“If you don’t give us something good within the next few seconds, you better pray to god —”

With newfound determination, Spencer meets his eyes with a fiery look, his chest puffed out a bit and his voice is even.

“We burn it.”

━━━━━━━━━༻✈︎༺━━━━━━━━━

Friday, August 29th, 2003

Palo Alto, California. Apartment 7

Four months before

A clanging sound reverberates throughout the empty hallway for the third time within the last five minutes. Her keys.

An annoyed sigh involuntarily leaves her lips as she struggles to lift the stacks of heavy boxes in her arms. Her attention was drawn to a bulletin board near her door. A missing person’s photo was plastered, marked with an eye-catching red border. Printed underneath a photo of a man in bold letters: George Floyet, twenty-five-year-old student at Palo Alto University. Last seen on July 30th, 2003.

When Y/N L/N was fourteen, she vaguely remembered people asking her where she saw herself in the next ten years. Now standing outside her newly rented apartment, sweating as she juggled a stack of large boxes without tripping — well, she certainly hadn’t thought this.

Life had many ups and downs, as cliche as that sounded. She hadn’t expected to graduate university with an English and Human Physiology degree, nor had she expected into medical school before ultimately deciding to take the LSATs, pursuing a career in law.

Truly, had Y/N used one word to describe her career ambitions at the moment, she’d say she’s pretty fucked and clueless. Although, she’d liked to consider herself fairly motivated, resilient, perhaps even strong-willed and quick on her feet. Scratch that, if anything, the one thing she did pride herself on was her ability to compose herself quickly and the want to overcome fear. It was a motto, of sorts, which she’d been sticking close to: going with the flow.

If anything, those were the attributes that built the foundation of what anyone needed to become a successful lawyer. Yes, that made her situation sound a lot less… pathetic.

But certainly, standing in the middle of a corridor in a shitty apartment with walls too thin to save money on rent, she’d consider herself pretty pathetic.

Oh, the joys of moving.

Just as she felt one of the boxes tipping, the sound of shuffling fills the hallway. A pair of large pale hands come out of nowhere, swiftly catching the stacked cardboard boxes with ease.

When she looked up, she hadn’t quite caught a look at the man in front of her as he bent down to pick up her keys. But when he finally stood straight, eyes locking, she took note of his features

He was tall, much taller than herself and dressed in black slacks and a light lilac dress shirt which was pushed up by the sleeves. He was young, probably the same age as her or younger. He was wide-eyed, almost doe-like and wore a nervous yet seemingly gentle expression.

“Hello,” said the stranger. His hair was rumpled as if he’d just woken up as darken eyebags accentuated his face. His face was sharp, features dark — but in a soft sharp way that made the shape of his nose and lips the most noticeable. Pink lips, a tired look, pretty face.

This stranger was friendly and very attractive. That was her first impression of him.

“Hi,” she replied, a bit breathless from the weight of juggling the boxes. But still, she smiled and her head tilted to the side slightly.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were my new neighbour, I hope you don’t mind me helping, you looked like you needed it,” he says nervously, his extra free hand goes back to rub the back of his neck.

Y/N’s eyes shoot over to the door at the end of the hallway, conveniently next to hers: apartment 8. He must've heard the banging against the doors and walls, and suddenly, she felt guilty. She must’ve woken him up.

“Haha, yeah! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

“No! It’s fine.”

Now, both stand there a bit awkwardly before she coughs, which has him nodding and fumbling with her keys in his hand, “Er — I have a couple of minutes before I leave for work, do you still need help?”

“Right, yes!”

Y/N hands him over her other box, her hand taking the keys back as she clicks open her door. The smell of cleaning products filled her nose along with the smell of old books. It’s spacious, considering what she’s paying for it. It’s a flat, aside from the bathroom and kitchen and there’s a small balcony that’s connected with another set of railings outside. The view of green trees and flowers could be seen and suddenly, Y/N considers herself lucky when she’s realized the place she’s snagged.

The man trails behind her, setting the boxes down on the kitchen counter before dusting off any non-existent lint off his pants. His eyes quickly scan the area, in an analytical fashion.

He clears his throat, “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

She nods too, walking back up to her door to lead him out. “Likewise, neighbour.”

This time, a real smile crosses his face before looking down sheepishly, a small tint covering his cheeks. “Please, I’m Doctor Reid — but please, call me Spencer.”

“Doctor?” Her face lights up with curiosity. This man looks as young as her, younger — and she’s only twenty-four.

“Oh, I don’t practice medicine,” he quickly adds. His hands go to fiddle with each other, “I have three PhDs and an IQ of 187,” he explains. However, it’s not in a blatantly rude manner — like he’s trying to flaunt it. If anything, he looks embarrassed. His head drops to look down at his shoes, trying to make himself appear smaller, seeming uncomfortable. But like she said, Y/N likes to believe she’s quick on her feet.

“Well then, Doctor,” she teases, which has him going a deeper shade of pink, “I’m Y/N L/N, I have no PhDs, I used to practice medicine and I have an IQ of — probably a hundred or less.

At this, Spencer visibly relaxes as a deep chuckle makes its way out. He nods again, making his way out the door and does a small wave before disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaves her door open, but her back is faced towards it as she hears his door click back open and she feels the vibrations of his door closing before the tapping of his feet becomes more and more distant.

There are a dozen other boxes she ends up hauling in, but she’s noticed that Spencer must have somehow carried a few of the boxes to the top of the stairs rather than just leaving them in the lobby.

As she wipes down the surfaces, music blasting through her earbuds before unboxing her new bed frame, a smirk crosses her face; cheap rent, enrolled at one of the top law schools in the country, has enough money saved for the next few months and a cute, tall, polite and a fucking doctor that just so happens to be her neighbour — damn, Y/N doesn’t mind this at all.

【 Next Chapter 】

#Criminal Minds #criminal minds series #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer reid x reader #Spencer Reid x y/n #Spencer Reid x you #spencer reid smut #derek morgan #Penelope Garcia #Jennifer Jareau #aaron hotchner #Dr Reid #mgg #Matthew gray gubler x reader #Matthew Gray Gubler #cm fanfic #david rossi #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fluff #fluff #angst #criminal minds au #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid angst #spencer reid imagine

[chocosvt]

⚬ pairing: demon!minghao x reader ⚬ word count: 3478 ⚬ warnings: blood, bodily injuries, death ⚬ genres: god i don’t even know... angst, unrealized pining and romance, weird tension, reader is just as evil as minghao?

✧✎ synopsis: three-hundred years have passed, and the second son has awoken from his slumber, waiting for a new soul to devour.

✧✎ a/n: this au was many things, and in finality, it morphed into this. usually i have a lot to say in my author’s note but today i bring you nothing! enjoy!

Three-hundred years had passed, and you knew due to the bell tower.

Its reverberations shuddered throughout the town, permeated the density of the smoke curtain which had swallowed the sky for centuries, and vibrated the very oxygen that fluttered in your lungs. It was a calling to check your mailbox, for reaching inside unveiled a folded note. At first, you glanced to your neighbour across the street, to the elderly man who lived on your right, and finally to the pig-tailed girl who’d just celebrated her fifteenth birthday on your left.

Yet they had retrieved nothing from their mailboxes exempt from a soft-spoken prayer, a testament to their gratitude that their lives had been spared. But you—you were the unholy meal.

With a sharp arrowhead of stone pressed to the skin between your shoulder blades, you were forced into the cavernous opening based midway along the mountain. It fed deep into the earth’s heart, and as a watchman pierced the spear’s tip further into your flesh, you began the cold, damp descent that would lead you to a deserved death, a death that could no longer be prevaricated.

After a painful stumbling over jagged flints and pieces of crystal, you emerged into the Blood Room, where three other contenders from the town were already aligned. There was not one look exchanged between either meal; however, you did recognize a specific helix piercing and the russet locks of Joshua, who you recently spotted dragging a body down to the ravine where the forest waterfall bubbled. Still, despite Joshua’s inept piousness, you knew he was not a meal worth being served.

A watchman approached you with a pocketknife. Splaying out your fingers, you observed calmly as he created a small incision against a distinct line travelling the length of your palm. As the dark, crimson fluid leaked from the wound, it was then collected in a glass dropper. Each watchman approached a scroll which hung from the stone. A drop of Joshua’s blood was tested first. It rolled about halfway down the sallow paper, which was impressive to say the least, indicative of even the boy’s worst transgressions. 

The next possible meal had their sample beaded onto the scroll, though it had soaked up rather quickly, even before Joshua’s, and you knew their sins were pitiful and their soul was much too pentant. Similarly, the blood of the other meal drew short. You couldn’t help but think the contenders were quite pathetic. 

At last the glass dropper containing your blood was being set against the paper. A slight squeeze, and the liquid bulb started its trickling. It streamed down boldly, leaving in its wake a luminous red tint that outshined even Joshua’s viscid plasma. You watched the bulb surpass one meal, then glide past the second meal, and just as you anticipated, the droplet rolled to the very end of the scroll. In fact, it began dripping onto the dust of the icy floor.

“The test concludes.” A watchman rumbled, his voice bouncing against the rock. His spear pointed toward you criminally. “Your blood runs the thickest and your heart beats the slowest. You are the unholy meal. The second son has awoken from this three-hundred-year slumber, and it is your soul he will devour so that he may be appeased and tire.”

You fought to keep an emotionless, flat face.

“Feed him well, for the weight of your blood carries more sin than purity.”

Briskly, the latter three contenders were swept away.

Joshua may have thrown his first corpse into the waterfall and watched it gush like a leaf down the black ravine, but his single body could not compare to the hundred that you’d left to float for years.

The bare bottoms of your feet were engrained with shallow cuts and stained by the powder to the numbing stone. You had not eaten or drank for over forty-eight hours, and your strength, which could often be as robust as great titanium, had seemingly dwindled to an emaciated, dried flower.

From the tales your mother relayed amongst your youth, you knew it was important to not make a face in the presence of the second son. Unlike his older brother, Jun, who would only be appeased by a meal who smiled and flaunted their guilt, Minghao chiefly adored a meal who showed no more emotion than the limestone tumbled along the mountainside. It was best to please the Demon Sons before they untied your soul from its fleshy bindings and swallowed it whole.

Or else in their next awakening, they might demand a meal of the entire village.

Minghao gestured to the garnet-coloured mat which had been lain across his bedroom floor. There were bowls of flavourful rice, steaming, clay pots filled with different soups, plates warmed by sliced bread and tin cups almost overflowing due to the plentiful wine inside.

“Hungry?” He asked, to which his soft, wispy voice was rather surprising.

Your countenance remained blank, unmoving, apart from your mouth. “Yes, I am starved.”

“Sit,” the second son invited, “I want you to be satiated and full, until you feel sleepy.”

Heeding his order, you sat cross-legged on the side of the mat opposite to the demon. His robe, embroidered with ruby lace, rippled behind his feet when he walked, and the collar’s diamond shape revealed underworldly markings which drew attention to the pale expanse of his chest. Even through the material cloaking his arms, you could faintly decipher the kohled tattoos. You had even recognized the familiar symbols chiselled into the walls during your trek to the demon’s chamber. When Minghao took his seat, he grabbed one of the black horns curling from his hair and dug his thumb into the pointed end.

“They are becoming weak,” he admitted, “I’m sure my brother’s wings are close to shattering from his broad shoulders. I’m sure the nerves are peeling and laughably brittle.” Minghao reached for a bowl, using wood chopsticks to fish the orange, tangy rice into his mouth. “You know, as first born, he is granted those wings. It’s his rite.” He lowered the bowl, a faded grin crossing his lips. “I remember, he used to embellish them with the bones of his meals, hanging their cervicals and metacarpals and pieces of their skull across each wing like a charm bracelet. But myself? It is not my meals’ bones that I save.” He shook his head, picking up another sticky rice ball.

Suddenly, the demon paused. “Are you not going to eat?”

It was difficult to speak when the interior of your mouth felt coated with chalk. Inclined by fear rather than your hunger, you reached for a bread loaf, then broke its golden crust in half, listening to the satisfactory crackle.

“I was absorbed by your pretty voice,” you spoke with not a single intonation, “forgive me.”

As you tore a piece from the warm inside and poked it into your cheek, the pottery bowl which he held broke into pieces due to the crushing grip of his hand, orange rice and clay shards spilling onto the mat. You had visibly flinched. The demon’s body trembled as he inhaled a slow, subdue breath. 

“Dearest, if you ask me to lend my forgiveness, I will pierce a stake through your beating heart and pull it out onto my plate.” His teeth were claws in his mouth as he growled. “Do you understand?”

You hid your quivering, bottom lip by bringing a tin cup to your face, the slick formula of the wine flowing down your throat. It was thicker than the wine you drank at home, and there was a copper-like aftertaste that almost rendered your expression to pucker, but you remembered to keep staid.

“I understand.”

The void, starless nature to his gaze disappeared. Instead, his eyes returned to their settled oak. Allowing more wine to soak against your tongue, there was a distant familiarity to its unique flavour.

