#his breath begins to fog and there is a sound behind him and he twirls and there is rhat sculpture. his missing piece

[heli0s-writes]

You’re Toxic, I’m Slipping Under

Summary: He bristles, offended. And you try, with as much dignity as you can muster after the last two hours of being fucked blind, to not look so smug about it. “See you next week,” he hums.

A/n: To celebrate Glass Onion coming out, here’s ol’ boy Ransom because I hate him so much :) 4.1k words. Warnings: Smut; mild degradation, spitting, daddy kink; classism; Mind Games with Ransom Hour etc. etc. Please stop reading if you’re not 18+

Your whole apartment building seems to rattle when he arrives thirty minutes late. Like raucous fanfare to announce his appearance, the door slams shut, the latch clicks loudly, and then you hear his heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs.

His shoes are still on—of course they are—stomping your floorboards and dragging in dirt. You can practically see them, the usual suede loafers switched out for leather boots with the late fall chill, and probably mud-caked because he’s thankless like that.

With your attention still on your laptop, already irritated because you’ve been attempting a paper that’s only chased its tail for the last three hours, you ask, “Did you misplace your watch, Ransom?”

Turning, you show him you’re the screen reading 8:32 and blink pointedly, “Is that a yes?”

“Don’t be smart,” he snaps back. “You know I don’t like that.”

Your head’s been a mess of fog, body tense and frustrated for days, and although you’ve always prided yourself on tact and grace—patient like a saint—Ransom manages to bring out the worst. You hiss, “Take your damn shoes off, you know I don’t like that.”

You watch mutely as he does so, not without a sneer here, a shitty comment there. He takes three long steps and plops himself on your bed, hands curling into the quilt, thumbs brushing over the patchwork fabric disparagingly. He pinches a loose thread and begins to pull, tugging slowly at first, and then finding joy in unraveling a line of stitching until nearly three inches rip apart.

“I always thought you needed to replace this thing.” He twirls the string disdainfully, “It’s ugly as sin.”

He pretends he doesn’t know how you obviously love this quilt—handstitched and affectionately made, your damn initials are embroidered into the corner, after all. He’s made a game of testing your patience, gleefully punching at every button as he tries to get you to snap.

Ransom Drysdale Thrombey. You’d met him at one of the Thrombey’s family… functions. Dysfunction, you’d muttered under your breath when Walt beat his cane against the floor in a drunken tirade and Meg ran out back to wolf down a pot cookie that she was supposed to be saving for later.

She was on the cusp of a panic attack, words tumbling out like a car crash, her hand in her beret, then hair, then trembling over her maroon-painted lips.

“God, I’m so sorry— I thought we could just make a pit stop before heading out. The food’s always catered and really good— god… it’s a fucking mess.”

You waved her off because it’s not like you haven’t witnessed at least one aunt having a meltdown during holiday dinner before— family’s just like that—and tried to placate her with, “Can’t be worse than the cousin who asked if we’d be scissoring later.”

Meg’s face twisted in disgust. “Ugh, ew! Fucking Jacob! He’s a skeezy little incel— I swear he’s a moderator on one of those internet forums where they post revenge porn and upskirt vids— honestly, he was adorable two years ago. Then I guess he went through puberty and got radicalized on Youtube.”

You paused as she lit a cigarette and inhaled furiously before realizing that the two of you were thinking of two entirely different cousins.

“I meant the big one, Meg. This one went through puberty twenty years ago.”

“Ew, Ransom,” Meg frowned, “That’s even worse.”

“Ransom? What is he, a Disney villain?”

Leaves crunched behind your back and Meg looked up from flicking ash into the yard toward the sound.

“Let’s be honest, I’ve got the face of a leading man.”

Meg blew smoke at him, as if the fumes were enough to threaten his sensibilities. You figured not, he looked like a cigar smoker anyway—one of those guys who’d dedicate a whole room in their house with the humidity just right to keep them fresh. Rich people shit.

“Go away, Ransom,” she said, to clarify.

“I don’t recall addressing you, Megan.” He took a drawn-out look, lips pursing in scrutiny before lifting a brow, making a real goddamn show about it. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll bite. 400 on the dresser for an hour; you can get yourself something nice.”

You’re still not sure what it was about either your attire or attitude that allowed him to conjure up such an offer.

Maybe it was your shitty jeans and your sweater from freshman year orientation. Maybe you looked like an easy mark to tear down.

His audacity shocked out a laugh from you—a loud, abrupt guffaw that eased Meg enough for her to dip back inside to grab more from her stash. And when she was out of sight, focused on rummaging in the old clock, you responded, “Yeah, okay. I’ll bite back.”

Maybe it was an act of rebellion against your background in contrast to all this excess. The bitter aftertaste of eating bottom shelf food out of necessity for weeks at a time—those awful chicken bouillon packets and dried blocks of instant noodles your first year of college. No one paid for your schooling or housing so learning to balance an over-abundance of classes and a job because you needed to graduate early, needed to spend less money on tuition, meant that you were working yourself to death.

If Youtube radicalized Jacob, then habitually sleeping three hours a night in the campus library and skipping meals to afford textbooks while men like Ransom crashed Maserati’s for fun radicalized you.

So, sure. Game on.

He picked you up the following weekend without anyone knowing and took you somewhere expensive. It was a whirlwind of exorbitant dinners and being quietly sneered at down the straight line of his tall nose bridge. The front door to his bachelor pad shutting but not bothered with locking. Falling into the thousand-count Egyptian cotton bedsheets naked, the skylight’s beam spilling like gold-flecked champagne.

You promised yourself it meant nothing. Just an experiment of unbridled spite. If he wanted to throw money at you, hell, that’s his problem. If he wanted to fuck you, well, you’d give him the best fuck of his life— let him see that despite wealth, at the end of the day, he was flesh and blood trembling for the right stroke.

And sure, he trembled, but it was your mistake to pare it down so simply.

Ransom juggled fuck buddies much longer than you’d been fucking at all. He knew it was best with the right amount of emotion involved. Just enough to yearn. If he laid roses at your feet, kissed your knees featherlight and worked his way up to your jaw, cradled the back of your head, nosed the pulse of your wrist, your collarbones, asked for your eyes on him, and panted the lightest breath of your name at the edge of it all—now who’s fucking who over, sweetheart?

You were out of your depth. He was powerful, older, and more experienced. He touched you in ways that emulated affection—that brought fire and danger. His hands were large and callused at the juncture of his fingers. His pretty mouth was pink, wet, kissed greedy. His sharp eyes took everything in.

But, as you predicted, his moods soon volleyed in every direction as consequence of never being told no, and once the novelty of crazy hot—often angry—sex grew stale, you crashed back down to earth burned out. You ghosted.

“You’re, what…” he called through the door the week after you texted that it was both too much and not enough to carry on with, “breaking up with me? Seriously. This is a fucking joke.”

And you could have practically seen it—how his bottom lip would jut out as his incisors crossed, how his brows would sink when he got angry. He was never belligerent, only calculating.

You told him to leave, and he did, after a single loud kick to the frame, because he’s never begged for anything, and he wasn’t going to start.

The guilt came afterwards, with the bouquet of roses on the doormat, petals scattered around because he’d slammed them down after being ignored again and again, and you swept them inside to throw into a vase next to the three other vases with flowers in various degrees of wilted.

“Breaking up” prickled complicatedly in the middle of your chest, because despite the many shows of affection, you knew you weren’t exactly breaking up. You had never really been with him anyway. People aren’t… with Ransom. They’re towed along by Ransom, dragged by their hair by Ransom. Played with by Ransom until he inevitably gets bored.

It devolved into needless melodrama. Weekly episodes of a teen show with grandiose gestures of toxic relationships perceived as romance. Ransom’s habit of whisking you away, fucking you senseless, turning around to fight with you about any-goddamn-thing he pleased. Dropping off flowers and champagne. Restarting the whole process.

It wasn’t healthy—isn’t healthy, probably, according to most therapists—since he’s here, present-day, in your room, beginning to undress.

You fiddle with the sleeves at your elbows, thumbing cool satin before advancing, arms subconsciously crossed.

He’s only in his underwear now. A pair of nondescript gray boxer briefs fitted on his muscular thighs, taut as he leans back on his palms. He slowly spreads his legs, inviting you between them. His lips purse when you stand passively, knee brushing his bulge, hands resting over his shoulders. He’s warm.

One palm caresses your lower back and the other on himself, gliding up and down. His lids are half open, voice low, “You miss this?”

“No,” which is a lie. You missed it when evenings were boring, half-heartedly nodding to some boy’s drivel about campus life, mind wandering to someone who didn’t look freshly 21, didn’t date like it. Didn’t talk themselves up just to get you into bed.

At least Ransom was honest; he always said exactly what he thought, told you exactly when you were pissing him off, how he was going to teach you a lesson—where he wanted you, how he wanted you, and— a chill races up your arms.

He’s downright smug when he notices.

“No? You prefer sloppy frat boys pawing at you like virgins over me? Every time, you think they might fuck right but, well, you’re always disappointed.” He reaches beneath the short hem of the robe, splays his hand out over your thigh and very slowly feels his way up.

Your eyes shutter as he pulls you forward, gripping tightly and massaging up toward your ass. The pit of your belly is tightening, the rest trying to push down being too eager for him all over you, his broad shoulders, his strong hands, how he bends his grasp on your shoulder, fixes you in a perfect curved arch just the way he likes.

Ransom noses the robe out of his path, sinking his teeth lightly down until he scrapes a line over your breastbone, laying his face gently down like a child—like a lover.

“You know,” he begins, taunting again, “You make a… face.” He says it as he trails down beneath the swell of one breast, letting your nipple graze his cheek, before he presses a kiss to your ribcage. Hot like a brand, searing into your belly. And then he bites.

You flinch, hand going to his hair to pull him away. He throws his head back into your grasp, eyes glittering and amused. He quickly works your thighs apart, dipping two fingers between and sinking into your heat.

“There it is,” he chuckles when your eyes flutter, “Yeah... Really gets me off.”

You’re in his lap before you know it, your hold on him fallen off and now scrambling for his wide shoulders to hold yourself steady. He’s got you leaned back on his thighs, hanging off the edge of the bed and perfectly helpless, the only thing planting you even close to secure are your folded knees, your arms around his neck. He’s shushing you, one large hand on the small of your back, the other still working inside your pussy.

He says, “Calm down unless you want to fall,” but it’s goddamn hard when your heart is pounding with equal parts fear and arousal. He’s sucking on your tits, balancing you just precariously enough to thrill, fingering you all the while—like it’s nothing to him, like you’re an object he can manipulate however he pleases.

His cock is erect, flexing against the fabric over his groin, a swell of hard, aching muscle. You want to put your hand around it, feel its girth in your palm, simply hold it because you do fucking miss it. The places he can reach, the ways he spreads you, rocking in and pulling out—how he sometimes settles inside, and then does nothing but watch you squirm.

It’s undeniably gorgeous—and he is too—when you fumble it out after he lays you down and hovers over you with interest. You’re wetting your lips automatically, staring in awe at his thick shaft sprouting from soft, dark, curls, the tip of it smooth and almost purple, swollen up with blood.

“Legs up,” and the way he says it, how he just goes right out and says it, makes you groan.

Boys don’t do that. Too busy in their heads about peacocking and re-enacting the kind of porno where performers wordlessly move into new positions in sync, nothing verbal exchanged but high-pitched shrieking and nasally fuck me’s.

Ransom’s extremely verbal in bed. He easily says, “Look at me. Show me how much you want it,” and flits his eyes between your bodies.  

You do, shivering, sliding two fingers along the sides of your folds, finding yourself aroused and damp, humiliated and incredibly turned on when he grins, simply content with watching. Your thighs are squeezing reflexively, abdomen crunching up trying to keep it together.

But he’s never been patient, and quickly tells you to hold your knees, rock back, make yourself small and exposed, and then he’s delving gently into your hole— thumbs taking turns, coaxing more.

Two fingers tuck in, then another two struggle next to them, and you can’t stop yourself from gasping and crying out at how he pulls apart the walls of your cunt.

The sound of it— sloppy, squelching, a light and hollow kind of noise like a tongue flicking inside an open mouth.

“Look at this pretty pussy.” He tugs a little more, and you wriggle into it, gripping your legs tighter, pulling your knees up, shins toward your burning face to hide.

He descends on your clit, tip of his tongue licking into your stretched hole, purposefully only running against the taut skin around his fingers. “You got a talent, baby,” he murmurs, buzzing. “I could fuck you the whole day, fuck you numb… but give you about half an hour and it’s good as new, tight and perfect.”

There had been marathon rounds of bouncing in his lap between being at each other’s throats, his thighs splitting yours, hands holding you up, nibbling at your ear. Then he’d turn you around, take you to the floor until you collapsed on the bearskin rug, the sweat on your neck and chest rolling into dark furs. Railed you until you were so sensitive anything would make you come; your body unsure if it was considered your own anymore.

Fuck, fight, rinse, and repeat.

“Are you—going to talk all night?” You grunt up to the ceiling, trying to steel yourself from panting or moaning and only barely making it.

“Thought you liked it when I talked.”  His dark head is still between your legs, nose pressed into your skin, licking agonizingly slow with his entire tongue. It’s so warm, and gentle, and assertive. “What, you don’t like being told how good you taste?”

He keeps licking, pushing at the back of your knees when you try to switch positions, holding you in that bent up pose. He’s suckling at your clit when his fingers find their way back inside, easily hooking in three and pumping them smoothly.

“How—” he sucks hard, the shape of his full, plush lips fitted over you making a filthy wet smack, “mmm—I love the taste of your sweet pussy?”

When you come like it’s being ripped out of you, legs shaking around his head, lines of his spit dripping down your ass and onto the sheets, he lets you go with a hard slap on your sex, and you nearly wail.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “Yeah, you missed me, huh? You missed it like this, didn’t you? Tell me.”

“Unnng …” a high whine, “Ransom.”

“I know,” he mumbles, kissing up your belly, your neck, your ear.

He moves into position, entering effortlessly after all his prep work, and the shine of your juice still on his beard is fucking unholy hot. He’s grinning and panting, eyes fluttering briefly as he slides home.

“I know it’s big, baby. But you can take it, you’re gonna take it.” He’s a fraction unfocused, letting himself enjoy how you squeeze around him before he begins to punish.

Jesus, you missed this. Missed the agonizing drag of his shaft that feels like it goes on and on forever. Miss the way you get full of him, miss how it almost hurts.

His hipbones are hitting against yours, a steady fast rhythm because he’s experienced like that. Whereas some others might go faster when you’re close, Ransom stays at the pace that got you there in the first place. If anything, he pushes just a bit harder, makes you listen to the sound of his skin on yours, the choke of your breath he punches out.

You crunch yourself up smaller, toes touching the headboard now. Anything to get him further in.

“Fuck, you’re a slut,” he laughs. “Pretty little slut, god you don’t give it up like this for anyone else, do you?”

There’s not enough sense in you to argue even if you wanted to. The room is swimming, undulating, slipping further and further out of reach as the bed rocks and squeaks in protest. You’re sure you met a very handsome guy at the bar weeks ago but as soon as he started hinting that he was interested and stirred up conversation by asking your major, you left.

It just… wasn’t there. It wasn’t the same. No way in hell.

That boy wouldn’t have done this—wouldn’t be planting one foot on the bed, the other knee still down, enormous hands tight on your hips and crashing in.

You could cry, it feels so goddamn good.

Tears dribble their way out from the corner of your eyes. You turn your face enough to get a breath of fresh air, gulping it in frantically between the drive of Ransom’s cock and the half second he slides out.

You vaguely register his hand moving from your hip to your cheek, knuckles brushing upward.

“Oh,” he sighs, “pretty, pretty girl.” He slows his pace, nearly stilling. You squirm beneath him, inching away from how deep he is inside you, how intimate it feels as he kisses the hollow of your cheek and then toward your brow.

“So sweet for me,” he says, pulsing, making you whine with how he pushes against your sore walls. “Did I make a slut out of you? Huh? Make you stupid for my dick?”

“Make me come,” you say. “Make me—“

“Ask me real nice, baby. Ask daddy to make you come.”

You want to hit him. Kill him.

“No?” He whispers into the sensitive shell of your ear, “You don’t want it?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment clawing up your face, but Ransom’s hold is tighter, sharper, and he really is— so fucking right. You want it. And he’s made you a little stupid, so yeah--

“Please make me come, daddy. I wanna come.”

The Cheshire grin that unfurls on his face is more panther than cat. “You wanna come on daddy’s big cock?”

“Yes, daddy,” you admit. “I wanna so bad.”

“Oh, that’s it, baby. You’re a good girl, aren’t you. You put on a little show just for me? Act like you don’t want it but soon as I get in you and you let me lay you out anywhere, make you say anything.”

You turn away but he’s got your fucking number— got you as a boneless, spineless mess beneath him as he begins to fuck you again, and harder, his calculating, beautiful, cruel face hanging above you like a fever dream.

“You gonna come? Gonna cry?”

He’s melting away, he’s everywhere, and the lights behind your eyelids are starting to glare and threaten to explode.

“Gonna come for daddy, huh. That’s it, baby. That’s my girl, let me feel your pussy— ah— there it is— you can’t help it, can you? Mmm, swallow daddy’s cock with your pussy.”

Your orgasm is a wreck of curses and teeth on Ransom’s shoulder when he drops down close enough to make contact. You shake and whimper, struggling to calm yourself through the aftershocks.

When you’re done, still floaty but more aware, the mess of your humming insides less tight around him, he pulls out and shuffles up until his swollen tip is at your chin.  

You obey wordlessly, and afterwards, when the flex of his shaft is tell-tale, and he empties into your mouth, you hold it there, show him the mess.

“Baby,” he says, slowly making his way back down, admiring the come submerging your tongue.

Ransom licks his lips, licks the inside of his cheek, and leans back over again, his eyes liquid darkness and pleased as punch. And he drops a line of spit on top, drools it down over your teeth, into your mouth, and says, “Good girl.”

-

“You need a new laptop.” He’s tugging his belt until the clasp hooks into place.

“I don’t.”

“It looks old.”

“So do you.”

He bristles, offended. And you try, with as much dignity as you can muster after the last two hours of being fucked blind, to not look so smug about it.

“See you next week,” he hums.

You don’t say anything in response, only listening for the same heavy footsteps slam back downstairs—perhaps a fraction lighter—and the clunk of the door swinging shut. A long breath and you stretch slowly, letting your body regain its normal shape before he bent you into a goddamn pretzel. A few minutes pass, and then a few more, and you hear the roar of his car speed out of the parking lot.

Safe now, out of his reach, you amble back up into your computer chair to face the awful white, blank document staring back like a judgmental audience. You slide in and crack your neck, feeling the throb between your thighs yield to a less uncomfortable ache.

The problem, you’ve learned after leaving Ransom’s world, was that you had been ill-equipped to play his game. His game, and by extension, Meg’s game. All the Thrombeys and Drysdales and everyone in-between.

They belonged to a class you couldn’t really understand unless you were making a fucking killing—and graduation was just around the bend, so maybe you would, one day—but you were in the red with 45 grand of student debt and staring down the barrel of a subsequent degree because it was getting hard to make it with just a single bachelor’s in anything.

There was too much to do and not enough time to be jerked around by Ransom—not nearly enough time to feel frustrated about your situation in any sense. No, scraping by taught you to survive. You couldn’t be whisked off to the Caymans for brunch, couldn’t be fucked raw in hotel infinity pools, get lost for days meandering the Pacific on luxury yachts for the fun of it.

Your world was a little more drab, a little less rose-tinted.

So it was back to normal now, back to the grind, back to not wasting any part of your week on shitty dates, shitty sex, and coming home more frustrated than you left it. Because there was Ransom, so eager to make some kind of statement about proving you wrong that he’d be the last to know when he’s being used.

And maybe 4 out of 5 therapists would say that your coping mechanism to a normal sex drive is unhealthy—mind-fucking and regular-fucking your ex/not-ex will do that—but you wouldn’t know. You can’t afford therapy just yet.

You rub your back, patting out the tightness of overworked muscles. It doesn’t feel any worse than the cramp you’d gotten after staying up three nights in a row cramming for finals.

As if your brain has reset, your fingers begin tapping on the keys, and you realize your writer’s block’s been lifted.

#ransom drysdale #ransom thrombey #knives out #ransom x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale smut #reader insert #fanfiction #ransom drysdale thrombey

[musings-of-a-lovesick-fool]

Shiptober Day 24

Prompt: Fog

Ship: Faith Seed x Deputy Dean Sinclaire

Warning(s): Heavy use of Bliss (dep is lost in the sauce)

Words: 1, 168

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…"

The green tinted fog is thick and heavy, it rolls along the ground in waves; Dean can't see anything past his outstretched hands as he wanders aimlessly through the cloud. Every breath leaves him feeling light headed, he doesn't remember where he was going or how he got here, he didn't even know where here was. He was following the sound of that angelic singing, soft and sweet and luring him closer. His unsteady feet stumble, he can hear the splashing of water under his boots but he doesn't stop.

He walks through the shallow water, the biting cold only going up to his mid calf. The singing is louder as he steps back unto the dry earth, wading through talls grass as he follows it mindlessly. He felt like he shouldn't be doing this, like there was somewhere he was supposed to be right now but he couldn't get his mind to focus long enough to remember what that was.

"...That saved a wretch like me…"

Hot breath fans over Dean's neck and his heavy limbs turn clumsily, his clouded vision falling upon the source of the sweet singing. Faith smiles at him with delight shining in her eyes, her hands carding through his short brain hair as she dances around to his front. Speckles of white follow her form, like she's sparkling under the sunlight. Wherever the sun was right now, Dean couldn't see the sky anymore. 

"...I once was lost, but now I'm found…" 

Faith slides her delicate hands down his arms, stopping to intertwine their fingers. She leans forward, the smell of wet earth and chemicals invading Dean's senses as she kisses the tip of his nose playfully. She giggles and pulls him forward, the world moves far too fast for his slow mind and for a moment it feels like they're flying. He should be scared, should be running from the herald as fast as his legs could carry him… But why? 

Why should he be scared of her when she held him so gently and smiled at him so lovingly? She spun under his arm, pulled him forward again, cupped his face in her hands. Her thumbs caress his bruised cheekbones and he feels his eyes flutter closed. He felt so at peace, so safe. So free.

"...Was blind but now I see…"

Faith presses two feather-like kisses to his eyelids before nuzzling their noses together, her singing trailing off into quiet humming. Dean starts humming too, his deep tone complimenting her high pitch and when he opens his eyes again she looks thrilled to have him join her. She grabs his hands once more, twirls them both in circles and leads him down a path he couldn't even see. 

"You're so close now, Deputy, can you feel it?" Faith whispers, excitement dripping from her words as she guides him forward. He really can't feel much of anything, this apathy doesn't feel empty though—it feels suffocating. Every inch of him is full but with something he can't describe, every atom in his body is buzzing with it. He can't bring himself to say anything but he nods, not out of affirmation but to appease the woman waiting for an answer. 

She beams at him, letting go of one of his hands so she can turn and run, pulling him along through the dreamlike world he co uuldn't properly focus on.

"It won't be long now, everything is falling into place just like the Father said it would," She hums, slowing down and holding her other arm up as she begins to smip gleefully. Dean follows behind her, mesmerised by her movements and the small blue butterflies that flutter around her and land on her dress. 

Dean has no idea what she's talking about. He couldn't try to figure it out even if he wanted to. 

Radio static cuts through the serenity, panicked voices coming through muffled to Dean's ears. Faith stops and turns to look at the offending item with a small frown, Dean fumbles with it but when he gets it off of his belt Faith takes it from his hand. She kisses his palm as he lazily reaches for it, running her hand over his wrist and lowering his arm as she turns back around.

"The deputy is busy right now, you'll have to wait until later to talk to him," She sings into the radio, if Dean was in a better state of mind he would have heard the taunting tone she used. He would have heard the smugness in her giggle as she tosses the radio to the ground, walking around to his side and pushing him forward with a firm hand on his back. They walk past the radio as those angry muffled voices continue on, he tries to focus on them as she leads him away and only catches one word.

His name. 

Someone was calling out his name. He looks down at the side of Faith's face, her carefree smile calming him. Did she know his name? Did it matter?

"...'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear…"

Faith begins singing again, slipping her hand into his and swinging them between them. It felt like they were just two friends on a stroll, walking through the fog that started to get thinner as they continued on. Dean could see the blurry figures of other people, could hear anothersoothingg voice coming from the one standing. Dean tightens his grip on Faith's hand and she cooes at him gently, lifting her other hand pat his hair comfortingly.

"Don't be afraid deputy, he's been waiting for you… And grace my fears relieved…" Faith traces her hand down the side of his face, tracing lips as she sang quiety. Dean feels whatever inkling of fear dissapate at her words, he doesn't know what made him scared, he doesn't remember he was scared after a few moments of Faith singing to him. He bows his head down, entranced by her eyes on him and she almost meets him in the middle, her eyes flickering to her lips with a hint of something in her eyes before she presses her fingertips to his lips to stop him.

"...How precious did that grace appear…"

Faith grins up at him, a glow to her cheeks as she slips away. Dean watches as she turns and dances towards the group of people, his eyes struggle to focus as he follows after her. He didn't want her to go, he didn't want fo be alone. He needed her, someone, anyone.

"...The hour I first believed…"

That other soothing voice joins in Faith's song as she places her hand on his shoulder, his taller frame turning and a familair face coming into view. Dean feels his body freeze but he doesn't know why, something is screaming dewo within him but he can't hear it. He doesn't want to—he's where he's meant to be. 

He was always meant to be here.

#far cry 5 oc #Faith Seed x oc #Deputy Dean Tag #Oneshot Tag #Ship: In The Bliss #Shiptober2022

[jingyismom]

Time for more sex-cursed Lan Wangji!

a messy, self-indulgent spree imported from twt and lightly edited

explicit, wangxian, 9k, canon divergence fix-it

mild dubcon because of the nature of sex curses (but like, they do their best to communicate around it), and cw for brief thoughts of self harm, no other warnings

This curse's origin is mysterious, perhaps politically guided. Someone is trying to throttle Gusu Lan's alliance prospects by removing Lan Wangji's stellar marriageability after Sunshot. It works, after a fashion.

Wei Wuxian is in the Burial Mounds, farming and hardening his heart as the resentment worsens his health, subsisting on memories of Lan Wangji's single visit.

Lan Wangji is at home in Gusu, pining away while they rebuild the Cloud Recesses.

One day, he begins to burn up with unexplained fever.

The healers examine him quickly and thoroughly and determine first that he's been cursed. This is not entirely shocking, but it of course angers the entire sect. Next they test for the curse's nature. It turns out to be a very classic, very coarse type of love curse.

The afflicted will burn up, losing all their sense and senses, and eventually die, if their body's “needs” are not satisfied by the one it craves most.

The healers are disgusted. Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren are outraged. But Lan Wangji becomes very calm at the news.

Before, he felt anxiety. The urgent desperation of a dying man waiting to be told how to live.

Now he is just waiting to die.

For you see, the choice between throwing himself at another human being—no matter who they may be—and meeting death with dignity, is an easy one.

Everyone else privy to this information disagrees. The argument that follows is short, but heated:

"Well, Wangji?" Lan Qiren begins once the initial furor has died down. "How do you wish to...go about this?"

Lan Wangji, over-warm and aching, looks up at him from the examination bed. Gusu Lan funeral rites are ancient and immutable. He does not understand the question.

Lan Qiren purses his lips and glances around. "We must find the person first," he prompts.

Ah. The person responsible. Yes, Lan Wangji does have business with them before he dies. He stands, only swaying slightly. "I am well enough to exact justice. Let us cast the rebound."

Lan Xichen steps forward then, and gently pushes him back to sitting. "It has been cast. However, justice can wait. Your health must come first."

Lan Wangji looks between his uncle, his brother, and the one doctor allowed to be present. Surely they would not be joking at a time like this.

"I do not understand," he says.

The three exchange a look. "Breaking the curse must be our priority," says Lan Xichen.

Lan Wangji is not sure he heard correctly. But it would be cruel to give him unfounded hope. "I was unaware there was another way."

"...There is not," says Lan Xichen, his gentleness unfailing.

Lan Wangji experiences a moment of deep confusion before the horror sets in.

"You cannot mean this," he says through his shock. "Surely you cannot mean to cast aside so many disciplines at the whim of a base villain."

"The disciplines are a guide," Lan Qiren says, hands behind his back, looking into the distance, "to ensure a life well-lived. They are not meant to inspire martyrdom."

Lan Wangji's mouth falls open. He stares at his uncle, mute with betrayal. He has never heard of any such leeway before, not in regards to disciplines of such a serious nature.

"You can understand, can't you?" Lan Xichen says. "That no rule is more important than your life.”

Lan Wangji disagrees vehemently. "I would not buy my life with such behavior."

Lan Qiren huffs in irritation. "We may perform a marriage in haste, if you wish."

Lan Wangji balks at him. That his uncle should speak so flippantly of...such a thing. It is unimaginable. And besides, forcing a marriage on Wei—on anyone in this way is surely only adding insult to heinous injury.

"I refuse," he says.

Lan Xichen exchanges a look with the doctor, and sits beside him. "Perhaps the other person should be allowed part of that choice."

Ridiculous. "There is no such person." Preventing this course of action is worth one lie, Lan Wangji reasons.

"With respect, Hanguang-jun, if that were true, the curse would not have been able to take hold," says the doctor.

The use of his title feels uncomfortably ironic from a woman who helped deliver him at birth. He glares at her. She smiles tiredly in return.

"Wangji," Lan Xichen says. His tone is beginning to grate on Lan Wangji's raw nerves. "You will at least try, won't you?"

Lan Wangji stares at him in disbelief, in anger, in righteous indignation.

"Never," he says.

A hand slaps his shoulder. "Apologies," says the doctor, and the world goes dark.

-----

Lan Wangji wakes to dark wood beams dappled by lacy sunlight, and a faint smell of char in the air. His head is heavy, his limbs full of lead. He swallows around the dry thickness in his throat.

"Water," comes a familiar voice.

With effort, Lan Wangji sits up. His stomach is roiling, his mind fogged from the coma and the curse both. The doctor, crouching beside him in the carriage, offers him a bowl of water.

He takes it, and asks, "What have you done?"

She sighs.

"My duty," she says, "with the help of your brother."

She draws back the curtain at the carriage entrance, revealing a sea of black, twisted trees and gray tumbled walls.

Lan Wangji's blood freezes in his veins. He just barely stops himself from asking how they knew.

"Why," he asks instead, a much safer question.

She considers him. "Your brother said if he was wrong, he would beg forgiveness afterward. But it couldn't hurt to have an expert in resentment and curses look at you anyway."

A stab of sick embarrassment makes Lan Wangji’s stomach clench.

Has he been so obvious? Is he such a lovesick fool that anyone with eyes can see his shame?

The doctor pats his shoulder gruffly and he flinches, expecting more needles.

"Ah he's your brother, he's bound to know things you don't want him to," she says. "Come on. Out you get."

He allows her to tug him out of the carriage and onto solid ground. The air is stifling with resentment, but he is glad to be free of his bonds. Now he can look for his chance to get away.

There are six Lan disciples flanking them. He eyes them warily, wondering what they know. When the doctor pulls him out of earshot, and pitches her voice low, he is satisfied that they have not been fully informed.

"Your family and I agreed to give you a chance first," she says. "You have 24 hours to take care of this yourself. After that, I will personally tell Wei-gongzi of your brother's message. I have been assured he will not jeopardize your well-being if fully-informed."

Lan Wangji gapes at her. He does not know what he expected to happen, but it was not this...this...mercenary attempt at...forcing...

The curse has weakened him such that he cannot fly his sword. He can hardly walk in a straight line, let alone run. He has very little recourse now that everyone in his life has gone absolutely mad. His heart is racing with the adrenaline of upheaval, of fear, of impending death.

He wrenches his arm from her grasp and stalks off of the road, into the brush. She calls after him, but he does not mean to escape. He cannot manage that alone. Instead, he sits. He takes a deep breath. He sinks into meditation.

"Hanguang-jun," she calls. She approaches, hands on her hips. She sighs. "Well, if it's like that, then there's nothing stopping me from telling him right now."

She turns, and Lan Wangji feels a lurch of helplessness, when a new voice rings clear through the fog.

"Tell what to whom?"

Lan Wangji's eyes snap open. Wei Wuxian is standing on the other side of the carriage, the child A-Yuan in his arms, eyeing the Lan delegation with suspicion. Wen Ning is with him, and the Lan disciples shift nervously just looking at him, but Wei Wuxian sets A-Yuan in his arms, and he leaps away up the mountain.

"Might I assume this little party has come for me?" Wei Wuxian goes on, twirling his flute. His eyes are shrewd and cold, similar to the way they had looked when he had first returned during the war.

At the sight of him, at the sound of his voice, the curse...reacts.

A horrid, uncomfortable shiver of need runs through Lan Wangji's body alongside his own simple relief and joy at seeing Wei Wuxian again, looking relatively well. He fights it, keeping still among the weeds, hoping against hope to go unnoticed.

"Yiling Laozu," the doctor greets him with a deep bow. "We have indeed come to humbly beg your aid."

"I see," he says. "And what will you give me in return?"

The doctor hesitates, clearly discomfited by the context Wei Wuxian is currently unaware of. "We may...discuss that. Once we have informed you of the details."

