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lymmsweb · 11 months

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Until I found you

🕷pairing : miguel o’hara x spider!reader

🕷word count: 1095

🕷warnings: non sexual intimacy, description of wounds, nudity, minor ATSV spoilers

🕷summary: Lyla alerts Miguel that you’re injured, Miguel takes it upon himself to help you

🕸 After he set up the Spider association you were one of the first that joined, he didn’t feel much for you at first but after going on countless missions together he trusted you more than anyone.

🕸He gave up on finding love after his daughter died, he felt as if he didn’t deserve a good relationship after all the damage he caused. You were one of the few people that helped him through his guilt and sadness after the event, often cracking jokes with Peter B. to get Miguel to crack even the littlest of smiles.

🕸 He never truly got over his daughters death but he slowly started to act softer and more affectionate with you. He would hang around the lobby more, he didn’t really know why but he always felt like he was looking for someone every time he went out. All most each time he came out of his ‘office’ you would always find a way to lock eyes with him or even strike up a conversation and each time he’d always let his rough exterior fall and shoot you a small smile.

🕸 Normally in his free time you’d always be with him eating Empanadas or Arepas in the kitchen, working in silence next to each other, checking up on you daily and slightly leaning into your touch whenever you’d accidentally bump into him. Miguel even gave you special authorisation with Lyla that no one but him had.

🕸 It was when Lyla alerted him that you were severely hurt after a mission gone horribly wrong he quickly dropped everything and rushed over and into your dimension. You were bloody and bruised, sitting on your living room floor panting and exhausted. Miguel’s heart dropped for a second,at the thought of loosing you he’s reminded of how his daughter hung onto him before she disappeared.

“Mierda! What happened?” he panicked as he bolted over to the medical kit you kept under your bed. He knew where everything was in your house, he crashed many times to your place durning restless, nightmare filled nights. He fumbled a bit as he grabbed it, hurriedly making it back to you making sure he didn’t knock anything over. Without hesitance he started to rip your suit off to get more access around the wounds.

“Buy me a drink first.” you chuckled weakly as you watched him furrow his brows as he started to disinfect the gash in your thigh.

“You only need one drink to sleep with me?” he joked as he to reach over to grab the needle and stitches, rubbing your leg gently with his other hand. He knew he had to ask what had happened but he decided against it just in case you would start stressing out more, although this didn’t stop him seething with rage every time he saw your bruised and cut face.

“Cielo this going to hurt.” he apologetically looked at you before he started to close the wound, with every painful noise you let out his heart broke just a little more, reminding him yet again how in his daughters final moments she was also making those noises. It didn’t take him long before he was finished, putting away all the medical equipment he made Lyla scan you for any internal damage. It turned out you had a concussion but apart from that you were somewhat ‘okay’.

“You should probably wash yourself.” Lyla chimed in, looking closely at your body before turning around to wink at Miguel. He scoffed in annoyance and swatted her away. She always enjoyed pushing her limits with him.

“Come let’s get you cleaned up.” blush crept up on your cheeks as he bent down and picked you up bridle style, trying his hardest to not touch any bruises as he gripped onto you harshly. He swiftly moved around furniture and rooms until he made it to the bathroom, setting you down on the toilet seat before turning to get the bath ready. He stared at the water slowly filling up the tub lost in though, what if he got there sooner, what if you died, what if…? He didn’t know what he’d do if you were no longer by his side, if he didn’t get to hear you again, to feel you again-

“Romeo, you okay?” your teasing words snapped him out of his trance, his head snapped towards you, just blankly meeting your eyes.

“I should be asking you that.” he hummed as he looked you up and down, taking in the way your torn suit stuck to the curves of your body. The way your lips were slightly parted showing your front teeth, the way you looked at him intensely back. He felt like he was under your microscope as you were studying ass his features too.

“Miguel..” you placed your hand on his knee, softly rubbing it. Once he heard you softly whispering his name, touching him so gently he realised just how much he was deeply in love with you, he would’t be able to having you not there in his life.

“Don’t scare me like that again, okay?” Miguel replied as he grabbed your hand intertwining his fingers in yours as he stood up, bringing you up with him. “Also the bath is ready, do you need a drink firs-“

“Shut up.” a light smack to his chest interrupted him, earning a small laugh both of you. Miguel silently asked for permission, waiting for you to allow him to help. You offered him a nod and smile, relaxing your body as he started to strip away the layers from your body, each little touch was like electricity against your skin. It took a while before you were down to nothing. He stayed silent, not letting his eyes wander around your naked form keeping strong eye contact.

He grabbed your hand and helped you into the tub, worried you’d end up slipping and hurting yourself even more, sitting down in the water felt like a blessing against your skin, finally getting all the seat and blood off of your skin was rejuvenating. Miguel felt his heart flutter as he realised how domestic the scene in front of him was, finding comfort in the love and trust you gave him. He walked around searching for your floral scented shampoo and your citric body wash, humming a song quietly to himself. Once he retrieved everything you needed, he passed you the bottles and sat down next to you playing with your hair, watching you intently as you cleaned your blood off of you.

a/n: Cielo - Sky (affectionate nickname) Mierda - Shit . I’ll def be writing more Miguel so whatever nickname he says in spanish is normally what my parents call eachother! The title is taken from this song. Also i just redid my page, hope y’all like it!!!

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kechiwrites · 6 months

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gentle touch

könig x massage therapist!reader kinktober countdown day 5 (body worship)

synopsis: oh, the military boys were your favourite.

wc: 2.8k

cw: massage therapist reader doing bad medical-ish practice, body worship, light sub!konig, mentions of edging, hand jobs, a little oral as a treat, biting, konig being petnamed as he should (honey), size kink, hints at touch starvation, groping, begging, uncut konig, afab!reader, no gendered pronouns or language.

author's note: i know his dick hex code and it's glorious. mdni.

He’s your last appointment of the day. And what a fucking day it had been, ten hours that should’ve been eight, cinnamon scented candles instead of eucalyptus, a rushed lunch because a client had shown up early, not taking “I’m on break” for an answer.

You knock on the faux bamboo door, waiting for your appointment to allow you entry. When he does, so quietly you almost miss it, you open the door, only for your eyes to land on a broad, strong back, still wrapped in a dark grey long sleeve. He turns slightly, just enough for you to see the thin stubble on his chin, cheek and jaw.

"Hello! I didn't catch you undressing did I?" This time he turns all the way around and you are sure your swallow is audible. Hell, you hope it's audible, you want this dude to know just how impressed you are with what you're seeing.

"No." He shakes his head, rubbing his aquiline nose against the inside of his wrist. It must’ve been broken once before, if the uneven bump on his bridge is anything to go by. Why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You eat up the motion, eyes tracking every twitch or movement of his massive arms.

“Oh…" you're ogling him. You need to stop ogling him. "I actually need you to strip down.” The words burn on your tongue. You must say that a thousand times a work week, but this time, when you say it to him, it sounds…dirty. Like a shitty porn set up. Makes your clean white polo feel vacuum sealed to your skin. He takes a step towards you and you shudder a breath, tensing until you realize he’s getting closer to the lockers to your left.

He’s huge, you think, and when he still doesn’t look up at you, content to let the strands of dark brown hair, nearly black hair, hang in his face, you figure he’s shy too.

Cute.

“And you can use the towel to maintain modesty, Mr. König.” You get the inflection of his name wrong, you know because you’d googled it prior, held your phone to your ear in the staff washroom and listened to a soft spoken German man lilt it to you. There’s a hard ‘g’ on the end where it shouldn’t be, and you apologize, trying again to master it. “König.”

“Right.” He murmurs, “Just around my waist, yes?”

Or it could go on the floor and I could rub my clit on your abs.

“Yes, sir. Around your waist.”

You exit the room, closing it softly behind you. You figure you’ll use the few minutes you have to get a bottle of water, or a sedative. Something strong enough to bring you back down to your customary professional detachment.

When you return, he’s where you expect him to be. Face down on his stomach, his head in the cushioned hole. “S-sorry.” He speaks, voice muffled by his position. The apology comes immediately upon the sound of the door closing and you worry his large frame has cracked the massage table or something. You peer around him, looking for any chunks of polished wood or loose screws.

When you don’t find anything you realize he’s apologizing for his scars, the pit marks of bullets dug out in haste and healed with spite, lacerations haphazardly stitched, then redone a second time with the careful, practiced hands of a doctor in no rush.

“Oh, please don’t be. We get military boys all the time. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” You murmur, and it’s a lie of course. Not that you’ve seen scars, of course, you’ve seen some really storied skin in your time here, being near a base and all. No, it was the man who was an oddity. Mandy at the front desk told you that he’d had to duck through the front door.

His skin is also ultra pale in a way military men usually aren't. Near transparent, the sprawling blue lines of his veins thread underneath his skin, and you can see yourself getting distracted tracing some of the pathways with your fingers.

He hums, and you hope you’ve put him at ease a little bit. You haven’t even touched him yet and the tension in his back is glaring. Anxious people tended to hold a lot of stress, anxious soldiers? You’re just glad he’d booked a two hour instead of the customary hour and twenty.

The oil is cold straight from the bottle and you warm it between your palms before you make contact. He’s warm to the touch, bridging on hot, and he flinches when your hands meet his skin. “Was that too cold?” He groans, but doesn’t affirm or deny it, so you figure it must just be the contact. Slowly, you begin with his calves, tending to and pushing on knotted muscle and tense areas, working out kink after kink, soothing his compounded aches. The oil smoothes down his leg hair and you must be going insane because even that is hot to you. His thighs are even worse, strong and muscled and dimpled in the sweetest places. He shivers when your palms glide over his inner thighs, and he clenches them together when your fingers brush the hem of the towel shielding his ass from your greedy view. As quickly as it happens, he relaxes, murmuring another apology. You hum your own response, and push your thumb into an adorable cluster of moles you see just under the towel.

By the time you get to his lower back, König is almost purring, his gentle breathing often interrupted by drawn out, guttural moans. Whines and whimpers that make your blood hot. He’s holding the worst of his tension there, and you have to lean almost all your body weight into the motions of the massage. His hips jerk up and then down just as sharply when you crest your palm over her shoulder blades, and you don’t imagine the keening noise he makes as he grips the massage table. You’re used to military clients being a lot more stoic but it seems Mr. König is most assuredly not the sort. You reach his neck, framing his throat with your palms and using your thumbs to rub firm circles into his nape. His breath hitches and you find yourself cooing. “Breathe for me, I got you.” The soldier’s hips snap downward again, this time hard enough to shift the table beneath him. Which is more than enough to make you pause.

No.

It couldn’t be.

The soft music and sound of the water feature on the wall nearly drown out the curse König whispers, but you catch it, and can’t stop your lips from curling into a pleased little smile. This was just too good. You start to finish up his neck, brushing some of his hair out of the way so you can rub your fingertips into the skin just below his earlobes. You guide him to turn over and when he doesn’t respond, you wonder if he’d fallen asleep.

“Mr. König?”

He makes a wordless groaning noise low in his throat, laying motionless.

“I need you to turn over, honey.” You don’t even realize you’ve pet-named a grown man you don’t know. Which is just as well, because it seems to be what the soldier needs, and he rises from the table, clutching the towel in a tight fist to maintain his scant modesty.

You turn towards the side table, pouring more oil into your palm. When you return to face him, you witness why exactly he was so reluctant to face the ceiling.

He’s at least half-hard, a very noticeable ridge lifting his towel. You can’t stop staring at it, even though you know König is trying his best to ignore it. You circle around him, and begin at the foot of the table, going through the massage cycle again; feet, calves, thighs, arms. You zone out, following through your motions, listening to the man beneath groan and sigh his contentment. You reach his chest, spreading your hands over his pecs. They’re big, just like the rest of him, you think and it’s hard not to fucking drool on him. He’s firm but soft, still pleasantly warm, despite being exposed to slightly below room temperature air. He shifts again when you hit a stubborn knot right below his collarbone, and you pause to check in.

“Still good?”

His breathing is uneven, shuddering and laboured. His hands clench and relax from white knuckled fists.

“Yes.” he hisses through gritted teeth, and you’re worried he’s undoing every bit of relaxation you’ve tried to bring him. It’s painfully clear where the stress is coming from, hidden underneath a paltry white towel, the enticing elephant in the room. You put your hands back on him.

Still got 45 minutes left, after all.

You try your best not to look smug, and you fail miserably.

Every stroke and rub you perform across his chest makes his cock jerk and twitch under the towel. You can practically see the cloudy drops of precum that’d be beading as his tip. Your thumb nail skates across his pectoral and catches his nipple and the whine he makes is so sweet you just have to do it again. Soon, you’re barely massaging him, groping the poor man under the guise of your job. A weak grunt snaps you out of your reverie, and when you glance down his abdomen at that godforsaken towel, you can’t stop the quiet gasp of shock you release at his erection. “Ah, I’m so sorry. Very sorry” His flush spreads from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, a gorgeous stewed cherry colour that overwhelms the pale skin you’d worked into submission. His eyes are screwed shut when you can bear to drag your eyes from his cock to his face. His soft, pink mouth is pulled down at the corners, and the heavy, dark slashes of his eyebrows are furrowed together, creating a wrinkle between them you want to smooth out with a kiss.

“It happens all the time. Are you alright to continue?” Your voice is deceptively calm, serene and soft, when all you really want to do is snatch the towel off the battering ram he’d smuggled in here. Your blood thrums, and you ache at the sight of it, at the mere thought of the ungodly stretch he’d put you through.

You will yourself to keep your hands where they are, force yourself to look literally anywhere else. The faux waterfall ahead of you, the wireless speaker droning pleasant, melodic mood music, fuck, you even try staring at the dimmed light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. But every cry and whine forces your eyes down, tempts you to catalogue every inch of flushed skin and threaded muscle. You gnaw on your own lip, and find your hands drifting down, back around his abdomen. You’ve worked through the area already, there is no excuse to be down there, to slip your finger tips under the towel, to push your digits into the skin around his pelvis. “Is this okay?” You have the gall to ask, when you push your fingers lower still, and basically sign your own severance package. Oh but it’d be worth it, to get what you want, to make this big strong man sob with pleasure, to have his mouth on your throat while you stroked him to completion. The memory of his cock in your hand will keep you warm in the unemployment line.

König nods, turns his head towards you but doesn’t open his eyes. His hips cant upwards again, and his towel shifts, parting to reveal his angry, desperate hard-on. He raises a hand from the massage table, letting his mammoth paw land on your hip. He squeezes you, and exhales sharply through his nose when his thumb touches your bare skin, skating over your flesh underneath your work shirt. “Say it.” You mutter and his eyes crack open, just wide enough for you to spot the crystalline blue of his irises between his inky black lashes.

“Please.”

And that’s all you need.

He’s uncut, and the veins blanketing the length of his cock are visible under his foreskin. Pretty in a way you aren’t used to, a denser blush than the rest of his body, but still quite pale. It feels like your hand is moving in slow motion towards it, your fingers twitching in anticipation. The heat of his dick warms your skin before you even make contact, and when you do, wrapping your fingers around the root of it, your fingertips can’t touch. You press your lips together and try not to squeal happily, glee crinkling your eyes.

God is real and he’s an uncircumcised cock on a shy giant.

König’s erection is searingly hot. Soft skin and hard core, jerking in your palm, leaking steadily, nudging at your hand, insistent. Your brain is working full steam and connections necessary to utilize common sense are still not being made. Slowly, you tighten your hold on him, the weight of it is so imposing, you wouldn’t be surprised if imprints of the veiny surface were branded onto your hand once you withdrew. If you ever withdrew. You should fucking withdraw.

You do not withdraw. Instead, you slide your hand up slowly, choking up on the head of his cock before dragging your grip back down. You chance a glance up at his face, watching his Adam’s apple bob with each laboured swallow. The poor man’s jaw clenches and relaxes while you slide your palm over his flesh again and again. Somehow, he hardens further and your eyes widen impossibly larger, the pit of your stomach doing somersaults at the idea of where you want that thing to go, what you want it to do. You get fevered flashes of König bending you over the massage table in your mind, hands on your hips, rutting without sense or logic into you, so hard the surface scrapes against the floor, all while he sobs, his overwhelmed, overstimulated tears splashing against your back while he rearranged your insides. The head of his cock is exposed every time you slide your hand down towards his pelvis. By the third peek, you’re dragging the pointed end of your tongue over the tip of his dick, licking against his head, and coating your mouth with the taste of him. He grips at your side harder, his fingers digging into your hip as he chases the warmth of your mouth. He keens loud, almost mewling when you pull off him, using your spit to ease your hand’s path. By this point, your handiwork is audible, noisy and wet, König’s voice filling the small room. You use your free hand to guide his head to your chest, letting him bend toward you, press his nose into your tits while he begs for you to finish him.

“Are you gonna come, Mr. König?” You thread your fingers in his hair, letting your nails scratch against his scalp, drift down to his nape and up to his crown again.

“Yes, please, please. Fuck.” His voice is reedy and thin, and he wraps his arm around your waist, burying his face deeper in your chest. And then his whole body trembles, and his hips roll towards you, and for a fleeting minute you consider edging the poor bastard, sliding your hand completely off his cock and watching it twitch violently, uselessly in the air.

But he begs so sweetly. And his next session was already pre-booked.

The hand you kept on his head leaves his hair, and you rub the head of his cock with your flat open palm, jerking him off with firm, fast strokes. He bites down on the curve of your breast, and you’re grateful he still managed to retain enough brain cells to not break skin.

“Do it then. Come, honey.” You trill, feeling his tears wet your skin through your shirt. It’s almost instantaneous, so fast it’s kind of impressive. His body goes bowstring-tight, and he squeezes you so hard it almost hurts. Ropes of sticky white seed shoot from his cock, covering your hand and his spasming abdomen. You slide your hand up, milking just the first two inches of him through his orgasm, until he stops your movements himself, covering your hand with his own.

When you finally break contact, you stare at your hand for what feels like ages, thick beads of his cum rolling down your palm, sliding to your wrist. You extricate yourself from his hold, using your clean hand to brush his sweat damp hair from his forehead. You press that kiss you wanted to the space between his brows. Why start restraining yourself now? His body shivers periodically, and you turn to the sink, to wash your hands clean, clenching your own thighs together, his moans and sighs echoing in your mind. You turn to face him, grinning wide and cheery,

“So...I’ll see you next week?”

hoe, you are getting fired! at least you got a man outta it though.

support city girls who love gummy worms, reblog what you like.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

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alt-vera · 1 year

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— text me, texas ⁀➷

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joel miller worries that the girl he’s been seeing is holding out on him on purpose. she definitely isn’t.