“Are there things you regret?” Minghao retrieved you from musing, and spooned some rosemary soup into his mouth.

Once more, you took another sip, swished the alcohol between your cheeks, and swallowed. The demon observed you with an intent eye. Something flashed against your memory. It was a pale face drained of its pink and lively colour. In fact, it was your husband’s face, Soonyoung’s face, right before you tipped his body over the ravine’s misty edge and into the gurgling chasm below.

He had been your last murder.

“I regret…” You began, lowering the wine, “I-I regret…”

A stutter. An emotion. An inkling of your distress. 

Minghao’s grasp around the soup pot tightened and the tattoos needled into his flesh seemed to slither as though they’d been disturbed. Your mind grew stifled with obnoxious imagery. It was too much, all at once, and this dizziness spun at the centre of your cranium like a comet in orbit.

You leaned further over the wine, staring blurry at the liquid.

“I regret… I r-regret…”

Then it came to you, the underlying taste of the wine. So familiar because you should have known it better than anyone, especially considering your habitual dirty work, how often that fluid caked under your fingernails and spattered your clothing. No, it was definitely not the bones Minghao kept. 

A moment later and you fainted onto the mat.

You awoke to a damp coolness folded against your forehead, and to Minghao who sat at the edge of his bed, where he had rested for three-hundred years. He removed the cloth and began dabbing it along each arch of your cheek, cleaned your jaw’s long edge, and at last wet your lips until they gleamed. Expelling a subtle breath, you kept your face as blank as possible.

“How do you feel?” He set away the cloth in order to sweep his sleight fingers down your temple.

“I’m well,” sounded your meek voice, “you have taken care of me.”

In between the black fringe that feathered the demon’s lashes, you met his eyes. Minghao’s hand slid to your throat, where his palm pressed flat against its column and his fingers curled taut with the sensation of hot steel. 

He felt you gulp.

“I implore that you bathe. Rid yourself of this fabric which has been stained by wine and broth. I will leave you undergarments and a robe.” He leaned in closer to your face, and you couldn’t help but glance at his jagged teeth when he said so adoringly, “my wish is to paint you. I would like clean flesh.”

Clad in nothing but the undergarments, Minghao stood before your body, holding a wooden bowl. The inside was smeared with a rustic-coloured substance that almost bore the same consistency as honey. His chosen brush had fanned bristles, and when he stroked their wetness along your skin, it was a smooth, somewhat ticklish feeling. You found yourself enjoying it. Specifically the longer strokes, ones that began at the top of your shoulder and licked across the soft underbelly of your arm, only to gently flit away at the brittle bones in your wrist.

He decorated you in content. 

As the boy lowered to his knees and illustrated unintelligible runes against your inner thigh, he was focused, sharp. Another dip into the wooden bowl, and Minghao moved to paint your other thigh. You examined the horns pushing between his hair. Without thought, you stroked your hand against one, feeling the small grooves that created every divot. The demon never stirred, but continued to paint down your leg, and you wondered if he truly hadn’t noticed your touch or perhaps quite liked the way you caressed him.

Despite the fact you were merely prey being toyed with until dinner time, when you looked at the demon who touched your skin and treated you with such reverence, you felt this unbeknownst tenderness in your heart.

As Minghao instructed you to raise a foot, he immediately stiffened.

“What is it?” You questioned flatly.

He set the bowl and brush down.

“Dearest, the soles of your feet are cut and raw. It appears worse than usual.”

You wobbled slightly, almost losing your balance. “I was shown no kindness on my journey to meet with you. Because I am your meal, I can ignore the stinging.”

“No,” Minghao shook his head and rose up, “I will wrap your feet in precious calendula leaves. The paint will dry quickly, then you can sit.”

“If I may ask one thing,” you remarked, fiddling with the sleeves of your robe, “how painful is it to have your soul devoured?”

Minghao plucked the last few calendula leaves from their flowers. The petals were rather striking, the aurora of a setting sun as you mother always described. It had been a longtime wish to see the sun one day, though considering your fate, such a dream must remain only that. The leaves swathed each foot with the help of a clear, sticky gel.  

“Very painful.” The demon responded. He shifted next to you on the bed, then grabbed one of the orange flowers. “This is why we sleep so far beneath the crust, so the people do not hear the meal’s delicious screams.” He grasped your hand which had suffered a slit from the watchman’s pocketknife, and he began to rub a flower bud across the wound.

“Do you remember your last meal?” You asked, staring at Minghao rather than the skin’s miraculous healing.

The demon looked straight into your eyes as he grinned. “I do remember,” he sounded wistful, “it had been three meals, since the man I consumed in an even further past had greatly upset me.” Minghao dropped the flower, slowly interlaced his fingers with yours, squeezing.

“I had treated him well. I cleaned his cuts, I allowed him to bathe, I offered him my finest silk, and then, when we ate, I asked him what he regretted.” His hand became colder than ice. Minghao’s eyes started to widen, illuminate with a shiny madness, and when he leaned in closer your every facial muscle was begging to twitch. “He cried to me. Can you believe it? I had never been so upset. It caused me to fill with rage. He wept for forgiveness, absolution, a relief from his pain. Who am I, but a being who takes pain like a supplement? In that moment, I leapt across the dinner table and devoured him. His soul tasted like salt and alloy. I could not eat his heart, which was given to my brother. He will always eat the heart, because it so plumped full of your terrible emotion.”

The demon’s hand fit to the side of your neck, his thumb stroking along a particular vein where your pulse was thundering. “Well,” he sighed, “not your terrible emotion, but most peoples.”

In that moment, you took your deepest breath, and did not respond until you were certain that not one note of your voice would tremble. “I understand.” You placed your hand overtop the demon’s as it continued to cradle your neck, “did you paint this man too?”

“No,” Minghao shook his head, “I use my paints sparingly.”

With a soft fingertip, he began to trace a thin line he had brushed. It started at your jaw, then fell down the length of your warm neck. It dragged across your collarbone and in between your chest. Over the ribs, to your stern hip. The fingertip circled sweetly against your inner thigh a few times, and at last glided to your knee where the demon’s touch drifted away like a summer breeze.  

“You are the most beautiful meal I have ever seen,” Minghao murmured, holding your gaze which threatened to water, “I was delighted to accent a body like yours, so gorgeous and strengthened by sin.”

Since your arrival at the demon’s bedroom, you knew it was vital to preserve a blank face, and yet, it came to a point where you could not restrict the whims of your emotion. A tear bled from your eye, your bottom lip started to quiver, and your brow pinched together in a wrinkle. There was fear to your gradual outbreak, but it was an infinitesimal fraction compared to your gratitude, that the second son could somehow honour you more than your own unfaithful husband, who’d been your last body discarded into the ravine. 

In reality, how different were you to this demon? Year after year, the suppleness of your heart became hardened with immorality, pummelled of its empathy and completely wrung from compassion like a soaked, heavy towel. A common routine: dragging a corpse through the wildlife, your lips pursed and whistling the tune you’d overhear the pig-tailed girl humming on her front lawn. Dump the body. Return home. Peel an apple, bake a pie, and feed a slice to your next victim, watching the froth dribble from their lips as you sipped your drink and folded a leg over your thigh. But that was life under the cinder sky. It’s what kept people mad, what kept the demons fed. Either flee or have the light of your being rubbed into another dark ash. 

The demon immediately turned rigid. 

His spine bristled straight and the tattoos started to crawl beneath his robe, rustling like serpents who navigated the tall grass. You figured your death would be the most painful, since you had not only broken at the last minute, but soiled the significance to Minghao’s paints, casted the illusion that you were not appreciative of his gestures. In a snapping wrench, he practically tore you from the velvet blanket, dragging you to a door in his bedroom.

When it was opened, a frigid wind dusted at your face, and a slender corridor was revealed, stretching so far that it led into complete blackness. With a hand against your lower back, Minghao shoved you into the tunnel.

“Go,” he demanded, his words echoing off the stone, “go and do not turn back.”

Your voice was breathy, confused, “I don’t understand. I-I—”

“It leads to an opening at the opposite side of the mountain. You will leave, and you will never-” he gripped your chin, and his gaze intruded even the most clandestine pockets to your soul, “ever return to this town. Escape these cinder skies. I will not repeat myself.”

Before you could make sense of anything, before the door could be slammed in your face, your solace left to the rock and damp air, you slipped a hand around the demon’s neck and kissed him. His mouth was just as soft as his voice, and when he angled his head to better taste the tears that  stained your lips, you felt it would be impossible to make this journey alone. The silk of his tongue brushed inside your mouth, causing your knees to tremble, therefore you gripped weakly at the demon’s hair. His sharp teeth pricked your bottom lip and it welted ever so slightly with blood.

“Come with me,” you begged, pressing your forehead to his, “please, do not go back to sleep.”

But Minghao merely giggled, and the fact that such an innocent sound could leave the chest of a demonic entity had disoriented you. 

“What creature are you?” Minghao hummed, “that I can see your emotion and only want to hold you closer? Maybe it is because you are the first meal to bare no regret. You know your flesh is stitched by the sin of your own hand. Even your sweet tears. Oh! My brother would adore you! Though he would’ve devoured you by now no doubt.” He gave a gentle shove, removing you from his body.

“Will you please come find me?” You entreated.

Time was of the essence. The tenebrosity seemed to have a curl on your ligaments, tugging you backward into the tunnel. 

Minghao smiled, his hand reaching out to wipe the blood from your sore lip.

“Dearest, I will come find your dark soul anywhere,” sounded his honest purr, “but I suggest you travel hastily. If I leave, I must first wake my brother, and the rage of a demon whose slumber has been interrupted... It cannot be compared to anything. I’m afraid you’ll faint again.”

Trusting that Minghao would seek you out, you began the journey down the tunnel, your hand swiping against the stone and your feet taking calculated steps. Amongst the black air, there was no concept of time. Seconds, minutes, hours, they felt ineffectual in a place where not even your own fingers or toes could be seen. Eventually, you came to a light that burned against your eyes, and emerged at the opposite side of the mountain, like Minghao promised. And as you padded into the jade forest, you felt one final vibration shake the pine needles scattered across the earth, heard some boulders from the mountainside crumble down in swirling, dry dust clouds. 

Shuddering, you knew it had been the abhorrent cry of the first born son. And for once your compulsion to escape the grey skies was a real desire. 

✧✎ a/n: yes.................... :) thinking that i could also make an au for jun in this universe? i will have to do some Major Thinking. i still have nothing to say! like i don’t know where this au crawled out of, but it’s Here now. it’s pretty morbid n freaky sfeheff but nonetheless i hope you liked it and as always i luv hearing ur guys TH0TS. 

#seventeen scenarios #svt fanfic #seventeen minghao #minghao scenarios #xu minghao #minghao angst #minghao fluff #seventeen fanfic #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #minghao fanfic

[star-killer-md]

Dream a Little Dream of Me Pt. 6

Hi, so I’m just gonna leave this here and pretend it didn’t take me for fucking ever to get this done. Also like real talk, my classes are starting up soon and I’m working multiple jobs so updates from here on out might get a little sparse. I AM BY NO MEANS GOING TO STOP WRITING IT. Just like, it’s gonna take me awhile or the chapters might be shorter, who knows (not me). Anyway, I hope you enjoy this shit show and if you have any theories about where the hell this is going or critiques or just general explicit thoughts about Kylo please hit me up! I love you all, I hope you’re staying safe and healthy <3333

AO3 Mirror

Part 5

Warnings: nsfw, mirror sex, male masturbation, unconscious reader so not dub-con but just so you know, Kylo’s POV in some parts, I threw in some size kink if you squint cause he’s a big boy, possessive Kylo, slight boot kink, I think that’s it?

Ship: Kylo Ren x Negotiator!reader

Word count: 9.4k (god I’m so sorry this really got away from me)

He was looking at you.

Really looking at you.

Hadn’t until now.

But that wasn’t completely true. Of course he’d looked at you—noticed you, heard all the dagger sharp curses you threw his way like a child put in the corner impertinent and prideful and intoxicating in a way that pain often is. So, yes of course he’d looked, but you hadn’t been important.

And that was not to say that you were important now, just that—

Just that the sea was churning behind him, crashing against the shoreline and the Force was stirring. It was a wild thing, and sung like the insects hiding in the nearby treeline. He could feel the pull of it, like a chain that swung in the small space between your bodies. Connecting your throats—growing every shorter—rubbing him raw and bloody.

It was in you, whatever it was that tethered him like a boat to the harbor.

He was inside you too

“No one will ever feel like I do.”  

That’s what you’d said.

You were right, as much as he was loath to admit it, no one had ever felt the way you did clenching around him.

There was something primal that made him ravenous to pour himself into you. He was always too much too full to angryangryangry every waking second. Now, finally, it all had some place to go. Some well to fill—a space for all his extra self to belong.

For once, he found there was nothing more than the sound of the sea inside his head.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that revelation.

Who were you? What were you hiding and where was it buried?

Kylo needed to know and you were there, already limp and pliant with no jumbled slur of raging thoughts to cloud his path.