Wei Wuxian hums, considering. Cold. Detached. "And if I am disinclined to—"

He breaks off. The doctor has moved so that she and Lan Wangji are both in Wei Wuxian's line of sight. Lan Wangji closes his eyes rather than see the moment of recognition, rather than feel the weight of Wei Wuxian's eyes on him, like this.

"Lan Zhan?"

Lan Wangji clamps his jaw shut. It is a struggle not simply to crawl to him.

The renewed ice in Wei Wuxian's voice when next he speaks makes Lan Wangji aware of the warmth with which he had said his name. His curls his shaking hands into fists on his knees.

"What have you done to him?"

The doctor sighs. "We have done nothing. He has been cursed, which is why we brought him here. If you—"

"Daifu," Lan Wangji interrupts, his voice thin.

She stops speaking.

Lan Wangji opens his eyes, but does not look at Wei Wuxian, not yet. If he is careful, and uses his remaining strength correctly, he can perhaps...perhaps guide the situation. Toward escape. With Wei Wuxian's help.

He may have to lie to him. He hopes he will be forgiven, all things considered.

Lan Wangji stands slowly, carefully, considering each movement so as not to reveal the state he is in.

"I will speak with him," he says to the doctor.

She eyes him. "24 hours," she says.

He does not acknowledge this. He thinks they both know it will not come to that, though his idea differs greatly from hers. He judges, from the time they have allotted and his own weakness, that he has perhaps a day and a half, total, to wait them out. Doable, if he is careful and intelligent about it.

He can manage.

He walks over to Wei Wuxian, careful to keep two arm's lengths between them. This close is already too close: a fine, constant tremor has made a home in all of his tightly-locked muscles. He feels the moment his fever begins to rise further. The sides of his throat hurt, the interiors of his ears. He wonders if his hearing will go first, or his eyes.

"Allow me to explain," he says to him.

"Of course," Wei Wuxian answers.

He sounds strange. Cold, still. Lan Wangji wants to look at him, and almost slips, but manages to stop himself. He follows him up the hill, past the wards, through the resentment that clings to them both, now. He keeps his careful distance, following behind.

"What happened?" Wei Wuxian asks, as they walk.

"A curse," Lan Wangji says carefully. "Origin unknown. The rebound has been cast. I did not wish to burden you with this, but they are...they will not listen to reason. Wei Ying, if you would but help me, I would deal with this on my own."

"Oh?"

"I...wish to seek justice. They will not allow it. But you understand. If there is another path off the mountain, if you would show me the way past them, I could—"

Wei Wuxian stops dead, and Lan Wangji, with his eyes in the ground, runs into him. 

For a blazing, agonizing moment, he is touching Wei Wuxian, clinging to him, every element in his body sighing and crying out at once in satisfaction, in the torturous need for more.

He tears himself away, stumbling back, almost falling. Wei Wuxian reaches out as if to catch him, but falters.

"Lan Zhan, you can hardly stand," he says, alarmed, "and you want to go and fight someone?"

Lan Wangji draws himself up taller again, trying hard to stop his shaking. He cannot look at him. He cannot look. He is already dying, now, just from not looking. "It is my right."

"...It is..." Wei Wuxian says at length, watching him closely. "And it still will be once you're well again. Your doctors really couldn't tell what type of curse it is?"

Lan Wangji says nothing, trying to think past the way every inch of his skin feels as if it is burning clean off. The pain of it screams through him, worse than anything he has ever felt. Wei Wuxian is still speaking, but it is hard to make sense of it. When Wei Wuxian begins walking again, slowly, it is all he can do to both follow and stay away from him. This, here, now, is worse than death. If it lasts, he certainly will not be sane when the end finally comes. He lets go of any thoughts of a dignified death.

Fortunately, by the time they reach the cool dark of the cave Wei Wuxian calls home, the pain has subsided to a distant roar. Unfortunately, he hoped never to reach this point. He tries his only play again, unable to think of any new tactic.

"Please show me the way off the mountain," he says without preamble.

Wei Wuxian is quiet for a beat. "You really don't want my help that much?"

Lan Wangji is so confused by this question, and then struck by the irony of it, that he almost begins to laugh. A shivery, jittery feeling fills his chest, and he leans against the nearest solid surface. He wishes he were wearing a loose outer layer over his blue travel robes, the better to hide his shaking. He does not know how to respond.

"You haven't so much as looked at me once since you got here," Wei Wuxian goes on, digging through strange pots and objects on a table, "so I get it. But you'll have to forgive me if I disregard your objection to the kind of work I do, when it comes to your life."

"My life, my life," Lan Wangji mocks, accidentally out loud. Why is everyone suddenly so obsessed with his life? He was ready to give it freely in the war, but chance let him keep it. What difference does giving it now in the name of keeping himself clean of shame make? Why will nobody allow him this choice?

"What shame?" Wei Wuxian asks.

Lan Wangji buckles at the realization that he has said all of this out loud. He goes to the floor, to his knees.

"Nothing," he says. "The shame of not having warded off such a simple attack."

"Lan Zhan...you want to die because you didn't defend against a curse you didn't know was coming?"

Lan Wangji lapses into silence. He has said too much already. He does not know how to get out of this. He can only...he can only stay quiet. Refuse to speak or move.

"Lan Zhan...I feel like I'm missing something here. I only want to help.”

Lan Wangji grits his teeth and stares hard at the floor in front of him. He has rarely ever felt so trapped, so utterly helpless. The extended, full-body pain is dulling his mind by the moment. The hems of Wei Wuxian's robes come into view, and it takes everything in him not to fall forward into him, to plead, to beg. His breath is hitching at random intervals now, his heart tripping as it prepares to fail entirely.

There is a soft gust of air, and an odd prickling sensation across his face.

"Now let's see—oh," Wei Wuxian says. "I...oh."

Lan Wangji wilts at his stilted, awkward tone. He knows now, surely. Can see him truly.

"So that's why you want to leave, and why they won't let you. They want me to find another way to break it, to stop you from...ah."

Lan Wangji sorts through the words, trying to comprehend them.

"Sorry," Wei Wuxian goes on. "I...it's unbreakable, otherwise. A very old, airtight spell. You...will Gusu Lan start a war with me if I do just let you go...ah, handle this the old-fashioned way?"

Comprehension dawns. And with it, a way out.

Lan Wangji rushes to agree. "They—" He cuts off. Will they? If they think Wei Wuxian has willingly let him die, rather than...

He takes a breath. Another. Forces his mind past the endless litany of pleas for relief.

"Show me the way " he says, his words breathless and short, "and then tell Lan-daifu what you have done. And why. But give me time to. Get away. And you will be safe."

Wei Wuxian pauses. "How...ah. How far—how much time?"

Lan Wangji tries hard to come up with an answer for that. His progress will be slow. But he need only find a place to hide.

"Half a day," he hazards.

Wei Wuxian seems to vacillate. "Are you sure you can make it on your own?"

Lan Wangji wants to rage. To weep. To curse himself to the heavens for being so depraved toward so endlessly kind a man. His heart hurts, even as his body strains toward him.

This lie may be the worst he will ever tell.

"I will be fine,” he says.

"Alright." Wei Wuxian sounds unconvinced. "I trust you."

Lan Wangji nearly convulses, holding back a sob. How will he ever be forgiven?

He cannot think of it. Only this, only what comes next. Only keeping Wei Wuxian safe from this mess.

"Lan Zhan?"

"Mn," he manages.

"Would you look at me, now? I haven't...used any demonic cultivation on you. It's safe, I promise I won't. I just. Can't we say goodbye properly?"

Lan Wangji has not moved from the floor. He does not move. He should try. A parting gift. Just one look.

But if he is going to leave. If he is going to succeed. He cannot.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says again, frustrated now.

Lan Wangji does not look. He is so close to freedom from the horrible pull, from the way his very veins are trying to tear themselves free to wrap around Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian steps forward, and Lan Wangji's breath leaves him all at once. Suddenly, there are fingers beneath his jaw, kind but firm, tilting his chin up. He has no choice but to look.

(Inspired by this art.)

Wei Wuxian is there. Tall and strong and perfect, tiredness mixed with something bittersweet on his lovely face. Lan Wangji's entire being melts toward him, a deep, sharp tug from inside his bones, a mindless, helpless, straining need that pushes a low, wanting sound from his throat.

Wei Wuxian snatches his hand away and backs up half a step, staring at him.

"Sorry," he says, blank. Confused. "I thought it was...I didn't realize...sorry."

Lan Wangji, now that he has looked, cannot look away. He has overbalanced without Wei Wuxian's support, fallen forward onto his hands, but he cannot stop looking at him. He will look at him, and keep looking; he prays Wei Wuxian is the last thing he sees before he dies.

The most shameful part of this is that none of it is the curse twisting his thoughts. None of this is. All the curse is doing is making the way he always feels impossible to ignore.

"Wei Ying," his voice implores. He does not mean it to.

Wei Wuxian takes another step back and looks down at the bowl of powder in his hand, confused. "I was certain it was that curse," he says to himself. "If I was wrong, then maybe I could break it..."

Lan Wangji tries to scrape his composure back together. He tries. He tries. His fingers scrape on the rough stone floor. He does not reach out for him. That is something.

Wei Wuxian looks at him again, then hastily away. Lan Wangji does not ever want to know what it is he sees.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, as Lan Wangji shakes, and shakes. "Where...where were you trying to go? I thought you...I thought you were, ah, thinking of a certain someone."

Lan Wangji's arms are weak. They are going to give out. He cannot answer him.

"I'm confused, and I...may have made a mistake," Wei Wuxian goes on, still backing away slowly, "but I just want to help. Can you tell me what was happening before, and what's happening now?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head, and the motion shatters his fragile balance. He falls, and curls tightly around himself in the dirt.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian says, suddenly close.

Lan Wangji sees his hand reach out, then pause, and he can't stop himself from taking hold of it, just to be touching him. His body screams for it, and he gasps raggedly at the contact.

Wei Wuxian wrenches his arm free. Lan Wangji wishes he were dead.

"Fuck," Wei Wuxian mutters to himself. "I...I'm sorry. I made this so much worse, I..."

"No," Lan Wangji rasps. He cannot hear Wei Wuxian berate himself thus. His dignity has now died, and he himself will soon follow. This is all that matters. "Not your fault."

Wei Wuxian huffs, crouching beside him. "It is...at least partially my fault, at this point, I'm pretty sure. You wouldn't be...reacting. Like this. If it weren't. Is...can I...do a few more tests? To check what I got wrong, and maybe—"

"You were not wrong."

He does not mean to say it.

His need to reassure has overridden his sense, and his mind is too slow now to piece together what it will mean before it leaves his mouth. The regret once it does is instantaneous. He tries to curl himself yet smaller in the dirt.

Wei Wuxian is silent. Lan Wangji cannot stop making small, pitiful, pained sounds in the back of his throat. Everything hurts. Everything.

"I don't understand," Wei Wuxian says quietly.

Lan Wangji lies shivering on the floor, arms locked around himself to prevent any more untoward behavior. He cannot take it back. He cannot try to explain. There is nothing he could say, regardless.

"Lan Zhan...but you..."

He can hear Wei Wuxian thinking, but it only registers in the far back of his mind. The rest of his consciousness is taken up by pain, and by ruthless restraint.

"You wanted to leave to get away from me," Wei Wuxian says, finally.

Lan Wangji does not answer. He wishes he had his sword. He would use it now to end this.

Wei Wuxian begins to back away again, and Lan Wangji’s body moves without his permission. He grips the skirt of Wei Wuxian’s robes in his fist and drags himself closer, pressing his cheek to Wei Wuxian's knee.

Shameful. Wanton. The small part of himself that is still aware berates the action. But he cannot let go. He cannot move away. The only part of him that is not howling with pain is the side of his face pressed to coarse fabric.

"Lan Zhan, you…," Wei Wuxian is trying to gently pry Lan Wangji's fingers from his hem. "You wanted to leave, remember? You don't want...you don't."

"Want," Lan Wangji croaks, pressing closer. "Wanted to spare you."

"Ah, Lan Zhan...I...I'm still not sure it's that specific curse, it could...there could be other..."

"It is," Lan Wangji says, half-crawling up Wei Wuxian's leg. He wants to stop himself. It is impossible.

"Lan Zhan...you...you shouldn't—"

"Stop me," Lan Wangji pleads, nuzzling against Wei Wuxian's thigh, "Wei Ying, I can't...please. Stop me."

There is a long near-silence filled with harsh breaths, in which Lan Wangji is almost certain he imagines the light touch of fingers brushing his mussed hair back from his forehead. Then Wei Wuxian speaks.

"No," he says. "You'll die, if I do. Lan Zhan. I won't let that happen."

He touches Lan Wangji's face. Lan Wangji whimpers into him.

He knows this will break the fragile repairs they have made to their friendship. He will likely never see him again, at least not on good terms. The thought makes him feel ill. He should protest. Refuse. Flee. He can do exactly none of these things. He reaches for Wei Wuxian's wrist, to hold his hand to his face, but Wei Wuxian flinches away.

"You can't...Lan Zhan. I'm going to help you," he says, "but you have to...you can't...you can't touch me."

Lan Wangji feels another tight clench of shame. He nods against his leg. He understands: he knows any small part of this is too much to ask, let alone bearing his unwelcome, curse-fevered grasping.

"Okay," says Wei Wuxian. He slides his fingers beneath Lan Wangji’s chin again, tipping his face up.

He looks so uncertain. So beautiful in the dim light. Lan Wangji wants to weep with it.

"Lan Zhan, I know it doesn't count for much like this, but you have to tell me. You have to tell me what you need."

Lan Wangji turns his head, pressing his face between Wei Wuxian's thigh and stomach, trying to reach into him, to feel more of him, to stop hurting just enough to think. It does not work.

"You," he breathes, into the scent of earth, and stringent soap, and Wei Wuxian.

A harsh, uneven breath ghosts across his hair, and Wei Wuxian's hands grip his shoulders. He thinks he is about to be pushed away again, but instead Wei Wuxian pulls him up, pulls him close, folds him into his embrace.

Lan Wangji sobs into his shoulder, trying at once to get closer and to hold himself apart, instinct demanding, even now, that he try to conceal his obvious, disgraceful hardness. His muscles quake under the strain of doing both and neither, and Wei Wuxian smooths one hand down his back, pressing him close, pressing them flush. Lan Wangji chokes back a shocked sound.

"Shh," Wei Wuxian soothes. "It's alright."

It is not alright. It is the end of the thing Lan Wangji holds most dear.

But he does not have it in him to argue. He is shifting against him, his overheated body begging for touch, indeed for ravishment. He is mindless with it. The pain is not subsiding but slipping sideways into something more, something different, something necessary.

He is on his knees on hard stone, breathlessly held in the arms of his beloved. He has dreamt this: sweetly, hazily, with and without hope. But never like this. Never sick with remorse, with need, dying and demanding and defiling. His deepest desire twisted into a nightmare.

He whimpers again, his lips finding the soft coolness of Wei Wuxian's throat. Wei Wuxian jerks away again, and Lan Wangji fists his hands tighter at his sides, trying, trying not to overstep again.

"I—sorry," he gasps out. He will never be able to apologize enough. But he will try.

"Don't apologize," says Wei Wuxian. "I—"

He cuts himself off. Lan Wangji does not have enough sense to wonder why. In the same moment, one of his thighs gives under the strain, and he falls against him heavily. They tip over, to the floor, and he reaches out on instinct to brace them both. When he is again conscious of himself, Wei Wuxian is lying on top of him, breathing hard, both of Lan Wangji's wrists pinned to the floor in one hand. Lan Wangji arches against him inadvertently, and turns his face into his own bicep.

"Sorry, I...so sorry," he pants, his hips flexing, searching for friction. "I have...no control...”

"I know," Wei Wuxian says, "I know, I shouldn't have..." he swallows hard. "I'm going to keep you like this. Can I?"

Lan Wangji nods frantically, his eyes shut tight. He does not care. Anything that he can do to make this any less invasive for Wei Wuxian, he will do.

Wei Wuxian pulls away then, his hold still firm on Lan Wangji's wrists. Lan Wangji squeezes his eyes shut and tries to stop moving, to stop searching for touch, to stop making such a disgusting spectacle of himself, but to no avail. What feels like centuries later, he hears the telltale sounds of talisman activation. He is too far gone in his pain to look up, to see what they are. He simply lies there, pinned and writhing, his breath catching in his throat. The sounds it makes are small, pitiful, desperate.

Just like him.

Eventually, Wei Wuxian leans back over him, a considering look in his eye. His hand hovers at Lan Wangjis belt.

"I—should I..."

"Yes," pleads Lan Wangji.

He needs Wei Wuxian's skin on his skin. He does not know how discerning the curse is about what happens now, but it feels as if he will die without it. Wei Wuxian takes what looks like a fortifying breath and unties the belt. Lan Wangji, unable to help, instead hinders the process with his ceaseless movement. But Wei Wuxian manages it with deft hands, and immediately unties each layer of robes in quick succession until Lan Wangji’s chest and stomach are bare.

The cool air of the cave does not soothe his burning. It burns like ice instead. Lan Wangji shivers, an ugly whine escaping him.

"What," Wei Wuxian asks, pausing, "what is it?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head. He will bear it. He will not make demands.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, "you need to talk to me, I...I don't want to make this even worse, or, or draw it out longer."

Something small and dark crumples in Lan Wangji's chest. He does not want that either. He will need to speak. To ask.

"Hurts," he says, rough and thick.

"Where?"

"...Not...not touching me."

Wei Wuxian makes a distressed noise and lays both his palms flat over Lan Wangji's ribs. Lan Wangji groans, pressing up into them.

"Please," he whispers, helpless. "Please."

"Oh, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian murmurs, something sad like regret. He leans closer and slides one hand down. Lan Wangji shudders under him. "I'm just going to..."

Lan Wangji nods again, holding his breath to stop the whines from escaping the back of his throat.

Wei Wuxian unties Lan Wangji's trousers and slips his hand inside. Clever fingers wrap hesitantly around him, and he bucks up into them with an obscene moan. It is minor relief from the most consuming pain he has ever felt, and it is simultaneously the most intense pleasure he has ever experienced. All of these sensations, coexisting in his fallible human body, feel likely to rip him apart.

"Wei Ying," he moans again, when Wei Wuxian moves his hand.

He gasps for air, his body twisting into it, his whole being searching for Wei Wuxian. He makes another piteous sound, the torment of it all overwhelming. Wei Wuxian leans down against him then, his own robes open, pressing them skin to skin.

Lan Wangji sobs. It is something. It is something. The pain abates somewhat, and he sighs, turning toward him, his mouth brushing Wei Wuxian's hair. He has the wherewithal now to fight the urge to kiss his head properly, his face, anything he can reach. He holds himself still beneath him instead. And Wei Wuxian touches him, and touches him. The incomprehensible pleasure builds, and builds, until Lan Wangji cannot breathe. But it does not break.

Something almost like soft lips brushes his throat.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says into his ear, "this, is this...will this be enough?"

The pleasure is just another kind of pain, now. Lan Wangji shakes his head as sweat rolls off of him, as he tries and fails to get enough air to speak.

Wei Wuxian clears his throat. "What, then?"

Lan Wangji's body knows what it needs. But he does not want to tell.

"Come on, Lan Zhan, after all this? Don't get shy on me now."

He misses the joking tone he is aiming for, but the pure, unmistakable Wei Wuxian-ness of the tease sends a surge of genuine desire through Lan Wangji. He wraps his legs around Wei Wuxian's hips and pulls him down. Wei Wuxian breathes in sharply.

"You just...you want...but only..."

"Please," says Lan Wangji, barely voiced. "In—" he cannot say it. "Please."

"Ah," Wei Wuxian whispers, into his skin. "If—are you sure?"

Lan Wangji whines. He wishes he were not so very sure. He wishes he were not asking Wei Wuxian to do something so intimate, so extreme. He wishes Wei Wuxian had let him die before it ever came to this.

"Alright Lan Zhan, just hold—hold on," he says, and is gone.

Lan Wangji clamps his mouth shut on a scream as the agony slams back into him, worse even than before.

Not soon enough, Wei Wuxian returns to divest him of his boots, socks and trousers. Lan Wangji fights him without meaning to, trying to keep his knees curled up to his chest, trying to minimize the hurt. Wei Wuxian is briskly patient, handling him with aching care he does not deserve.

And then he is upon him, chest and stomach, hips and thighs, smooth and hard and exquisite. Lan Wangji almost forgets the pain in the rush of gratitude, of solace. Their robes trail off them both, gathering dust as they move together in halting fits and starts.

"Don't let me hurt you, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian grits out, a strong hand lifting one of Lan Wangji's thighs by the back of the knee.

It is nonsense. He could not hurt Lan Wangji any more than this. And Lan Wangji could not stop him now if he did.

But the kindness. Even in this. Tears prick at Lan Wangji's eyes. He will miss him. He will miss all of Wei Wuxian with all of himself. He will never stop missing him. He will never move past this regret as long as he lives. How could he? Every breath he draws will be by the grace of Wei Wuxian.

Suddenly there is slick pressure against him, against his most private of places, and he gasps, loud and wretched. Wei Wuxian exhales, uneven and deep, and pushes in, in, in. Slowly. So slowly. Lan Wangji bites down hard on his lip to keep from begging for it. His arms are pinned, as are his hips, Wei Wuxian holding him steady, holding him still. Lan Wangji loses all sense. There is only the weight of Wei Wuxian, the full, stinging press of him, the searing pain, the devastating euphoria of being this close, and yet so very far in every way that counts.

Ages pass before Wei Wuxian is fully seated inside him. By then Lan Wangji's breaths are wet and shallow; scraping, desolate things. He does not know any longer what hurts and what feels good. It is all one and the same. He only knows he needs more, in some primal, wordless way.

He asks with the arch of his back, the squeeze of his thighs. He tries, somehow, to keep quiet, but fails more often than not.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says tightly, "try to relax, I'm going to move. Tell me if it...if it's right."

Lan Wangji manages a loose nod, though he barely understands.

And Wei Wuxian moves. He rolls his hips against him, shifting inside of him, and Lan Wangji groans. Each deep, short thrust pushes air from his lungs, and he lacks the strength to catch it again. It is beyond pleasure. It is ecstatic. To have Wei Wuxian around him, inside him, panting above him. A deep, villainous part of him wants it never to end. The rest of him howls for release.

He is dripping now, steadily, onto his own stomach. He can feel it pooling on his belly, unpleasantly cool. He whimpers between desperate, panting breaths, beyond words.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, breath shivering across Lan Wangji's collarbone, "I can't...can't keep this up, you feel too—" his breath catches, and he pauses. "I'm going to finish. You need to come."

Dimly, distantly, the idea that Wei Wuxian should derive pleasure from this, no matter how perfunctory, gives Lan Wangji a perverse sort of satisfaction. It snuffs out like a candle at the nebulous thought that perhaps in another world, they could have had this for real.

In this world, the fact remains that this has gone on far too long. But Lan Wangji can do nothing about it. He meets Wei Wuxian's thrusts, leans into the pleasure, tries to gain the momentum to go over the edge. He should be able to. It should be easy. He has been so hard for so long, has been given more now than in his absolute wildest and wettest of dreams, and yet he hovers, scant inches away.

Wei Wuxian loses patience, his head dropping to Lan Wangji's shoulder. He grunts softly and fists Lan Wangji's wet cock, quick and merciless. Lan Wangji cries out, shuddering violently with the extended, expansive stimulation, worked both inside and out, helplessly, utterly unmade by Wei Wuxian's touch.

And still he does not crest. He is sobbing steadily now, ugly and jagged, and Wei Wuxian kisses his shoulder, his throat, his cheek.

"Were we wrong?" He asks, breathless. "Lan Zhan please, tell—show me, I...I can't...you...I can't lose you. Lan Zhan?"

Exhausted, Lan Wangji turns his tearstained face toward him, blindly seeking. Perhaps they were all wrong. Perhaps he will die now, like this. And perhaps it is selfish of him, but having heard those words, he finds his regret to be less than it should be. Everything, everything hurts. But Wei Wuxian will miss him, too. Of course he will. They are zhiji. This, miraculously, will not erase that. It is more than he deserves. Wei Wuxian has always been more than he deserves.

Lan Wangji heaves, and writhes, and cries.

Wei Wuxian kisses him. Soft, gloriously cool lips on his.

An odd, fleeting, hollow feeling.

The dam breaks. The pain goes suddenly quiet. Roaring to fullness in its absence is the killing swell of such a long-delayed climax. It is possible that he calls Wei Wuxian's name. It is impossible to know.

The world, again, goes dark.

-----

Lan Wangji wakes to gray light and distant birdsong. A sharp edge is digging into his shoulder. He shifts, then goes still at the deep ache in his entire body.

He remembers.

"Hanguang-jun should drink this," says a brisk voice to his right.

Wen Qing sits there, watching him. His heart skips a beat and he looks down. But he is fully clothed once more.

Her smile is wry as she holds a cup out to him. Laboriously, he sits up to take it. It is bitter, but familiar. A restorative. He thanks her formally.

She shakes her head. "No need.” She turns to go.

"Wen-guniang," Lan Wangji says. She pauses. "How long has it been gone?"

She turns to stare at him. He knows she knows what he means.

"How? When?"

She looks away. "You'll have to ask him."

The pang of loss he felt upon waking with Wei Wuxian gone speaks for him. "Will he let me?"

 He lies on the slab of rock that serves as Wei Wuxian's bed for too long. It is difficult to tell the passage of time in the Burial Mounds, but it seems slightly brighter than it had...before. He reasons that it could well be the next morning. He wonders if Wei Wuxian slept beside him, then tosses the thought away as gross indulgence. He wonders instead, as he has many times since his last visit, if Wei Wuxian sleeps at all.

First, his excuse to tarry is meditation. He works at it, simultaneously restoring his drained core and healing himself, until the discomfort fades from his every movement to just a specific few.

Once that is done, he has no reason to be idle. But the voice in his head, Wei Wuxian's blisteringly cold one that had called him his proper name all those months ago, keeps him in place. He hears it saying all manner of things in response to seeing him now.

"What more could you possibly want of me?" Wei Wuxian sneers in his mind. And he would be right to do so.

But Lan Wangji does not intend to ask anything of him ever again.

And there is the other thing. The fact that his robes should be uncomfortable, filthy, but they have been cleaned, dried, and arranged back onto his body properly. Comfortably. Almost as if—

He dares not imagine. But at the very least it does not speak of utter contempt.

So he rises. He follows the path Wen Qing told him of. And he does something foolish. He hopes.

After no short while of walking, he comes to a slightly darker, more silent corner of deadened forest. He rounds a bend and sees Wei Wuxian crouched a little ways off, and then hears high, lilting notes as if through water. The energies are strange here, and Wei Wuxian is speaking to with them in their own language.

Lan Wangji approaches until he sees Wei Wuxian go still. He says nothing. Wei Wuxian drops his flute from his lips.

"Are you well?" He asks without rising or turning.

"I am."

Wei Wuxian nods. "Your people are waiting for you."

It is a dismissal. Lan Wangji recognizes this. But he will impose just a little bit longer.

"Your core," he says. Wei Wuxian stands abruptly, still facing away, gripping Chenqing. "Can it be replaced?"

Wei Wuxian whirls to face him, anger and fear warring with the questions on his face.

Lan Wangji has other questions, too. But they do not matter. He is intelligent enough to piece together the cold, empty space where Wei Wuxian's core should be, the tired guilt on Wen Qing's face, and...

"Your scar," he says, dropping his gaze to the scorched earth.

He should not know of it. But he does, now, and he also owes a greater debt than he can ever repay. Wei Wuxian does not respond. How dearly Lan Wangji wants to see his expression. But he will not infringe on any more of his privacy.

The wind howls. He waits.

"You won't tell anybody," Wei Wuxian says uncertainly.

Lan Wangji stiffens. "I will not."

"Nobody told you?"

"Nobody.”

Wei Wuxian pauses, momentarily satisfied.

"You're not going to ask how? Or when?"

Lan Wangji would like to. He would like to know everything of Wei Wuxian, even his sorrow, his pain. But he is not entitled to those things. There is only one point that matters.

"Can it be replaced? Can the procedure be reversed?"

Wei Wuxian sighs. Lan Wangji can tell he does not wish to speak of this.

"So single-minded, Lan Zhan," he scolds, then shakes his head. "The chance of success would be small; the chance of finding a donor, much smaller."

But this is all Lan Wangji hoped to hear. It is enough. He goes to his knees, arms circled in front of his chest.

"Allow me," he says.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian darts forward, trying to pull Lan Wangji up from the ground. Eventually he gives up and goes to his knees in front of him, pushing at his arms. "Lan Zhan, stop this," he says, panicked. "Don't be stupid, stop—Lan Zhan, you can't be serious."

"Please allow me," Lan Wangji repeats, eyes downcast.

"Stop this!" Wei Wuxian shouts. "It can't be done, and I wouldn't take it from you anyway!"

Lan Wangji flinches bodily. He had not considered...but yes. Everything in him is sullied. He bends at the waist, bowing further.

"Apologies for the offense," he says, then snaps his mouth shut. His voice is too obviously strained.

"Lan Zhan?" Wei Wuxian says, still alarmed.

Lan Wangji needs to leave. He has already overstayed. But he...he has not tried hard enough.

"This debt is too great to repay in one lifetime," he says. "Please inform this one of what he may do to begin."

Wei Wuxian sags, dragging one of Lan Wangji's wrists with him. "Lan Zhan, there is no debt between us."

Lan Wangji only just stops himself from glancing up. He does not understand.

"I owe you my life and more," he says. "You took great pains to save me, even as the situation proved me unworthy of it. I owe—"

"You owe me nothing," Wei Wuxian insists, shaking Lan Wangji's arm. "There were no great pains. Nobody is unworthy. Well...you aren't."

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to protest, but Wei Wuxian speaks over him.

"People have...desires, Lan Zhan. There's nothing unworthy about it."

"But you—"

"Stop," he says. He sounds so, so tired. "If you hadn't been...dying. If we—" He stops. "Just keep my secret," he says, and lets go of his wrist. "And live well."

Lan Wangji closes his eyes. The thought of going back to his home, his life, after this, had not yet occurred to him. It sinks him from his knees to the ground. How can he do this? How can he leave him this way?

"Wei Ying," he pleads. "I must...I must do something. I cannot...I..."

"Why, Lan Zhan?" Wei Wuxian asks, not unkindly. "You have responsibilities. People to protect, just like me. Live well, and count things even between us. Why not?"

Lan Wangji’s chest caves in. He does not make the sound clawing up his throat.

"You...truly, you must know why," he says. "After... you must know. I would not leave you in need. I could not."

"Ah, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says sadly. He shuffles forward. Lan Wangji startles at the feel of fingertips on his cheek. "You're too good. But all I need is," he huffs, "political asylum for me and 40 friends? It's not your burden."

Suddenly yet slowly, like the first burst of sunrise, an idea reveals itself on the horizon of Lan Wangji’s mind. It is unorthodox. And likely unwelcome. But it is all he has.

"My uncle made a suggestion," he says. "When my affliction became known. It is true that he did not know what it would mean, but I would hold him to it. If it is not...hateful, to you."

"I don't know what you mean," Wei Wuxian says warily.

Lan Wangji steels himself. "You are perceived as the head of a sect. A proper alliance could protect your people, and Gusu Lan is in need of hands for rebuilding. The person who cast this curse upon me has given the perfect excuse, and made themselves scapegoat. If you would...I would not ask anything of you, if you agreed. It would be a marriage in name only, as you wish it."

Wei Wuxian's silence turns to spluttering. "M—Lan Zh—marriage?? What—how—"

"If the idea is odious, I will not mention it again. But as I said. My uncle suggested it. And under the circumstances, he cannot refuse."

"Your—he—Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, look at me. Look at me, please."

Lan Wangji looks at him. His eyes are wide. Disbelieving. Concerned.

"Your uncle would qi deviate if you even hinted at such a thing," he says. "Gusu Lan is in a precarious enough position, you don't need...I have nothing to offer in return." He pats his lower stomach, empty of spiritual energy, emphatically. “Nothing. Don't be ridiculous."

"It is not ridiculous," Lan Wangji argues, certain now that he is right. "You can offer more protection for us, and we can offer legitimacy. The person who cast this curse can be seen to have forced our hands. Has—has forced our hands."

He stops himself. He should not push this. Wei Wuxian is looking at him as if he does not know him.

"You don't want to marry me, Lan Zhan."

This gives Lan Wangji pause. It is a confusing objection, to say the least. He stares, trying to comprehend. He clears his throat. Takes a breath.

"If you are under the impression..." he stops. Drops his eyes once more. "...that the...impetus of the curse. Is the whole of the way I—”

"Demonic cultivation," Wei Wuxian interrupts. "It would be unhealthy. For you. And your elders! They wouldn't let me, not if I were...attached to your sect. To you.”

A fair concern, and one Lan Wangji has been turning over in his own mind as well. "Is this your only objection?"

Wei Wuxian casts about. "Ah..."

Lan Wangji takes one last plunge. "The elders can be reasoned with, compromises can be made. I am not concerned for my health: being near you could never be harmful to me." He hears himself, then, and amends, "Though you need not. Be near me. That is not a condition."

"You would defend this?" Wei Wuxian asks, bemused.

"Defend what?"

"My cultivation path. You..."

Lan Wangji resists a sigh. "I understand the reason, now. And I believe...if you did not object. We could work toward making it safe, without stripping you of what your hard work has created."

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says. He reaches out, then stops.