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♡ | joel miller | 1.5k | ❛ text me texas - chris young ❜

warnings: pre!outbreak joel miller. outdoor oral (m!receiving). praise. fond nicknames being used. deep throating. age gap. mdni.

❝ it’s breaking my heart and i’m starting to get the message… c’mon and text me, texas ❞

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JOEL MILLER COULDN’T KEEP HIS EYES OFF OF HIS PHONE.

　Whether he was working, or making breakfast for Sarah, his flip phone was always in his peripheral vision. He didn’t even know if it was intentional anymore.

　It’d been a week since he heard from you. A week since the two of you had gone on a nearly disastrous date. A week since he’d gotten a text from you reading, “Talk 2 U L8er, cowboy”

　Texas and Cowboy. You were the one who started the nicknames, jokingly calling him cowboy when he’d come into the ER for some stitches he’d earned during work. Joel knew he shouldn’t be hitting on the resident more than a decade younger than him patching him up, but he loved the way the corners of your eyes crinkled as he cracked a ludic joke, and the way the tip of your tongue peeked out of the corner of your mouth as you honed in on your work.

　This lead to him asking for your number as you discharged him, and you saying yes for a reason Joel couldn’t figure out. Of course, your residency schedule wouldn’t allow for a date right away, something that wouldn’t happen for another two weeks after your fateful meeting, but it did allow for an abundance of phone calls between the two of you.

　Something that had become so routine for Joel that, with their current absence, had caused him a week of fitful, sleepless nights. Missing his texas that wasn’t really from Texas.

　Even now, as he and Tommy shot the shit sitting on the back of Joel’s shoddy wooden porch, beers in hand and cicadas buzzing a backtrack for their conversation, he couldn’t help but steal glances at the folded black device sitting on the table between them.

　“Maybe she’d finally come to her senses,” Tommy suggested with a shit-eating grin as he took a sip from the glass bottle in his hands. “Realized she could do better than a dirty ol’ contractor.”

　“Don’t talk as if your shit don’t stink,” Joel replied gruffly, calloused hands picking at the peeling label of his beer. “You’re in the exact same boat as i am. How is Ashley, by the way?”

　“Fuckin’ a lawyer,” Tommy replied with a roll of his eyes, a much more forceful sip being taken now. “Hey, maybe that’s why she hasn’t called you. She’s fuckin’ her doctor-supervisor whatever it’s called.”

　“Or maybe she’s been too busy patchin’ up dumbasses like yourself.”

　Your voice cut through the summer air, stunning the two men as they turned around to look at you. You leant against the sliding glass door, tank top wrinkled from being in your locker all day and jean shorts hanging low around your hips. Your hair was wild from being thrown up all day, shining in the setting sun as a six pack hung loosely in your hand.

　“Texas,” Joel said weakly, stunned to see you there.

　“Cowboy, Ranger,” You greeted respectively, smiling as you moved to stand in front of the two as you put the pack on the table. “Glad to know you two still think about me when i’m not around.”

　“I’ll take that as my cue to leave,” Tommy mumbled, face ruddy from being caught shit-talking. He placed his empty bottle on the table, fishing out a new one from the pack you brought. “I’ll be drinking this one at home, Doc. Thank ya.”

　You gave him a two-fingered salute as he stalked off, taking his chair and popping the cap off your beer. Joel’s mouth hung agape before he snapped to his senses, hand running over his stubbly jaw.

　“Tommy, y’know, he was just bullshittin’,” Joel mumbled, eyes trained on you, looking for any sort of indication that you were pissed. “Y’know I don’t think you’d do something like that.”

　You laughed heartily, which put Joel somewhat at ease. He melted into his chair just a bit, taking a quick swig.

　“I know, cowboy,” You teased the nickname. Your shorts rode up a bit as you shifted, and Joel fought himself not to stare. “My attending’s been up my ass this week, sticking me in the ER til i ran out of ice packs and stitchin’ thread. That’s why i’ve been so M.I.A.”

　Joel ignored your addressing of your silence, instead quirking his lips up into a teasing grin. “Meet any patients as charming as i was?”

　“Nope,” You replied, taking a swig of your own. “No one can beat the one and only Joel Miller.”

　Joel angled his body more towards yours, “Is that why you took it out of your busy schedule to come see me?”

　“Actually,” You said, wrist twirling as you stretched your soreness, “I have tomorrow off, so i thought i’d pay my dear cowboy a visit, seeing as i left him in radio silence for the past week.”

　“Yeah, darlin’, you can’t do that to an ol’ man like me,” Joel sighed, tracing the wood of his chair. He was never good at being vulnerable. “Made me think you were off, i dunno…”

　You picked up where he trailed off. “Fucking my doctor-supervisor whatever?”

　Joel shook his head, crows feet prominent as he squinted. “No, just that maybe… there was someone else.”

　“If you ever can’t call,” He continued, “You can always text me. Even though i don’t know how to text back, you can always… text me, texas.”

　“Well maybe I can make it up to you…”

　A sly smile danced on your lips as you sank from your chair and onto the balmy wood of the porch, crawling between Joel’s already spread legs. Your fingers traced the pattern on his bet buckle, doe eyes moving to stare up at him. “Sarah’s sleeping over at a friend’s house, right?”

　“Yes,” Joel’s voice came out as a broken sigh. His fingers came up to trace your jawline, rough pads leaving tingles on your smooth skin. “Y’know you don’t have to make it up to me, texas.”

　Your head cocked. “But i want to.”

　Those four simple words made Joel practically fall apart at the seams.

　You felt him relax into his chair, which you took as a signal to continue. You delicately palmed him through his tightening jeans, a groan of satisfaction leaving his lips as you did so. More confident in your actions now that you knew he was enjoying himself, you unbuckled his belt and jeans, pressing kisses to his clothed member.

　Joel’s fingers danced through your hair, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail as you pulled down his boxers, cock springing up against his dark tee to meet the gentle summer breeze. You spit into your hand, stroking him before smoothly taking him into your mouth.

　Joel could stare at you all day, Texas sunset painting your skin with warm hues, your cheeks hallowed as you took him the best you could, hand stroking what you couldn’t. It took everything in him not to bust the moment you got on your knees in front of him.

　“That’s it, darlin’,” He cooed, thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek as you took him deeper, throat bobbing against him as you tried not to choke. “Just like that.”

　You pulled away for a breath, and he leant down and kissed you. Your palm still stroking the head of his cock as his tongue swirled with yours. He could taste himself on your tongue, the tang of precum mixed with beer.

　You pulled out from the kiss, smiling as you turned your full attention back to his cock, your tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth as you focused on making him cum, just as it did when you did his sutures.

　Your muscle tickled his slit as you took him once again in your mouth, wrapping around him as you continued to go down. He groaned, large hand putting gentle pressure on the back of your skull as he encouraged you to take him in farther.

　“You can do it, baby. You can take it all.”

　His encouragement spurred you further, nose coming to meet the wiry hairs at his base as he fully went down your throat. You sputtered around him, but he held you in place, hips bucking up into your mouth.

　“Fuck, darlin’, i’m cumming.”

　His warning came out broken as he moaned, hot seed travelling down your throat and leaking out the side of your mouth. You pulled off once he was milked, using your thumb to collect the fluid that escaped, licking it clean.

　You tucked him back into his boxers and laid your cheek on his jean covered thigh, smiling up at him with a lopsided grin as he fondly played with your hair, tucking it behind your ears and massaging your scalp.

　Joel couldn’t stop himself from grinning back, lips curling as he playfully rolled his eyes. “That was one hell of an apology, texas.”

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angelltheninth · 10 months

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Spiderverse Characters When You get Hurt

Pairing: Peter B. Parker, Miles Morales, Gwen Stacy, Miguel O'Hara, Hobie Brown, Pavitr Prabhnakar x Reader

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, late night visits, hospitals, injury, sneaking in, flowers, soothing kisses, anger, self-blame

A/N: I wouldn't be me if I didn't put as much angst in here as I did fluff.

Peter brings you flowers, a lot of them, so many that the hospital staff thinks you died in the meantime. He's slumped over in the chair, worried eyes taking in the bandadged spots, the stitches and he can't help but feel like he should have saved you sooner. He doesn't even know you that well, you're a new reporter but you were there with him, for him, for Spider-man. Now he needs to make sure he makes up for this when you get out.

Miles gives it his best to not freak out as he cleans the cuts on your hands. You shouldn't have grabbed the railing like that, you could have gotten an infection. It might be mild compared to some injuries he gets, still he doesn't want to see them on the person he loves. It goes the same for you but its... not as easy. He can't promise you won't ever get hurt if you're with him but he can promise to give it his all to protect you. And with your smile being his ultimate reward he will work even harder.

Gwen nearly has a heart attack when she sees the state you're in when she rushes to your place. Secret identity be damned cause she's in your room, in full costume, scolding you, then crying then kissing you so desperately like its gonna be your last ever kiss. If someone comes in right now and sees her kissing you her secret would be out. She can't think about that now, all she needs is to make sure you're safe.

Miguel is beside himself with guilt that this happened to you on his watch. You can see his eyes, red from both tears and anger,roaming your body along with his hands as he takes notes of every pained sound you make. This is gonna take a while to heal up without a healing factor but he won't let you tell him that he's acting too worried or being too dotting. You act like this when he's hurt, so its only right.

Hobie doesn't get a wink of sleep when he caries you home up until morning when you open your eyes. He's trying to stay positive and maybe even crack a joke like he does to soothe you when he's injured but all he wants is to do is to cuddle up to you, to pull you on top of his chest and listen to your breathing and your heartbeat. Once you get better he will go out and throw both words and fists at the person who put you in this state but until then he is all yours.

Pavitr can't stop the tears from running down his face as he slowly kisses your hands and then your cheek. He was so scared he was gonna loose you. Now you're hospitalized and... he can sneak in if he really wants to, and he will but he would love to be able to give you every second of his day. Since he can't do that he will bring you a get well soon gift every day, and kiss you every day too, it will make you heal up faster. Okay no it won't but it will make you feel better and happier.

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doobea · 9 months

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"STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS PLEASE" - RIN ITOSHI

synopsis: Rin discovers that he likes being next to you on public transit. But it probably doesn't mean anything - right?

contents: proplayer!rin, gn!reader, reader is team manager, under the assumption that reader kinda short, fluff, sfw, loosely based off of my recent morning commutes to work, kinda word vomit/kinda proof'd sorry word count: 3.4K a/n: i realized that i wanna write more oneshots and i know i said i was gonna take a break from rin but ... i can't sorry!! apologizes if this feels rushed LMAO

Rin’s mornings have a strict routine.

He would get up at the crack of dawn, dedicate the first hour to yoga and the second hour to his needed morning run, make himself a protein shake for his meal on the go, and take a brisk cold shower all before jogging down to the train station for his work commute. His routine is nothing but quick and simple in his book, though not everyone can easily pick it up.

Today he wakes up missing his alarm or rather the lack of it.

His phone beams in his face the time 8:35AM and he curses under his breath. Practice starts at 9:00AM sharp and waking up two hours late throws everything off for him. He decides to keep his windows shut, skips out on his morning exercises, ignores the rumbling in his stomach, and sprints to the subway station that's located ten blocks from his apartment.

The air grows heavy and thick from the continuous sea of people cramming into the train car. Usually, the earlier train cars have enough room for him to fully stretch his arms out or even sit if he was feeling lazy but it's practically impossible by the sheer volume he’s currently facing. Rin stands by one of the entrances of the train car, clutching his duffle bag close to his body as more salary men and women alike are shoving past him, trying to claim an open spot of their own.

"Stand clear of the closing doors please." The automatic voice announcement blares through the outdated speakers and lights by the entryways flash yellow as the sliding doors begin to seal shut.

"Wait!" Rin perks up and sees your frantic figure running down the flight of stairs, hands busied with a binder and a duffle bag of your own. "Someone hold the door!"

And while Rin would pretend and ignore just about anyone on any given day, he couldn't do it this time, not when he notices the logo on your bag and the name stitched onto the blue zip-up sweater you had on. He quickly sticks out his foot to prevent the sliding doors from closing, earning himself a harmony of groans from the workers around him, and watches your figure slip past the gap and stop directly in front of him.

He watches you gasp out a breathless 'thank you' before eyes widen at recognition, "You're Rin from Project: Blue Lock, right?" You say a bit too loudly for his liking and swiftly adjust your volume into a whisper. "Sorry, I just read your file before I hopped on." You attempt to point at the binder between the lack of space.

Rin stares at the binder, which appears to be on the verge of spilling out all of its contents of how stuffed it was. "You're the new manager?"

"First day!" You cheer despite almost missing your own commute just moments ago.

The train car sways in motion, causing you to stumble forward and almost crash into him. He watches as you glance around for a surface to hold onto but there isn't much to offer in a crowded room. Rin, of course, had no issue claiming such space as his back leaned against the side wall next to the doors and one of his hands rests freely on the top metal bar.

"Hold onto something," He points out the obvious.

"I’m trying," You respond, but Rin notes that you didn't want to shove your way through the crowd nor grab at the handlebars behind the seats that people sat in. He figures that you're too much of a people pleaser.

The train car lunges itself into motion again after the next stop, this time more packed than before. You were practically pressed together if not for the binder. Much to his own surprise, he lamely offers his extended arm that was gripping onto the metal bar.

"Are you sure?"

"Do you want to hurt yourself?"

You didn't bother fighting back as the next wave of people make their way through and reach to latch your free hand around his arm, fingers pinching the fabric of the athletic undershirt he wore. The train's frequent stops meant a lot of back-and-forth motions, each time you would apologize and he would find himself mumbling back 'no worries'.

When the train finally reaches your shared destination, Rin's collar is pulled to the side and his sleeve is no longer compressed against his skin. His bangs stick to his forehead and he feels sweat drip down his spine. You're still profusely apologizing beneath him but he holds back his sharp tongue.

"It’s fine."

The second incident follows shortly after during a team excursion to Okinawa's training camp. Since then it had been two months since you started working for the team and Rin was taken aback by how structured you are compared to the first meeting. Ever since joining, productivity and communication between members have increased and during game days you would already have everyone's lockers stocked with necessities such as painkillers, bandages, extra sweatbands, etc. It didn’t take too long before you quickly became everyone’s favorite manager.

Isagi would always greet you with a fist bump first thing in the morning, Bachira follows in after with an overbearing hug, Nagi gifts you whatever latest candy he had in his bag, and lunch is always on Reo.

Rin keeps his distance, he’s like that with everyone, but even he can silently admit that you’re annoyingly good at your job. He hasn’t spoken a word to you outside of official introductions after the train incident - until now.

The bus system in Okinawa is different from the ones he was used to on the main island and it seems like you also figured that out the hard way as he watches you do a second headcount on the public transit. The workers had forgotten to change out the working hours last minute and, because the team went during the slowest season, the schedule wasn't always on time.

Luckily, the last bus of the day was able to pick up everyone from the training camp after one heated call to the company. Unfortunately, this meant the drive back to the hotel was going to be in pitch-black darkness with added bumpy roads (who decided to build a sports facility on top of a mountain?) and of course, this bus has no working AC or indoor lighting.

"... eighteen, nineteen - who am I missing?" You strain your eyes down at the clipboard before peering up again.

"Here," Niko raises his hand next to you which causes you to emit a small screech.

"Geez, okay," The lack of lighting plus the football player's face covered in hair did not help. You make your final check mark and signal the bus driver to start the commute. "Two rules I wanna say for this ride back: one, rest up! You guys killed it today and tomorrow morning we'll fly straight back for regional conferences, I already have your suits tailored and cleaned up in your closets. Two, absolutely no ghost stories on this bus."

Shidou, who's seated directly in front of Rin, starts to laugh and throws his head back, "Hear that? Lil' manager here is scared of the dark."

Rin can't see your expression, but he imagines you making a deep frown. You strut over to Shidou's seat and promptly smack the clipboard on his head.

"I mean it, no ghost stories!"

Bachira tips his head, his phone flashlight already propped under his chin, "But I'm great at telling ghost stories."

Gagamaru jumps in next but he keeps a straight face, "I've been to this mountain last time with my grandpa. It was also the last time I would see him."

Everyone is unsure whether he meant it as a joke or if he was recalling true events. Either way, this conversation needed to end.

You groan dramatically and plop yourself down next to Rin, making the seat bounce ever so slightly, "Please tell me you're on my side."

"He actually enjoys reading horror, your honor." Chirigi replies in amusement.

You whine in return, "What? Why?"

Rin shuffles closer to the window, feeling uncomfortable by the unwanted attention, and plugs in his earbuds, "It's just a stress reliever for me." He answers, hoping that it'll be enough. It wasn't.

"Oh, he totally wishes that all the bad things happen to his brother." Rin rolls his eyes at Isagi's comment while the shorter male and Bachira share a moment in laughter.

"Probably a sadist too." Nagi chimes, not looking up from his mobile game.

"Definitely a major sadist." Reo agrees.

If not for the fact that everyone was good on the field, Rin would've placed half of the football team six feet under by now. He turns up the volume of his earbuds and sinks deeper into the seat.

The whole bus swerves along the cliff's edge, causing everyone to grow quiet as they all grip onto their belongings and the nearest handrest. The only light available is the moon but even that wasn't going to be enough as dark clouds were rolling in. The players scramble in their seats and check their surroundings, seeing nothing but ragged bushes and the dirt road being engulfed by the night.

"Honestly," Your shaky voice is loud enough for him to hear, "this is way worst than ghost stories."

Rin is not someone anyone could go to in need of comfort. Yes, he can be rude (although kinda working on it?), but most of the time it's because he doesn't know how to be comforting. Guess it's time to put his skills in check because he really doesn't want to ride back with a paranoid seatmate.

"Wear this," He takes out his earbud and places it in your ear, handing over his phone with a music library pulled up in the process. "Pick whichever song you want."

Rin didn't expect it to work but you graciously take his phone and throw on a slow, mellow beat to hopefully calm down your frantic state. He leans back into his seat once more, watching your chest slowly fall in a rhythmic pattern and your eyes close shut as you try to calm yourself.

After a few more near-death turns and bumps in the process, the bus manages to make it back to the resort in one piece. While almost every player on board carried green faces and barf bags at the end, the older driver seems to have no issues waving everyone goodbye.

Rin didn't even notice that you and him are the last ones on the bus until he overheard his teammates asking around. He had been too engrossed in the fact that you had fallen asleep next to him.

Again, he holds back his tongue but this time it's in an attempt to hide a smile.

"How did you manage to misread the time?"

"I didn't do it on purpose!"

"We were supposed to be there now."

Rin stifles back a groan as he watches you pace back and forth on the platform, waiting to catch the next arriving train. Except for the fact that there might not even be a train. Because the last train may or may not have run an hour ago before the construction workers closed the route off for maintenance. Heavy on the may or may not. He knew that he should've gone with the others earlier when Reo offered everyone a ride in his limousine, but Rin kindly stayed behind to help you (it was actually his turn this week) clean up the football field.