He found that slipping into your mind was one of the easiest things he’d ever done, like following the current of flowing water. Drifting in as if carried by the waves.

Flashes of memories rushed past him, mostly just amalgamations of indecipherable emotion—fathoms of pent up aggression Kylo was forced to wade through in order to reach the black depths of your head. At every turn he was met with his own face staring back at him.

He saw his saber, swinging in a red arch into durasteel paneling, saw himself through your eyes. Felt your awe, felt the stirring in your chest at the sight. He pushed on.

Past shots of offices he’d never seen, a barrage of falsely smiling faces, teeth gnashing, always hungry. He was walking down an endless grey hallway lined with First Order uniforms all towering over him—you—looking down, casting judgement like arrows in his back. Frustration morphed and twisted into a thick sludge of resentment that bubbled and clung to his feet.

With every pop a voice escaped, shouting “everything, everything, everything” in a sick, distorted roar.

And then he found it, the source of the muck that caked his path. A pit, deep and black as pitch that spit up it’s roiling contents and dragged him tumbling down, down, down.

He could barely make it out at first, but as he fell the dim red glow grew bright, crackling and electric and throwing sparks. At the bottom of the well the light bloomed like a pyre, some flaming effigy of pure potential. The heat of it licked at his skin, tracing the edges of every scar like it knew them.

Maybe it did.

Something like a shockwave rolled out through the Force, and he backed away from the raging flames. Back, back, back until he was kneeling again on the shoreline, your cooling body still pressed firmly to his chest.

The feeling of your weight, not cold and dead, but with life still in your limbs was alien to him. Kylo battled internally with the instinct to throw you off him to the ground. He could leave you here, go and wait or never come back at all.

It would be easy.

He could see it now:

Your face twisted, lips pulled back and teeth bared like you weren’t half his size. Like he couldn’t snap your neck with a wave of his hand. He imagined you naked, covered in dried blood and bruises bursting onto your balcony, tits on full display and your finger in his chest, vitriol spewing from your mouth.

It was comical really, how you puffed up like an animal threatened, small but vicious.

Yet even as he considered the scene, his aching knees were unlocking and shifting you, soft cock slipping out in a gush of your combined releases. Kylo swung your legs easily over one arm and climbed back up the beach towards your room.

The sun was starting to rise over the sea, casting gilded strips along its surface when he laid your limp form on the bed. Your skin was marbled with the evidence of your coupling and shone in the light.

Kylo stood silently above you, the ocean breeze occasionally ruffling his damp hair as he brought a hesitant hand to his jaw. The skin was swollen from when you’d raised your hand to him. His fingers dug into the bruise, and the stinging ache of it made his cock twitch. Your face, twisted and snarling and so defiant, so foolish, inches from his before your palm cracked across his cheek.

He dropped a hand down, stroking his half hard length and remembering how your thighs felt crushing his ribcage between them. His hips twitched up into his hand in slow, languid thrusts, precum and your residual slick easing the slide of his palm.

You weren’t afraid to fight back.

Kylo’s teeth tore at his bottom lip as he pumped his cock in earnest now.

You weren’t afraid of him , he realized. But you should be.

Especially now with how his mind was supplying all the numerous ways he could beat you into submission—fuck you into submission. God he’d love to watch you crack, it would truly be a feat worthy of celebration to break the will of a creature such as yourself.

But he couldn’t deny—certainly not while he’s jerking himself faster thinking of how delicious your wet cunt felt around him—that he liked when you bit back.  

His name rolling off your tongue was ricocheting around in his brain and he was sure it was the most erotic thing he’d ever heard in his life, that he would never get enough of it. He’d known that since the very first time he heard it, when you opened yourself up to him and came in his mouth, on his fingers.

A familiar warmth was building in his stomach as he thought of all the ways he could make you say it again. Thought of dipping into your head and erasing everything else but that. So it was the only word you knew.

That sent him, made him spill over his hand, white ropes of his cum painting your breasts. You looked good like that, he thought as he worked himself through his orgasm, breath rasping in his chest.

When he was well and truly spent, he let his overstimulated cock settle back against his thigh and dropped a hand to your chest. His palm spanned nearly the entire width of you, fingers swirling in the mess of his release and rubbing it into your abused skin until you were perfectly glazed in him. The sheen of it glinted in the light, a reminder that you’d been marked and would never know how completely he coated every inch of your body.

Even as the darkness whispered into his mind that this was potential, this was uncharted, this was the dragon that hid in the corners of ancient maps filled with unknown stars, Kylo didn’t tear his eyes away. Didn’t pull his hand from your breast where his fingers dug into the flesh and made their home.

Not until the sun had fully risen and you began to stir from the Force induced sleep he’d buried you under.

Not until the very last moment.

***

You woke to the sound of rushing water. It was dim though, out of focus like an echo nearly faded away. Your eyes were lead in your skull, struggling against opening to the soft light filtering into—

Well into where you weren’t exactly sure.

Thoughts were elusive and seemed to slip from your grasp or sit constantly out of reach. Details stood blurry behind a layer of foggy confusion. It was as if your brain had been frozen and restarted like one of the old monitors on the Bridge, leaving important documents to close improperly. You pushed incessantly against the film that seemed to separate you from full awareness until, finally, it popped and the world came flooding in.

Light, bright and all encompassing was stinging your eyes through the open balcony doors. The smell of salt and sand and sweat was everywhere. You were laying on your bed, the spot next to you cold and vacant—never occupied. Your chest and bare thighs were sticky as you peeled them apart and tried to sit up, feeling the uncomfortable squelch of something leaking from you onto the sheets.

And then you ached.  

The deep kind of pain that extends past your muscles and sent nerves misfiring with every movement. There was not a single inch of you free from the pulsating burn of it. You laid out flat on the mattress, moving your head as slowly as possible to take stock of the damages. Bruises littered you, mottled you in painful stripes. With every new mark catalogued another memory drifted to the surface:

Hips, his hands surrounding your waist to lift you clear off the ground, his cock slipping ever deeper inside.

Breasts, where the Force and his fingers had cupped and palmed and rolled pleasure into your flesh.

Chest, his bitten nails that scratched large welts which stung when you breathed in.

Legs, how he’d ripped you through the churning water and pressed deep into the meat of your thighs.

Neck, you could feel the dull throb of where he’d bitten into the skin, sucked hard and marked you with a small supernova of broken capillaries.

But the sting between your legs topped the rest. He truly had split you in half, his cock massive and leaving you clenching to your very core in its absence. His cum still dripped out of you in a slow stream. If this was the recompense you bore, there was no telling what he must look like.

You recalled the sole of your foot connecting with muscle and bone, the crack of your palm on his sculpted cheeks.

The way his mouth tasted, the fullness of his lips and how warm he was pressed against you with no space in between. The desperation for him, the sweet sting of him moving inside you, sinking into you, the fullness, the absolution. The presence of him not just in your body but in your mind, in your being, the relief of it—like the first breath after years of asphyxiation.

You could feel him still, you realized, a tingle at the back of your neck. A soft, comforting thump when you closed your eyes. Like a heartbeat. Kylo Ren’s heartbeat, faint but present, evidence of mortal flesh and blood. Your head on his chest, his voice a hush under the roaring sea.

“You aren’t going to die.”

It felt like a promise, and maybe it was.

But really, how long could you expect him to keep it?

And that was just the first of many questions. So many questions.

The sound of water was not the ocean, but the shower you realized and it filled the room with a hazy steam from the crack in the door. You thought about joining him for just a second, indulged in the idea of seeing him bare. Seeing the wounds he bore, the ones he let you put there.

But there was no time for that now, unfortunate though it was.

Instead, you tumbled out of bed onto shaky knees that nearly gave way as you looked around for something to cover yourself with, grabbing the first piece of clothing available. It was Kylo’s, you noticed as you tugged the massive black shirt over your head and watched it fall well past your thighs.

It smelled like him. You tried not to think about it too much.

You sifted through the mess of clothing on the floor and finally located your bag and datapad, tripping over yourself to crawl back onto the mattress. New messages flashed on the screen, although strangely none originating from the First Order. Each one another of Gahl’s staff asking you for speech revisions to be approved by the advisory committee and the last one a reminder of the day’s worth of meetings with campaign staff.

You shuddered at the thought. It wasn’t really the meetings themselves that bothered you, that was routine, muscle memory at this point. But it was harder now, harder to sit still and spit out pretty fake chuckles to every pompous politician's horrid sense of humor, harder to slip in silent ultimatums when there was a knife positioned squarely at your back. When you could never truly tell who would be the one to twist the blade or at what point you would have outlasted your usefulness.

At what point it was your turn to become the next example of what pride does to the body.

No amount of whispered half covenants would be able to stop that, regardless of which masked, saber-wielding commander they came from.

Sighing, you tried to quell the constriction in your throat and typed away quick, formulaic responses. A few minutes passed until you heard the shower putter out and the soft sounds of the Commander dressing. He didn’t look at you when he pulled the door open and stepped into the room, shirtless this time and sporting a dark purple starburst that dipped below the waistband of his pants and circled over the ‘v’ of his hips.

You tensed at the memory of your bodies twisting in the surf and glanced away as he silently dug through his discarded clothes.

“That looks like it hurts,” you said, just to break the uncomfortable quiet.

Kylo regarded you in your seat by the headboard, eyes narrowing just a bit when he straightened and crossed the room. He stood by your side, taking the hem of his shirt between his fingers for just a second.

You felt him hum in your head, not nearly as loud as it was the night before, but still there—a pleasant weight in your chest. He liked the look of you drowning in his clothes. Liked the way you disappeared into them. Liked the reminder of how you fit well in the space he left behind. Felt his hand rip away like it had been burned.

“It doesn’t,” he said and turned his back to you.

As if you could hurt him.

You felt yourself flush at his response, electing to simply watch as he plucked another top from one of the piles and tugged it over his head. You lamented silently at the loss, earning you a sharp glare from the man in question. Well, at least he was giving you some indication now that he heard you.

“Yes,” he sighed, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. “You’re incredibly loud.”

Crossing your legs, you sat the datapad aside and leaned back against the headboard.

“Oh, well my apologies,” you rolled your eyes, “I’m not exactly familiar with how this works.”

He scoffed at your hand gesturing between the two of you, “I’m well aware.”

“Is being as aggravating as possible a personal goal of yours or something?”

Kylo’s hand shot out, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed. Before you had the chance to register the stab of pain that accompanied the sudden movement, you were situated firmly on his lap, thighs spread uncomfortably on either side of his hips.

“Is being a defiant little brat one of yours?” he retorted, one hand gripping hard on your jaw.

You tensed your legs against the searing ache and dug one of your knees into the bruise on his side, “Only for you, sir.”

The hand on your jaw slipped down to wrap around your throat, clamping down on the vein there and you felt the surge of blood that rushed to his dick at the memory those words elicited. He liked them in your mouth, he couldn’t hide that anymore and it frustrated him, enraged him that you smiled at the thought. Stars, you supposed if you kept mouthing off like that Atreus would have to speed things up before Ren killed you for him.

Kylo’s fingers twitched around your neck, eyes flicking to the mark he’d left on the joining of your throat and shoulder which had slipped entirely from his shirt. He seemed to be debating with himself before dropping his head and sucking the abused skin back into his mouth.

Your fingers slipped instinctively into his hair. Whether you were trying to yank him off or push him closer, you weren’t sure but then his jagged teeth sunk into the worried flesh and you whined like something wild at the display of dominance and acknowledgment that last night had been more than just another dream.

When Kylo finished with you, he stayed soothing cool mint breaths into the sensitive skin under his lips. You wanted to ask him what it meant—the mark, the beach, the newly filled to the brim, shaking in your fingers feeling blooming into existence in the intercostal spaces of your ribs—but you knew he’d never answer that.

Luckily, the waiting game was your specialty. There was no one better than you at playing the long con. He’d crack eventually, they always did. So you hid your ace and plaid something a bit safer.

“How did I find you in the hall last night?”

The Commander huffed against you, lifting his head to nip sharply at your earlobe.

“Projecting,” he conceded.

“What does that mean?”

His hands drifted to your hips, digging in and forcing you off his lap and onto the floor. The wood dug into your knees and pressed valleys into the skin. Kylo motioned with a hand and his boots obediently floated over and settled in front of you kneeling between his legs. You frowned as he stared down at you blankly and his command dawned on you.

“Really?” you asked, unable to keep the incredulity off of your tongue.

He lifted his brows and rolled his lips together, and you found yourself understanding with terrifying clarity what that meant. If you were going to play games so would he, and Kylo’s preferred method always seemed to be humiliation in some form.

Jokes on him, you thought with a shrug. You had very little dignity left to be squashed under his boots which you ripped from the air by your head. His feet were massive, nearly the size of your thigh as you slipped one into the rough leather.

“Consciousness can be detached from the physical body,” Kylo explained.