Lan Wangji stares at his hand, hovering between them. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his eyes, in his tongue.

"Wei Ying."

"You would let me, though?"

His tone is gently mocking. His head is cocked to the side, the edge of a smile playing across his lips. It knocks the breath from Lan Wangji's chest.

"Let you?" He asks, dazed.

"Be near you."

Lan Wangji's heart stops. It is a moment before he can respond.

"I would. Always."

Wei Wuxian takes his hand, and sighs. "You don't owe me this," he says again.

"I do," Lan Wangji counters, off-kilter. "I owe you. And I want to. I would want to, even if—"

He loosens his tight grip on Wei Wuxian's hand. He is saying too much, taking too much, being too much. He settles himself. Finds the words that matter.

"It would be a thing happily given, with no strings attached, should you wish it."

Wei Wuxian laughs strangely. "Lan Zhan, you really..." He shakes his head. "I'd marry you in an instant, you know," says.

Lan Wangji's neck hurts from the speed with which he looks up at him. Hope, warm and liquid, blooms through his limbs.

"But I can't make this decision on my own," Wei Wuxian goes on. "It's not just my life. We have to talk it over with everyone."

"Yes," Lan Wangji says, surprised, and eager now that he sees the possibility of success. Of doing something of use.

"Alright," says Wei Wuxian, a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth. "I can't promise...but it...it could work."

"It will," Lan Wangji says, certain that the strength of his conviction alone will carry them through if need be.

He feels strange and dreamlike, confused but heartened by the turn in this conversation. That Wei Wuxian can stand the sight of him, let alone wish to ally with him personally, seems too wonderful to be true. Another Wei Wuxian hallmark.

"But Lan Zhan, no more talk of strings," Wei Wuxian says.

Lan Wangji sobers and nods. It is unseemly. Of course their understanding must be a tacit one, now.

But his hand is suddenly in both of Wei Wuxian's.

"You need to stop feeling guilty," Wei Wuxian says, looking down at it. "If I were your husband...if I were. We could try all that again, but without the impending doom. We could try it again any way we like, any time—all the time—and we'd—"

"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji interrupts, strangled. His heart is in his throat. He cannot comprehend what he is hearing. His ears, his face, are on fire.

Wei Wuxian smiles down at their hands, one part shy, one part mischief. "I think we could get really good at it, if we had the chance, don't you?"

Lan Wangji stares at him. "You..."

"Mn," says Wei Wuxian, meeting his eyes.

He shines so bright, even without any core to speak of. He takes Lan Wangji's breath away.

"I take it back," Wei Wuxian says, his voice suddenly urgent. "I like strings. Mine is that if this happens, I want to be your real husband. In name, in practice, in bed, and in your heart. Because you would be, in mine."

Lan Wangji's voice sticks in his throat. He feels...he feels unreal. He does not know what to do, to say. Perhaps they never broke the curse at all and he has simply gone mad. But Wei Wuxian's fingers stroking his palm, the root-knotted dirt beneath his shins, are real. He sways, unbalanced.

Wei Wuxian reaches out. Catches him. Folds him into his arms for a second time. Lan Wangji's breath shudders out of him.

He is on his knees, breathlessly held in the arms of his beloved. He has dreamt this many ways. But never has it been so real, so full of hope. He wraps his arms around Wei Wuxian in turn, buries his face in his shoulder.

Wei Wuxian huffs. "Jiang Cheng is going to be so angry."

Lan Wangji comes back down to earth. It is true he had not thought of this. He makes to pull away. "How should—"

Wei Wuxian clutches him tighter. "I don't care," he says, "I don't care, we can manage him." He pauses, then speaks more softly. "Maybe...I could see shijie's wedding after all. Or—no. It's too soon, I—"

"Yes," says Lan Wangji. "You will. We will go together."

Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath, and lets it out into Lan Wangji's hair.

"Together," he says.

It takes several serious, and at times uncomfortable, discussions, but in the end, Gusu Lan’s Second Jade is indeed thoroughly removed from the marriage pool of the great sects. The curse caster is found and punished. And everybody else lives happily ever after.

The end.

-----

(Thank you for coming on this wildly self-indulgent journey, I hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like to read some actually nicely-polished, fleshed-out fics by me—including another sex-cursed LWJ—check out my AO3.)

#my fic #mdzsnet #the untamed fanfic #theuntameddaily #bottom lan wangji #that tag just...has to go there bc i know people actually find things through it #on tumblr??? you ask #yes my friends evidently #anyway here's...this #angst that morphs suddenly into the MOST indulgent of fix-its #does it have a consistent tone??? is it Good??? who knows. unimportant #is it not enough to simply tweet 9 thousand words in 3 days and then yeet it at your tumblr followers too #this isn't FOR a literary award....it's for melodrmatic wangxian Feels and nothing else #i hope you enjoy it!!!! <3

[ikaroux]

Xiao: Who are you ? (part 1) (v.EN)

f!reader

I want a sweet Xiao <3 and then when you have Matsuoka Yoshitsugu as a seiyuu, how can you not love him?! (even if it will surely be complicated for him to understand the emotions that go through him!).

Zhongli being written.

Masterlist

Part 2

Who are you?

The last Yaksha guardian was collapsed on the ground, wounded, exhausted. His last battle with the darkness had lasted most of the night, further weighing down the karma of the young man with dark hair dotted with emerald strands. The voices of those he had killed fogged his mind, causing excruciating pain to his soul and body. Lying on his stomach unable to open his eyes, his hand struggled to find his winged jade spear that had fallen to the ground with him. A groan of pain scraped his throat at the movement.

The young man flinched briefly as he heard footsteps approaching him quickly, feeling hands grasp his shoulders to carefully turn him around.

He tried again to open his eyes, his vision was blurred and foggy. He could not distinguish the features of the human who had seized him, feeling only his hand gently caressing his hair in an attempt to soothe him. The voice he heard calling him with concern sounded like a woman's, soft and warm.

A soothing light enveloped the young woman, the boy did not understand what was happening because in the second that followed, his body lightened, his pain evaporated, was he dreaming?

Although his vision was still blurred, he nevertheless managed to distinguish a little better the contours of the young woman with long hair (color).

"Who are you? "

His voice was marked by fatigue. He managed to distinguish a thin smile on the face of his rescuer. He repeated more weakly:

"Who are you...? "

His eyes sank, the ethereal form of the young woman reminding him of distant memories, a sudden warmth burst in his heart. Tears beaded in the corners of his eyes.

"Gui...zhong? "

The landscape around him darkened, leading him straight into a soft torpor.

Xiao woke up with a start. Where was he? The Wangshu Inn? Yes, he recognized his quarters, but how did he get there? He still remembered his fight against the horde of monsters he had defeated. He raised his right hand to his face, examining it more closely.

He had no more wounds, no more pain, which brought him back to the young woman he thought he had seen. Had he hallucinated? Had she really healed him? Everything seemed to be a blur. He got up from the bed without difficulty, heading directly to the balcony which was on the top floor of the inn. He looked around, hoping to find the woman who had helped him. The sun was beginning to set, so he had spent the day resting here. It was unusual for him, not being human he didn't have the same needs as them, sleeping, eating, living with others, all that seemed ridiculous. He was almost angry at himself for staying unconscious for so long, hitting one of the wooden columns on the balcony.

Xiao turned around, heading towards the stairs, quickly walking down the steps to Wangshu's innkeeper, Verr Goldet.

"Verr. "

The young woman turned her attention to Xiao.

"Good evening lord Xiao, have you recovered from your last fight? "

"Did you see who brought me here?"

Verr didn't take offense to his curt tone, simply shaking her head to indicate that she hadn't.

Xiao clicked his tongue, annoyed. He needed to know who this mysterious woman was who had taken care of him. The memory of the warmth that emanated from her gripped his heart again, drawing his steps back towards the exit of the inn.

He suddenly bumped into a young man with blond hair, accompanied by his annoying little creature.

"Xiao?"

Aether looked at Xiao with big round eyes, he was not used to seeing him with such an expression. He was confused, frustrated and angry, these were all emotions that were running through the yaksha since he woke up.

"Xiao is not in a good mood"- Paimon twirled around him- "You should come eat something with us, nothing beats a good meal for..."

"I don't need that! "

Paimon gasped, hiding behind Aether. Xiao tried to calm himself by inhaling a deep breath of air, passing by the traveler without saying a word.

"Wait Xiao! Where are you going? "

Aether stopped him, grabbing his arm loosely so as not to rush him further. Xiao immediately gave a sharp blow on his arm to disengage himself, he regretted his abrupt words, he hated it. Before he met Aether, he never had to worry about others or how to behave with them, he was alone and he was fine with that. It was all too... human for him. Slowly he turned his gaze to the traveler.

"Aether I... am sorry. "

"Xia...! "

Without saying another word, Xiao disappeared in a draft.

When you landed in Liyue from your native land, Sumeru, a few months ago, a terrifying battle took place at the city's port. An ancient God who had once been sealed by the rock lord had broken free from his prison, attempting to destroy the port of Liyue in the process, but fortunately he was quickly stopped.

Since these events, you had started to travel in the lands of the geo archon, studying the local fauna and flora. Flowers had always fascinated you, their shapes, their smells, their meanings or their benefits, you studied absolutely everything, noting and drawing in a notebook everything you saw.

In Sumeru, you joined the prestigious magic academy to perfect your Guizhong, that was the last thing he said to you. Who was he? It seemed to you that you had already read this name in one of the books you had borrowed from the academy. You couldn't ask him, tiredness taking him away from you. You knew that not far away there was an inn, it was going to be difficult but you had to take him there so that he could rest. When you picked him up, wrapping your arm around his shoulders for support, his spear on the ground disappeared by itself. You had adjusted your grip before you began your walk.

After several minutes of recalling these events, you noticed that you had finally arrived at the high cliffs of Huaguang. Taking your courage in both hands, you prepared yourself mentally to climb the cliff. Up there was a flower that you wanted to study, the Qingxin flower. They grew exclusively on the highest stone peaks, avoiding heat and humidity, a lonely and hard to reach flower.

"It's okay! "

You rolled up your sleeves, putting your feet and hands where they could grip, slowly you began your ascent.

Night had fallen on the Liyue plains, and it was at the top of Qingyun Peak that the Yaksha had taken refuge, watching the stars brighter than ever. Sitting on the edge of the cliff, the memory of the young woman haunted him. The pain in his chest made him clench his fists, he had never felt like this, he didn't even know what name to put on these feelings.

Xiao was a thousand year old follower, human feelings didn't concern him, so why? Why such pain at the mere thought of a... stranger? But was she really a stranger? This woman had reminded him of an old friend, Guizhong, who died during the Archon war. Could she have come back in an ethereal form? Or maybe it was a new trick the demons had found to torture him a little more.

In the distance, Xiao saw a faint jade-colored light coming from the Huaguang stone forest. He widened his eyes, remembering that glow that had saved his life. His heart began to beat furiously in his chest.

"This is... impossible... I found you. "

His voice trembled at the sight of the sweet emanation. It warmed him, soothed him, the voices that constantly hammered him fell silent and his usually aching body was now light. At last he understood his obsession with you, when you had treated him earlier this morning, a bond had been established between you, a bond as strong as the one that bound him to Morax for whom he had the greatest respect and devotion.

Xiao stood up, looking in the direction you were facing. He disappeared into the wind.art and deepen your knowledge. More than once your teachers told you that your manipulation of your dendro vision was exceptional, some city-states were already looking to recruit you as a researcher or healer, but you always refused, preferring to remain free of your movements. Once you had finished your studies, you quickly decided to leave your homeland, wanting to learn more from your neighbors. Your steps finally led you to Liyue.

You had left early that morning, heading towards the Huaguang stone forest from the Dihua swamp. On the way, you passed a badly wounded young man with emerald tattoos on him. His face, despite the wounds, was beautiful and when he opened his eyes, the amber color immediately fascinated you.

You couldn't leave him like that, wounded and bruised, using your Dendro vision to heal him. When you used it, it projected a jade aura on you and a flowery area grew around you, releasing energy that allowed you to heal even the deepest wounds.

He had tried several times to ask you to identify yourself, which you did, but his apparent fatigue had closed off his senses.

Guizhong, that was the last thing he said to you. Who was he? It seemed to you that you had already read this name in one of the books you had borrowed from the academy. You couldn't ask him, tiredness taking him away from you. You knew that not far away there was an inn, it was going to be difficult but you had to take him there so that he could rest. When you picked him up, wrapping your arm around his shoulders for support, his spear on the ground disappeared by itself. You had adjusted your grip before you began your walk.

After several minutes of recalling these events, you noticed that you had finally arrived at the high cliffs of Huaguang. Taking your courage in both hands, you prepared yourself mentally to climb the cliff. Up there was a flower that you wanted to study, the Qingxin flower. They grew exclusively on the highest stone peaks, avoiding heat and humidity, a lonely and hard to reach flower.

"It's okay! "

You rolled up your sleeves, putting your feet and hands where they could grip, slowly you began your ascent.

Night had fallen on the Liyue plains, and it was at the top of Qingyun Peak that the Yaksha had taken refuge, watching the stars brighter than ever. Sitting on the edge of the cliff, the memory of the young woman haunted him. The pain in his chest made him clench his fists, he had never felt like this, he didn't even know what name to put on these feelings.

Xiao was a thousand year old follower, human feelings didn't concern him, so why? Why such pain at the mere thought of a... stranger? But was she really a stranger? This woman had reminded him of an old friend, Guizhong, who died during the Archon war. Could she have come back in an ethereal form? Or maybe it was a new trick the demons had found to torture him a little more.

In the distance, Xiao saw a faint jade-colored light coming from the Huaguang stone forest. He widened his eyes, remembering that glow that had saved his life. His heart began to beat furiously in his chest.

"This is... impossible... I found you. "

His voice trembled at the sight of the sweet emanation. It warmed him, soothed him, the voices that constantly hammered him fell silent and his usually aching body was now light. At last he understood his obsession with you, when you had treated him earlier this morning, a bond had been established between you, a bond as strong as the one that bound him to Morax for whom he had the greatest respect and devotion.

Xiao stood up, looking in the direction you were facing. He disappeared into the wind.

You had finally reached the top of the cliff, immediately spotting two-three Qingxin flowers. You immediately knelt down beside one of them, taking out your notebook and pencil. You began to draw this beautiful flower from every angle, noting here and there the characteristics you could observe. Satisfied with everything you could see, you finally turned to the landscape plunged in the darkness of the night. Liyue's sky was dotted with stars that shone brightly. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the cliff top, your gaze turned back to the flowers of Qingxin, suddenly reminding you of the young man you had rescued. When you looked into his eyes, his eyes seemed so sad, so lonely. The pain that seemed to be emanating from him had struck you at the highest point.

You turned your attention back to the stars. Your mind was obsessed with this boy and it was with him in mind that you began to sing an ancient poem by Sumeru. The words, although sung in your native language, were undoubtedly sad and melancholic. Your hands were placed in front of you, palms up, eyes closed, activating your dendro vision. A jade-green circle encircled the entire surface of the cliff, particles of light streaming from the ground. Gradually, luminescent blue flowers began to grow around you, following the rhythm of your song.

It was a violent draught that cut you off, opening your eyes in surprise. You gasped as you saw the young man with the amber eyes standing before you.

He was out of breath, stiff as a board, his eyes never leaving yours. Something in him seemed different from this morning, in his eyes you could see... peace?

He cautiously approached you, kneeling down in front of you to get to your level. He took one of your hands in his, squeezing it gently. The particles you had created swirled around you, lighting up the scene. Your heart was pounding now that he was in front of you, you found him even more attractive under the moonlight. His eyes shone with an incredible brilliance, his tattoos also glowed with a soft emerald glow.

Your voice, your appearance, everything seemed sweet to him, no wonder he confused you with Guizhong, you looked like him in some ways.

His lips trembled slightly as he continued to examine your face, a question seemed to cross his lips.

His free hand went up to your face, tucking one of your locks behind your ear.

"Who are you? "His tone was more brutal than he had intended it to be.

Your eyes widened at the question. Of course you couldn't introduce yourself or learn who he was, his name, what he did. You wanted to know everything about this man who had marked your heart.

Seeing that you didn't answer, he asked again in a soft whisper, making you blush.

"Who are you? "

"(y/n)..."

And for the first time since you met, a smile stretched his lips, a silence accompanying your answer. His smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, his hand dropped yours.

"Xiao. "

You looked at him intensely, your face completely red as he straightened his legs.

"As long as you're in Liyue, I'll protect you. Call me and I'll be there in a second."

You slowly nodded, fascinated by this man who was decidedly not human. He watched you for a few more seconds, his eyes entranced by your presence before disappearing as he had appeared...

"Xiao..."

#genshin impact x reader #xiao genshin impact #genshin icons #genshin impact xiao #genshin xiao #genshin impact #genshin spoilers #genshin fluff #genshin imagines #genshin xiao x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x y/n #xiao x reader #xiao imagines #xiao

[free-pool-trash]

of pick up lines and garden flowers - peter maximoff

requests: Hello! I'm a big fan of basically all your Peter Maximoff x Reader stories and was wondering if you could write one where both of them got sucked into Westview and reader's "role" is a florist and Peter's in love with her or something? Bonus points if they were already together before getting trapped in the town and every time they meet, reader gets a flashback of when they were together? That would be pretty awesome to read :D

hey bestie ✨ i love this idea it’s super cute <3 thank you for sending it in i hope you enjoy <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated

word count: 1.1K (it’s short but i quite like it)

warnings: peter being dorky, really fluffy

masterlist

The sound of the bell above your door chiming alerted you that you had a customer. You smiled softly, not turning around, continuing to fix the arrangement of flowers in front of you.

“Back again?” You teased, already knowing who the visitor was without having to turn around. He came in at the same time every single day.

Once you finished adjusting the lilies on the shelf, you spun around to face the silver haired man who leaned against your cash counter casually, “Thought you needed your daily dose of vitamin P.”

“Dear god. That’s the worst one yet, truly, you’ve outdone yourself.” You cackled, busying yourself with filling out orders to avoid catching his trademark cheesy grin.

It had become a routine. He’d stroll into your shop and hit you with his best terrible pick up line and you’d send him away with a single flower.

“You smile wider the worse they are.” He informed, his dimples on full display as his grin had turned into a wide, loving smile.

If you hadn’t known better you would’ve sworn that you’ve seen that adoring smile of his before. Yeah, you’d seen it almost everyday this week but even from the very first day he’d stumbled into your shop and accidentally knocked over a vase of freshly organised hydrangeas he was familiar- he felt familiar.

Riding that train of thought you let out a soft “Oh”, as you remembered the flower you’d chosen to send him away with today. It wasn’t anything too special to the naked eye but whenever you looked at it you were hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia, the feeling was similar to the one you got when you’d lock eyes with the man who stood before you now, and so you figured why not put two good things together?

Quickly you pulled the flower out of the vase behind the cash counter where you were keeping it and presented it to Peter with a bright smile, “Tah-dah!”

Peter stared at the flower for a second, before his eyes moved up to your face. Truthfully, Peter didn’t really care about flowers, but he did however care about you and for whatever reason he couldn’t seem to keep himself from coming back to you time and time again.

He took the flower from you gently, making sure his fingers lingered against yours while you passed him the stem, he admired the steady blush that began rising on your cheeks at the contact.

“Why’d you pick a daisy?” He asked, twirling the green stem between his fingers and for a brief second, as you watched him grinning and messing with the taller than average garden flower, it was as if the fog had cleared completely.

The night was hot, you were laying in the garden simply listening to the crickets and allowing the cool breeze to sweep over you as you twirled a small daisy that you’d plucked from the grass between your fingers.

“Psst. Y/n!” Peter’s whisper startled you from your relaxation and you turned your head to look at him.

“Mhm?” Peter plopped himself down beside you, dropping his head onto your lap and letting out a content sigh as he did.

You sat up on the grass, careful not to move his head too much, you began to play with it softly as he began to speak, “Are you a magician?” He asked, looking up at your face seriously as if the question he just posed was the most important question he’d ever ask you.

Before you could even really process his question, a huge grin made its way across his lips, “Because when I’m with you everybody else disappears.”

“We’re the only people here, my love.” You reminded him through a giggle, “But counter question- Are you a parking ticket?” Peter scoffed, raising an eyebrow at you, completely unimpressed by your line’s set up.

“Why? Cuz I’ve got “fine” written all over me? Lame.” He complained rolling his eyes.

Lightly you flicked his nose, “No, I was gonna say it’s because you’re a huge inconvenience.” His gasp caused you to bark out a laugh, pleased with his outraged response.

Within a second Peter tackled you back into the grass, his fingers running up and down your sides, relentlessly. Loving the way your laughter came out in howls, the way they always did when he tickled you. Your eyes watered as he refused to let up until you were begging through squeals of laughter for him to stop. When he finally ceased his attack on your ribs, he let out a chuckle of his own and rolled off of your body, lying on the grass beside you instead.

It took you a second to catch your breath again, eventually when you managed to even out your breathing you turned your head to look at Peter, who was already looking at you. His gaze almost made you lose your breath again. His brown eyes twinkled and his skin was illuminated weakly by the moon that shone full above you, perfectly highlighting the dips in his dimpled cheeks as he smiled softly yet widely. You knew what that look was, he was in love, and conveniently; so were you.

“Truce?” You whispered, holding out the little daisy you had plucked from the grass earlier and offering it to Peter, whose smile never dimmed as he nodded in agreement.

You shimmied closer, pressed a small kiss to his nose before tucking the flower behind his ear. The image of him so in love with a daisy poking out from behind his ear was the purest, sweetest thing you’d ever seen and it caused your smile to nearly split your cheeks.

“You look perfect right now.” You voiced your thoughts quietly as to not disturb the moment.

Wordlessly, he placed his hands on your hips and tugged you into him so that your chest was flush against his. He kissed you softly, his lips moved meaningfully with yours, pouring all of his emotions into the kiss before he pulled away reluctantly.

He rested his forehead on yours and let the words he was thinking slip from his lips, his smile back and wider than it had been before your lips connected, “You’re perfect all the time.”

Peter watched in concern as you seemed to zone out for a second, a thoughtful look on your face. It only lasted a few seconds, though.

As quickly as it had gone, the fog returned and the memory slipped away as if it were never there to begin with, leaving only a feeling of warmth behind. With a gentle shake of your head, you zoned back in on Peter.

His heart skipped a beat at the smile that stretched across your lips. It was dazzling, no that wasn’t it, it was perfect.

He watched mesmerised as you shrugged your shoulders and spoke through a grin, “Not sure. It just reminded me of you… for some reason.”

Maybe, you’d been right to say you’d known him before. There was something so vividly sentimental to you about the boy that had you convinced that; yes, perhaps you had been met with his adoring smile before- in another life.

#peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff #peter maximoff imagine #wandavision x reader #wandavision spoilers #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader

[otonymous]

Glutton For Your Flavour (Obey Me: Beelzebub - NSFW)

Description: You’re about to become Beel’s next meal Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Spoilers for Lesson 5 of MS (hard).  Please note potential trigger warnings: dub-con (as an inadvertent result of somnambulism), cunnilingus in two flavours (soft and rough), squirting and overstimulation, slight size kink, very faint hints of tetraphilia, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it blasphemy, slight fear (monstrous descriptions) Word Count: ~2900 words (~14 mins of smut & shenanigans) Author’s Notes:  My very first fic for the Obey Me fandom!  I know I’m late to the party, but I’ve recently started playing this game and the story and its characters are so amusing I had to write about it.  This piece may not be to everyone’s taste, so please, please, please note the potential trigger warnings listed above and skip if it’s not your cup of tea.  That being said, hope you all enjoy the read! 💕😆

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“Bad luck to be sharing a room with Beel, but what can ya do after he destroyed yours while destroying the kitchen, and all for a dumb custard!  Be careful — he might mistake you for a snack and eat ya in the middle of the night, hahaha!”

Mmm.

The scene fragments, Mammon’s face wavering as his voice grows faint, consciousness seeping into dark corners like sunlight cutting through fog.  And when you open your eyes, you can’t quite place where you are for a moment, straddling the line between dreamscape and reality.

Ahh…

You sigh.  There it was again, the sensation so pleasant it had roused you from the deepest slumber.

Further blinking off the haze of sleep, you take in your surroundings: a large bed lying empty across from yours in a room almost cavernous in size and just as dark save for a candle burning low on a desk, the glow of its flame orange like the hair that was currently brushing soft against your inner thighs—

“BEEL?!  WHAT THE HELL?!”  

“So tasty…not…enough…need more…want to…eat…zzz….”

Eyes still closed, the demon’s face is shiny even in the dark, slick from cheek to chin with what must’ve been a copious amount of his saliva and your arousal, you blush to realize.  And when he doesn’t budge even after a swift kick to the face, you are ashamed to find the Lord of Flies’ show of strength sending yet another throb to your already pulsing clit.

He does wake though, Beelzebub’s amethyst eyes opening wide before he falls backwards onto the cold stone floor to realize what he had inadvertently done in his sleep.  And as the always-famished sixth born looks from the shredded remnants of your panties to the pool of wetness on the sheets where his chin had rested, he becomes even more tongue-tied than usual.

“I…uh…I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to…I dreamt I smelled something delicious and I was so hungry…and somehow I’m here, on the floor…I don’t even know…I-I’m so sorry!”

His cheeks grow so flushed they remind you of the red spider sandwiches he packed away during dinner, stuffing them two by two into his mouth until Satan smacked his hand away for trying to take more from his plate.  The expression on his face is so full of remorse that even if you were angry, you’d be inclined to forgive the demon who was currently grovelling at the foot of your bed, swearing he would hand himself over to Lucifer and Diavolo first thing in the morning to be strung up and hung upside down for a fortnight, even (gulp) forgoing food for a day or two.

“Beelzebub…Beel…BEEL!”  You shout, interrupting his self-inflicted tirade.  “It’s okay, you didn’t mean it.  You were sleepwalking.  You don’t have to go to Lucifer and Diavolo about this.”

“No, I have to.  My behaviour was inexcusable—”

“BEEL!  Let’s…just…try to go back to sleep, okay?  We have our midterm in Devildom law tomorrow morning and I really don’t feel like failing just because I didn’t get enough shut eye.  So please, can we just pretend like this didn’t happen?”

Those orange brows are still furrowed when Beel finally lifts his head and nods.  But then his gaze is falling again on the wet sheets and the shiver than runs through that larger-than-life body seems to send another wave of anxiety through the demon.  He makes a mad dash for the door, murmuring something about getting a snack from the kitchen and “you can have the room tonight” before it slams shut behind him.

He doesn’t return for the rest of the night.

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The exam was so disastrous even Mammon didn’t bother sneaking another peek at your paper after the first two questions.  And even if you had somehow managed to get back to sleep after last night’s ordeal, it wouldn’t have changed the fact that you were still distracted by the memory of Beel’s mouth on your pussy:

His long tongue, serpentine as it delved deep between swollen folds to taste you with gusto.  

The way he rolled your clit between those plush, soft lips before sucking it into his hot mouth, over and over again.  

The throbbing between your legs that refused to cease long after the Avatar of Gluttony had left the room you were temporarily sharing, sleep only forthcoming once you had succumbed and reached beneath the sheets to finish the job he had started, your moans licentious even to your ears as you pretended your fingers were his.

It was a pale imitation, of course.  That much you could see for yourself, stealing a glance at Beel seated two rows down — quill twirling between long, dexterous digits when he wasn’t putting ink to parchment.

But those gigantic hands were just a small part of what made Beel demonically attractive, as if the word “small” could be applied to him at all: tall and built, there were times when even you envied the ease with which he maintained that perfect physique despite his penchant for shovelling enough food to feed all three realms into his mouth on the regular.

The same mouth which brought you so much pleasure the night before.

Ahem.

Clearing your throat, you pretend not to see the smirk that spreads across Asmo’s delicate face, hoping the lusty demon sitting just to your left wouldn’t pick up on the very secret thoughts you were having about his brother.

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[Private Chatroom]: Satan, Levi, Mammon, Asmo

Satan: This is going to sound crazy, but doesn’t it seem like Beel’s…hungrier than usual?  Is that even possible?

Levi: OMFG!  You should’ve seen the state of the kitchen this morning after Beel decided to camp out there overnight!  It was a total war zone, like that epic battle scene in Vol. 5 of TSL lololol.  Soooo good XDDDDD

Mammon:  Hey!  He’s gonna eat us outta house and home at this rate!  Shouldn’t we stop him?

Satan: You do it, Mammon.  Aren’t you always saying that there’s nothing The Great Mammon can’t do?

Mammon: …..

Asmo: Please, as if anyone — angel or demon — could come between Beel and a meal.  

Satan: Why was he camping out there in the first place?  Was there something wrong with his room?  I don’t remember him complaining about anything since he got shacked up with the exchange student.

Levi: Not like he could, seeing as it was his fault to begin with and a direct order from Lucifer.

Asmo: Maybe we should ask her.  I’m sure she knows something about what’s inciting his hunger judging by the way she kept staring at him in class today fufufu 😏  She almost failed her midterm because of it, isn’t that right, Mammon?

Mammon: ‼️‼️

[Mammon has left the chat]

Levi: He is sooooo transparent LMFAOOOO

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Gasp!

Pressing a hand to your mouth, you try to contain your shock at the sight that greets you when you peek around the corner into the kitchen:

Curved, ebony horns sitting majestically atop a head of disheveled orange hair.  Thick, corded muscles that ripple across a broad back — readily apparently because the creature bent over a mountain of food on the ground was wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms, loose and slung so low over narrow hips that the sharp V defining his groin is visible even from the distance at which you stood.  

Because this wasn’t quite what you were expecting to find when you made your way to the kitchen in the middle of the night to search for Beel, thinking to approach him about the peculiarity of his recent behaviour: the way he now ate constantly and was less satiated than before, the fact that he seemed to be going out of his way to avoid you even though you shared a room.

In fact, he hadn’t said so much as another word to you after he gave you two dozen of his prized custards the morning after the incident, apologizing again until you had to be the one to make him swear he wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Lucifer.  The demon even made a beeline for the door as soon as he saw you emerge from the bathroom tonight, fresh from a shower.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he was headed.

Even still, you tried to focus on your textbook, reading the same line over and over again as you waited for Beel to return so you could have a proper conversation with the demon you made a pact with.  And when you could wait no longer, you made your way towards his favourite room in the House of Lamentation — silently, so as not to draw the attention of the eldest sibling.

But the growls coming from the direction of the open fridge this time sounded like Cerberus himself, enough so that you find yourself rooted to the ground, unable to take another step forwards or back.  

You had never seen Beel like this before, tearing into whatever he could get his hands on with a savagery that made your heart stop.  Teeth, lips and tongue devoured without second thought in a way that was simultaneously terrifying and…

Throb.

…arousing.

Suddenly, he stills, throwing his head back to sniff the air once…twice…and in a flash, he is upon you, towering over your head as he rises to full height — bigger and taller and much more intimidating than you’ve ever seen him before.

You should have been scared.  Any person in their right mind would have if they found themselves cornered by a demon of Beelzebub’s calibre.  But the hands that balled into trembling fists at his sides made you feel oddly secure, your deepest instincts telling you that not all was as it seemed.

“You need to leave.  Now…please.”

“What’s going on with you, Beel?  I just want to help—”  You reach for his arm.  He jumps back as if burned.

“I SAID YOU NEED TO LEAVE!  I-I…can’t hold back…for…much longer!”

Handsome face screwed up as if in pain, Beel turns to put as much distance as possible between the two of you, squatting on his haunches with his head in his hands when he murmurs:

“I…I don’t know what’s going on with me.  This has never happened before.  I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been.  I eat and eat and eat and it still isn't enough.  The last time I felt satisfied was when…when…”

His voice dies down to a whisper.

“…when I tasted you.”

Throb.

Putting out a hand, you steady yourself against the wall, knees suddenly weak at Beelzebub’s admission.  Or perhaps it was due to relief, the tension that had been steadily building in your strained relationship with the demon released to know that you weren’t the only one who desired to revisit that night’s events.

So you gather your courage, stepping softly towards the demon who crouched on the ground next to the lit fireplace, the heat radiating from the hearth warming the flesh you had deliberately left bare when you lift the hem of your night gown to expose yourself to Beel.

“What are you doing?!  I told you, I can barely hold back—”

“Then don’t.  I don’t mind, Beel.  I…I like it too.”

Amethyst eyes darken as they look up into yours, orange flames reflecting off pupils blown wide.  And when he speaks next, the deepness of his voice echoes in your body, as if its source were to be found within your own soul.

“Ask and ye shall receive.  I won’t touch you until you do.”

Nipples hardening beneath your gown, the rush of heat that floods your core makes you shudder when you say,

“Please, Beelzebub…I want you to eat my pussy.”

Back hitting solid wood, you barely have time to gasp before you are pulled to the edge of a long table in the centre of the kitchen, a long tongue running up the insides of each thigh in turn before they’re propped up onto broad shoulders, Beel’s breath blowing hot on the space in between.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can hold back.  I’m just…so famished, so desperate to taste you again—”

His words cut off in a low growl as he presses his lips to your folds, saliva dripping from his mouth mixing with the juices that already painted a glistening sheen on pink flesh.  You fight to bite back a moan at the vehemence of his hunger, the sheer greed of his tongue — flicking at your clit until your back arched off the table, heralding the arrival of the cream that leaked only to be swept up by Beel licking from end to end of that swollen seam.  And when that still wasn’t enough, you nearly swooned to feel that serpentine tongue penetrate, reaching depths that surely only a demon would be able to achieve as Beel sought out more of your flavour.

