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#to resolve all the threads (so to speak)
bby-deerling · 2 months
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two ghosts (sanji x reader nsfw)
sanji almost lets you slip between his fingers...
18+, mdni, nsfw wc: 1.9k masterlist
cw: afab!fem!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, almost breaking up, make up sex, emotional roller coaster, intimate and needy sex
tagging: @sanjisjuul @pileofmush @kibblz-n-bitz (thanks for sitting in call with me while i wrote this!)
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The silence that hung in the sticky, evening air was palpable; it was heavy, hot, and suffocating.  Sanji wonders if you can feel the tension, the push and pull of the tether that binds you with every passing breath.  The orange sunset casts into the kitchen, illuminating the frosting smeared across your cheek as you pipe, deep in focus.  He’d taught you everything you needed to know about baking, icing, and proper presentation ages ago; quiet evenings like this used to be highlighted by your laughter, quick banter, and loving touches.  Now, despite the warmth of the light passing through the window, it was cold, empty, and sterile.
Things were different before, when everything was green and easy, and each day was filled with the thrill of limerence and the novelty of learning each other.  And then, suddenly, two years had passed, and the threads tying the two of you together became frayed, weathered and torn.  Once, the icing smeared across your cheek would have been teasingly lapped up by his tongue—now, it stays in place until your thumb absentmindedly swipes away the buttercream, a distant expression in your eyes.
Maybe if he was more pragmatic like Zoro, he would have thought things through before acting on his feelings.  Perhaps he would have waited before confessing him feelings until he was certain this would last, but he wasn’t—Sanji fell hard, loved hard, and the feeling of the fondness he has for you slipping through his fingers was hard for him.  It’s so difficult for him to stare at you from across the kitchen as you stare him down, your gaze hollow and hurt.
“Sanji, what’s wrong?” you ask, voice shaky and quivering; his heart drops when he realizes you’ve likely been working up the courage to voice your concerns to him for some time.  He had spent many sleepless nights agonizing over the way you seemingly hadn’t noticed his shift in behavior—the fact that you not only had, but were too afraid to confront him about it made the pain sting more.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about, dear.” he lies.  The hoarseness in his voice gives him away, and your wide doe eyes are wounded from his audacity to swallow down his problems and push you away.
Your nails dig into your forearm, coating them in powdered sugar and nearly drawing blood.  “Please stop lying to me.  I can take it.” you whisper, defeated.  The tears pricking at the corners of your eyes are silent, but Sanji swears he can hear the wail of your cries echoing in the air.
Meeting your stare is too difficult, so he opts to stare at the floor as he chooses his next words with caution and care.  “Things aren’t like they used to be, angel.  Surely you’ve noticed it too.” he says, voice raspy and threatening to break.
Now you’re the one who cannot bear to meet his eyes, and you swallow hard as you try to regain control over your breathing—it’s difficult when Sanji is standing across the kitchen from you, turning the tension-heavy conversation into a western standoff.  “What did I do wrong, Sanji?  How did I drive you away?” you ask, holding back sobs as your body begins to shake.
“Nothing, dear.  Nothing at all.  We’re simply changed, and—” he starts, with more conviction that he imagined himself having, until you interrupt him.
“Are you giving up, Sanji?” you choke out.  It’s angry, and it’s frustrated, and it’s a plea for him to reconsider without resorting to dropping to your knees and begging—it’s a desperate attempt to stop him from finishing his sentence and going too far by speaking it into existence.
Sanji is frozen in place, his sky-blue eyes swirling as his resolve wavers.  Seeing the way he’s turning you into a broken mess stalls the motion in his chest and makes him look at you—truly look at you for the first time today.  Though your eyes are puffy and watery, your cheeks are rosy, and all the beautiful qualities of both your countenance and your aura radiate from you; all of a sudden it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.
“No, love.” he whispers, voice as soft and light as a feather.  “I want to fix things, if you’ll have me.”
The pause before you speak is physically painful for Sanji to bear, though he knows he deserves it after twisting a knife through your chest only to pull it out and bandage you up right as you’re on the brink of death.
“Of course I’ll have you, Sanji.  I need you.” you reply, fatigued and exhausted from the push and pull.  He can’t hold back from comforting you any longer, and strides towards you; as he reaches you, he clasps his clammy, heated hands around yours, and presses frantic, heated kisses onto your forehead.
“I’m sorry, angel… I’m so sorry…” he whispers, silently vowing to change, to amend all the behaviors that had led him to this point.  He was honest when he said you had done nothing to push him away; he was simply unappreciative of everything in front of him, everything that had drawn you to him in an unrelenting frenzy when he first laid eyes on you.  He had taken you for granted, and was willing to spend the rest of his life atoning for it as long as he wouldn’t have to be deprived from the warmth of your gaze for the rest of his days.
You don’t tell him it’s okay, or I forgive you—it’s not, and you don’t—but you love him desperately and crave him more than your lungs need air; shaky fingers find the sides of his face, and gentle, soft thumbs brush away his tears as your lips press into his.  The kiss is sloppy, and passionate, and full of tongues as you frantically devour one another—as if this kiss would be the last, though you both vowed it wouldn’t be.
“I love you Sanji, please don’t let me go.” you plead as you break away, burying your face into his chest.  His cotton dress shirt becomes soaked with the dampness of your tears, and he holds you so close that three out of place vertebrae in your spine click back into place with a loud pop.
“Never.  I’ll never leave you, angel.” he whispers, moving his hand upward, tracing along your upper arms towards your jawline.  Though he intends to be soft with you, he can’t help the way he pins your back against the counter with both power and intent to prove his devotion—to physically bind himself to you and seal his promise to stay, to be better.  His hands are in your hair, his tongue is deep in your mouth, and his knee is slotted between your legs; you let out a weak whimper against his lips as your hips grind on his thigh for more friction, and the sound makes him dizzy, crazed, and hungry.
Sanji knows he should drop to his knees and pray; he should be worshipping at the altar of the goddess he’d blasphemed, but he lets a rare fit of selfishness consume him.  As he feels your arousal soak both your panties and the leg of his trousers, Sanji lets out a groan against your lips and feels the overwhelming urge to bury himself in the ecstasy of your walls.
“Up on the counter, dear.” he murmurs lowly, rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs into your hips.  Once you comply, he tilts your head to the side and smothers the column of your neck in heated love bites, licking over each indent of his teeth in your skin with his slick tongue.  His hand starts stroking your sensitive clit through your panties, but in an uncommon stroke of impatience, he slides them to the side and sinks two fingers into you; the gasp you let out is sharp, needy, and full of wanting as he scissors his fingers inside of you, spreading you wide open for him.
He pulls his digits from you and licks them clean, smirking at the way the sight makes you let out a breathy sigh.  Sanji swiftly removes his belt as you watch him spring his cock free; your body is steeped in anticipation as he gingerly pulls you in for a kiss with one hand, and slides his cock along your weeping slit with another.  It’s not long before his tip is just as soaked as you are, and his length slips into you with one quick motion.  Sensual moans fall from both your mouths, only to be muffled by your messy, sloppy liplock as he snaps his hips against yours.
He's frenzied, and insatiable, setting a harsher pace than you’re used to as he ruts into you.  Though it was his own folly, his own foolish behavior that almost led him to letting you go, he had almost lost you all the same, and felt a need to claim you, feel you, and knead the soft, plush skin of your thigh while he presses heated circles into your clit.  The tip of his head brushes against your sweet spot and causes your head to tip back in ecstasy; the line of drool that keeps your mouths connected spurs him to give you more, give you all of him, and give you everything.
You’re hot and twitching in his grasp, nearly undone as he rocks your hips in rhythm with his.  Pants and whines and blabbers of nonsense escape your lips as you get so close, but you needed help rising over the crest; Sanji’s deft fingers have memorized each favored and pleasurable motion and ministration better than your own could ever dream of doing, and he groans with satisfaction as a bit more pressure on your clit gets you to fall apart around him.
“Let go for me, angel… Fuck, you’re doing so well.” he praises as you let out a needy cry, your walls fluttering around him.  Your whimpers are heady as heat pools in your face, and the shockwaves racing throughout your body are tamped by the way his arm snakes around you, pulling you close as he buries his nose in your hair.  The way you clench around him so tightly makes him not far behind, seeing black as he rocks himself into your spent body with white hot need.
The moments after your climaxes subside are stretched for an eternity, as both of you mumble a barely audible I love you into each other’s skin.  His pulse felt reanimated under your touch, as if for the past few weeks he had been someone else, not quite living and not quite dead; his limbs entangle with yours, and his head buries into your shoulder, coating it with the remnants of his damp, salty tears.  Unable to hold back sobs of your own, your body shakes and heaves as droplets splatter against his collarbone.  Promises and apologies flow like like wine from swollen and blubbering lips, and when Sanji cups the side of your face, gingerly tilting your head up to look at him, he sees a light hidden behind the raw, aching pain in your eyes—a sign of life.
He had found your heartbeat, pounding under his touch, and he promises himself to never lose sight of it again.
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averagewosoenthusiast · 2 months
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Not so cocky now eh?
Warnings: Smut 18+ MDNI. Anyone who does not have an age in their bio or is underaged and interacts will be blocked. Top!Ona, Bottom!Reader, Fem!reader, Strap use (r receiving), Oral (r receiving), swearing (both spanish and english), Reader is a cocky, arrogant asshole, BE WARNED! THIS IS BASICALLY JUST PORN WITHOUT PLOT! SMUT STARTS AT THE VRY BEGINNING! if I’ve missed anything else please make me aware!!
Summary: You had been an ass all training. Ona puts you in your place.
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You were an incredible striker, it was no secret. But you were also a very physical one, even in training.
So when you were being a little brat in training today, Ona got fed up. She had been knocked down by you specifically many times, and the smug smirk you wore every time pissed her off beyond belief.
So that’s how you found yourself on all fours, face in your’s and Ona’s pillows with Ona’s strap hitting all the right spots.
You couldn’t deny the pleasure taking over your body as she gripped your waist, pulling your backwards to meet her thrusts.
“Not so cocky now hm, cariño?” She grunts into your ear, and your face flushes. All you’re able to do at that point is nod and hope you don’t let out an embarrassingly loud moan. Her movements slow to a stop and your eyes shoot open with a frustrated groan.
She pulls your head up by your hair, whispering low in your ear, “Words, bebita.”
She was sure it’d get you to speak, but clearly not as she clearly don’t count for your crippling stubbornness. You simply turn your head to the other side, trying to ignore the 7 inch silicone strap firmly inside you.
“Oh, bebita..” Ona chuckles, her raspy voice sending a wave of pleasure straight to your core, she squeezes your hips tighter. “Words.” Her voice is practically a growl and you can’t deny that you’re tempted to give in, but your resolve stays strong. Barely.
When she pulls out, you cry out, tempted to just give up there and then but all of a sudden she’s hoisting your legs over her shoulders and immediately burying her face in your folds. You thread your fingers through her hair, your eyes rolling back in your head.
“Mierda, princesa, this all for me hm?” She hums, sucking marks into your thigh and running the pad of her thumb over your brutally neglected clit.
“Yes, Ona.. All for you.” You pant, desperate for her to not stop as you try to clamp your thighs shut, although her much stronger hands force them apart. (A/N: side note, ONA’S VEINSSSS? HELLO???)
You can feel the every familiar coil building inside you, as her tongue licks long stripes from your entrance to your clit, the tip of her tongue periodically dipping into you.
“Ona… ‘M close. Please…” You pant, moaning out when she sucks your clit into her mouth.
“Please what, bebita? Want me to make you come? ‘S that it, eh?” She chuckles lowly, the vibrations from the sound sending a fresh wave of pleasure through you.
“Yes, please, Ona. Por favor.” You pants, back arching and hips bucking pathetically. Then she pulls away.
“No.” She growls, her eyes dark.
“What?” You ask, somewhat confused and frustrated, as you had just been close to having your brains fucked out by the woman you love and she had taken that away from you.
“You were a little bitch all training. You wanna act like one? I’m gonna fuck you like one.” She chuckles, and you moan at her words. Soft, little Ona who only ever took her time in lovingly making you fall apart suddenly wanting to fuck you so roughly? You would’ve been an ass much sooner if you knew it got these results.
You can see a hint of hesitation and concern behind her brown eyes though as they bore into your own. You nod softly and she grins, kissing you, biting your bottom lip as she pulls away.
“Buena chica.” She chuckles lowly, lining her strap up with your entrance, thrusting in so suddenly it winds you.
“Joder, Ona!” You gasp, gripping her back, your nails digging into her muscled back. Her thrusts pick up and you feel the head of the strap continuously brush against the spot inside you that makes you weak in the knees.
You were getting close and Ona could tell, you were grabbing wherever you could reach and your moans were getting louder, as your cares about the neighbours hearing you both washed away.
“Please, Ona, please please-“ She cuts you off with a kiss, speeding up.
“Come for me. C’mon.” She pants, speeding up. Truth be told she was getting close too, the harness of the strap rubbing against her clit in a way which made her speed up, thrusting harder.
You come with a scream, gripping Ona’s back as she drops her head to your shoulder and continues to fuck you through your orgasm until she reaches her peak too, falling on top of you.
“Mierda.” She grumbles, pulling out and ridding herself of the strap quickly, passing you bottle of water which you gratefully drink from as she slips into bed with you, stroking your hair.
“You okay, chica?” She smiles, chuckling at the blissed out expression on your face and messy hair.
“Yes, Ona. Perfect.” You pant, your head falling onto her chest as she wraps you up in her arms.
“Te amo, mi amor.” She whispers.
“Te amo también, mi vida.” You whisper back.
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A/N: Lo siento for it being so short, it’s definitely not my best but it is my first smut. Once again, any ageless accounts or underage persons who interact with this will be blocked. Hope you all enjoyed.
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hussyknee · 4 months
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Video description:
Preface reading: "Rafeef Ziadah, 12/11/11, London". The video begins showing a young woman on a stage, her hair cut in a sharp, short bob, wearing a gauzy black dress with red accents to match the stage wall behind her. She speaks into a mic in a blend of Canadian and Palestinian accents:
Transcript: "I'll start with this poem I wrote. This poem—when the bombs were dropping on Gaza I was the media spokesperson for the coalition, doing a lot of the organizing, and we'd stayed up to about six o'clock in the morning perfecting every soundbite and by the end of—you know most Palestinians get tired and start pronouncing our "P"s as "B"s so we could become "Balestinians" by the end of the day. So I was practicing my "P"s all night, and the next morning one of the journalists asked me, "Don't you think it would all be fine if you just stopped teaching your children to hate?"
I did not insult the person, I was very polite, but I wrote this poem as a response to these types of questions we Palestinians always get."
Today, my body was a TV’d massacre. Today, my body was a TV’d massacre that had to fit into sound-bites and word limits. Today, my body was a TV’d massacre that had to fit into sound-bites and word limits filled enough with statistics to counter measured response; and I perfected my English and I learned my UN resolutions—But still, he asked me, "Ms. Ziadah, don’t you think that everything would be resolved if you would just stop teaching so much hatred to your children? Pause. I look inside of me for strength to be patient but patience is not at the tip of my tongue as the bombs drop over Gaza. Patience has just escaped me. Pause. Smile. "We teach life, sir." Rafeef, remember to smile. Pause. "We teach life, sir. We Palestinians teach life after they have occupied the last sky. We teach life after they have built their settlements and apartheid walls, after the last skies. We teach life, sir." But today, my body was a TV’d massacre made to fit into sound-bites and word limits. And— "Just give us a story, a human story. You see, this is not political. We just want to tell people about you and your people so give us a human story. Don’t mention that word: “apartheid” and “occupation”— This is not political. You have to help me as a journalist to help you tell your story which is not a political story—" Today, my body was a TV’d massacre. "How about you give us a story of a woman in Gaza who needs medication?" "How about you? Do you have enough bone-broken limbs to cover the sun? Hand me over your dead and give me the list of their names in one thousand two hundred word limits." Today, my body was a TV’d massacre that had to fit into sound-bites and word limits and move those that are desensitized to terrorist blood. But they felt sorry. They felt sorry for the cattle over Gaza. So, I give them UN resolutions and statistics and we condemn and we deplore and we reject and— These are not two equal sides: occupier and occupied. And a hundred dead, two hundred dead, and a thousand dead. And between that, war crime and massacre, I vent out words and smile (not exotic), smile (not terrorist) And I recount, I recount a hundred dead, two hundred dead, a thousand dead. Is anyone out there? Will anyone listen? I wish I could wail over their bodies. I wish I could just run barefoot in every refugee camp and hold every child, cover their ears so they wouldn’t have to hear the sound of bombing for the rest of their life the way I do. Today, my body was a TV’d massacre And let me just tell you, there’s nothing your UN resolutions have ever done about this. And no sound-bite—no sound-bite I come up with, no matter how good my English gets—no sound-bite-no sound-bite-no sound-bite-no sound-bite, will bring them back to life, no sound-bite will fix this. We teach life, sir. We teach life, sir. We Palestinians wake up every morning to teach the rest of the world LIFE. Sir.
End transcription.
I think this twitter thread gives some necessary political context for the poem, so you can really understand the cruelty and barbarity of that question, and why Western media insistently shies away from "political" answers:
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Cursory Google check corroborates all the info except for the number of peace settlements Israel's rejected. I can't find the exact number off the first page of Google and my head is throbbing too much to look deeper. I'm going to leave that for y'all to fact check.
(I went and looked Rafeef Ziadah up to check whether she's still alive (because that's what we do with Palestinians now) and she's safe in London, teaching Politics and Public Policy at King's College. You can find the rest of her poetry here.)
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asumofwords · 9 months
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Smoke, Fire and Ash
Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. PTSD, mentions of assault, flashbacks of assault, anxiety, anger, trauma, hypersexuality as a trauma response, possessive behaviour.
This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.
Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)
Masterlist
Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.
Note: Hello my pretty petals, here is the next chapter as promised, we are full speed ahead from here, and I may post the next Aemond POV installment either today or tomorrow, currently undecided. Please remember to read the trigger warnings before reading the chapters.
Thank you all for the love and support as always, you guys are so sweet! Makes my heart very happy.
Enjoy <3
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Chapter 77: Confessions 
Aemond sat in the arm chair in front of the fire in your shared chambers in silence, staring into the flames. You had both been in a daze as you were sent back to your chambers, escorted by three King’s guards. 
Helaena and Lucerys had been waiting for you inside when you arrived.
Always there.
Aemond did not speak as he walked, nor did he reach out to touch you as you were walked speedily through the corridors, his hands still curled in fists, and lone eye ablaze. His anger set you on edge, and the fear you had forcefully pushed down and away, slowly rose to the surface again in the prospects of not just one of your uncles wrath, but two.
The young Prince's violet eye never left the flames of the fireplace, even as you stood in front of it meekly. 
“Aemond.” 
He did not reply.
“Aemond.” You said again, his gaze still not lifting from the fire, lips pulled down into a hard sneer.
Your eyes flicked down to his hands, which were fisted atop the arms of the chair, blood beginning to dry on his tightly clenched knuckles. 
He needed a Maester.
Stepping away from the fireplace, you moved towards him, Helaena and Lucerys’ bodies becoming shadows behind you. Your shaky hand reached out as you whispered again, and touched his shoulder cautiously, “Kepus.” 
Slowly, Aemond’s head turned to look at your hand upon his body, not reacting to your voice or touch, simply looking at it. It sparked a moment of apprehension through you, and so just as slowly as you had placed your palm there, you took it off. 
Aemond’s gaze finally moved up your wrist, following the path of your arm, your neck, and then finally to your face, jaw still tightly clenched.
“Aem…”
“You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother. His own nephew.”
You reared back as though you had been slapped.
Broken.
Broken.
He watched as your face crumpled, lip shaking as tears welled in your eyes again.
Aemond was hurt. 
And so he was lashing out to hurt you.
He had not changed.
He was the same as he always had been.
He was just the same. 
They were all the same.
A lone tear slid down your cheek as your breath stuttered in your chest, hands curling into fists beside you.
Aemond, realising what he had said, had a moment of clarity and reached a hand outwards towards you in regret, trying to grasp the hand that was closest between you.
“I’m s-“
Dracarys.
You shook your head roughly, “Don’t.”
“Y/n, I-“
The thread of resolve that had been frayed inside of you, snapped.