"Okay, maybe we should call a taxi instead? Or would an Uber be faster?" You anxiously play with your dress shirt before typing rapidly away at your phone for any quick solutions. "I can't believe I'm going to be late for my first sports banquet!"

Usually, Rin would keep quiet in public when it came to anything related to football. But due to the fact that the train might be delayed for the rest of the night and that you two were the only ones dressed up at the station, he didn’t care.

"It's mine too," Rin adds but with less enthusiasm. "I can guarantee that it's probably nothing special."

"What?!" You practically shrieked in shock, almost stopping in your tracks at his statement. "It's the perfect time to network and meet international players!"

The striker shrugs and kicks at nothing in particular on the ground, scuffing his brown loafers in the process. “Not usually my thing.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, "You can’t just say that when you literally just told me you haven’t been to one!" A few quiet moments pass before you let out a sound of, what he assumes, victory. "Taxi is right outside, let's go!"

You shove his body into the car, purposely ignoring his protests as you scoot closer to the center of the back seat. Your body is now pressed firmly against his and his cheek crashes into the opposing window. Rin shoots you a glare and you merely roll your eyes in response.

"You literally have all that space next to you. Do you really need to be in the center?"

"Listen here," He widens his eyes as you whip out a hairbrush and a whole skincare set from your bag. "My goal tonight is impressing all the other players and their managers. And appearance is what people notice first." You said as you apply a full-on face mask.

"You can’t be serious right now."

"Oh, but I am." You grin and shove an extra sheet mask in his hands.

It reads 'Collagen Essential Lifting & Firming Sheet Mask' in big pink letters with an image of a snail in the background. Not like he hasn't done skincare, but Rin wasn't sure if a snail really belonged on the cover image of the packaging. He tries to throw it back on your lap but your hand stops him.

You whip your head around to glare, "Put it on, or else I'm doing it for you."

Something about your sharp tone sent shivers down his spine. Rin reluctantly rips open the packaging and carefully starts placing it on his face, making sure the extra solution doesn't drip all over his suit. The mask against his skin is cold, wet, and smells nothing like snails.

He glances at the rearview mirror to see his reflection, the extra white flaps from the sheet hang off of his face in a way that reminds him of a soggy mummy, and he grimaces, "I look ridiculous."

Rin flinches when he feels your fingers on his face, grabbing the extra flaps and readjusting their position back on his cheek, "After this, you'll look like a newborn baby!"

Rin flicks his eyes away from his own reflection to scowl at you but is taken aback at your appearance. While his facemask is just a white sheet, yours had little cute characters printed on it, and he could not take you seriously.

"You look so stupid right now." He didn't mean to have his intrusive thoughts slip out so easily, especially since you're his manager, and almost backtracks his words immediately. "Stupidly cute." Wait that doesn't sound any better. His other intrusive thoughts got in the way!

"Itoshi Rin?"

"Yes?"

He feels a flick on his forehead followed by a series of giggles.

"You're such a weirdo."

"You like our manager, don't you?"

For the first time in ages, Rin misses his shot.

"What?"

Aiku stands behind with a shit-eating grin that Rin is all too familiar with. Ah, the unsolicited relationship advice from 'big brother' Aiku is what Rin likes to call it.

"C'mon, you guys are super buddy-buddy now!" Aiku attempts to rest an arm on one of Rin's shoulders but he steps aside.

While he's not completely wrong, the two of you have grown slightly comfortable with each other's presence since the banquet, Rin wouldn't quite think of anything more of it. You are a naturally sociable person and Rin just happens to have gotten used to your presence. Nothing more and nothing less.

"Don't go spreading around rumors like that." He jogs to get the ball however Aiku beats him to it and holds the ball captive between his feet.

"You smiled at them this morning." Aiku points out and awfully recreates Rin's 'smile'.

Rin rolls his eyes and tries to get the ball but Aiku pushes it further away, "That doesn't mean anything."

"Okay but recently you've been sitting together quite often." Aiku decides to start dribbling the ball down the field and Rin is quick to follow after.

"Maybe I'm just less annoying to be around."

"Would you let Isagi sit next to you? Bachira? Me?" Rin jumps in an attempt to block his shot but it barely grazes his head as it flies smoothly into the goalpost. He loses his balance and falls straight to his bottom in defeat.

"Let me help you." The taller male persistently offers and holds out a hand.

"Like you have any luck with relationships." Rin swats the hand away and begrundingly gets up. Aiku ignores the comment.

"I'll make the guys stay behind today to clean up the locker rooms so that you and our little manager can have some quality time together." Aiku puts emphasis on the last part and it's almost enough to make Rin throw his cleats at him but he saves the action in his imagination instead.

"I'm leaving," Rin dismisses his co-captain's suggestion and begins to walk off the field.

He hears Aiku clicking his tongue in annoyance, "Does arrogance run in the family or something?"

Without turning back, Rin holds up his middle finger and makes a beeline toward the locker rooms.

Getting on the subway during the afternoons is always rough for just about everyone. Unlike the mornings, which are just filled with salary men and women, the afternoon hosts a wide range of age groups and it doesn't help that the station he has to take is in a centralized location in the city. It feels like sardines packed in a tin can.

"Stand clear of the closing doors please." The automatic voice blares above his head as he leans against the wall in the corner of the train car, away from where the majority of people had gathered.

"Woah, fancy seeing you here!" Your chirpy voice makes Rin do a sharp turn as you barely squeeze through the sliding doors. The sight of it makes him recall back to the first meeting, although this time with a lack of disheveled hair and a thick binder in the way.

You swiftly manuver your body over to his spot through the sea of people, "Do you usually get off this time?" You didn't ask to be instigating but rather out of curiosity.

Rin takes hold of the top metal bar as the train starts to move, "Not really. Just needed a break from Aiku." He confesses.

"He can be a bit much."

You try and shift your weight so that you could stand up straight but it fails and you end up leaning against another passenger. The stranger sends a nasty glare while you fix your posture, apologizing profusely to them. Once again, the train car ended up being too crowded for you to secure a spot of your own and you weren't in a good position to reach for the top bar.

Subconsciously, Rin offers his arm again, not wanting to see you struggle for the remaining stops. This time around, you had no hesitation in latching your hand around his bicep. A small part of his brain wanders back to Aiku's question and it plagues his mind.

Does he like you? He knows that he doesn't mind being next to you. And he doesn't quite mind when you touch him. Talking to you feels nice too. Wait, this all sounds like a crush, he thinks. The hand on his bicep suddenly feels like it's on fire and he starts sweating.

"Sorry, is it getting hot in here?" You speak from below and he realizes that your hand is slowly slipping off by the amount he was producing due to just nerves alone.

"My bad." His free hand clasps yours back onto his bicep and he holds it in place.

"You sure? I can try grabbing something else." You suggest.

It's nerve-wracking but Rin does admit that it feels nice.

"I don't mind."

Standing next to you on the crowded train is rather fitting at the end of the day, he thinks.

#blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #doobea writing #blue lock imagines #blue lock x reader #blue lock headcanons #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin #rin itoshi #blue lock fluff

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yandere-wishes · 28 days

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𝕐𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕄𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℍ𝕚𝕘𝕙

❤️‍🩹Characters: Yandere! MH Ghouls x GN! Reader

❤️‍🩹Summary: There's something ancient within you. Lost and forgotten. You're an eldritch creature living amongst monsters. A piece of you lives within each of them. And a piece of each of them lives inside you...

❤️‍🩹Warnings: Yandere behavior, obsessive tendencies, Body horror in Frankie's part, slight gore and blood in the rest, angst, super cryptic.

❤️‍🩹Could be read as romantic or platonic.

I am a monster, for now and forever. I am a monster, what a terrible being.〜♡॰ॱ

There's something ancient within you. Lost and forgotten. ~❣✧❣

⚡︎Frankie Stein ⚡︎

There's something ancient within you. Lost and forgotten. Frankie is desperate to unravel it. To crack it open. She feels you in every one of her limbs. Feels you in the stems of her patchwork heart. That has to account for something right?

Your melancholy seeps through you, tainting the tiles in shades of gold.

Frankie blames the binding of your skin, she's always found it too loose.

Nothing extramundane, to tether your essence within yourself. She wouldn't mind taking you apart and stitching you back together. Recreating you into something perfect. She's grown wry of watching you crack your ribcage open, shoving astral celestials where your heart should be. You mutter things, things she doesn't understand, things she's scared she'll never understand. Her bones rattle, a rouge spark runs down her spine. Every piece of you haunts her...

Frankie use to believe, verily childishly, that parts of her were salvaged from you. She knows now that that's impossible, yet she still wishes every night for the childish dream to come true.

In many ways, Frankie has always been bound to you. Your first friend, your first confidant, your first punishment, your first comprehension. Even when you'd been too young to understand the cacophony of the world, you'd still know the two of you were connected.

It had only taken a lifetime to understand why.

Bones collapse into constellations. Somehow she feels you slipping away. Her slender fingers trace the stitches across the hollow of your chest. A meteoric reminder of her work. "It's okay I'll have you fixed in no time." Frankie doubts you find any truth in her incentive. You've always been drawn to pessimism. Still, she feeds the needle through skin and muscle. Praying she remembers the stronghold pattern her mother taught her.

The shade they used for your blood is too bright. You bleed in rivers,

flowing with no end insight. You wash away her sorrows with farfetched promises. Awakening a longing, she never knew she had.

Frankie wishes she could pluck out your spine. Kiss each vertebra like an iridescent pear. Maybe then your souls would tether, maybe then everything will go back to the way it once was. The needle snags across bones, marring your skin in star-kissed bruises. She pecks each one, muttering a sorry across cold flesh. You feel like home under her lips. A home she never got to know.

Yet the echoes of its brilliance linger faintly in the hearts of those who once knew its warmth.

Frankie smiles as your eyes crack open. Dizzy and distant, you've yet to notice your enhancements. The pieces of herself she tethered onto you. She wonders when you'll notice the new eye, the new leg, the mismatched fingers. Her heart sparks thumbing loudly in her ribcage.

She sinks down, by the operation table,skinning her knees. You feel like home, now more than ever.

Your fingers find her head, patting the matted hair, she smiles something solemn and forlorn. She trails her fingers over one of the stitches on your arm, prying her slender digits between the threads and into the gaping tissue. Her fingers release a spark, your body arches off the table. After all, blood has always been a good conductor for electricity. "It's just a power boost. You'll be right up in a few minutes." a giggle rips from her throat, as you mummble an acknowledgment. Eyes overcast with equal parts grief and glee.

She always knew she loved you how could she not? You'd been linked to her for as long as she had a conscience. You had always been her everything. Sometimes she wonders how you both ended up like this. Stitching pieces of yourselves into each other.

Frankie closes her eyes. Her mind struggling to regain control. Her deep breaths waver as she hears shifting from the table.

"It's alive..."

𓆩❤︎𓆪Draculaura𓆩❤︎𓆪

Draculaura can smell the ethereal ichor now. Maybe it's always been there. Hidden under bygone layers and golden sand. She wonders if now, knowing what you know, makes you see her as anything less. You're older now, smarter. Maybe you understand the world just a little bit better than she ever could.

Despite her gifted immortality, Draculaura likes to think that she's grown, too. No longer the little batling who faints at the mere scent of blood. Yet the urge to vomit is still there, an acidic reflex in the back of her throat. She's been avoiding you lately, simply because you make the urges go away.

She can't live with that.

Can't live with what you make her.

You trace the heart on her cheek. Your fingers feel like divinity sinking into her skin. You try to reason with her, tell her the truths of the crypt. "Surly Draculaura, you must know who you really are. Isn't it silly that you persist in this nativity?" Your words are harsh. Good intentions wrapped in silver blades. She bites her tongue, killing the queries before they dare spill.

You make her crave things.

Things she's avoided her whole life.

There's blood on your lips, dripping onto the ground. She fights the urge to kiss you. The heat of the sun amplifies the scent of the decaying flesh. Her stomach growls, this isn't right. The grip on her parasol tigtens. There is justice behind your actions, not one she can make herself understand. She watches as you tear into the decomposing body. "Don't", it's nothing less of a prayer. She feels her fangs elongate. How she wishes the world would turn to black.

Can a vampire be haunted?

Surly they can, it's the only answer to your staunch lingering.

Draculaura's coffin feels too snug, like a home and a prison encapsulated in one. She wishes she could feel cold dirt under her nails, feel the thrill of digging her way out of a grave. It's your fault, it has to be. Why must you awaken such ancient sensations? Such horrid cravings, such primal needs.

Why must she see divinity in your face, liquid darkness shimmering behind enigmatic eyes? You are something terrifying, something painful. You are what she was supposed to be, what she's fled from her whole life.

Your silhouette is a curse and a blessing. A reminder of a lineage she was thrusted into. A legacy she never wanted. Everything about you is a hunting familiarity for a family she never knew. She wonders if she would have been the prettiest girl in the morgue. She wonders if her father should have let her die all those eons ago.

"I used to be human" She confesses one night. She doesn't know why you agreed to come over. Why seeing you in your pajamas sparks one too many fond memories.

"So?" your tone is one of perplexity. She feels foolish under your gaze. You glide the makeup brush across her cheeks. dusting them with faded nostalgia. "I can't eat them. It'll feel like I'm eating myself" How long has it been since the transformation occurred? how long has it been since she shedded the body of that sickly fragile girl? She's been a vampire for centuries yet still can't get used to the title.

"You can eat these ones..." Something ancient within her stirs, her bones rattle with comprehension. She knows what you mean and it fills her with a need to scream.

Draculaura can't see her reflection, can't gauge how different she is now. You used to help her with her makeup back in high school. Back when the shade of your lipstick determined your personality for the day. She's never seen her face. She prays it's identical to yours. She prays that someday she can embody you...

There's a deathly hunger within her. Bubbling in her stomach. She needs to let it out before it kills her. Can she even die? She's almost sure she wants to. You almost make her want to succumb to the impulse of quitting her humanity all toghter. Your presence makes her all so hungry. She's gotten better at hiding it under school-ghoul gossip and trend talk.

She settles for a kiss tonight, a rushed peck on the cheek. Some vampire she is, instead of bleeding you dry she's pouring her sorrows into you. She wonders if you take note. See the ghosts jouncing within her soul.

Draculaura's nails pick at the skin of her birthmark.

The skin cracks.

blood trickles.

Can a vampire even be haunted?

Yes.

She knew the charade wouldn't last forever.

Knew that one day the lights would dim and the stage would fade to black

A final curtain call. An impending doom.

The final nail in her glass coffin. Rendering it to shards.

And she'll be left plucking fragments from her eternal flesh.

There's a small joy in knowing you'll be her effacer.

The one to put an end to 2,000 years of pretend.

"And then he was all like "You know?" and I was like "Whatever" and he was-"

"Draculaura, I have no idea what you are talking about." She turns to face you, your smile is a crushing weight. On her shoulders crave. You throw your head back and laugh. Laughing at how little she's changed since you shared a desk in class. Since your most eminent concern was fearleading practice and algebra tests. Draculaura should laugh too, this she knows. Yet she remains distracted by your neck and all the glory it holds.

Just a small bite won't hurt...

☾🐾☽Clawdeen Wolf☾🐾☽

Clawdeen is protective to a fault. A trait she could never identify as innate or habit. Still, the urge to stalk you persists. Pricking away at her fur like wolfsbane.

Clawdeen's been brought up to believe in legacy, to worship the moon and the stars and their maker. Ancient things have a way of lasting lifetimes. She knows this now, finds its evidence when she unravels her family, her pack, herself...you. Her kind has been known to nurture those they love, to birth and raise every great warrior. She ponders again if this was originally encrypted in their blood or if her species picked it up throughout the years.

All she knows is that something inside her awakens when she sees you. A testament to an ancient love, long since stifled under sand and snow.

She wonders if that's what she's done with you all these years. If, in her own way, she's raised you to become some sort of warrior, a great beast living amongst subsidiary.

The two of you sit beside the bay window. Her newest sketchbook draped across her lap. You lean in resting your head on her shoulder, listening as she explains the inspiration behind each design.

You feel like you've been mauled. A piece of you thrown in every direction. Only to morph into the creations of your hunter. "You remember your first design?" you ask, closing your eyes to still the world. "Wasn't that when we wrapped Howleen in a red blanket and my mom's scarf?" Her claws prick her upper lip as she stifles a giggle. "And made her walk around the house like it was a Scaris runway" You add, relishing in the bygone recollection.

Your childhood memories together are coated in ichor. Jejune days

when you'd watch her tumble over herself trying to be everything she could never be. Even back then, you'd known something was amiss with the world. Seen the ancient wolf that lay dormant within her. felt its bonds call out to you, pulling you in deeper. You'd cling to her like a frightened child to a teddy bear.

But you're older now. Instead of the scared child, you've turned into the monster under the bed. Funny how everyone's heritage catches up with them at some point. Even when you grow unaware of its presence. Legacy still tends to echo in your bones. You're both the same in that regard.

"I can never tell if I'm alive or dead." You tell her one night.

"Neither" Clawdeen's voice is rigid, stiff. She can feel your awakening and rebirth. It sings in her head, more vital than a howl. "creatures like us don't die so easily. We only transform." She remembers the legends, the wars, they rattle in her bones sending shivers up her spine. Neither of you have ever died. You've survived every tribulation.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" you reply, Clawdeen notes the embers that burn behind your eyes. How they spread across your body like a wildfire.

"What doesn't kill me, simply gives me a reason to kill it" She swears she sees the moon flicker in retort.

Clawdeen slits her throat with her claws.

Choking on moondust and half-fallen stars.

Her father once told her heritage is everything before giving her a golden ring fashioned as a wolf's head. She still doesn't know what he means.

She knows her kind was born from misplaced love.

She's just glad your fates are entwined.

"Someday you'll have red eyes." You trace your thumb over her lashes as you speak. Trailing down to play with her curls. She knows what you mean. Oh how, she wants to devour the hope you offer so freely. Rip it from your heart and feel it pulsing under her fangs. Maybe then her stars will align and she'll truly understand what she is.

Clawdeen's feelings grow teeth, gnawing at her carnivorously as she pulls you close. Muttering a 'thanks' as if it holds the weight of the world. There's comfort in the thought that she's molded you. Helped nourish your flames until they grew so potent. She's ever only been the middle child of the moon. But with you, she feels like so much more. Like something celestial, something ancient. An heirloom made of blood and moonrock.

Above you the clouds part. Giving way to the full moon.