His voice lacked any of its usual rasp or vitriol, he was simply saying the words, not forcing them out. You thought he’d make a good teacher if he wasn’t such an—

The boot in your lap ground down harshly into the especially sore spot between your thighs covered only by his thin black shirt. Your cunt ached as he pressed the toe of his boot into your clit. Gritting your teeth against the pain, you kept your mouth shut and nodded for him to continue, pulling taught all the laces from his ankle to calf. The muscles were impossibly hard under your fingers

“The Force can allow you to take advantage of that separation,” he continued, swapping feet when you’d finished the first, “so physically you remained here, and your consciousness was able to project elsewhere.”

Your hands guided his foot past the leather straps and hastened through the last few laces. When the last was tied off, you tried to knock his leg to the side, but he pressed it back between your legs, smearing you with rocky earth and grinding his heel once more on your slit.

“So everything we overheard then, that was real?” you continued, voice strained as you squirmed out of his reach. Shockingly, he let you.

Kylo shrugged examining your slick stain on the leather, “Projection involves a real place and time. Dreams are more abstract.”

You nodded, pulling the fabric tighter around your knees.

“What did he mean?” you asked quietly.

You were pushing your luck, pushing his buttons really but he should be expecting that by now. He owed you this, reparations for months of workplace abuse.

Kylo stared at you, his erection still obscenely on display from your view on the floor.

“Atreus, he said I was ‘in your head,’” you elaborated and Kylo nearly kicked your teeth in with how quickly he stood.

“That’s enough,” he grunted.

You watched on the ground as he walked out onto the balcony. The wind combed through the black waves on his head revealing whitecaps of pale, freckled profile to peek out. You decided to quit while you were ahead, letting him stew. This was the most he’d ever spoken to you in the years you’d worked as his one-woman political clean up crew. Maybe you’d celebrate when there wasn’t a hit out on you.

Stretching out, your eyes caught his mask staring at you dead and resolute from the small night stand. It was heavier than you expected, lined with deep ridges and scars just like the man who wore it.

Head wounds were almost always fatal. Just one blow to the soft flesh of the temple and that was it, end of discussion. They taught you that at the academy. Always aim for the head. You traced the cracks on its carbon black surface and tried to imagine all the people who’d aimed for the Commander’s head, aimed to land the killing blow and failed. You thought of his toothpaste sitting in the vanity in the bathroom. You thought of the bruises on his chest and the blood that had pooled under his pretty skin to cause them. You thought of Kylo Ren dying.

You put the helmet down, pulled yourself off the floor and left Ren to his thoughts.

The bathroom was still thick with steam when you started the shower running. You stripped his shirt from your back and folded it on the sink before stepping in. The hot water felt glorious as it pounded the soreness from your skin. Your fingers brushed carefully over the abstract painting of bruises, the mark on your neck particularly stark in your hazy reflection in the wall of mirrors facing the shower.

You should have expected the Commander would enjoy marking his territory.

Not that you were in any way his territory.

The idea of it certainly didn’t cause a shiver to run down your spine.

When you’d washed the silt and grime down the drain and dried yourself, you left the bathroom and dressed quietly. Your outfit was professional and understated, not drawing the eye and covering last nights events without being suspiciously modest. Kylo didn’t move or speak until you drifted out to the balcony to commune before your meetings began. You leaned against the rail next to him.

“Do you know anything about him?” you asked, gazing out at the waves as the rose and crashed and rose again.

“No,” he responded, and you were thankful you didn’t have to say the name.

It felt greasy in your mouth.

“Right,” your eyes closed against the salty wind, “well I suppose I’ll do some digging then. Know thy enemy and all that.”

He glanced at you, a full once over and nodded in dismissal. You shook your head and turned to head out, shouting back to him over your shoulder.

“Remember,” only your head remained peeking through the crack in the door, “don’t leave this room.”

The door slammed behind you with a crack. Well, he was developing a pattern to say the least, you thought as you wandered down the hall to the drawing room.

***

You did your best to conceal the limp in your step as you entered, slipping easily into the small crowd of legislative staffers and scanning the room. Gahl was nowhere to be seen and neither was his ‘advisor.’ Immediately you felt a weight lifted off your shoulders. You consistently spent among crowds of men who frequently murdered people for political gain, however, you’d miscalculated how much harder it would be to keep your cool when your life was the one on the line.

The room was bright and airy, a small table was lined with furiously dainty finger food which you perused but found no appetite for. You sighed and moved on, trying to decide which inane conversation to insert yourself into when one found you first.

“Good morning,” an increasingly familiar voice spoke from behind you.

You turned to find Lem crossing the room and leaving behind a group of idly chatting aides.

“Hello,” you plastered a smile on your face in greeting as he saddled up. “The Representative chose not to grace us with his presence I see.”

He chuckled, “You really do get right down to business don’t you?”

“That is why I’m here,” you picked a tea sandwich off the table and popped it into your mouth just for the sake of the gesture. It tasted like sand in your mouth.

“Well then, I suppose I don’t mind skipping the pleasantries if you won’t think less of me for it,” Lem conceded and turned to stand next to you, surveying the crowd.

“In fact, I might think more of you.”

You followed suit, taking in the gaggles of people as your new companion passed you a glass of something fruity and expensive.

“Well in that case,” he took a sip and tucked a piece of yellow hair behind his ear, “you’d be correct in your assumption, the old man’s been called away on important campaign related business.”

“Would I be right in assuming you know more than you’re letting on?”

Lem glanced down at you from the corner of his eye and took a sip of his drink, “I think we’re both seasoned enough players of this game to know the answer to that.”

You hummed in concession, “Can you blame me for trying?”

“No,” he admitted easily. “But considering the fact you’ve been casing me like a house for robbery I would have hoped that conclusion would have come faster.  

“I don’t know what you consider ‘casing,’ but I think you might be inflating yourself a bit there Mr. Alba,” you retorted, taking a sip and jolting a bit as the sweetness hit your tongue.

“A politician's assistant with an enlarged ego? Never.”

“Aren’t you a little too self aware to be in politics?”

Beside you, Lem laughed in earnest and you frowned, looking up at him. He wasn’t nearly as large as the Commander, so your neck wasn’t forced nearly to it’s breaking point in the process.

“You’re funny,” he said by way of explanation. “I didn’t think you’d be funny.”

“I’m just as shocked as you are,” you mumbled as a group of people bypassed you out into the hall.

“Well, you’re right,” Lem shrugged his shoulders, “I didn’t initially intend on ending up in government work.”

That was interesting. You felt yourself falling back into an old rhythm. Maybe Lem was onto something—if you wanted to get to Gahl, what better place to start than with the assistant. After all, if anyone wanted to know all the dirt on Hux, you were certainly the best person to ask. Why would this be any different?

“Is that so?” you prodded, hoping he’d continue on his own.

Of course he did. These people loved to talk about themselves.

“The Representative was a family friend and I was but a directionless youth bringing shame upon our good name,” he lamented, gesturing dramatically to a false, sympathetic audience.

“Was it kindness or pity then?” you asked, smiling and nodding to one of the campaign managers when she dipped behind you for a fruit tart.

Lem huffed out a laugh again and shook his head, “Gahl wasn’t always like this, I recall him being far more benignant when I first started.”

You latched on to the remorse in his tone: a soft spot in the apple. A perfect opportunity for you to worm your way in and feast on the flesh.

“It's an occupational hazard, really,” you glanced at his profile through your lashes and caught the faintest twinkle of vulnerability in the set of his jaw, “the constant power struggle drains one dry of any remaining empathy.”

“Hm, that’s certainly part of it,” Lem continued and downed the rest of his drink. “But he hasn’t really changed all that much until this election season.”

You’d broken the skin, now it was time to dig a bit deeper.

“Gahl seems pretty cut and dry, from what I can tell,” you locked your thighs against the growing ache between them from standing too still for too long, “what would you say has changed?”

“Well in all the years I’ve spent working for him, I’ve never known the man to run a smear campaign, not like this one at least. Really you should have seen the ads we ran for him, absolutely brutal,” Lem was nearly ranting now, and it seemed you’d struck the nerve you’d been searching for. “And, I mean no offense, but he’d certainly never have interacted more with the Order than was strictly necessary, much less agree to meet with your Commander what-ever-his-name-is personally.”

God you wished Commander what-ever-his-name-is Ren was around to hear that. The look on his face alone would be better than any orgasm he could give you.

“No, no, I wouldn’t do any business with us either if I could help it,” you conceded and handed Lem a second glass.

“You’re very gracious, thank you,” he accepted the drink and sighed.

You tried your best not to sympathize, but you were weak and soft and couldn’t quite help the pang in your chest. As lukewarm as you were about Lem Alba, you could see the bags under his eyes and the sallow pallor to his skin and you knew the look he wore too well.

Damn your occasional need to not be a total piece of shit.

“Trust me, I understand your frustration,” you let out a sigh of your own.

Commanding officers were a trial.

“And not to mention, ever since he brought on that new advisor, he’s had no need for any of my input,” Lem grumbled, pinching the bridge of his round nose.

Well, never mind, maybe your horrible lack of apathy was going to come in handy.

“The slimy one?”

He turned to look down at you with an incredulous smile, “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“What does he call himself?”

“Atreus,” Lem said, rolling his eyes. “Although I’m sure that’s not his real name. He seems to get off on being dark and mysterious.”

You could think of another person who fit that description, and both of them had wanted you dead on at least one occasion you were certain.

“Hm,” you nodded in agreement, “any idea where he came from?”

“None such luck, he just came crawling out of the woodwork one day a few months ago and well, you’ve seen the result,” he shrugged and finished off his second glass, taking yours from your hand and setting them off to the side. “Now, fancy a walk on the beach? I believe it’s my turn to take a crack at hunting for information.”

For a moment, you contemplated the likelihood that you were being played, that Lem was some elaborate plant and today was the day of your demise. But holding you hostage leagues away from crowds would invariably ensure your death would be wasted. Couldn’t stick it to the Order if there was no one around to watch. And not to stroke your own dick, but you were very well versed in picking up on genuine animosity towards superiors.

“I’m not entirely sure what you could possibly want to know that I have the answers to,” you said and turned to face him, “but I would love the excuse to skip a meeting.”

The sand was warm between your toes when you stepped onto the shore. A breeze stirred and kicked up the granules which bit at your skin. Lem walked beside you in silence for a while, swinging his loafers in his hand.  You looked out at the water, mind flashed with reluctant images of two bodies, bare and bruised, rolling in the surf.

“What’s it like?” your companion finally said, pulling you from your not so work appropriate thoughts.

“What’s what like?”

You turned to see Lem shaking his head and looking down at his feet.

“Working for the Order,” he clarified and you couldn’t stop the scoff before it blew past your lips.

“Do you seriously expect me to believe that’s what you really wanted to ask me?”

Lem held up a hand in surrender and swung to face you, “I promise, I’m being perfectly honest.” When you didn’t say anything, he continued, tone much softer under the crashing waves. “Are you always this mistrustful?”

You were certain that was meant to be a rhetorical question, but it triggered a bit of uncomfortable introspection. The answer was clearly yes, that was a given, a requirement. Of course you were, everyone who played the game of politics and treaties and thinly veiled threats was constantly waiting for someone to change loyalties at the flip of a switch. That was the rules, no one ever trusted anyone else father than they could shoot them. Alliances only worked when the playing parties were mutually benefitting or consistently in the other’s line of fire.

Truthfully, you hadn’t trusted a single soul since your academy days, and even that was questionable. You couldn’t trust your staff to do their jobs right, and the only conversations they ever had with you was nothing more than ass kissing lacking in both subtlety and class. The higher ups used you as a convenient garbage dump for all their internal screw ups.

Any human interaction you’d had during your time in negotiations was—stripped down to its roots—simply because someone wanted something from you.  

Intentions mattered, anyone who said otherwise was only kidding themselves.

“Work is fine, pay is good,” you kept your tone short, “why do you ask?”

“Just curious, I always wondered what it would be like to work for them.”

“Well, I’d say it’s exactly what you’d expect,” you backed quickly away from the incoming tide, trying not to ruin any more clothing that you already had.

“I don’t know,” Lem shrugged and followed you farther up the beach, “I figured it would be more exciting than this.”

He gestured around vaguely at the villa and the ocean. Your balcony visible from here, you realized. Soon the two of you would walk right across the patch of sand where you and the Commander had tumbled desperately into each other. When you had—

“It isn’t,” you quickly nipped that train of thought in the bud. “Just the same sport on a bigger playing field.”

“You’re not doing a very good job of representing your product,” Lem quipped.

“Well thankfully I’m a diplomat, not a salesman.”

You were standing right by the path to your rooms now, in between the parted grass you could still see the imprints of massive feet. Kylo must have carried you back last night, cold and wet and debauched. You could almost see him, muscles in his back rippling, your weight barely registering as he walked on legs like tree trunks up the small incline. The water would be dripping off his hair, coating each pretty strand and leaching away its softness.

“Isn’t it all the same evil though,” Lem mused, pausing next to you on the beach, completely unaware of what the sand here had witnessed only a few hours ago.

“Depends on what you define as evil.”