“I am surrounded by vipers! I am alone in this Keep.” You hissed, the heat of anger rising with no sign of stopping. You stepped away from your uncle angrily, catching the enraged face of Lucerys as you moved, who continued to utter beneath his breath.
“Your brother raped me, and where was my husband? Off fucking his whore in Harrenhal like the dutiful Prince he so claims to be. Your mother knew and did nothing.” 
Aemond looked away at the words, which lit the sparks ablaze, more anger flowing through you that you did not know you possessed, resolve feeling more frayed and distraught than ever, your body bursting with wrath.
“Aegon was inside of me, whilst you left me here. He fucked his seed into me with he hopes of a bastard.” 
Aemond breathed an angry breath through his nose, face snapping to yours.
“You call me broken?" You sneered, "You took Lucerys. At night I dream of him, of his small face.” A tear slid down your cheek, “I cannot escape the visions in which you took him from me, of where I watched in horror as Vhagar tore him from the sky. I see him everywhere.” You took a step towards him, hand moving to violently jab a pointed finger at your own chest, nail pressing into the skin.
Dracarys.
Pretty petals.
“You call me broken? My mother had her throne taken from her, and my sister born still. I am trapped in a Keep surrounded by enemies. My only solace is a man who has raped me just as his brother did.”
The more you spoke, the more you could not stop the words that flew from your lips, watching as Aemond’s chest rose and fell angrily. 
“I was forced to marry a man who has sought nothing but pleasure in my anguish!” You screamed at the Prince, coming closer until you stood in front of him, his face still as he watched you.
“Helaena threw herself from Maegor’s Holdfast to be impaled on spikes below, because she couldn’t bear another day. My own husband leaves me to fuck his bastard whore before the whole court, knowing that his brother would defile me! And you think me broken?”
Aemond did not answer.
“Say it again. Call me broken.” You sneered down at him.
Silence.
The only sound the crackling fire, and whispers of Helaena and Lucerys behind you.
“Am I only broken now that your brother has been inside of me? Am I no longer a toy you wish to play with? ” Tears slid from your eyes as you shook with anger.
You were furious.
You were horrified. 
You were grieving, and tired, and scared, and alone.
“Tell me.” You demanded.
Aemond blinked.
“Tell me!” You screamed at his silence.
Still, nothing.
Your hand flew through the air, slapping him roughly across the scarred side of his face, the sound of the hit breaking the rooms quiet.
“Tell me.” You seethed looking down at him, his head slowly turning to look at you, blood on his lip resurfacing as your slap reopened the cut from Aegon's fists.
And yet even after your outburst, even after your demands, your screams, your cries, and the hit upon his face in which you knew would hurt him deeply, Aemond sat still, looking at you heave angry breaths, tears filling your eyes, as the side of his face blushed red from your hand. 
The dam spilt over.
“Tell me.” You begged, a sob slipping from your lips.
Before you could blink, you were engulfed in Aemond’s arms, your head tucked beneath his chin as you stiffened. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held you tighter, your arms stuck by your side. 
You inhaled deeply, trying to dispell the tide that rose inside of you, but it was no use. The wave crashed over you, and you sobbed loudly into his chest, arms coming to grip onto his shirt in front of you.
You stood as he held you, sobbing into his robes, his grip never faltering.
You cried until you felt you could not cry anymore. 
You felt so defeated.
So tired.
So angry.
Perhaps you truly were broken.
"You are stronger than you think.” Came the whisper of Aemond atop your skull, finally breaking the silence, “I think you are the blood of the mighty House Targaryen.” His chest vibrated against your face as you cried.
Stronger than you think.
Then why do I feel so weak?
“The blood of Old Valyria. Iksā se kostōba issaros nyke gīmigon.” You are the strongest person I know.
You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother. His own nephew.
With a surge of anger, you pushed away from him, separating yourself from the arms that had held you as you cried. 
“Then why do you tear me apart?” You sneered.
Why?
Why?
Aemond stood, hands limp by his side as he looked at you.
Silence again. 
You shook your head and fled, leaving the chambers and the man inside them behind you. Moving past the guards who looked at you peculiarly, tears still running down your cheeks. 
You needed comfort. 
You needed solace. 
You needed familiarity. 
And so your legs took you to a place where you could find all three, down to the Godswood.
As your feet moved across the soft grass, you tilted your head backwards to look up at its crimson leaves, dancing in a soft breeze that swept through the Keep. Your tears flowed as you moved towards the place you always sat beneath its trunk.
Why do you punish me, Gods?
What have I done that I need to repent for?
Is this because I am acursed as a Kinslayer?
Is this my atonement?
The Gods did not answer your questions as you laid you back against the trunk, exhaustion seeping out of you and into the earth below. You wished for the ground to open up, and for you to fall through the cracks and be swallowed whole. To be done with such a life. To be numb to the pain.
I know I came here to help, but I find the strength I had dwindling. Was this how it was always to be? To suffer the sins of man? To suffer the sins of my uncles? Please Gods, give me the strength to do what I must. I am losing hope. I am losing myself to madness.
To grief.
Please.
You shut your eyes as you prayed. 
Please, help me on the path I must take. Let Aegon die. Kill him for what he has done. By my hand or another. By his own hand. By wine or ales hand. By the slip of his foot, or the hoof of a horse, or the fault of his dragon.
Let the Stranger take him.
The prayers did not stop as you sat under the branches and leaves of the Godswood, praying for help, from anyone, promising that you would do anything.
To have them take Aegon.
For the war be over.
To help you.
Your eyes stayed shut, and the exhaustion that never left your bones swept you away to a light sleep, prayers following you to your dreams as you sat beneath the trees branches even there, its face blinking at you as you begged and pleaded for guidance.
But the dream was ripped away from you as the Godswood had opened its mouth to speak, and you woke to the gentle whisper of your name. 
Your eyes shot open to see Aemond standing above you, looking down at you with a soft face. His knuckles were washed of the blood that had dried upon them, and there now sat scabbed cuts and pinkish bruises upon his pale skin. 
His hand came out, as it had before, palm up in offering to help you stand. Yet as you looked at him, all you could think of was his last words to you.
You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother.
His own nephew.
Sniffing you ignored the hand, and pulled yourself stiffly to stand. Your uncle watched you, the sky around you darkened, and it was only then had you realised you had slept the entire day away. 
For the first time in days, you had slept a decent sleep.
Aemond continued to look at you as you dusted down your skirts, before his chin stretched upwards and he cast his eye to the leaves above you. The crimson in the evenings light looked almost black.
You realised his lips had moved before the words followed them. His voice was so quiet, so soft, gentle like the leaves that continued to rustle above you.
“I used to sit here, when we were young…” The air around you was tense as he whispered, eye still cast upwards to the leaves he watched as he reminisced, “I would listen to you read. It was not often that I could get away from him, or your brothers.”
You kept your gaze on his face.
“It was always you.”
Aemond's gaze moved and his eye settled back on you.
“It has always been you.”
It has always been you.
The worlds curled around you like the serpent in your dreams.
It has always-
“Please,” Aemond broke the spell, “Come dine with me.”
His voice was so low, that you almost had to strain to hear him. 
Your stomach clenched at the thought of food, the realisation that you had not eaten at all dawning on you. You searched his sharp features before giving him a shallow nod, and following him back through the Keep to your chambers, where the three guards still sat stationed outside. 
It has always been you.
You ate in mostly silence as tension filled the air of the chambers. The maids had come with your meal and had watched you closely, waiting for you to ask or command them for something should you need it.
But you didn't. 
And so to quell the pain, and anxiety, and anger that continued to turn about inside of you, you drank from your goblet of Dornish spiced wine, not honeyed Essos wine, and let the warm burning of the alcohol distract your thoughts and give you something to focus on.
It has always been you.
“Is the food to your liking?” Aemond asked, his hands lowering to the table as he waited for your response.
Your approval.
“It’s fine.” You replied, voice clipped.
Why was he asking you that?
“Is there anything that you need?” His tone held uncertainty in it, as though he was tiptoeing around you. Around your anger.
Broken.
The fire that had been tamed roared back to life, everything about him irritating you in that moment. The way he sat, the way he looked at you. The way his face bruised on one side of his cheek, the cut on his lips, the cuts on his hands.
“The mundanity of these questions aren’t going to change what happened. What you said.”
Aemond blinked once, placing the cutlery on his plate, “I don't know what you want from me.”
What you want from me.
What you want from me?
You scoffed, “Do you want me to pretend that Aegon hadn’t come into these chambers and rape me on our bed? Do you want me to pretend that I am okay with what you said to me?”
“You didn’t have an issue with pretending before.”
The sound of your hands slamming your own cutlery down cut through the room.
"If you think this marriage is anything but a political one,” You sneered, patience gone from your body, “A truce to end bloodshed between our families, you are sorely mistaken. You have been twisted into a man I do not recognise by the ambitions and obsessions of your mother.”
Aemond’s lips pursed, “Don’t speak about my mother.”
“Why? What has she done but start this war. What has she done but push, and push, and push others to do her bidding for her. What has she done but start the pieces that fell, the pieces that led to this war.” You leant forward into the table and hissed, “Her actions took your eye, not my brother.”
Aemond’s violet eye twitched, and you felt a sick sense of satisfaction at seeing his composure break.
Why were you the only one to suffer?
You opened your mouth, “You cont-“
“You betrayed me!” Aemond screamed, shooting up from his chair.
“What?” 
Betrayed?
“We were close once you and I, when we were young, and when your brother took my eye you sided with them. You sided with the one who blinded me!”
“We were all children!”
“I loved you!” 
The air left the chambers. 
The room fell still.
The both of your chests rising and falling.
A confession. 
“I loved you, and you betrayed me.” He growled, standing tall by the table.
Loved me? 
Betrayed him?
“Betrayed you?” You scoffed, “And what have you done to me, hm? You killed my brother. You killed my dragon. You have taken everything from me. You have raped me, and humiliated me, and hurt me beyond repair. I am covered in the evidence of your demented love. Any love that I held for you died when I was a child.” You spat, heart racing in your chest.
Aemond laughed mockingly, “We both know that is a lie.”
You turned away from him, huffing a laugh back at him, “You think I could love a man who has attacked me? Tormented me? Haunted my dreams for years? A man who has slain my brother? Raped me?”
Your hand flew to the table and ripped up the goblet of wine, drinking greedily from it as you slowly rose from your chair, looking your uncle up and down as he stood before you, eye crazed. 
“Once I had loved you,” You confessed, “You were sweet, and kind.” Your heart clenched, it ached to know that those days were gone.
“A boy who’s devotion to his family was strong. A boy who I could turn to when I needed. A boy who I grew beside and dreamt of our future together. I would have gladly wed you. But you’re not him. You’ve taken too much from me.”
“I have.” 
You stalked towards him, snatching a small knife from the table beside your plate as you moved in front of him, his eye never leaving your face.
“And yet you expect me to love a monster? To forgive you of all of your sins?” You walked forward until you stood before him, your chest bumping his, neck craned upwards to look in his eye.
You rose the blade to his face, the feeling of deja-vu curling around you, holding its point to his seeing violet orb as he stood still, face unreadable, looking down at you.
You let the blade rest on his cheek sharply as he still did not react. 
It made you seethe. 
Swiftly you moved the blade onto his throat pushing against it, not breaking the skin.
You watched his face as you tested him.
“You think I could ever love you?” You sneered, rising on the tips on your toes to look at him, anger fuelled by the wine and all that had happened. 
The knowledge that more was to come. 
The knowledge that you were too trapped to do anything about it.
Aemond’s hand slowly came up to touch your elbow on the arm that was poised to hold the blade against him, and pushed it harder against his throat. Tempting you. 
Encouraging you.
He held your arm steady as it began to shake, his long fingers gentle against your skin. Warmth burnt through you at his touch and you shifted your gaze to his lips, watching as his pink tongue came out to wet his lips. 
You wished to tear his lips apart with your teeth.
“I know you do.” He told you, “Though you have two eyes, you still don’t see.”
The Prince watched you intently, breath caught in your throat as you felt a familiar warmth begin to pool into your stomach, desire moving its way around your body. Desire to hurt him. Desire to be held by him. Desire to feel a touch that wasn’t pain. Desire to feel hands that did not bring you terror. 
Desire to feel loved.
Cared for.
Protected.
The need to be in control again.
To have control of your body.
You swallowed thickly, still looking at him as you leant yourself closer, blade pressing harder against his neck as you crashed your lips against his roughly. A grunt slipped through his mouth into yours, surprise catching him off guard as your other hand gripped onto his arm for purchase. 
You kissed him intently, angrily, still pushing the blade against him as his lips sought yours.
Aemond pulled back with a hiss.
The blade on his neck had slipped, a bead of blood pooling to the surface before it began to trail warmly down his neck. You watched the blood travel down the pale expanse of his skin.
You had cut him.
You had made him bleed.
And it made you feel good.
Leaning forward, you let your tongue chase the crimson stream, letting the bitter iron liquid spread across your tongue, trailing up to the source and placing a rough kiss there. Teeth nipping the skin and relishing in Aemond’s low whine.
For the first time in days, you felt powerful.
Aemond groaned beneath you, and the blade clattered to the floor. 
His hands gripped your waist and pulled you tighter to him as you nipped along his neck, teeth biting into his cut meanly. You wanted it to hurt, and as you bit and nipped at his flesh, Aemond continued to groan and whine from above.
Yet despite it all, his hands did not move any further to touch you, instead simply holding you against him.
Growing tired of his inaction you uttered to him, 'Touch me', begging for his hands on you as you continued to lap the blood on his neck, working your way back to his lips.
Your uncles hands softly held the small of your back and behind your head as he let you guide the rough embrace, your teeth biting down roughly on his lips, nipping at the cut there as you pressed your body against him, the feeling of his hardened member throbbing against your stomach. 
The memories of Aegon sprung to your mind and you paused, gasping, pulling away sharply as disgust and terror wound its way around you.
It has always been you.
Aemond pulled back searching your face with a hooded eye, small patches of blood on his swollen lips and a smudged trail of the crimson on his neck.
“Zaldrītsos,” He began to utter, his hands moving away from you, to push you back.
To give you space. 
“Don’t.” You blurted, “It hasn’t stopped you before.”
And it hadn’t.
You crashed your lips back against him.
It was over.
It was not Aegon.
It was over.
It was Aemond.
It has always been you.
It has always been Aemond.
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ddarker-dreams · 1 year
Text
By The Fractured Altar.
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Yan Scaramouche x F Reader.
Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency dialed up to the MAX setting, and Dottore shows up for a second so sorry about that in advance. Word count: 4.6k.
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i.
The first time the Wanderer thinks he’s lost you, he learns that every moment of fear he ever experienced before paled in comparison.
He awakes with a start. Lying beneath a blanket of gleaming stars, his eyes are slow to adjust to the low lighting, the once roaring campfire calmed to a hush. Its surviving embers nearly rival the magnificence of the welkin above in their glow. An empty pail sits beside the concaving wood that once stood so proudly. From this, he assumes he fell asleep before you. You always made it a point to put out the campfire before you both turned in for the night. In the warmer seasons, the Wanderer didn’t mind; it wasn’t until autumn’s chill nipped at his cheeks that he questioned your reasoning.
“The forest provides blessings for us,” you had told him. “Clean water from the stream, plentiful fruits that’ll always grow back no matter how many we pluck, and shade to protect us by day. In return for the forest’s generosity, we must keep it safe. Ours is a mutual relationship. All it takes is a single gust of wind to disturb this balance. Still… it’s not good to be cold either. I know! Come, lay down next to me, and we’ll keep each other warm.”
So he did — and continues to, religiously at that, regardless of if the cicadas thrum their wings to a deafening hymn in the scorching summer, or if all is silent in a desolate winter. For the warmth you provided was unlike anything else he’d ever experienced.
The Wanderer takes note of your absence with frenzied glances and wide, doe-like eyes. It was here that a few hours ago you lulled him to sleep, his head resting on your lap, and your magical fingers threading through his fine hair. You whispered stories that, while intriguing, were not the primary subject of his adoration. He was far more preoccupied with savoring the sound of your voice to pay much mind to the rabbit who apparently takes residence on the moon. Hmph, what a silly notion! He hopes you don’t think he believes in such childish drivel. He only stilled his insolent tongue so that you might speak uninterrupted.
Still, he couldn’t help but draw a comparison between you and the rabbit this story centers around. Have you not, in your own way, offered yourself to him, a God? This is the last sentiment he focused on while drifting in and out of consciousness. How lovely it’d be if you both could reenact the tale. He, too, would like to take you someplace far away, where no one else could dare reach.
Whether it be the moon or anywhere else.
He calls out your name, gently at first, so as not to betray his inner panic. If you happened to be around the corner and overheard him crying out for you as a baby bird stuck in a nest would, you’d torment him for days with your teasing. He quiets himself and awaits your reply. Every second that follows stretches out for an abject eternity.
The Wanderer resolves himself to find you, standing on shaking legs, so absorbed with his mission that he forgets to don his hat woven of straw. His garments catch on low-hanging branches, tearing the fabric and scratching at his skin, yet he pays it no mind. He uses the sparse moonlight that sneaks past layers of thick leaves overhead as his guide. Navigating the verdure feels different compared to when you’re present, he no longer cares to behold its beauty. How could he, when his mind is in such disarray?
He searches and searches, longing to quiet the still little voice in his head that seeks to smother the fledgling hope you’ve nurtured in him.
The rest betrayed and abandoned you, it gleefully reminds. Why should she be any different?
The Wanderer shakes his head. That can’t be true. You’ve been with him the longest, contented yourself in his company, and welcomed him to do the same with you. Wherever you went, he went. Wherever he went, you went. It was a simple yet effective dichotomy that he derived great pleasure from. For all his suffering, all his humiliation, you have what it takes to be an antidote to his many woes. What patient diagnosed with a terminal illness would let such a panacea slip through their fingers?
Humans are not to be trusted, the sinister voice reiterates. You said so yourself. Now, you’ve gone back on your word, and look at the consequence: you’ve been tossed aside like dross yet again. When will you ever learn?
Up ahead lies a clearing in the woods. The Wanderer hasn’t stilled for a minute, though his construct of a body longs for rest and respite. It will receive nothing until his current mission draws to a close. You couldn’t have made it far, he’s sure of it. The past few days entailed traveling from dawn to dusk for reasons unbeknownst to him. You said the destination behind your journey would remain a secret until you both arrived. As always, he was inclined to snuff his curiosity out if it meant entertaining your many whims, he had hardly cared for the end result anyhow. So long as he had you, he cared little about anything else to the point of negligence.
She was hinting at her treachery, the voice hisses once more. It sounds more like his own with every passing word. You were willfully blinded by sentimentality, is it any surprise your creator foresaw this weakness and chose another to fulfill your purpose?  
Upon emerging from the forest’s treeline, he is nearly blinded by how bright the moonlight shines when unobscured.
Burn the forest down as you did the child’s home. Let flames consume all and incinerate her with it. Level the world until nothing remains, for if there is no one left, never can another being leave you behind again.
When his eyes finally adjust to the bright assault, what he sees nearly has him dropping to his knees in relief. You sit on the ground a few paces ahead, your back to him, gazing up at the night sky. Silvery hues surround your person, bathing you in an iridescent glow that both hypnotizes and lures him in. A branch crackling beneath his feet warns you of his oncoming approach. You turn your head in his direction, your countenance melting from uncertainty to recognition. Gentle lines form beneath your eyes as you smile, beckoning him closer.
“It’s a full moon tonight. The view from here makes all the walking we did worth it. I thought about waking you so you could join me, but you looked so peaceful,” you tell him. The shaky sigh he lets out is one of unparalleled relief. There was no nefarious scheme at play here — you were just being yourself. The damning voice echoing in his head falls silent. “What is it you were dreaming about for that infamous scowl of yours to depart, Wanderer?”
You. He never dreams about anything else. If he did, he’d consider it a nightmare.
“Wake me up next time,” he grumbles, despising how pouty he sounds. You must think so too, because you laugh, your voice light and airy. What he intends to be an order comes out more like a plea.
“Okay, okay, I will, don’t look at me like that.”
You then tilt your head, your eyes narrowing so that you can see him better. “Hm…? Wait, Wanderer, are you…?”