₊˚.༄Lagoona Blue₊˚.༄

The air in her lungs feels synthetic, dry. She chokes off the sand and ozone, blinded by the unfiltered light, leaving burns on her frail, scaled, skin. She wonders if this is how a fish feels as it's being reeled on land. She wonders if she's any different now.

Her heart hammers when she sees you, cracking her ribs in hysteria.

Water lilies bloom from their marrow, she counts them just to distract from the stars burning in your eyes. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, gnawing the pink flesh like a shark does its prey.

Her eyes burn when she catches a glimpse of you by the pond. Gazing conflicted at three-eyed frogs. She can't help but see you as a cacophony of unmarked graves. Too many ghosts linger across your body, they're prints evident in the afternoon sun.

You leave a water lily behind her ear as you brush past her in the hallway. She thinks your perfection is exaggerated, artificial like the air. The kind daydreaming divers pray to find in rogue oysters. Lagoona is sure you're the last of your kind. An endangered creature too proud to ask for help. She clumsily fingers the flower's petals. The wave of nostalgia that invades, has her gasping for air.

The ocean she once called home is overrun by rot. She too is infected by the pollution that plugs her gills. In her dreams, she treads through clean oceans, webbed fingers entwined with yours. There is no corrosion here, no death. Just you and her and everything that entails the definition of good. When she wakes up she notices that her gills are falling one by one. Pastel blue glints scattered, floating across her bed like the empty husks of sea stars.

She too is the last of her kind.

She too is destined to perish in agony.

She wonders if you hear her tears. Hear them fall into the abyssal sea. Feel their reverberations as they create rings on the surface. She can't expect such a thing from you. You're in your own world struggling with your own scars. You left her another flower today, nymphoides indica, she doesn't understand what you're trying to tell her.

The pond has started to bleed too. Its decaying scent is pungent from miles away.

has it bled into her?

Is she infected too?

You're there again today, worlds apart yet close enough to touch. Her body stiffens as she kneels next to you. Desperate for your attention, desperate for you to tell her what she is. Maybe, just maybe she can confess her love in time to share a grave with you.

"I used to be so beautiful.." Your voice sounds evasive. A final cry for help before the ocean consumes you. Your reflection in the pond is muddled over. A glitch in reality, something Frankie would have more experience with. "you still are mate…you still are" Her words are earnest, yet she doubts they bring you solace. "If it's any consolation, I'm polluted too..". You laugh so condescending it makes her stomach churn. She rolls the words in her mouth again, tasting them for misunderstandings.

"We're all polluted Lagoona. We always have been."

You're made of one too many pieces, all doused in poison. You rearrange the water lilies on her head. Your fingers feel like home threading through her hair. "The last of our kind." Lagoona giggles, her body is growing dryer, desperate, the moisturizer and hydration station have long since stopped working. Now she awaits the poison to take over fully. You're her memento mori another helpless creature awaiting death.

And yet, to her, you're still as radiant as the first day she met you.

Lagoona's grave will be in the sea. It's a last wish one you decide to honor. You kiss her on the cheek as she turns to you. Body half submerged in her home. She hugs you, with all the longing her frail corpse can muster. It's only too late when you notice that you too are being submerged. Dragged into the eternal depths. Lagoona refuses to part with you. This is her final gift, the last present she will give you. A quick and painless death. One with a comforting presence.

Her father used to tell her strange tales of bizarre men who'd come to their ancestrial home, seeking answers far too advanced for them. She wonders if she's had the answers all along. Maybe she just had to look a little deeper.

It doesn't matter now. For her final breaths, she is at peace. She is content to end like this. With you in her arms.

𓂀𓆣☥Cleo De Nile☥𓆣𓂀

Cleo likes to think she's come a long way from her former self. No longer an autocrat cheerleader with stary eyes and a need to be worshipped.

She likes to think she's filled out the role of queen, of sovereign, of absolute.

She's done her dynasty proud...

Shattered and transformed herself into the perfect vessel.

It's not until she catches her rogue reflection in the gleam of your eyes, that she realizes she's still the same. Eons have passed yet Cleo still remains the same frail cowardly daughter bearing the burden of the D'Nile name.

You look every bit a queen, a sovereign, an absolute. You've grown to fill the role you never knew you had.

Cleo bleeds gold. She always has.

Little did she know, you did too.

You always had.

There's a crushing weight, something that makes her long for entombment. "I wish I were a mere child once more." her tone is sand on sand. So faint you think it nothing more than a mirage of sound. Her head lays on your lap bleeding out her sins as she prays for the sun to melt her. Feeble, unstable thing she is. Hailing from a feeble unstable place.

Maybe it would do you both some good to forgo the past. To embrace a thundering, grotesque future. Maybe it's time to retire the thrones and gold bangles. Maybe it's time to depart.

she laughs at such a preposterous notion.

Cleo's Icoffine lays in a pool of shards and wires and golden beads. Her bandaged fingers wrapped tightly around your bicep, tugging you closer until the scent of spices and flora became overbearing. "it's...okay" you lie through the rage bubbling in your throat. Through the tears that sting the corners of your eyes. "It's not-it's...it's never been okay", the words feel like boulders crushing her bones. turning her body and bandages back to dust.

You've known Cleo to always wear a broken crown. Funny how, after a millennia, the cracks still keep growing. Only now they bleed into her corpse, cut through bandages, and aim for the heart. You want to wipe her tears away. To whisper glory and purpose into her bejeweled ears.

Cleo lies on the golden floor. It's cold, frigid, she doesn't remember gold to be so unwelcoming, so petrifying. You pull her hand to your heart, hovering above her. Watching as she melts and hardens in the same breath.

"Allow me the pleasure of death once more. Allow me the luxury of being the only monster you ever have to know." Cleo doesn't remember missing her sarcophagi so much. Her lungs fill with broken promises as her eyes sting from mulish obsoletes. "I've been so blind for so long." She confesses, free hand fiddling with the jewels on her blouse. Running them along her nails waiting to see which will scratch first. "As have I, there's no need to-" her voice is harsh as she sits up. The undead rising from its bejeweled grave. Her hands cup your face. She tries to be gentle, to cradle you like a flower petal. "I'm-I-" her breath hitches as her fractured mind screams. "I hate myself all so very much. Yet I love you with every bit of the heart I thought I lost all those millennia ago."

Chaos has a way of squirming through her veins.

Her dreams are tainted in rubies, seeing you lying in the sand.

The noise above is defining. She hates that she's not used to it by now.

It can't be fair.

The world can't take you from her.

You're the only lifeline she has left.

The only hope that remains.

You tell Cleo you want to die one starless night, she understands the sentiment. You don't know why that makes you cry. Her lips leave phantom kisses across your eyelids. Spilling gold pleated secretes into your skin. Cleo wishes she kept you entombed next to her, rotting away far from every disaster. Yet she knows she can't, not now at least. You've morphed her into her purpose better than her omnipotent father and cruel sister ever could. With you by her side, she's truly become a queen, a sovereign, an absolute. While you rein above her, some all-knowing creature who she can't help but worship.

Maybe someday, decades from now.

The love you share will be dethroned

How unlikely such a feat seems.

Taglist: @hadesnewpersephone @feedmestraycats @deathangelraven @itotallysleepenough @yuuka29 @umgatochamadopercyval

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catfern · 8 months

Text

she will destroy you.

pairing: abby anderson x afab!reader

music: crack baby or bag of bones ( or anything from puberty 2 ) - mitski

word count: 3.3k (i'm exhausted)

summary: rumours are swirling, fighting their way through your front door. you hope to keep your work and private life separate, but your proximity with your boss threatens to catch up with you.

warnings: mean!toxic!abby, cheating, porn with a LOT of plot, swearing, tipsy sex, fingering, oral (r!receiving), zero ( i mean ZERO ) aftercare, angst-ish

an: a quick intermission from cowboy!ellie because LORD. i read one page from one book abt a butch teacher yearning for the headmaster's wife and suddenly I NEED AFFAIRS!! I NEED YEARNING!! I NEED SECRECY!! and who better to do that with than a rlly mean ceo!abby who has a PhD in fucking bitches.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“Shit.”

A line of scarlet trickles onto the warm printer paper and settles. You drop your paperwork on an unknown desk and suck your finger, hissing through your teeth at the sting. Your phone buzzes impatiently in the back pocket of your work pants, and you fumble with your non-bleeding fingers to pull it out.

we’ll talk abt this when u get home

see u after ur party i guess

A shit fucking day.

You hall back to your desk, defeat slumping heavy on your shoulders. The Office makes an effort not to stare as you walk by, low whispers hot on your feet like coals in a firewalk. You pretend very poorly not to see the half-lidded, secretive looks shared between your old work friends by the water cooler. Water off a duck’s back, your mom used to say in a nonchalant way when you cried to her about mean girls at school. Not that you ever really knew what that meant.

You were never really thankful to be shut off from the rest of the cubicles, until now. A fortress of frosted glass and a heavy door, your desk was the secluded gateway to a place dreaded. Just you and The Boss, which you guess didn’t help the flying tongues of the old, bored fucks in accounting, but it kept people away. Away from you, with their knowing looks and unknowing laughs.

You huff, settling into your uncomfortable desk chair and digging out a small first aid kit your dad bought you when you first started. Pulling the seal off the small tin, you eye its contents. Disinfectant, thermometer, some loose aspirin and bandaids. You whine lightly as you wrap one tightly around your ring finger, feeling it throb and pulse, like a complaint. Get over yourself, you tell your body.

A sharp - ahem - breaks through your mumbling silence. She’s never sick, she never coughs. It’s a bodiless beckoning, a call into the wild, it’s the wordless agreement you have with her. You pick up your notebook, and the nearest working pen, and shuffle quickly through the open door into her office.

The opaque shades are drawn, the natural light greying and dying on the dark, decaying herringbone floor.

Abby is bathed in the orange light of her desk lamp. With impeccable, almost effortless posture, she’s resting her forearms on her desk, one hand scratching notes into her diary, the other distractedly tapping on the leather top. You follow the shadows that the folds in her dress shirt create, your eyes falling on the contour of her body.

You know she frequents a few gyms. You’re the one who schedules late night international calls around her evening runs, and her weights sessions, and her triweekly spin class. But now, the results of her efforts are on display, tightly wrapped in expensive cotton, perfectly tailored, down to the very last stitch, to her existence. You swallow an uncomfortable feeling when she deigns to meet your eye.

She looks you over in the way she always does, an uncaring, but judgemental once-over, like an army sergeant inspecting a uniform. she hones in on the bandaid,

“Workplace injury?”

Her voice has the warmth of a dying cigarette, rolling like well-spoken honey off her lips. You almost feel ashamed, your finger so offensive to her you could chop it off. You almost feel like you wouldn’t even mind. You start picking at the ends of the bandaid with your thumb.

“Paper cut.” Your voice is always so out of place here. An echo of something that does not belong. She nods her head, ever so slightly, as if she understood.

“Don’t think you can go claiming compensation for that.” It’s a joke you’re not allowed to laugh at. You smile lightly instead. It’s short-lived, “I need you to correct some seating arrangements for tonight.”

Yes, of course. No problem. In wordless agreement, Abby starts listing off adjustments, complaints and warnings from guests about not being seated next to their five ex-husbands, or their whining step-children, or ex-business partners fallen from grace. your pen fingers begin to ache as the whole process draws out.

“And I’m going to need you seated at my table, to keep track of my evening itinerary.”

Uncertainty quickly sows its seeds in your stomach. The unopened messages from your girlfriend burn their way through pocket, searing at your legs like a brand on cattle. Everyone knows, everyone will know. Every detail of your life will be laid bare, and you’ll be tried publicly and without mercy. Your bandaid begins to unravel as you rub anxiously at the glue underneath.

You need to do something, something to get things back under control.

“Actually,” You start, unsure. Abby meets your eye quickly, without hesitation, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s quick, and condescending. Undercutting any sudden courage you may have had, she meets your eye and stares you down, pinning you under ice, almost imploring you to feel terrified. And then she looks away, busy packing away the seating chart, and you wonder if she even looked at you at all.

She stands, and you try to meet her, your hands clutching your notebook.

“Your attendance tonight is mandatory.” She says it slowly, harshly, like it’s hard for you to understand. Her eyes chase quickly over your outfit, “It’s a black tie event.”

You’re left alone in a dark office, hyperventilating.

The apartment is empty and cold when you arrive home. 7 unanswered texts to your girlfriend tell you she doesn’t want you near her, but she isn’t packed. You expect her to come home, hopefully in the hour you have before you have to go again, and you contemplate just blowing the gala off to wait.

Abby’s voice is sharp in your head, a familiar dedication wringing your body. You can’t leave her. She needs you there.

You put off the conversation with your girlfriend into the furthest parts of your mind, allowing yourself to be swallowed in the minor decisions of clothes and hair and accessories. It’s not until you’re throwing your shoes on, and three times you think you hear her keys in the door, that you give up.

The phone rings 5 times before going to voicemail.

Hey. Listen. I know we said we weren’t going to talk until we were face to face but..

Whatever Maria told you wasn’t true, okay? I promise-I fucking promise you, nothings happened. Baby, okay? People are fucking bored, and I love you, so so much. I’ve gotta go to this one thing tonight - i tried to get out of it i swear -, and i’ll come home and we can talk, and we can fix this. Okay? Jus-Just, gimme some time to explain. Okay. I love you. Bye.

Echoes of quiet chatter uncomfortably ebb and flow off the walls of the ballroom. Too many people. Shoes scuff the cheap marble as the rich make their rounds, with light touches and reused laughter. They all hate each other.

Abby is a familiar sight. Wearing the same thing she has all day, she looks staggering. Hands just breaching her suit pockets, comfortably falling at her side, her hair in a calculated braid, designed to make her look approachable.

The air here agrees with her, her smile wide and effortless. You know she’s come straight from a meeting, and you suppose that adds to her charm. The Working Woman, a success story. Her rich friends, who spend their inheritances on shares and indoor tennis courts, lap it up. She’s a foreign object, something unfamiliar and wild.

You don’t interrupt, skimming the sidelines to get to your table. You can feel her glance, without substance, before returning to her conversation. Your event planner ( a shitty flip notebook that fits in every small clutch you own ) sits on the tablecloth at your seat, and you wait. Eyeing the glasses at the placemats next you, you can tell a few drinks has been shared, raking your eyes over Abby’s looser disposition.

She’s happy, and charming. She’s been drinking bourbon. Mint, with ice and syrup, the way you serve it to her in her office, when the occasion calls for celebration.

Her conversation finishes, her soft hands bidding gentle, kind goodbyes to the couple as they move on. She’s a friend to the people that matter.

“I expected you here before me.”

She doesn’t bother to look at you as she sits, instead fixing her napkin to her lap. You watch as the veins in her neck rise and fall as she talks, “Doesn’t matter now. Run me through everything.”

Right, fuck. You open your notebook and run your fingers over the scratchy writing. Your days leading up to this were spent copying details from obscure emails, tidbits you thought Abby needed to remember. Late nights at the office, life abandoned, deciphering biographies and 2 hour youtube deep dives. You can watch yourself fall asleep from the future, your handwriting slipping, long and longer strokes, spelling dissolving, long words abandoned. your pen fell to the floor, and you slept at your desk. Twenty missed calls. You argued when you came home in the morning.

“The Ambassador is arriving around 8:00pm with his new wife, also named Rebecca. Oh, Old Rebecca emailed asking why she didn’t receive an invitation.”

She’s slowly sipping at another whiskey, a different cocktail she ordered just as you’d arrived. The orange peel brushes her nose as she tilts the glass, her jaw tightens as she swallows, “Tell her the venue was at capacity. Send some flowers.”

It continues like this for a bit. Quiet and attentive, she listens to what you have to say, as her eyes follow the crowd. You too, spy people that you know, a few slimy execs that share a whisper and a boisterous laugh as they look your way. You order gin.

Soon enough, Abby checks her watch. An inexpensive, vintage piece of leather and quartz. She excuses herself with a measure of politeness. It’s time for an hour of speeches that don’t matter, before you’re finally allowed to eat. You sigh.

A quiet buzz rips through the growing silence. You open your clutch and hide your phone under the silk tablecloth, away from the disapproving elderly eyes.

i told u to leave me alone

jesus christ

A pit in your stomach. Dark, pressing, ever present. Your saliva is heavy in your mouth, and you feel like shrinking away. Luckily, the waiter isn’t far. Drinks are discounted for the company staff.

Finally, speeches finish. Abby looked nice on the stage, effervescent under the lights. Her hair catches warm light nicely in the strands.

The food comes, but people disregard it for shallow conversations. Plates are taken away full, apart from slim, polite pickings. Your table orders more drinks, and syrupy laughter echoes as anecdotes about private schools and hedge funds are shared. You don’t belong here. Your body becomes unsteady, restless. Your legs shaking, a hand finds you thigh in the veiled secrecy of the table cloth.

Abby’s not looking at you, too engaged in tipsy conversation to draw attention. A nice gesture, but it’s not. It’s wordless agreement. Her thumb traces the outside of your thigh mindlessly, her jaw clenching as she feels your gaze.

You hesitate.

What else did you have to do? Apart from go home and wait for an argument.

You let her touch you a little longer, soft, ghostly. It’s kind, unmistakably. You let yourself revel in it, in her uncommon affection, before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

Abby follows not long after. She’s confident, her position charismatic, not unlike the other times she finds a drink, and then goes to find you. She doesn’t stop, so sure that you’ll follow her trail as you’ve done so often before. But you hesitate, again.

She turns back to you, a look on her face that’s hard to decipher. You stumble in your reasoning.

“It’s just-, my girlfrien-“

“Are you coming? Or not?”

Your palms itch, you swallow.

What kind of sick sacrifice. Unfair to have both, some would say, but some don’t know you. How wicked it is to taste both fruit and have to choose the sweeter. Fuck. The drinks settle in your stomach.

Your girlfriend wasn’t coming home tonight anyway, not really.

She’s leading you up the stairs, hands flush to her body. You grip the cold handrail to hold you steady. She’s already steps ahead, the appropriate distance.

A quiet corner doesn’t need to be found. She’s been here before. You’ve been here before. The holy emptiness of the second floor is an accustomed comfort.

She’s quick and calculated, despite the mix of drinks on her breath. One hand pushing you to the wall, the other finding the zipper for your dress. It falls off you like it never belonged to you, kicked away and piled into a corner, forgotten.

Gripping you like you’d run away, she palms your tits and presses crescent moons into your hips. She holds her head away from you, watching you down her nose as you squirm. Abby has always remained detached, carefully groomed a distance between you that now feels too sacred to break. You long to feel her kiss you, to feel her intimately, to run your hands along her arms and feel every curve, every outline. You’ve needed to touch her since the moment you met her. Craved it.