He buries his face deeper into your pussy, nose nudging your clit as arousal smeared over the entirely of his visage.  The vibrations of his voice further stimulates your locus of pleasure, punctuating the lewd, wet sounds when he says:

“You smell so delicious.  All the time.  And tonight, when you stepped out of the shower…I couldn’t take it, not with the way your scent flooded my senses.  I had to leave or else…this would happen.”

“Oh Beel…you should’ve told me sooner.”  

Mind lost in a haze of lust and body boneless from riding out wave after climatic wave, you reach down a trembling hand without thinking, fingers innocently tracing along the smooth ridges of the onyx horns that lay against your abdomen.

Suddenly, his breath hitches at your touch and the Sixth Prince of Hell is throwing his head back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a moan loud and deep enough to reverberate off stone walls, clattering stacks of dishes in cupboards and making you come once more — legs convulsing upon his shoulders as you feel a preponderance of fluid gush forth from your body right into Beel’s waiting mouth.

The pleasure was such that you’ve never known before, so good that surely, it must be bad in some way, shape or form.  But you hadn’t the energy to ponder further.  

No, the only thing you’re aware of when your vision goes black is that Beel’s mouth is still on you, feasting upon a pussy that continued to respond to the teasing movements of his lips and tongue even as you ceased to think.

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Cheddar.  Pickles.  Ketchup and mustard.

The smell is what rouses you, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw when you awoke in your own bed: mountains of cheeseburgers arranged on platters filling up every available surface in the room you shared with Beel.

“You can sleep for longer if you want.  I told Lucifer you’d be skipping class today because you’re not feeling well.  Are you…feeling well?”

Beelzebub lifts his head from where it’d been resting at the side of your bed, the rest of his body laid out on the floor as if he were guarding you like an oversized dog.  Those puppy dog eyes, full of concern, didn’t help his case either.

“I’m fine, Beel.  Better than fine, actually.  I feel fantastic!”  You smile, moving to sit up in bed.  The demon springs from the ground, putting an arm around your shoulders to help prop you up, and your heart can’t help but warm at how protective he was being.

He breathes, relief flooding those handsome features.  “I’m glad.  I was afraid I lost control last night and had to carry you back.  You were just…so tasty and…satisfying…”  

Those amethyst eyes glint as they travel to the apex of your thighs, and all of a sudden, he is grabbing at those human world cheeseburgers, shoving them into his mouth two at a time.

“Have some,” he says between bites.  “They’re my favourite and I thought you might like them too.  Besides, you need to eat if you’re gonna keep up your energy.”

You reach towards the nearest platter, taking one for yourself.  “Energy for what?”

Beel looks at you, expression completely serious when he says, “For the next round tonight.”

Throb.

🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔

Thank you so much for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚

#obey me #shall we date obey me #OM #swd obey me #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #OM beel #obey me smut #OM smut #obey me beel smut #obey me fanfic #fanfiction #my writing

[mitsamu]

cry for me

SUNA , OSAMU

— your boyfriends love torturing you until you're nothing but a crying mess.

› smut. MINORS DNI.

F.READER ; DACRYPHILIA , TOYS , MULTIPLE ORGASMS , OVERSTIMULATION ; TAKING PHOTOS (BRIEFLY).

› words : 1.2K

notes — repost from my old blog.

the air around you was heavy with arousal, its sweetness ingrained deep within you. rising and falling swiftly, your chest followed the pattern of your ragged breathing and rough heartbeat, the silent symphony deafening in your ears. your body was splayed in the middle of the bed, legs embarrassingly spread to your sides. your hands were holding onto the thighs underneath you, nails digging crescent shapes in the smooth skin.

blissfully ignorant to the fire that spread through your body, taking over your limbs and making them burn with the effort of maintaining their position, you shivered and shuddered, desperately mewling into the emptiness of the room as osamu drove the vibrator deeper inside of you.

“look at you, so ruined already…” the man in front of you scoffed. he took ahold of your chin and forced you to look at him. there was a greedy smirk plastered on his face. his eyes followed the lines of your trembling body. “you’re being so good, angel… isn’t she, osamu?”

the toy inside of you pressed harshly against your sweet spot, its dull sound became louder as rintarō adjusted it to the highest setting. a broken whimper left your lips, half a plea for more, half a cry for it to stop. you had lost the count of how many orgasms they had forced out of you like that, one controlling the settings while the other fucked you senseless.

“so good. our good little fucktoy.” osamu’s lips grazed the shell of your ear as he spoke, warm breath fanning over the curve of your neck.

his free fingers danced on your body, touch light and soft. He trailed them up and down your sides, circled around your nipples, teased the skin around your clit — avoided all of the places that ached to be touched.

“in fact, she’s earned herself a… reward, hasn’t she?” even if you couldn’t see his face, you could hear the devious smirk in the way he spoke. your eyes widened as rintarō mirrored the man’s expression.

without even giving you time to protest or fight back, rintarō knelt in between your legs, a bullet vibrator that seemed to have come out of nowhere held tightly between his fingers. he toyed with it for a moment, looking at it pensively, as if he was pondering on what to do with it. his smile only seemed to grow as you tried harder and harder to fight off osamu’s hold.

you weren’t sure you’d be able to withstand any more of their sweet torture. even so, you should’ve known better than to misbehave.

an arm snaked around your middle section, caging you against osamu’s chest. rintarō pressed a knee against one of your legs as his free hand held the other one apart, effectively ensuring you wouldn’t be able to close them. he brought the toy closer to your body, rejoicing in the nervous expression that painted in your face.

the cool material sent a jolt through you upon first contact that made your friends chuckle, but it wasn’t until he began exploring your body with it that you started trembling and squirming. he ran the small object along the line of your neck, the valley of your breasts, even the curve of your lips.

his tongue busied itself with your nipples, adding fuel to the growing warmth inside of you. he swirled and twirled and nipped at the little buds, harder every time just so he could hear your little yelps and whines. osamu didn’t fall behind, thumb glued to your clit as he cruelly pushed the vibrator deeper and deeper inside of you. his lips were attached to your neck, relentlessly littering your skin with wet kisses and bites.

the bullet vibrator finally found its way to your clit, pushing the other’s fingers aside. rintarō pressed it hard against you, holding it there with a smirk on his face.

it immediately sent a jolt through your body, and you were soon turning and writhing in as lewd mewls poured out of your lips. you threw your head back against osamu’s shoulder and held onto him tighter than before. It was almost unbearable, painful, how bad you wanted to come.

intense, hot waves crashed through your body, and soon, you were nothing but a babbling mess, incoherent and desperate pleas filling the air. your head was clouded with lust, tears beginning to pool on your eyes and blurring your sight. vaguely, you could hear them chuckling and cooing at your ruined state.

“p-please…iI can’t take it… please.” tears were now flowing freely down your cheeks, twin rivers decorating your face as you implored, begged for a little mercy.

in spite of the numerous orgasms you had experienced that night, or maybe because of them, you were growing sensitive — every light touch had you squirming, the abuse of your most sensitive spots pulling sobs and cries out of you, the devastating need to come making you tremble.

“oh? what was that, baby? you want us to stop?”

you only realized what was going on when they pulled away, almost at the same time, with no sign of touching you again. unaware of the teasing in rintarō’s voice, you started shaking your head profusely, sobbing and stammering as you tried to beg them to keep going, needing that sweet torture and the promising release that awaited you, that consumed you.

“no! no, no, don’t stop. please, don’t stop.” you cried, desperate and shameless.

with his middle finger and thumb, he forced you to face him once more, his index resting against your lips as if to quiet your sobs. he shushed you, a fake smile of sympathy on his face, and lightly pressed the bullet vibrator against your clit, enough to have you begging, but not enough to offer release.

“i’ll be good, i promise. just don’t stop… please.” the last word was pronounced in a wretched moan, voice breaking pathetically as they resumed their attack on your body.

you were partially aware of the distinguishing sound of a phone’s camera, but your mind was too dizzy with pleasure to fully realize.

rintarō’s voice mocked you, cooing at how cute and pretty you looked when you cried for them, but the condescending praise too got lost in the fog. all you knew was the burning feeling that washed over you, sinking you into a blissful state that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your mouth open in loud pleasure. your toes curled, legs trembling uncontrollably, whole body writhing agitatedly as you pushed your hips against their hands.

just like that, your body went limp against osamu. you stayed like that for a moment, panting heavily and weak, sobbing in the aftermath of your orgasm, unable to move in the slightest.

rintarō took the toys and placed them on a cloth next to you. a lazy smile stretched your lips at the knowledge that the torture was over.

“are you okay, baby?” osamu’s voice was soft, full of adoration as he grabbed your face in his hands and cleaned the tears off of it. you simply nodded, too dazed to speak, and observed as both of them took care of you, cleaning your body and dressing you up in comfortable clothes that smelled suspiciously like them.

#osamu x reader #suna x reader #osamu x you #suna x you #osamu smut #suna smut #osamu fic #suna fic #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu smut #haikyuu fic #mitsamu.sins

[littlefreya]

The Way To Hell - Final Chapter

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man on earth. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped while a trained assassin is sent to bring him down. 

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k (including epilogue) 

Warnings: 18+, smut, boomer Walker, some fluff, sexual intercourse, cock-warming, mentions of torture, implied insanity, slight mentions of gore, violence, murder, mass-shooting and death. Please proceed with caution  

A/N: The ending is here and I hope I did it justice, I hope I did right by you. I will reblog my kudos, but first I must thank @agniavateira for being my beta and a source of inspiration and @raspberrydreamclouds for the cover art. 

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own*

Now allow me to die out of stress and anxiety.

Title: See You in Hell

Down by the valley, there is a serenity that exists only in fairy tales. Damp grass caresses her naked back, the pointy little tips ticking the base of her spine, leaving a fresh trail of dew. Pure mountain mist breathes life through blue hills caked with ice; white fog vales over the forest’s lush greenery and looms above the lake’s water like a lost-love phantom.

Lying with her eyes shut, she listens to the harmony of life surrounding her: the little fish bouncing in the river, the butterflies procreating mid-air and the hummingbird chirping with bliss. Yet the most beautiful sound is the low, melodic baritone humming and reverberating against her inner thighs. 

”Angel, With those angel eyes Come and take this earth boy Up to paradise.”

”Boomer Walker…” she teases, “Is that a song from your time?” 

Ascending a trail of kisses up her pelvis, he scoffs and shakes his head. “I’m starting to suspect that you have a kink for older men,” he answers with a throaty growl, shifting his weight further over her abdomen. The soft fur of his torso grazes between her thighs, and she sighs with pleasure. 

”Do you want daddy to fuck you?” 

”That’s gross!” she curls her nose and tries to hit his head playfully, but August snaps at her wrists with perfect instinct, pinning her hands against the wet meadow. His tongue flicks over the slant of her neck while he aligns his cock at the little piece of heaven between her legs.

Sensual yet rough, his massive girth splits her walls while his lips shower her with honeyed kisses. Ingvild throws her head back, lacing her fingers with his and coils herself beneath his large body. 

“August...” she pants, feeling the air gradually diminishing from her lungs with every thrust, “I think I’m dying...”

Never halting or slowing his rhythm, August lowers his head to peer into her eyes. Fingers drenched with blood snap at her jaw.

“Stay with me, Ingvild.” He demands, letting out a husky groan, though his voice is but an echo.

A grey, thick mist wafts around the darkening forest, covering her with a bone-chilling breeze; his calling carries on the distance.  

“Stay, princess...”

“Don’t leave...”

“Stay. We’ve only just begun.”

Ice bites its sharp fangs into the little creases between her cracked bones as another bucket filled with frosty water showers her trembling body. The stabbing pain lasts for a lingering moment, reminding her that she’s still very much alive.

It must be the 10th bucket, or maybe 12th? She lost count at some point. Day and night melt into one another in this place, and the hours don’t make much sense.

Muffled complaints vibrate in her ears. Vaguely her sight picks on two silhouettes arguing when the world abruptly flashes white, and her jaw soaks a terrible blow. Fully crashing onto the hard marble, she tries to recover, but a sudden kick rips through her abdomen.

“Your methods are too slow, Issac!” A grey-haired agent chides, standing over the girl with his foot still drawn, “Walker could be setting his bomb somewhere across the globe any minute now, and you’re taking your sweet time with her as if she’s an art project.”

The scrawny torturer frowns and turns his back at him. Walking toward the metal desk, he browses through different equipment. “My methods always work, the pretty little girl was taught to endure pain,” he grunts in exasperation and gestures at the bloodstained bandage around her hand, “she did this to herself.”

Sighing with a mixture of frustration and disgust, the CIA agent takes another swing at Ingvild’s torso, the pointy edge of his shoe colliding with the scar at her gut.

Bloodshot eyes rise with wrath, violent tides of aftershock course at her viscera. She peers at the men through the haze of pain when a third figure appears in the room, standing calmly whilst Issac and the agent argue among them. 

Tall, broad, and charismatic, the handsome man strides toward her. His tailored steel-coloured suit envelops his statuesque body as if he is made of iron.  

“You’re taking it so well, princess,” he praises in his deep, melodic baritone while crouching down to take a closer look. Ingvild lifts her head, slowly breaking into a weak grin. Onyx orbs replace the storm-touched eyes, but that chiselled face still belongs to her beautiful monster.

“Did you tell them anything about where I am headed?” he asks and gives her a pout, reaching his index finger and thumb to squeeze her bruised cheek affectionately. 

Swallowing the aching dryness in her throat, she manages to shake her head meekly. “No… I said nothing,” her voice cracking as she whispers. Her chapped lips stretch into a pale, awkward grin. 

Tiny lines form at the corner of his void-like eyes as he smiles back, radiating with dangerous delight.

“That’s my good girl.”

The grey-haired agent throws a glance over his shoulder, scrutinising Ingvild while he stands next to Issac, who is twirling a scalpel back and forth between his boney fingers.

“Who is she talking to?”

“Not very sane this one,” Issac explains as he examines the silver blade against the light, “multiple mental disorders, dissociative personality, psychotic.”

Pushing the agent aside with his free hand, Issac steps forward. He leers at Ingvild, who stares at nothing for a long second before averting her eyes back at them. 

“We just need to dig a little deeper and the little bird will sing,” he exclaims and moves closer before dropping to his knees. One of his icy hands lands on her shoulder, forcing her flat on her back. Shuddering at his frozen touch, she closes her eyes; in the bleak nothingness, she recalls the night in the lake where August let her die.

“Pretty little Ingvild, have you heard of vivisection?” Her torturer asks as he lines his twig-like finger over the spine of the scalpel. Sensing his digits sneaking beneath the hem of her shirt, she shoots her eyes open yet remains still and intrepid. 

The tiny black marbles beneath Issac’s brows glint with twisted joy, appeased at the sight of the scar as he exposes her torso. Ingvild expects the pain of the blade when something tepid and unpleasantly wet slithers across her gut like a little pink slug. 

“Umm… Issac…?” The agent interrupts, furrowing his brow with confusion and disgust as he stares at his colleague licking the girl’s torso.

“What?!” Issac snaps at him, his eyes narrowing with spite, “you wanted me to go harder on her!”

“Yes, but…”

“But shut up and let me do my job!” He yells and returns his glare to Ingvild who blinks at the ceiling silently. Disrupted by his touch, she bites her tongue, fighting to hold back the acrid substance that threatens to emerge from her gut.

“You fight very hard to protect a man who doesn’t give a fuck about you, little bird,” his snake-like voice hisses as he leans down to half-whisper in her ear, “just tell me where he is and I won’t cut you open.”

Ingvild sucks the air in through gritted teeth and turns her head to look away from the obnoxious little man. She seeks for her beautiful monster, finding him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. August’s empty glance wears a calm grin.

“He is in this room,” Ingvild jests faintly, her sardonic laughter stretching thin, her chest heaving, exhausting whatever strength is left in her muscles. August’s smirk widens with hers, large dimples are slicing into his cheeks.

Ticking his tongue, Issac allows the sharp edge of the scalpel cut a skin-deep line into her flesh. Ingvild stares at him stoically, not moving a muscle as shy drops of blood begin trickling down her navel. 

“Are you sure about your response?” he asks, ghosting the scalpel over her abdomen while crooking an eyebrow.

Ingvild bites her lip, pretending to think about her answer for a few seconds. Lifting her head up, she inches her lips toward Issac’s ear. The scrawny man listens intently. 

“August Walker is the devil, and the devil is everywhere.”

A peal of sinister chuckles spills from her lips as she throws her head back onto the ground, staring at Issac’s disapproving glare. 

But her laughter soon dies. 

Taut pressure pierces into her flesh, the blade penetrating deep, cutting through tissue and muscle as if it was soft cheese. Ingvild clenches her jaw, her mind flooded by charring white light that dismantles every thought while the blade continues to swerve.

For a brief moment, she finds herself in Bergen, hands covered with thick blood, holding the gushing wound in her stomach with shock. August stands above her, toying with his favourite knife and staring at the red taint. 

“Time to fall, angel.” 

Scattered musings run behind her eyes: Liam, the nuns at the orphanage, August, and even Erica. She’s reminded of every hit she was forced to take, every country she visited, all blending into a bizarre parade of death. 

“C’mon girl, just tell us where he is!” She hears the other man shout as he steps closer with an urgent expression. “Just give us something, a country, a region, anything to make this stop, you can still do the right thing.” 

The heavy stench of iron fills her nose; the warm, thick liquid trickles down her bare skin, spilling in a cross on the map of her torso. The pain now is undeniable, making her lips heavier as she makes an attempt to answer.

“I don’t…. know… any August.”

The CIA agent scoffs violently and balls his fists. “Deeper!” He orders Issac, who like a composer, trails the blade further through her gut, cutting into sinew and brittle tendons. Ingvild trembles, feeling her body grow weaker. 

In her mind, she can hear caged screams.

“You will die for a man who doesn’t even care if you bleed!” The agent rasps, spit coming out of his mouth as he rages above her.

‘Stop!’

“He won’t even remember you once you die!”

‘Resist, don’t show pain. You’ve been through this before, you already died.’ 

“No one will.”

Swallowing every ounce of pain, she fights to remember her training, her past. Her mind scrambles for Fjellstrekninger forest, for the green pines and their stringy needles, for the scent of beech and the damp ground. She tries to imagine the silver-blue mountains of Bergen, that last time she hiked there before going to meet Liam at the gas station. 

How strange that at the very same day she encountered the most wanted man on earth, not knowing she was destined to be his. 

But none of these images appear before her.

‘You can’t escape this.’

Her screams shudder through the entire floor. 

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” 

August flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, glowering at the driver who gawks at him with disbelief and shakes his head. Pushing the phone against his chin, he stares forward at the rainy road, reciting in his mind the words of the MI6 and CIA apostles.

‘Erica captured a woman in her late 20s, having her tortured for information for a couple of days now. Can’t promise you she’s alive. No one goes in there.’

“I wasn’t asking,” August answers, throwing him an icy glare, “we’re taking the chopper to the Mi6 fortress in London. I don’t need to tell you what happens if you question my decisions.” 

The driver tenses his fingers around the steering wheel and shakes his head once again. He means to say something, but the scowl on August’s face shuts him up right away.

“Who is she? What is she to you?”

August huffs and lowers his gaze, eyes dropping to the plutonium case and then forward through the windshield, watching the heavy rain clouds that stretch before the sky. As he blinks his eyes shut, his mind plays a vision of an inferno; cracked ground and scorched skies. He sits on a throne made of bones and drinks wine from a chalice made of human skull. 

His angel sits on his knee, naked and pure, her iridescent wings tucked against her back. She stares at him with a smile full of admiration, her fingers brushing over his moustache. 

‘Your angel of destruction.’

“She’s just an asset.”

‘Hell lives inside you August, it always has. Rotting you from the inside as it begs to be let out. And you will unleash it, won’t you? Your suffering must be shared.’

Vast shadows gather outside the double-pane windows of the main hall. The thick storm clouds paint the sky pitch black, swallowing the stars alive one by one. Light wanes just in time for the harbinger of chaos to march into the well-secured lobby of the sizable Mi6 fortress.

If fairytales were to be true, the devil would arrive riding a monstrous mare with hooves made of flames. But if anything, he is but a man in a tailored suit and a long trench-coat. The leather soles of his midnight-black shoes squeak as he marches on, leaving a trail of mud on the cream-coloured marble.

“Evening sir,” the security guard greets and gestures August to pass through the large weapon detector with nothing but a quick exchange of knowing looks. 

The corners of August’s lips curl into a small smile beneath his moustache while he scrutinises the surroundings. Gold and pearly pillars spread across the vast hall, a false facade hiding a decaying world and the self-indulgent ghosts that harbour it. So lost in their own little lie, it takes them more than a few minutes to notice the hellhound who stepped into their haven.

It begins as a small rumble, like a seismic wave. The first tremor vibrates through the ground and the walls follow with a convulsing shudder. Gasps, chatter, and widened eyes stab at him with shock, yet they all seem to suffer from the same affliction. 

Standing paralysed, they ogle at the most wanted man on earth as he combs his fingers through his hair and walks toward the elevators located at the end of a narrow, red corridor. Unapologetically confident and ever so relaxed and condescending, he ignores them. 

A true king among peasants.  

“Is that?...”

“What the fuck?!”

“How the fuck did he pass security???”

His confidence is nothing but theatrics, as his blue eyes carry toward the large elevators with a glossy sparkle breaking on his corneas. He tries so hard to envision her beautiful face yet all he sees is a pile of dry bones.

“Stop! Hands in the fucking air, Walker!”

‘Ah, took them long enough.’

Standing between the carpeted walls of the narrow corridor, only mere inches from the silver doors, August slowly spreads his long fingers and lifts his hands in the air. His keen ear catches at least three firearms as the guards cock their guns at his direction, panting with fright. 

“Turn around so we can see you, piece of shit!!!” A presumingly young hero barks behind him. 

“Someone call Director Sloane down here right now, she’s not going to believe it!!!”

The soft rumbling in the lobby grows into impending thunder. A flash of pale purple lightning floods the lit vicinity for a split second, echoing the small grin that spreads across August’s beaming face.  

“Oh, I don’t think so, son,” he speaks serenely, almost like a tender fatherly coo. Not bothering to turn, he tilts his head up and inhales sharply.

“Go.”

Sharp gasps of shock and terror reverberate between the walls of the fortress as sudden darkness veils the main hall. The smell of their fear is almost as delightful as the strong smoky scent of gunpowder. Like shooting stars, the rapid gunfire pierces through the night. Cries, incoherent screams, and panicked gasps make for a beautiful concert, so much that he wishes he could stay, but he has a girl to rescue.  

‘If she’s still alive…’

Swallowing the bitter bile, he enters an elevator and presses the button for the basement level. He watches the flickering beams of light as his men continue to execute the remaining agents before the doors shut in. 

Drawing out his handgun and relieving the safety, he leans against the shuddering metal and stares at the neon red number while reminiscing on the day he met a pretty girl with an unpleasant smile.

“Too bad, I would have loved to see you again.”

“Well then, if our destinies were meant to be entwined, you will.”

The basement level seems completely abandoned and eerily silent. No wails nor cries carry on the chilly air. 

His Ingvild is forbearing, she would never show her suffering. Would she? 

Inching toward the interrogation cell, his hand runs across the naked concrete walls, sensing the coarse texture against the pads of his fingers. Opaline droplets of sweat bead his forehead and his lungs sink with the effort.

Muffled voices perk his ears the closer he gets: two men, no woman. No sounds of violence, no signs of her in there whatsoever. 

‘Angel, are you being brave for me?’

Arriving at the door, he takes a deep breath and gingerly pushes the handle. The pungent scent of salt and iron pervades his nostrils as he steps a foot into the shower of blinding white light. The brightness hurts and for a moment it feels as everything before him fades. 

Until his sight sharpens and he notices the two shadowy figures standing with their backs facing him. They look like vultures preying upon a corpse.

Her corpse.

‘No! Change this! Make this right!’

Wings of cherry-dark blood spread from her snow-pale body. Motionless, his girl lies with her top huddled around her chest to expose her bleeding gut. 

‘You are too late…’

Pure, undistilled rage burns within August’s throat, so ferocious it stings in his eyes, making his entire body tremble. He lifts his hand and fires the gun hastily, shooting both men in the back of their heads before they even get the chance to turn and look at the man who executed them. 

“Ingvild!” August pants, rushing and falling to his knees before her. 

“Angel?” He presses one hand to her gut, trying to pressure her gushing wounds while his fingers etch around her nape to pull her closer to his face. Blood, still sticky and warm, tarnishes his clean outfit while he cradles her in his arms.

“Please don’t do this to me…” He whispers, shifting his hand to caress her bruised face, recalling the last time she was dead in his arms. 

The world kept spinning on its axis when she died back at the lake. So why does it feel like right now it stopped in its place?

Pressing her to his chest, August shuts his eyes and shudders with fury. All emotions come to life, and every one of them hurt.

“You are not here…” 

A deep quivering sigh of relief soars from his throat, mouth cracking into a smile at the sounds of her hoarse whisper and delicate moans. Blinking faintly, Ingvild half-opens her eyes and stares at him through heavy lids. 

“I am here,” he whispers, brushing away the sticky strands of hair from her face and squeezes her cheek beneath his thumb, “I came to take you, we have to go.”

Shifting his arms, he tries to lift her up, but his petite woman is suddenly made of the heaviest rocks; her stiff muscles protest in his grip, making it impossible for him to manoeuvre her out of fear she will bleed to death. 

“We were both at the garden,” she mumbles drowsily, licking her bloodied teeth before breaking into a maddened smile that quickly dies as she depletes her remaining strength. “I’m tired, I want to stay here and dream.” 

“Ingvild, we don’t have time for this,” August warns with concern, noticing how her eyes roll back and her lashes flutter shut, “there’s a helicopter waiting for us on the roof. You have to get up, you have to survive this, you have to come with me! Please!”

Fat, oily tears roll down her temples, mingling with the blood and tangy sweat on her face. Opening her eyes again, she peers at her beautiful monster, recognising the familiar ocean and its eternal unrest. 

Did he come here for her, or is it just a dream?

“Why?” 

‘Tell her.’

Brow lifting and face softening, his hands clutch her tightly. He rocks her from side to side, holding her protectively. Ingvild senses the wrath that pours from his heart, the thundering beat throwing its fists against his ribcage as their bodies collide.

“You know why,” August suggests huskily, nearly begging, bargaining not to admit, not to say the words he was always so afraid of. But naively, her gaze pleas in return, the child-like innocence piercing a hole through his chest. 

“Tell me,” she begs him.

‘She needs you to say it.’

“Because I need you.”

The words nearly crack on his tongue, his throat suddenly so dry it sears. He glances down at the fallen angel, sensing the most excruciating thirst, where the only way to stop it is by stealing several deep kisses from her lips. 

“I need you by my side,” he murmurs above her lips between desperate, helpless kisses, hoping to breathe life into his weakened valkyrie, “stay with me, angel.”  

An awkward stretch tugs at her cheeks, hurting as if someone slices them with a blade from side to side. For the first time in her life, true laughter crisps her face, followed by crystal-like tears that run down her sullen eyes.

“I love you, August.” 

Every nerve in his body tingles with tendrils of light, reaching out deep within his gut and spreading throughout his tendons. For a moment, he feels divine, sanctified by the words of his angel, his woman, his by free will. 

Offering her a brief smile, he captured her lips for one last stolen kiss. His thick moustache scratches at her tender flesh while a little hum plays on his tongue. 

She tastes like blood and honey - the tarty flavour of victory.

“We have to go now, princess, I have to finish this.” 

Gingerly rising to his feet, he hooks a hand below her knees and places the other against her bruised spine. Bloody footprints trail behind him as he carries her outside the white room, trying to make for their freedom.

Locked down in her office, Director Erica Sloane inhales and exhales by practice, brushing a hand through her sweat-slick hair while trying to call every backup unit. Bullets still rip through the air in every story; the sirens howl while red lights flicker from outside. She puts her hands around her ears, trying to shut the noises out, uncertain if the screams she is hearing are her people still being slaughtered, or her mind playing tricks.

Walker is many things: an idealist, a manipulative snake, a monster. But this is a side of him she never anticipated. There is no need to question his motives this time. She is smart enough to figure it out. 

To risk so much, a man must feel deeply for a woman.

Her anxiety spikes as guilt seeps in when her phone suddenly rings.

“Director Sloane,” she pants against the receiver. Somehow, as she hears the deep, measured breath, she knows.

‘Walker.’

“Hello, Erica, did you miss me?”

Erica clenches her jaw and stares spitefully into nothing, “Hardly.”

She hears him scoff from the other line, her mind piecing together that horrible, pretentious grin of his. The bile climbs up her throat just from the vision. 

“We don’t have much time, but I just wanted to thank you.” August pauses, sighing with the bliss of a madman at her ear, “You see, if not for Lacey, if not for you kicking me to the curb the way you did - I would have never become what I was meant to be. And you sent me an angel to light my way…”

“You’ve manipulated her.”

“No, you did,” August interrupts calmly, “I set her free. I will set them all free and unite them.”

The anger simmers in her gut to the point of nausea. She holds her breath, counts to ten and tries to gather her thoughts. ‘August wants a bargain,’ she thinks, but for a reason, it feels like he already won.

“Can you come and look out of the window for me, please?” He asks politely. 

Turning her head at the window, she narrows her eyes and bites her plump lips with hesitation.

“If I had a sniper on you, you’d be dead 5 minutes ago,” he assures her. 

She gets up from her office chair slowly, her fingers reaching to uncover the blinds. The storm weakened, yet heavy clouds still loom from above like a noxious mist. She seeks for August on the horizon, listening carefully to the sounds on the line. She realises they are coming from above. Her sharp eyes detect the helicopter: far, yet close enough to see his shit-eating grin and that hand that waves at her. 

He has the girl with him. Who knew a monster could care.

“You know, you are the only woman in the CIA I haven’t fucked.” He provokes and then hangs up suddenly.

Erica watches as the helicopter takes off, her eyes widening with fear as the notion of her own demise resonates like a stinging slap.

The blast takes her along with the entire building within a split second.

Standing on the cliff by the edge of the valley, August stares down at the tranquil scar that swerves amidst lush, fertile mountains. The crystalline Indus river lies before his eyes, its sweet water so clear that the sky mirrors upon the brim.   

It’s not every day when a simple man becomes a god. 

The melancholic beauty of nature makes his fingers tighten around the detonator, thumb ghosting over the button as he allows himself a couple of last seconds to inhale the air of the old world. 

Oh, how many will die for this god to receive his halo.

‘I wish you were here, my Ingvild…’ August muses with anguish, feeling an awkward jab at the spot where his heart should have been.  

A sudden rumbling noise of a helicopter makes his gut weave. 

‘That better not be Ethan fucking Hunt! I should have thrown him off the cliff in Norway!’ 

Alarmed yet stoic as ever, he draws his gun, aiming it at the aircraft inching its way to land on the other side of the flat terrain. The last thing he needs right now is someone meddling with his affairs, but it quickly becomes clear to him that if someone wanted a monster like him dead, they would have sniped him from the air before he could even see them coming. 

‘Did you forget the woman is nothing but a valkyrie?’

“What are you doing here?” He calls out at Ingvild and frowns at the pilot, abruptly struck with anger. “I specifically asked to make sure she stays rested!”

The pilot shrugs while Ingvild makes her way toward August with mild effort. Dark circles rest beneath her eyes, yet she is still so very beautiful to him, especially when she frowns. 

“She was very persuasive and horrendously stubborn,” the pilot retorts. 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” August mutters to himself and watches the little battered woman making every attempt to remain stoic as she steps closer. A shadow of a malicious grin creeps on her frosty eyes. 

Once upon a time, she promised him she will always find him. She has no intention of breaking that promise.

“Did you think I’ll let you do this without me, August Walker?” She sulks at him as she finally moves to stand in front of him. Every nerve in her body is inflamed with pain, yet the thought of not being here at the birth of the new world brings greater agony than imagined. 

Something she compares to missing out on the birth of a child.

“We are in this together now, this is our cause, our better world. You don’t get to leave me behind.”

Her hand reaches for his wrist, thumb pressing to feel his quickening pulse. Wonder paints his eyes and his lips gape softly. He promised himself Lacey will never cross his thoughts again; yet he can’t help but think about that night in his study and the pain of betrayal.  

‘How is she even real?’   

Gently peeling her fingers off his wrist, he looks at the detonator. He then takes her hand in his, placing the device in her slender grasp. 

“Forgive me, my darling. You’re right,” he apologises and turns her over to view the horizon. A shiver surges through her as she senses the weight in her palm when August moves to stand behind her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“We do this together.”

Pesky little honeysuckles flutter within her chest as his arms wrap around her carefully. One of his hands holds hers, raising it up slightly to position the device in front of her chest.

“Do it angel, set them free.”

Taking a deep breath, Ingvild slides her fingertip over the red button. Scattered images of her life briefly flash through her mind, ending with the single moment where their gazes first met that day in Bergen.

Bright heavenly light cleanses the sky and loud thunder rips through the earth. Standing on the trembling ground, August and Ingvild stare into the distance while slowly turning to face each other. They hold their hands together, both gaping with awe as rich golden hues pour into the sky. 

Enamoured, and lost within one another’s beauty, they share a long, lingering kiss. 

Epilogue. 