He freezes in place upon feeling deplorable wetness slide down his cheeks. Cruel, mocking. A testament to his shortcomings. For an instant, all is still, aside from the trembling of his hands and lower lip. He longs to hide the unsightly expression with the brim of his hat. The emotions that flicker over your face are unidentifiable, or rather, he’s too afraid to try and decipher them. Despondency latches itself around him like heavy chains. No, no, no, you weren’t supposed to see him like this, you can’t ever see him like this, weak and vulnerable and undivine.
His mother cast him off for his tears; it’s only safe to assume you would do the same.
He’s so lost in the twisting labyrinth of his decaying mind that he doesn’t register your footsteps padding his way. Soft hands press against his damp cheeks, gently wiping his tears away, your face mere inches from his. He observes with awe and wonder as you treat him with the utmost tenderness. There’s no furrow of your brow that hints at irritation or impatience behind your touch. When he finally finds the strength to make eye contact with you, he witnesses depths of benevolence unlike anything he’s ever witnessed before. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly. No bottomless bottle of sake could delight or inebriate him more than the look you’re giving him now.
“Hey, do you want to tell me about what’s wr— mmph!”
He covers your lips with his own, inexperienced and hasty, driven by nothing but a desire to permanently connect your bodies together. Throughout his travels, he learned that humans did this to express fondness for one another. Following this reasoning, there was nothing that felt more appropriate to him at that moment, when his mind and soul and whatever false mockery of a heart he has yearned for you to the point he aches. This hot, searing pain you inflict is a paradox of extremes. He should detest it, run from it, yet he cannot imagine a life without it. You make him feel. Undoubtedly, it could be a curse at times. And still, the potential blessings urged him to persevere through all the muck and mire.
The Wanderer tastes the saltiness of his tears on your lips. For once, he is too absorbed to pay it any mind. Your initial confusion fades into gentle reciprocation, pleasing him greatly. He barely knows what he’s doing, or why he’s doing it, but it seems right. As if everything was falling into place. You taught him the importance of balance, didn’t you? He thinks the two of you could encompass the belief perfectly. For all the bitterness that festered in his being, your sweetness could envelop and drown it out.
When he begrudgingly parts from you, sensing you need air to sate your mortal body, he presents you with a sacred covenant.
“Promise me that I’ll always have you,” he implores. Even he is almost embarrassed by the unexpected boldness, his fair skin turning red. “You have to promise. I’ll do anything, agree to any condition… so long as I have your word.”
You consider him, weighing his words on your mind’s youthful scale. He gnaws impatiently on his lower lip while you contemplate your response. You have to accept, don’t you? You must enjoy traveling with him, or else you wouldn’t do it. There’s a home tucked away in a little village for you to return to if that were the case. The insecurity he must often fight when considering this reality is nowhere to be seen. The Wanderer feels as if a fog has been lifted from his mind, a clearer path lying ahead. You’ve sung him to sleep, wiped away his tears, and returned his kiss; that has to mean something. He knows it.
“I want to see the world past this archipelago. If I can do that with you, then you have my word. I promise to always be with you.”
He smiles at you. Such a pure expression, devoid of any underlying scheme, hasn’t graced his face in some time. You return the gesture in kind. His hands fall so that they might intertwine with yours. He swings his arms ever so slightly, basking in your ethereal presence, content that he’ll never have to know loneliness again. Those painful days and boring emotions could be put behind him, never to be spared another glance.
“We don’t have to stop at just seeing the world,” he hums, something akin to pride swelling in his chest. His eyes radiate a violet hue. “I could give it to you in its entirety, should you ask.”
You giggle at what you presume to be a joke and shake your head. “Always aiming for the stars, are we, my Wanderer? I’m not nearly as ambitious as you. Seeing it is enough to satisfy me.”
“Then it’s a promise.”
ii.
The second time Kunikuzushi thinks he’s lost you, he learns madness will be his companion until you return to your rightful place by his side.
Presently, you lay down on a crude examination table. Your vibrant gaze is hidden beneath closed eyelids, your lips downcast in a permanent frown, and your hair loose beside your stationary form. The blankness of your physiognomy is unbecoming of one as lively as you. Kunikuzushi considers running his fingers over the softness of your cheeks, but ultimately decides against it. With that charlatan lurking about, he can’t risk displaying his affection so blatantly. He stands by your side, faithful as a bridegroom, never quitting the room for an instant. The absence of sound torments him.
“It won’t be much longer,” he whispers, unsure if the reassurance is for you or himself. The latter is more likely. “I’ll see those pretty eyes staring back at me again soon enough.”
Every trace of delicacy on his features evaporates the instant the door opens. Kunikuzushi meets his new colleague with a look of barely suppressed impatience, whereas The Doctor presents himself in an amicable fashion. He extends his hand for Kunikuzushi to shake, a gesture which has the latter scoffing and rolling his eyes. The Doctor plays off the blatant disrespect without a care, choosing instead to focus on the main reason for his being here today. Kunikuzushi tenses when his fellow Harbinger strides past him, toward your vulnerable form, an inquisitive air encouraging the bold act.
Under normal circumstances, Kunikuzushi would obliterate anyone who dared approach you without his express permission. Fortunately for this copy of The Doctor, his potential benefits override Kunikuzushi’s proprietorial behavior. He is the one who called upon the heretic, after all.
“So this must be my patient,” The Doctor gives you a perfunctory glance, which Kunikuzushi assumes is more for show than anything else. Your condition had been painstakingly relayed through numerous written correspondences. “What an interesting solution you’ve arrived at, temporary as it may be. To prevent the spread of madness associated with prolonged tatarigami exposure, you’ve placed her into a stasis-like slumber. Would I be correct in assuming the knowledge of this technique is owed to your unique background?”
“Is my answer necessary in aiding you with your job?”
“No,” The Doctor replies, his tone facetious. He examines the sheen of arcane energy that engulfs your form closer, then gives an off-putting smile. “It’s for curiosity’s sake that I ask, since I am a researcher, first and foremost. And this level of perfection transcends human capability.”
It is immaculately applied, as The Doctor surmised — (naturally, since Kunikuzushi is the one who applied it) — the very same technique his creator used on him once he was deemed worthless. In recognizing your rapidly deteriorating state, he didn’t know what else to do. He fed you his divine energy to keep your life force from succumbing entirely to tatarigami’s malaise; it just wasn’t enough. Your feeble human constitution could only handle so much, you weren’t made to withstand such extremes.
One night, he promised in a cryptic manner to fix this malady, no matter what. You have yet to regain consciousness after hearing his solemn vow. With Kunikuzushi’s newfound Fatui connections, he came to hear of a certain madman capable of performing feats that spat in the face of Teyvat’s ‘laws’. It was desperation that drove him to swallow his pride and ask The Doctor for help.
“Then I’ll leave my answer to your twisted imagination.”
The Doctor chuckles at that, his chest rumbling. “You’re as temperamental as they say.”
Kunikuzushi’s face almost splits in two from how wide he grins. “And you’re every bit as insufferable, wasting my time with all this idle chit-chat. I held up my end of the bargain and procured the materials you need for your heretical ends. Now do your part.”
“Gladly! It isn’t every day I get to tinker with assistance from the divine. I hope to learn much from your tutelage. Although…”
The Doctor places a hand on his chin. “While I can guarantee her physical condition’s improvement, her mental state is beyond my purview. Forgive me, if it isn’t my place to say this, but… waking to the news she’s now immortal will serve as quite the shock. What contingencies have you set into place for this?”
It takes all of Kunikuzushi’s self-restraint to prevent himself from calling down lightning from the heavens to smite this audacious quack. The Doctor might be feigning compassion, yet given his bloody track record, Kunikuzushi doubts he cares in the slightest. He’s trying to wring reactions out to delight his sadistic machinations. There’s an underlying malignant current to The Doctor’s inquiry that threatens to spark electricity in Kunikuzushi’s clenched fists, a test of sorts. The Doctor must be wondering how far his care for you extends. Kunikuzushi would rather no one knew about this exploitable weakness of his.
It’s for your sake — and your sake alone — that he manages to reel himself in. He won’t jeopardize your well-being due to some provocative statements. He would endure anything, do anything, so long as he could have you to himself again. The wait is almost over. A few low blows to his ego is the least he could sustain for your recovery.
“Whoever said anything about telling her?” Kunikuzushi returns The Doctor’s question with a question of his own. This should serve to put the dog off his trail, Kunikuzushi isn’t technically lying, yet the callous delivery belies his inner feelings. The less The Doctor knew about his attachment toward you, the better.
At this, the reprobate breaks into a fit of laughter, as if he’d been graced with the funniest joke ever told. His fangs gleam beneath the sparse lighting in the room, bemusement radiating from his being. “So that’s how you intend to handle things. Very good, very good.”
The Doctor straightens out the recently sterilized tools on a nearby table. “I’ll delay the procedure no longer. Shall we get to work, Balladeer?”
It won’t be much longer, [First], he thinks, the desperate thirst for your presence soon to be quenched. I’ve seen to it that you could keep your promise.
“Just tell me what you need me to do.”
“With pleasure.”
Kunikuzushi is so caught up in his own designs, he fails to notice a single tear that drips down the expanse of your otherwise serene face.
iii.
The third time Scaramouche thinks he’s lost you, he learns that his patience is not what it used to be.
There were certain parameters you were to adhere to — he’s remiss to call them rules, but he supposes the word fits — all for your safety and his peace of mind. The Fatui lackeys that trail after him like a dog are useless in everything besides your surveillance. They hide in the shadows, observing you from afar, dutifully reporting every change down to the slightest fluctuation in mood. From his vantage point, you’ve adapted well. He’s gently guided you, covering your eyes when necessary and encouraging you to look at what he thinks you should see.
Still, you had your rowdy bouts. This particular episode just happened to necessitate his involvement.
“Not intending to come back in for the night, [First]?”
Your legs dangle over the edge of the dilapidated castle the Fatui happened to be inhabiting for the moment. You keep your back to him, despite undoubtedly hearing his approach, your gaze locked on the heavens hidden behind a curtain of thick clouds. Your hair billows in the unforgiving Schenzayan breeze, some strands occasionally getting caught on the fluffy fur of your winter coat. He bends over to free what got caught on your collar. Your prolonged silence is unusual and unwelcome, he hoped that the open-ended question would serve to stoke the flames of conversation, even if it meant getting burnt. He’d rather you incinerated him to the bone than leave him to waste away in bitter-cold silence.
When he moves to pull away, only for you to stop him, twisting your torso around and catching his hand in yours. His breath lodges itself in his throat the moment your eyes finally meet. Though it appears to be the same hue as always, when the light hits it a certain way, there’s the faintest trace of violet. A testimony to the deep connection that binds you to him forevermore. Your beauty is so awe-inspiring, that at that instant, if you asked him to lay down his life for you, he wouldn’t hesitate to concede.
You whisper a name he forgot he ever went by, the very first of the identities he assumed when traversing this world. After gaining his devout attention, you go on to say, “I need to ask you something. May I?”
He breaks himself from his reverie long enough to reply in the affirmative.
“What… what am I, exactly?”
He is quick to school his expression, ensuring that his countenance gives away nothing just yet. “What do you mean by that?”
You pause as if you weren’t entirely sure yourself.
“Ever since I’ve woken up, something… no, everything… feels slightly… off. As if every piece of furniture in my home that I’d been familiar with my entire life was moved an inch to the side. The change is so subtle, so elusive from my understanding, that I can’t tell if it’s real or a product of my overactive imagination.”
Your grip on his hand tightens. “I think I should’ve died, but I didn't. I've seen the tall stone peaks of Liyue, traversed the vineyards of Mondstadt, and slept beneath the canopies of Sumeru’s rainforests. You’ve held your promise to me and mine to you. So why does my existence feel so wrong? So unnatural? I know you must’ve done something to me. Please, tell me what it is. I don’t think I can know peace until I know why it feels wrong to live.”
“It isn’t wrong,” he’s quick to interject, too quick, likely far from the placating comfort he intended it to be. You’re gracious enough to allow him time to recollect himself, precious being that you are. “If any tongue dared to claim otherwise, I’d cut it out and throw it at the dirt by your feet, where it belongs.”
“Even if it’s mine?”
“Of course not,” he scoffs, made incredulous by the notion. “Similar to myself, you have surpassed god and man alike. You are above them both. If the false heavens look down on you, I’ll gouge out their eyes; and if man voices complaints, I’ll slit their throats. There is no one who can judge us. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”
What he intends to be a plea comes out more like an order.
You heave a heavy sigh. “Thinking that way must make you awfully lonely.”
His fingers twitch against your skin. “... Not anymore.”
Your arms fall limp by your side and your body relaxes. Much to his chagrin, you turn back around, facing any direction but his own. A frown carves itself onto his face. From this vantage point, he is a hawk, and you, his little mouse who tires from trying to scurry away in vain. He thinks to sit beside you or pull you up to his level yet decides against it. He rests his hands on your shoulders, giving them a squeeze, reminding you of his presence.
As if you could ever forget.
“I thought I’d hate you when you confirmed what I already knew, deep inside,” if you feel how his body goes tense at the word hate, you don’t mention it. “For some reason, that doesn’t feel right either. If what you said is true… and I am like you now… then I think it might be for the best.”
“You do?”
He is unable to mask his surprise by how easily you acquiesce. He anticipated a myriad of issues upon the day you learned the truth, everything from shrieking to denouncement and even violence. His mind kicks into overdrive, raking through every word that left your lips for inconsistencies or potential falsehoods. Deception was never your strong suit, you wore your heart and your sleeve. He was dutiful in studying it and committing the various nuances to memory. Even the slightest hint of falsehood wouldn’t slip past his radar undetected.
A sliver of the moon peeks out past the tightly knit together clouds, encasing you both in its glory.
“Though you speak of your loathing for the gods, you’re set on becoming one yourself.”
This comes out as more of a state than a fact.
“No matter the outcome of this goal, I have a premonition that many will be hurt in your path to glory,” your voice is firm, albeit tinged with melancholy. “I will stay by your side, as promised. I will love you more dutifully than a wife would her husband. You will love me back, and in doing so…”
Finally, you rise to meet his astonished stare, pressing your forehead against his. His lips are slightly agape, eyes as wide as saucers. He thinks you might be more of a deity than him, and for that, he deems it sacrilegious not to worship you. Your warmth has never failed to pacify him. His rage born from innumerable betrayals burns hotter than the sun, yet your willingness to reach out and become ash eclipses it all. You lightly press your palm over the left side of his chest, where nothing beats.
“I will never let you forget that you have a heart, no matter how hard you try to scrub the knowledge away. I’ll write it down over and over, carving it into your skin if that’s what it takes to immortalize the truth.”
He’d gladly hand you the blade if it meant prolonging the ecstasy of experiencing your touch.
“You’re sacrificing yourself to me, then? Your happiness, your dreams, your future… if you make such a tempting offering, I’ll have no choice but to accept. I’ll take them all and demand more. I won’t be a merciful god, not even for you. Knowing how bitter it’ll taste, you’ll still accept my love without spitting it out?”
“I’ve always found it to be bitter,” you confess. An expression of wistful nostalgia settles on your face. “When you were a nameless traveler, the Wanderer, Kunikuzushi, and now, the iteration others refer to as ‘Scaramouche’. I’ve tasted the bitterness so frequently that my tongue is now numb to its flavor. If anything… having subsisted on it for so long… I might not have an appetite for anything else.”
The puppet of many names smiles at that from ear to ear. How lovely, that a millennia of wretchedness could be mended so easily when you held the needle?
All along, he thought that whenever you were lost, departing from the path he so meticulously laid out for you, he’d need to redirect your course. What an unnecessary overexertion! He sees it now, a reality that he thought was too good to be true. An oasis in the desert is not always a mirage — this serves as proof.
For no matter how far from the main road you deviated, you’d inevitably always return to him.
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nyoomiin · 3 days
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roommates: part three.
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your new roommate is... odd, and recently, so are your dreams. still, despite the secrecy, the mystery, and his ice cold exterior, you have the feeling you'd waltz right into love with him. (maybe you already have before.)
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pairing. scaramouche x gn!reader
tags. no warnings, slice of life, fluff, slowburn, friends to lovers, reincarnation au, post irminsul erasure
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prev. masterlist. next.
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“Me?” the boy asks hesitantly, glancing toward his companion for help.
Niwa — right, that was his name — laughs, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder and pushing him forward. “You're scaring him, my dear.”
You roll your eyes at your friend, then give the boy another cursory once-over. You were right. He'd be perfect for the garment you were designing. Beckoning him over, you grin at him as you lead him into your fitting room. “I have just the thing for you! Let me take your measurements first, then I'll tailor the clothes to fit. Niwa, I'll give you a discount only because you brought this angel here.”
“Hah! You're the best.”
Shaking your head with a fond smile, you turn toward the boy. He looked nervous, fiddling with the hem of his sleeves, but no matter — it was time to get to work.
You blink, rubbing at your eyes in an attempt to clear your mind, trying to recall the dream you just had. Yet try as you might, it slips from your grasp, the faint trace of nostalgia slipping away with the breeze.
It was blue, you think.
And that's when inspiration struck.
"It's perfect,” you murmur, holding up the finished product in your hands.
A soft, silky shawl of blues and teals, dusted with a faint shimmer — an olive branch for your roommate, so to speak. Honestly, you were getting pretty tired of him wearing the same outfit almost daily, and what better gift than one handmade?
He'd look positively angelic in it, you think. You only hope he doesn't slam the door in your face before you could give it to him. You huff. He had better like it. You hadn't rushed your commission and put all that effort into the shawl for nothing. Not to mention, the materials you used were nothing but the highest of quality. Hmph.
“What do you want?” comes his gruff response to your knock on his door.
At the very least, he wasn't outright ignoring you like he used to do a week ago. You grin, even if he can't see it. "I have something for you! It's handmade. Come and take a look at it at least. Pretty please?”
It's silent.
A minute passes, then two.
You sigh, turning away in defeat. Another day, then. Though at this rate, that day might never come at all… Well, you hadn't put in all that effort just to give up now.
"I'll leave it here by the door,” you call. Just for good measure, you give the door another rap to be sure you still had his attention. "I don't care what you do with it as long as it's not still here by tomorrow morning. Have a good night!”
You turn away to leave, but this time, it's with a petty, stubborn resolve. One way or another, he would be your friend. He had to.
(His hands ghost over the shawl, fingers trembling.
It's soft, he notes, and every thread carefully woven. The design embroidered on its edges is undeniably Sumerian, but he can tell its maker is undeniably you.
And his heart thrums, loud in his ears and suffocating in his chest. It's infuriating.
This version of you is not the same as the version of the past he had known — that he cannot refute. Yet from your smile to your needlework, down to the way you'd leave him a warm bowl of soup — how could you not be one and the same?
He sets the shawl back down into the box it had come in, only to notice a piece of paper at its bottom.
This is for you, it reads. I think we got off on the wrong start that day, so I made this for you to make up for it. I hope you like it.
He scoffs, amused at your attempts to befriend him. It had worked on him then, when he had been clueless and naive and far too trusting, but fat chance it would work on him now. You don’t even remember him, for fuck's sake.
Still, he thinks, perhaps he should indulge you just the once. For old time's sake.)
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taglist. (send an ask to be added.)
@franaby @dragontammerz @ainnofinway @sketcheeee @briluvspnk @bunniicantsleep @featuredtofu @tragedy-of-commons @parkjayssi
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chrollohearttags · 2 years
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something about a man being vocal and talking you through it is so..😩 like imagine being fucked and overstimulated to the point of near unconsciousness, hanging on by a thread while being doted on, given constant affirmation and being guided through how to get that final nut. Especially when he’s so gentle about it I just can’t!
| minors do not interact |
“F-fuckkk..I’m so close, baby..”
the words seeping from between your lips with baited breath and faint tone. It’s the only coherent sentence you’ve been able to utter in the past five minutes outside of high pitched cries and curse words.
but believe, you didn’t have to say anything because he already knows..from the way that tight cunt is swelling and clamping his cock, he knows you’re mere minutes away from making a mess all over it.
honestly, you were already such a pretty sight..sweat beading atop your forehead, tears running down your cheeks and your little mouth wide agape. So much so, you’re drooling.
not in a gross way but as a result of his fingers constantly being brushed across your tongue as he shoves them in and out relentlessly. Something about watching you gag on them while he’s balls deep inside of you is so sexy.
the bed is pounding the headboard underneath your connected bodies and the room is filled with sounds of your love making but none of that matters; nothing else matters except the beauty beside him.
your smooth brown leg draped across his hip as he thrusts into you relentlessly. Hitting you from the side with long, deep strokes that had you creaming and spasming all over him.
you’re far beyond overstimulated, it’s really a miracle you’re still going but as long as he was fucking you, he would decide when you got to stop.
as loving and caring as he was, he couldn’t help but to fuck you like a slut.