You wondered if Kylo could see you now, if he could hear you—really hear you. Wondered if you’d ever get to know what went on inside his head. Wondered if you’d even want to. Maybe that made you evil. Or maybe you were just weak.

“I think you’d know better than me,” Lem was staring off at the water when you turned and his neat hair parted with the breeze.

“Why’s that?” you asked, facing back to stare into the window to your room, hoping to catch a glimpse of something.

Just something.

“Well homicide isn’t included in my negotiating arsenal for one thing,” he huffed, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

“I’ve never killed anyone.”

You didn’t know why you whispered the words, didn’t know why you said them at all, but there they were drifting out to sea like a rudderless ship.

“Why not?”

“Never had too,” you said simply, “not directly at least.”

Lem hummed thoughtfully, “But would you?”

You were still staring up at the curtain covered window.

“Is that what you think evil is?”

“That’s what I think devotion is,” Lem replied simply. “The evil is in refusing.”

A shadow passed across the glass, tall and menacing and real.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, after a moment of silence.

“Don’t know what?”

You shook your head, “I don’t know if I would kill someone, personally I mean.”

“Fair enough,” the sound of skipping shells rang out behind you as Lem spoke, “I don’t think anyone really knows until the knife is in their hand and the throat is under it.”

You aren’t going to die.

You could hear Kylo’s voice and the crashing of the sea—or maybe it was something else, something else entirely that was churning around you. Something red and crackling.

An act of devotion.  

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

***

You could feel his eyes on you the second you returned. It was well into the night after a day of meetings that ran too long. But one quick scan of the room and you came up empty of brooding men in flowing black robes. Despite his lack of physical presence, you swore you could feel staring, tracking the uneven movement of your legs as you took a step further from the door.

Kylo Ren was here somewhere, you could feel the weight of him, filling up all the extra space in the air.

The sullen feeling of being watched followed you, making your skin flush with gooseflesh, while you stood in the middle of the room. Something moved in the shadows of the balcony. You caught just a twitch from the corner of your vision, the heel of boot pulled back into the dark.

So that’s where he was hiding. Or maybe lurking was a more appropriate word for it.

When your eyes had adjusted to the low light of the moon, you could just barely make him out. Kylo was nothing more than a dark silhouette against the horizon, leaning back against the rail of the balcony. You couldn’t see his face, but you could easily imagine the blank, drawn expression. The regal tilt of his jaw and the sculpted profile of his prominent nose. The slight peek of his ears between dark waves of hair.

You paused for a moment, debating whether or not you cared enough to fill him in on what you’d gathered that morning. Lem had been more forthcoming with you for the rest of the day after your heart to heart and you’d been able to create a halfway decent profile of your target by the end of your last meeting. But there was palpable tension in the room that you couldn’t quite place, and it felt like one wrong step might find you backed up against the wall, feet dangling and throat crushed in an invisible grip.

Turning, you sat yourself gingerly on the edge of the bed and pulled off your shoes. When you dropped them to the ground though, you heard the rustling of paper. Scattered on the floor was the tattered remains of a padded envelope. You frowned, picking up one of the scraps to try and make out the writing.

Your name was scrawled in messy print, torn halfway through.

It was only when you noticed the small shreds of fabric littered among the mess that you realized what you were holding.

“I’ll have one of the aides send for some seaside appropriate attire, you might find you’d like to go for a swim.”

“Let me know,” he cleared his throat, “if that’s not the right fit. I can have another sent up.”

It was the package Lem had given you days ago. You’d nearly forgotten about the awful conversation with Gahl your first night on Coruscant. Some part of you was glad you’d never have to see it in one piece, the memory of his hand on your thigh still made you gag.

You grabbed a piece of the ruined material and felt the rough outline of lace under your fingertips.

From the balcony there came the sound of shuffling boots as Ren adjusted himself and turned away from you to look out over the sea.

“You really shouldn’t open mail that isn’t addressed to you, sir,” you mumbled under your breath, but got no response.

In fact, the entire room was littered with the remnants of your gift from the representative. You wondered how long he’d been sitting there sulking over it. Something in your chest swelled at the thought of him, eye twitching just before he ripped the garment to shreds. You could hear the shout that would have torn through his throat.

Really, he fucks you once and he’s already jealous? Very unprofessional.

The thought did wonders for your ego.

And wreaked havoc on your incredibly sore pussy, that clenched involuntarily against a new rush of warmth.

But however much sick pride you took in exposing the Commander’s inability to control himself, you couldn’t shake the twinge of annoyance that bubbled constantly under the surface of your mind whenever Kylo Ren was involved.  

The boots, the cryptic half answers, the unclear label for whatever the hell had happened between the two of you buried in each other on the sand— that was one thing.

But this was a slippery slope and you weren’t one for simply riding along without question.

“Tell me what you want.”

That’s what he always said, be a shame if Ren couldn’t hold himself to the same standards.

Without bothering to look back at him, you stood back up from the bed, proudly displayed at the center of the room.

Slowly you lifted your arms, pulling away your top and letting it drop with a soft thump to the floor. You didn’t see him turn at the sound, but you felt it. Could sense where his eyes alighted on your bare back. They lit fiery trails wherever he paused on the blooms of broken blood vessels under your skin. You did your best not to shudder under his stare.

You worked slowly, peeling each layer off piece by piece. Made a show of it, ran your fingers along the soft skin of your arms and gave him a lovely view of your ass when you bent down to roll off your socks. You could hear the catch in his breath so faint under the sound of the wind, and wondered if he could see the wetness glinting off your thighs in the low light.

Wondered if he could smell it on you.

Never once did you turn to face him, waiting until you were completely bare to walk ever so slowly into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open behind you. Flicking on the soft lights you started the shower with a frustratingly shaky hand. Warm water rushed through the pipes and drowned out any sound from the main room.

You stepped past the two tile walls that blocked off the shower and let the stream of water tumble over you. It poured like a waterfall, cocooning you in the stream of it. You waited patiently to see what the Commander would do, if he’d take the bait.

Of course he did.

You didn’t have to wait for very long.

He took up the entire doorway when he entered, a massive wall of muscle and sinew that towered over you in a way no one ever had before.

It was thrilling.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, voice low and layered with poorly restrained need.

Kylo was still fully clothed, but the hard outline of his cock was clear against his thigh. You let the water run over your breasts, cupping them as though you were one of those ornate stone fountains.

“What does it look like?”

He rolled his lips, “All I see is a whore who has no idea what she’s getting herself into.”

He was right, you didn’t. But you wanted it anyway.

“Hmm,” you nodded. “So why don’t you show me?”

You stepped out of the water, leaving puddles behind as you crossed over to him, standing just out of arm's reach. Kylo’s fingers clenched at his sides, his neck tilted down to stare at the water running down your chest.

What happened next was not at all what you’d expected.

You’d thought he might snap the way he often did, might yell or bend you over the vanity and give you even more marks that would smart in the morning. But he did none of that.

Instead he lifted a single hand, his arm impossibly long and reaching you despite the distance. The second his fingertips landed on your skin, the world went black.

You felt like you were falling, your stomach doing flips as you tumbled through darkness. Everything was coming in flashes. Your feet—well no not yours, Kylo’s you realized—sticking in viscous black sludge that clung in sticky trails along the skin of your—his—legs.

A pit, gaping and horrible.

Something burning, something blistering and crackling and raging red. It rose above you, flowing strangely like liquid sloshing and rolling like a flash flood and you staggered back. Something was rushing by your ears, light blurring in front of your eyes like a ship just about to jump into hyperspace. All of sudden, you were hurtled back into the present gasping and pitching forward into the Commander’s solid chest.

He didn’t push you away, just stood as you breathed him in and tried to plant your feet firmly on the ground.

“What was that?”

Your voice sounded so small after the intense roaring of whatever he’d shown you. Kylo’s hand threaded into the hair at the base of your skull and yanked back until your knees buckled under the force and you hung limply from his grip.

“You would do well to listen when I say you have no idea what’s at stake here,” he hissed and you clawed at his hands.

“Maybe if you bothered to explain it to me, I’d be more inclined to agree!”

He shook you violently and you tried to kick your feet under you but the slick tiles offered no leverage. Kylo dropped a hand, fumbling with the button on his pants.

“I think you’re far too busy parading yourself around like the little slut you are.”

In one smooth motion, he freed his cock from the confines of his trousers. It was just as massive as you remember, red and leaking white beads of precum. He gave it two long strokes, holding you at eye level with his dick.

You really ought to keep your mouth shut, but despite the pain in your scalp, your cunt was clenching at the sight of rock hard and weeping for you.

“Am I a slut or are you just a possessive bastard?”

You could pinpoint the exact moment Kylo Ren snapped. The change was subtle, a short grinding of his jaw, just a flicker of his eyes before he had your head slammed down on the vanity, ass up and knees spread for him to settle between.

His hand in your hair tilted your head up so you could watch as he guided his length to your soaked lips. He coated himself in your slick, circling your entrance and nudging your stiff clit with every stroke.

“Watch and you tell me,” he grunted before ramming his cock into you.

It burned and stretched until you felt him in your throat, a choked moan rattling out of your mouth. You could do nothing but watch your reflection, tears beading at the corners of your eyes when he pulled out only to thrust back in. Kylo set a savage pace, the sound of slapping skin and his groans echoed around you.

You watched his face in the mirror, flushed bright red, one hand still on your head and the other steadying your hips as he drove into you. The drag of him was delicious, pulling pleasure out of places so deep you’d nearly forgotten they existed.

“So desperate for your Commander’s cock, aren’t you?” he growled, draping himself over your back.

His chest pinned your harder into the marble vanity, crushing your breasts against the cool surface while the hand on your hip reached around and pressed hard into your stomach just above your pussy.

“Feel that? Feel how this cunt was made for me?”

Kylo’s head dropped to your shoulder and his teeth sunk into the flesh, muffling the obscene moan that rumbled between his ribs when you tightened yourself around him. You whined, nipples straining against the cold stone and neglected clit begging for attention.

“Kylo, please,” you sobbed, forgetting the game entirely, all confidence leaking away and replaced by a hunger only he could sate.

“No,” he snarled, rearing back and yanking your head up with him. “You don’t get to beg now.”

You were absolutely ruined, skin more bruised than not and mouth hanging open in a silent cry. He met your gaze through the mirror, and you were entirely convinced it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. Kylo’s lovely brown eyes were completely black with lust, his hair a crown of sweat soaked curls and a lovely blush that spread all the way to his ears. Plush lips pulled back to show his crooked teeth that splayed out like white gemstones.

He looked every bit a dark, magnificent prince. A fallen angel or a devil or any number of cruel celestial beings—in any case the man above you could not be human.

And yet, you knew he was.

You’d been gifted with the evidence of it, painted him with purple blossoms and seen him bare with scars and freckles and your favorite mole above his gorgeous full lips. The way his breath always smelled like toothpaste.

In all your life you’d never been known to take orders well from any man, but staring at Kylo Ren as he pounded his massive cock into you—meeting you head on without restraint, a comeback always at the tip of his skilled tongue—you thought you might not mind it so much if it was him.

And then his hips stilled, and he was looping your arms around his neck and pawing at your thighs before locking his arms under them and lifting you up, back against his chest.

“Fuck, Kylo—” you yelped at the change of angle and the strength of his arms to keep you aloft.

The shower sprayed down on him, soaking his clothes as he leaned back against the tile wall and fucked you on his cock. The mirror provided a full view of your bodies joining. You watched entranced as his arms flexed, biceps bulging while your pussy swallowed his length and your tits bounced with every thrust.

“That’s the only name I ever want to hear out of your mouth.”

He turned his face into your neck, lips and teeth sucking and nipping at the skin. It was too much, too much and not enough and you were overcome once again with the feeling of something filling in all your hollow spaces. And you knew in your bones straight to the marrow that the pit filled with churning, crackling magma was bubbling up again, accepting everything Kylo poured into you.

You clung on to the feeling and shouted through it.

Kylo, you called, breath coming in ragged gasps.

You were so close from just his cock in you, but it wasn’t enough.

You weren’t sure if anything ever would be.

Kylo, you repeated it like a holy word, long forgotten and imbued with the power of ancient gods.

He buried his head deeper into the column of your throat, squeezing his eye shut as if that could block out your cries.  

Kylokylokylokylokylokylo, you chanted in a never ending string until the dam finally broke and you felt his thoughts slipping into you like they’d always belonged there, like there had always been space for them.

It was all too jumbled for you to parse any meaning from it. Snippets of red hot anger revealed themselves to you in a shower of manilla paper. Voices, dark and malevolent whispered of challengers and danger and design. Your body, motionless on the bed painted in ropes of his release and the comforting weight of you in his arms, real, alive, willing and wanting.

Take me, if you didn’t know better you’d think he was the one begging, take all of me .

You nodded and nudged him with your nose until his lips were crashing against yours in a flurry of hot tongue and teeth. His arms left your thighs which remained impossibly in place, held up by invisible hands as he grasped at your chest, rolling a hard nipple under his thumb while the other found your clit and finally, finally rubbed frantic circles around the neglected nerves.