Abby is disrespectful, impatient. She cups your pussy, still hidden in slick panties, letting the rough ball of her palm grind against your clit. It sets you on fire, and she chases it with a hand on your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Get rid of them.”

You strip fast, in a very unflattering way, you’re certain, and throw your underwear close to the ghost of your dress. She moves against you again, her hand softer as it wraps around your lips and cheeks. You look at her, hoping to see that softness echoed on her face, but her eyes are elsewhere, too focused on the movement your tits make as she holds you against the wall.

Painstakingly, her fingers slide inside you, her hand pressing down on your mouth as you moan around the feeling of her, the intoxication. Your hands lock and unlock, your nails digging at scratching at the wood boards on the wall as you try to balance yourself.

Merciless. She rocks into you, letting you fall into step with her, find her pace, a relentless one. You feel her melting into your core, her fingers curling and stretching your walls as she pounds into you, again, again, again. You sound pathetic, behind the mask of her hand, whining as she leaves, and nearly screaming when she returns.

Abby watches as your face contorts around her fingers, feels you wrap around her. If she feels even a fraction of what she gives you, you wouldn't know. Her eyes remain unkind, left at a distance, but her breathing is staggered. short, laboured. she looks over you, you feel it, feel as her eyelashes rise as she rakes over your body.

You need it to be desire in her eyes. You need her to starve. To crave, like you do. Desperation.

Her hand moves from your mouth, your whimpering breath filling the room fast, the quiet broken. Her pace slows, and you almost rest on her fingers, left to wonder what she’s playing at. Instead, it comes down on your shoulder, still warm and wet with your breath, and she pushes you down onto her fingers, deep, deep. you feel her at the very centre of yourself, your eyes wide as the pressure builds inside you, her fingernails leaving a trail, evidence of her in your walls. She lets your ragged moans echo, hurt and pleasure. It’s an unkind end to things.

You don’t want to let it to end. You can’t.

The distance is broken. You reach out and grasp flesh, firm under your nails. You’re still riding the ecstasy pulse, the heat in your pussy, and Abby lets you stay, holding onto her as if you would fade otherwise. Your cheeks are almost touching, her breath hot on your ear, you hear her for the first time, raspy groans as you squeeze around her. She’s been holding back.

Damn it all.

“Everybody knows. Please. Please, fuck me like you know you should.”

You meet her gaze. Everything is foreign now. Her skin feels different to how you had imagined it. Softer. Her eyes are more uncertain, more than you’d ever seen before. Hesitance.

“Fuck it.”

Whiskey, and a sip of your gin, and tobacco. You didn’t even know she smoked, but you taste it on her like its the only thing she ever did. The smell of pine came in a wave as she moved, hooking her hands under your legs and hoisting you up. For months, you’ve yearned for her to kiss you, begged for it even. And now, her lips are rough, and bloody, and everywhere. Ghosts tracing your neck, unkind, stinging, exhilarating.

She moves you to the floor without fuss, holding herself over you, your legs spread around her. She’s smiling, and you become so sure that there’s something not quite right with this side of Abby. You’re quickly aware that you’ve landed in hostile territory, vulnerable, needy.

She usually didn’t like it when you begged.

Her tongue is like the rapture on your clit, spitting fire through your veins, in your nerves. You feel it creep up in your body, twisting and tightening through you like something invasive, moans and prayers dripping from your lips that only push her. her name a curse, fallen on your body. You feel her laugh against your slick walls and it jolts you.

Abby, suddenly so aware of you, so kind, so attentive, shifts her posture, “Oh, you’re so needy.” A hand grabs your face, pulling it up from the floor in a dead lull. Her name rolls off your pretty lips once more, “What? You beg for me, and now you can’t take me?” Her tone is mocking, “Which is it? Hm?”

A cacophony. You, you, you. Your head foggy, unsure of what she wants to hear, you beg for again, telling her you can it take it. I can, please, abby.

Her laugh is cruel, mocking as her mouth finds you again, sending cold vibrations up your legs. Slut echoes against your clit.

Inside of you, she feels like a god. Her fingers stretching your walls, pressing deep against your centre at an excruciating pace, and her tongue lazily laps up all that you give her.

“Fuck! Fu-uck, fuck!”

It’s clear to Abby that the caution she so carefully designed was useless now. People knew, and fuck it if they knew. Fuck it if they heard you dripping on her fingers, calling out her name. Fuck it if they stop the music, and turn to listen - fucking perverts - because it’s her. And you’re the one begging for her.

Stars creep in through the haze in your vision, and Abby’s trying to ask you something harsh, but you don’t hear it. You’re tethered to the feeling of her fingers, your whole body knotting around her like a planet in orbit of the sun.

You’d burn if she wanted you to, happily.

You’re so fucking tight around her fingers, your legs shaking and a vicious call ripping through your body. Her Name.

The warmth from your body is too much, and the cool of the floor is lulling, soothing, as you collapse. Abby’s fingers leave you empty, incomplete. You whine as she leaves you, your walls tightening around the absence of her. She wipes your cotton slick on your leg.

She stands, and rolls her shoulders. Fixes the few hairs that fall out of place. Guiltless.

“Get dressed, before someone sees you.”

#i'm gonna get back to cowboy!ellie i swear #i have so many people in my inbox begging for her I HEAR U!!#i just needed a change of pace bc writers block yk #idk what it is w me and mean women but cowboy!ellie is also going to be a bit mean i fear #also i was going to write this w ellie as the gf but i couldn't fit it in #but it is implied!!#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby tlou #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x you #tlou abby #abby x reader #abby the last of us

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missmeinyourbones · 1 year

Text

cw: JJK MANGA SPOILERS!!!! read at your own risk!!!!! megumi and gojo centric, sad sad sad i am so sad

“He’s just a kid.”

Satoru’s tone is one you’ve never heard from him. Quiet, strained, barely a whisper against the howling wind from outside. He's never not spoken with conviction; never had a voice that cracks with uncertainty. You hate it.

“I know.”

He’s quick to clarify, “I mean, they all are. But he—”

He loses his train of thought—or rather, he’s not strong enough to finish it. To say it out loud in fear of it taking on a greater form. He decides on shaking his head and returning his voice to a whisper as he insists.

“It’s different.”

“I know,” you repeat. Your hand holds his far too tight when you solemnly clarify, “he’s different.”

“He—” a sniffle disguised as an inhale interrupts, “I taught him how to ride a bike.”

His words somehow sew the stitches of your broken heart back together before ripping them open once more. Bittersweet imagery swallows you whole.

The thought of a tiny stubborn Megumi wrestling with something as minuscule as training wheels—what would then seem like the biggest obstacle he’d ever face. The cruel irony weighs heavy on your tongue.

His barely four-foot stature somehow intimidating a lanky teenage Satoru.

Satoru—not yet an adult but still volunteering any missed remnant of his own childhood in exchange for the right thing, he holds onto the back of Megumi’s bicycle seat for about thirty seconds before Megumi shoves him off and insists he can do it himself.

In the silence of your home, Satoru sees it too—remembers it like it was yesterday. And what he, at the time, thought was the scariest thing that could've ever happened to him floods his mind, is now something he yearns to go back for. To do it all again, the exact same way, just to sit in the moment for a bit longer.

“Lil’ asshole learned so fast, I barely got to teach him anything,” he scoffs behind wet eyes, “but still.”

You let out a snotty laugh, and it lifts the troublesome boulder on Satoru’s shoulder for a moment. A millisecond, maybe, but he’s grateful for it all the same.

“And all the times he threw up in the middle of the night and I—”

His own sob cuts his words short.

More imagery floods your mind. This time, a shaky and clammy Megumi standing by the bedside of a sleeping Satoru. With unsteady hands and a burning forehead, he pokes and prods the guardian behind watering eyes.

Satoru tastes bile as he remembers heating up alphabet soup on the stove at the crack of dawn. How Megumi would wait at the table, head in hands and blanket wrapped loosely around his tiny frame. Short legs swinging from the chair, yet to be long enough to reach the tiled ground.

He wants to go back, wants to ruffle his hair and wipe his snot one last time. Wants to watch him grow like a weed and nearly surpass his own gigantic height. Wants to teach him all he can and not send him on that wild goose hunt for a finger that leads them here—separated and cursing their own decisions.

The world feels like it stops turning when Satoru barely speaks up, “He’s supposed to be my best man.”

Your blurry eyes can barely make out the silver band decorating his ring finger that matches the diamond on yours. One that’s supposed to promise you a lifetime of happiness, but right now serves as a reminder that nothing is promised. Nothing can be guaranteed in the world of Gojo Satoru.

Still, you try to smile for him. “He will be,” you nod.

But Satoru shakes his head. “Baby, we need to think realistically about all of—”

“We know nothing, Satoru.”

“We know enough.”

His tone is harsh, like a blade on glass, it scratches to leave a mark. It cuts you deep, even when it shouldn't because you know he isn't angry with you. But Megumi is not here and Gojo can’t think straight knowing he could’ve done something to change the pattern.

With a deep breath, he catches the flash of hurt in your eye.

Hands instantly wrapping around your frame, more so for himself and not for you, he shakes against your body. “M’sorry, sorry.”

His nose tickles your neck as he hiccups.

“I just…” he tries his best to say something, anything, to explain even an ounce of what he’s feeling. But nothing does it justice, so he decides on a simple whimper.

“He’s everything.”

And just like that, the water overflows, and all Satoru couldn’t say is on the table with a mere two words. He’s everything—a son not his, a brother too young, a bond more vital than the lack of blood that runs behind it.

Megumi is everything, and he’s not here.

You pull Satoru’s face from the crook of your neck and hold it in your hands as if it’s glass. It is, you try to remind yourself.

You force him to look at you, to feel your determination when you speak with fire, “We’re gonna be fine.”

Broken beyond repair, Satoru merely nods—but he knows the truth.

He’s seen this play out before, his own history repeating itself, taunting him right before his six eyes. Too powerful in every way but the one that matters, Gojo Satoru is always too late.

Satoru knows both he and Megumi will not walk out of this alive. Only one, if either, is lucky enough to break the pattern.

What he doesn't tell your pleading eyes and hopeful heart, is that he hopes it's Megumi. For the sake of all things good, please let it be Megumi who returns home to you.

#jjk manga spoilers #jjk spoilers #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #gojo angst #gojo satoru angst #gojo fic #gojo satoru fic #megumi angst #fushigojo

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christinebloodwrittings · 1 month

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To hunt or be hunted #5

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader x Lucifer Summary: Bath time has proving itself to be a revealing process, specially when in company of someone else. Warnings: Angsty stuff, fluffy at the end.

Hazbin Taglist: @sakuraluna2468 @boogiemansbitch @mysterypotatoink @sibsteria @cherry-cola-100

Walking around the hallways, now that you could freely do so, helped with your insomnia. You tried to minimize how often you did it, afraid to upset someone with the endless pacing noise.

Mindlessly you ended up in the highest floor. As you turned to walk down the stairs a sound made you stare at the light under one of the doors.

You knocked on it knowing the owner of the room, “Alastor? Are you killing someone or are you in pain?” the demon didn’t answered, worried you opened the door a little, peeked through a small crack as to not interrupt if he was busy.

Your heart raced when you saw the taxidermy hanged on his wall, the warm old ambiance made you feel like you were back to the 1920’s. Just at the end of the room there was this annex, something you didn’t noticed when you dropped his clothes a few months ago.

It was a forest, like the bayou you used to frequent to avoid the police. It had the same swampy smell. The next sound made you jump, it came from the bathroom, like the sound you can make by kicking water.

“Alastor?” your voice caused him such a surprise, that the next you heard was a shriek then a lot of radio static, “I’m not going to open the door, I just…Are you okay?” his shadow creeped out from under the door, pulled you inside the room and closed the main door.

“Yes dear, I’m okay” since you couldn’t exactly tell by his tone, you turned to the shadow, he slowly smiled in return, “Okay, pardon the intrusion” You managed to turn around, but stopped to see the bunch of "No" signs on the door, as if Alastor's shadow didn't want you to leave.

“The stitches got a bit lose” He spoke as the figure on the wall gave you an image of your previous suturing work and how it had come loose and deteriorated, until it was like a badly patched jacket.

“Describe how the wound looks” Alastor made the mistake to move very suddenly, tensing the edges of the scab, he winced before giving you an answer, “Red, it’s mostly scab, but the stitches got lose and teared apart some of the scab”.

“How about you finish there and when you’re a bit decent, I take a look?” the handle loosened allowing the door to move backwards from the frame, “Come in” 'No way! He will be naked in the bathtub, no! But it could be serious, at worst I just keep my eyes on his torso and then turn around' you panicked internally, then took a step forward.

“Don’t be ridiculous, open your eyes, you’re going to hurt yourself!” you had your eyes covered, as you made your way to the bathtub, failing because you knocked your knee against the sink, “You have to remember what kind of upbringing we had; I only saw my ex-husband naked in his entirety” he was embarrassed, but seeing you being in a worse state, kind of reassured him.

Due to the water, parts of his fur stick to the skin and sometimes leave certain marks on the skin visible. In Alastor's case, his cream-colored skin was partially covered with short but spacious scars, since in contrast is a much darker color it made them stand out easier.

The worst thing about those was that they did not have a pattern that could resemble a “professional” torture technique, but it seemed as if they had stoned him, which is something that happened a lot to people whose skin color was darker at the time. The racists used to tie the person to a pole and throw rocks at someone.

A truly sickening activity.

“Oh those are…I didn’t noticed those scars, I’m so sorry” immediately you diverted your eyes, out of respect mostly, “You had seen the…process?” you shook your head, “I used to scare kids that planned it, no one is brave enough when they have an axe against their neck”.

After snapping out of it, you approached him, you thanked him internally for having his knees pressed together and up to the level of his chest, so you wouldn’t see his privates. Two old fashioned mannered persons on a room, or prudes, as Angel would said.

The stitches did got lose, but he was supposed to take them off at a certain time. You assumed you didn’t warned this to him, so that fell on you, “Mmh, I’ll get tweezers and scissors, if I use my claws I might make it worse” mindlessly you pressed your hand near the edge of the wound, it wasn’t hot nor red enough to be an infection.

“Your hand is so warm” he placed his fingers on the top of your hand, “Funny how you don’t shove me away” you were aware of his repulsion of touch, weird enough he was always willing to invade your personal space, like the other day, but he shoved any other person trying to approach him physically, except for Nifty and you.

“I think, if you wanted me dead, I wouldn't have been able to return to the hotel” being playful with life and death matters was a refreshing interaction for you to have with someone, Alastor made it fun.

“Charlie would’ve had my head if you hadn’t” literally.

“You had the chance to kill me three times, if I recall correctly” You had, but that’s not the thing that makes him curious, it lead him to ask an interesting question, “Why didn’t you?”.

“The first time, you were eating someone, it made me gag so I walked away” the image of you being with your axe ready to strike and then waking away repulsed made him laugh, you couldn’t resist a giggle either.

“Down here, when you first arrived, I wanted to level how stupid you were, since you didn’t attacked me, I didn’t either” that was one hell of an intense staring session, in which Alastor walked away first, the implied threat was strong enough, so he moved away from you to continue terrorizing the city.

“And in the rubble, I just wanted to give you a lesson” he made what you could interpret as a pout, twitching his eye and his ear.

“Your hair is dry” You noticed, now that you looked at his ears.

“I haven’t washed it yet” Alastor saw a light in your eyes that meant trouble, leading to a back and forward: “Can I?” “No” “Please?” “No” “Please?” “No” “Please?” “No” “I’ll do whatever you want”.

“Then you’ll join me for my broadcast tomorrow night, you’ve been quite evasive about it”, Since your presence became public knowledge around the hotel, Alastor felt the liberty to approach you more often. The tension from the first interaction dissipated over time. However, he constantly invited you to spend some time in his studio, subject that you’ve been avoiding. Nonetheless, he doesn’t stop asking.

“I´m sorry” you materialized two cotton balls in your hands, then placed them carefully on the insides of his ears, before wetting his hair.

“Have I done something to provoke it?” he was genuinely concerned. He knows himself far too well to know he can be correct and at the same time be offensive, and doesn’t mind the reaction unless it affects him directly.

“No…I keep most of me to myself, force of habit. Also I fear that you may want to talk about past lives” No matter what topic you start the conversation on, he always handles it in such a way that you end up talking about the 1920s and the society or politics of the moment and compare it to the technological advances of the new generation.

It got old very quickly.

“We could talk about other things” it was unusual for you to hear him be genuine, but you weren’t complaining. “Like?” he relaxed once you started massaging the shampoo into his head, “This cotton ball method is genius” his ears rotated as your fingers worked the foam around them, “I had the same issue, until I saw videos of cat owners washing their pets, using cotton balls to protect their ears”.

“Did your husband also enjoyed this kind of attention?” You didn't have saliva to swallow, and even if you did, the knot in your throat wouldn't allow it. “Not with me” he laughed, clearly not reading your clear discomfort, “One of my main victims were men who committed adultery, maybe his body is now rotting in the bayou”.

You decided to swallow your pride and let his unpleasantness pass, “Unlikely, I cracked his skull open” he took your hand off his head and placed a kiss on your knuckles, “Deservedly so” you smiled for a second, before his next statement rose a bitter taste to the back of your mouth.

“Men are often asses, it’s no wonder that woman want them dead. Fortunately, my mother raised me accordingly” you rolled your eyes at his ego, “Remind me to lit a candle for her, she’s most likely in heaven” his heart, as black as it could be, fluttered by the mention of a lovely practice.

“You knew of her?” You were clearly older than him, he had a small hope you could speak of his mother, “No, but the way you talk about her, that’s proof enough”. It took you a few seconds to remember one of your husband’s so lovely gifts, a cookbook, given the fact that – according to him– your meatloaf was dry every time.

“I think I had her cookbook, Amaya Heartfelt, right?” his microphone made a crowd laughing sound before he spoke, “Ah, that’s why your Jambalaya tasted familiar” funny, you thought you saw a grimace when he ate, now that was the reason.

“I make a decent Jambalaya, accept it” rather than being playful, your voice turned to be a bit brazen, not by accident that is. “More than decent, but my mother wins against you by a landslide” you hummed in utter defeat, “Fair enough, mamma’s boy” he scoffed, but did not correct you.

“If we had met properly, we probably would’ve been best of friends” 'Oh Alastor, you're cute and all, but with your urges and my to-do list, we would have had more than one friction, the friction would have caused a fire, and not the good kind' you almost could imagine yourself being his wife at the time, certainly would’ve been better than your actual ex-husband.

“I don’t dwell in what could’ve been” he made a deer-like sound when you scratched behind his ears, “I mean, what’s the point? You can’t go back to do things different” you poured more water on his head to wash away the foam. “Do you regret something?” he spoke after you removed the cotton balls off his ears.