“I know baby, it’s alright..” whispering in your ear and leaving a trail of kisses on it as well. It’s very evident you won’t be able to last much longer so he knows exactly what has to be done.
even if it means resisting the urge to toy with you as he always does.
shifting a little more so that he could get a proper look at your face. He even clutches his palm around your throat and forces you to stare into his eyes. The only downside to this is how beautiful you look and he knows that if he makes eye contact, he’s not going to be able to stand it.
but the resolve he has to make sure you cum first outweighs his own desires. The entire time, he’s still feeding you those soft kisses and breathing all heavy. Truthfully, he was as much of a wreck as you were but he couldn’t come undone quite yet.
it’s not fair: on one hand, you feel as if you’re about to explode and can’t take another second but that dick pulsating in between your tight bundle of nerves is so good that you don’t want him to stop.
“D-daddy..I can’t—no more…” whimpering as you press a trembling hand to his abs. But you’re so cute, it does nothing but make him want to fuck you into that mattress even harder.
by now, his thrusts have slowed into an agonizing pace. You’re still clamping down on it and your pussy is throbbing from the ache of constant pounding.
bathing you in gentle kisses, those strokes continue as he soothes your cries. Legs are trembling so badly, they’ve practically become useless so he scoops them up and pins them back. He’s in complete control..doing every bit of the work to make sure you completely fall apart for him.
“You’re taking me so good, baby..why quit now?” taunting you with rhetorical statements. Meanwhile, the pace has become rough with very brunt thrusting. He’s starting to crack but you’re at your limit.
puddles of milky white arousal are pouring from your pussy and luckily, he’s feeling generous..tracing tiny circles on your clit and returning those gentle kisses to your face, he begins speaking those affirming commands into your ears.
“But since you really can’t hold back..squeeze down..and when I tell you…” you were losing your mind and any bit of restraint you may have had left..trying to hold back that orgasm.
luckily, you had no need to. Between those soft pecks and sweet words, he gave the command you had been awaiting.
“Let it go for me, pretty girl..don’t hold back..” the second you did, he held you close to his body, letting you release every drop of that pent up, sweet nectar spilled onto the sheets and his aching cock.
flailing in his arms, you’d lose all control and function of yourself for a moment, crying from the swelling pressure being let out. You’d repeatedly thank him for allowing you to orgasm and he’d only continue to tell you how much of a good girl you had been..how proud he was.
you on the other hand, unable to believe that the same man was drilling you only moments ago.
breathing heavily, you’d turn to face him and nuzzle your face into his neck, trying to come down from the high. He simply chuckles, planting soft pecks on your forehead.
“You did well..now let’s get you cleaned up.”
————————————————————————————
levi ackerman, nanami kento, gojo satoru, eren jaeger, kyojuro rengoku, daiki aomine, reiner braun, bokuto kotaro, tetsuro kuroo, daiki aomine,
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extasiswings · 1 year
Text
the more it heals, the worse it hurts
I’m not sorry, but I might be a little sorry.  Have some post-6x10 Eddie and Bobby in the hospital.
Bobby knows he should call Athena.  He’s dead on his feet, old ghosts circling around him and grief bearing down on his shoulders with the weight of the world.  He needs his wife.  It’s just that kind of night.    
He lasted longer than he expected though.  He’s kept the ghosts, the grief, the blood of long-scarred over wounds ripped open afresh at bay for hours, finding ways to keep busy.  Doing his job.  Calling the station to arrange coverage.  Speaking with doctors to explain what happened.  Taking care of his people—when Chim brought Maddie in, Bobby was the one to pass along the updates he’d been given from the medical staff.  When Hen needed to call Karen, Bobby found her a phone.  And Eddie—
Well.
Honestly, Bobby isn’t sure he’s done much for Eddie at all.  Not since that initial moment, pulling Eddie away, barking orders to drive the ambulance.  If he’s really honest with himself, he’s been avoiding the other man since they arrived at the hospital.  Because there is something in Eddie right now, a brittle fragility, that Bobby has seen before, that he feels himself in a different way, and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to be what Eddie needs.  He doesn’t know if he can help without breaking himself.  At least, not without setting up a safety net first.  
He calls Athena.  
He closes his eyes.
He breathes.
He prays.
And then, he pushes himself off the wall of the stairwell he had ducked into and resolves to be Atlas for a little while longer.
He can take it.
Bobby finds Eddie at the furthest edge of the waiting room, a corner that’s a little more empty, a little more private.  He’s quite far from the Buckleys, Bobby notes absently.  
Eddie doesn’t react when Bobby settles into the chair next to him.  His gaze is fixed on the wall, but also distant, like he’s somewhere else completely, seeing something else completely.  Silence stretches between them for so long that at first Bobby almost wonders if he’s misjudged the situation, if Eddie really doesn’t want to talk after all.  But Bobby waits—patient, steady, calling on all the wealth of experience his life has brought him to keep himself composed.  And finally, Eddie cracks.
“He didn’t get to say goodbye,” Eddie says.  He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t look at Bobby at all, but it’s something.
“What?”
Eddie’s throat works as he swallows.  His hand comes up to wipe at his mouth roughly like he’s clearing away some invisible stain.
“Christopher,” he clarifies.  “When Shannon—I was in the ambulance, I got to say goodbye, but she was gone as soon as we got to the hospital and there was nothing—”  He shakes his head, his eyes growing even more distant.  “I just had to go home and tell him she was gone.  And I’ve always felt like that was unfair, but at the same time part of me is grateful that he didn’t have to see her like that, that his last memory of her doesn’t involve a tube in her throat.”
Bobby opens his mouth, then closes it.  Waits a moment more.  Because he can see the cracks in the man in front of him, see the fraying, fraying threads, and while he’s willing to pick up the pieces, he doesn’t want to be the reason Eddie shatters.  So he waits, and lets Eddie wind his way to whatever he needs to get out.
“But…he didn’t get to say goodbye,” Eddie repeats, his voice cracking.  He squeezes his eyes shut.
Bobby’s chest aches when he draws in his next breath.  The weight on his shoulders tips precariously, threatening to crush him.  But he resets, rebalances.  
He does what he has to do.  
When he sets a hand to Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie flinches but ultimately leans into it.  After a moment, he lifts his head and finally meets Bobby’s eyes.  The look in them steals the air from Bobby’s lungs—it’s raw, agonized, wild…and familiar.  Bobby’s seen that look before, in his own eyes.  In his mirror.  For years after he lost his first wife and his children, he saw it reflected back at him every morning.  And now he’s seeing it in Eddie’s, far deeper and sharper than the last time they had been in this situation, because this time Eddie’s allowing himself to really feel everything.
For better or worse.
“I don’t know how to go home,” Eddie confesses.  “Because when I get there, I have to wake him up and tell him and bring him here.  And I can’t do that—I can’t put him through that.  But I also can’t not do it either, because if Buck—”  Another crack.  Another pause.  Another swallow.
Bobby squeezes Eddie’s shoulder.  And his heart bleeds.  
“He didn’t get to say goodbye last time.”  A whisper.  And yet somehow also a plea.  To God?  The universe?  “He deserves the chance to do that.  He deserves the option.”
“Yes, he does,” Bobby replies quietly.
“It’s not fair,” Eddie snaps, his hands coming up to rake through his hair in frustration.  “He finally moved on, he built something new, he got attached to someone else, and now—it’s not fair.”
And there it is.  The flare in Eddie’s eyes, the hitch of his voice that tells Bobby everything Eddie is trying not to say outright, provides final confirmation of the truth of all the stray thoughts Bobby has had over the years, questions that he’s kept locked away and elected not to fixate on because they weren’t his business.
Because before, they really were talking about Christopher.  But Bobby knows better than to think that’s still all they’re doing now.  
“I don’t know how to do this,” Eddie admits, and Bobby knows he’s referring to more than just going home.  “I don’t know how to do this if he doesn’t wake up.”  
And that right there is why Bobby had been avoiding this.  Because he’s not sure he knows either.  
He’s not prepared to lose another son.  
At the end of the hall, the entrance doors open.  Athena walks through.  And suddenly, the weight on Bobby’s shoulders eases.  
“You don’t have to have the answers yet,” he replies, pushing himself up from the chair.  “You just have to start somewhere.  And you don’t have to do any of it alone.”
“Come on,” he adds with his hand still firmly fixed around Eddie’s shoulder.  He nods in Athena’s direction.  “We’ll take you home.  And bring you back if you want.”
And with a heavy sigh and one last pause, Eddie allows Bobby to help him to his feet.  
This, he can do.  The rest…they can work all of that out later.      
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earthtoharlow · 6 months
Text
SERIES MASTERLIST
Previous chapter
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jackharlow added to their story
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THATGIRLSTACEY
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liked by cassie, haileybieber, lala, kimkardashian, joiechavis, oliviaculpo, jaydacheaves and 684,380 others
thatgirlstacey: woke up this morning grateful that I’m no one’s sloppy seconds
view all 7,457 comments
user: IKTR!!!
user: thread lightly
user: you weren’t even Jack’s first choice
user: in 5 days you will start to cough…
user: not everyone can say the same 🤭🤭
user: but you still woke up with no man
user: woke up a loser tho
urbanwyatt added to their story!
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YOURINSTA
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liked by latto777, flomillishit, druski,urbanwyatt, normani, zendaya, and 996,054 others
yourinsta: Ariel and I just minding our business 🫣
view all 8,568 comments
user: as you should
user: these outfits tho
druski: don’t worry ill tell you all the tea ☕️
user: you’re always going to win
user: yeah ignore her weird ass
saweetie: auntie misses her baby Ariel!!
user: Stacey was trying to take both your men
user: ok but y’all look so cozyyyy
champagnepapi: my girls
THESHADEROOM
liked by 678,456 users
theshaderoom: Stacey James speaks out for the first time since she reportedly jumped Y/N Y/L backstage after Y/N was doing a performance in Miami, and since Urban Wyatt leaked her DMs to him. James claims it’s not directed towards anyone in particular but if the shoe fits…🤫 what y’all think roomies?
view all 19,567 comments
user: Unfuckablewith!!!
user: Y/N chocked her out so bad that she’s started doing spoken word 🤣🤣
user: wanting to fuck your ex’s best friend is crazy
user: leave her alone she’s just a girl
user: I’m actually scared for Y/N and Urban, Stacey sounds like a supervillain 😭
user: I know she got chocked out but I’m still on her side
user: spoken like a true Virgo !!!
BALLERALERT
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liked by 956,086 users
BallerAlert: Y/N Y/L opens about Co-Parenting with Drake, moving back to Kentucky, and THAT fight
On Co-Parenting with Drake: “No matter what’s going on between us, Ariel is our main priority. We have a nice little system. He’s a great father.” Y/N later mentions that despite them taking a break right now that her love for him runs deep. “I love that man and always will. I’m so lucky to still have him in my life.”
Moving to Kentucky: “I love Kentucky and always have. Urban, who is my best friend, convinced me to move in with him along with Ariel. I’m having the best time, truly don’t know where I’d be without him.” Y/N says everyone needs to mind their business when it comes to their opinion on their friendship. “I love Urban, we’re locked in for real. So everyone mind their business, I’m allowed to hug my friend. He’s family to me.
Fighting: “I can’t say much because you know the courts are dealing with it but I’m a lady, I don’t fight. But I refuse to let anyone jump me or speak ill on my family. I don’t like that shady shit, speak up or shut up.
When asked if she still has feelings for Jack Harlow:
“No Comment.”
view all 12,085 comments
user: I miss her with Drake!
user: we gotta get her away from Jack
user: I still think she’s still fooling around with Urban
user: y/n said stay and get your ass beat or stay and get your ass best !!!
user: maybe she’s fucking urban and drake
user: I wish the Harlow family would leave her alone
user: how can she still love Jack…..
user: just insane someone save her
THESHADEROOM
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liked by 867,086 users
theshaderoom: OOP looks like this divorce is getting messy!!! According to TMZ, Jack and Stacey have been arguing for weeks about where their daughter, Willow is going to live once the divorce is finalized!
Jack claims that Willow has no family out in California, where Stacey is from. And states that Willow grew up in Kentucky and would hate to disrupt her life by moving her across the country.
Stacey James calls bullshi— saying that she has plenty of family members and friends out in California and that she’s been there ever since the divorce!
We hope this gets resolved soon! What y’all think roommates?
view all 14,986 comments
user: I feel horrible for their daughter
user: I’m team Stacey !!!
user: Jack too busy worried about what Y/N is doing than taking care of his daughter!!!
user: at this point just call CPS
user: watch them get back together
user: Jack no one wants to live in kentucky!!
user: they only get along when it comes to harassing Y/N
user: sick of this couple tbh
JACKHARLOW
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liked by tmz, neelamthadhani, druski, justinbieber, kimkardashian, joeywagner, 2forwoyne and 645,368 others
jackharlow: Does praying work? Might have to run that one time
view all 8,467 comments
user: God can’t come to the phone rn
user: yes but ain’t no point for you to even try cause you going to hell
neelamthadhani: God’s got you
user: sponsored by PHOCUS #ad
user: literally only feel bad for Willow
druski: I don’t even think god can help you right now brother
user: welp you know someone got themselves into some shit when they wanna start praying
***
AN: messy messy messy 🤭 sorry this took so long but tell me your thoughts let’s gossip xx
Tag List:
(message me if you'd like to be added or removed)
@heavyhitterheaux @hoodharlow @neon-lights-and-glitter @babiefries @toocriticalharlow @mace23477 @jackmans-poison @dstark-0706 @harlowsbby @itsyagirljaz @leftapricotprofessorlover @comehomeimissyou @minkookie95 @harlowcomehome @jackharloww @jaydaaasworld @xxkoolkatxx @khiyah @kkrenae @hufflewhore128 @w1ldthoughts
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toomuchracket · 6 months
Text
and america likes me (politician!matty x reader smut)
i don't even know what to say about this. it's 3.5k words of matty if he was US president, and it's so filthy i feel like the shame nun from game of thrones is going to start following me around. like... there's butt stuff in here lmfao. that said, there's also fluff. idk. blame lana del rey for this, and enjoy <3
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"matty, slow down, for fuck's sake, these heels are too high for me to run in!"
your husband scoffs and comes to an abrupt halt, releasing your hand from his own. before you can say anything, he scoops you into his arms and keeps moving down the marble-floored corridor, albeit more slowly than before, kissing you quickly to muffle the involuntary shriek you let out as you're flung into the air. "honestly, baby, i don't even know why you persist in wearing heels to these events - it's kinda inevitable that we'll run off somewhere we won't be interrupted, yeah?"
he's right. the two of you have been sneaking out of dinners and dances and drinks receptions together for the better part of twenty years, in search of lockable rooms where dresses can be hoisted up and underwear yanked down with nobody else finding out. but this isn't a university ball. it isn't a charity gala. it isn't a congressional dinner. christ, it isn't even your wedding. 
you press a gentle kiss to the underside of matty's jaw, savouring his little hum of contentment that follows. "well, i thought my husband being sworn in as president was an event that deserved six inches of stiletto."
"i can think of something else that deserves six in-"
"i swear to god, matthew, if you finish that sentence i'm turning around and going back to the party without you."
matty laughs and kisses your nose. "we both know you're not going to do that, sweetheart."
"oh, do we, now?" you ask, raising a brow. "and what evidence do we have of that, mr. president?"
a smirk, the same one that's weakened any and all resolve of yours since you were eighteen. "because i'm ridiculously hot, that's why."
you roll your eyes as matty laughs, but - once again - he's right. he is ridiculously hot, especially in this moment: the moonlight streaming through the big windows catches the grey hairs threaded through his dark curls, his slightly stubbled jaw and cheekbones sharpened by the shadows it casts. the tie he was wearing earlier got lost somewhere between your first official dance as president and first lady and now, the top few buttons of his dress shirt coming undone in solidarity with it. speaking of the shirt - despite its expensive price, the white fabric is still sheer enough for the black ink on matty's sternum to be visible. although, you wonder, the transparency of the shirt might have less to do with fabric thickness and more to do with the fact it's being slightly stretched over your husband's muscle-wrapped chest, and the strong arms currently tucked under your legs. either way, it's really working for him. and you, as a result.
"mmm, i concur," you smile. "i think the evidence is quite satisfactory."
matty's turn to raise a brow. "quite?"
"well," you say, trailing a manicured nail down his neck and chest, stopping as you reach the first closed button. "i've only had a partial look. i think you need to be a bit more… uncovered."
"oh, believe me, sweetheart, that'll be happening. for both of us, actually," matty grins. "as much as i love this dress on you, i do in fact need to get you out of it as soon as possible."
"i'm cool with that."
"excellent. in that case, hang on tight."
you do as asked, and matty runs down the rest of the corridor, stopping when he reaches an imposing oak door. he gently puts you back on the ground, giggling with you and holding your hand as you readjust to standing on stilettos; he brings it to his lips quickly, before pushing open the door and beckoning you to step inside.
as you enter the warmly-lit entryway, a young man dressed in black leaps up from his seat behind a desk. "evening, ma'am, mr. president, sir."
matty gestures for the man to sit down. "evening, sam. i take it they radioed to tell you we were coming down here for a bit of peace and quiet?"
"yes, sir."
you squint at him. "you look pale, sam. have you had any dinner? or any sort of break, at all?"
"well… no, ma'am," sam replies, hesitantly. "i've been here since noon."
"almost twelve hours? that won't do at all," you gasp. "i really think you should get something to eat. and some coffee. the sooner, the better, because you look dead on your feet. no offence."
"none taken, ma'am. but i can't leave the vicinity of the office here until the shift change at 2."
"you don't have to," matty pipes up. "there's cake and coffee in the chief of staff's kitchen. and chairs that are much more comfortable than the one you have here - i'll sort that out for you tomorrow, actually. go, have a bit of a rest for an hour or so."
sam still looks hesitant. "are you sure, sir?"
matty nods, smiling. "that's a direct order. we'll ring you if we need anything."
"thank you, sir. oh, and speaking of the chief of staff," sam replies, pulling out a bottle of champagne from under his desk. "he left this for the two of you."
"ah, adam. always so kind," you grin, taking the bottle. "thank you, sam. have a good night."
"thank you," sam nods, making his way to a plain side door as you and matty make yours towards another imposing one in the opposite direction. "and you too, ma'am, mr. president. congratulations again."
"much appreciated, sam, thanks. see you tomorrow," matty waves, before gently pulling you through the second door and closing it behind you. "finally. alone at last."
you lay the champagne on a nearby sideboard and pull your husband into a tight hug. his arms find home around your waist, while your head buries itself in the crook of his neck. "alone at last, in the oval office. which i am very excited about decorating, by the way. this room is going to look beautiful once i'm through with it."
matty laughs, pulling back to look at you and caressing your face softly with his thumb. "it already looks more beautiful with you standing in it, darling, in your pretty dress and all your jewels." 
as he speaks, he lightly brushes his fingers over said jewels adorning your hair and earlobes and neck and wrists and fingers. you smirk, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "you forgot one."
matty's head drops onto your shoulder, and he trails kisses along into your neck. one of his hands begins to knead your asscheek, while the other slips down the small of your back and past your tailbone and presses - gently, but still enough to send a rush of heat to your core. "i can assure you i did not, dirty girl."