Kylo’s hips never stopped their frantic pace, his cock reaching its limit inside you, and finally he was cumming, sheathed in your heat and pumping you blessedly full while he sent you tumbling over the edge with him.

And as the waves of pleasure radiated over your skin, boiled in your bloodstream—as Kylo licked the backs of your teeth and swallowed down every cry that left you—everything faded out around the edges once again, although now for much more pleasurable reasons.

***

When you opened your eyes again, you were laying in bed. The sheets were damp, but not uncomfortably so.

And this time, you were not alone. Kylo’s hands, massive and all encompassing were splayed against your stomach and chest, one cupping your left breast gently in his palm. His body engulfed you from behind, bare skin hot against yours.

So hot, you thought something inside him must be burning.

Maybe it was.

Kylo? you wondered silently, unsure he could still hear you.

I’m here.

His hand on your chest flexed as he pulled you tighter. Something told you this was not the first time he’d held you like this, there was something too practiced about the placement of his body.

What is this?

You weren’t exactly sure what you meant by that, but he seemed to understand the question.

He was silent for a moment, I don’t know.

The lie was apparent the moment the words drifted into your head. And confirmation was echoed back to you. He knew, or at least knew some of it, just wouldn’t tell you.

That was okay, you hadn’t really expected anything else.

You’re safe with me, he whispered instead.

And that was not entirely true either, in fact you would not be here if not for him. But all of this had a certain inevitability about it that you couldn’t place. A feeling that this would have happened regardless, or a version of it with the same outcome.

You closed your eyes against the thought and nodded, letting yourself be held like you had so often dreamed of on lonely nights in your small quarters

You were safe then, safe but empty.

And really, that was so much worse.

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

Taglist lovelies;

@thewilddingleberries​ @kit-jpg​ @findyourdarkness​ @contesa-lui-alucard​ @isaxhorror​ @obsessionprofessional​

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x female reader #kylo ren imagines #kylo ren fic #kylo ren smut #dr. b writes #daldom #reader insert #dr. b talks

[n0-eyedtaissa]

God, it's brutal out here+ sweet pea and Ruthie

There's a mob outside of the police station and they were all waiting for Fangs. The Serpents snaked their arms around him, shielding Fangs from the harsh outside world as they slithered through the angry crowd of Northsiders that were too hopped up on their own prejudices to think logically. Fangs didn't do it. He was too honest, even for the Serpents.

Fangs didn't kill Midge but that didn't stop him from getting shot.

There's too much adrenaline coursing through everyone's minds as they look around the mob of people, trying to survey the damage. FP was fine, Jughead was fine, Sweet Pea was fine...Toni was a little frazzled from being pushed around so much but she was fine...But Fangs.

Fangs peels his sticky hands away from the bloody hole in in his torso, with barely enough time to register the white-hot pain before stumbling backwards, being caught by his friends before he could hit the pavement.

Sweet Pea thinks that he blacks out then, if not from the fear of what was going to happen, then from the sheer anger coursing through his veins. Of course, once again Riverdale finds a way to take someone away from him. He doesn't remember how he got into Jones's truck but he's there, acutely aware of the feeling o blood drying on his hands as Toni slaps at Fangs's cheek, yelling at him about he can't go to sleep just yet, okay? I know you wanna go to sleep right now but you need to stay awake. Toni had managed to shrug off her over-shirt and ball it up, pressing it firmly over Fangs' wound to stop the bleeding. He had lost a lot of blood, an abnormal pallor to his face as he coughs, choking on a thick bubble of blood that started to dribble from the corner of his open mouth.

"Jesus, jones, drive fucking faster!" Sweet Pea yells, trying to regulate his breathing, his stomach on the verge of turning.

The truck skids to a stop in front of Riverdale General hospital and everyone jumps out of the truck bed, pullings Fangs as carefully as possible as their mass of leather-clad bodies worked together to get Fangs inside.

"We need help!" Jughead shouts, his voice sounding too small and insecure for someone who usually thought so highly of himself. It was him who thought up the idea for the Serpents to shield Fangs as he left the police station. Was it his fault that Fangs got shot?

A frazzled looking male orderly sprints to get a gurney and a trauma cart, Ruthie jogs alongside Fangs as he got wheeled back into surgery, taking his blood pressure and other vitals, her brain immediately snapping into Chaos Mode. There was a mob inside of the hospital, with Serpents flocking to the crowded waiting room to wait until there was word about how Fangs was doing, as well as people who were injured in the scuffle that broke out around the police station not too long after. In doing her surveying of the people in the building, Ruthie catches onto the whispers that tonight's events were nowhere near being over, no, they were just starting.

When Fangs is getting prepped for surgery, Ruthie goes back to the steel sinks and scrubs her hands down until they burn. Hospital life never effected her too much, but this was more than just her average patient; this was her family, someone who took up a piece of her heart.

Ruthie gulps and dries her hands off of the scratchy brown paper towels before walking back down the main corridor towards the waiting room, where she isn't surprised to see Sweet Pea sitting with his head in his hands. FP jumps up, clearly eager for answers but Ruthie can only shrug. There's nothing to be said yet, but he's in surgery.

Ruthie places her hand on her brother's shoulder and he jumps at the contact. "What do you say we go get you cleaned up?" She pulls Sweet Pea out of the chair and leads him into an empty exam room, guiding him by the wrist. Ruthie shuts the exam room door behind the two of them and it's an eerie contrast, how silent it was versus the hustle and bustle of the lobby and waiting room.

Sweet Pea lets his sister pull off his Serpent jacket and roll up his shirtsleeves, lets her make sure he has no cuts or bruises that needed attending to. His face is dirty and tear-streaked, his hands are stained red with his best friend's blood and it's caked under his fingernails.

"God, It's brutal out there" Ruthie sighs, pumping antibacterial soap into Sweet Pea's upturned palms and showing him how to scrub in like all the real nurses do. Sweet Pea washes his hands again and again until the water runs clear. He's even taller than Ruthie when he sits on top of the exam table, Sweet Pea cracks a bit of a smile as he watches his sister struggle to balance on her tiptoes as she dabbed at his dirty face with a wet paper towel.

#i made it 'there' and not 'here' #SUE ME #ruthie x sweet pea #little brother!sweet pea #riot night i guess

[bigscaryyanderewriter]

I would love a sequel to Drider Dabi! Never though I would fantasize about having sex with a spider xD

Heya, I didn't make this smut, so yeah! Hahah, jokes on you, spiderfucker.

Tw: Bug Bites, Puss, Yandere themes, Pregnancy, Vomit, Blood, Past Noncon, Bondage, Angst

The fact that you woke up with a horrible ache between your legs and in your abdomen was just as alarming as the fact that you were still stuck within the silk of the spiderweb. Panic was your response as you pulled and tried to rip the silk. It was useless, only getting you more trapped. Your hair was sticking to it too… The strings of the web were as thick as your fingers, so you may not be getting out of this web. The soft breath of a sigh left you. Your limbs were not akimbo like you remembered them being at least on the web while you looked about the surrounding area. As well as you could with being as bound as mummy. It was in a small outcrop of rock in a tree filled cove with a sort of half-formed fence of boulders. Rocks large enough to be considered boulders in your book anyway. 

Laying there, you really were beginning to feel issues with being bound by the web for so long. You were hungry and had a severe need to go relieve yourself, but Dabi wasn't around… Or he hadn't shown himself to be. You didn't want found, for the capricious spider might rape you again or decide to just eat you, but then a faint pull on the web roused you. 

"Good morning, little butterfly. You have been hibernating for a good while, hm? Feeling rested?" The voice of the drider said, only visible out of the corner of your eye as you struggled to look back. "Calm down, I'm not going to eat you… If you're good." He laughed, stroking your bare stomach. A little bulge was still there.

"Please, Dabi? Please, I have to go home. My.. My friends will be worried most likely, I can't stay here. I don't want to lay eggs or whatever you've put inside-" You spoke with your voice wavering before he was in front of you, pinching your left breast and squeezing it to the point you were in pain, claws digging in. Your neck was hot and it hurt when you cringed, your head having turned onto the place where he bit you. The large spider bite was swollen and leaking slightly with the venom and lymph fluid. You were sure there were other things on you… Cuts, bruises.. Your ankle still hurts and you doubt you could have walked to begin with even if you had gotten out of the web and the silk bindings. 

"Shut up, be grateful you're even alive now. Unlike most driders, I didn't try to eat my mate after having sex. That can be changed though, because the more you ask to leave… The less you look like my mate and the more you look like an annoying little fly inside my web." He purred, letting go of your breast, it would definitely bruise… The pain lessened quickly and now he brought his face closer, staring with those bright blue eyes into yours. "Though, you're… such a tempting lite fly, aren't you?"

His lips locked with yours and you squirmed. The feeling of him slamming his mouth onto you, teeth clacking and aching now. You were fast to turn your head away to stop his tongue from entering your mouth. Though, you still got that quick taste, despite not having the thick, slimy appendage shoved down your throat. You spat towards the ground. That spit in his mouth was like a venom of its own… Wait, was that venom?

You looked at the smirk as he wiped his mouth off and pulled you down from the web you had been stuck to. Still you were wrapped up like a little human burrito and essentially it left your limbs useless to you with them trapped against your body. His body was so warm against you as he held you close.

"What the fuck?! L-let me go. Please, just let me go back to the city. I told you before. My family is there." You hissed to him, his human arm wrapped around you as he carried you deeper into the cave, away from the sunlight as he hummed in thought.

"You already have a new family on the way. I promise you, you won't have to worry about anything with me, little butterfly. Wrapped up in my silk, I'll take care of you if you just behave. I expect you to hold and raise my clutch, but you know… That's your feminine duty." He said with a laugh before setting you on the ground and began shuffling through something in the darkness. You could hardly see as he pressed something against your lips. 

"Feminine duty, are kidding me? It's not what I want. St-stop, get that away from me." The voice use to protest is cut off by the pastry being shoved into your opened mouth.

It was soft and sweet smelling, "Eat it, you need to be well-fed. If you don't stay healthy, your body won't last gestation." He hissed with a low, voice that dripped with the promise of pain to come if you didn't listen to what he advised you to do now. Closing your mouth, you bit the spongy cake of… A twinkie? Of course, they never went bad. The nutritional value was probably not much though. "Good girl, such a good girl…" His voice was a quiet coo, his hand stroking through your greasy hair. "You're such a good place for my eggs… It is like you were meant to take them."

Your skin was oily and your hair made you feel even dirtier with the fact that you knew that no bath would probably be allotted to you. An uncomfortable sticky wetness still in between your legs from your unwiped arousal and the dried cum from the copulation with the drider. You doubt you would be given free movement for a while or allowed to see the day… 

The smells of decay and ash in the cave made you nauseous, Dabi slowly moving to feed you more. More of those disgustingly sweet cakes. "We have to fatten you up, don't you worry… Your mate will take good care of you. Fat with food and eggs, doesn't that sound wonderful?" He murmured with a smile in his voice. You could feel your eyes beginning to adjust to the darkness as the slight glint of those fangs showed the grin on his face. His eyes still shone in the low light. "I don't normally act like this, just… You're so wonderful, I can't help it. A perfect slut walked along, lost and confused. Just begging to be used with that sweet smell, eating from my lands. You really did just fall into my web, especially during mating season. What a lucky, lucky spider to just be gifted a little human."

"Please, you can't keep me here, someone will come looking for me." You said softly, trying not to ignite his ire and burn yourself here. He moved his hand to your neck and squeezed your bite, a hiss came from it. An audible fizz of puss and hot fluid ran from it. It hurt like a motherfucker, white pain erupting as he pressed harder and emptied the bite. It was a flaccid pouch of skin, leaking blood slowly now that he was done. Moaning out from the pain, it was like a giant irritated pimple… Disgusting. You gagged.

His hand ran over your stomach covered in silk, a sharp nail cutting through the sticky bondage to let him caress the bump under your skin. The clutch of eggs incubating beneath your flesh, you struggled not to vomit. His wet hands on your stomach now, covered in the fluid from the bite. The hot bile and frothy cream of a twinkie burbling half eaten out of your mouth as you couldn't hold it back. 

Dabi avoided the vomit as he held your hair, tilting you forward. He seemed to have known you were about to puke due to the noise of gagging. He held you enough to not get it on yourself as it splattered onto the cave floor. Disgusting. The sharp acidic smell stinging your nose.

"Guess I shouldn't have fed you sweets that fast. Let's try something less rich, alright?" He hummed, looking down at the gross mess before tucking you onto his back, between his back and spider half. The web was stick enough to keep you clung to him. The cave was cold, cold enough that your body was more than willing to be up close to him, even if you still feel physically ill doing it. It didn't matter what you wanted though.

You had something else to worry about right now and it was the clutch growing inside your womb, using your body as a nest. Your only hope was that it would die before you did. If you could get sick… Though, you didn't know what the clutch growing inside you would do when it hatched, you had a feeling that you didn't want to find out either. 