“Not shooting my parents when I had the chance” he visibly tensed, then turned his head around slightly, “How can you say that?” his brow was so closed together in his frown, that it almost seemed one.

“What do you mean?” his eyes shifted colors, his sclera darkened and the dials were bright red, “What could be reason enough to get rid of the people that raised you? The woman that birthed you? People that kept you safe and loved!” his radio filter turned on and off as he spoke, raising his voice as well in utter disbelief, “I have my reasons” shrugging your shoulders unlocked even more anger in him.

“Your parents must’ve had a hard time raising you” your mind fell silent, “That’s an ungrateful thing to say, no reason can be enough to want to do something like that” as you listened to his rant, your hands turned white against the edge of the bathtub, squeezing it tightly.

“Spoke the cannibal” you sillily thought that would put an end to the conversation, “But I had never disrespected the memory of my mother, nor I could ever” you laughed, anger burned the back of your throat, “You are a man, you don’t understand a thing” the radio static in the air and the tension provoked by the argument, was unbearable, blood would be shed if he didn’t stopped that instant.

But he went too far, “Then illuminate me then, what could’ve been so terrible?” his smile was one of mock, his tone sarcastic and his smile challenging. Something snapped inside of you, a bunch of words trapped inside your mind, now set free to burn everything they touched.

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath and allowed the poison escape your body, in the shape of the truth, “My father was addicted to the game, he sold my alcoholic mother, my sister and I to the mafia, to repay his gambling debts” you could still remember your mother screaming ‘BASTARD’ repeatedly, after receiving your father’s call about the situation.

“My mom was the first to shoot herself before the men broke the door, I shot my sister before they could take her, but I failed to it myself” they grabbed you and the gun before you could pull the trigger, last thing you saw was your sister last smile before the light left her eyes.

“You were belittled, sure, but you will never understand what it means to be sold and treated like livestock” your voice trembled and broke. Still with your eyes closed the tears burned the insides and leaked a few down your cheek.

You opened your eyes, looking down at him exactly how you would look at your father if you had him in front of you, “Now, Alastor, I believe my parents didn’t do a thing for me to be grateful for”.

“I…overstepped” he blinked a few times, his eyes normal and the static gone, “Indeed” the ceramic made a cracking sound under your hands as you released it. “Let me make it up to you” Alastor tried to grab your hand, “Don’t bother” you cut him off.

When his hand was close to your wrist, you tapped lightly on his skin, that single tap felt as a full slap. A shiver ran though his spine, his stomach burned painfully, “Y/n” he pleaded, he wanted to chase after you, but he was naked, wet, and the thought ‘I shouldn’t have spoken’ shouted inside his ears.

“Cut the strings on one side and pull gently, then apply antiseptic, do not cut in the middle” you then closed the bathroom door behind you, as well as the main door.

🍎📻

Making your way to the stairs, your steps were heavy as well as your efforts to avoid letting more tears come out. Almost blinded by them, and rage, you accidentally knocked against something, or rather, someone.

“Y/n?” Lucifer turned around, embarrassment rose and showed up on your cheeks, while you cleaned the remaining wetness of your face. “Lovely night, isn’t it?” despite your state he smiled, not making fun of you, nor pointing it out.

“Could I ask you for an embarrassing favor?” he was nervous, you even more so, “I don’t think it’s the time–“ he pulled you by your hand and guided you down the hallway on the opposite direction from Alastor’s room.

“I’m shedding, with six wings it’s a huge bother, specially with the ones closer to my back, I lost the stick I use for those and they really itch, could you lend me a hand?” he had this stare only puppies have when they are asking to god himself for you to give them a rub and a treat.

You were weak to that fucking stare, and if you had seen your daughter grow old, she with no doubt would’ve gotten everything out of you just with that stare.

“Uhm, sure” anything to get you away from more suicidal thoughts, “Thank you, you have no idea how much I appreciate this” he was practically skipping as he walked.

He sat on the middle of the massive bed you put together, tossed his coat, vest, all possible garments away, then extended his wings for you.

15 minutes went by.

“Y/n? Your hands are trembling, is everything okay?” the silver carved brush shook along with you, of course he was going to notice.

You could say you were tormented by the memories of your past, that you blurted out the most horrifying seven years of you life to a man that doesn’t give a single shit about you, that you haven’t slept a proper wink in thirty years. That you feel under-fucked and alone, and could make a deal with any wretch that came your way for a bit of love and sympathy. Overall, you have no purpose, no will to live, nothing except the small praises you hear in the four courses of meals is a reason strong enough to get you out of bed in the mornings.

Sure, you could say that and look more pathetic than you already did. Mind the sarcasm.

“Yes, it’s just…I’m a bit overstimulated” again, understatement.

He didn’t understood that word, but he found you almost ripping your eyes out to stop yourself from crying, your hair frizzled and claws out. He had to give you a distraction, something your mind could be busy with.

“This doesn’t hurt, right?” he heard the concern in your voice, “Not at all, I feel a great relief, lighter even” he noticed how close you were to him, your tail was long enough to go pass his thigh, “Either way, let me know” he absentmindedly took it and worked his fingers against the pointy hairs at the end.

“These scars” the distinguish smell of his blood was clear, his milky-colored skin, pure and beautiful, was accompanied by a golden mantle, as if he had millions of freckles that are actually burns on his shoulders down to the lower back.

“They’re horrible, right? I got burned with hellfire during my fall, Lilith always commented how rough my back felt afterwards–” the sole way the was talking about himself made you want to cry, after a few self-loathing words out, your brain muffled his voice away.

Slowly you felt yourself drift, as well as you leaned forward, gently pressing your cheek on his shoulder. His warmth, the sweet smoked apple scent, even the sound of his heartbeat, overwhelmed you.

“Y/n?” the muffle went away; you heard his curious voice loud and clear though his skin. “The pattern reminds me of a swarm of fireflies dancing above the river” you laughed, painfully removing yourself from him, “I said something weird, didn’t I?” you smiled, but it fell as soon as you heard a sniffle.

“Sir, are you…” you tried looking pass his shoulder, but he composed himself faster than how the Dublin wall fell, not that you knew of that of course. “Sorry, that was beautiful, thank you” his smile, ear to ear, everything about him glowed.

“What do I do with the feathers?” you had collected them inside a pillow case, given the lack of plastic bags around, “I usually trash them” there was a big red one that was beautiful compared to the wilted looking ones, you saved it, sending it away with a smoke.

He noticed you saving one of his feathers, it in fact, sent a pleasant shiver up Lucifer’s heart and got him smiling like a teenager.

“How often do you roam around sleepless?” he folded all the clothing items he dismissed earlier, as he asked. You opened the bathroom’s trash can, poured the feathers down as you thought for an answer, but you just couldn’t lie, at all.

“Four to five times a week” he hummed, “So I gathered, nightmares?” you made your way putting the case back on the pillow you took it from, “Memories” you felt a poke on your back, that made you turn around, when you did, his face was almost at the same level as yours, he muttered “Quid pro quo” before a light went through his eyes.

“I know a spell that can help you, in exchange you become my cuddle buddy” he emphasized every damn word, like he was presenting a big opportunity, you were flabbergasted “Huh?” was the only thing you could utter that wasn’t a mental mess.

“Fun, right? Also you get out of that tomb you call a room” You weren't going to compare him to your friend in life Louanne, but the way the devil himself saw through you better than anyone had tried before was terrifying and yet strangely satisfying.

“Did I guessed?” worst thing is that he was right, he knew it, he knew you knew, and your face couldn’t be funnier to him, “You read me in a way I find distasteful” your annoyance was a delight, “I get that a lot” no he didn’t.

“If you do anything weird–“ he cut you off, “You will be allowed to bite me to a breaking point” oddly enough, Charlie’s attitude towards you was the stinking reflection of his father, you couldn’t have guessed it in a million years. “You and your daughter will be my ruin…Fine” for the sake of finally sleeping , you agreed.

“Any specific area you’d like me to avoid?” he took your hand again, just to have your fingers on his palm, “The ones that are obvious, also inner ears and the base of my tail” a serious tone, a warning, regarding your tail, “Just the base?” he asked, puzzled yet loving that you said yes.

“Well it’s connected to my spine, so it hurts a lot when manhandled” he kissed your hand, “Got it, please get comfortable while I dust off my wings, part of the process I’m afraid” he disappeared around the bathroom wall.

Half a second it took you to process what he said, before asking: “You want to start tonight?” your voice breaking in the middle of your sentence. “Yes, you don’t?” utter disbelief all over again, that man was too straight forward.

“I haven’t slept near anyone for more than a century” walked up to the bathroom door, high voice like when you used to whine about the prices getting too high for everyone’s sake. “Then I’ll try to be gentle, I haven’t slept correctly in seven years, I’m really excited” as fast as he walked in he was out, towel on his hips, wings folded inside somewhere. He then went in the walk in closet, like a diva getting ready for her next show.

“Are you…making fun of me?” that was a strange feeling, you weren’t in control at all, erratic feelings flooded you. “Nope” he made a pop sound, sticked his head out the door and winked with his forked tongue out. How is that the same man that had you nervous for your death in the kitchen the other day?

“I’ll get my nightwear” frustrated already you moved two steps, but he stood in front of you with a bag on his hand, “Already ahead of you, figured a two piece would be more comfortable” your mouth hanged open, speechless.

“You planned this ahead– know what? I don’t wanna know” you took the bag off his hands, in it there was a long sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts, both black with plastic cat images. “Little kittens? How cute, I can keep these right?” he nodded enthusiastically so. “Yes, look! Mine are ducks!” he made a little jump, opening like a starfish, “You look like a child!” you laughed, how long as it been since you did? “Hey don’t be mean, now who’s mocking who?” it was so contagious he ended up laughing too.

After changing, you left your boots and uniform on a chair, then walked to the already tucked in king, sliding down the covers in the space he made for you. You weren’t sure who hugged who, but he answered that for you when he nuzzled under your neck.

“You have a lovely laugh” he purred, hugging your waist, “Thanks, I don’t do it often” the vibration of his voice right in your heart was a weird but delightful thing to have back. Also the warmth of having someone to hug instead of a pillow, which is amazing, “Neither do I, thank you”.

His tail, right you forgot he has one, entwined with yours, that never happened before, but then again it would’ve been weird that your husband had a tail, right? He felt you tense up, so he passed his knee in between yours, then placed a loving kiss on your cheek before nuzzling back in.

“You can stop fighting now” words that worked almost like the spell that poured out of his fingers, “No one will hurt you”, four seconds, knocked out cold for the first time in 30 years.

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

Stay tuned ;3

Part 6

#alastor x reader #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #radio demon #cursed cat alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel fanart #alastor x lucifer #alastor fanart #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin lucifer #lucifer hazbin hotel #radioapple #lucifer magne #lucifer morningstar #hazbin #hotel hazbin #hazbin hotel

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aplushemporium · 2 years

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Breakdances on your dash.

#clean up in aisle 9 (dash commentary)#the not a cat cat (morgana)#persona cw #//that meme is everywhere #//and i' not helping #loose stitching (crack)

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usedpidemo · 10 months

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Knockin on heaven's door (Lee Chaeyeon)

> 5 minutes in heaven with chaeyeon (just something inspired by the knock mv and her being inside a wardrobe) - @idevian

——————

“God dammit.”

The worst thing about college wasn’t the outrageous student debt, nor the mountains of units and classes you needed to juggle. It was the parties.

It was always the parties.

Not a couple of weeks passes by without some wild party hosted by some rich nepo kid. There isn’t really a reason that justifies the occasion except to celebrate for celebration's sake. An excuse to let loose and relax from the stresses of the semester; a reasonable justification—if not for the copious amount of drugs, alcohol, and sex that happens in them. Every scene plays out like a parody, an ironic twist of fate that realizes your worst assumptions and stereotypes of college after graduating high school.

And the worst part is: no one escapes completely unscathed, not even you.

You make one thing clear: you don’t despise parties—you just didn’t want any piece of it. It stands to reason then that you usually take refuge in the many corners of the house, away from the madness and debauchery of it all. Exposure to their degeneracy proves to be near-unavoidable. You’re essentially the designated driver for your friends, who are none the wiser. Often, they’re the first ones in, last ones out. The moment they step foot inside, they basically forget your existence until dawn. They’re insufferable, but you’d otherwise remain a loner without them, for better and for worse.

In a sea of people, someone manages to spot you. It’s not the gaze of a burgeoning romance or friendship; their eyes evidently spell out drunkenness, and their zombie-like motions toward you are about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face. A little push and pull. You suddenly find yourself being escorted to a huge circle that raises immediate red flags. Even the slightest whiff of the room laced with crack triggers your fight or flight impulses. Thankfully, it only takes the simplest and most cliche of excuses to create a path of escape.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

With their impaired judgment, you’ll soon be an afterthought to them—or at worse, a horde of makeshift zombies banging at the door. The bathroom would be too obvious. It was never the destination.

Sneaking around the crowd, you find a door conveniently tucked away from the madness and rush toward your freedom. On the other side lies complete darkness, and if not for a foot teetering on the edge of some hidden stairs, you’d be a dozen steps away from a concussion and several stitches. A hidden basement sealed away from the house, blocking most of the noise.

Finally, some peace and quiet.

As expected, the actual basement is nothing but clutters of dusty boxes and forgotten relics, with a few tiny windows hidden behind the piles. Little light peeks through the otherwise pitch black room, but a bit more exposure runs the risk of your retreat getting exposed. You’d more than happily sit here until you can weasel your way out in the morning, when everyone’s blacked out and completely fucked from party overdose, or when the rich kid’s angry parents find you sleeping on the floor.

You’ve taken overnight shelter in far worse, unforgiving places.

Suddenly, you feel a breath of warm air tickle through your ear and skin. “Guess I’m not the only one stuck tonight.”

It’s a ghoulish whisper that impulsively causes you to drop your phone while opening its flashlight. What little the light reveals is a hint of pale flesh and blonde strands covertly moving like a predator stalking its prey. You feel something on your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine. Clawlike nails thread through your hair, slowly entrapping you beyond escape. Your eyes tilt to the side, only to find the groove of lush dark lips forming a pretty smirk.

All it takes is another whisper. “Boo.”

“Shit!” You flail your arms panickedly, swinging them around like a child with no fighting experience. You hit nothing but air. If not for the darkness concealing you, it would be a humiliating sight, the kind that gets posted and clowned upon on social media.

The figure grabs you by the wrists, stares so sternly it warrants attention. Its tone is just as sharp, too. “Don’t get us caught, goddammit.”

You pause, take a moment to gather yourself, then another to scan the shadowy stature, looking at you now with wary and concern. Peering through the darkness, its eyes glint with a distinct sparkle. It speaks again with a more tempered voice. “You okay now?”

A silence briefly falls. You stare back to familiarize and scan the figure. A moment of clarity comes upon you. “Wait—aren’t you—”

You recognize her face plastered on the accomplishment board, primarily under athletics and sports. It simply couldn’t be anyone else but Lee Chaeyeon, a polarizing figure within the student body. You’ve heard whispers from varying accounts. For some, she’s practically the greatest athlete to ever grace the institution, a generational talent in every department she excels in. To her teachers, she barely shows up to classes because of her athletic commitments, and a peek through the records shows she’s barely holding on in her academic obligations.

At times, she’s felt like a myth, mainly because you’d only hear her from others. You never saw her once in a school uniform. Hell, you only knew she was around because other people claimed to have seen her, but they could have been spreading misinformation.

“What? Chaeryeong?” She raises an eyebrow, puckers her lips, partially confused and mildly annoyed, while lowering your arms before finally letting them go. She knows what you said. “That’s my little sis. She’s a lot cuter than I am. You need to get your eyes checked.”

“No, no.” Blissfully unaware, you’re quick to emphasize your point. “You’re Chaeyeon, head of the dance club and athletics division.”

“No? I’m Chaeryeong, head of the music department,” she says, sarcastic, but now with a playful smile. “No shit, I’m Chaeyeon.”

“I—I never expected to meet you here of all places,” you say, awkwardly smiling and tapping your fingers together nervously.

“I didn’t expect anyone would find this spot.” Chaeyeon turns around, brushing her long blonde locks in an alluring way that leaves you awestruck. Admittedly, it’s a little bit attractive how unabashedly sleazy she looks. Even in her clean pictures, you can tell she hates the idea of looking clean. While everyone else attends these parties at their best, only to come out a complete mess, she clearly recognizes the pointlessness in such vanity. “Great timing, too. I was gonna make a run for it.”

“So, why are you here again?”

“Boredom.” Her reply is almost immediate, flippantly delivered, that it’s convincing. She has better things to do than hang around at random parties. “I just came for the free food.” She chuckles remembering the thought, while her eyes wander around the room, searching for something, anything.

“Just like me, huh,” you respond with blind confidence, as if it’ll give you both a common ground to share, when in reality, she doesn’t care. If anything, she only amuses you because she allowed you to entertain her, and you’re doing about as good of a job as anyone when it comes to catching her attention—a.k.a failing spectacularly.

Chaeyeon turns around and faces you again with a curious, intimidating look. “And what do you know about that?”

Gulp. “About what?”

She tilts her head and doesn't utter another word, as if expecting you to know what she means. You clearly don’t. On her lips is a dour pout, disappointed by your impulsive tongue. None of it makes any sense, and trying to figure her out seems like a fool’s errand.

“Thought so,” is the only thing she ends up saying, and an air of awkward silence falls on you both as she roams around the basement, presumably searching for a passage out. “You wanna be useful?” she suddenly snaps at you, her stare peering through a valley of boxes.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You wanna get out of here or what?” she spits, turning to you, gaze grimacing and tone scathing. Joining her, you both take note of a narrow hatch hidden behind even more dusty packages.

—————

Well, you may have just played the most awkward game of seven minutes in heaven in your life.

The ride home is even more unsettling.

Chaeyeon remains dead silent, comfortably slumped back against the passenger seat of your car, keeping you at arm’s length. Occasionally glancing to your side, you’re driving, focused on the road ahead. The muted sound of radio blaring through the speakers is the only thing that keeps awkward silence from permeating throughout the vehicle.

You can’t get her to show any form of emotion other than apathy.

Wanna have something to eat? Nothing.

Where’s your place? Also nothing.

Where would you like me to drop you off? Still nothing.

Got any friends to meet up with? Again, nothing.

Most people would have given up by now. It’s not a good look, the kind that encourages ostracizing. Patient as you are, though, you still hope she opens up, but whenever your eyes meet, she gives you the coldest shoulder imaginable. She wants nothing to do with you. The way she stares, the tiredness peeking through her brown irises, the slow, detached gaze that examines you before lightly looking away—the very idea of interacting with people poisons her, ruins her, breaks her.