Sharp and heavy, the blade split the wood in half as if it was made out of soft butter. Resting the blunt side of the leaden axe over his shoulder, he pauses and observes the pile of firewood on the ground. His lips move in silence as he counts before crouching down to pick up another log and place it on the stump. 

Strong shades of pink and orange spread between the clouds, kissed by the drowsy sun as it makes its way to slumber beneath the earth. It’s been 8 months since the coming of their new world. Even though there is still work to be done, August decided a hideout was necessary to let her mend her wings. 

“Loki!” 

Ingvild rushes into the green field with a wide, toothy smile. Feral rivers of chestnut-brown reach the small of her back, floating behind her as she runs around giggling.

‘That smile, like honey. So pure, so real.’

Playful barks answer her call, and a German Shepherd puppy appears from across the green hill, jumping over one of the logs ecstatically and wags its tail.

“Careful or I’ll cook him for dinner,” August mutters and points the axe at Loki’s direction. The pup tilts its head at him and barks with playful rage, growling and baring its needle-like teeth.

Ingvild pauses and gives August an icy stare before grabbing the large puppy and holding him to her chest, “You’re a shitty liar August Walker, you love him. Always sneaking him bacon when you think I'm not looking and snuggling him in your sleep.”

August shrugs, brushing away her comment before sticking the axe into the tree stump. “Get inside, time for dinner.” A small grin stretches on his lips as he sees her walking away, kissing the puppy on his wet little nose. 

The scent of cedarwood burning at the mantle and brewed coffee welcomes her home as she enters the cabin, immediately filling her chest with mellowness. She allows Loki down on the ground before walking into their cosy bedroom where she removes her trousers and remains in an oversized sweater and black thigh-high stockings that August gifted her after they left Kashmir. 

When she returns to the living room, August is sitting at the study with his laptop open. A small wrinkle lines his forehead while he runs two fingers over his moustache. A map and coordinates are visible on the screen, along with a messaging platform which she only assumes is a conversation with one of the apostles. 

Loki lies guarding at his feet.

“Come here, princess,” August calls, reaching out his arm toward her. “I have something to show you.”

Sneaking toward him like a large feline, Ingvild takes his hand and lets him guide her to his lap. Her legs fall to each side of his thighs, and August rests his chin at the small crook of her neck where it always belonged.

“What are you looking for?” She asks, casually pulling the sleeve over her wrist to scratch at a peeling hammer tattoo gracing her skin.

“Don’t touch it, let it heal.” August answers and takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers together tightly. An illustration of an angel wing decorates the same spot on his arm. As she glances at the way the black ink is embedded into his flesh, she can’t help but smile and ever so slightly grind herself on the semi-rigid bulge beneath her ass.

August growls against her neck, grazing his stubbles over her supple skin before reaching a hand to unzip his tracking trousers and pull out his swelling manhood. After a soft scuffle of her panties, he lifts her hips and slides himself fully within her wet, angelic cove. 

“August…” She sighs, fluttering her eyes shut for a split second, embracing both pain and pleasure. When August fills her, she is ethereal, as if a piece that was missing all her life has finally made it back home.

“You always look so beautiful with me inside you,” he murmurs against her neck, planting bristly kisses down her jawline before returning his glare forward. Ingvild only moves slightly above him, swaying slow and smooth on his thick, throbbing girth and squeezing him tight between her walls to relish in their bond.  

“I have a present for you.” He opens a tab on his browser while his fingers toy with her clit with surprising tenderness.

“What is it?” She moans as he presses down on her sensitive pearl.

“I found Liam,” he explains, a twinge of pride and a spit of revenge hanging on his baritone. He growls slightly as her cunt clenches around him by his words. “He’s hiding out in Sao Paulo. I plan to bring you his head.”

Sucking on her bottom lip, she grinds a little harder, feeling August deep in her gut. The temptation to ride him hard and rough is too great, but this sweet slow torture always brings her to a higher ground of ecstasy when they finally fuck. 

“Can it wait, my beautiful monster?” She asks sweetly, reaching her talons to clutch his thigh as he pushes further in and bottoms out inside her with a grunt. “I’d like to stay here for a while and be your angel for a little bit longer.”

August lifts his cerulean gaze back to Ingvild, the clear sky in his deep irises slightly darken as he observes the serene look on her face. His hand rises to cup her chin and turn her head to the side to meet his possessive lips. He cages her mouth with his, devouring her with the lust of a hungry man.

“You will always be mine and mine alone Ingvild,” he promises as he ends the kiss with a nibble on her chin. Ingvild licks his saliva off her mouth and stares back at him with the oxymoronic union of innocence and sinister urge before she leans back and continues to look at his plans.

‘Who is she to you?’

‘She is my queen, and I am the king of hell.’

_______________________________

Additional Notes: Song lyrics by Elvis Presely - Angel. Additional Inspiration by Nine Inchs Nails - We’re in this together. 

Disclaimer: I own no rights to Mission Impossible’s franchise or August Walker.

#henry cavill #august walker #august walker x ofc #august walker fanfiction #henry cavill fanfiction #the way to hell #henrycavill

[hes-writer]

Reign (3)

Summary: harry sees something he's supposed to have

Warnings:  angst in the beginning, angst in the middle, angst near the end

Word Count: 4881 words

A/N: @devilinbetweenthesheet-s : dont cheat and don’t do drugs, kids

Tarnish (1)  .  Halo (2)  . Reign (3) . Trial (4) .

Errors (5) . Ruin (6) . Crumble (7)

Error Taglist

____

A writer that cannot write is dead.

When one loses the ability to tell their stories and anecdotes through the mere action of swirling words together to create an imaginable atmosphere of real-world fantasy; they are dead. A writer recovering from the mundane and mediocre way of penning experiences to bounce back into what they used to be is difficult. It is easier to free fall and drown in the depths of despair. The moment thoughts and rumination fog up to form a blurry image of conviction is a warning sign, blaring at the back of their minds and sometimes even in their faces.

Harry is a writer--or, he was. Picking up the pen to style the words lingering in his head used to be as easy as blinking; quick and natural. Now, the words claw at the swell of his throat, trying to spit an adjective to describe the way he felt. It was at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be lathed into existence. It did not matter if his cognition was mingled with various chemicals aimed to be able to feel happiness.

He was sober but he had trouble placing his finger on why it was so strenuous to narrate his feelings throughout the breakup. Being high or drunk was never the answer for him. Weed made him tired and made him have a case of cottonmouth. Harry learned from a young age that he should only ever engage with alcohol if he was in a mindset and setting that catered to increase existing good vibes. He thought that maybe he was in an odd phase of perceiving the opposite, and so he intoxicated himself enough to understand that it didn’t matter if he was soaked head-to-toe in sobriety or whizzed out of his mind by the amber liquid swirling in the glass in his hand. But that wasn’t the circumstance. It also didn’t matter if he was grasping his favourite pen to write--because it was comfortable--or tapping his calloused thumbs against his phone keypad. Hell, it didn’t make a difference when he sat down and prepared his typewriter to indulge in a headspace of vintage songwriting. Maybe that would help.

It didn’t.

He had stories to tell. Everything was laid out in misty overcast yet Harry’s great ideas morphed into gentle mistakes, harsh mistakes and discoveries that had him almost ripping his hair out of the roots of his scalp. When he felt the wave of his ocean-thoughts rise and peek where the sand shifted, his fingers were ready to move and discern for the eyes to see. But with each fritter, he couldn’t seem to get even two paragraphs in to decide that it was utter shit.

Harry was old enough to understand that slumping on the wet sand was a part of life. Sometimes picking up a fistful of grains and throwing them back to the sea was a great way to release frustration. But it seemed like this plunge of his ability to write was a hole of quicksand. He was trying his hardest to displace himself as swiftly as possible but it only made his scenario worse. The muddy sand clung unto his legs like sticky glue, heftier with each effort to leave. He wanted to move on. He wanted to forget everything that occurred in the past four years. Harry wanted to erase Y/N from his life because she wasn’t around anymore to bring those memories back to sparkly existence.

What he needed to do was nestle himself into a certain depth, calmly, in order to pull a limb out and ensure that his progress on the so-called ‘moving on’ did not have any drawbacks. Until then, he cannot possibly create songs that he was well-known for if he wasn’t patient enough.

He wanted so badly to tell his side of the story. Harry craved to think as clearly as he did when he told Y/N about his plan for their future. Admitting to his feelings was a hard route. Sure, he can be vulnerable but it took a great deal of convincing on his part to immerse himself in the deepest parts of his brain to understand why he felt the way he did. He usually had the means of songwriting to help him out but that obviously wasn’t working out that good for him.

___

Harry was packing the rest of Y/N’s things in boxes to be picked up later in the afternoon. He was annoyed at first at how she depended on him to fold her clothes properly instead of doing the bundle of the work herself. But he guessed that she didn’t want to be around him for longer than she had to. To be frank, he also did not want to indulge in what might turn into an argument if they spoke about the reason for their breakup. It was just a bit confusing because he had an urge to still want her around despite their less than likely situation.

Torture. If Harry had one chance to describe the way he felt right now; it was torture. With every nook of Y/N’s side of the closet emptying into brown, cardboard boxes--he physically how much she had integrated her life with his. How much space she took up in his life. How his clothes and her clothes were so interchanged between them that he couldn’t decide if the gray pull-over was actually his or hers. And in a moment of selfishness did he tuck it away for his safe-keeping despite seeing the tag imprinted on the inside; a shop that he hadn’t set foot in so it was a guarantee that it was hers.

Her scent embedded in the thin threads of each fabric wafted to his nose; each with a new wave of memories engulfing his senses as if each piece garnered a specific scent tailored to a specific event. Like her sunflower sundress--it smelled of fresh flowers as if the print was a scratch and sniff that released a fragrance. Or their DIY-ed tie-dye shirt of pastel blue and cotton candy pink. It was a matching piece made out of the cheap dye and a simple white tee but it was theirs. Things like these made Harry want to yell in frustration because every time he thought that he was completely over her-- Y/N appears out of visibly nowhere and towers over him.

Seeing her for the first time in days was a breath of relief. She looked fine. Glowing even, and Harry did not know what to make of it. As sadistic as it sounded, he was expecting dry-stained tears and a birds’ nest of hair trampling her head. Instead, Y/N was dressed for comfort in her baggy jeans and an even looser sweater covering her body. Her lips were drawn in a thin line, giving him a nod in greeting as he gestured to the boxes littering the floor.

Harry offered to help--it was the least he could do. And somehow, silence protruded from the tense atmosphere, begging to be cut by a knife yielded through their voices nipping at each others’ emotions.

“Let go of my damn hand,” Y/N stated, her hard stare could turn Harry into stone. He just wanted her to listen before she left.

He shook his head in denial of her request, tightening his grip further. “No. Listen to me, Y/N,”

“What do you possibly have to say that will change anything between us?”

And maybe it was her fault for assuming that he wanted to fix things. The sliver of hope thinly dressed behind closed lids enabled her to think that maybe he was going to say that he wanted to make things work again. That he had broken up with Camille and he realized what a stupid he had done throwing away everything they built up to for the past four years for an affair that couldn’t quench the thirst of his desire to have a family.

Harry sighed, a shadow of mischievous smirk painted on his lips. But maybe it was Y/N’s sight in deception because she could never see Harry as anything other than sweet and kind Harry incapable of hurting a fly.

“What? I don’t intend to. We’re broken. We’re beyond fixing,”

The hitch in her breath was as sharp as the stare he was searing her with. Forcing her to please understand that this would be their last conversation--if time and fate were on their side. “You’re not something I would take the time to handle,”

“Stop saying shit you don’t mean, Harry” Y/N rolled her eyes in annoyance. His macho act was barely an act and more like a stage curtain easily pushed with a flick of a wrist.

“Things I don’t mean?”

“You heard me,” She crossed her arms over his chest in defence, leaning against the closed trunk. “Say what you will but our love was real. Don’t make me seem like I’m crazy. Don’t tell me that I’m a mistake,” Her voice was filled with confidence because she knew the affection that Harry diffused.

The cradles of his palm at the small of her back when they had to walk past a crowd. The subtle graze of the back of his fingers caressing the bare skin of her arm. Kisses pressed to her temple as she read a novel and swirling fingertips twirling her hair. These were acts of love that happened nearly every day in their relationship. A routine that felt different if it wasn’t done to or with each other.

Exasperatedly, Harry felt the same itching crawling up his spine. His ego ballooning into a delicate size and one more word from Y/N’s lush lips would have him on his hands and knees, begging for her back.

“This, us, was a fuckin’ mistake,” Harry’s accent thunked heavily in her cochlea, practically spitting the words out of his mouth as if they were poisonous. Ringed fingers gesticulated the space between them to emphasize how much of a misunderstanding they truly were. “I should’ve known the second things went further than planned,”

Y/N felt her heart drop to her full stomach. The feeling so nauseating that she instinctively palmed her belly over the fabric to protect her little baby from his harsh words. Even though they weren’t directed towards anyone but Y/N. She didn’t think that their unborn child deserved scrutiny from their own father.

“You don’t mean that, Harry.”

Because how could he? Not when he emulated sincerity through his syrupy voice. Not when he spent hours loving on her tummy and spoke to it like he would if she were pregnant. Especially not when every kiss from him felt like a buzz of electricity coursing through her veins because he was the main distributor of her happiness.

Harry truly was an asshole for making her hope and wonder of what the future held when he was unsure himself. He did want a family. That was a statement in all its truthfulness. What he wasn’t sure about was if he wanted a family with Y/N. He could have a family; kids of his own in his own time. But Y/N didn’t have to necessarily be the mother. So was he besotted with the concept of family and marriage regardless of who it was with?

“But I do,”

The rain started drizzling in frequent spurts, planting a fat droplet on her cheek that could be argued as a tear escaping Y/N’s eye. It hurt a lot to hear that from him. The man of her dreams blatantly denying each sugary word because his plans had changed.

“You’re a goddamn mistake is what you are,’

“Why are you. . .saying all these things to me? Are you trying to hurt me?” The shakiness of Y/N’s tone had Harry swallowing his words down his strep throat.

He shook his head in disagreement, “No, I’m not. ‘M just tryna make you see my side. So you can understand,” His head dipped to the side, softening his tone yet stern as though he was speaking to a child.

And that was one of the reasons why Y/N didn’t believe his all-too stoic demeanour about her. Harry was great at making others see his side regardless of how much in the wrong he was.

So why was he struggling?

___

Needless to say, he wasn’t very respectful towards Y/N any other time afterwards. He had unblocked her number months after blocking it at one point and demanded answers that he didn’t have the right to know. In retrospect, Harry was embarrassed by the way he acted. He did cheat on her and suddenly he was a saint because she moved on quicker than he thought she would? Unbelievable.

In his defence, the night he became the drunk caller was the same night he fought with Camille about having children; having a family they can call their own. Ever since that discussion did Harry notice a dispatch in their relationship. It was like they were aware of a missing link that had disappeared in their connection, but neither one of them wanted to be the one to bring it up. Harry supposed that now that Camille knew what he wanted (and vice versa)--she was feeling the pressure of giving in to him. Don’t get him wrong, Harry absolutely wanted a family and he thought that Camille was the right partner to build it with. However, he couldn’t help the voice at the back of his mind slyly whispering that he had forced her to give him what he wanted for the sake of saving their failing relationship.

___

It had been two and a half years since he mildly and miserably accepted that his dream family was being erased like a pencil on paper.

The first year; Harry still clung to the obscure hope that Camille might change her mind of having kids. Many fights sprouted between the two of them concluding in them sleeping at different places for weeks on end until they eventually crawled back to each other like an invisible string. The second-year; Harry brought up the idea of adoption. It was a hard choice for him as he desperately wanted kids of his own. A boy that looked like him and his love or a little girl that smiled at him with deep dimples mirroring his own.

And Harry liked to think that he was just on the edge of convincing Camille to consider the option when his tour was scheduled a few months after. A new dealbreaker was that Harry wasn’t going to be around much to watch and nurture the little bub they might’ve adopted. It was a sudden intrusion to think about since Harry was good with kids. He knew that. That was why he had three godchildren of his own. But what hit him the most was how sure Camille sounded when she yelled at him about leaving for months at a time and returning for a bit, only to leave again. Now, Harry hadn’t considered that part. But surely he will be ready to choose between a family and his career, right? When the time comes, he thought.

___

It pained Harry to admit that his relationship with Camille was dwindling down the drain. The knowledge that there was no future--the one that Harry envisioned--for them was getting more and more real each passing day. 

A late-night grocery trip was one of the many examples that had Harry rethinking his actions for the past couple of years. It was the time period where night owls arose and barely any customers littered the aisles. Still, Harry made sure to keep his hoodie up to shield his face.

Camille had an early flight to Milan in just a few hours later that day and she wanted to purchase some things to bring with her; in case they weren’t available in the country. So here they were at three in the morning.

As Camille walked ahead of him in her sweatpants and a plain tee, Harry couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker to the clothing section to his right The first-floor space was decorated with pastel blues and pinks; a stroller was displayed with a price would not make a dent in Harry’s bank account.

“‘M just gonna grab somethin’ over here, Cam,” Harry muttered as he pointed a thumb behind him. She nodded, “Meet me at the produce? Need to get you some fruits,”

Harry felt guilt thudding his chest because although he was losing feelings he thought were written in stone, Camille appeared to care for him the same way she always had.

He walked to the brightly lit area, puffing his cheek as a cute onesie caught his eye, “You’re so golden” with the word ‘golden’ printed in a shiny, yellow glimmer. He smiled at the thought of baby angel cooing at him as he tickled her tummy. Harry passed by the shoes next, picking up a pair barely the size of his palm. His mind flashed back to a conversation with Y/N years ago,

___

“I’m just saying,” Y/N took a bite of a pickle she held on her left hand, “Baby shoes have no business being that expensive,”

Harry chuckled from his place across the counter, “Babies need shoes too, love,’

She grabbed her fork and stabbed a piece of strawberry from her bowl, “I didn’t say the don’t need shoes. For tiny things, they could at least be a bit cheaper,”

Harry watched as she munched on a pickle on her left and took a bite of a strawberry on the other. His tongue poked out in a gag at the odd combination, resorting in glare and a huff from Y/N.

“You should try it instead of judging me,’

“No, thank you. Watching you eat it is enough for me,’

___

Harry craned his head at each aisle, hoping to find Camille and to distract himself from the endless Y/N related thoughts that somehow returned to his brain. He needed his girlfriend to remind him that he cannot just knock on Y/N’s door and ask her about the baby she has. If he could hold them for a bit because his baby fever was through the roof.

Locating the produce section, Harry whistled mindlessly as he searched for a blonde head of hair, failing to notice that there was a basket in front of his feet. He had kicked it, jolting him out of his thoughts in a hurry.

A man with brown hair sporting an outfit similar to his (sweats and a hoodie), chuckled at him as Harry leaned down to retrieve the gray basket filled with a jar of pickles.

“Sorry man,” Harry muttered, holding the handles up for the man to carry.

“It’s alright, it happens,” The guy had not seen his face yet, too busy inspecting the carton of strawberries.

He decided to continue the conversation, “Strawberries and pickles? Odd combo, huh,” Harry was briefly reminded of Y/N’s obsession with the two rival products.

“Yeah, m’lady loves ‘em. Had a craving in the middle of the night. She’s in the car right now with our lil bubba,”

Harry’s heart fluttered at the mention of a baby. He needed to get his rails in check. He cannot keep having his heart bursting with adoration at the mere mention of a baby.

“I’m Connor,” He said, finally facing Harry after choosing the best carton.

“I'm--,”

“Harry!” Both men turned their heads towards Camille carrying a basket full fruits and green veggies, “Got you some stuff to blend for your smoothies,”

Connor squinted his eyes at the couple and Harry internally screamed because he knew that he and Camille had been recognized. “Harry. Yeah, I know you,” The sudden hostility made Harry confused as Connor grasped his basket from him in a harsh manner, heading towards the checkout.

The rest of the time inside the store was filled with curiosities as Harry carried the paper bags towards the car, barely recognizing Connor’s figure heading towards his own vehicle. Luckily, Harry has parked only a few slots away and could inconspicuously watch Connor and his so-called ‘lady’.

Except, Camille was ushering him to hurry up as she still had a few things to pack at home.

___

On most days, Harry was used to waking up alone. Used to feeling the shiver crawling up his side, used to seeing the indent left by Camille’s body instead of her. He had grown familiar with the sudden cast of loneliness blanketing him thicker than the duvet on top of his body.

The early morning trip to the store had tired him out, paired with the overthinking of the man named ‘Connor’ that flipped his attitude towards him quicker than he could kick the grey basket with his feet. He flopped back to the mattress after washing his face and brushing his teeth. It was noon when he jolted out of bed again at the sound of his front door opening, voices filling the empty space that had Harry running towards the foyer in case there was an intruder.

His tense shoulders sagged in relief when he caught sight of his mum and Gemma, “Oh, s’just you guys,”

Both women looked up at him at the top of the stairs, “You forgot we were coming over for the weekend, didn’t you?” Gemma teased as she headed to the living room. Harry followed, walking down the stairs.

He scratched the nape of his neck nervously, “No. . . “

“Can you help me reach this, H?” Anne called out from the kitchen.

His mum gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Yes, you did, by the way. Slept through the whole morning. Good thing Camille let us in before she left,”

At the sound of a bag crumpling and squeals echoing the hollow house, Harry scrunched his nose in curiosity, briskly walking where Gemm was currently holding up tiny baby clothes in front of her. “Who’s that for?” He thought of any possible friends that had had a baby recently but couldn’t recall any.

She immediately stuffed the clothing into the bag, nervously placing a hand on her chest, “Gosh, Harry, you scared me,” Her brows went high on her forehead in alarm, sharing a look with her mum trailing behind Harry.

“Well? Did I miss something?”

“Oh, it’s for one of my friends,”

Harry contemplated on his next words, “D-did you know that Y/N had a baby?” It couldn’t be right if his sister and mum knew about his exes baby and not him, right? That’s just plain odd to still be in touch with an ex's family. His brows furrowed in suspicion as both of them declined his question.

“What? Nooo,”

Awkward silence filtered through the air as Anne sipped water from her mug and Harry was slowly putting the pieces together. Gemme dove to the centre of the couch where her phone was when it rang suddenly, surprising all three of them. Harry was quicker, eyeing his mum and sister and inspecting the emoji substituting as a name before sliding his thumb to answer it.

"Hey, Gems! Are you coming to the park? We're waiting for you,”

Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach just as the phone nearly slipped from his clutch. That voice. He could recognize it from everywhere having spent nearly every morning for the four years that they were together hearing it lulling him out of sleep. It was Y/N’s voice calling his sister who was looking extremely anxious.

He tapped on the ‘mute’ button, “What does she mean ‘we’?”

“Nothing! Give me my phone back,” Gemma tried to reach for the device but Harry held it high beyond her reach.

“I saw the picture you sent me. I told you that you and Anne didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry felt dizzy. “Connor and I got some things a few weeks ago. But that skirt is so adorable!”

One part of him was glad to hear her voice. In fact, Harry found himself smiling too, despite what he just heard. Connor. “Harry, won’t be there right? Hello? Have I been talking to myself this whole time,” Y/N laughed a little; she had a habit of talking endlessly when she was excited. It made Harry more sombre, letting his guards down and his arm in reach for Gemma to grasp.

“Hey! I'm just organizing the clothes, see you soon!" Gemma jammed her finger on the red end call, anxiously glancing at her brother, piecing everything together.

“Who's Connor?" Could it be that the Connor he met last night was the same as Y/N’s? The one who bought pickles and strawberries--one of Y/N favourite food combinations? He mentioned that he had a little girl and Y/N just called to meet his sister and his mum at the park. And baby clothes?

Anne and Gemma looked at each other, quickly deciding that for the benefit of Harry that they should tell him at least a little bit. He was looking as if he was going insane, especially with his bed head pointing his hair out in different directions.

“He’s Y/N’s partner”

Harry gulped, reeling his thoughts to a halt, “Partner? And the baby is...?” The last bit of confirmation was all he needed to lash his feelings out.

“Is... waiting for us at the park! Sorry H gotta go,” Gemma was swift enough to gather all the bags without having Harry chase after her. His state of confusion and shock was enough to render him partially speechless and immobile.

“Hey wait!”

Anne garnered his attention, “Oh, Mrs. Q from next door wants me over for dinner. I’m sure wants to see us both. Why don’t you get ready, Harry?” Anne tugged his arm in the direction of the staircase pushing him to stumble up a couple of steps.

Harry was confused. He made the sounds of his footsteps creeping up the wooden stairs, hearing his mum quietly talking to Gemma on the phone, “Elmsway Park, you said? How long till you're home? I’m not sure how long I can keep him occupied,”

With that being said, Harry was out of his house, silently unlocking and locking the door. He was dressed in some basketball shorts and a graphic tee, slipping on the first pair of sneakers he had tossed aside. Harry jogged to his car, typing in the name of the park on his phones’ GPS. The route was only a few minutes away so he decided to take his time, gathering his scattered thoughts along the way.

He parked just beside the playground scouting the trees around the premises. Harry decided that it was the perfect day. The sun was out. It wasn’t too humid and the birds were chirping on the branches. He could see why the playground was full of children running around in delight. The green patches of grass were partially filled with picnic blankets and food to be shared. Families laughed with each other as one in particular caught his eye.

It made him smile at first, seeing just how adorable the couple was with their baby. He exited the car, making sure to lock the vehicle. With his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his shorts, Harry could feel the tethered grass rubbing against his legs. As he got closer, he couldn’t help the twinge of familiarity spark in his chest, recognizing that what he was staring at was Connor playfully chasing a little girl of about two-years-old as she squealed at how close he was getting to tagging her.

Harry stood by a tree, shielding him away from view. He tried to appear invisible without seeming too creepy. He knew that it was only a matter of seconds before his eyes found the woman he had been missing, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Connor picked up the little girl in his arms, dotting pecks all over the girls’ cheeks, causing her to giggle and push his face away with a tiny palm. And there she was standing outside the raised platform of the playground, coming up to the both of them with a juice box in hand to hydrate the little angel. Connor turned his attention to Y/N, planting the most adoring kiss on her lips that made her smile so wide and the baby cover her eyes. They laughed together, looking like a picture-perfect family.

Gemma sat on the bench, flickering her gaze to the precious family in front of her and to the figure of her brother walking away from the scene. Her heart broke for Harry, and it cracked, even more, when he turned back. This time, watching Connor and Y/N cheer on baby angel to go down the slide. Both of them clapped their hands in enthusiasm as the girl hesitantly slid down the plastic slide. The smile on her face was infectious.

It almost made Harry smile, too.

___

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Trial aka pt 4 is already up on Patreon! (link in bio)

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#harry styles #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles drabble #harry styles imagines #harry styles angst

[givemethatgold]

Fix’er Upper Pt. 3

Pairing: Eventual Frankie Morales x F!Reader Warnings: Clumsy injury, more stupid fighting Length: 2.5k Notes: If these two dummies could have one (1) adult conversation they’d be in bed together by now. Instead, we get this! *waves around vaguely*

PART ONE, TWO

Money was tight. You had been trying to ignore the dwindling stack of cash, telling yourself that you didn’t actually need to fix the cracked drywall, replace the old oven, or fill in the missing patches of shingles. 

That ignorance had finally come to bite you in the butt. You were rudely woken at three a.m. to the clap of thunder and the pat-pat-pat of rain hitting the house. You loved storms, the excitement of the lighting, and how fresh the air smelled once the rain had passed. 

You rolled over onto your back so you could watch the lightning flashing between the cracks of your curtains. A tap on your forehead quickly destroyed the excitement you were feeling. The wet ‘splat’ was quickly followed by another, and another, and before you were able to scramble up and search for the closest thing resembling a bucket, it had turned into a steady stream.

“Fuuuuuuuck!”

The next morning, the sun rose and shed its light upon a beautiful scene. The leaves, now free from dust, were beginning to turn, the grass glimmered with raindrops, and the sky was clear. You, on the other hand, were a verifiable disaster. 

Hair unkempt, heavy bags under your eyes, and wearing the first items of clothing you could find in your scramble last night. Your exhaustion was so complete, it hadn’t even dawned on you to change or freshen up a bit before going out into the public eye. All you could focus on was getting to Hank’s Hardware and buying all the shingles you could get your hands on.

Once again, however, you were harshly reminded of your dwindling savings and just how expensive fixing up a house could be. The owner, Allan if you remembered correctly, had shown you the right size and style for your home’s roof and you nearly choked at the price.

“You know,” he had said gently, “we do have the option of a payment plan. I don’t let just anyone use it either. It’s for trusted customers. I have a good gut on who I can trust.”

“Really?” You asked, feeling a little pathetic while also knowing now was not the time to let pride ruin such a good thing. “And, um, what does your gut tell you about me?”

“Welllll,” he smiled, hooking his thumbs into his suspenders and leaning back a little to size you up. “You’re hard-working, feel like you have something to prove, won’t back down from a challenge, and are in way over your head with that damn old house.”

“Oh.”

“No offense, ma’am! Sometimes I forget myself and talk to strangers the same way I’d talk to my friends.” He patted your forearm gently then hooked it back into his suspenders, pretending he didn’t notice you jumping at the physical contact. “But it’s true. No denying you won’t be able to shingle all by yourself. I’d offer, but I’m in no shape to be climbing up roofs.”

“That’s very sweet of you, truly. But I’ll manage! I doubt I could afford a handyman, so it’ll be me and my stubborn self scrambling around up there.” You joked, but it fell a little flat since the both of you knew it was the truth.

“I’ve got an idea...” Hank trailed off, his gaze searching around by the till. “Maybe you two can help each other out?” He fiddled at the computer for a minute, then grabbed a flyer from the corkboard mounted behind the counter before handing you two pieces of paper. One was a receipt of what you owed him after this latest excursion and a detailed timeline of when small payments could be made. 

Glancing up at him, you gave him a watery smile and thanked him for being so kind. Allan waved you off and pointed to the second paper.

‘Help Wanted’ it read, ‘Morales Acres. Light physical labour, quiet environment, rate of pay dependent on quality of work.’

“So friendly and welcoming,” you murmured, sarcastically, under your breath. Not quietly enough though because Allan snorted out a laugh and agreed that the ad was worded very abruptly. However, he vetted for the owner of the farm and suggested you head over to see if he would be willing to trade labour for labour.

Or at the very least, you thought, pay you so you can afford a roofer.

Following the directions Allan had provided for you, you quickly found Morales Acres. Surprisingly, it was a very short distance from your own home, making you wonder if the owner had been one of the people to drop by during your first weeks here.

The driveway was a beautiful, winding drive. The view of the farm was obscured by thickets of trees on either side of the road but you managed to catch glimpses of a pond and a few bales of hay before rounding a bend and driving into the yard.

A small gasp left your lips at the sight. It was picturesque! Something out of a travel magazine, or on every city girl’s Pinterest board. The driveway came to an end in front of a statuesque barn painted in the classic red and white, stone walls cordoned off certain areas that, from where you sat, looked like they could be used to house sheep or hens. A few small sheds were lined up along the other edge of the yard but the main attraction was the neatly lined rows of apple trees all heavy with fruit.

Climbing out of the cab, you slowly made your way into the yard with your mouth hanging open dumbly. It was just so peaceful here and it was obvious that the owner cared deeply for the property. You were enchanted and fell immediately in love.

“You must be the help Allan called to say he was sending over,” a warm voice rang out.

Looking around for the source your gaze widened, then immediately hardened, when you caught sight of who was talking to you.

“You!”

“You?!”

To say it had been a smooth business agreement would be a total lie. You and Market Asshole, Frankie you reminded yourself to call him, had bickered back and forth for the better part of an hour before shaking hands. Surprisingly, you had both argued more for the other person’s benefit, something you had been mulling over since.

If this guy was such an ass, why was he also acting like his help with your renovations wouldn’t be worth as much as you picking apples? You knew your presence disturbed his peace, and that you weren’t as strong as he might have hoped his helper would be, and he still hadn’t trusted you with all the workings of his orchard. 

So, while you weren’t going to argue anymore, you knew you were getting the better end of the deal: you help him gather his harvest and get it safely stored in the barn, then he spends the same amount of hours helping you. While the weather during September was prone to drizzle, you had convinced him that a tarp thrown over the baldest patches of roof would be fine and that the apples couldn’t wait. 

He had grumpily conceded your point but had sworn that as soon as the last of the fruit was picked he’d be over to do a proper job of it. So continued the uneasy truce between the two of you for the past four weeks. The first week was the hardest as your hands, unaccustomed to work, blistered, and your muscles ached from sudden use. You had initially tried to pass the time by making conversation but you got the hint and stayed quiet once Frankie started choosing trees farther and farther from yours.

Slowly, however, the blisters healed and gave way to callouses. Your muscles became accustomed to the work and you were able to carry twice the amount as you had started off with. Your home could now boast electricity and running water everywhere it should be, and the pile of discarded furniture had been reduced to ash by a spectacular bonfire which Jacquie and her family had joined you in admiring.

Today started off as a normal day. You showed up for harvesting at the break of dawn, having discovered you much preferred the cool morning air over being up on a ladder with the midday sun beating down on you. The trees were obscured by a low fog that had yet to burn up, but you knew what section you needed to start on. 

Enjoying the way the fog enveloped you, making you feel like you were in a magical world, you began to hum and your steps took on a dreamy dance-like quality. You had never taken lessons or had even been allowed to make such a spectacle of yourself while living with Brad but now you felt free enough to spin, twirl, and glide. Overcome with the joy your freedom gave you, you began to belt out “These Are a Few of my Favourite Things”, The Sound of Music having been played on repeat when you were a child. 