"your dirty girl," you say, pulling matty in for a kiss. he eagerly accepts, tongue immediately slipping into your mouth; matty always kisses like he's trying to completely consume you. as if he hasn't already - your heart, your thoughts, your dreams… they're all devoted to him. and you want to demonstrate that devotion now. "who's about to get on her knees for you in the middle of the oval office."
matty moans into your mouth, but shakes his head. "nah," he says, pulling back, breathless and wild-eyed. "s'not what i want right now."
you pout. your husband laughs. "later, sweetheart, i promise. but for now - will you go and sit behind the desk for me?"
a rush of excitement passes through you. unlike matty, a political career has never been your dream, but the thought of getting to sit at the presidential desk in the oval office and experience the illusion of having that much power is undeniably thrilling. so you oblige, looking up at a smiling matty from your place on the butter-soft leather. "what exactly are you planning on doing, baby?"
another kiss, then matty speaks against your lips. "pledging my allegiance."
before you have time to react, matty's on his knees in front of you, unclasping your heels and carefully lifting your feet from them. then, sliding a hand up the expanse of your leg visible through the slit in your skirt, he gently lifts the top section of fabric away and spreads your legs as much as the dress allows. his pretty eyes light up at the sight of your lacy white panties; you whimper as he runs a finger down them, to which he responds with a "so responsive for me, fuck".
"take them off," you whine. "please, need you."
"and you'll get me, darling, whatever you want," matty coos. he slides the damp lace down your legs and places it on the desk - a disgustingly erotic sight, it has to be said - before placing a thigh on each of his shoulders and leaning in. 
with a flat tongue, and with those dark eyes locked on your own, matty slowly licks upwards from your entrance; you moan in relief as he meets the wetness he coaxed out of your body by nothing more than just being. but relief is short-lived - his tongue points and swirls as it meets your clit for the briefest of moments, before matty takes the sensitive bud between his lips and just sucks.
pleasure shoots through your nervous system, releasing a wail from your throat, sending your hand straight into matty's hair, and forcing your hips to jerk upward. matty tries to stop the latter by pressing a hand on your stomach; combined with the way he's practically making out with your cunt and the way he moans into it when your fingers wrap themselves around his curls, though, it has the opposite effect. 
but your husband doesn't seem to mind your hips writhing, your stomach clenching under his hand, your cunt grinding against his face. in fact, he seems to fucking love it - the way he's palming himself through his dress trousers with his free hand certainly corroborates that. when the realisation of what his arm movement is breaks through your sex-addled brain, a heady mixture of pride and more pleasure courses through your body. one of the most powerful men in the world is on his knees before you, as you're perched on the literal seat of his power, eating you out like a man starved and enjoying himself so much he can't help but get off to it like a horny teenage boy.
the thought alone would be enough to make you cum. and in conjunction with the actual feeling of matty fervently mouthing at your cunt, you're imminently heading that way. "matty, i'm - oh, fuck, that feels good - m'gonna cum, baby. please, please, make me cum, fuck, oh my god."
matty's eyes roll back in his head at your words. he abandons his self-pleasuring to wrap both arms around your thighs and tug you even closer to his mouth; you don't quite understand how that's possible, given how enthusiastically he's been tongue-fucking you for god knows how long, but, somehow, he manages it, burying the deft muscle up to the hilt inside you and bringing a calloused thumb to your clit. you let out a choked sob, digging your nails into the arms of your/his/the federal government's chair as your hips continue jerking and the elastic band of ecstasy grows ever more taut in the pit of your stomach. with a final suck of your clit, it snaps, spilling whines of your husband's name from your lips and warm liquid from your core onto his waiting face and tongue. he gently laps it up so it doesn't spill onto your pretty dress, cooing praises and reassurances in the moments in between when he comes up to catch his breath.
once he's satisfied with how clean you are, matty releases his vice grip on your thighs and rests his head on the left one. he's just as breathless as you, and probably just as fucked-out-looking, but you've never found him more beautiful, all messy and bright-eyed and covered in you. smiling, you run a shaky hand through his curls and watch him close his eyes in contentment; when he reopens them, he presses a kiss on your inner thigh and looks up at you. "hi."
"hi," you reply, smiling sweetly. "i love you."
"i love you too."
you grin cheekily. "the way you just went down on me suggested that, yes."
matty laughs. "honestly, baby, i think that was the most fun i'm ever going to have in this office."
"nah," you say, sitting up and leaning down to kiss him. the tang of yourself on his tongue sends another burst of heat between your legs. "i'm about to return the favour."
"jesus christ," matty groans, squishing his face into your thigh. he inhales, then looks back up at you apologetically. "as much as i'd love that, sweetheart - and i really, really would - i think if i'm not inside you in the next two minutes i might actually pass out."
you giggle, stroking his cheek. "noted. can i ride you, then? at least for a little bit, and then you can take me however you'd like."
"fuck, yeah. but i need to get you out of that dress first, need to see your tits. that alright with you?"
"mhmm," you nod. "can i get you naked, too, baby?"
"'course," matty smiles, pulling himself up to stand and helping you up onto your shaky legs. "turn around for me, gorgeous." 
when you obey, he presses little kisses across the back of your bare shoulders, while simultaneously working on undoing the little buttons lining your spine. your dress falls to the ground once the final button is undone, leaving you bare save the jewels dotted around your body; swearing under his breath, matty brushes the one only he and you know about. "some day, i'm going to fuck you there, in this room."
gleeful, you spin around to face him,  shoving his suit jacket off and beginning to undo the buttons on his shirt. "that better be a promise."
"oh, you beautiful, filthy girl," matty coos. he takes your face in his hands and kisses you, as your fingers move to unfastening his trousers. breaking the kiss, matty kicks his shoes off as you rid him of his shirt and attach your lips to the tattoo of your first initial on his ribs. "of course it's a promise. but first, i need to fuck that tight little pussy of yours, alright?"
"i can see that," you tease, as you yank down matty's trousers and boxers in one fell swoop and see his presumably achingly hard dick for the first time that evening. "take a seat, mr. president. let me make you feel good."
matty does as you ask, settling down in the chair and holding his hands out to help you climb on too. it's a big chair, the seat wide enough for you to comfortably kneel on either side of his hips, but matty doesn't look small in it by any means; he's assured, powerful, imposing… and sexy. you tell him as much, and his cheeks go pink as he shakes his head. "enough flattery, more fucking, please, sweetheart."
you smirk. "whatever you want, sir." with that, you slowly sink down onto matty's dick, both of your jaws dropping in tandem as more and more of him slides inside you. as he bottoms out, you blink dazedly, already slightly overwhelmed from how full you feel.
matty notices, and brings a hand to cup your jaw. "you alright, darling?"
"yeah, just full," you reply breathily, smiling sweetly at your husband. "feels good."
a smile in return. "feels amazing, baby. d'you want a hand moving?"
in response, you rise up on your knees and sink slowly back down, eliciting a moan from matty and a grin from yourself. "i've got it."
matty watches as you continue to bounce on him, your pace increasing with every meeting of your bodies. as you speed up, your tits begin their own bouncing; with a groan of your name, your husband takes one in each hand and squeezes gently, making you whine when he rolls your nipples between finger and thumb. "too fucking right you've got it, babe."
the praise shoots straight to your head, egging you on enough that you speed up your bouncing even more, as best you can. matty can't tear his hooded-with-pleasure eyes away from your tits, but even in his fucked-out haze he still manages to bring his thumb to your clit and lightly circle it; you whine and clench around him as soon as he makes contact, which rips a throaty groan from his lips. "shit, baby, just like that. so fucking tight around me, so fucking perfect, christ, feels like you were fucking made for me."
"love the way you feel inside me," you whine. "want you - fuck - everywhere."
matty closes his eyes for a second as if to compose himself - when they reopen, the beautiful brown is almost completely gone, replaced by the dilated black of lust. the hand not already preoccupied with your clit sneaks across your hip, deft fingers quickly meeting the jewel decorating your peachy ass. "oh, baby, i want that too. can't tonight, though, because we don't have everything we need. but we can still play a little bit…"
keeping his eyes on your face the whole time, matty slowly starts to pull the jewel out of you, just enough that the ring of muscle is stretched ever so slightly by the thickest part of the glass, before working it back in and repeating the motion. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling, the third level of simultaneous stimulation driving you deeper into your already sex-addled state, and your voice shakes as you whimper. "oh my fucking god."
despite being just as sex-addled as you, matty's cheeks lift into the most smug, most shit-eating grin you've ever seen him wear. "you like that, baby?"
you can't answer, your brain too hazy to send the signals for speech to your voicebox. but it's alright - matty's doing one of his telltale rhetorical 'orgasm is imminent' monologues: "yeah, i know you fuckin' do, shit, clenching around me like that. fucking love it when you do that, fucking love you, my girl, my favourite girl. such a good girl for me, fuck, just so perfect. you're getting close again, aren't you, sweetheart?"
still riding, despite your burning thighs, you nod. the elastic in your stomach is tightening again, far quicker than it did before your previous orgasm; your ability to talk hasn't quite returned, so you settle for burying your head into the crook of matty's neck and digging your nails into his back, tethering yourself to him in a wordless attempt to tell him you're about to cum. 
luckily, your husband knows you and your body so well that he understands instantly, shuffling underneath you so he can fuck up into you and get you both off. "need you to cum for me, darling," matty murmurs into your hair. "need to feel you cum all over me. please, sweetheart."
it's the plea that does it. on top of the clitoral stimulation, and the attention on both holes, and the dirty talk, and the previous orgasm, and the sheer fact that it's matty underneath and inside you… it's his desperation that knocks you off the precipice. the elastic band doesn't so much snap as it completely shatters, sending a wave of total pleasure throughout your body that's so strong you actually black out for a second, after managing to finally croak out your husband's name.
you're brought back to earth by said husband whining directly into your ear. "oh fuck, babe, m'so close, m'so fucking close - shit, where do you want me to cum?"
"inside me, please," you reply, still panting from the aftershocks of orgasm.
"fuck, you want me to fill you up? i'll fucking do it, sweetheart," matty groans, hips beginning to stutter as he nears his climax. his speech, though, still flows out unencumbered. "might even put a baby in you, if we're lucky. you like that idea, darling, a picture-perfect little presidential family?"
you hum contentedly, too tired to do anything but nod into matty's neck. against your temple, you feel him smile. "then i'll fucking give it to you - shit, m'gonna cum. gonna fuckin' fill you up, give you what you want. give you anything you want, whenever you want it, my wife, my perfect girl - oh, fuck, i'm there. fuuuuuuuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."
matty wraps his arms around your waist and pushes down slightly with his shoulders, keeping your bodies flush as he pulses heat into you. he keeps his arms there even after orgasm wears off, and yours stay loosely wrapped around his neck; for a few minutes, you stay just like that, the room silent aside from the tandem heavy breathing. you're first to break it, pulling back from matty's neck to look at him. "hi."
"hi," matty giggles, leaning up to give you a peck on your pouty lips. "so… we just absolutely desecrated the oval office."
you giggle too. "indeed we did. worth it, though."
"absolutely," matty brushes a stray strand of hair - still miraculously mostly intact, despite it all - from your forehead. "you feeling alright, baby? you need anything?"
"honestly? a drink would be nice."
matty throws his head back against the leather and laughs, before looking back at you and stroking your cheek. "give me a minute to recover, sweetheart, and then we can crack open that champagne from adam and toast the incredible sex we just had, yeah?"
"absolutely, mr. president."
305 notes · View notes
grapejuicestyless · 6 months
Note
can you do a conrad fic based on sad, beautiful, tragic by t.s.?
Sad, Beautiful, Tragic.
Conrad Fisher x fem!reader
Summery: Y/n is young, naive but not stupid. Conrad had made one too many empty promises for even her to continue believing.
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My feet stood cemented on the pavement, stuck to the grounds that lingered in deadly details of him, but never us. Not now, not ever.
I felt like an idiot, showing up now, so late. A random autumn night in Boston. The streets in the city still bustling with life, longing for the scents of pumpkin spice and apple cider. The further into the suburbs you drove, the quieter it grew. The trees became plentiful, black streets becoming canvases of orange and yellow.
We weren’t right. It was obvious. Laurel reprimanded me for this, my great attempts to salvage what little we had left between us. A dwindling flame, a broken glass spilling wine across a pearl white table cloth. She called me a fool, too blinded by what I wanted to work so badly in my head that I refused what was being presented right in front of me.
His snide remarks with his school friends, all much smarter than I. They knew it. I was never a prodigy, a prospect, gifted. Each dig was minor, easily brushed away like dust on the pages of a forgotten story page. But Conrad always had a way with his words, a tongue that made even the kindest comments come out like daggers. Backhanded and cruel, aimed at the naive.
Gullible was never written on the ceiling yet each time he smiled and pointed I looked. I was a scarlet thread, wrapped tightly around his thumb.
When the door opened, Susannah greeted me with a sad smile. Her eyes spoke a thousand sentences, pleading for me to leave, walk away while I still could. But Conrad had promised, promised that if I just gave him one more chance it would be different.
And I believed him. I believed him because when I met him, he was a good man. Shy, sweet, observant. He was charming, and god he was always handsome. The Conrad I fell for never lied to me. If we disagreed, it was quickly resolved.
Now it seemed like each phone call was just another nail in the coffin. Another reason flying by, red flags blowing in the wind begging me to follow, to leave. It was walking on eggshells, fragile. I was clumsy and they broke. I sit alone in my room sometimes, phone beeping to its death, hanging off my shoulder and I forget. I forget all the reasons I am fighting, what I am fighting for.
But then he comes back, just like he always does. A vicious cycle. He throws daggers at my deepest hurts, freshest wounds to have the pleasure to watch me crumble within his grasp. And when I’m too weak to stand, he lifts me back up. Suddenly, my stomach aches, I want to throw up. It’s bubbling up my throat, the guilt is eating at me until I am nothing. How could I ever even forget how wonderful this man is to me, how could I ever want to leave? I wipe my memory of all the nights I spend crying on the floor. We never speak of it, what we’re doing, but the guilty look in his eyes tells me he knows. We both do. I sleep on the floor for another week, I can’t move. I am paralyzed by my heavy heart, a locket around my neck. It’s golden, decorated in whimsical swirls. A picture of Conrad stays with me always, I clench in my fist. I want to rip it off, watch the chain scatter. It weighs me down, I can barely breathe.
I am a good girl, I don’t fight. I stay quiet while Conrad fights himself. I don’t buy into his attempts to work me up anymore. I know that with him, with us, we are destined to see storms. I know better now that once they pass, the sky will clear and the tragedy of it all will fade away. So I wait. I always wait for that moment of clarity. I refuse to think when I’m so worked up.
It’s sad, and it’s beautiful and oh so tragic, the way we dance around each other. How hours ago I was standing outside his door, regretting my naivety, trying to salvage us. Now I sit in his living room, waiting for him with my legs crossed. The melodic ticking of the clock alerts me of the time. I’m cold, my nose is rosy. I let the house capture me in its warm blanket. A sacred place of safety, I smell Susannah, I smell my mother. I see Belly’s old pictures on the wall in frames and Stevens gifts to Jeremiah and Conrad.
“Y/n/n, hey.” His voice is airy, lips pressed to my temple. I didn’t even hear him coming in the deafening ringing of silence in my ears. My eyes shift to his face, but I cannot move.
“Hi Con.” My voice is coarse, tired. It’s so late, my eyes hurt from being open so long. His arms wrap around me as the couch dips beside my thighs. He’s so warm, so gentle now, I find myself drifting away again. Getting lost in the calm, I forget about how devastating the storm was. I haven’t even picked up all my discarded pieces yet. Somehow, I manage to keep giving away more and more, even now. I am not sure how I can afford this.
Our conversation is warm, long. He talks about school and I talk about mine. With us being alone, I miss any snide comments or judgmental stares. He is so much kinder without the influence of others. He is almost the same man I grew up loving.
“You’ll still visit me, won’t you?” He pleads innocently. The look in his eyes is genuine, I almost crumble. A sharp intake of air is stuck in my throat, my brain becomes re-wired.
I remember the sad looks from Susannah, the fights with my mother. I remember how disappointed Belly was when I left again. How Steven yelled and fought until I was gone. Everyone in my life sees it in a bad light and I still managed to miss it.
Suddenly the golden chain around my neck feels heavy again. It hurts my skin, it’s burning the back of my neck. I hold it in my hand, it’s still heavy in my palm.
“Y/n?” His hand is on my thigh, I can’t breathe. My chest heaves, my throat is burning. There’s a lump stuck in my throat. It’s expanding and my eyes hurt. I’m tired, I’m sick, I’m sad.
Standing up, his hands drop from my lap. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him anymore. I can feel my lip quivering while I suck in a harsh breath. My eyebrows are furrowed, fists clenched.
“Y/n, hey, baby…” He cooed at me, palm pressing to my cheek. I am inconsolable, irrevocably damaged. Too lost in our beauty to remember the tragedy, the sadness that defines us. That is us.
“Conrad, I’m leaving.” It comes out sticky. Quiet other than my sniffles and his breathing.
“You just got here, did…have I done something?” I feel his hands slip down to my elbows. He holds me in place son the carpet. It hurts, not because he’s holding too tight, but because his touch burns.
“No, Conrad.” My eyes open, I search his blue ones. I get lost in our deep they are, collecting my thoughts. I feel trapped.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. If I stay any longer I’m afraid I won’t ever leave.” His face is blank until it isn’t. It’s shifting, contorting into something that looks incredibly confused, pained.
“What, what are you saying?” His voice is less calm now, raising. Not quiet reaching the level of desperation I can see building inside of him already.
“It’s a cycle, Con, can’t you see it? We’re toxic and it’s sick because we are the ones letting it be this way. We fight but we never talk. You promise me you’ll get better but you never do! I’m tired of trying to be alright when I’m around you! You don’t make me feel good.” It’s off my chest, yet he hasn’t comprehended any of it.
“Y/n, please. We can work through it, right? I love you, I do. Please just, please. I love you, you have to love me. It doesn’t just go away like that, I love you.” He’s crying now. His blue eyes clouded in a dark overcast. He makes me feel guilty. All self respect I have is gone, and suddenly I’m back in his arms.
My head finds its place on his shoulder, I tuck my face into his neck. Not to be close, but because I feel to ashamed to show it after falling so quickly under his mind games.
Silently, I agree with him. Of course I still love him, I always will. So I stay, a fool who got so close, but remained so far away. He presses another kiss to the side of my head and tells me I won’t regret it. When I wake up alone in his bed, cold the next morning, I know I’ve been blinded to another empty promise. It’s so hard to stay when he’s mean, but it’s even harder when he’s sweet. So I pack my things quietly and leave. I won’t visit him at school. Not until he comes home will we see each other again.
Oddly enough, the thought doesn’t drain me. I don’t dread never seeing him for weeks on end. I don’t regret not choosing somewhere closer to get an education simply to be near him. I am relieved he will be gone. My heart keeps beating.
It’s barely a month before I’m stood back in front of him. Only now the carpet is cold cement and his living room is the train tracks. He is in Boston, he’ll never leave. He tries his hardest to get me to stay. He’s the nicest I’ve ever seen him. He’s persuasive, but in our time apart he doesn’t know I see it less as a genuine feeling from him and more as a twisted tactic of manipulation.
“We can settle down, we’re almost out of college. Just me and you and it’ll be great. If you’d only give us another chance.” He pleads, hands not yet on my skin, but he’s so close. I can feel his warm breath on my skin.
“I don’t want that anymore, Conrad.” I try to be kind about it, I try and blame my distance on myself. It is me who is trying so desperately to break things off. He’ll never know it was his cold heart that shattered our beautiful love. But it’s helpless, he won’t stop.
“Then we’ll travel the world. Y/n, I don’t care, I just want to be with you!” He tries again. Yet all his words are the exact same. He’s not even trying to understand me, I feel like screaming.
“No, no.” I reaffirm. I won’t look at him because it hurts me too much. I know if I look at him I’ll stay again. My chest is closing in on me, I can’t help but reach to hold onto it. My pinky grazes the same locket when I do. It’s dainty, but gorgeous. There’s stacks of photos within it. Mostly of Conrad, but a few of my family underneath.
“I’m not understanding, Y/n. I don’t get it?” He’s desperate, the train is coming. Once it pulls up to the platform, if he hasn’t convinced me one last time to stay, I’ll be forever gone. It’s the final fight, we can feel it.
“All we do is fight, Conrad. I can’t fight anymore. I tried to end it earlier and you promised me it would work out, it would stop but it hasn’t! And I can’t do it anymore.” My hands rest on the bends of his elbows. I hold him close, I look into his eyes finally, I want him to understand me, I beg for him to understand me.