#yandere #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere bnha #yandere my hero academia #yandere mha #yandere dabi #yandere dabi x reader #drider dabi #drider #tw vomit #tw blood #tw past noncon

[the9645archives]

M E R C Y

 Content Warning: Suicidal Ideations, mentions of suicide, captivity, emotional distress (Feel free to request more!) 

Thump! 

Thump!

Thump! 

The monotonous punching made its sickening decent; echoing throughout  paper thin walls and making its way from it’s confined source to Anti. Thump! Thump! Thump! The heavy blows had been going on for a while, longer than Anti had the patience for. The monster got to his feet, fresh with annoyance as he followed the sound of the banging. 

He made his way down the narrow hallway; mold hung to the walls like spider webs, catching rust in it’s trap while the only lights that lit everywhere but the darkest corners buzzed with a yellow tint from above. 

Cold, suffocating and ridden with a stench similar to rotting wood. Anti couldn’t recall how he found this place, only knowing that it was in pure impulse to find somewhere hidden and forgotten, like the barn he once called his own. 

Although fine for him, he knew that, supernatural or not, anyone with lungs wouldn’t be able to survive. So, as he reached the solid, white door at the end of the hall, hearing the source of the Thump! Thump! Thump! on the other side, he’d rather have a say in how slow the man behind the door’s descent to death will be, rather then letting it be up to petty human physiology.  

He unlatched, keyed in passwords and took down wards to allow the metal door to open. The door opened to a white room with long and bright fluorescent light bulbs. Four walls stood equal ways apart, all painted in the pure white. His eyes drifted from the interior of the room to the source of the incessant banging. 

Red splattered in a head shaped patch, looming over it’s source, as the man in the corner faced the red scene, adding to it with every hit.  

Anti rolled his eyes and stepped towards him, watching as the magician mindlessly rammed his blood-coated head into the metal wall.

 Anti bent down to meet the man. Marvin hadn’t reacted to his presence and surely couldn't have seen him. He just kept banging; as his limited strength let him, he’d been lifting his head away from the wall, his forehead caked with deep blood as streams raced each other down his vapid face. Only to send his head back into the walls unforgiving surface in a wet splat and thud. Again and Again, Thump!...Thump 

Marvin let out a pain filled whimper, rolling his head backwards to prepare for another hit. Before Marvin could, Anti put his hand on the man's bleeding head; using it as a cushion between Marvin’s head and the wall. 

Marvin did not react to the new presence of his hand. A smile tugged at Anti’s lips as he realized the magician wasn’t conscious, trying to fulfill self-destruction on autopilot.

 “Aw, trying to kill yourself in your sleep again?” Anti said with costumed sympathy, giving a pout. Marvin’s face slack with no emotion. He attempted another hit. Despite Anti’s hand being present, the mortals head phased through the monsters glitched hand, colliding with the wall again, the thump! of the impact releasing a sudden rage into Anti. 

When he felt the tiniest bit of “life” return to his hand, Anti grasped Marvin's head and slammed it backwards into the floor. Marvin jolted, groaning in pain. Meanwhile, Anti fumed. 

How dare he try to damage this beautiful body? How dare he try to release himself from the land of the living without Anti’s say so? Trying to scurry away to another earth like a rat in a hole, with all the ancient power he was given before Anti could have a chance to access it? 

Anti launched to his feet to avoid ramming his fist through Marvin’s already bleeding face out of anger.  

Meanwhile, Marvin laid dazed, somewhat awake. He could feel the familiar heat of Anti, sticky and dangerous, looming over him, but stalking back and forth. He could hear Anti muttering harshly to himself. 

His head still leaked blood as he tried to make sense of what Anti was saying. His brain latched onto keywords that meant anger. “Bitch”,  “stupid bitch”, “fucking hate you”. Marvin felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He couldn’t take an angry Anti again...not again. Marvin laid still, dazed while shaking in fear for what’s to come from the anger he woke up to.

The vibrations in the floor halted to a stop. Anti had stopped pacing, he’d stopped talking too. Marvin heard the faintest chuckle leave the monsters lips as he said, “I know you’re awake, cattus.” 

To that, Marvin let go of the vocal cry he felt boiling in his chest for weeks. It rattled the four walls surrounding the man but like Anti, the walls remained standing, unaffected by the sudden emotional and powerful outburst. Pretty soon after, the magician’s cries caught in his throat, leaving it hoarse and tired along with the rest of his body. All he could do was produce small, nonsensical wants through his journey in and out of consciousness. 

 “P-Pl-” Marvin choked. His hands crawled up to reach his face, as if searching  for something. A hair to move from the spot it ticked his nose, no, where the thick liquid was coming from before it found its way down his face, he wasn’t sure. He always knew he was searching for familiarity, something on his face that he could try to envision in his mind, he never could.

“please...Pret-ty please” Marvin slurred in anguish. Anti was suddenly amused. He came down next to Marvin, sitting criss-cross on the floor like an engaged toddler. His face showed concern for the mans state, but both men knew he never was concerned, he was incapable of feeling it.

“P-p-pretty please what, Kitty?” Anti mocked, pursing his lips and screwing his eyebrows.

Marvin choked again, on a sob this time, “Pl-lease...can I die?” 

Anyone who would have heard that; whether from a close friend, a lover, or even a stranger that you can see in there eyes, joy lived there; would have been hit with a wave of shook and grief, then the want to be as careful with their desire to help, in order to do more good then thoughtful harm. But Anti, Anti stifled a giggle.

“So, soon?” Anti ran his hand over Marvin's chest, smoothing out the creases in his sweatshirt. “We haven’t even gotten to the fun parts yet.” Anti looked up pondering, “Well, not all of them, at least; locking you in the freezer was a fun one, oh and not letting you sleep was a fun experiment too, oh...and how could I forget...” 

Anti dropped his hands, delicately placing them on Marvin's face. Marvin could feel calloused fingers despite Anti not having any, slicked with warm blood tracing the surface of his eyelids. Marvin’s heart must’ve stopped until his fingers left his face. If there was any remnants of bravery drifting through Marvin’s body, it was snatched away in an instant.  

“please...Anti” Marvin whispered. “kill me” Anti leaned into Marvin’s ear, 

“I love you, so...so much” Anti began to stroke Marvin’s hardened hair, flakes of dried blood float to the floor. He pushes a lock from his ear, leaning in. 

“But I’d never grant you such mercy” 

Anti laughs at the man’s newly found strength, but it was only used to cry. 

#writersofjack #my contribution #eyeless marvin

[imaginesmai]

Ivar - Checkmate

This was requested so long ago I honestly lost track. It was by an anon, who wanted X from the Angst Alphabet with no detailed description. Hope you like it! 

Warnings: brief, very brief hints of rape.

Plot: Ivar hasn’t always been the murderous king we know. There was a spark initiating the fire.

Despite what some might have thought, he did not consider himself to have multiple personalities. Instead, he was like a many sided coin, or perhaps a puzzle, hundreds of different pieces fitting together to make a perfect whole, to make the man that he was. Pieces that he just so happened to fit perfectly with you by his side, always watching his back and hugging his front.

For polite and formal company, he was Prince Ivar, a man who cared about his subjects and who could go on and one about the different political aspects of running a kingdom. He knew all the social niceties and customs that came with being part of the upper class, even if most of the foreigners thought that the vikings didn’t have manners. He had a way with words that won over even the coldest of ambassadors, his natural charm soon getting king Harald to sing a trade agreement that seven generations of his family had been refusing for the last four hundred years. He sat in on a council meetings, voicing his opinions and commanding the attacks. He was a husband, of beautiful princess Y/N Y/L/N, the future king of Norway.

They called him ‘Ivar the boneless’, a heartless monster; but truth was, he had never killed anyone. He only sent other people to do so, because he hadn’t feel the need to do so. Ivar still had to stain his hands with blood, to see a man’s life flashing through his eyes in a last exhale. His brothers were much more violent than him. Ubbe had killed in a battle ruthlessly and Hvitserk had slaughtered wives and kids in front of their parents; not to talk about Bjorn, who had the permanent smell of death in his clothes.

But not Ivar. He only knew the love that you brought him.

When you changed the pillows for him, so that he was more comfortable, he saw the world he wanted to live in. When you kissed his forehead everytime you passed by, and actually spent some time listening to his plans and showing interest, his heart grew big with love just for you. In the way you ran your hand absentmindedly through his locks, he found the will to live and to conquer the world just for you. Or in how you helped other that had nothing, which made him want to be a better person. But if there was a thing that he loved, though, was the feeling of you dozing off on his lap after a rough day.

That night was different, because in your eyes were dried tears and in his ears still sounded your broken sobs. Your hands were clenched in his tunic, and your body was still shaking with aftershock. Sigurd, staring at you in the doorway, with his arms crossed. Ubbe, sitting by the fireplace sneaking pity glances at you. Hvitserk, not touching his food but playing with it. His mother, sitting beside him and rubbing his arm. They weren’t supposed to be there, but you were already their queen.

Without saying a word, Ivar passed your sleeping form to his mother and took off.

He crawled through the city, to the forest until the cabin in the woods. He staked his prey through the darkness, allowing the newest side of him to take control, the nameless mask that was so full of hatred that it could consume the world withering the planet into a dull husk. His target was unaware of his approach, unknowingly bringing its own demise upon by taking the shortcut through the dark path.

The knife on his hands should have been heavy, but it gave him an oddly comforting feeling. The one he had been searching all day.

It was not a moment later that he saw his chance, the man he was pursuing leaning down to take a log that had fallen from his hands. Without missing a beat, he fell on him like a lion on his prey, placing his gloved hand over the man’s mouth to muffle the expected yells. Raising the knife so the silver blade glimmered in the moon’s cold light, he waited as its body stiffened against his own, the condemned man’s breathing coming in terrified pants. Tightening his grip on his prey, Ivar leaned forward and whispered his messaged.

“This is for her”

With a silent roar, Ivar plunged the knife into the man’s stomach, his glove growing warm and wet with his blood as he twisted the knife. He expected instant guilt, regret or even fear. But a pleasant feeling grew in his stomach, as if the last piece of the puzzle had finally fixed itself.

“This is for her, for her. This is for her”

When he finally let the body fall, the knife still embedded into his abdomen, his target’s blood had already dried, caking the front of his clothes in a rust coloured splatter. For a few moments, he stared at the dead man before him. He had just killed a man, another human being. With his hands.

He was glad.

Although the side of him that always thought about how you might feel because of his actions was screaming at him, the blood thirst screamed louder, and he found himself dragging the tip of the knife against the man’s cheek.

It did not take him long to reach the edge of Kattegat, dragging himself between the shadows and in silence. The town was quiet, sleeping and unsuspected of the first murder of Ivar Ragnarson. He felt blood on his hands, on his knees and under his nails, but that didn’t stop him from smiling the whole way to your rooms.

All thoughts of sleep were banished from his mind as he entered his room and saw the slumbering form of his wife. Aslaug, always waiting and knowing, nodded shortly at her younger son and let your sleeping body rest on your side while she exited the room. His brothers were far gone, and silence embraced Ivar one more.

Crossing to the other side of the room, he paused as a whimper tore itself from your throat, filling him with the desire to reach out and hold you, to comfort you in a way you had yet to let him. Instead, he stepped away, folding his arms across his chest as he watched you, the noises fading away. Ivar knew it was necessary, the separation, because his touch would just make it a thousand times worse at least for now, even if he hated.

He knew what you were dreaming about, and it killed him to know that, even if you did allow him to be there, to hold you until the nightmare passed, he could never change the events of the past. He could never go back to that single morning when you had needed him the most, when he should have been there and not making stupid peace deals with traders. He could not chance the fact that he had failed you, had broken his promise to never let anyone hurt you.

The clothes torn apart sat by the fire, waiting for your permission to be burnt. Ivar notice his tunic wrapped around your body, and clenched his jaw. He touched his cheek with sticky fingers.

He could never change that another man had stolen what you had given to him, and only him, in your wedding night. And, no one could have foreseen Ivar becoming the most ruthless killer of all Vikings in the dark of the night.

Because no one would ever hurt his queen while he was alive.

Vikings Tags:

@worldisadirtyplace​

Want to know more about me? Here is my Masterlist! Feedback is always appreciated!!

#ivar imagine #ivar ragnarson #ivar #ivar x reader #ivar one shot #ivar angs alphabet #vikings #vikings imagine #vikings one shot #vikings x reader #vikigns angst alphabet #alex hogh imagine #alex hogh #alex hogh one shot #alex hogh x reader #imaginemai #imaginesmai #request #angst alphabet

[shadowofthelamp]

Okay, this is going to be a pretty indulgent ask because Nny is a huge comfort character for me, but could you do Nny and origin/abuse?

Sorry if you're uncomfortable with it, or whatever reason you don't want to do it, he's just a big comfort character of mine and I'm going through some rough stuff at home

(CW: Mentions of gore/violence, implied abuse, possible mild emetophobia)

He was wet and shivering. Having practically negative body fat did that to a person, even when the wetness came from warm blood. The shower water creaked out smelling and looking like melted copper, but it was better than nothing- he felt like shit enough tonight, and having to deal with blood flaking off when it dried always was like insects were crawling up and down his skin. Horrible, horrible little things.