Once you reached the ladder, you hoisted the basket onto your back and continued to sing whatever songs you could remember while you worked. A particularly boisterous rendition of “Do Re Mi” had you flinging your arm out wide and leaning back on the ladder for a dramatic finish.

The apples threw you off balance. 

With a screech, you fell backward, managing to twist yourself around to land awkwardly on your hands and knees instead of on the basket of apples strapped to your back. You seemed to have come away unscathed, with just scratched knees and a throbbing in one wrist. Thankfully it wasn’t your dominant hand.

“Whoa!” Frankie called out, catching sight of you on the ground with the ladder tipped on its side, “Everything okay? Are you okay?”

Coming to a skidding stop next to you, he grasped the basket and slipped it off your back with ease. 

You took a few deep breaths and nodded. “Fine! Fine, just bruised knees and ego...” you assured him.

“What were you thinking?!” He tore into you, “You could have broken your neck! Or ruined a whole barrel of apples! Then what would I do?! This job doesn’t come with health insurance for Christ's sakes!” Running his hands through his curly, brown hair he let out a huff of air and walked over to where your ladder lay on the ground.

“Un-be-fucking-lievable!” You called out, incredulously. While trying to get to your feet, to march over and wag your finger in his face, you put too much pressure on your injured wrist that caused pain to scream down your arm.

You managed to mask the cry of pain as a cry of frustration and got to your feet. Surreptitiously cradling your hand against your chest, you grabbed another basket and walked past Frankie to start climbing the ladder again. Looking at the ground so he wouldn’t see the tears of pain in your eyes, you mumbled, “I’ll be more careful, alright? I’m sorry.”

Stopping your ascent with a hand on your arm he stuttered out what might have been the beginning of an apology but he couldn’t quite seem to put the right words together so he just cleared his throat.

“Just...” he said in a much softer tone, “just be more careful. Okay? I can’t lose my best worker.” 

The lame joke made you smile despite yourself. 

“Employee of the month,” you replied in a dry tone, “hurrah.” 

You shared wry smiles while a silent apology passed between the two of you. His dark brown eyes held a warmth to them you had never noticed before. Their hue reminding you of every tree in the orchard from the early light to the sunset, golden flecks reminiscent of the sun. His face, weathered from so much time spent outdoors, was marked with laugh lines, worry lines, and a small scar gracing his left cheek. 

Your eyes wandered past the scar to note how long his scruffy facial hair had grown and how it had started to obscure those pleasantly pouty lips. 

Then, with a start, you realized you were staring at this infuriating man’s lips like a hormonal teenager. With an embarrassed squeak, you quickly scurried up the ladder, hooking your elbow around each rung to avoid any more pressure on your wrist.

To say Frankie was coping well with having someone around would be a gross overstatement. 

It’s not that he didn’t like the company or wanted to be alone. The problem was that he was starting to like her company too much, to care too much. And caring too much had been the root cause of all Frankie’s sorrows.

First, there had been his Dad, trying to impress the man who never even wanted kids. Then the force, always feeling like he needed to prove himself and desperate for praise. After that was his wife, ex-wife, and trying to be someone he wasn’t so she would stay interested and in love. The pressure created by caring about these people and the expectations they had for him drove him to abuse drugs. Then his friends came calling and Frankie went against his gut because they had cared so deeply about something and he had cared deeply for them.

His wife, his kid, his family, his job, his friends. He had cared more than they did and he had come away worse off. At least now he was clean and sober, and was very aware of the irony of him now making and selling an alcoholic drink.

No, it was best to stay alone. He loved too freely and put too much stock in being loved back and every. single. time. it hurt him.

So, he closed himself off from you. Initially, he didn’t think it was going to be an issue, especially considering how you two had met. But then he found himself smiling at your stories, idly leaning against a branch so he could watch your graceful moments. He hated watching you leave, knowing you were going home to that piece of shit house that he should really be fixing up for you.

He recognized the signs and nipped them in the bud; working farther away, replying to questions with the fewest possible words, focusing purely on work, and maintaining a professional relationship. It pained him to push you away but deep down he knew it was best for the both of you.

Which brings him back to this moment.

Frankie was too stunned to notice your awkward climb up the ladder. Standing there, dumbly, for another few seconds. Wondering, all the way back to the idling tractor, what the hell had just happened.

One minute he was just driving the tractor minding his own business and the next he was having a mild heart attack after seeing his only worker laying limp on the ground. Then, after arguing like usual, you had shared a...a moment and stared at his mouth almost long enough to tempt him to use it.

Part Four

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#Fix'er Upper #Frankie Morales x reader #Frankie Catfish Morales x reader #Catfish x reader #catfish x you #Frankie Morales x you #triple frontier fanfiction #Frankie Catfish Morales fanfiction

[iguessweallcrazyithinktho]

loving you is the antidote

Summary:

Harry  meet you at the gala and you both spent the whole night talking. He didn't get your number and he thought that was the end of you both, but later you both found your way back to each other while filming the Golden music video in italy.

Warning: fluff

Word count: 3.9k

Title: loving you is the antidote

Pairing: harry styles x reader

author note: been waiting to post this lol

Masterlist • requested closed. Don't send any!

Please don't post any of my content anywhere else without my permission. Comments and reblog welcome!

Here's how it started.

You woke up to your alarm blaring. Any other day you would hate that, but today you were quite grateful for it. You were going to the met gala for the first time in your career as a model. It was exciting.

You hopped out of the bed. Before you left your room you grabbed your phone before walking down the hallway to the kitchen. 

It was 11 in the morning, birds were chirping and the sun was casting light on your kitchen. It felt nice against your skin as you pulled out your cereal and milk. You walked over to the island and took a seat and began to eat your breakfast while you scrolled through Instagram. 

You didn't notice it at first, but you got a dm from someone you really adored. When you finally noticed, you gasped loudly

It was Harry Styles

You just couldn't believe it. The spoon in your hand, feel from your fingers as you pressed his contact. A message popped up and you began to read them.

Hi it's Harry styles. I just wanted to say I really admire what you do. I hope we can meet if you're going to the met gala tonight because I am. We can talk if you'll like, just really want to meet you. See you then hopefully. Love H.

The last bit made you smile a lot. You were really thinking about messaging him back, but you decided to surprise him until you got to the gala.

You finished up your breakfast with a racing heart. Harry styles out of all people liked what you did; he admired it. That made you shocked, at the same time giddy, also nervous. 

After you finished your breakfast, you got up from the table, placing your bowl in the sink. As soon as you turned your phone began to ring. Walking back to the table, you picked it up seeing that it was your manager Sara.

Quickly you picked up. "Hi Sara." You practically screamed into the phone. You already regret it. 

"Wow you're quite exciting. What happened? it's almost 9 in the morning, you're never this happy." Sara chuckled. You knew she was shaking her head. 

"Sorry Sara. It's just… I got a message from someone special today." 

"Ohh who?" She asked flirty. You laughed. "It was from harry styles. He wanted to see me at the met gala. He said he admired me." You began to beam as you remembered that message.

"Wow y/n lucky you." Sara laughed. "Well if you're going to see him at the gala then me and Jenny have to come over and get you ready." 

"I'm ready to get ready." You nodded even though she couldn't see you. "Okay well I'll see you in about…" Sara looked down at her watch. "In about an hour. I'll see you till then ok?" 

"Okay Sara." You said your good-byes to each other and ended the call. You exhaled after sitting your phone down on the kitchen counter. You were going to take a nice warm shower before Sara got here because it was always needed

You walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, to the bathroom. You inched over to the shower, turning the on knob to the hot water. While it got warm, You began to stare at yourself in the mirror for a few minutes, Harry styles still on your mind.

When you noticed you were daydreaming you quickly snapped out of it. "Gosh." You muttered to yourself. You turned to the shower seeing the glass steaming with fog. You began to strip from your pajamas until you were bare as the day you were born. 

Slowly you got under the warm shower. Your muscles relaxing as a sigh passed your lips. Water trickled down your skin as you stood under the shower head. It felt amazing, and you'll love to stay in there forever, but you had things you had to do and that wasn't an option.

You began to wash your body. After about 5 minutes you were satisfied by how clean you were and turned off the shower head. You got out, right after wrapping a towel over your damp body, before you walked over to your vanity to begin your morning routine. 

You bopped your head to Golden that was now blasting on your phone as you got yourself ready. You just loved Harry's angelic voice as he sang from his heart. 

You were so in your element you didn't notice Time was moving quickly. The doorbell rang making you jump slightly. You got up out of your vanity chair and Walked to the door.

Opening it, you were met with Sara and your makeup artist and stylist. "How are you y/n?" Jeffrey, your makeup artist, asked as you let them all in. "Um…" you drew a long breath. "Pretty good."

You shut the door behind you before turning to look at them. "That's amazing. I heard the very famous Harry styles adores you." He gave you wiggly eyebrows as he sat his makeup case down. You began to blush at his knowing. 

"Yes he does adore me. He wants to see me later which is pretty exciting." You clashed your hands together, smiling widely. Your stylist Maria laughed, "well take a seat. We're going to glam you up for this big day." You smiled at them and took a seat at your dining room table. "Work your magic."

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

two hours later they were all done. Your makeup was done, so was your hair. You decided on a white Versace dress to wear to the gala because it made you feel sexy and look sexy. Your team agreed on that last statement when you walked out of your bedroom with it on.

"Oh my gosh y/n you look amazing honey." Jeffrey said. 

You twirled around, showing off the lace dress. "I love it, it looks so nice." Sara walked over to you. "Are you ready to go?" She smooths out the dress before looking at you.

"I'm more than ready." You said, beaming. "Alright then," Sara clashed her hands together. "Let's go then."

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

The drive to the gala didn't take long. You were so giddy to go. It was probably mostly because of Harry. As you pulled into the driveway of the art museum, Jeffrey made sure your makeup was perfect before you even stepped out of the car. 

Sara stepped out first before a guard helped you out. You took a deep breath as you saw people everywhere. You put on a smile as the door was shut behind you. 

Slowly, you walked up the steps, the photographer calling your name for you to look at their camera. You posed, giving them every angle. 

You eventually reached the top of the stairs. Waiting up there was an interviewer wanting to interview you.

"Y/n, how are you?" She asked you, holding the microphone up to you. "I'm great. Really excited to be here." You looked at the interviewer, ready for her next question. 

"What are you wearing tonight?" 

"Um… I'm wearing versace. I've wanted to wear this dress forever. I'm very excited to be wearing it." You laughed at the end of the sentence before smiling. 

"Well it's your first time to the gala, are you excited to see anyone?" She looked at you, waiting for your answer. You were dying to say Harry styles, but you know what kinda drama that could start. So you said some other people you were actually excited to see. "I'm excited to see Blake lively and Zendaya." You kinda lied.

The interviewer went with it and asked you a few more questions before she ended. Sara then led you to where the party was. You breathed a sigh of relief, but your heart was beating fast. Harry styles could be anywhere in the building. That excited you a lot. A waiter came over to you with a glass of wine. You took it right after you thinked him. You stood in the back and looked around at the sea of people. They were dressed beautifully from head to toe. You felt kinda shitty because your dress wasn't much compared to others. But a voice made you forget about the others around you.

"You look stunning."

You turned to your left to see the one and only harry. Your eyes met with his emerald eyes and it felt like you both were the only two in the building. A smile appeared on Harry's face as he walked closer to you. The pit in your stomach filled with butterflies the hurted, but in the most amazing way.

 "How are darlin'?" Harry asked. "Um… I'm great." You were flustered and Harry noticed. "Don't worry, I'm not going to bite." He winked at you, making you giggle a little. 

"Uh so you want to talk?" You asked him,  sitting the champagne glass on the bar top that was behind you. Harry nodded lightly. "Yes, I would like to talk. Follow me."

Harry began to lead the way. You followed him, trying not to freak the hell out. Harry led you to a room where only a few people were. They were in their own little world so of course Harry brought you back there.

"Here sit beside me." Harry sat down in a chair and you sat in the one beside him. "So," Harry started, looking at you. "I just wanted to chat with you because you're pretty amazing."

You felt your face heat up at his words. "Thank you. You're pretty amazing yourself." Harry smiled, showing off his dimple. "Stopped, you're making me blush." 

You chuckled at him. "No seriously you are. Your singing is unbelievably amazing and it just makes me forget about the world and smile." You looked off into the distance as you thought about those nights where you were belching lights up in your house by yourself.

"Thank you for making music." You turned back to Harry seeing him look at you with a smirk. "You're a doll. Well I'm going to say your modeling is awesome. I hope that doesn't sound weird but yeah it is."

“No it’s not. Thank you again.” 

You and Harry kept talking. You both were flirting with each other like crazy. You would notice Harry's eyes falling to your lips as you talked. It made you flustered. You weren’t going to lie, you were doing the same thing. 

You both didn’t notice that you had been talking for an hour until Sara came and told you that you unfortunately had to go. You looked back as Sara walked away. 

“Well i gotta go.” you stood up and exhaled. “It was nice to meet you.” you turned to see harry getting up. “Same here.” he stood in front of you. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he looked into your eyes. You smiled slightly as shivers ran across your sink. Harry inched closer and closer to your lips, his eyes flickering to yours and to your lips. Both yours and Harry's hearts were racing. 

Time stopped as Harry's lips touched yours. Your whole body tingled as he kissed you. The kiss was sweet, but had so much passion in it. You wanted to stay like this forever but you knew you couldn’t. You pulled away from Harry's lips, resting your forehead against yours. 

“I have no words.” you muttered as you opened your eyes. Harry pulled away, looking at you. “Same. I really enjoyed this day with you, hopefully we meet again.” Harry said as he took his hand, brushing it over your cheek bone. “Well I should go before Sara comes and yells at me. Bye harry.” 

You waved to him as you walked away, leaving his sight. Harry watched as you walked away. He knew you were going to be on his mind all week and he wouldn't have minded that.

Harry sat back down in the chair. A smile appeared on his face as he leaned back. You were something special.

-:-:-:-:

It's been a whole month since you've seen Harry. He was on your mind constantly. You loved every thing that happened on the night of the Met gala, but one thing you regret was not getting his number. 

 On the other side of the world, Harry was feeling the same way. You flooded his mind constantly. He fell asleep smiling as he thought about you. He wished he would've been smarter and got your number, but he couldn't go back and now he had to live with it.

Harry sat on his couch, his guitar tucked in between his arms and his thighs as he strummed away. He was coming up with some new music for his next album. The sound of his guitar filled Harry's ears. This song he was playing was about you and how close he was to getting you. He was really indulged in singing, so much  when his phone rang it startled him.

He picked it up seeing that it was jeff. “Jeff?” Harry said. “Hi harry, so i was thinking we could do a music video for golden. What do you think?” 

Harry suckedin his breath as he thought. “Um… I do like the sound of that. When do you want me to do it and where?”

“Um I was thinking today you can go to Italy and film like a 70s style music video. And I have the perfect girl for the video.” Jeff laughed on the other end of the phone. Harry smiled at Jeff's words, getting extremely curious. “Who is it?” Harry questioned. Jeff sucked in his breath. “Uh you have to go to italy to see.” 

Harry shook his head laughing at jeff. “Okay you convinced. I’m going.” Harry got up and finished the call with jeff. After he hung up, Harry made his way to his bedroom to pack. He opened his closet and pulled out his suitcase. He began to stuff a few pairs of pants and trousers in his suitcase. When he had enough for a few days, he zipped up his suitcase and walked out of the room with it.

Harry wondered who Jeff was going  to pair him with for the music video, but he’ll eventually see. Before Harry left he called Anne to tell her where he was going. She was still a huge Mama Bear. When he was finished with the call, he drove his way to the airport. 

Watermelon sugar was blasting on the radio. Harry could help but belch out the song because you know it's his song. After about 15 minutes Harry arrived at the airport. He parked, got out of his car before making his way to the airport. After going through security he walked through the terminal. Of course while waiting to board some fans asked for a picture. He didn't mind so he took some pictures  with a few. When Harry was finally in his seat by the window, he put in his airpods to listen to some 80s music and began to read a book. 

2 hours and 30 minutes later Harry arrived in italy.  Harry quickly unboarded so he wasn't seen. His taxi was already waiting for him when he exited the huge building. Harry put his bag in the trunk before getting into the back. The driver pulled away as soon as Harry buckled his seat belt. He was making his way to the hotel where Harry would be staying. While the driver was driving to his destination, Harry's eyes were outside of the window. 

He loved italy a lot. It almost felt like his second home. He just felt so safe and welcome here. 

"Alright we're here sir." The driver looked at Harry through the mirror. Harry looked at the guy, "okay, thank you." Harry said, reaching for his wallet. He tipped the guy a generous amount which earned a thanks. Harry smiled slightly at the guy before opening the door, taking his baggage and walking into the hotel. 

Harry was quickly checked into a room. Once he got the key card he was off to the elevator. He was hoping to get in a nap before they filmed anything. 

With his slinder, run clad fingers, Harry pressed the up button. It didn't take long for the door to open up. Harry walked in and sat down his luggage with an exhale. The door was about to shut 6 seconds later, but Harry heard a distant voice.

"Hold the door please."

And Harry did. He put his hand out and the door opened again. The voice that Harry heard now had a face to it. You walked into the elevator, smiling, not even aware who was beside you. 

"Thank you for that. You pressed your floor before turning to see who it was. Your jaw practically dropped to the floor when you saw Harry.

"Harry!?" You were shocked. You didn't think you'd meet him again; yet here you both were in the same hotel. 

"Y/n… How.. how are you?" Harry asked, stumbling to find his words. "I'm okay. I'm here to do a music video with someone." You said smiling. 

"I'm doing a music video." Harry said. "Wait that's why Jeff was so giggly, it was you." Harry smiled causing you to do the same. "Well I guess our managers were thinking the right way." You laughed. "I'm happy I'm here. Especially know that you're as well."

Without hesitation Harry kissed you. God how you missed his lips. His tongue ran across your bottom lips before he kissed you zealously. You moaned a little as you cupped his cheeks deepening the kiss.

Unfortunately you both pulled away when the elevator dinged. You were breathless and so was harry. "This is my floor." You picked up your bag. "Um I'll see you later?" You said looking at Harry.

He nodded, "of course” you smiled at him as you walked out of the elevator. As soon as the door closed you squealed excitedly. Smiling, you walked down the hall to your suit that you were staying at. You struggled to get the key card in the slot from smiling so much but you eventually did and walked straight, tossing your bag to the ground. You fell back onto the bed with your arms wide open. You couldn’t stop smiling.

The italian sun outside of your window cascaded down on your body making you feel golden. 

----

Harry was feeling the same. As soon as he entered his room he started doing his happy dance. He was more than happy, he was ecstatic. You did that to him. Harry calmed himself down before plopping down on his bed. He ran his hands over his hands trying to stop the smile on his face. He knew he couldn’t so he decided to sleep on it for an hour or so before he started filming.

Harry changed into some joggers and pulled off his shirt before getting comfy under the blanket. He fell asleep with a smile on his face(and also on his tummy hehe).

-

About an hour later, Harry woke up to his phone ringing. He adjusted from his sleep before reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “‘Ello?”

 “Harry,” it was jeff. “ are you ready to film?” Harry sat up as soon as Jeff asked that. “Yeah. I just took a little nap.” he cleared his throat. “Okay be down stairs in 5 minutes, bye.” Jeff hung up before Harry could say bye, which Harry thought was rude. 

He just pushed that out of his mind as he got out of the bed. He put on some shorts and a white button up shirt. Before he left the room he made sure his hair was perfect before grabbing his phone leaving the room.

Down the hall, near the elevator you were waiting for him. Harry of course smiled when he saw you because he didn't expect you to be waiting.

“Hi, what are you doing here waiting for me?” you walked up to him “well I ‘m scared of elevators.” you pouted your lip as you joked. Harry laid, “alright come on.” 

He pressed the down button and waited for the elevator to open. “Wait how'd you get up to my floor then?” Harry asked, looking over at you. The way your eyes grew large as Harry caught you in your lie made him laugh. 

The elevator opened and you and Harry walked in. you pressed the main floor and watched as the door closed. As you both went down, you couldn’t help looking over at harry. He was looking at the floors as they changed. You can see slight dimples in  his cheek telling you he knew you were staring at him. You just chuckled softly before turning back, turning away, looking back forward.

The elevator soon came to a stop letting you and Harry off. Harry politely let you walk out first before he followed. Some crew that was helping film were waiting for you and harry to take you to the location you needed to go. You and Harry followed them outside before walking in the warm sun a block down to the filming location. When you arrived the director gave you and Harry simple instructions. 

“Harry was up first driving the car and running. You watched as his curls blowing in the wind and how he made funny faces. You couldn't help but laugh to yourself at how adorable and hot he was. 

you didn’t do much during your takes. so it was mostly you and Harry doing a little talking, giggling, and danced playfully. He was such a fun person to be around and you wish you could be with him Every day if it was possible.

After filming various takes the director called it a day. Your eyes were on the sky watching as the sun rays painted a golden picture on the sky. You didn't notice but Harry was looking at you with a smile. 

Your skin glowed so nicely as the sun shined on you. A little smile played on your face making Harry chuckle quietly to himself.

He took it upon himself to walk over to you and wrap his arms around your waist. Of course you knew who it was - it made you smile.

"Hi Harry." You said leaning back. Harry looked at you as you looked up at him. "Hi y/n." Harry looked at the sky before speaking again. "You know something, when I left the gala I couldn't stop smiling. You were the first person that ever made me feel so free and so not famous. And when I forgot to ask I thought I lost my chances with you forever. My mind was going crazy; couldn't stop thinking about you for a second and how stupid I was to not get your number. But you know what?" 

Harry looked at you. "What you mumbled. "None of that matters because I'm right here with you right now and there's nowhere I want to be."

You smiled softly at him. "I can say the same." You turned in Harry's arms. "I was going through a hard time before I met You. Not to be cliche or anything, but loving you is the antidote and I mean that." 

Harry smiled before he cupped your cheek, kissing you tender and sweet.

The end

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

I love this. My longest fic too

best believe I got more coming

@captainamerica-is-bae​

#harry styles #Harry styles x reader #Harry styles x black reader #Harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x female reader

[lesetoilesfous]

sensory overload with fenders for the bad things bingo? (specifically fenris, if you’re up for it)

Godddd I had too much fun with this and I very much hope you enjoy it. Also I hate with a burning passion the fact that Hawke can give Fenris back to Danarius. I hate it so, so much.

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Prompt: Sensory Overload

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Sensory Overload, Slavery, Panic Attack, Vomiting

Pairing: Fenders (pre-relationship)

Characters: Evil/Red Marian Hawke, Fenris, Anders, Varric Tethras, Isabela, Danarius

Additional Tags: Hawke tries to give Fenris back and the KWC says no thank you, Angst with a Happy Ending

Word Count: 1,503

“Take him.”

Fenris feels as if he’s been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. “What?”

Danarius smiles: a slow, creeping sort of smile that Fenris has seen him wear a thousand times. “Interesting. I’ll make it worth your while, of course. The power of the Imperium will be at your disposal.”

Feeling dizzy, Fenris stares at Hawke. Her pale features are set and rigid with cold disdain. “Don’t do this, Hawke. I need you.” The words fall out of his mouth like pulled teeth, dragging at his insides with a sharp ache.

Hawke's lips curl back in a sneer. “You’re on your own, Fenris.”

Everything inside of Fenris collapses. It reminds him of something he’d read, recently - a book by a Qunari philosopher about the stars - a woman who hypothesised that sometimes, when a star died, it collapsed into an inverse of itself, dragging everything around it into darkness. Behind him, Danarius’ voice sounds both far, far too close and impossibly far away.

“What shall it be, Fenris? Will you throw your life away?”

Fenris can’t breathe. He feels is if the floor is swaying beneath him, shaking like a ship at sea. He remembers dancing on these floorboards, with Isabela...Fenris looks up, but the gold and brown and cream of the Hanged Man’s interior is a spinning kaleidoscope of colour. His mouth moves, and his tongue feels numb and fuzzy with static. “No, I will go with you.”

One of the guards moves, and the clanking scrape of their armour sounds painfully loud. Fenris sways away from them as they drop a purse heavy with coins into Hawke’s hand. Danarius speaks again, his voice cutting through the fog of sound and colour, weaving through Fenris’ ears like a thread pulled through his brain. “Lovely! Here’s a token of my appreciation, Champion. I’m sure I can arrange to have something more...appropriate sent along soon.”

The wooden floorboards beneath Fenris tilt, and he finds himself stumbling forwards toward his master and the red-headed elvhen woman, Varania, his sister. Fenris stares at his feet, which seem far too far away from him, and tries to remember how to breathe. His face feels hot, and his lungs are aching, desperate for more air. Danarius smiles, and the hairs on the back of Fenris’ arms and neck lift. “Come along, everyone! The boat leaves for Minrathous within the hour.”

The group begins to move, and Fenris feels as if the entire tavern is folding around him like a Rivaini paper flower. His vision tunnels, surrounded by darkness, but everything is still too loud and too bright and too hot and how had he never noticed the smell in here? Every time he breathes he feels as if he’s inhaling a thick stew of sweat and leather and steel polish and sex and alcohol and piss. He gags, falling forward. Behind him, Hawke doesn’t even move. Beside her, Fenris can’t make out Anders, Isabela and Varric in the blur of colour and noise. He still can’t breathe. The past ten years feel unreal, rapidly fading from his memory like a dwindling dream.

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

Varric’s drawl is immediately preceded by the familiar thunking of his crossbow, and Fenris thinks for a moment with relief that the rogue is going to shoot him in the head and end this nightmare before it begins. But the bolt doesn’t hit him, or Danarius, and he turns - slowly, too slowly, as if he’s moving in treacle - to see Hawke’s eyes rolling up into the back of her head as she collapses like a sack of potatoes.

Isabela draws her knives. “Oh, thank the Maker.”

Anders swings his staff from behind his back, twirling it in a wreath of blue fire that leaves burning imprints on Fenris’ irises. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

Fenris turns back, forcing himself to lift his head despite the ten tonne weight that feels as if it’s resting on him, and sees Danarius’ face twist into a mask of fury. He sees Danarius’ hands claw, and the mercenaries charge, and shades bleed up from between the floorboards of the tavern like oil dragged from the earth. Then everything shatters into a swirling kaleidoscope of shattered stained glass and colour. Fenris can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t hear. Everything is too much: too loud, too bright, every movement feels like a needle in his eyes, every sound like a knife stabbed into his ears. His tongue feels heavy and burning with the overload of spice and salt in the air, and his nose is thick and choking on smoke and sulphur. His heart is thudding so hard in his chest, Fenris thinks he must be trembling with it. Blindly, he moves towards what he thinks might be the door, and doesn’t care if someone stabs him in the back for it.

Fenris makes it three feet into the cool Kirkwall night before he crumples to his knees and vomits, retching again and again until his stomach is spasming and his eyes are burning with useless, burning tears as if he’d pressed his face into a chimney full of smoke. Arms shaking, dripping with cold sweat, he kneels on the cold white sandstone of the street, washed silver by the moon, and shudders until the world stops spinning. It stops slowly, the brightness in his eyes turned unnaturally light, every colour too saturated and too vivid, even out here in the dark. The barking of Fereldan mabari, normally a strange kind of comfort, punches his skull every time they break the night, leaving Fenris shuddering with recollections of Hawke and her mabari and every time he’d saved her life, every time she’d saved his. He’d trusted her.

The sea breeze is too salty on Fenris’ tongue, which feels as if it’s been coated with grease and spices. He spits until his mouth is dry and his throat is sore, and doesn’t know how long it takes before he can breathe easily again.

When, at last, the world is no longer a Fade-saturated parody of itself, Fenris realises two things. First: the sounds of combat from inside the tavern have long since faded. Second: he is not alone.

Slowly, he forces himself to look up from the familiar sets of black and brown boots to Anders and Isabela. Isabela looks uncharacteristically sincere, and Anders’ wrinkled features are creased with worry. Twenty feet away, Varric is talking to a small huddle of Carta dwarves next to a cart with Hawke’s unconscious body. Fenris nearly throws up again, and Anders starts forward, totally ignoring the puddle of bile and vomit on the stone in front of him. Fenris flinches back, violently, and Anders freezes.

Finally, Fenris finds his voice. “Danarius?”

Anders’ jaw tenses, and some of the worry clears from his features. “Unconscious, in chains, supervised by Merrill and Aveline. We drugged him with magebane, too.” Anders hesitates, and glances at Isabela before going on. “We thought - we wanted you to have the final say. On what we do with him.”

Fenris nods, and breathes, pushing himself further away from the sick to sit on the stone. He glances towards Varric and the carta. “Hawke?”

Isabela’s lips purse into a thin line. “Varric drugged her. I say we slit her throat. Varric’s keeping her drugged in a safehouse until we come to a group decision.”

Fenris nods again. The breeze pulls across the open stone courtyard, tugging at Anders’ and Isabela’s hair, and cooling the sweat on the back of his neck. He looks at the pirate, and then the mage. Varric is walking over to them, now, too, Bianca loose in his arms. “Why?”

Isabela’s features flicker, briefly. Anders’ expression crumples. “Andraste, Fenris, because we love you.” He says it so easily. As if it’s something they’ve said to each other before. And then he keeps talking, because it’s Anders, and he always has more to say. “Also, I don’t know if you’ve been listening to me at all for the past ten years but, "the right of every man, woman and child to freedom in Thedas" does, in fact, include slaves. I know, I know, a manifesto about freedom being anti-slavery, it’s improbable right? You’d think I was healing all those elvhen slaves over the past decade with my own sweat and blood and tears for some secret evil agenda. But no, it’s actually pretty simple. Slavery’s one of the foulest, most cursed, pus-infected tumorous boils on the Maker’s taint, and so’s anyone who fucking supports it.”

Fenris thinks it’s a strange world, indeed, that he finds himself comforted by the mage’s rambling. Varric steps forward and reaches out, offering a hand. “What Blondie’s trying to say, Fenris, is that we’ve got your back.”

Fenris hesitates, staring at Varric’s hand, his mind full of Hawke’s bright blue eyes and strong jaw. Isabela unfolds her arms from where they’d been tightening across her chest. “No slaves, no masters.”

Fenris takes Varric’s hand.

#bad things happen bingo #dragon age 2 #fenris #anders #varric tethras #isabela #my fic #gaysolavellan #anon

[strawbabysimp]

The Maid's Dress || Sub!Levi x Reader

Genre: Smut

Categories: Sub!Levi x Fem!Dom!Reader

Warning(s): Anal Fingering, Praise, Mommy Kink, Masturbation, Blow Jobs, Pet Names

A/N: I'm not the best at intros so I had to cut it short but I hope you enjoy what followed💕

You sat down on the chair in Levi's room, playing with the small pens and paper that were found on his desk. Your boyfriend had just finished up training all while you had been waiting for him impatiently, foot tapping down against the cold floor as you read through one of your books. You heard the water fill the tub and a small splash as he submerged himself in the warmth. Now was your chance.

Trying your best not to alert the small captain to your plans you crept quietly to the door, opening it with caution so as to avoid the creaking. Along the way you grabbed the main item needed for your plans, folded nice and tidy. He better compliment you later for your skills.

The door opened cautiously, steam fogged the mirror and you were thankful he had pulled the thin curtain closed around his bathing area. Picking up your boyfriend's previous change of clothes -- a plain t-shirt with boxers -- you swapped it out with the much softer and much more risque option.

Now you wait.

A few minutes passed before you heard heard the tell-tale signs of Levi removing himself from the soapy water. Most likely too busy drying himself off to notice the garments just yet. When he did eventually notice his voice called out questioningly, "Y/N! Did you move my clothes?"

"Hmm... No, those are the right ones. I thought the others looked a bit uncomfortable." You would have laughed if you weren't already anticipating how the clothes would look on on his small frame. Smelling all nice and fresh. Thighs framed beautifully by the black fabric. You couldn't wait to wreck him.

The door made a light squeaking noise as it fell open disrupting your train of thought. "Y/N... what's all this?" The darkness of the bathroom didn't allowing for you to fully take in his appearance but the mere outline left you craving more.

You gestured for him to step forward, which he did hesitantly. It had quickly become clear that this wasn't simply a small prank but rather you planned to do some further activities with him all dolled-up like this. "What's this," he said in a cautious voice, no longer sounding as confident in his actions as before. His tone held a note of shyness that it only got when you two were together.

You allowed your gaze to travel down his body slowly, the newly introduced light adding to the sight tenfold. The way the white trimming spanned out, covering only the very top portion of his muscle-lined thighs, and the way his legs moved against each other had no right to be as erotic as it was. Your mouth watered shamefully, but you had to wait.

It was sleeveless and for that you were grateful. You loved seeing his arms flex and squirm freely while you fucked him. He looked adorable with his collarbones peeking out through the top, the size looking just the smallest bit off in a way that made him look gorgeously lewd before you had even acted on your full intentions.

"Do a little twirl for me Levi." He was taken aback by your words, clearly still trying to process the situation, his head titled cutely in contemplation. Your smile remained sweet and inviting, "I just want to see how pretty you look baby."