You pull off at a gas station a few blocks away from your apartment. Shutting down the engine, you gently say, “I’m gonna buy a snack. You want anything?”

She slowly turns back in your direction, very disconnected from you she can’t be bothered to look you in the eye. Her lips twist, as if ready to speak her mind, but only air ultimately comes out. As you expected by now.

“Fine,” you follow, deflecting her cold demeanor back at her. “Just wait here, then.”

After stepping out of your car, right as you’re about to enter the shop, you hear a sharp thud sound. Looking back, you find Chaeyeon, also outside, rubbing her arms from the cold air bothering her, trembling nervously.

You call out to her, loud enough to draw anyone’s attention.

“Borrow my jacket?”

She doesn’t pay you any heed.

—————

“I seriously don’t understand you,” you murmur, as if it’ll bring her out of her shell or change anything, if your previous attempts at reaching out to her in a friendly manner are any proof. It’s late at night; you’re both casually staring at your car—the only noteworthy thing in this gas station—and you couldn’t be any more different. You’ve almost emptied your little cup of instant noodles, while she smokes through her dwindling cigarette, blowing smoke in your direction, still purposefully uncaring. The vapor doesn’t make you crack, but her coldness does. “Why did you ask me to drive for you? What’s the point? I don’t know what you want.”

It’s probably not the best time to show even the slightest frustration. Then again, she’s been deliberately dispassionate the entire time. Anyone else would have given up at this point, but there’s an allure to her, you admit, that keeps you interested, and not just because she’s a known name within the student body. Popularity was never the goal, but like everyone else, you simply wanted to know who Lee Chaeyeon is. She’s one of the biggest mysteries within the school; an all-star athlete with a peculiar aura surrounding her. From what you’ve seen so far, it’s not all that remarkable. She's sassy and apathetic, dry, sarcastic humor is her primary weapon, and she dresses like an escort. Perhaps this is all just a mix up, that this isn’t really the Chaeyeon, one of the best athletes to ever grace the university.

If not for the resemblance with her younger sister, the sweet girl from the music club, they couldn’t have been any more different. Are they really from the same family?

“Much better.” She returns her cigar to her mouth, huffs another round, then releases a new wave, thankfully not in your direction this time. Facing you, she looks you right in the eye. It’s different. There’s no apathy behind them, but instead, genuine interest. “I just wanted a free ride outta there.”

“That’s it?” is your reply, confused. Maybe you’re thinking these words through a bit too much, trying to find deeper complexity from a simple answer. You’ve met more complicated characters before, and to a certain degree, you can relate to her.

“Yeah.” Chaeyeon drags another whiff, but intentionally smokes away. “People just suck.”

In a strange, twisted way, she reads through your mind, says something that, quite frankly, leaves you even more in disarray. “Don’t think hard about it.”

Wide-eyed, you try averting your gaze in a poor attempt to feign ignorance. “Think about what?”

“You know,” she says, songful, gives you a rather taunting stare, eyebrows raised, as if expecting you to understand what she’s on about—deep down you know what that is—while flicking the ashes of her cig down on the table. Admittedly, it’s somewhat cute. Smirking, she adds, “Do I have to make it obvious to you, bird brain?”

“Fuck off.”

“There you go.” Chaeyeon leans back, chuckles, takes delight in making you look like the bad guy, that wicked, mocking grin on her lips a few inches wider than before. Only now do you perceive the true predicament; both of you secretly playing mind games, examining each other, trying to get on the other’s nerves until they eventually break. “I guess I win.”

“Win? We’re not playing games.”

“I got you to drop the nice guy act. I won.”

Another huff, another smoke.

“That doesn’t mean much.”

“That’s what every loser says. Remember what I said? People suck.”

“We just met a few hours ago, and you’re telling me I suck?” Your volume grows slightly louder. “After giving you a free ride out of that party?”

“And who got you out of there first? Hmm?” Chaeyeon’s driving you mad, but now for a completely different reason. “Let me make it clear: I knew about the secret passage even if you hadn’t stumbled your way inside that basement. You were just lucky to find me at the right time.”

“Forget about the basement!” You find yourself slowly unraveling, slowly coming undone, your screws on the brink of loosening. She licks her lips, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

It’s sudden, it’s loud, it’s sharp. The words reverberate around the shop resoundingly that in any other setting, it’s what incites a public incident, gets both of you expelled and shamed in school. Maybe just you, knowing there’s a high likelihood of preferential bias the faculty may have for one of their most accomplished pupils. Regardless, you find yourself covering your mouth, as if you’ve just spoken some unspeakable destruction into existence. Even she ends up speechless.

The next moment is even more destructive: Chaeyeon’s lips suddenly cover yours.

—————

“Fuck, that’s good,” mutters Chaeyeon, between a shower of seemingly endless kisses on your lips, shoving you against the wall of the bathroom beside the convenience store. The doors are locked, with not a single soul’s around to interrupt you. Either way, she proves to be too much—too much to fight, with both words and actions, that you quickly give in, much sooner than she expected.

It’s not that you never considered the thought of kissing Chaeyeon—at times, they were a little tempting if not for the fact that she’s a smoker—but rather how delectable her lips are, even with the tainted scent of smoke etched on them. She passionately makes out with you, drives her tongue between yours, drives the wedge that seemingly kept you both apart, and no amount of self-righteous character can bury that want, that craving for affection—and sex.

“You do this with every man you meet?” You forcefully rip yourself from the kiss, only to find your lips dragged back in almost immediately. She knows it’s a futile effort to gain control, something you never had right from the start.

“Fuck no,” she mouths between even more pecks. “Consider yourself incredibly lucky.”

She’s tugging on opposite ends of your shirt, threatening to rip them apart, something you recognize. Even as you continue to make out, with your hands exploring and marking new territory in the form of her divine figure, you make time for her, letting her freely own you by lifting the obstructive clothing over your head before she promptly tosses it aside in return. Her lips gradually slide down and make themselves familiar with you; your neck first, then your collarbones, smiling to herself as she marks each part as hers with her teeth, while creating more friction by palming your bare chest.

“Finally, someone who’s actually hot,” she quietly mouths to herself, though you can hear her loud and clear. You’ve got a response, a retaliation, but you choose to bask in the moment, acknowledge how good she already makes you feel in the form of a light groan.

Her hands slide down the steep hill that is your torso, until they find more difficult fabric. Locking eyes with yours, she works on your pants, keeping you suspended as she figures out how to claim her rightful prize. Behind those brown pupils is a burning lust, a raging flame consuming her from within, eager to take what she wants; it’s not the same cold stare from before.

“How long have you wanted me?” she asks, followed by the gentle whir of your zipper as she slides down your pants and boxers in one swing. Before you can formulate a reply, you suddenly release an airy gasp—your only response—caught unaware by her deft, silky hand pressing on your balls and your raging cock. Her smirk widens, amused and absorbed by your electric reaction.

She continues to fiddle with your cock, giving it one slow, but delicate pump after another, as you fall under her dizzying spell. Forget about the question; the answer is quite clear, based on the stickiness slowly building up between her hand and your cock. Pleasure begins to spike all over your body, and almost single handedly ends you, if not for her other hand keeping you steady against the wall. It’s a little too soon—a little too much for your brain to comprehend.

Her gaze lingers on yours, watching you gradually crumble in real-time; you’re no better than anyone else in this situation. It’s amusing, gets cute, sweet, playful looks that seemingly brighten her day after what seemed to be an absolute disaster. She knows what she’s doing and she loves it. Your hands cling to shoulders, feel the softness of her skin, and it sparks a fire in her eyes, quick to spread and consume.

“Tell me how long you’ve wanted me,” she repeats herself, the bright glint in her eyes and her grin more mischievous than serious. Determined to get the answer out of you, she tightly cups your balls, drawing out a deep groan. “I know you’ve been staring at me since we met.”

She’s not entirely wrong. Even in the darkness of that desolate basement, you knew she was drop-dead gorgeous. It became clear under the pale moonlight that she was even hotter: a black crop that teased the subtlest of cleavage, exposed her toned midriff, and jeans that accentuated her shapely ass. Yes, even when you thought she wasn’t interested, she knew your stare never departed.

“Since always.” Not the best answer; you both literally just encountered each other earlier that night, but it’s the most logical. Not a single girl in college made you hot and heavy like this. Sure, some of them were cute, her sister included, but none of them had that appeal, that love at first sight attraction that Chaeyeon carried.

Her free arm reaches up to the zipper of her shirt, presses her cleavage together a little. There’s amusement on her features watching in your eagerness to watch them slip. She contemplates the thought, painfully stalling the inevitable by a few precious seconds, then she unzips her top down. One side of the sleeve slides down her shoulders, then the other, until only a matching black bra remains.

It promptly joins the other clothes on the opposite end of the bathroom, completely irrelevant.

You and Chaeyeon make quick work of her jeans before you’re quickly drawn together like magnets, feeling each other’s hot, sweaty skin, entangled like a complete puzzle making out against the walls. It’s an intense back and forth, a tug of war as you both desire complete ownership of the other’s body. Each torrid kiss screams of desperation, not intimacy, to be used, to be consumed.

Spacious as the bathroom is, you can’t seem to find common ground. One moment you’ve got her pinned against the furthest stall, the next she has you fastened in another, until you eventually acquaint yourselves with all three cubicles. Both of you know where this is going and where it should lead; you just don’t know how you can get there. There’s plenty of distractions in front of you, mainly Chaeyeon’s perfect naked figure, a leg wrapped around your hip, and the gleam in her eyes wanting and yearning. It’s dangerous; temptation lurks everywhere you look. If not for the arms wrapped around your neck, occasionally dictating that you only look at her lust-filled face between kisses, the rest of her body would earn your worship.

Chaeyeon moans, writhes in your grasp, slowly relinquishing control over to you. From her bottom lip, you slip them down to her neck, and she trembles, clings tighter, feeling weak. Her hands pinch the back of your hair, mouth mumbling airy, faint words. It’s passionate, sinful, and tender—something you never expected with an otherwise rough woman like her.

“God, you’re so hot—” you hiss, gasping as her touch arouses you. “Mmm—”

She suddenly regains composure, stops you a breath away from her chest, then pulls you back toward her face. Another deep kiss. “Enough. I’m not in the mood for love making tonight.”

Regretfully, she removes herself from your clutch, pulling you by the hand instead to lead you to the bathroom sink. Every time she kisses you, her lips smell of alcohol and lipstick, and it never gets old. You wonder if she simply likes kissing or if she’s conveying some kind of message that you somehow have to decipher. She notices the curious expression on your face, lets out this droll laugh that gives off the assumption you’re onto something, when really, she’s as unpredictable as ever.

There’s nothing funny, nor is it supposed to be, but it makes no sense, perfectly in line with her character.

Before the awkwardness looms over you again, she grabs you by the waist, pushes you forward to impale her. Her back arches against the sink, perfectly spaced between her torso and legs. She spins around, flaunts her shapely curves that immediately capture your attention—and your hands. Ignore her steely glare that pierces through your reflection in the mirror; her flesh melts, molds comfortably in your grasp, as if they were tailor made for you.

She grunts, loses control again, but it’s only momentarily. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Even though you’ve seen her look vulnerable, her sharp attitude keeps you on edge, stops you from committing a sinful act. Your cock is in the perfect position to ruin her, break the facade and the space between you, but it’s not a fight worth contending, especially when she follows up with a dagger that almost pierces your heart. “Keep it between my legs.”

You immediately knew what she meant. To be quite honest, it’s a little disappointing. All that preamble, pleasantry, the tease of something more, only to be shot down before it even starts—it’s almost disheartening. Of course, you had no room to complain, not when she’s splayed out in her barest, practically giving you free reign over every other part of her, but something feels—off, incomplete.

Chaeyeon spreads her legs wide, gracious to space your cock right in its center. Her cunt is on full display, ripe and ready to be used, to be fucked. Unfortunately, you won’t get to have any piece of it without her word. It’s near-impossible to look away, spellbinding you with an unforgettable mental image. The thought of—or the lack thereof—filling her pussy torments you. Even as her smooth, perfect thighs sandwich your cock, the notion poisons your mind, leaves you wandering and aimless, until the perfect amount of friction strikes and—

“Fuck.”

It’s smooth, suffocating, devastating. Now you truly have nothing to whine about, except to whine about how tight her legs feel around your cock, rubbing and stroking yourself between her thick thighs. Barely hanging on, you press your hands on her shoulders, losing yourself in the pleasure quickly. Thanks to the little flecks of precum from before, sliding between her heat proves to be much easier.

Slowly but surely, you grow accustomed to her asphyxiating warmth, unable to process anything beyond the slickness and powerful sensations around her flesh. Eyes closed, you moan in prolonged, deep spurts, resting your head beside hers. Her feelings don’t matter at this moment, only yours. You don’t realize her hand is gripped to your thigh, only that it amplifies the surge of pleasure coursing throughout your body. A possible reminder to keep your cock away from her cunt, but you didn’t need it anymore—her thighs are more than enough.

“Yeah. Fucking enjoy it, horny bitch.” Chaeyeon’s tone and expression seemingly derives no enjoyment from watching you lose it, as if it’s only an obligation and not something both of you share pleasure in. She moans, but it’s faint and weak. “That feels good, right?”

“It does,” you blurt, trapped in the heavenly bliss between her legs, loving every little motion. “So good, Chaen, holy fuck—”

She sees you visibly struggling and helplessly trying to gather air, smiles and laughs at your predicament. It’s a mess; it’s her schadenfreude. Delightful, she thinks to herself, now playing along with her lewd expressions plastered on the mirror. Unconvincing, if not a bit too much leaning towards parody. She’s waiting for the opportunity to get the edge over you, the killing blow.

Tightening her grip around your cock, her toned legs collapse, and you can feel the fire in your loins gradually building and hurling toward a calamitous explosion. There’s nothing you can do to stop—not that you ever want to, watching your cock slide in and out her thighs at a perfect rhythm is its own reward—only praying that the moment lingers a bit longer. You’ve got both hands pinched to her taut nipples, thankfully unresisted, kissing around her collarbone and ear, trying in vain to stifle the endless string of curses and moans leaving your lips.

It doesn’t help that her voice is seductive, downright merciless, repeatedly goading you into submission, staring at your reflection expectantly. “That’s it. Cum for me, bitch. You won’t ever get this kind of opportunity with anyone else but with me. No one else will ever make you feel this good. Just cum, and cum, and cum—”

The word rings in your head, hypnotic, borderline leaning toward brainwashing. It isn’t gaslighting when she has a point; she feels so fucking incredible, so tight and hot and suffocating—no one else can possibly compare. Then again, ecstasy is the only thing running through your head, clouding your better judgment. You’ve got a hand digging through her endless sea of blonde locks, pumping between her thighs, each thrust sorer than the last, like you’ll regret the action in the morning.

“I’m so close, Chaen. I’m going to cum,” you say desperately.

There’s that familiar twinkle in her eyes, and a mischievous grin forming on her lips. Troubling. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you say, your cock aching painfully between her wet, toned thighs.

“Please.”

“Please!” you shout, teetering dangerously close to the edge, threatens you and Chaeyeon. Again, slowing down proves to be impossible. You’re so far gone.

“Please what?”

“Please let me cum! Please let me cum, Chaen, oh God.”

“That’s it. Cum—”

As soon as she lets that word out, the lights immediately turn green. Releasing all your inhibitions, your eyes widen, pumping your cock hurling to that oh-so deserved orgasm between her legs. Her thighs receive every last shot, every single drop. You both moan into each other’s ear, with Chaeyeon finding comfort and satisfaction from feeling the warmth you’ve given her.

She throws her head back, cranes her neck, brushes a hand around your hair while you pump through your climax. Eventually, your cock slips, winds down to a complete halt. You find your lips returning to her collarbones, taking solace on her sensitive flesh as you remain intimately attached together for a little while longer.

“Shit.” You look down, past the curves of her chest, see the puddles and drops of slick on the floor. She mirrors your gesture, checks the damage between her legs, and it’s a disaster: her thighs are dripping with cum down to her feet, with two noticeable blots parallel to the other.

“So needy.” Chaeyeon says with a laugh, caressing your cheek, her voice a temptation in your ear, goading you for more. “Not lucky with the ladies, hmm?”

Wistfully, you reply, “Yeah.”

Chaeyeon slowly releases your chin from her hand, slips from your clutch to grab a stream of tissue rolls to clean herself up. You cling to the sink with wobbly legs, staring down at the basin, overcome by a wave of both regret and exhaustion. Unwelcome thoughts creep in. A lack of protection, a return of her dour persona, and your reputations at stake—you’ll entertain them all in the morning, when the honeymoon period ends.

When you look up, you see Chaeyeon in the mirror, almost finished dressing up, fixing her cleavage before zipping up her crop top. She stares back, grinning. “You know you still have to drive me home. So when you’re done pining over not cumming in my pussy—”

“Where? Where's home?”

“Yours.”

—————

(A/N: Finally got to one of the four selected requests! I'm sorry this one took a lot longer than expected, but what can you expect from me XD I still have PCD as I write this down and no amount of copium can help me recover haha. I loved the request as it gave me the perfect excuse to write Chaeyeon again; she's an underrated hottie and I'm glad she (1) quit Queendom Puzzle instead of pushing through and (2) Knock became a surprise hit. It's only a matter of time before her star rises even further. Thank you for reading!)

#smut #kpop smut #chaeyeon #lee chaeyeon

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sweet-as-an-angel · 1 year

Text

Seraphim [Ghost x Reader]

Summary: You help Ghost relax after an arduous and stressful mission away.

Wordcount: 817 words

Warnings: Fluff, Vague Implications/Mentions of Smut (Nothing Explicit or Shown), just two people in Love :-(((, No Pronouns used for Reader except for 'You'.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -✄

Much like the rest of him, even Simon's hair had seemed to have grown hard - rigid - while he was away. That much was apparent to you as you raked your fingers through it, stitching shampoo through the strands.

"You're too good to me," he sighed, sinking a little deeper into the lavender water, soap suds keeping him modest. His eyes would squeeze shut whenever you found his sweet spot - behind the ears, the reason you called him your "Big Puppy", your "Guard dog."

"You deserve the world, Simon." Your words caught on the steam, sang a soft tune to the man who, like many times before, was rebuilding himself beneath your touch. "And if this is all I can do to bring it closer to your hands, then I'd do it for all the eternities the Universe will allow."

Simon's eyes cracked open, and, sensing the shift in his tone, you lowered your hands to the water, shampoo slipping from your fingers into the cauldron of aroma, and placed them upon his shoulders. His muscles were still tense, his senses tender, his mind raw.