“Then let me fix it. Let me make it better, Y/n. Anything, I’ll do anything I just can’t-don’t walk away.” My pleads are deaf on his ears. He doesn’t care about what I want, and it’s apparent now that he never did. He’s selfish, so he only takes. He wants me but he hates to have to deal with me.
“Conrad, stop!” He’s ranting, my voice is loud over his. A few people turn their heads. It’s so late in the evening, they’re only passing. Ready to go home.
My eyes shift around until everyone has gone back to their own business. The breath that leave my chest is heavy, harsh but quick.
“Please, Con. Please just try and listen to me.” My voice is breaking. Not because my leaving is breaking my heart, but because I am tired. I am tired of staying, of being so weak. I am wasting my youth on a boy who hasn’t matured yet. I deserve more, I crave it.
“There’s no amount of fixing either of us could do to mend whatever’s happened between us. We lost it a long time ago. And I’ll always love you, how could I not? You’re everything to me. But you’re not mine anymore, and I can’t be yours.” My hands slip from his skin to my chest. I try an even out my breathing, again I am reminded of my necklace. It feels wrong to still wear his picture around my neck when I’ve already let him go.
Unclasping it slowly, I let the gold gather in my palm. It’s warm from where it touched my skin. It’s rusting form how often it’s been worn, and my neck feels lighter. I ball up my fist, taking his hand over my other one steadily.
When he feels the warmth mixing with the coolness of the pendant, I can see him giving up. He nods, swallowing hard.
When the train comes, I wave goodbye to him one last time. He’s frozen, hand still holding the locket out and eyes still sad. I wonder how long he’ll stay there, I never see him move even as the train pulls away from the station.
………………………………………………………………………………….
The whirring of the train passing is accompanied by the occasional blowing of its horn. It’s deafening against the heavy silence that’s consumed me. There’s not even a crunch of a leaf to break it. Now that she’s gone, it’s settled in how I’m truly alone. I’ve blown it.
I wait for her to be out of sight. The caboose nothing more than a small speck in the horizon. The moon is high, the wind is chilling. It’s nearly winter in Boston, yet the weather is no where near as cold as my bones. I curl my fingers over her locket, bringing my knuckles to my lips, I breathe over it.
It doesn’t even smell like her. It’s a sad souvenir of pity. She didn’t want me, I’m certain she only gave it to me because she didn’t want a reminder of me either.
I stuff it into my pocket slowly, fingers feeling around the rough cotton of my pants. It sits snug at the bottom of it, right beside the long, handwritten note I prepared for her.
I knew I had my own demons, I know I was a mess. I treated her horribly, I gambled away our love. But this time I was serious. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to make it better.
My words meant little to nothing now. There were no amount of promises I could make when I was already too late.
205 notes · View notes
shibaraki · 1 year
Text
WHERE I WANNA BE ┊ REIGEN ARATAKA
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tags: NSFT, GN reader, friends to lovers, resolved sexual tension, fluff and smut, dry humping, coming in pants, premature ejaculation, clothed sex, what is plot, don’t look at mekasksksks
wc: 1.6k
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The invitation was made with only good intentions. Reigen’s apartment flooded after a pipe burst and he needed somewhere to stay. Serizawa offered, but your place was closer to the Spirits and Such Agency, and living alongside his own employee seemed inappropriate, temporary or otherwise.
The choice was easy. It was for the sake of convenience. And yet, you’re not sure exactly how it had come to this.
“You good?”
Reigen had sunken back into your couch cushions with an unnatural effort. You’d never seen someone try so hard to look relaxed. The corner of his eye twitches at random intervals, fingers wrung tightly into the fabric of your shorts.
At what point had the accumulated longing — built steadily over years of bizarre friendship — crested?
“Not sure what you mean. I’m fantastic,” he quips, flashing you a strained smile and giving a flippant wave of his hand. In the dark of your living room, illuminated only by the cool toned glow of your TV screen, he appears a little withered. Nervous. “Totally fine! Are you?”
Your legs are folded beneath your body, settled either side of his hips. The plot of the movie has been long forgotten. You take the opportunity to watch him squirm under your avid gaze. Reigen looks softer out of his typical work suit. Dirty blonde hair stuck in all directions and mussed. He’s wearing his muted purple pyjama set: a bear printed on the chest, crew neck loose around his collar but tight around the wrists. The bottoms are cuffed just above his ankles because his legs are a little too long. You laughed gleefully when you first saw them.
There was underlying meaning. He was comfortable. Maybe not in himself, but with you— in a way that makes you want to touch him. To keep him. You walk two fingers along his collar and feel each step echo through his body. Pelvis twitching helplessly under your weight, the stiff outline of his cock presses up against your ass.
“We can stop,” you intone gently. As exhilarating as it was to have him so reactive and malleable you knew he had a habit of overestimating himself; pushing his own boundaries for the sake of proving validity or worth. “I wouldn’t be upset. This is all moving pretty fast”.
Reigen worries his lip between his teeth. There is already a sore indentation left from earlier in the evening, after dealing with a particularly grueling call from his insurance company. Your knuckles brush across the new, uneven stubble on his jaw and he takes a sharp breath, grasping tight at your thighs.
In lieu of a response, he tentatively encourages you to grind into his lap again. You follow his lead and murmur leisurely at the whine that falls from his open mouth, arms snaking around his neck. Elbows rested against the back of the sofa, your fingers thread through his hair, playing with the fine strands at his nape.
Your name is whispered between heaving breaths, not quite knowing what he wants to ask for. Hands twitch at your hips with bruising pressure, undecided as to whether he wanted you to stop, slumping down into the cushions as sense gradually leaves him.
You hum appreciatively as his eyelids flutter, “Didn’t know you were this sensitive. Got me all wet and I’ve barely touched you”.
Reigen shudders and bites down a whine, head tipping back to bare his throat, breathing sharply out of his nose. Struggling to speak, his assertion falls flat, “I’m not—ah. Not usually”.
A sweet blush spreads warm across his cheeks and kisses the tips of his ears, dark in the dim lighting. You undulate your hips, chasing your own pleasure as well as his. “Don’t stop,” he pleads with a strangled noise, pawing at your waist and guiding you over his cock in dissonant rhythm. Pure desperation. “Please don’t”.
“Yeah?”
“Yeaaa—!” the vowels drag on his tongue, drawn out into a long moan when you push deliberately into the cradle of his pelvis, pleasure prickling under your skin. His arousal saturates the and eases the motions. Slack jawed, the bridge of his nose scrunches up as he clings to you. “Fuck. Wanted you like this for so long. Wanted… I wanted to do it the right…”
His interminable rambling comes to an abrupt halt. He realises his admission— you watch the panic trickle into his otherwise pink expression, his thighs quivering in the effort not to buck up again. To save face. Hot, blood rises to the surface and emanates against your palms. Slowing the rhythm to a stop, you gently take his face into your hands. “Arataka?”
“Sorry,” he blurts. Reigen pats awkwardly at your knees, eyes wide and darting along the length of the sofa as though seeking an escape route. “Sorry. My big mouth. Damn it, I’ll—”
Before he can formulate a clever excuse to leave, you squeeze the soft fat of his cheeks together, hard. It puckers his lips into an exaggerated pout and forcing him quiet. “You’re overthinking”.
“Overthinking? Me?” he tries, that well crafted, flippant mien fracturing under the movement between your bodies. “Never”.
You release, and his expression startles with the sharp flick of a finger. A faint pink mark blossoms at the point of impact, right between his brows, and they pinch tight into a petulant frown. Rubbing at the spot he complains, “Do you usually physically assault your guests?”
“Stop that,” you mutter.
Feigning ignorance, “Stop what?”
Reigen blinks, swallowing thickly as you gently grasp his wrist. Punctuating the words with a kiss to the palm of his hand, the heel, the quickening pulse, “You can’t bullshit here, Arataka. Not to me. Your body is a little too honest for that”.
He wheezes, “Could you be merciful for once in your life?”
You cradle the back of his head as it falls forward to rest against your shoulder and his hands slide up your back, clutching your shirt. He groans pitifully, “This is worse than the time I confessed in middle school with my fly open. I’m about to cum in my pants. I haven’t done that in years—!”
The way he holds you betrays him. Grip tight around you as he speaks, squeezing to settle the nerves and keep you close, afraid you’ll leave despite his own urge to flee. You coo as you feel his cock throb and the restraint falls away for a fleeting moment; he turns, open mouthed, and keens into the juncture of your throat.
“You know I want you too, right?” you rasp, repositioning your knees and building the pace, grinding down into his lap, spurred on by the wet hiss beneath your ear. “Feel that?”
Crossing his arms around the small of your back, as if to tether himself, Reigen tries to mirror your rhythm. Bending at an awkward angle, you hook your fingers beneath his chin and force him to look at you, never faltering. You take it in— Reigen isn’t conventionally attractive by any means but that somehow played to his charm. Now, with his pupils blown, lashes damp and clumped into little spikes, hair clinging to the thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, you have to admit the view is quite a good one.
His lips part for breath, tongue peeking between his canines. There’s something intense in his gaze and it looks like a plea that you want to instinctively chase, hyper aware of how simple it would be to kiss him. You keep him there a while longer, mouths brushing with each rise and fall of your hips, until a whine breaks the tension.
“Please”.
You meet in the middle in a free fall. Crude wet sounds reverberate throughout the room. You think you can taste the lingering flavour of peppermint as you pluck your name from his throat, mapping out the grooves of his teeth, directionless and sloppy.
With surprising strength he holds you tight to his front and anchors your hips to begin frantically rutting up into your heat. His eyes roll back and close, lashes casting a thin shadow over his red cheeks. You watch in awe, mumbling disjointed praises as he surrenders to it; his surroundings fall away until you’re the only thing left— trapped in his clutches, being humped like a pillow.
Reigen shudders. He moans unabashedly and the hair on your arms stands on end as it frissons through your body, throbbing between your thighs. You rock forward with the force of his hips, gasping at the sudden bang behind you where his feet kick out and hit the coffee table. Years of pent up arousal spills into his pyjama pants, saturating the thin fabric enough to feel it sticky through your shorts.
“Holy shit Arataka,” you mumble, brushing his damp hair away from his forehead as you lean back and look where your bodies align— where he’s still slowly grinding against you, hissing through the sensitivity. “Wait. You don’t need to—”
“I can keep going,” he insists breathily. While his voice is weak and unconvincing, his expression is set into familiar false confidence to bury what is likely embarrassment. You knew him well enough to guess what he was thinking. Probably suffocating in unfounded embarrassment and scorning himself for not following some self implemented rule of making his partner cum first.
His slow, purposeful friction is hard to ignore. “Okay,” petting his cheek with one hand, you concede. The other descends his torso, a finger slipping under his waistband, grazing the hair leading down his navel.
“Take these off first”.
The choice is easy.
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534 notes · View notes
zepskies · 2 months
Text
Being Human - Part 4 (Finale)
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Pairing: Alec McDowell x F. Reader
Summary: Your life made sense before Alec slipped his way in. He unravels your threads without even trying. He frustrates you as easily as he weasels back into your good graces. But you soon realize that this man is worth the challenge.
AN: (I decided to release this a bit early.) Here we are, friends! The final chapter...
Chapter Summary: Ames White captures you, forcing Alec to his knees.
Word Count: 4,300
Tags/Warnings: Peril and violence, angst, major hurt/comfort, but also major fluff...
💜 Series Masterlist
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Part 4: Reckoning
Terminal City is a region on the edge of the city. The chemical and biohazardous waste that was dumped there after the Pulse makes ordinary humans sick, but for the immune transgenics, it’s the perfect spot to carve out a sanctuary.
Alec has been visiting the sector frequently, working with Max, Joshua, and other Manticore escapees to build up its infrastructure. Joshua lives here full-time now, as it’s safer for the half-canine transgenic and others like him, who don’t “look” human.
Today, Alec’s working with Mole and Joshua on ammunitions. Regardless of what any of them look like, they are all soldiers, in one way or another built and trained for warfare.
As much as Alec doesn’t want to see it, the tensions between “ordinaries” and transgenics are mounting, especially in Seattle. 
He checks his watch and realizes that he’s late to meet you. 
“Shit. I gotta go,” he says.
“Where’re you going?” Max asks. She has a perceptive eye, but Alec doesn’t reveal anything.  He revs up his motorcycle and dons his helmet.
“Just going to meet someone,” he says, purposely vague. He doesn’t want another lecture from her. 
The truth is, he’s dreading this. He knows when he sees you, it’ll be damn near impossible to maintain his distance. He should’ve just met you at your apartment, but surrounded by your things, your familiar scent etched into every fiber of your place…it would buckle his resolve. 
So he heads back on his motorcycle all the way home. 
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Something’s off.
He instinctively knows after he climbs up the stairs to his apartment. He tests the door, and it opens without him having to unlock it.
You would know better than to leave the door open.
He pushes inside the apartment, and he’s greeted to a scene that drops his heart into his stomach. 
His apartment is empty, but a table near the kitchen is knocked over. Glass liters the ground where it’s overturned, and on further inspection, he finds drying bloodstains on the glass and on the floor.
His heart beats faster as he takes in everything with wide eyes. He doesn’t smell gunpowder, or find anything else that would tell him what happened here. 
He does find your purse, tossed by the couch in the living room. 
Alec whips out his phone and calls your cell.
“Hello, 494.” A man’s voice—one that Alec would know anywhere. It prickles his skin with unease and makes his blood boil all at once.
“Ames White.” Alec’s teeth grind. “What game are you playing now?”
“This isn’t a game. It’s business,” White claims. “I have something you want. How much are you willing to pay to make sure she stays alive?”
Alec forces himself to calm down, even though his pulse is racing.
“What do you want?”
“You. And 452. With no bullshit on your end,” the agent replies. “Or this girl is going to pay that price for you.”
Alec’s breath becomes unsteady. “And if I comply, you’ll let her go. I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Oh, I won’t lie to you. She’s on her way to the lab as we speak. You see, they’re gonna want to analyze that abomination she’s carrying,” White says. 
That steals the breath from Alec’s lungs.
His eyes grow wide as he puts together what the man is saying. 
“But if you do comply,” he says, “I’ll make sure they let her deliver to term, at least.”
Alec’s throat tightens. Oh, God… 
“You let her go, you son of a bitch!” he grinds out. His white-knuckle grip pops a few springs in the couch. He releases it and covers his face, pressing hard between his eyes. “She’s not part of this!” 
“It seems she is, 494. I’ll send you the time and the place. Be there with 452.”
The line clicks. Alec’s breathing is harsh. He grips his phone so hard it nearly shatters, but he tosses it onto the couch and pushes his palms against the burn in his eyes. His jaw locks with the strain of clenched teeth. No, no, no, NO! 
His phone chimes with a voicemail message. Alec grabs the phone and listens. It details coordinates and a meeting time: tonight, at midnight.
Alec makes another call with what remains of his phone.
“Max,” he says shakily. “I need your help.”  
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Alec barely resists pacing throughout Logan’s apartment while the latter types away, researching the coordinates Ames White provided for the meeting point. Their forced surrender. 
Max perches on the corner of the couch with her arms crossed. She’s concerned for you as well, but she gazes at him with sympathy.
“We’ll find her, Alec,” she says. 
Alec shakes his head.
“He could have her anywhere,” he gestures widely. “He could’ve already handed her off to whatever shady government agency he works for. Or with that damn cult, that in case you’ve forgotten, hates us. Like everyone else in this city.”
“Not everyone,” Max reminds him pointedly. 
“Yeah, and look where we are now,” Alec retorts. “I told you this would happen!”
“Do you want to be right, or do you want to save her?” Max shoots back. “Now think. We’ve found bases of White’s operations before. Both for the agency, and the breeding cult.”
“I’m cross-referencing old locations,” Logan says. He’s been typing away at his computer for several minutes. “I can ask Asha and her people to join the search. And I can do an Eyes Only broadcast, encourage people to keep an eye out.” 
Alec nods, but any outcomes of those plans will take time. Time you might not have. 
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They’ve been following anonymous tips for hours. Joshua and a few X5s and X6s joined the search for Ames White, and more importantly, for you. 
Alec and Max have been working together without stopping even for a breath throughout the night. They only have one hour before they’re meant to be at the agreed meeting point: an abandoned building near the edge of the city. No doubt for their easy extraction. 
Logan eventually calls Alec to tell him about a lab within a mile of the scheduled rendezvous point. There have been reports of late-night transports—locals calling in about strange noises, and in one case, what someone thought was a muffled gunshot.
Alec and Max agree to check it out, but they’re going to cut it close with the meeting time.
“Josh. Where are you, buddy?” Alec asks after calling his friend’s cell.
“I’m here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Here,” Joshua replies. He’s turned the corner and found his friends on the crossing of Avalon St. and Broadway, via his elite sense of smell.
“Good,” Alec smiles in relief. He pats his taller friend’s arm. “You’ve been a big help so far, but I need you for this. Wanna be part of the rescue party?”
“Yes,” Joshua nods, but his tone suggests he’s offended that Alec has to ask. “Help save your mate.”
Alec’s smile weakens. He doubts you’ll ever want to be that with him, ever again. But he’ll be damned if the government, or some damn breeding cult, is going to lay a hand on you.
Logan agrees to meet them there in his van for backup, while Josh hitches a ride on the back of Alec’s motorcycle. The three of them haul ass to the location of the suspected lab.
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They approach a large, three-story dilapidated building. According to Logan, it used to be a mental health asylum. When the government bought it out, the facility was turned into a private lab.
Great, comes Alec’s sardonic thought. Hopefully the ghosts of whoever was tortured here won’t cause them any problems.
He and Max communicate silently through the militaristic hand motions they learned in their training to scope the place’s security, its entry points, and the best way for them to infiltrate the building. Although Manticore made Joshua, he hasn’t gone through the same training as most transgenics have.
He’s fortunate for it, but it means that Max has to direct him more carefully. He covers her and Alec as they approach the back entrance, which seems to be where they most often transport both cargo and people. Right now, there’s a large van waiting on standby.
Alec rips out the driver first, while Max and Joshua take on the other guards who start shooting. Alec comes around the back of the van, and when the first guard opens the back door, Alec tears the gun out of his hands and yanks him out. Alec uses the man’s body like a Kevlar vest as his two companies unload a clip or two. He punches them both out hard enough to hear the crack of bone.
The van inside is empty, but he sees a cot and several machines already ready and waiting to transport someone. He grits his teeth and slams the door shut on his way out.  
“She’s not in there,” he tells Max. “If she’s here, she’s gotta be inside.”
Max and Joshua have taken out the outside guards, no problem, but he’s sure there’ll be more where that came from.
The three of them enter the building and race through the long hallways, slipping by lab technicians, doctors, and other staff. Anyone who attempts to stop them soon regrets it.
Alec is especially brutal and efficient with the federal security guards. Max watches him out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t yet warn him to pull his punches. The stakes are high, and she understands his anger and stress.
“There’s a file room,” Alec points to a door that’s labeled: RECORDS.
“I doubt they’ll have a file on her yet, especially if White’s trying to keep this under wraps,” Max says.
Joshua looks around and points across the hall. “Cameras?”
The other two look in the direction he’s pointing to, and they see what he sees—a room labeled: SECURITY.
Alec slaps a companionable hand on Joshua’s back, and they head for the security room. The guards are dealt with swiftly, being knocked out and piled against the back wall. While Joshua keeps a lookout, Max and Alec scan the many different camera feeds: focused on various hallways and lab subjects.
Alec scans each of them rapidly. He’s always been good with TV.
He finds you on one of the camera feeds and he points to it. “There she is! Room 204.”
You’re in a small, cell-like room, sleeping on what almost looks like a hospital bed. Except there’s a breathing mask held over your face, probably keeping you unconscious, and you’re attached to several monitors. It makes his heart sink and his spine tighten with rage, simultaneously.
“Let’s go,” Max says, but it’s not necessary. Alec is already halfway out the door.
They’re stopped at a four-way crossroads in the hall. In the center is Ames White.
“You’re smart, I’ll give you that,” he grants with an incline of his head. He takes a radio clipped to his belt and clicks it on, speaking into it. “Transport the girl. Make sure she’s sedated.”
Alec seethes. Before he can sprint headlong into a fight, Joshua stops him. Alec looks up at him in askance.