He spun around for you as, the hem of the dress spinning softly in the air and his face growing noticeably redder by the time he was done. "You're such a good boy for me Levi," you praised lovingly, "I think you deserve a treat." He stepped closer to you before you raised your hand to stop him, pointing to the table on the other side of the room. "I didn't say I was going to be the one giving it to you, did I?" He shook his head. "Now go bend over."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

He turned around to look you in the eyes, hoping that the sincerity in his would grant him some sympathy, as he spoke up again. His next words made it clear that he was beginning to fall into that pleasurable headspace of his. "Yes Mommy."

~~~

"Y/N p-please," he begged as his finger continued its slow pace, dragging along his walls, just barely grazing the sweet, sensitive ball of nerves inside himself. "It's not enough!" Despite his cries he never stopped working himself open for you, trying so hard to be a good boy all while moaning shamefully a few feets away from his lover. His other hand struggled to keep the fabric up so you could watch his little display but whenever it fell slightly he made sure to hastily drag it back up over his waist. You could practically feel the burn in your own hand as you stared down at his little fingers trying their hardest to bring the boy to his climax.

"Slower," you instructed. You couldn't let him come so soon, it would ruin all the fun. His gaze met yours over his shoulder as he whined, pushing back on the two fingers slower and more precise. It was obvious how hard he was trying not to slam himself back on the digits and the knowledge of his struggles only brought you more pleasure. His soft whines growing louder and more drawn out the longer he had to maintain the teasing pace combined with the lewd sounds of his ass taking in the digits had you uncrossing and re-crossing your legs to stem off your own arousal. The sight was simply too good to just watch at this point.

You got up from your place on the chair, walking over to stand behind his vulnerable form. He still hadn't realized you were approaching, far too caught up in his own pleasure to hear your footsteps. "Would you like some help with that," you smirked at your boyfriend. He startled slightly, looking up to meet your gaze with his fingers still buried knuckles deep in his hole.

"Y-yes."

"Yes? How impolite Levi." Your voice took on a mock ridiculing tone as you watched his fingers continue to swirl around in search of some much needed release. His voice was small as he whined out, "Y-yes, p-please." You nodded along to his words as you slowly glided your hand up the plump thighs in front of you, his legs perfectly on display as he remained leaning over the table.

"Well I suppose you deserve a nice treat after all I've put you through." Those were the final words you uttered before you shoved two of your fingers in alongside his own, curling over his hand as yours were able to reach deeper into him than he was capable of on his own. He arched into your touch, shoving himself back on them thoughtlessly. Feeling so full with all four of the fingers inside of him, the slight burn only served to add to his arousal.

Levi began to pant feverishly, trying to meet your eyes from the uncomfortable angle as his walls began to tighten, threatening to hold the digits in place and you knew what was about to happen. Without further prodding you quickly pulled the two of yours intertwined fingers out, the lube dripping out obscenely as his body racked in deprived sobs.

You shushed him quietly as you peppered kisses on his lower back, "You can come soon, just turn around for Mommy okay?" His shakey nods paired with the tears running down his cheeks would have made you feel guilty if you didn't already know you both were enjoying the scene. As he shifted around you pat the table lightly signaling for him to sit on it, caging his body in in a confident display of dominance. "Up you go."

Your hands made their way to his hips, knees surrounding the sides of your head as you bent down to mouth at the ridges of muscle found there. Lightly biting and licking the purple bruises you created as your lips travelled further and further up his legs more sweet noises fell from his mouth. In spite of the pleasure he managed to hold himself up with shaky arms, head thrown to the side out of reflex.

You stared down at his arousal, leaking down onto his stomach from how painfully it ached. "Do you want me to touch you, baby?" Your voice was kind and caring, it was so easy to forget all of the cruel denial you had put him through. "Yes. Yes please. It hurts Mommy," Levi begged, lips trembling from trying to keep in his overwhelmed cries. He always fell apart so prettily.

Without further restraint you gave in and began to kiss a line straight to the tip of his cock, letting your breath fan over the collected precum and sensitive nerves found there. Fuck. He was stunning. Fighting with himself to keep his body upright all while staring down at you with such soft and begging eyes, leaving his pleasure graciously in your hands. It was truly a sight to behold.

As your mouth took in his cock head he found his strength momentarily weakening, arms that has once held him up giving out from the sensations that engulfed his tip once you began to swirl your tongue around the sensitive area.

All of this was marvelous, don't get him wrong, but he was still craving something more. The display from earlier had left a feeling of emptiness inside him and he wanted so bad to be stuffed again, his hips shifting on the table, hoping that somehow the dull friction would fire up that part of him once more. You caught on to his gestures with ease, glad that the lube still dripped out of him in a small, barely noticeable dribble. His rim puckered up slightly from all the welcomed abuse.

As you trailed your finger light along the muscle he pushed back against the tip, begging you wordlessly to grant him more of your touch. He breathed out, tension leaving his body as you slowly slid two fingers into him, curving them slightly to hear more of his delectable sounds.

"Oh shit, Y/N, that feels so good." His tears could no longer be held back as his begging began, "Mommy can I come. I've been such a good boy. Please let me come, Mommy."

You detached yourself from his member, still holding the taste of him on your lips as you made your way back up to his mouth. You gave him a quick kiss before agreeing, making sure to leave a travel of his own flavor on his lips. "You can come now baby." He whined out at your words, head falling back as you sped up up your hand movements. Adding another finger to the mess of his insides left him twitching against his own abs and you waited a mere few seconds before his nose scrunched up cutely and be spilled hands-free from your ministrations.

"Oh Levi, now you're all dirty again." Your voice was teasing as you swiped your fingers across his stomach. "Clean yourself up," there was little room for disagreement as you brought the cum-civered digits up to his mouth. Levi only nodded, still trying to recover from his long withheld release you had been kind enough to grant him. He lapped languidly at your palm and outstretched fingers, his tongue dragging it's away across your skin as his breathing began to slow.

"Good boy."

#Smut #Levi #Levi Smut #Levi x Reader #Sub!Levi #Sub Levi #Attack on Titan #AOT #Anime #Levi Ackerman #Sub!Character

[hlizr50]

Bonus Chapter - Gwyn POV

So we had some technical difficulties, but here's the whole thing (copy/paste was not my friend).

Thanks for the fun @yazthebookish @daevastanner and @bookprofessor

Warm clouds of breath puffed out of Gwyn’s nose and mouth, drifting into the air – the only things obscuring the twinkling of frost-white stars.

She had been in the training ring for nearly three hours. Sleep hadn’t been an option, not even a consideration. The priestess had nearly worn her leathers under her robes to the service, knowing that the singing and celebration would open a crater so wide in her soul that she would take leave as soon as acceptable and retreat to the safety and solace of the frigid night air and sharpened steel. Gwyn scoffed, a hot bitter laugh that rose unbidden from her chest.

This night, the library was no sanctuary. It had been a stark reminder of her weakness, her failure.

Her guilt.

The only thing that had made her choose her usual camisole and leggings under her robes was the inevitable tongue-lashing she would have received from Merrill. Knowing the state she would be in, Gwyn wasn’t sure if she would burst into tears or jump to strangle the beautiful crone in a fit of rage and pain. Best not to test her luck.

She cupped her hands over her mouth and breathed into her palms before rubbing them together, willing the blood not to freeze in her fingertips before selecting a sword from the rack. She had spent extra time stretching to combat the cold air seeping into her muscles, kept in constant motion. Numbness threatened the ends of her fingers and the tip of her nose, but as a whole she was limber and warm. And so, weapon in hand, she turned to face her foe.

The ribbon.

She silently thanked the Mother for her competitiveness and hyperfixation on this goal, grateful for the distraction that it gave her from the glaring absence of her sister. The raw edges of that wound had begun healing in the two years and some months since the attack at Sangravah, but holidays always seemed to tear it wide open. This was the first time she’d had an outlet for her sorrow.

So she closed her eyes and breathed, centering herself in this moment, letting the grief fall away. All that remained was her, the sword, and the ribbon glowing silver in the moonlight.

“I am the rock against which the surf crashes,” she whispered, eyelids drifting open. “Nothing can break me.” Feeling herself balance, muscles thrumming with anticipation, she sliced the sword. And watched the ribbon wave, uncut, in the winter breeze. She groaned, but set her feet, took a breath, and swung again.

The ribbon simply glided over the blade, taunting her as it straightened. She felt a warm bubble of frustration begin to glow in her chest. Her lips tilted up in a grim smirk as she took her stance again, preparing to swipe the sword. But just as she lifted her arm the sound of boots softly hitting stone seemed to echo from the silent night behind her. The priestess spun to face…

Azriel?

Perhaps the warmth under her breastbone had not been frustration, after all.

“I’m sorry. I knew you all were going to the river house, so I didn’t think anyone would mind if I came up here, and –“

“It’s fine,” the shadowsinger answered coolly. “I came to retrieve something I forgot.” Gwyn regarded the shadows that were his constant companions. It almost seemed as if they were… looking at her? Was that even possible?

Perhaps the chill was seeping into her mind.

The priestess smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I was trying to cut the ribbon.” She lifted her arm, sword in hand, to gesture to the offending strand of silk. Hopefully the ribbon would heed the threat of the blade pointed blatantly at its length and behave.

“Aren’t you cold?” He asked. Gwyn just shrugged, in spite of her frozen nose and fingertips.

“Once you get moving, you stop noticing it.”

Azriel nodded in silence, and for a moment his eyes caught hers. Something flickered there, like a match struck in a hurricane. Gwyn lowered her gaze. She could only imagine what the spymaster saw when he looked at her, the memories and images that might churn behind his hazel eyes. It had been he who had found her that night – nude, bloodied, trembling. Is that who he saw, even now?

Is that who he would always see?

“Happy Solstice,” she offered, an attempt to break the silence and to interrupt the path of her own rumination.

“Are you kicking me out?” Azriel snorted. Her eyes widened, gaze flashing back up to him.

“No! I mean, I don’t mind sharing the ring. I just… I know you like to be alone.” Mother above, Gwyneth. Could you sound any more like a rambling fool? She let herself grin at him, and her own panicked musings. “Is that why you came up here?”

“I forgot something,” he reminded her.

The priestess fixed him with a skeptical eye. “At two in the morning?” She felt her grin widen with amusement, corners of her eyes crinkling.

“I can’t sleep without my favorite dagger.”

Gwyn thanked the Mother for the ridiculousness of his words, lest she be completely unraveled by the crooked smile that he’d offered her. That smile, alone, was a gift. She knew that Azriel did not hand them out freely.

“A comfort for every growing child,” she remarked scathingly, and she swore he nearlyreleased a snicker. She wouldn’t be surprised if he did sleep with a dagger, or four. Actually, now that he mentioned it, she had absolutely no doubt that he did. Maybe he clutched one close to his chest, cuddling it like a teddy bear. “How was the party?”

One of his shadows broke away from him and twirled with the fog that her question had puffed into the air. Like a little dancing duet. She wondered what had prompted the shadow’s bravery.

“Fine.”

The shadowsinger definitely left some things to be desired as far as conversation went.

As if he realized that very thing, he tried again. “It was nice.” And that wasn’t much better. “Did you and the priestesses have a celebration?”

“Yes.” Though she couldn’t really call what she had done ‘celebrating’. “Though the service was the main highlight.”

“I see.”

Again. His gift for words was astounding. But Gwyn took it as a challenge, to see just how far she could draw him out from behind the indifferent mask of the spymaster. So she tilted her head at him.

“Do you sing?”

Azriel blinked at her in surprise and she felt a small twinge of satisfaction in her chest. “Why do you ask?”

“They call you shadowsinger. Is it because you sing?”

“I ama shadowsinger,” he corrected. “It’s not a title that someone just made up.”

Gwyn shrugged at him. Semantics, and beside the point. “Do you, though? Sing?”

“Yes,” he chuckled.

Oh, this was quite the development, and she had so many more questions! What was his favorite song? What kind of music did he prefer? The priestess wondered what his voice would sound like, if it would be just as velvety and smooth as it was when he spoke. She took a breath to ask if she could hear –

“Try cutting the ribbon again.” The abrupt redirection of the conversation was as clear a signal as there could be.

Another time, then.

“What – with you watching?” The shadowsinger nodded, and Gwyn felt her skin prickle with nervous anticipation. Which was silly. Azriel was present daily at training, and he had worked with her privately on multiple occasions. Maybe it was the holiday. Maybe it was the winter chill. Maybe it was her shattered heart, broken but healing, and the emptiness Catrin had left behind. Maybe it was the desperate hope that he saw more in her than the broken, bleeding girl he’d found in the temple two years ago. But that wholly undivided attention on her, in that moment, sparked something inside of her. So she took a breath, found her footing, and swung.

It was all she could do not to throw her head back and groan and the still-intact ribbon, gently swaying, taunting her under the stars.

“Again.”

Gwyn delivered another blow. She knew her technique was good – she was the definition of determined, a perfectionist. And yet…

“You’re turning the blade a fraction as it comes parallel to the ground.” Azriel pulled the Illyrian blade from the scabbard between his wings, shadows content to observe. The priestess also watched intently, determined to correct even the slightest error. She wanted to be the first to cut the ribbon. “Watch.”

He moved his arm slowly, mimicking her movements and rotating his wrist the same way that she had. The siphon on his hand seemed to glow in the moonlight, and she found her gaze sliding between his wrist and the pale scars that covered his fingers. It was far from the first time she had noticed them, but that didn’t keep her from wanting to know what had happened to cause them. But she had also noticed that he seemed to hide his hands as often as possible. Gwyn was not known for thinking before she spoke, but she knew that this particular conversation would come on Azriel’s terms. “You see how you open up right here?” He then shifted his wrist, correcting himself. “Keep your wrist like that. The blade is an extension of your arm.”

Gwyn mirrored the movement, slow and controlled, biting her bottom lip as she worked to correct her wrist position as her arm moved through the air. It took three times before she could do it without the error. “I blame Cassian for this,” she huffed. “He’s too busy making eyes at Nesta to notice such mistakes these days.”

Azriel laughed. “I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you.” She practically beamed at him, the dual achievement of correcting her swing and making the shadowsinger laugh lighting her veins with pride.

And then he dipped his head and shoulders, almost a bow. His goodbye.

“Happy Solstice,” he said before turning to head into the House. “Don’t stay out too much longer. You’ll freeze.”

Gwyn nodded before turning herself back to face the ribbon. She was eager to try to slice through it, after the impromptu lesson. But as she breathed in, a bone-deep weariness slumped her shoulders. Where earlier she had known that sleep would be an impossibility, now she felt calm. Almost at peace, the jagged wounds around her heart softened and comforted. The forced exhaustion and focus of training would have had something to do with that, of course. That had been her plan.

But she couldn’t help but wonder if the easy banter, the soft chuckles, and that crooked grin had been a balm to her soul, as well.

He hadn’t retrieved his ‘favorite dagger’. Hadn’t retrieved anything at all. But whatever it was that Azriel had intended to do in the training ring that night, their conversation and lesson had seemed enough for him to leave the ring calm and content – as far as she could discern. He had smiled. He had laughed.

She put the sword back in the rack, determined to remember what Azriel had taught her the next time she was in the ring. Looking up at the stars, she blew into her cupped hands and rubbed them together, encouraging warmth back into her frozen fingertips.

“Happy Solstice, Catrin,” she whispered, sending the cloud of her breath as a messenger into the heavens.

Her legs were heavy and barely able to carry her back to the dormitory, into her bed. She didn’t bother to remove the leathers, even though she knew she would regret it in the morning. All she could think about was sleep. And the sweet lullaby in her soul, a deep rich voice glowing blue and gold, swathing her in comfort and peace and hope.

#gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel week #gwynriel supremacy #gwynriel fic

[lemoncherrypop]

To Build a Home

deatheater!seungcheol x gryffindorprincess!reader

warnings: this is a brutal chapter. there will be fighting, and curses, and blood and a lot... of rage and unchecked craziness. there are two incredibly tortured souls in this chapter, so this will hurt. this will not be an easy chapter to read. this is also my first action scene ever, so i hope i was able to write it the way i pictured it in my head! as my amazing beta @minigum​ said, “ jesus i mean this in the best way possible but that was hard to read” i love you hahaha length: 3.9k

Series Masterlist

One | Two | Three | Four | coming soon...

Chapter Four

//

He was your first kiss.

It happened in fourth year. 

He mumbled over his words, and his face was burning red when he pulled away, but you thought he was the cutest boy you’ve ever laid eyes on.

He even apologized after the kiss was over, and all you could do was laugh because of course he would. 

Awkward and clumsy, he kept muttering things to himself. 

But it was your first time too, you reassured him. You were positive that your kissing was atrocious.

You didn’t know what to do with your lips. Keep them closed? Keep them open? What are you even supposed to do with your tongue?

But even through his stuttering, he insisted that you weren’t a bad kisser. 

He looked you straight in the eyes, growing redder by the second, and whispered how amazing you were.

But of course he would say that. He was always so sweet. 

Sweet, precious Seokmin.

He was your first kiss.

//

You wake up with acid burning in the back of your throat. Rushing to the bathroom, you collapse in front of the toilet and bend over. You’re dry heaving and gagging, but nothing comes out because your stomach was already emptied out last night after the end of Jun’s Dark Report.

Bubbles of spit hang from your chapped lips as you let out a guttural sob. It hurt. It hurt so much to think about him. All you could remember was the way Seokmin used to smile at you, how he used to always save a seat for you next to him in class, or how he’d sneak a treacle tart under his robes to give you before your quidditch practice. It was all you could see whenever you closed your eyes. 

Always smiling. Always happy. 

That was Lee Seokmin.

You’re gasping with your head down when a furious knock on the door startles you.

“This is a shared bathroom, must I remind you?”

Spitting into the toilet, you wipe your lips angrily and stand back up. It was Seungcheol, and he was ready to ruin your day first thing in the morning.

“Five minutes,” is all you can rasp out, the words are raw and painful in your throat.

You could almost hear his fist hesitating on the door.

He clears his throat. “Just leave the door open so I know it’s unoccupied then.” and he walks away.

//

The same clothes from yesterday hang from your weary body. You did not care. It was wrinkled and worn in the elbows and knees, and it probably also smelled a bit like sweat after yesterday’s duelling. Even still, you did not care.

There were quiet murmurs and gentle shuffling coming from the kitchen, and you could see that everyone was already gathered. A sharp, astringent smell hits you in the face before you even walk into the room.

“Firewhiskey? Really?” Your nose scrunches up in disgust. There were seven glasses lined up on the edge of the dining table. Mingyu was halfway done filling them up with an almost empty bottle of Ogden. “This is the first bloody thing we’re going to have in the morning?”

Mingyu continues to pour the whiskey into the rest of the glasses as a silent response.

“It’s for Seokmin,” Jean answers for you. “Apparently, this is what they do whenever someone they know has passed away.”

“You always need someone else to answer for you?” you spit out bitterly and roughly drag out a chair. “Thought your favourite thing to do was mouth off.”

Wonwoo sighs deeply as he takes a seat next to you.

“What? Got something to say?” Turning to glare at him, you notice the bags under his eyes have gotten darker since the day before.

“You think this is easy for us?” Wonwoo says softly, voice sounding weak. “Night after night, listening to see who else we lost? Who it will be this time?”

You raise a brow, just an infinitesimal amount, because you were surprised to see such a touching amount of emotion from the snakes, even if it was just a sniff.

“Didn’t think you cared,” you confess, eyes falling down on the glasses that were now all full with amber liquid. “Didn’t think anyone else really cared. You snakes never talked to anyone outside of your house.”

“But it’s not like he wasn’t our classmate,” Minghao muttered as he pushed a glass towards everyone. “It’s not like we didn’t sit next to him in class for six years.”

No one said a single word. The room was disturbingly silent except for the sound of glass being dragged across the wooden table.

“It’s not like we didn’t know him,” Minghao finishes, somber and quiet.

Seungcheol is the only one sitting back comfortably in his chair. His eyes are turning up towards the ceiling, looking unphased and detached.

Gripping onto your glass tightly, you glowered at him even though his focus was elsewhere and raised your shot of whiskey. 

“To our friend. To my friend.” You swallowed the lump in your throat, refusing to shed a tear in front of him. “You were taken from our world too soon. We’ll miss you.”

The firewhiskey burned like acid and it spread heat across your neck and cheeks. You wanted to cough, but even that you swallowed down. You will not show him a moment of weakness. Not in front of him. Not ever.

Mingyu starts to collect the empty glasses, but Seungcheol is already pouring himself another shot. He downs it like water and grabs the bottle again.

“Cream and sugar, right?”

Wonwoo slides over a teacup, the sweet scent of bergamot wafting gently in the air. It was your favourite cup of tea. Looking up, you saw that Wonwoo was already staring at you with a stoic look on his face, but even still, behind his blank expression, you could tell that he was full of unsaid words. You nodded at him in wordless gratitude and got up.

You skip breakfast and go right back up into your room.

//

No one wants to practice duelling, but Mingyu forcibly pulls the group together with the help of Minghao.

“We must stay vigilant,” Minghao says. “Always.”

It must’ve rained earlier in the morning, you could feel it in the air in the first breath you take. The humidity and fog feel heavy in your lungs. One by one, everyone shuffles out to the back of the cottage, the mucky ground immediately caking up the soles of everyone’s shoes.

Jean steps out to face the rest of the group. “I volunteered to be the Watcher today,” she speaks up and holds up a brown hat. “Pairs will be picked at random—”

Her hand digs in and quickly pulls out two small pieces of ripped paper. “Mingyu and Minghao,” she says and slides her boyfriend a soft smile before sticking her hand back in again. “Our second pair is Trinh and Wonwoo, which leaves— well, you two— together.”

A puff of misty cloud leaves your lips at a deep exhale.

It’s him. It’s him. It’s against him.

You grip your wand so tight, you can feel your knuckles turning white.

Breathe in… Breathe out... 

You must stay calm. You will not let him get to you.

This is a duel. A duel meant for training, and no matter what history you had with him, you can not let him get to you. You will fight the best you can, and you will teach yourself how to get stronger, better, and faster.

You draw up a mask, hiding your resentment behind smoke and mirrors and stand at the ready.

Minghao pats your shoulder lightly. “Try not to kill each other, alright?” You could just hear the smirk in his voice. How irritating.

Seungcheol walks over to your side at a leisurely pace, staying a good distance away with his wand still in his pocket.

You need to stay focused.

He’s in front of you, languid as ever, with his head cocked to one side and his hand tucked in his pants pocket.

Breathe in… Breathe out…

He’s twirling his wand between his fingers.

Stay focused.

“You hate me,” he says suddenly. 

“Trying to start something before we even begin?” You say flatly. “I’d like to get a fair fight.”

He bares his teeth, showing you a crooked, gummy smile. “Who says you won’t get one?”

The others have already begun their duelling. There are shouting and explosions all around you.

“You hate me,” Seungcheol repeats again, licking his lips.  “You hate me quite a lot.” He says it so matter of factly, your jaw drops with the sheer audacity he had as if the hatred between you two wasn’t a living, breathing thing that’s been birthed since year one.

“Of course I fucking hate you,” you scoff into the cold air. “I’ve spent the last six years of my life hating you because you made it your fucking life’s mission to destroy mine.”

“And did I do it?” Seungcheol grins wickedly. “Did I destroy it?”

Breathe in… Breathe out...

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Seungcheol laughs. Open-mouthed and sounding so real, so genuine. His head shakes as a wide smirk spreads across his face, his hair falling forward, almost hiding his eyes from you. This bastard was taunting you.

The glee on his face is almost sadistic. “So why don’t you show me?”

It cracks. A single pin was all you needed to drop for your mask to break, and the anger you were so desperate to repress was bubbling through.

“Confringo.”

A ball of fire expels itself out of your wand and Seungcheol easily steps out of its way. Dirt exploded into the air when it hit the earth behind him, and he brushes the soil off his hair like it was nothing but a mere nuisance.

“Oh come on, Princess,” he drawls. “You’ve got to be better than that.”

In a pile next to the backdoor, you spot a stack of twigs used for firewood. “Oppugno!” you shout, and the broken pieces of wood shoot towards him like arrows.

With his crooked smile never leaving his face, he waves his wand almost lazily and the kindlings disintegrate the moment it touches his shield charm. 

“Oh, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted to fight against you. Gryffindor’s perfect fucking Princess—”

“Reducto!”

Seungcheol blocks the spell again and scoffs. “You’re mad, aren’t you?” His wand waves again, and this time a red beam shoots out. Half a second too late, you step away and the attack spell grazes your right shoulder. “Show me your anger!” Another red beam shoots out from his wand. “Come on, Princess! Show me!”

“Shut up— shut the fuck up!” You snap, raising your wand to aim it directly at his face. You’re embarrassed at how shaky your hand is. “Don’t call me that, don’t ever call me that again.”

He snorts. “And why not?” He rolls his eyes, twirling his wand between his fingers again. “It’s what everyone calls you—”

“But not you, never you— never, ever, ever— expulso!”

It was mind-numbingly infuriating, watching each and every one of your spells being deflected by him. He threw them all to the side like they were crumpled up pieces of paper and walked over them as they still sizzled on the ground. How could he have gotten so much better than you at duelling? He was never better than you at it. You had always defeated him in class, hadn’t you? You were only away from school for one summer— 

He is laughing again, but this time he’s roaring so hard, he’s doubled over with his entire upper body quaking.

“You— you’re actually tryna blow me up?” He gasps out between each heaving breath. “You hate me— so much, you want me in bloody bits and pieces all over the house?”

You cannot help your own bark of laughter that bursts out. “You don’t fucking get it, do you?”

The wind picks up and a frosty chill penetrates through your jumper as his merriment slowly dies down. “Get what?” He straightens back up, a smile still on his face. “You’re going to have to elaborate, sweetheart.”

“You…” Seokmin is smiling inside your head again, and the crack splits, branching out into a thousand different splinters. “You just...”

“Just?” He echoes, a brow quirked in amusement. “Are you forgetting your words now?”

Seungcheol, with his perpetually haughty face, was a devastatingly painful reminder of your reality, one that painted a harsh contrast to Seokmin who had always brought you happiness and comfort. He was staring at you, patronising you with so much arrogance, the anger broke through. Spurting out through the cracks, hissing and steaming as it dribbled down the mask you tried so desperately to hold together.

 “You just fucking sat there,” you ground out. “Like he didn’t even matter. Like you didn’t even know him.”

“Who?” His hand drops to his side. “That Hufflepuff? Are we still going on about him?”

It is terrifying how genuinely confused he looks.

“He was our classmate!” He deflects another confringo with a quick snap of his wrist, and you wail in anger. “Six years! Six fucking years we spent together with him!”

Seungcheol’s expression drops suddenly, wrist flicking away another spell. A vacant look replaced in his eyes. “Just another mudblood,” he said flatly. “Must I care about every dirty little mudblood in our school?”

“D-don’t care?” You can’t help the stutter, alarmingly disturbed at his lack of emotions. “He’s dead, and you don’t even care?”

“Our entire country has run amok with mudbloods. Am I expected to grieve for all of them?” he drawls, exasperated.

“Don’t care…?” you murmur to yourself. Your guts are twisting in horrified confusion. “Don’t care… You don’t care...”

“What was that, sweetheart?”

Blood drains from your face as the realization slowly dawns on you.

“You don’t care,” you repeat, louder, fiercer.

He rolls his eyes. “Think we already established that—”

“Shut it!” Snapping, your wand is drawn up again. There is a fury burning deep within your veins now. “You don’t fucking care because you’re a killer— a murderer! A murderer just like him—”

His face twists. “Don’t—”

“That homicidal monster that you call your Lord! You’re just like him!”

Seungcheol’s face contorts painfully into something angrier, something darker. “You have no idea what you’re talking about…”

It gave you an unsettling type of pleasure watching him. You want him to feel angry. You want him to feel your pain. He was, after all, the one who brought all this pain onto you.

“You’re a murderer—”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Just like him—”

“Sectumsempra.”

It was a spell you did not know.

Your protego was barely brought up, so his spell sliced through like butter. You could feel it. Deep lacerations spread rapidly, marking your chest and left with gore. You did not even need to look down to see how much you were bleeding. The blood is already seeping through your jumper, ruby red blossoming quickly from the centre of your chest.

But you do not feel any pain. There is no stinging, or aching, or throbbing. There is only anger.

Even the sight of blood must have shocked Seungcheol. He takes several steps back, frozen stiff and unmoving for just a few moments, a few seconds more than he should have allowed himself.

“Diffindo.”

It is your first hit of the day, and the spell lands directly in the middle of his chest. His white shirt rips violently open as he gets blasted nearly ten feet behind him, crashing violently into a tree before falling to the ground. Seungcheol’s face is buried into the ground, and you find yourself gasping for air, your jumper feeling heavier and heavier by the second.

Strength is draining from you, but you take slow and deliberate steps towards him.

“You’re full of shit, Seungcheol.” Blood is dripping from your fingertips, leaving scarlet dots pebbled on the grass below you. He struggles to sit back up. “You’re a monster, a fucking monster, just like him—”

He’s laughing again, but this time he sounds almost hysterical. Propping himself up, his grimy hand is firmly pressed just under his collarbone, fingers gripping the tattered bits of his shirt together as a deep red spreads rapidly on his shirt.

“Is this funny to you?” you whisper, and kneel down in front of him, doing absolutely nothing to try and stop your own bleeding. Fingers, disturbingly still, reach over to touch his cheek, painting his almost translucent skin with your blood. “Was this the fight that you wanted?”

The laughter fades, and his smile falters. You’re blinking slowly, trying to memorize the way he stops his breathing, but all you can notice is the agonizing way his eyes twist and wring, and it does nothing to ease the pain in your own heart.

“You’re a mudblood cunt,” he finally breathes out in a vicious whisper, and your hand slides off, his cheek left with the trails of your fingerprints. “You will never understand.”

There is a ferocity now, a dark and dangerous energy coming back into his eyes. “You did not win,” Seungcheol hisses and he pushes himself up. Blood is trickling from his neck and collarbone, and flowing over onto his milky white skin. It drips when he stands, and it lands on your face when you look up, leaving tear-like marks as they roll down your cheeks and lips. Towering over you, he’s breathing hard as angry puffs of smoke leave his chapped lips.

“You did not win,” he repeats cruelly, “But this is over.”

A numbing ache takes over your body. You aren’t sure if it was from the cuts still spreading on your body, or if it was because you were holding back tears, but Seungcheol is storming back into the house now, and you are left alone on the cold, muddy ground.

All you can see is red.

The only thing you are aware of doing is breathing, and that was because it hurt. There is a sharp, piercing pain every time you take a cold breath, and it makes your heart race faster and faster. So despite the frigid weather, all you can feel is a raging fire because how dare he? How dare he just walk away from you?

Using your good arm to help yourself up, you follow him. It’s only a few long strides until you reach the house, and the backdoor is left open in Seungcheol’s wake. Finding him is as easy as following the trail of his footprints, mixed with both mud and blood, it leads you straight into the common room.

Wooden drawers are being slammed open and shut, and you find him searching for something in the cabinets next to the fireplace. Be it ointments or bandages, you did not care. One stomping foot after another, you charged in, wand at the ready.

“Fuck you, Choi Seungcheol.”

His hand freezes, his body turning towards you slowly. “Don’t— don’t come near me…” he warns.

“This is what you wanted,” you fire back angrily. “You started this, and now you want to just end it?”

“I told you this was over,” he growls, hand swigging over to grab onto the tip of your wand. The wooden cabinet is stained crimson with the marks of his fingers.

“And who the fuck do you think you are to decide that?” You step closer. His blood seeps into the cracks of your wand. 

“Is that why you followed me?” He cracks a crooked smile, bloodied lips bent furiously. “To end this fight?”

“What if I am? What if I want to finish this bloody fight with you—”

“Then do it.” He tugs roughly on your wand, jerking you closer to him. “End it then. End me.”

“What— No, that’s not—”

“Fucking do it,” He says, gripping onto your wand even tighter and forcing it to the centre of his chest. “Fucking end me! You can’t miss, Princess.”

His voice is sticky sweet, but the venom is dripping off his lips. The mania is swirling in his eyes, and all you can see is the look of a deranged man losing it before your very eyes. 

For the first time in your life, Choi Seungcheol has scared you speechless.

“No— stop—”

“Just another fucking murderer, aren’t I? Don’t you want to kill me?”

“I don’t—” 

“Fucking pussy,” he spits at your feet, his disgust and malice mixed in with his blood and spit. “Could’ve left me dead just like your precious little friend. Where’s your fucking Gryffindor courage now? ”

The mask shatters. A million pieces are crumbling down, and everything that you’ve feared, loathed and dreaded inside of you comes bursting through, gushing out like a waterfall that broke through a dam.

The punch lands harder than you think and Seungcheol lands on the ground. His head makes a heavy thud, and your muscles are moving faster than your mind. You’re on top of him before you can even comprehend what you’re doing, knees placed on his sides to lock him in place.

All you can see is red. 

Fists are pounding into his face, and it doesn’t even feel like they’re yours because blood is splattering all over his face and yours. Every muscle and bone in your body is screaming in anger, anger, anger.

There is a mad cackle in the air, and you don’t even realize that it’s coming from you. The pain of losing Seokmin is bruising your heart, and it hurts you, it hurts so damn much. Seungcheol does not even attempt to stop you, and it only enrages you more. He is just lying there, with his eyes looking blissful with a wide smile on his face. It angers you so much, you can not help but laugh. His porcelain fucking skin paints brighter and brighter in red.

Why? Why? Why? 

Why does he not hit you back? Does he not hate you? Does he not want you gone?

You sob in the midst of your laughter because your long-awaited rampage gives you no sense of satisfaction.