You smiled.

"You've done more than I can ever reward you for," Simon said, and, with a sea serpent hand, he placed his palm atop your fingers, collected them like bird bones, and brought them to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, the chap of his lips disguised behind water, much like the water that gathered in his eyes.

"I don't want recompense, Simon," you said, softly. Your eyes grew doleful. Empathic. "All I want," you leaned down, pressing a kiss to the suds in his hair, "and all I'll ever want," and another to the shell of his ear. Shivers broke out across his back, fledgling wings - Seraphim. "Is your love."

Simon's shoulders raised, and for a moment, your heart squeaked, wondering if he'd jump out the water. He did not, but he was damned close. Instead, his other hand came around your waist, wetting your shirt beneath his aqualine touch. He urged you closer, and you came closer, both thighs sat on the bath edge, the water's edge.

His eyes searched yours, for any trace of fallacy, of falsity, though he knew it was a wasted venture. For now, after having your love palpable in his hands, to have felt your beating heart beneath his fingers during long evenings of just the two of you, he knew he had it. He possessed it, just as you did his. And yet, he searched for it in your gaze, every time he returned; to see if your love faltered when you saw him, to see if your pupils still blew wide whenever they fell upon him.

They did.

Just as they always had. Always would.

"You'll always have me." he said, pressing his face into your shirt, your stomach. He placed a muffled kiss there, and withdrew, looking up into your eyes. A puppy indeed. “Forever.” Simon's words were true. As was the glimmer in his eyes.

"Mind," he pulled you closer, his hand dropping to your hip, "body," he squeezed it, near making you squeal. He pulled you closer still, emerging from the waters, a Prince of the Sea meeting a Monarch of the Sun.

"And soul."

His lips found yours, a light in the dark, and you accepted him unto you. A Holy Spirit, a waiting disciple.

His lips were warm, all-encompassing, the condition of his skin becoming more apparent, rougher, as the water washed off him and onto you. You could taste how much he needed you, feel it in how tightly he pulled you to him, never letting go.

A fragment of eternity passed between you, cutting you loose. And as you pulled away, you pressed your forehead to his, desperately trying to show him the love and life you held for him there, a projector to display all that you could neither say, nor do, to compensate for all that you felt for him.

You smiled, eyes crinkling, half-moons.

"I think I prefer just the body," you said.

Ghost's cheeks lifted, his teeth showing as a laugh rumbled through his chest. He slipped another arm around you and, before you could comprehend, pulled you into the bath, making you squeal and water and suds to spill over the sides as he settled you beneath him.

"Well, then," he said, his consideration, his musings, utterly false, pre-determined. His hands held your wrists, bracelets of blood, bone and muscle. Of Man.

"I'll just have to show you how much this body loves yours."

And with a string of kisses from your ear to your throat, the bath became a mermaid's bed, the scent of lavender curating a scene from pure fantasy, of a love which permeated the very atmosphere, turned it sweet and reduced all hope that anything as pure could ever grasp it in its shaking, gripping, spectral fingers.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

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deadlymistletoe · 9 months

Text

Fears and Bandages

Pairing: Thranduil x F!reader

Request: @frustrated-kitten asked: I thought maybe I could request a Thranduil x FemReader where she returns with several injuries after fighting a bunch of spiders with Legolas and some other elves? Some small wounds, some more serious, but in the end she survives and everything goes well?

A/N: I hope it’s what you wanted - I was going to make it more angsty but this is what came out and it stuck.

Genre: slight hurt/comfort

Description: Thranduil’s composure cracks as he waits for you to come home from battling the spiders. He’s only able to put his fears to rest once he’s bandaged you up himself.

Warnings: Mentions of blood/injuries. Stitches.

Word count: 1582

Thranduil’s foot tapped against the ground, fingers drumming impatiently against the armrest of his throne. Besides the two guards posted at the entrance to the room, the rest of his subjects were steering clear of him.

He didn’t blame them for avoiding him while he was like this - after all, had it been someone else fidgeting he would have been annoyed himself.

It was rare for the composed elvenking to fidget as he was, to betray any hint of apprehension, but today was the exception.

It was well known that there were two people on this earth that Thranduil would do absolutely anything to keep safe, and it just so happened that both of them had gone headfirst into a dangerous situation.

The first, his only son, Legolas. Since the elf had first looked up at him from his mother’s with those wide blue eyes Thranduil had known that he would do anything for him.

After his wife had died that feeling had only strengthened, as the meaning in his life centered around the elfling who was quickly becoming one of the realm's best archers.

For a long time, nothing had changed, until he met the second person he would come to care about more than he would have thought possible. You.

Thranduil had never even considered that he might love again after his wife passed, but then you’d come into his life and he’d found himself falling faster than should have. And he just knew that he couldn’t lose you too. History couldn’t repeat itself. He wouldn’t let it.

Of course, that was easier said than done since you, much like Legolas, continuously risked your safety to fight the spiders that continued to invade the Greenwood.

Thankfully for him, you’d stepped back from the danger once the two of you fell in love and you took to the role of Thranduil’s consort - soon-to-be-queen, but the latest nest was bigger than usual and the spiders began to get more bold so you’d insisted on joining Legolas for the raid.

So now Thranduil sat, fidgeting like an impatient elfling, waiting for news.

He felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time - helpless.

Yes, Legolas had promised to make sure you both came back in one piece, but Legolas was also known for saying he was ‘fine’ when he had a gaping wound - Valar forbid he find out what his son’s definition of ‘one piece’ was.

Thranduil let out a frustrated sigh. He knew better than to doubt the abilities of you and his son, but sometimes he just couldn’t help but worry. After all, the last time his son had left the palace with a mother-figure, only one of them had come back - granted, that was when Legolas was a child with none of the skills he had now. But still.

He immediately straightened up, movements freezing when Galion ran up the steps leading into the room. “They’re back, my lord.”

Thranduil wasted no time making his way down the steps, Galion rushing to keep up with him as they made their way to the front gates. “Is everyone okay?” Are they okay?

“Everyone’s alive.” Those words were less reassuring than they should be. The mirkwood elves had a habit of using the term ‘alive’ rather loosely.

When he reached the entrance, those gathered around instantly parted for him to make his way towards the glimpse of pale hair he’d noticed through the crowd.

None of the patrol had been completely spared, that was certain, as scratches adorned each of their complexions, the darker blood of the spiders splattered over their uniforms.

Healers had already dispersed amongst the warriors, vials of antidote in hand just in case, and he was relieved to see that Legolas had no obvious signs of injury as he drew closer.

Legolas saw him coming and turned to meet him, voice low as he spoke. “There were more than we expected. We weren’t prepared, a second lot ambushed us after the fight had already started.”

Thranduil placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze - a show of affection that still kept a semblance of formality. “You did well.”

He hesitated, not wanting to brush his son off but at the same time needing to see you. Legolas saved him from asking, nodding towards where a healer was bent over a figure on a bench. You, he realized.

“She’s okay.” Legolas murmured. “Just a bit more cut up than the rest of us.” He rolled his eyes playfully. “I’ve been on guard to make sure she didn’t injure herself more running off to find you before the healers got to her.”

Thranduil’s lips twitched, holding back a smile as he made his way towards you, Legolas following behind.

It didn’t take long for you to look up at the familiar footsteps, a smile spreading across your lips despite the sting as the healer cleaned up a deep wound across your shoulder.

When the healer took her hands from you to rummage through her supplies you immediately took the chance to push yourself to your feet, moving around her and meeting Thranduil half way, his arms naturally finding their way around your waist as you stumbled slightly.

He smirked slightly looking over your shoulder. “I do believe Lothael is about to scold you for using her distraction to your advantage.”

Your healer, Lothael, had followed you, rolling her eyes. She gave Thranduil a wry look. “Yes, well, I can’t imagine that the king wants his queen-to-be to bleed out on the floor.”

Thranduil’s eyes quickly ran over your wounds, double-checking that you weren’t in imminent danger of bleeding out, and lingering on the deeper ones before looking back at Lothael. “I can take it from here, thank you.”

He knew that technically the healer had more better skills than him in the art, but at the same time, he also knew that the only way to completely reassure himself that you weren’t about to bleed out was if he did it himself - he needed to know that he’d checked and taken care of your wounds with his own hands.

It was only when the two of you had left the view of the other elves, leaving Legolas in charge, that you let yourself lean against the wall with a groan, the pain that had been throbbing in your leg since the adrenaline had worn off on the walk home forcing you to give it a break.

Thranduil, whose hand had been resting on your back, ready to steady you at any moment should you need it, gave you a worried look as you pulled away from him to use the wall as support.

“I’ll be fine,” You muttered, grimacing. “It’s just demanding a rest.”

Thranduil gave you a calculated look, and before you could say anything or even begin to wonder what he was thinking, he swept you off your feet, your arms automatically going around his neck as he carried you bridal-style down the hall.

You couldn’t help but let out a giggle, a smile crossing his own face at the sound. “What are you doing?”

He glanced down at you, a small smile dancing across his lips. “Why, I’m carrying to your chamber’s, my lady. Valar knows you’d collapse halfway there if I didn’t.”

You laughed before quieting down and leaning your head against his chest. “I’m tired, Thranduil.” You murmured, the toll today had taken on your body catching up to you.

He looked at you with a soft look reserved only for you. “I know, Meleth. You can rest soon.”

You sighed, staying silent as he reached your shared chambers and laid you on the bed, letting you sink into the silks and furs that covered the mattress.

You had started to drift off when you suddenly felt something cold seep into one of the deeper wounds, pressure keeping it there. You jerked away from the cold sting, but a hand held you in place, and you felt Thranduil’s silky hair brush against your skin as he lent over you to brush his lips against your forehead.

“I’m just cleaning them.” He murmured. “Relax.”

You let out a shuddering breath as he moved the cloth, a few tears slipping down the side of your face as he continued on to stitch the wound closed.

Your strong facade you’d kept up in the entrance and on the journey home hope had dissipated, as had your energy now that you were with the one you didn’t have to act strong for.

Thranduil whispered apologies and reassurances as he cleaned and bandaged the rest of your wounds with a gentleness that could only come from a lover’s hands, occasionally wiping the tears from your face and running his fingers through your hair at a particularly harsh sting.

It felt like hours later when the last wound was taken care of and you heard the quiet clink as Thranduil set the glass bottle of ointment aside.

He remained seated at your size, gentle fingers brushing over your face and hair as he gazed down at you, his own fears put aside now that he’d tended to you.

You held his gaze, relishing the cool touches until you felt your eyes begin to droop, and the last thing you were aware of was the feather-light lips that brushed against yours and the whispered, “Sleep, Meleth.” as you drifted off, Thranduil’s fingers soothingly carding through your hair.

Taglist:

@fizzyxcustard @bookworm-with-coffee

#imagines #the hobbit #female reader #thranduil #thranduil x reader #thranduil imagine #thranduil x you #my writing

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starrailstories · 5 months

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Hey! Could you write something about Blade having a keeper of time/ timekeeper s/o? ♥

first ask!!! let's hecking goooooooo

i wanted to write headcanons but then one thing led to another and it's a short story that i hope you enjoy

Blade x gn!Timekeeper!S/O — Seen in the shards

warnings: mentions of blade's depression and suicidal thoughts (canon-compliant), possibly ooc but i really really hope i wrote him well

Blade is destruction incarnate, the mara and rage and grief taking over him sporadically, like bile rising to the throat. He is an effective tool of the Hunters (ironic, isn't it? an abomination like him hardly can Hunt), and many would think that this is all he is, a bounty and a sin and a loosely held leash.

You know him differently, though. You know him in the moments of repose in-between the storm that he brings along, and in those moments, he feels like a large shard of time away from where he'd fit. It's always shards with him, glimpses of past mistakes, and battles, and memories, but mostly sorrow. You think of the ways time cracks as you struggle to keep it whole, revealing the uncomfortable truths you dare not mention to the IPC or the Intelligentsia Guild. It's kind of similar, like if you try just enough, you'll see the complete picture once again.

And he doesn't get you at first, because collecting broken shards and piecing them back is not what Blade does. Blade is all about burning bridges, throwing himself into battle headfirst, Blade does - not - get it when you show concern or worry, when you offer to share a meal, when you tend to a wound of his, when you try and protect him in battle, because he isn't supposed to be together, only apart, shatter and shatter and shatter in hopes that one day, he'll just lie there broken and dead and gone.

You care and that hurts, for some reason, hurts in a way that doesn't sate his urge to be hurt.

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

"I almost pity you, Bladie. But envy you all the same," Kafka drops one day as they're sat in a boujee cafe on a planet that will experience a Stellaron catastrophe in about three system hours. She raises her cup of tea to her lips almost immediately, but he catches a hint of a smile.

"Pity, I understand, but I do not welcome it. However, what of the envy?"

Kafka set down her cup gently, in a manner that she would always do, and her smile faded.

"Soon, you would know the meaning of fear. You knew it once, but in a different lifetime. Now, you will know it again, and it will hurt in different ways. It's fascinating."

She spoke with a certainty, as if reciting a script. Possibly that was the case, and that was more sad than anything. Given a power to make anyone listen, but stuck saying words someone else wrote.

"So it will happen?"

"As much as anything said by Destiny's Slave will. There's a seed for fear in that, too. You will resent your wish and your fate, but it still will happen, even if you don't want it to happen anymore."

Right. Blade looks away, because he doesn't usually decipher the grand scheme of things. He was promised a death and a settling of the score, and he is content with that, content in the way a sword is content to rest in its sheath. Kafka reaches across the table to touch his forehead as if to impart a wisdom.

She'd point a gun to his head and he'd be just as apathetic.

"Listen. I am telling you this for your sake, after all."

There's no command behind the word, and Blade regrets this, because thinking he dislikes most of all.

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

Fear is a foreign concept, but the more you reach out to him with your care, the more he starts to grasp it. He knows of your strength, he knows of your capabilities, he sees you constantly fixing time itself, reaching into the molten metal with hands exposed and heart bare, to stitch all together before the past pours into the present and the future into the past and a sea of fake stars replaces the cosmos you traverse (you told him once of a world inside an egg one time, where the sky is fake and the up is down and why does he remember these trivial things again).

But he also knows of his own strength, and how all that he touches goes awry, and that is scary — to see you reach out when he knows full well how your care might destroy you, how he might destroy you.

"You shouldn't be picking up the shards. They'd cut you," he says one time after another crack is restored and the anomaly of the Fragmentum shifts into a stable state. His sword drags on the ground, leaving a distinctly red trace. You know he isn't speaking about the timeline.

"Those are big words coming from someone carrying a sword made of shards," you smile like you always do and it hurts. Because it hurts to be cared for and treated like a person and where were you those centuries ago when dying still felt memorable and there was something besides the anger?

He wishes he fell into a timeline anomaly back then because that would mean even for a moment, being caught by you, and that is a scary thought.

"Blade?" he's zoning out. Bad. He is supposed to keep himself in check, because most people are capable of dying and he is a remarkably well-working death machine.

"I will say this more clearly: if you keep reaching out to me, you will die."

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

You don't stop because... actually why. Blade still doesn't get it. Blade doesn't speak up anymore, a sword in its sheath, but he thinks sometimes. Thinking is still a horrible pastime activity. But he does wonder about what it would have felt like to have met you earlier, when there was some feeling left in him.

He wonders if you bandaging a wound of his would make him feel safe. He wonders if the snacks you buy on the planets you visit would make him feel sated. He wonders if after a long day, sleeping next to each other would make him feel truly content.

Dangerous thoughts, yet strangely warm, like candlelight.

You plop on the bed of a dingy hotel room you two are staying at. Blade cares little about the quality of the establishment, but he does care about security, and keeping on the down low is of the essence. He stores his sword next to his side of the bed, to draw if a fight occurs.

He doesn't sleep anyway, simply lies in a dreamless haze, so nothing would catch him off-guard.

"Room's tiny. Bed's hard as a rock, too," you make small talk, untying the laces of your boots.

"Mhm," Blade hums. He thinks that there were free rooms in the hotel. With two beds in each, no less. He doesn't bring this up because it's safer to stay close together and that's the only reason.

"And it's cold."

"Mhm," he hums again. He doesn't feel much in terms of warmth or coldness.

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he checks for emergency exit pathways and makes notes of useful items.

"Sometimes I wish there were no anomalies or Stellarons out there. Then we wouldn't have large bounties on our heads and we'd be able to afford all the good hotels."

"We wouldn't have met then. And this room is sufficient."

Blade says sufficient, but for the last while, he found sufficient lacking. He wanted good things, despite being undeserving, and it hurt, too, because he knew all too well what happened to the good things in his life.

He lies down next to you, six inches, seven hundred years and a universe apart.

"Would we? I'd still have found you, I feel like."

It feels weird to hear this. He remembers how you once got hurt because you tried to block a hit meant for him. It was a long time ago, before that could hurt. It wasn't anything serious, but now, guilt eats at him each time he notices the faint scar on your shoulder. He drifts his gaze left, and there it is, a reminder.

And he also sees that you're cold.

What comes next is a whim and Blade never acts on whims. But he turns on the bed and drags you into an embrace.

"You wouldn't have liked what you've found."

Because then he'd be a mara-struck abomination, immortal mess of ginkgo leaves and dripping bile and the same names roared so much that no one would hear what he says. He still is like that, just somewhat grounded.

"You always decide for me. But isn't it up to me to weigh my choices, Blade?"

No, he wants to say, it's not. He's been mortal and stupid before, and that was his mistake. For that, he must pay a price. He doesn't want you to be hurt that way because you, unlike him, don't deserve this.

But he says none of it, as you raise your hand and touch his cheek and it's warm and it hurts—

His voice breaks, in both anger and fear, "I don't want you fixing me. I know you want to pick up the shards and glue them together. But you will regret that wish."

He isn't Yingxing and he won't be Yingxing ever again. What was him died on the Xianzhou Luofu, and it died again and again and again until what was left couldn't recall the deaths any longer. Then, a mess of shards, an empty husk, he was Blade, and he couldn't ever go back.

You smile gently at him.

"I know. If you ever decide to piece the shards together, it should be your choice and not mine, and I have no deal interfering with that. But still, I want to see all of you, Blade. Broken or not."

It's scary because admitting that he wants you to see him too would mean accepting that it won't change a thing. The script is merciless and uncaring. Even if he allows himself to love you, he is already destined to die as part of the performance. It's scary because it changes everything. It's scary because it changes nothing.

He shifts on the bed, so that you're face to face.

"May I kiss you?"

You close the distance first, as you always do, and he, for the first time in seven hundred years, feels seen.

#blade x reader #blade x you #blade x y/n #honkai star rail #honkai x reader #blade hsr #blade honkai #hsr #yingxing

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