“You go. Find her. Leave him with me,” Joshua says. His blue eyes are sharp with predatory anger at the man who killed Annie Fisher.
Alec softens a fraction and nods in understanding. He shoots Max a look.
“Go, I’ll catch up with you,” she says.
Alec nods and races on ahead. He dodges bullets with the help of superior speed and crashes into each guard, taking them out with brutal force. He steals a gun off of one of them, and that saves him a lot of time and energy. He tries not to kill anyone, but he can’t think about holding back. He just needs to get to you.
He reaches the second floor, and finally to Room 204.
Two men are already in the room. He doesn’t want to open fire—the room is too small, the risk of ricochet too high. He grabs a knife from his belt and hurls it at the first man, who was poised to inject something into your arm. The second guard turns with his gun, but Alec is already moving too fast for human eyes to follow.
He breaks the man’s arm, followed by a swift uppercut. He takes the gun and hurls the man into the far wall, knocking him clean out as he slumps to the floor.
Alec breathes hard in the aftermath, but he begins to soften after his attention turns to you. He sets down the gun and takes in the sight of you, still dressed in jeans and a blood-stained shirt.
You’re heavily sedated and restrained by your wrists and ankles. You have a bandage wrapped around your forearm, along with brain and heart monitors attached to your forehead and chest, and an IV drip in your other arm. 
Alec takes a breath, and he starts with the wires, removing the small suction cups from your body and disconnecting all the monitors. He takes off the mask and unclips the leather restraints. 
The fury builds back up inside him at what they’ve already done to you. He doesn’t want to think any more on what they’d planned to do.
You must’ve been terrified, he thinks. He touches your cheek tenderly. His free hand hesitates, before it rests gently on your belly. He calls your name. 
You don’t stir just yet. Your body is still under the effects of the sedation. So he carefully lifts you into his arms. He hears Max approach, and she’s there in the doorway by the time he turns around. 
“Let’s go,” Alec says. His face is hard and angry while he carries you out. 
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They regroup with Joshua in the lobby, though even Alec stops short when he sees the carnage. Ames White’s body lays on the floor with unseeing eyes. His throat is torn out. 
Joshua has blood in his teeth. He wipes at his face with the back of his arm, his eyes veering away from Max and Alec. Max blinks through her shock and tries to keep her mouth from falling open.
“Time to go,” Joshua says. His voice is heavy, but matter of fact.
“We’ll need to take his body, get rid of it later,” Max says, when she recovers. “We can’t let the police find him.”
They’ll blame us, is understood by them all. The police won’t have the full story, but it won’t matter. Appearances are everything. 
Max finds a black body bag in a nearby storage closet and Joshua collects White, later hefting the full body bag over his shoulder.
They make their escape out the back of the building, where Logan is waiting with his van. Joshua deposits the body in the back, where he also climbs in. Max takes the front passenger seat while Alec carries you into the middle seat bed. 
Nothing else feels right but to hold you in his arms. To stroke your cheek and wait, both desperate for, and yet dreading the moment you’ll open your eyes. 
Because when you do, there’s a good chance that he’ll find your fear. Or worse. 
“She’s going to be okay,” Max says to him, quietly. She’s twisted towards him in her seat.
“Maybe physically,” Alec counters. “I don’t know, Max. How did being held up in a lab affect your mental health?” 
Her lips purse. “One step at a time, okay?”
Alec shakes his head and looks down at you. He tries to commit your peaceful face to memory, because he doubts that he’ll ever see it again after tonight. 
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Slowly, you start to wake.
At first, all you see is shadows and shapes of someone looming over you. Unconsciously you whimper and push at whatever holds you down, but the hold is gentle, the voice soothing. 
“Shh, it’s okay. Sweetheart, it’s me,” he says. 
Your eyes clear and focus as you blink…though they soon flood with tears. Relief takes over your fear. You see his concerned, handsome face, and your lower lip trembles. 
“Alec,” is all you manage to say. You still have some trouble moving your heavy body, but you grab a fistful of his shirt and wince as you pull yourself up, just enough to bury your face into his chest. Your body shakes with the force of your sobs. 
Alec gathers you up against him and shushes you gently, even as his heart clenches. He soothes a hand over your hair and your back. 
“I’ve gotcha. It’s okay, you’re safe,” he says in your ear. He meets Max’s concerned gaze, then Joshua’s in the shrouded end of the car. Even Logan glances back through the rearview mirror as he drives. 
Alec tries to block them out and focus on you. He holds you and comforts you for as long as you let him.
Eventually, you pull away to look at his face. You still have tears in your eyes, but now, it’s with a hue of uncertainty. 
“The man…the agent who took me. He was looking for you,” you say. Your voice is weak and a bit coarse. You try to clear it.
Alec wishes he had some water for you.
“He’s gone. You don’t have to worry about him,” he says. 
You let out a shaky breath, but you meet his gaze. “He said that you’re not…Alec, are you…”
He sighs; he understands the question you’re trying to ask. 
“Yeah. Those freaks you hear people talking about on the news?” he says. “I’m one of ‘em.”
Your eyes widen as your breathing becomes more labored.
“I was made in a lab,” Alec confesses. “At Manticore, bred and trained to be a soldier.”
A transgenic.
Your hand falls away from his chest, and you take that in with an unblinking stare. He can see you trying to process all this.
You glance over at Max, who had been facing the front to give you and Alec the semblance of privacy. Feeling your gaze on her, she turns around and gives you a half-hearted smile. 
“Hey, girl,” she greets. “Glad you’re okay.”
“You’re like him too?” you ask. Max nods.
Suddenly, everything makes so much sense. Why she and Alec have always seemed to share history and bickered like siblings. Why Max was friendly, but never truly your family. Why Alec had been so much of a mystery to you. Why he’d broken your heart. 
“Joshua too,” says a deep voice from the back. 
You turn your head and gasp as your eyes fly open wide again. Alec gives his friend a look over your head, but he tries to reassure you with a warm hand on your lower back. He hopes you can’t see the dried blood on Joshua’s snout. 
Joshua breaks into a sheepish smile. 
“Sorry,” he says, gesturing to his wolf-like face. “Bit of dog in my cocktail.”
You shake your head slowly. Your mouth opens and closes, but you try your best to get through your shock (and a lance of fear). Your head tilts as you consider his kind, very human blue eyes.
“You, um, your name is Joshua?” you say at last.
“Yes, Joshua,” he nods. “Rescue party.”
You blink at that. “You…helped get me out of there?”
He nods again, with a smile that flashes a few canine pointed teeth. You rest a hand over your wildly beating heart. 
“Thank…you,” you manage. 
Joshua bobs his head. “No problem. Saved Alec’s mate.”
If possible, your eyes widen further at that one. You turn back to Alec with raised brows. He offers a wan smile and a nervous chuckle. You notice, however, that he hasn’t let go of you. You’re also still sitting across his lap. 
“This is what you were hiding from me,” you say, perhaps stating the obvious. Your heart clenches with pain. “Why you…”
He brushes his hand along your arm. 
“I was trying to protect you,” Alec says. His brows furrow as his green-eyed gaze veers away from your face, with shame. “But I failed, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. None of this was supposed to happen—”
Some instinct has you reaching out to sooth your hand along his cheek, stopping his lips with your thumb. You stare up into his eyes, and they’re no longer guarded or distant. They’re the eyes you remember. 
Whatever you are, you’re mine.
You lean up and press your lips to his.
After a beat, Alec’s eyes close, and he answers you in kind. His fingers sink into your knotted hair. You grip his shirt by the collar, and he wraps his arm securely around you. 
With each new kiss, you feel more relieved. You don’t realize you’re trembling until he clasps your shaking hand against his cheek, to steady you. 
Alec gives you one more searing kiss before he pulls you into his arms. It’s a hug you both need.
His eyes shut tight as he buries his face in your neck, inhaling your scent. His lips find the mark he’d left weeks ago on your skin. It’s faint by now, but it’s still there. He takes deep breaths to calm himself, and you rub his back through it. 
He realizes you’re comforting him now; a fact that makes him smile.
You’re mine, instinct tells him. And this time, he just can’t fight it. 
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Logan houses you and Alec for the night (or the morning, since dawn breaks by the time you all get back). 
You’re exhausted, but you still force yourself to shower. You’ll have to remind yourself to thank Logan for the spare clothing, though you don’t bother with the sweatpants just opt for the large shirt as you roll into bed. 
Alec isn’t far behind after he takes a quick shower. You force yourself to stay awake, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. His skin glistens when he eventually leaves the bathroom, and you watch him cross the bedroom with just a towel low on his hips. He shoots you a smile before he starts getting dressed.
“Logan says he’s help us find a new place to live,” he says. 
You slowly smile at that. “Us?”
“Well, you know, both of our apartments are compromised.”
“Yeah, I get that,” you reply. When he slides into bed next to you, you swim through the covers and inch closer to him. “I’m just glad it’s a together thing.”
Alec gives you an amused look, but there’s warmth in his eyes. He thumbs at your lower lip. Soon, his smile begins to fall.
“I didn’t want to get you caught up in this. In my crazy fucked up life,” he says. 
“I know,” you sigh. “But I’m in it now. I’m in this with you. You realize that, right?”
He nods, though he doesn’t think he deserves it. Or you, for that matter. 
He slips his arm around you, just the same. You rest your head against his shoulder and tap his chin. 
“Alec, I don’t care what you are,” you say. “Transgenic or not, you’re the man I’ve always known.”
He lets out a subtle breath at that, chuckling. 
“For better or worse, right?” he asks.
You smile. “I have something to tell you…though I’m pretty sure you already know.”
Despite a tremor of nerves, a slow grin spreads across his face. 
“Tell me anyway,” he says. “I love surprises where I know the answer.”
You giggle. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” he nods with a smirk. “Just tell me, woman.”
Your hand drifts down to rest against his chest, and you tilt up your face so you can meet his dancing eyes. The fact that he seems genuine gives you enough courage to just…say it.
“Alec, I’m pregnant,” you tell him.
His smile grows.
“…Really?” he teases. “You sure it’s mine?”
You gasp, laughing, and you shove against his chest. You twist away from the cage of his arms, but he laughs and doesn’t let you so easily escape. You realize then how truly strong he is when he rolls you under him on the bed. 
He dips down and claims you with a kiss. He shakes his head, because he never thought this would be his life. His hand sneaks under the sheets to rest over your lower belly, through the shirt. In turn, you cover his hand. You bite your lip with slight anxiety.  
“You’re really okay with this?” you ask. “Even after everything we…this is a lot for us. Really soon.”
Alec gradually sobers, and he acknowledges that with a nod.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Honestly, I didn’t see this coming.”
You have to laugh a little at that. His lips tug at the corners, but as he squeezes your hand back, he stares directly into your eyes.  
“But I’m not letting you do this alone. I… I love you,” he admits. “Sorry it took me so long to figure it out.”
Tears burn in your eyes, but only one finds its way down your cheek. You take in a tremulous breath and nod. 
“I love you too,” you reply. Though you can’t hide a different uncertainty when you look at him. “But if you leave me again…Alec, I can’t.”
He looks more vehement than you’ve ever seen him when he shakes his head, meeting your gaze. 
“That’s not happening. I promise,” he says. “You’re stuck with me, baby. So much that you might just get sick of me.”
You utter a laugh through your tears, and you nod in acceptance. Alec smiles and wipes your cheek dry before he gathers you tighter into his arms, and presses a kiss to your forehead. 
You relax against his chest with a sigh. His heartbeat thrums steadily under your cheek.
And you finally rest.
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AN: And there we have it. 🥹 I truly hope you enjoyed Being Human.
I might come back to add bonus one-shots to this, if you guys are interested in seeing more of their story. 💜 But I hope you'll let me know what you think about how it all shook out here!
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birb-tangleblog · 28 days
Text
I'm seeing the 'happy anniversary' posts roll in, and fans lamenting the show's writing shortfalls in retrospect-
And if you weren't in the fandom when the show was airing and only watched it after it ended, I really can't understate how optimistic the fandom was at the time?
If you go back and look through the old bingo sheets, you can see a snapshot of what the prevailing theories/predictions were and what fans expected. (I have tags on both this blog and my art blog, #tts bingo, but I wasn't able to RB all of them- digging through '#tangled the series bingo' in the search will pull up more.)
People were eagerly looking forward to returning characters (the Brotherhood, ZT's disciples) in nearly every tentpole episode, rematches and fights, flashbacks, cameos, for Cass to redeem herself by the midpoint of season 3 so ZT could step up as the big bad- so many interactions and plot threads that never resolved to anything.
I think a lot of this is the product of a normal airing schedule with (mostly) weekly episodes and long hiatuses, but it also speaks to the show's potential and how frustrating the lack of follow through on the setup of seasons 1 and 2 was.
Special shoutouts to:
Fierce debate on if Cass or Adira would be the traitor in 'Destinies Collide'.
Adira and Hector working together to get the moonstone back after dedicating their lives to protecting the world from it. (nope)
Fans thinking that Quirin would appear and have a role in the episode where Varian gets kidnapped. (no)
Surely Cap will show up after 'Islands Apart', or share a heart to heart with Cass in the finale. (F)
Cass rejoining the main group and redeeming herself any episode now... annnyyyy episode now.....
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avvail-whumps · 4 months
Text
‘the facility’ — pre-breakout 3/3
previous · masterlist · next
content warnings: medical whump, prison whump, captivity, imprisonment, prisoners of war, dehumanization, unethical medical practices, non-con drugging, torture, drug-induced torture, prison whump, reluctant whumper, manhandling, asphyxiation/strangling, mass prison breakout
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Noah didn’t see Cash for a few days after that. 
He was limited to the laboratory, simply working on the drug, and he wasn’t sure what would have been worse. Having to test the drug on Cash himself, and watch the horrible effects of it, or stew in his guilt with each new lab experiment that passed by. 
Personnel had even ran by with a few files regarding their less than ethical methods, but he found that it made everything much worse. No matter how much tried to convince himself that somehow, he didn’t have a part in this, it didn’t ease the ache in his resolve. He tried to tell himself that if he had any choice, he wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t be experimenting on people, he wouldn’t be subjecting Cash to awful drugs. 
He really did try, but it was hard. 
Fionn made things that little bit easier, he supposed. In the morning of their forbidden conversation, he had been more than surprised to find himself waking up, tucked back in bed. The water was on the small bedside table, and he had immediately reached for it to finish it off. They had both been cautious about speaking a word to each other for a while, but when they could, Noah found himself asking questions. 
Then more. Then another, until Noah had made a habit of accidentally fainting in his room and requiring assistance. He knew that what he was doing was imbecilic - he was risking his sister’s safe recovery, but Noah was so lonely, and he missed his friends and family. 
“Do you have any siblings?” Noah asked, sitting on the edge of the tub with a tilted head. He had a cold, damp cloth in his hands, something that he might have placed on his forehead if he had really been feeling unwell, but of course, he wasn’t. Nobody needed to know that, though. Fionn had his rifle slung over his shoulder, and he was perched on the edge of the toilet seat, lid down. Noah still didn’t have the liberty of seeing his face, but then again, that was a little too far. 
“No,” he answered, the modulation in his helmet crackling slightly. “I used to. An older brother, but he passed away.” 
Noah bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”
He’d learned a lot about Fionn in their frequent, but lowkey conversations. A part of him had been adament the Apoid wouldn’t keep indulging him like this, but he had. Noah suspected that a lot of people here would jump at the chance to have a normal conversation for once. Apparently, stoic Apoids were no exception. 
One of his favourtie things about Fionn was the fact that he liked poetry. 
It was a stark juxtaposition to the aura Apoids were meant to give off. Killing machines, steel guards, emotionless statues that had a job and followed it to the letter. When Fionn talked about poetry, it was easier to see the human underneath all of that uniform and behind all of those dangerous weapons. 
William Butler Yeats was his favourite. Fionn could sit there and recite his poetry perfectly, and Noah would listen with a subconscious smile on his face, because he could tell that he was really passionate about it. 
“Would you ever write your own poetry?” Noah had asked, picking at the threads on the damp flannel. His heart ached to see him take off the helmet. He could only imagine what kind of expressions he made when he talked about this.
Fionn faltered, shifting back slightly as the helmet tilted, mirroring a hesitant glance to the side. It was a sight he didn’t think he would ever get used to - seeing an Apoid show so much emotion through simple body language like this. 
It was cute. 
“I do,” Fionn answered, and Noah leaned forward slightly in a flurry of excitement he couldn’t contain. 
“Can you read some to me?” 
The Apoid seemed to think on it for a moment, before he slowly shook his head. “I don’t have enough time to write anything new.”
The answer was curt, and after Noah winced slightly, the helmet pointed back in his direction. The modulation softened just an inch. “And what I have is at home.” 
A familiar face stared back at him through the reflective screen of the helemt. “Where is home for you?” 
“Dungarvan,” the Apoid answered quietly. “My Pa’s a fisherman.” He paused just for a minute. “What about you?” 
“London,” Noah responded, and he noticed that Fionn shook his head slightly. 
“Busy place,” he hummed. “Not my scene.” 
“You like the quiet?” 
Fionn nodded slowly. “Once my contract is finished, and I know my family has enough money, I want to move. I want a cabin in the middle of the countryside, somewhere in Ireland.” 
The words came out quiter than Noah was expecting. “On your own?” 
When Fionn didn’t answer, Noah tucked some of his hair behind his ear gently. His gaze shifted to the cloth in his hand, and he set it in the tub instead. The Apoid passed him a hand towel to wipe the lingering dampness away, and he took it. For a moment, he felt his glove brush up against his finger, and when he glanced down, the skin there was burning red. 
“Do you not have a girlfriend back home?” Noah hesitantly asked, his eyes flickering up after a tense moment. The Apoid was already looking at him, and he suddenly felt sheepish for asking a question that was just meant to be curious. 
“I did,” he tightly responded, like he was treading on ice. “We had some disagreements over this. About me signing my life away to the Facility for ten years. We split up.” 
Noah slowly nodded his head, fiddling with the red spot on his hand. It was strange; after his last encounter with Cash, he felt like being here would be unbearable. He didn’t know what he felt towards Fion - friendship? Connection? Desperation? 
“You should come to Ireland,” Fionn perked up gently, and Noah couldn’t help but glance up at him with a hint of surpirse. The Apoid leaned his elbows on his legs, shifting an inch closer, and he couldn’t help but feel his stomach twist. “See my hometown. Do you fish?” 
“Me? Fish?” Noah splutters. “I’ve never fished in my life. I would be really bad.” 
“I’d teach you.” 
At that, Noah couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but the moment his mind raced a bit, it slowly faltered. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes glancing to the bathroom door. They really shouldn’t still be doing this. 
“You have almost three years on me,” Noah whispered glumly, the ticking clock on their contracts weighing heavy on his chest. “Promise you won’t forget me when you get out?” 
Fionn slowly rose to his feet. He shrugged the rifle across his chest, and just for a moment, he looked like he was contemplating something. But then, a gloved hand gently patted his head. 
“Promise,” Fionn whispered, his voice softening. “See you later, Noah.” 
The Apoid was already out of his room by the time Noah found the strength in his voice to respond. He gripped his hand tightly. 
“See you.” 
. . .
Noah wasn’t looking forward to seeing Cash again.
He also wasn’t looking forward to seeing how effective the drug was at breaking down the prisoner’s defences and making him so vulnerable. He could conceal his anxiousness this time, even when Cash was brought in, same as always. Apoids surrounded him, ensuring his successful tranfer from one restraint to another.
This time, they made use of metal cuffs in the wall, clamping around Cash’s wrists and effectively pinning him to the wall.
Noah was a little concerned that his midsection and his legs hadn’t been retrained, but he assumed they’d neglected it for a reason. There was a nagging possibility that Cash could kick him, and those cuffs looked a little rattly, and what if the same thing that happened to the scientist before him repeated?
He swallowed the lump in his throat, setting down his clipboard and sucking in a sharp breath. He could do this. Cash wasn’t a person; he was a prisoner. A number. Someone who was withholding information the government wanted for themselves - the exact details, Noah would never know, but it wasn’t his job to know.
There was no interrogator today. He was glad for that.