Someone wraps their arms roughly around your chest, and you are violently ripped off, feet dragging on the carpet that you’ve managed to ruin once again. Every inch of your skin is screaming in agony and your wand is ripped away from you. All you can do is cry and cry and cry as you’re being dragged further away from him.

All you see is pain.

Seungcheol slowly sits up. His face is absolutely destroyed bloody with bruising already started to form. His eyes are dead, but he’s smiling again. Always that crooked fucking smile.

All you see is blood. 

There is so much of it. It is on his face, and his clothes, and the carpet, and on that armchair that you like so much. You look at the carpet and wonder which puddle of blood belonged to whose.

All you see is red.

It is wet. The bloodsoaked carpet feels damp underneath your hands, and the smell of it is hanging so thickly in the air, you can almost taste it on your tongue. Your vision blurs, and you can’t even tell if you’re breathing anymore.

There is a whisper. “Vulnera sanentur.”

All you see is black.

#seventeen scenarios #seungcheol scenarios #scoups scenarios #seungcheol smut #svt hp au #seventeen hp #seventeen angst #seungcheol angst #harry potter au #seventeen fanfic #hogwarts au #seventeen #seungcheol #scoups

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Sound Proof

okay so this fic was from Wattpad and I found it in my google docs so I’m just gonna upload it here for ya’ll lol. I didn’t tag, I wrote this a while ago let me know what ya’ll think!!!

Warnings: Smut.

With dancing, came immense concentration and a lot of cardio.

That was all okay for Damara. She wore her silk pressed hair back into a pony, simple Polo Ralph Lauren hat on to keep her edges slicked back, high waist thin grey leggings, all white cropped tank, and matching white Vans. Damara held onto the aluminum double bar Ballet barre, studying her glistening reflection within the wall mirrors that covered every single area from floor to ceiling. 

Her chest rose and fell, right hand coming up to rub sweat off the tip of her nose. She had thirty minutes down, only twenty more to go. Being a pro dancer was fun when you posted tutorials on Instagram and YouTube, but when it came down to touring internationally and getting a chance to perform at Coachella, dance became a full time job.

Damara stares down at her version three iWatch, allowing herself to become consumed with the breathing app. She watched it expand with every breath, then declined whenever she exhaled. After her breathing returned to normal, Damara pulled up her iTunes playlist again, choosing to go sensual with a little bit of flash dance routine.

The instrumental to Kendrick Lamar- Love.

This song was always a warm up for her because it got her ‘in the mood’. She could feel the want and need behind the beat and his words. Damara snakes her hands up her frame, sliding slowly from the cuff of her ass, to her lower back, and lightly up and over her shoulders, forearms pressing into her large D cup breasts. 

One thing is for sure, Damara could move her torso like Shakira, body rolling and ticking to the beat with perfect harmony. Doing a sudden spin on her tiptoes, Damara Lowers herself to the polished flooring, arching her back off of the surface with her legs spread into a V, before lifting her lower half off the ground to do a series of air kicks like she was back in an 80s workout video or like she was in Kanye West’s video for Fade instead of Teyana Taylor.

She turned over onto her hands, hitting a side to side split perfectly before lifting from the ground to walk seductive and tantalizing towards the middle of the dance studio.

That’s where it began, the sweatiest most bewitching dance yet. Her hands cascade everywhere, eyes closed to take in the beat with heightened hearing. Her hands rubbed along the outline of her pussy in a teasing manner. Damara was so shameless when it came to dancing provocatively. She twirled and made an S with her body like a snake, body in sync to the beat. The sultry look in her eyes could trap you like Medusa. You would think she danced to one of Prince's songs from the outside looking in. 

The song came to an end, Damara lifting her shirt over her head and tossing it in the corner, picking up her gallon water bottle to take a huge sip. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling the burn in her curvy waistline from all the crunching and belly rolling that came with dancing. Her gluteal muscles were on fire as well, causing Damara to admire her ass in the mirror, sweat staining the crack of her ass over the fabric. 

—

Finishing up, Damara grabs all her things before leaving the dance studio at the gym she finally snagged a membership for. The gym had two sections: one for premium guests who had VIP access to the soundproof workout rooms or standard. Sadly, Damara was standard. She always wanted to workout in the soundproof tinted glass rooms like all the extremely fit individuals did, but one look through those glasses at the equipment housed within would make you withdraw with fear. Her personal trainer had stressed for her to go VIP, bribing her with access to the ice bath room and luxury pool where you can watch the LA skyline like you’re in a hotel.

She made a left at the end of the hall, walking with her shirt and towel over her shoulder to the main gymnasium area full of musky people and terrible workout music. Even though Damara did a one hour session of dancing, she couldn’t help but to gravitate towards the stair master for a good fifteen minute burn. Once there, Damara climbs the stairs, beginning her workout on nine speed, instantly feeling the ache. Her eyes scanned the area, finally landing on a group of women huddled around one of the sound proof workout rooms for VIP gold card members. 

She let out a tired chuckle, shaking her ponytail clad head before pausing to drink some water. Of COURSE they would all salivate over some random ass man instead of working out, because that’s what gyms are for these days. On queue every day Damara comes to the gym, once the clock strikes 8 pm, a hoard of women suffocate the glass, fogging it with their heavy breathing and wetting it with saliva from their wiggling tongues. Damara would have been one of them if she listened to her group of girlfriends who didn’t come in tonight. Supposedly, there is this fine ass man that comes to the gym every day, around 8 pm. Damara never seems to catch him, and even if she did, no man was that fine to act like a hyena over. He couldn’t be that sexy.

“Ooo, girl, let me get off this got damn treadmill he back again!” Damara turned to find a short, slim, mocha skinned girl with a track runners body ogling the group of women, her friend who looked like she could be her sister, biting her lip.

“I wonder if he’s doing the pull ups right now, fuckk. You know his dick stay hard when he working out.” 

The other girl laughs, “I just want to suck it. Just give me one good time!” 

Both women laughed while Damara tries her best to work out and ignore them. But to her surprise, she couldn’t focus. Not because of the talking, but because she wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Maybe after this she could rub it in her friends faces that whoever this guy was, wasn’t about the hype after all.

Defeated, Damara stopped her workout, quickly lowering herself off the machine and towards some spray and paper towels to wipe away her sweat. Tossing everything, Damara makes her way towards the sound proof workout room straight across from the men’s locker room. 

Here she was, and yet just a few minutes ago she was laughing to herself at how ridiculous it was to come to a gym and stare at a man for two hours. Wasn’t no man fine enough for that.

The glass window straight ahead had about seven ladies standing in front of it, whispering and admiring at what looked like absolutely nothing to Damara. It was so dark she couldn’t see a thing. As she got closer, at first, all she could see through that glass was the usual workout machines of all types and weight racks. Just before she could walk away, he started lifting those weights. Suddenly, as if pulled by some type of force field, Damara turned into a fan girl with glossy eyes and a watery mouth. He had to be the one her friends were talking up. There is no way he couldn’t be the one with how fine he is. 

“This must be your first time noticing Erik.” 

Damara turned to the lady who looked to be twice her age standing next to her.

Damara didn’t respond, she simply looked back at him through that tinted glass. He was so fucking sexy that her jaw dropped; literally. Erik was definitely the one her friends were juiced up over. Not the juice you drink, but the drip from that pussy when she hungry for a nigga as damn fine as he is. 

Erik had been bench pressing weights and she couldn’t get a good enough look at him until he lowered the weights. Yeah, when he was laid out on his back, sweaty muscles moving as he lifted 280 pounds over his head he looked good, but GOD once he stood up was she slapped with his looks.

Erik was wearing sweat shorts that dropped low around his waist, a damp sweat top and a pair of Nike Air Max Trainer 1s on his feet.

His braided back dreads were damp from the perspiration; it really set off his caramel complexion.

Erik returned his weights to their respective places and stood facing that mirror with a bottle of gatorade. Damara could really see how perfect he was. Fine wasn’t even the word, it was so much she could say about him. The look in his eyes, the way his muscles moved in conjunction with him, the smoothness of his skin, the hairstyle that compliments him very well, and let’s not forget those lips. She figured he got many compliments on his lips, as beautiful and suckable as they were. That thick erection he was sporting was an added bonus. All she could see was herself lowering onto it and rocking like crazy, like she was riding a horse. When she returned to reality from her lustful daze, she noticed her hands were flat against the glass, jaw STILL dropped, and her nipples tender and hard practically clawing at him. They were so hard that they were hurting, and the feeling of his lips pulling and sucking and licking on them would have been exactly what she needed, just pull her shirt down and suck em.

All of that talk and fantasizing in her head, ironically made his eyes meet hers. Damara swore she thought those big, dark eyes could see her and only her. The lady she ignored next to her smiled, like she knew what Damara was going through. She did, that’s why her and the others were still there.

——

Feeling a little foolish and embarrassed by her behavior, Damara asked the lady next to her if Erik could see them or was it one of those half way windows.

“Girl, he can see us alright. That’s why his dick is so big and hard poking through those shorts. He sees something he likes.” 

Damara looked back at him, and right then like a spark had been ignited, he smiled a little at her with dimples, then winked before downing the rest of his gatorade. Damara could feel her knees buckle, body so nervous. She decided it was most definitely time to bounce. That night, Damara never told her girls about seeing the living legend, but she did go back the following day, a Wednesday, to stare him down at that window again. She purposely went there alone to have him to herself. It was crazy how obsessed he became.

——

After about a week or so of admiring Erik through that glass, Damara decided to take it up a notch and use the adjoining women’s workroom; yeah, like she could actually bench press any of the equipment in there. Getting into that women’s workroom meant that she had to become a gold member. The upgrade was about 20 dollars more, which landed her to about 80 dollars a month; great.

She felt like she’d been walking the yellow brick road to the emerald city. Opening those double glass doors to her new sanctuary,  she could smell musk no longer, only fresh air and a cool breeze. The music was even better in there, sicko mode playing low through the speakers. It was approximately 7:50 pm, so she knew Erik would be arriving soon. 

At about 8:15, a little later than usual, Erik pulled open the doors and walked into the men’s workroom. He had his dreads crinkled and messy, a pair of Beats solo 3 in black with gold trim over his ears, black Nike pro training top that clung to his body like it was two sizes too small, matching black shorts that hung low on his hips with the waistband of his compression pants peeking through. He hadn’t immediately seen Damara on the other side since she was in the corner tugging on the pull ropes that she couldn’t make budge. She didn’t really know what to do. If she popped out of nowhere near that window, she could scare him to death, and he’d be mad. He looked like the no nonsense type too. 

Damara decided that hiding wouldn’t fix anything so she came out into the open to do some yin yoga poses that helped stretch her body. Sitting Indian style, she started with the butterfly, bending forward while gripping her shoes. The stretch made her moan, all the tension in her back disappearing. Next, she decided on the dragon, bringing one foot forward in a low lunge, stretching out her glutes and back again. Admiring herself, she liked the way her ass looked in the tinted mirror, and apparently so did Erik. Her heart dropped to her stomach like she’d been on the tallest roller coaster, her eyes reverting towards the ground. Damara could feel his eyes on her still as she lifted from the ground, rolling her neck. With one hand on the back of her neck to stretch the muscles, her eyes met his again. That same slight smile graced his face again, almost innocent, but those eyes were dark and sultry, like hot coal.

The heat turned down just a little, Erik walking away leaving Damara a flustered mess.

——

He started out with a little cross training. Damara watched from her workout mat in between doing crunches. Next, he pumped a little iron. She noticed how he enjoyed admiring himself when he lifted weights. The veins in his arms would bulge so much it looked like they wanted to break the surface of his skin. She could see his mouth slightly opened, concentration set in his features, and she just knew he was making those grunting, straining noises that guys make when they workout. Watching those muscles flex and bulge like that made her weak in the knees again. She liked the feeling. When he lay on his back to do the leg lifts, that’s when she lost it in a major way. The weight Damara had in her hand to do Russian twists fell down on her shoulder. She screamed out without even knowing it. All she could feel was pain beginning to throb in her left shoulder, and she laid back on the floor massaging it with a whimper. Unfortunately, at that time Erik was the last thing on her mind. When Damara got enough nerve to look at the window, Erik was pressed against it looking at her. He mouthed to her since it was sound proof, “You aight, Lil Mama?”

After Damara figured out his words, she nodded and gave him the okay symbol with a tired smile. Erik stares at her for a few seconds, scanning her frame in that PUMA workout suit she decided to wear, then moved on to the leg machine again. Damara liked the way he scouted her, and that made the pain in her shoulder go unnoticed.

——

Throughout their workouts, they would peep each other, and he liked the attention she was showering him with. There he was again with those pull-ups, directly facing her with intimidation in his eyes. Somehow, he had lost his shirt along the way, sweat pouring off his body like he’d been doing push-ups in the rain. 

Damara’s workout suit was almost see-through and hugging all her curves, and he definitely paid attention because his erection was good and hard, tenting the front of those black workout shorts like wild. Damara wanted to think it was solely her making those pants tent like that, but working the hell out of those machines may have played a role in it. She’s good, but not that good.

The more she looked at Erik, the more she wanted to taste him, feel him pressing into her throat. 

Damara looked down at her iWatch and realized it was minutes to closing time, but she couldn’t leave that room, let alone that window. She hated to leave because he was worth staying and getting caught with. Knowing the kind of man Erik was, he probably got a kick out of the chicks staring his fine ass down, then going home to his equally fine ass girl. That was the kind of luck Damara had: finding the juiciest man on the planet, but not able to land him because he was taken.

Damara suddenly had a lightbulb moment. Erik was a gold member, with a passkey to leave the gym if he ever got locked in. Damara could lie and say she lost her passkey, having to go to him to get out...or to get off! Shit, lord knows she needs that, it’s been way too long. Suddenly, Erik made a move she hadn’t been prepared for. He stepped away from the weight trainer and approached the window again. Damara couldn’t move, couldn’t muster a speech, all she could do was watch him approach her with that sweaty, perfect body. Maybe not so perfect to some because it was littered with tiny raised scars, but to her it was absolutely perfect. Man, the closer he got to her, the hotter she got. In all her orgasmic nonsense with a pussy so wet and probably creaming her panties, it soon dawned on her that he probably approached her to ask her why she’s still there; that maybe he was tired of being stared at as if he were a zoo animal. Damara got scared and backed up.

Erik backed up a bit, confusion on his face before chuckling, giving her a head to toe view of him, then he got busy. His eyes stared into hers as he massaged that massive erection up and down through his pants. Damara could feel her nectar elevating within her core. Then it hit her, he was about to give her a private sex show. Was she about to bounce? Fuck no, she stayed and watched everything that pretty nigga did.

When his erection got hard and thick within his pants, he let out a fucking dazzling smile that could make her cum right there. No man had ever smiled so wickedly at her that her panties got wet; then again, she’d never met Erik. His pecs were mouthwatering to the point of drool, contours and ripples were everywhere. All her nasty little tongue wanted to do was lick, lick from his collarbone to his abs and continue south. Her hands shook as they clutched her chest, feeling her nipples brush against her fingers. All the while, her eyes never left his.

——-

Bending to remove his shoes and socks was a chore because that delicious dick was in the way, but he managed. His fingers beckoned Damara to get closer. Damara knew he was going to slide his pants down next, the nigga was clever with his seduction. She moved back to that window, and watched him slide his shorts to his hips. His dick bounced out, sprang to life, and she dropped to her knees, wondering how all that would feel stroking her insides. He was real heavy, the type of dick where the tip and about two inches could only fit in the pussy. The type of dick where you would push him away while he blew your back out from getting too deep. The type of dick where you had to use two hands to jerk while you sucked; you really gotta be a pro to suck a dick like that with no hands, not to mention ride a dick like that.

Erik bit at his plump bottom lip, massaging it with his tongue while his hand massaged that long pole; that damn snake. The more he stroked, the bigger and bigger it became within his hand. He strokes that beautiful dick until he was about ready to nut. He mouthed at her through that sound proof glass, 

“I want that throat.”

His muscles tensed, he squeezed it harder, and playfully rubbed it against the glass directly where her mouth was. She swore she could taste him, feel him sliding it between her lips and forcing his inches into her. Erik stroked it so hard that she could see the moisture forming on his tip. Damara couldn’t help herself, she had to reach between her thighs and stroke her pussy to match his tempo. Damara pulled her suit down, revealing her drenched sports bra and panties to him. She didn’t want to waste any time the way her fingers made its way to her panties, pulling the fabric to the side to reveal her wet sticky treat. The more he stroked himself, the deeper her fingers slide into her valley; all three of them. When Erik dropped to the floor, she scrambled to see what he was going to do next. It was fucking outrageous! That pretty ass nigga got on his back and moved his hips up and down like a bitch was on top of him. Damara screamed in ecstasy over the sight of it. Her fingers went deeper and deeper like she was trying to scoop her cum out the pussy. She turned around and arched her back, rubbing at her clit with one hand while fingering herself with the other. He pumped hard and long, perspiration dripping from him, muscles tensing. Damara just knew he was going to explode on the floor instead of her which was a damn shame. No. No fucking way. He turned over on his stomach, and did push-ups, pumping those hips and dick into oblivion. He still hadn’t cum for her yet. His arm shook when he did his one-handed push-ups, dick throbbing in his other hand. She felt her orgasm building deep in her belly, her legs shaking from muscle strain and intense pleasure. That was the grand finale, watching him cream into his own hands while staring her down. 

Damara screamed out, Cumming on her fingers with a shake of her body.

——

He returned to his back and pressed out so much cum that she almost fainted from the orgasm he gave her. When her breathing returned to normal, Damara looked into her hand, now covered with so much of her own thick moisture that her fingers were sticking together. Then she glanced up at him watching her with a sweet smile on those wonderful lips—his erection was still in his hand and still harder than boulders. 

The windows were nice and steamed by the time he and Damara finished. She watched him grab the rest of his belongings and headed for the showers. Damara took off as well, figuring that was all she’d get from him. 

Damara made her way to the showers herself, letting her plan go. At least she got a good show from him so she was thankful. 

While in the shower, Damara couldn’t help but smile as she wet her body under the steamy water. She struggled to fight the urge that this was it and probably her last sex show a man would ever give her and he didn’t even touch her. Damara allowed the warm water to trickle down her aching joints and relaxed. Her body mitt delicately encircled her breasts, pretending the sultry touch was Erik’s fingers, sucking on them gently before making a tongue track down to her core. She shuddered in waves of heat. Her body trembled, spasms, taking her mind off the pain from her injured shoulder. She completely gave in to pleasure and let the most tremendous orgasm hit her like no other one had ever before...well, until Erik happened on the scene. 

Then.

“Damn, girl.”

The words came from nowhere. Damara assumed they had been in her mind. Nonetheless, her eyes opened and she twirled around to see if anyone had come in. There Erik was, standing directly in front of her. Damara tried reaching for her towel but Erik snatched it from the railing before she could get it.

His cool, seductive voice melted into her horny spirit. 

“Imagine how big this dick would be if I would have been standing right above that ass, watching you finger that pussy from the front. All I could see was that phat ass shaking and quivering to some sexual fantasy. Was it about me?” 

Damara couldn’t speak. All she could do was look down at the towel around his midsection, sporting a killer of an erection. Her mouth opened, her voice cracked. 

“I...I, uh…”

“It’s okay, babygirl. I already know that ass was thinking about me. How could you not after the show I gave you.” 

Erik moves toward her, one step away from entering the stall with her. 

“You liked that show I already know that shit. I already know I got you”— he slapped her pussy, then reached around to palm her ass roughly, smacking each ass cheek causing it to sting—“hot enough to want more, right? You should anyway since I gave you a little taste of what the fuck I got,” he pulled his towel off and entered the stall.

It was different from having that window in between them both, Damara covering her nakedness with her arms. Erik pulled them down.

“Don’t you dare cover up a fucking thing.”

The grip on her wrists were so tight her hands shook.

“So, you just walk in women’s locker rooms? What if I wasn’t the only one here?” 

He chuckles, letting her wrists go, “And? I don’t give a fuck about that. It’s okay for me to do whatever I fucking please in here.” He kisses her cheek. “I’m Erik—“

“I know who you are, Erik. Every woman within a five-city radius knows who you are.” 

“Yeah? And who might you be?”

“Damara; nothing exotic, nothing romantic, just regular old Damara.”

“Not from where I’m standing, girl. You are so fucking sexy. I bet you taste good too, I know that pussy enjoyed me pleasing you.”

“It did, I can still feel it.” She lets out a moan.

“Well then that pussy won’t mind if I please you again?”

Damara relaxed, his hands covering her breasts, much the same way they did in her daydream. He stroked the tight tips with his thumbs, then replaced them with his lips. She was right, that mouth was made to suck on some titties. Erik sucked them ferociously, licking them like they were candy. Her head reared back as he sucked like he was trying to milk her. Her back arched off that wall, his arm circling her waist and pulling her close.

“So, you want everything, huh?”

“Every single drop.”

Erik’s muscles tightened around Damara; their bodies pressed against the wall. As the water continues to drench them, he lifted her into his arms; her legs hugged his hips. She felt the tip of that delicious dick play with her opening, tease it, rub up and down on it. She faces him, staring into those delicious brown eyes of his. 

“It’s almost closing time, I couldn’t leave yet without a little taste.” 

It definitely wouldn’t be a little with how big he was. Damara prepares herself for the surprise, her pussy clenching and quivering on its own. Erik takes his fingers to caress her clit, taking a single finger to tease it with a flickering motion. Damara kept a firm grip on his neck, pressed against the shower wall. 

“I’m playing wit that clit good, huh?”

She responds with a bite to his shoulder, her pussy jerking in his hand. Erik brings his fingers to his mouth, spits on them, then brings them back to her clit. He was very generous with his spit, making her pussy extra sloppy. Clearly with him still going at it on her clit he aimed to make her cum this time with his own fingers. 

“Ok, you working my clit,” she felt him take his dick to finish it off, rubbing her clit in circles. The smoothness of the tip of his dick hit every sensitive spot on her clit. 

“Make that pussy cum,” she edged him on.

His hand came down to grip her ass while he worked, her body shuddering, legs securing around him even harder, moans echoing off of the shower walls. 

“Shit, fuck, damn…”

She could feel the sensitivity in her pussy too.

“Open up for me.”

Damara opened wider, Erik bringing his dick to her pussy. He pushed his way in slow, only by a few inches before she clamped up. Her guess was correct, he was too much to take. Damara was scared now, she didn’t know if she could go through with it.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking big,” her eyes grew wide.

“Ha, You knew that already when you saw me jerking it.” 

“I’m too tight.”

“So?” He moves his hips, teasing her walls to let him in further. Her body crunched, hand to his chest. Was she fucking a monster dick or what? His shit was too damn much.

“Chill,” her eyelids fluttered. She wouldn’t be able to stand.

“You’ve been eyeing me all fucking week, teasing me and shit and now you wanna cry about how big my dick is?” 

He kissed at her neck, causing her to moan and rub her wet face against his. She brought her hands to his biceps, squeezing them tightly. 

“Be gentle, okay? It’s too damn big.”

Erik takes that invitation, gripping her hips firm before pressing himself in inch by inch, pausing in between. Each time he entered her it felt like he was ripping her a new hole, but it felt so full in a good way. Along with the pain came a shock of pleasure. The vein on the underside of his shaft rubbed smoothly at the floor of her pussy, a new sensation she had never felt. It curves at the tip to hit her g spot, swiping it each time he moves his hips.

“I don’t think I ever had a dick this good,” she hissed the moment he fully entered her. 

“I already know you didn’t with all that crying you was doing.” He pulled out to the tip, purposely, to make her feel every inch again. Erik pushes back in, watching the way her face went through a series of confused and unprepared emotions. It was time to pick up the pace now. Erik started off slow, his strokes growing and her moans. Damara held onto the rails along the walls of the shower, watching with astonishment how Erik’s dick fucked her.

“Oh, oh, omg,” she shook tremendously, a single hand clawing at Erik’s chest. He simply fucks her with deeper strokes, reminding her what came with every inch. Clearly he had a fetish for making women cry from how big he was. That rock hard body came with a huge package. 

“Are you fucking kidding me!!!!!” She felt a rush of pressure forming in her lower belly, so big it pushes Erik’s dick out, a fountain of liquid pouring. The more she clenched, the more it flowed. Damara couldn’t control it and it shocked her. No way, this nigga made her squirt and for the first time ever. She’d always tried to make that happen for herself but it never worked so she would give up. 

That seemed to fuel Erik even more, he brought one of her legs up into a split, entering her body again. This time, he flexed his abs, bringing his dick into even more of a curve, really hitting her spot. Erik knew what he was doing, he wanted to see the reaction again.

“Come on, take this big dick,” he held her leg up even if it shook.

“Ah, fuck yes, shit it’s happening again!!” Before she could relax, here she was, squirting again but Erik stayed in. He smiled, slamming her so hard with his dick that she could feel it in her stomach. At this point, Damara might as well lose count of how many orgasms she’ll have. 

———

It was true.

Damara has missed two days of the gym for a reason. 

She couldn’t get out of the damn bed the morning after her and Erik had sex. Her pussy was sore and sensitive, inner thighs shaking when she stood from the bed. Damara didn’t bother exchanging numbers with him, unsure if she would even be able to take him up on a second chance. Deciding to be a big girl, Damara went to the gym for a dance session. 

She stood in the mirrored dance studio wearing a leotard colored bronze, a pair of sweats on and her hair in a messy bun with her vans. She skimmed through her playlist on iTunes, adjusting her AirPods to her liking.

Damara had to squat ballerina style to stretch her thigh muscles, bringing her leg up to extend the muscles of her inner thigh. Rolling her neck, she turns from the mirror, deciding to dance to a Nicki song. Once she got in the groove with the tempo, she started her routine. Her body moved like magic. The mirror wasn’t her own audience anymore, Erik was standing at the door watching her closely. He didn’t make a move, his eyes following her skillful moves along with her dangerous body, I mean, Damara was thick. Even through her loose fitted sweats he could tell. Now that Erik got a good look at her, he recognized her from Instagram.

DeetheeDancer.

She was pretty popular on social media for her dancing. Erik watched a few of her videos from time to time, loving the way she moved. She had this way of letting you know she was sexy from the look she gave in the camera when it followed her body. It was as if she was daring you to touch her, let her throw it back on you and see if you can catch it.

——-

Damara finished off to her first song, bending over with her hands on her knees to catch her breath. She paused her music, picking up her water to take a long sip. After recapping it, Damara’s eyes sweep the area, landing on the door and seeing a familiar face waving at her. 

It was him, the big dick nigga that had her on a two day hiatus. He looked to be arriving at the gym because he didn’t look worn out just fresh with a bomber jacket over top of his workout gear, beats over his ears and shades on. 

“Mind if I come in?” He mouthed.

Damara caught her breath before smiling, motioning for him to enter. He finally stepped through, dropping the duffel bag that was on his shoulder.

“Why ain’t you tell me you were a dancer? You ain’t so average.” 

“It’s kind of hard to do that when you were balls deep in me.” She mouthed tiredly.

“You talk hella bold but when I’m in there I have you running though.” He removed his shades, blessing her with his brown eyes.

“Mind if I watch? I got all day.” Erik removed his jacket.

“Fine with me,” Damara was okay with it, she had eyes on her with dancing almost all the time.

“She plugged her phone into the wall Bluetooth, settling on dancing to some pussy popping music from her freaky playlist. Yes, this was absolutely purposeful.

Right off the back, Megan Thee Stallion Freak Nasty began playing. She started off with a routine she already had to this song. She poses, hands rubbing down her frame before squatting down with a grip on her knees while swaying her hips. She did a turn, one hand in her hair with the other on her ass. Once the beat dropped, she got into the groove with a sexy hip hop routine that involved a lot of footwork and ass shaking. Her ass shook alright, like a goddamn tidal wave straight from the sea. She bounced in a circle, spreading her legs wide before landing into a perfect split that deserved tens across the board like she was a gymnast. 

Erik was impressed, and so was the huge dick that jumped happily in his compression briefs. She was clearly giving it her all, impressing him. He could fuck her ass royally with his dick, congratulate her for the little talent show. She was on the floor again, doing a perfect side split, her eyes moving from the mirror and zeroing in on his erection. She must have known that he was turned on because her eyes didn’t move from his crotch the entire time she grind, bent her body over, and twerked her ass. 

“You think that pussy can handle this dick today?”

She stops moving, hyperventilating before pausing her music.

“Nah, keep that playlist rolling, I want you to dance on this dick.”

She looked at him. He looked at her. She whispered, “okay, I admit it. You’ve got too much dick for me.” 

“Girl,” He wasn’t trying to hear that.

“I’m serious, I need to be able to move not walk like a cripple.” 

“It’s a gift,” he smiles wide.

Damara walks over to the mirrored wall, holding onto the bar before stretching her leg all the way up to her head. 

“See, you preparing yourself already.”

Erik began to approach her, Damara bent over with her head between her legs, looking from behind. She could see Erik making his way to her, the feeling in her stomach making her nervous. Damara lifts back up, grabbing a towel to wipe her neck off. Here he was now, fully enveloped in her personal space with his hands on either side of the bar, chin resting on her shoulder.

“I mean, you really got that shit up there, huh?” He was referring to her leg.

She chuckles, “Chill out, monster.”

“Monster? Hm,” Erik turns Damara around, his eyes scanning her heaving chest, “Well, it is October.” 

She smiles, licking her lips before looking at his, “You plan on scaring me again?”

Erik takes his thumb to stroke her chin, “I thought you were afraid of big, bad things?”

Damara swallows spit, eyes fluttering. She grabbed the bar on either side to brace herself.

“You ain’t know? This is my favorite time of the year.”

Damara places her hands on the back of Erik’s head, pulling him down to meet her lips. They kissed, Erik’s hand on her hips now, pulling her off and against him. The next song that played was dvsn- With me.

“C’ mon,” Erik kisses her again, their full lips in French kiss mode, “dance on me.”

Damara takes her time to work her hips into the slow beat, Erik easily matching her movements. She was impressed, turning now, dipping forward with her ass against his crotch, twirling her hips in a hypnotizing circle. Erik places one arm across her chest, his face buried in her hair, Damara turning to face him slightly while she moved her hips tantalizingly slow against him. 

“Mm,” Erik looked her frame up and down.

Damara turns, on her knees, arching back before rolling her body forward, grabbing Erik’s legs as she began to rise while her hips moved from side to side. She went to her tip toes then, one leg cleanly rising to rest on his shoulder before she arched her back, jumping up for Erik to catch her. He does, twirling her around before slowing down as the song slowed, their eyes meeting. 

“Wow,” she spoke breathlessly.

Before she could stop herself, Damara places her lips against his, Erik bringing her to the floor. Between frantic kisses, Erik undressed her, her naked sweaty body warm against his. She moans, arms around his neck. Erik takes his fingers, slipping inside to get a feel and taste.

“You taste just right,” He sucks slowly on his fingers before taking those same fingers to rub her nipples. 

“Fuck,” Damara pushes Erik down to the floor, her hands moving quickly to undress him. She needed him no matter how big he was. The sight of him again almost knocked her out. Damara grabs his dick, licking her lips before sinking her mouth over him. Erik instantly palmed the back of her head, biting his lip and saying how much of a good girl she was.

Damara sucked like her life was at stake, spit covering her hands and chest. She couldn’t fit him all in her mouth but she did her absolute best. Erik pulls her mouth off, watching the string of spit connect with her lower lip.

“Climb up, Baby girl.” Erik motions for Damara to come to him, Her legs straddling him on either side before her arms grabbed his shoulders tightly. She tried to prepare herself but the moment Erik slipped inside again she squeezed his biceps with her nails. Erik hisses, taking his hands to grab at her waist to keep her still. He started fucking up into her at an even pace, the pressure within her too much. She could feel the shit in her spine. Damara looked back at it, eyes closing in sweet pleasure before looking down at Erik’s smiling face.

“God, please keep fucking me.”

Erik grabs her ass, anchoring his hips before picking up the pace. The scream from her was so loud it bounced off the walls. 

“These walls ain’t sound proof, Baby girl.” 

She couldn’t move or control her cries. Erik was deep within her guts. Damara begged for Erik to keep going over and over, a series of please and I need more escaping her mouth.

“You gonna squirt on me like that again?” He bit his lip, raising his brows in a rude manner to initiate a response from her, “I said is that what you’re gonna do?!” 

“Yes!!!!!”

Damara snapped, squirting like he asked. Erik slaps both her ass cheeks for that.

“Good girl, I know you got more for me.”

“Yes, Erik.” 

She froze, mouth suspended open before cumming again. Within seconds?

“FUCKkkkkk.” 

“Mhm,” he fucked up into her at the same killer pace, “mhm...mhm.”

“STOP!” She cries out, the urge to cum right there.

“Stop it, I’m gonna cum again!”

“Girl, shut up and cum.” 

Erik was close himself.

“Shut that crying up and cum on this dick.”

She went silent, body trembling before cumming for a third time.

“Oh my God,” she cries.

“You gonna let me cum in that mouth, Baby girl?”

Erik bounced Damara a few more times before slipping her off, standing to his feet quickly while she stayed on her knees. Damara opened wide, waiting for his treat. He jerked his big dick, grunts deep and eyes low and dangerous. After three pumps the cream spilled, Damara’s tongue ready. He tasted so damn good. 

“All of it, I’m not playing with you.”

She grabs his dick, licking and sucking all of it off.

“Good girl,” he puckered his lips down at her, mouthing a kiss. She almost fainted.

“You gonna have them thirsty bitches mad”

Damara didn’t care.

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