He tried not to look at his body while cleaning, but it was inevitable when he reached over to grab the washcloth to scrub off a particularly sticky piece of viscera. He’d left his clothes on, but his sleeves were torn, and he could see below the elbows. There were scars up and down his arms, and bruises on his wrists. The last ones had really fought before going to the wall. 

As he turned his arms over, he could see a flash of... something. Shorter limbs, splashed with tears that ran down and over, some of the liquid absorbing into the skin. The bruises were still there, marked in a pattern of four. Turning them over, it was five. Four fingers and a thumb. Little deeper curves- nails, maybe? 

He was still in a bathtub, but one that wasn’t caked in filth and blood. The shorter arms wiggled like pasta as he tried to focus, then slipped away, leaving him just staring at himself again.

His stomach turned as the water drizzled down his face, pushing his soaked hair down over his eyes.

He could hear chanting at the back of his mind, but for the life of him couldn’t make out any of the words. He didn’t think he really wanted to know anyway, considering at the impression of them he stumbled over to the toilet and gagged even though there was nothing in his stomach.

#jthm #shadow writes stuff #I kinda figured 'less is more' would be better here #Anonymous #asks #abuse cw

[impala-dreamer]

Unskinny Bop

SPN FanFic

~A mysterious stranger swings by your club one night and he's hard for you to resist.~

John Winchester x stripper!Reader

2,107 Words

Warnings: NSFW! Stripping, Hoeing, Prostitution, Fornication. YadaYada. John's a sexy motherfucker.

A/N: So, this happened. lol.  "I don't write John!" oops... This was a request made by Cindy Jo on Patreon for kinktober "lapdance". Hope you all enjoy...

Feedback is Gold ~ My Masterlist ~ Become A Patreon

He walks in and the air in the room shifts. You can feel it hit you all the way up on the stage.

He’s tall and handsome, collar of his leather jacket popped up against the nape of his neck. His hair is dark, almost black, just like the look in his eyes. He’s bruised and scruffy, dangerous.

Mama always told you to stay away from men that looked like him, but Mama wasn’t there.

You hook your left leg around the pole and spin, slowly, just enough to show your wares and grab his attention. You get it; his eyes are glued to you as he sits in the dark corner of the club and lights a smoke. The match flares and you see hazel and lust flash up at you. His thin lips part as he exhales and you can almost feel the smoke in your head, making everything else fade away.

A man at the edge of the stage waves a twenty at you so you dip down to recieve it, popping your hip and offering him the string of your thong. The cash is cold and scratches your skin as it slides beneath the elastic. The man’s fingers linger on your thigh as you stand and back away with a sexy smile. You give him a moment of your attention but your mind is in the back of the room.

Your song ends and the crowd looks away, uninterested with applause, instead looking for the next dancer as she lingers behind the curtain. That’s fine with you, your dance is done and your intentions are set.

“Hey there.” You smile as he looks up, runt of a cigarette dangling between his lips.

He takes a puff and pulls it away, snuffing it out in the ashtray as he sits back in his chair and looks you over. “Hey yourself, Princess.” His voice is pure sex and gravel and your pussy throbs as it washes over you.

“Rough night?” you ask, looking down at the dried blood caking the knuckles of his right hand. There’s a ring on the left, thin band of yellow gold, but that doesn’t turn you away. You’ve seen husbands come and go, all with the same idea in their heads. It was nothing new and you were nothing if not discreet.

He smirks and rubs at the back of his hand. “You could say that.”

He’s not offering any more or asking, but he doesn’t look away. He licks his bottom lip slowly and your pulse quickens.

“Maybe a dance will distract you,” you tease, crossing your arms so your tits pop, nearly escaping the thin white babydoll you’d thrown on after your set. The lace can barely hold you in, but he doesn’t seem to mind, eyes falling quickly to your cleavage.

“I think that would be delightful,” he grins.

You can feel your nipples stiffen as his gaze draws across your chest. Leaning down to give him a better look, you place your palms on the table next to his hand. “Twenty for a quick one out here,” you explain with a sweet bat of your eyes. “Forty if you want some privacy…”

He sits all the way back in his seat and cocks his head to look you over, eyes dropping from your tits down to your barely covered pussy and down, lingering on your naked thighs. He smacks his lips and dips into his jeans, pulling a wad of cash from his pocket. Five wrinkled twenty dollar bills fan out on the sticky tabletop.

“How much will that buy me?” His eyes flash up to yours and everything your Mama ever told you about dangerous strangers suddenly disappeared into oblivion, lost forever.

The VIP room is covered floor to ceiling in crushed red velvet and black leather, the lights are dim and tinted with pink gels, and wall length mirrors are strategically placed across from the round couch, giving customers the perfect view.

He followed you inside, heavy boots thudding on the thin carpet behind you.

“Have a seat,” you offer, waving a hand over the leather couch.

He sits in the middle, spreading his long legs and resting his palms on the worn denim. He watches silently as you shut the door and flip the light switch, turning on the pink lights.

“Classy,” he jokes, looking up at the spotlights.

You laugh and flip a second switch, flooding the room with music. A hard, familiar guitar riff flows through hidden speakers behind the couch and you start to move, rocking your hips to the song.

“Nice choice,” he comments, nodding in approval at the song.

“You don’t strike me as a Poison fan,” you tease, moving closer, smoothing your hands down over your lace bodice.

He sits back and sighs happily, eyes fixed on your tits. “Really? How do I strike you, then?” His lips turn slowly at the edges, daring you to answer honestly.

You bite your lip and dip your chin, looking him over. There’s scratches on his cheek, a bruise on his neck, cuts on his knuckles. His jacket is old and worn, cuffs of his jeans muddy and frayed. Still, there’s something in his face that tells you he’s OK, he’s a good guy, just rough and tumble.

“I don’t know,” you answer coyly, peeling the strap from your left shoulder. “You seem dangerous...mysterious...sexy.” The right side falls as well and you inch the lace down off of your tits, swaying your hips as you strip for him.

He smiles and rubs his thighs, clearly enjoying your display.

“Did I get close?” you laugh, pulling your tits free, nipples hard in the cool air.

He nods and bites his lip. “Pretty close.”

The babydoll pools at your feet and you step out of it, slowly lifting each leg as you do, giving him a nice long look. “Well, maybe I can get closer.” You watch his eyes glaze over at your words and keep dancing, moving your body faster with the hard beat. “I like being close, don’t you?”

The tip of his tongue presses against his top teeth and he nods subtly. “I do.” His right hand dips between his thighs, fingers teasing his cock. You watch the bulge twitch and rub your tits for him, moaning as you pinch your nipples hard.

“Good. So do I.”

You turn quickly and shake your ass a bit, backing up until your legs are against his knees. The denim is soft and you lean back, placing your hands on his firm thighs. He feels so solid, so thick, and your pussy drips as you rub against him.

He lifts a hand to tease down your spine, forcing your back to arch away instinctively. It tickles, but fuck, his touch is so warm you melt into it. Scooting back, you set your ass against his crotch and start to grind, rubbing hard with the music, rolling your hips. You can feel your tiny panties soak and hope he can feel it as well. It’s not every day a customer actually turns you on like this.

“What’s your name?” he growls, hand suddenly tight on your hip.

You rock against his palm. “Candy.”

His fingers tighten. “Really?”

“No,” you laugh and stand up, spinning around to straddle his hips, shoving your tits in his face.  The stubble on his chin scratches your breast and sends a shiver down your back. “What’s yours?”

He clicks his tongue and fits his big hands in the curve of your waist. “You can call me, Sir.”

A smile pulls at your lips. “OK, Sir,” you tease, rubbing down on his stiffness. “How’s this feel?”

He hisses and slides his hands upwards to cup your tits. His hands are huge, strong; fingers warm and rough, calluses tickling wherever they land, bringing up a forest of goosebumps across your skin. “Real nice, Princess.” His words are a rumble on his lips and your cunt closes around nothing, hungry for him.

He leans forward suddenly and flicks his tongue against your left nipple, hazel eyes staring upwards to see your reaction. Your eyes roll a bit and your jaw drops; no one’s touched you like that in a long while. Dances were usually handsfree, but every now and then…

His mouth closes around your nipple and his teeth nip, making you jerk down hard on his lap.

“Fuck!” you whimper, pushing a hand through the short hair at the nape of his neck. He pushes into you, burying his face in your chest, sucking and lapping at your sensitive flesh until you tug at his hair, yanking his face up to yours. “I really shouldn’t be doing this,” you moan, plastering on an innocent look. “I could get fired.”

He sits back, lips wet and red, curled in a sly smile. He plucks your nipples with his fingertips and tips his head to the side. “You want me to stop?”

It’s so simple, so honest. If you say yes, he’ll stop right away and let you go.

If you say no, you’re sure to get caught with his cock plugged deep in your cunt.

You can feel him, hard and ready beneath you; your cunt already soaked and aching. You rub against him, pushing down hard, making him bite his lip. Just a little tease before you answer.

“I’m not supposed to fuck the customers, Sir,” you tell him, pouting as you lock your arms around the back of his neck and lift up slowly.

He keeps his eyes on yours as he reaches into his jacket pocket, runs his tongue across your collarbone as he fumbles with a wrapper.

“Ask me,” he growls when he’s ready, cock sheathed and leaking precum into the rubber. “Ask.”

You lean in, pressing your lips to his ear. “Please, Sir. Fuck me.”

He’s inside within seconds, thrusting upwards as he pulls you down by the hips. The stretch makes you cry out, biting your lip to hold back a scream. He’s so thick, so hot, and your cunt has never felt so full and happy.

“Ride me,” he commands, leaning in to snap his teeth over your nipple. “Hard.”

“Yes, Sir.” Your head falls back as you lift up and on your knees and then slam down, desperate to find a rhythm while your body tightens around him. “Fuck, you’re huge,” you moan as you take him deeper.

He lifts his hips, meeting your downwards push and pulls his lips from your tit with a wet pop. “You fit like a glove, Sweetheart. Such a sweet little pussy.”

“Fuck!”

The music changes as you ride his cock; steady beat of the drums like a metronome for your hips. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, suckling and biting at the tender flesh that hides your pulse. You know it’s going to bruise, you know you should stop him, but he feels so good. The heaviness of his big hands on your body, the scratch of his cheek against yours, the pull of his mouth. You can’t think straight as he takes over, thrusting up into you while you roll over the edge, cunt pumping around his cock, your slick dripping down onto his old jeans.

He holds you up as you slump backwards, body convulsing as the quick orgasm flows through you. One giant arm braces your spine, a giant hand on the back of your head, holding you steady as he finishes.

He cums like a rockstar, growling through clenched teeth; dark eyes becoming slits as he takes a relaxing breath and lets you go.

There’s little small talk as he cleans himself up; making use of the box of tissues hidden behind the sofa.

“I’m here every night but Thursday,” you say sweetly, hoping he’ll be back, wondering if he’d want you again.

“That’s nice,” he says passively, fixing his belt and giving you a polite smile.

Your heart is racing as you cover yourself back up, trying to fix your hair in the mirror while keeping an eye on him. “You can also ask for me by name if you come back and don’t see me. Maybe we could-”

“Thanks, Princess,” he says, cutting you off as he reaches for the door. “But I’m just passing through.”

You never did see him again but you remember the smell of him, leather and ash, sweat and whiskey; the feel of his lips tugging at your flesh, the fullness of him pounding away at your aching cunt.

As far as customers go, Sir was one to remember.

2019 Forever Tags:

@akshi8278​ @amanda-teaches​ @arses21434​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​ @because-imma-lady-assface​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @colagirl5​ @cosicas-cuquis​ @cosmicfire72​ @courtney-elizabeth-winchester​ @covered-byroses​ @crashdevlin​ @dean-winchesters-bacon​ @deansenwackles​ @deansgirl215​ @deanmonandnegansbitch​​   @dolphincliffs​ @dubuforeveralone​ @emilyshurley​ @emoryhemsworth​ @ericaprice2008​ @eternal-elir​ @feelmyroarrrr​ @flamencodiva​ @focusonspn​ @gayspacenerd​ @hella-aj-the-trickers-son @herbologystudent252​ @hobby27​ @ilsawasanacrobat​ @justcallmeasmodeus​​ @katymacsupernatural​ @lastactiontricia​ @maddiepants​ @mariekoukie6661​ @meganwinchester1999​ @missjenniferb​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​ @mysticmaxie​ @onethirstyunicorn​ @our-jensen-ackles-love​ @peridot-rose @pisces-cutie​ @risingphoenix761​ @roonyxx​ @roxyspearing​ @sandlee44​ @shadowkat-83​ @spnbaby-67​ @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester​ @spnficgirl​ @supernaturaldean67​ @supernatural-took-me-over​ @thehardcoveraddict​ @tmiships4life​ @wegoddessofhell​ @winchesterprincessbride​

#spn fanfic #john x reader #john winchester #john winchester x reader #one shot #smut