With Fionn shadowing him, he internally noted the small brush of his arm against his own, a quiet action that held a thousand words. It hardened his resolve, just for a moment, and gave him the strength to step closer to the gagged man. Intense eyes pierced his own, but he looked elsewhere.
“I’m removing the gag,” Noah firmly spoke, inching slightly closer to Cash. He noticed the muscles in his arms tensed just a fraction, but he didn’t seem eager to attack Noah at the moment. It was still tense as he untied the gag, taking a small step back so he was far enough away.
“I’m going to ask a series of questions, so please answer honestly for your own wellbeing.”
He squeezed his hand behind his back, watching as Cash licked his lips. There was only coldness behind those eyes.
“Sure, doc.”
He cleared his throat. “Are you feeling any dizziness or lightheadness?”
“No,” the prisoner responded coldly, before he tilted his head slightly. “How long have you been here, doc?”
Noah ignored the question, keeping his wits about him. “Have you been experiencing any pain?”
“You don’t seem comfortable with this,” Cash continued regardless, and Noah’s eyes flickered slightly. “This new for you?”
“Answer the question.”
Cash chuckled breathlessly. There were still evident bruises on his face, but they’d had time to simmer down a lighter green colour instead. He tried not to let his eyes linger on them too much, otherwise his guilt would begin to stew. “No, doc.”
Noah stepped aside to administer the drug. It felt like he wasn’t quite holding the needle as he efficiently prepared for it, his mind lost and swimming with a cotton sheet over his thoughts.
In a blink, he was inserting the needle into Cash’s neck carefully, pushing the plunger in with precision and care. He remembered when he was practicing the precedure on synthetic skin during his time at medical school. Noah was baffled that this was what his life had devolved into. He refused to meet Cash’s eyes this time, who hadn’t even winced at the pinprick.
It didn’t take long for the effects of the drug to kick in like that last time.
Sweat built up on Cash’s forehead in little beads, and his expression had visibly hardened as he attempted to ignore the throbbing pains that had started spreading throughout his body. This time, Noah was forced to watch every second, comparing the effects of the last compound to the new one on Cash’s body. The prisoner was tense, his wrists straining against the cuffs as he groaned painfully through clenched teeth, Noah’s guilt only prodding harder at his heart.
It felt just as wrong as the last time. Noah tentatively approached him and checked his pulse, practically hearing the rapid pounding of Cash’s heart in his chest. He dabbed the soaked area around his neck, cautious of his buckling knees. It looked like he could hardly stand now, so Noah assumed he wouldn’t have the strength to use his legs even if he tried.
The skin on his wrists had been rubbed raw, and Noah could just catch a glimpse of a flash of blood beneath them.
Through Cash’s strained, gutteral curses, Noah sensed the moment it began to wear off, which was quicker than he had expected. He pressed his lips into a thin line, adding that to his notes with a swift scribble. When he went to draw his blood with a fresh needle, he tried to ignore Cash’s contagious trembling, and the way his wrists were straining firmly against the cuffs.
They would hold, right? Cash was strong, but surely he wasn’t that strong. There were Apoids with guns ready to fire if they did break.
He carefully inserted the needle, drawing a small vial of blood. It made his stomach swoop straight to his boots when Cash shuddered, and he turned away to the long desk to shift through his supplies. He blocked out the sound of Cash’s pained panting, before he went to administer another dose.
Two doses, Personnel had told him. That was a big risk.
His prisoner reacted much worse to the second dose, thrashing against the cuffs and desperately clenching his jaw. He looked as though he was forcing himself not to scream, squeezing his eyes shut as Noah could only imagine what kind of pain this was bringing him.
The second dose lasted a few minutes longer, but that was all.
After he emptied the syringe of blood into a small vial, he set it aside and prepared to sample another. He had to wipe a sheen of his own anxious sweat before he wandered over, reminding himself to breathe.
This time, Cash winced when the needle slid into his skin. Noah concentrated in drawing the blood safely while he was in his state, and he was rather lucky, because Cash gave a violent jerk at the cuffs only when it was finished.
He barely even had time to register the snapping of metal before a voice split through the air urgently.
“Doctor, get out of the way!”
Something constricted around his throat, and Noah felt the hard slam of the wall against his back. The needle fell from his fingers and crashed onto the ground, but he had barely even registered it from the force that had bounced through his skull.
Apoids lunged forward, their guns raised almost immediately towards the prisoner, his fingers digging into Noah’s throat. He couldn’t even catch his breath, his hands scrambling at his wrist in an attempt to get the air to his lungs.
Noah faintly realised it had been Fionn who shouted, and he was at the center of the swarm, rifle raised defensively. Cash had moved so swiftly, even with the drug, that no one could fire at him without hitting Noah.
He wheezed, wide eyes staring into Cash’s narrowed ones.
“You’re a little slow to move, doc,” he hissed, the exhausted strain still evident in his voice. His fingers tightened, pushing Noah’s head back further against the wall.
Fionn’s voice boomed through the room, and he barely noticed more Apoids spilling into the room. There was the faint sound of an alarm.
“Cooperate now, Prisoner Seven,” he demanded, causing Cash’s head to languidly tilt towards them all. He didn’t look bothered, and that was scary. Noah could only think about the fact that he was going to die. That Cash was going to kill him like he killed the other scientist before him.
He was suddenly jerked forward, and Cash’s arm winded around his neck instead, tugging him back against his chest. The arm was crushing his windpipe, with a force intended to suffocate him. Noah’s eyes buldged, and his nails raked desperately into his skin. A wheezing choke escaped him.
Cash’s lips lowered to his ear just as Fionn shouted another firm order to cooperate. All of those guns pointed in his direction made his heart pound, and he could hear it consuming his mind.
“When I get out of here,” Cash growled, his voice so quiet and deadly that no one else could hear,” I’m going to find you, doc. I’m going to make you wish I’d killed you right here, right now.”
Tears spilled down Noah’s cheeks, his lungs burning like wildfire. He could feel his knees buckling and the cotton building in his skull. Cash wasn’t budging, even when Noah’s vision began to blur around the edges. He desperately gasped for air, but he couldn’t find it.
All the Apoids were blending into one little blob. Was he really going to die? After everything?
Fionn’s voice tore through the room again, this time more fiery than ever before.
“The scientist is expendable,” came his voice, and Noah’s foggy brain latched onto that. What? “We will open fire if you do not cooperate!”
The scientist is what?
Cash chuckled darkly. “Hear that, doc? That’s what they said when I had the other one like this. She had the same look on her face as you do right now. Give it another ten seconds and he’ll repeat it.”
Noah’s trembling fingers dug into the skin of his arm.
“Cooperate, now. We will open fire!” Fionn shouted, and all of their fingers shifted to the trigger. They were really going to shoot. “The scientist is expendable!”
Noah wheezed, his burning eyes rolling to the back of his head. Only then did Cash release him, shoving him towards the guards with a harsh push. He immediately felt himself hit the ground, frantically sucking in any scrap of air he could find.
He heard a defeaning amount of commotion, but he was more focused on the gentle hands on his back and someone murmuring into his ear.
“Breathe,” Fionn instructed, setting his arm over his shoulder so he could help him onto his feet. Noah spluttered, each violent cough feeling as though it was tearing him apart. Once Fionn had guided him away from the commotion, he eased him back down onto the floor, where Noah desperately sucked in any mouthful of air he could.
His nerves were on fire. But he couldn’t stop thinking about one thing.
“Are you alright?” Fionn asked, as if Noah didn’t feel like his world had been turned on his head.
“The scientist...is expendable?” He croaked, his tear filled eyes flickering up to the black visor with a hint of anger. Fionn went still.
“I have to follow protocol,” he answered curtly, and Noah’s trembling fingers cup his neck, like one little touch and the skin would break. He feels like he can still feel Cash’s hand wrapped around it, and he has to pause to take another wheezing breath.
“You were going to shoot me,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You were all going to shoot me.”
Fionn’s head tilted slightly, and Noah was reminded of all the time they spent in his bathroom, talking about poetry and family and breaking the rules just so they could feel normal again. Fionn’s robotic voice was the only thing echoing in his mind right now, but Cash’s lingered.
That’s what they said when I had the other one like this.
“I have to follow protocol,” Fionn spoke, and Noah sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
“You break protocol to talk to me.”
“That’s different,” he snaps, and neither are paying attention to anybody else in the room. “This was an emergency. A prisoner was loose.”
“You were going to shoot me.” Noah hadn’t realised that more tears were leaking down his face. His desperate, wide eyes stared up at him as his voice broke. “Weren’t you?”
The Apoid shifted. The silence was all the answer that Noah needed, but Fionn still murmured out one that struck straight through his heart.
“Yes,” he nodded. “It was my job. I would have had to.”
Noah’s bottom lip wobbled. He knew that Apoids had different protocol because of their vastly different job, but in the idea of an emergency like that - the scientist was expendable?
“What happened to taking me to see Ireland?” He choked out, and Fionn’s voice hardened inexplicably.
“Quiet. Don’t say that here,” he hissed. “You can’t be mad at me. My hands are tied.”
He knew that Fionn was right.
But right now, after that? After he’d been so helpless in his grasp, feeling the heat of all of those rifles on him, realising that they would tear through him without a care once Cash refused to cooperate; it made his heart burn. Because Fionn could have at least lied.
Personnel rushed into the room, and they first checked that all of Noah’s notes and samples were safe. Then, they flocked to the two of them once the room was cleared of any dangers, both Apoid and Prisoner Seven.
Noah shoved Fionn away. He wasn’t even strong enough to make him budge like this, but the Apoid moved away regardless.
“Stay away from me,” Noah demanded, his trembling voice thick as he stuttered with another wheezing cough. “Don’t ever come near me again.”
One woman gently helped him up, and another kept a supporting hand on his back.
“Come on, let’s go to the infirmary,” one suggested gently, urging him along. Noah could barely put one foot in front of the other, his knees wobbling slightly with each movement. He noticed Personnel were glancing between him and Fionn awkwardly. “It’s alright now. Prisoner Seven has been secured.”
Alarmingly, it wasn’t just Cash that he realised could get him killed in this place.
He was vaguely aware of Fionn following them to the infirmary. It didn’t make him happy in the slightest, but he recognised that he had a job as his personal Apoid, as much as Noah couldn’t maintain that same sentiment for what had happened.
He was taken care of in the infirmary, mainly his wounds, before they let him go. Noah didn’t know what to do with himself, and after spending so long in the infirmary, he suddenly realised that Fionn was no where to be seen.
Noah swallowed uneasily.
Fionn couldn’t just leave the scientist he was assigned to, right? Yet, as he wandered alone down the corridors to his room, he noticed an Apoid near the door. A part of him knew that it was Fionn, but he was more concerned with the fact that a Higher Up seemed to be speaking with him.
With both of their masks on, Noah couldn’t get a sense of what was going on. He was too far away to hear them, and when the Higher Up curtly walked away, Fionn tilted his head towards him. Noah awkwardly shifted when he began to approach him.
He opened his mouth to say his name as he passed. “Fionn?” But the Apoid walked straight past him. Noah’s head whipped around to watch him go, and he suddenly felt his stomach drop to his boots.
What was going on? Why had he been talking to a Higher Up?
Numbly closing the door behind him, Noah stripped off his white jacket, and caught a glimpse of his guilty expression in the mirror. He looked ghostly pale, with a ring of fresh bruises around his neck, but he could only think about one thing.
Had he got Fionn terminated?
He desperately shook his head, his exhausted eyes glimpsing at the tube of cream on his bedside table. It felt quiet without Fionn in here, and even worse when he tried to sleep off the chaotic events of the day.
Regardless, he didn’t sleep a wink. All he could see was down the barrels of rifles and the sickening spray of bullets ripping through his flesh.
Noah’s eyes stung painfully when the lights came up, and he almost considered pulling the blanket over the top of his head and wallowing by himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about the aching pain in his neck, the leftover bruises a plum purple, or the fact that Fionn had left after talking to a Higher Up.
It made it all the more worse when he didn’t see him outside his door.
The guilt tore into him, because what if he had really gotten Fionn fired? After everything he had told him about his family, about why he was here, and he forced him back to the surface with nothing? Noah released a shuddering breath, heading to the labatory.
On the way, he was greeted by Personnel.
“Oh, Noah.”
They stopped him, and he stilled when he noticed a quiet Apoid hovering behind them. He stared at the black visor uneasily, but a part of him was confident that wasn’t Fionn. Their words only confirmed it.
“Due to certain circumstances, you’ll be receiving a new Apoid from today onwards,” Personnel informed him politely, motioning towards the guard with a slight nod. Noah couldn’t hide the unease on his face, as well as the confusion. When he went to open his mouth to speak, to question what on earth was going on, the room was suddenly plunged into redness.
A blaring alarm screeched out over the speakers, and Noah felt his head whip around to find other scientists had similarly frozen in their spots, a look of horror on their faces.
His heart lurched into his throat.
On the speakers, a warning rang out.
A warning that made Noah’s blood run iciliy cold.
“Code: Black.”
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m0chisenpai · 5 months
Text
But You, Are Mine
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Game of Thrones
Oberyn Martell x back!reader x Ellaria Sand
Part of the Marie Antoinette series. You don't need to read the other parts but if you'd like more background I'd suggest reading some of the other imagines before this one.
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Oberyn loved his son. Of course he loved each and every one of his daughters, but a part of him could not help but yearn for a son. And so as you pressed his first son to your flushed and heaving chest he felt his own heave as Ellaria hugged herself behind him. 
"A son..." Oberyn sat himself beside your body. He pressed kiss after kiss to the side of your face, thanking you, praising you.
"You did amazing my love, so amazing. Bearing my child is a gift I could never repay."
Your tired smile was all you could offer as your arms held your first born, your son to your chest as the midwives made work of cleaning you and your babe.
When you first found yourself to be with a child you were beyond furious. You begged the midwife to check again, you’d been careful for years, you were young. Grandmother taught you to not let a single drop taint your womb lest it was legitimate that could bring favor to your house name. And you had too much life ahead of you! But alas the women once more told you that you were with child. You’d miss your flowering twice. It was a telltale sign.
You were calm, too calm as you stood and walked down the stony walls. Maids looked upon your stoic face in concern as they were so used to your joyous greetings. Your gaze was blank, so cold that whispers began to spread among the palace that very day. Your hand carefully grazed the hidden dagger within your dresses, sliding it beneath your sleeve. 
And as you turned the corner you saw the one who cursed you greet you most joyously in your shared chamber.
Oberyn found out when you had taken your most prized gift and pressed it to his throat, cursing him to the gods. Yet despite this predicament he held the most joyous smile with the sharp weapon just inches from putting an end to him. 
Ellaria managed to talk you down, her gentle hand curling around the fist and lowered the slim dagger. She understood your anger was truly the pain of loss, you were becoming a woman. And it was painful. She held you in her arms watching as the anger morphed itself into bitter pain, into sadness that drenched your cheeks with bitter tears that she wiped away.
She would try to bring it up in conversations. She offered to send word to your mother about the newborn, you waved it off. You would fall into silence, or spit out a short response. It was as though the thread between the three of you was being pulled tight.
You refused to speak to Oberyn. He first found it to be part of that quick temper he fell in love with. But slowly it festered. Unforgiveness planted seeds which blossomed into a garden of silent hatred. You would mumble to yourself in the mirror, to your stomach at times. He heard you curse it, his little snake. That’s when the thread snapped. The day you cursed the babe back from whence it came. 
“It has done nothing against you to earn you bitter hatred!”
“I never wanted it! I never wanted this burden Oberyn! What do you know? You merely plant seeds, but do you know the burden of a mother? My mother told me stories! The pains, the aches, the near death.” You hissed each word. “You’ve damned me and I hate you both!” 
“Take your words back” Oberyn’s voice is hoarse. He could care less about your hatred towards him, but his babe? He refused to allow the child into a world without a mother to love. Your lips pressed tight as your fist shook, and Ellaria wrapped her arms around her lover.
“Let us go Oberyn, give her time to breathe…please.” She begs, her eyes are tired as she guides him out the room, her gaze staples upon your broken resolve before the doors shut, much like your heart. 
You and Oberyn found yourselves in a period of silence. When it was time to break fast, enjoy a mid day meal, Ellaria would notice the stiff tension between the two of you. At this point you had just barely begun to show. You hid your bump like it was a dirty secret, like you were ashamed. Your favorite dresses are replaced with ones much looser. You felt disgusting. Your diamonds, and jewels no longer held the shine to them. 
It was a day where Oberyn was needed to attend to his duties, Ellaria was to accompany you. And as she went to your dressing quarters she saw you crumbled to the ground, surrounded by your gowns. Your jewelry scattered as you blubbered incoherently. 
It broke her heart. Because after she watched you quickly fix yourself and whisper harshly to your reflection as you dabbed at your eyes. She watched you pick up broken pieces, and it made her ill as she sat upon your bed waiting for you. When you stepped out you jumped at Ellaria sitting on your bed. “How are you flower?”
And she felt her eyes water as the mask smiled and breathed out, “well.”
Slowly you found yourself sleeping in your personal chambers apart from Ellaria and Oberyn. His heart tore in two. He had forgotten what it was like without your form. He missed how you’d tug the sheets to yourself on the more chilly nights. Or how Ellaria managed to always hold you to her chest and massage your head till your slow breaths lulled him to sleep. 
You were at the stage of aching. You could no longer run after the girls in the gardens. You couldn’t keep your meals down, Oberyn nearly broke down your door hearing your whimpers and curses in your bed chamber as you heaved. One of the midwives would sit beside your side, dabbing at your damp head with cold towels, messaging your back and belly with oils.
They’d deliver updates to Oberyn daily, the babes was healthy, it was fine as was the mother. How she was moving a bit more, keeping some food down. A sad smile found its way to his face when she informed the prince how she adored cherries. You would sneak bowls of them in your rooms and the servants would find bowls filled with stems and seeds. 
So now he makes sure every morning you awaken to a bowl beside your chaise.
“Ellaria,” he never sounded so broken in his life, “have I truly cursed her. My precious rose.” 
She can only wrap him into her arms and kiss his tears away. “No my love.”
A trip, just you and Ellaria. Oberyn bid his paramour a safe travel, he said the same to you, but you kept your eyes ahead, hands folded beneath your aching stomach. The villa was set atop a hill. You remember Oberyn bringing you to see it. As you walked along the beaches you saw it just barely in the distance andi inquired who was to live there and he revealed the gorgeous second home to be your own. 
It felt incomplete without him there. 
You sat on the beach beside watching the girls dance about in the waters. Ellaria picked up Loreza twirling her in her arms eliciting a gleeful cry of joy that in turn made you smile. They asked if you would join, but you declined. You were tired and your feet were in pain. 
The sun slowly began to set and the girls sat upon their own blankets eating whatever pastries and meats the villas cooks provide in woven baskets. You managed to hold down a few berries, sipping on cool water.
“My love,” Ellaria stood looking down at you. Your eyes gazed down at her hand which she offered to you. “The water should be much cooler now.” Her arm draped around your back in support that eased some of the pains. She matched your slow steps not once rushing you, and when the gentle waves hit your feet you let out a small groan. 
It felt like heaven surrounded you as you waded in more, pulling your skirts up to avoid getting them drenched. Ellaria smiled from beside you as your eyes stared out to the golden sun. Your eyes looked down as you stepped onto something hard and smooth.
“Mama! Auntie Y/N! Look!”
“For the baby.” 
You smiled down at the little one taking the small pouch of shells. “I am sure the little one will love them”
The storm had blown past. You and Oberyn work slowly day by day to build back the relationship you had. Apologies are exchanged. Affection returns slowly but surely. And by the time your water has broken, you cling to Oberyn and push through hours of painful labor demanding he stay by your side.
“Have you thought of a name?”
“No, not yet. I think that’s a gift Oberyn is worthy of.”
“Oh my love..." Ellaria cooed softly as she sat beside Oberyn, her hands brushing your curls off your damp forehead. Her nimble fingers smoothed back the baby's soft curls. He was so quiet, so beautiful. A beautiful combination of yourself and Oberyn. 
Oberyn begged to name him and who were you to withhold it. And so now as he takes the bundle of life swaddled in the softest of blankets in Dorne. His eyes scrunched tight, silent gurgles that pull at his heart. He rbrings his son to his face to place a kiss upon his forehead.
"Orion, my first and beloved son" Oberyn breathes.
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